Tagged

by Diane C. Mullen

  Text copyright © 2015 by Diane C. Mullen

  Jacket illustrations copyright © 2015 by Timothy Tang

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.

  Published by Charlesbridge

  85 Main Street

  Watertown, MA 02472

  (617) 926-0329

  www.charlesbridge.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mullen, Diane C., author.

  Tagged / Diane C. Mullen.

  pages cm

  Summary: When Liam, a fourteen-year-old graffiti artist, can’t keep his grades up and is threatened by a local gang in the projects of Minneapolis, his mother sends him to Lake Michigan for the summer.

  ISBN 978-1-58089-583-5 (reinforced for library use)

  ISBN 978-1-60734-569-5 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-60734-714-9 (ebook pdf)

  1. Graffiti artists—Juvenile fiction. 2. Brothers—Juvenile fiction. 3. Juvenile delinquency—Juvenile fiction. 4. Gangs—Minnesota—Minneapolis—Juvenile fiction. 5. Families—Minnesota—Minneapolis—Juvenile fiction. 6. Minneapolis (Minn.)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Graffiti—Fiction 2. Brothers—Fiction. 3. Juvenile delinquency—Fiction. 4. Gangs—Fiction. 5. Family life—Minnesota—Minneapolis—Fiction. 6. Minneapolis (Minn.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M912Tag 2015

  813.6—dc23 2013049032

  Printed in the United States of America

  (hc) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Display type set in Sonica Brush

  Text type set in Candara

  Color separations by Colourscan Print Co Pte Ltd, Singapore

  Printed by Berryville Graphics in Berryville, Virginia, USA

  Production supervision by Brian G. Walker

  Designed by Martha MacLeod Sikkema

  For Kelly Easton,

  beloved mentor who told me I am an Artist

  Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.

  —Pablo Picasso

  Introducing my new me

  I’m getting my tag up. All over my Minneapolis hood.

  Everyone notices the Saint. St. B.

  Empty walls wait to see what I have to say.

  I let my Sharpie marker do the talking. On concrete benches at the JFK projects. Sides of metal Dumpsters behind buildings. Bulletproof shelters at bus stops. Cracked brick walls in alleys. On the plexiglass case for crap advertisements at the light-rail station. Everyone knows I’m here.

  Got my tagging routine down. Like a graffiti science.

  Find the spot.

  Look all around.

  Silver Sharpie out of my backpack.

  Look again.

  Now. Press the tip against the wall. Silver ink invades the surface.

  St. B

  Done.

  Yep. I exist.

  Following my older brother

  Why? Haven’t seen him since he moved out. Tonight he showed up at the park. Said he had a good opportunity for me. Yeah, right.

  “What do you want, Kieran?”

  “Money, a car, and a nice crib, Liam.” He laughs.

  Black-and-white screams by. Kieran pulls his Boston Celtics hoodie up. Hides his face from the Minneapolis police.

  “Later, po-po.” He spits.

  We walk. Past the JFKs. John F. Kennedy towers. Kennedy projects. Four concrete buildings with twenty-five floors each. Public housing. My home. I need to get back there. It’s almost dark.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Just checking in.” He shoves me. “How’s it going, St. B?”

  “What?” No way.

  “Yeah, I know it’s you, bro.” We stop in front of the liquor store. Light flicks off and on. “But I’m not a snitch.”

  Relieved. “What’s the opportunity?” I’m curious.

  “You think you’re good enough to tag something cooler than just your graffiti name?”

  Shrug. St. B is more than just a name.

  Cross the street. Some guys are drinking forties hidden in paper bags. They nod at Kieran.

  Want to move up from Sharpie markers to spray paint?” he says.

  “Maybe.” Love the smell of Sharpies. Dying to use spray paint. “Why?”

  “Irish Mafia needs a tag.” He throws up his gang’s hand sign. “You’re the only tagger I actually know.”

  Too bad I don’t want to be just a tagger. “Maybe I’m an artist,” I say.

  “Sure you are, homie.” He laughs. “I’ve seen your St. B around the hood. It’s decent. But you’re no artist.”

  Silence.

  We round the corner.

  Who cares what he thinks? Spray paint’s on my mind.

  “Where do you want me to do the tag?”

  “Cool. We’re almost there,” he says.

  Head to the other side of the block. Stop at the corner market.

  He looks around. Points to the sidewall. “Right here.” Chews his fingernail.

  There’s a fresh coat of white paint on the wall. Gang tags bleed through like old melted crayons. A faded red tag for Bloods is covered with shiny silver for Los Crooks—the hated rivals of my brother’s Irish Mafia crew.

  Wait. “Isn’t this Los Crooks stomping ground?”

  “It’s all good. Besides, I told the guys you’d do it.”

  “Before you even asked me?”

  “Listen, I’m going to get my ass kicked if you don’t do this tag. Seriously.”

  I shrug.

  “Here.” He shoves a can toward me.

  It’s Molotow Premium in Juice Green. What the pros use. Very cool color.

  “You’re good, then?”

  I read the directions on the can. Much more involved than a Sharpie. “What do you want me to tag?”

  “A shamrock.”

  Nod.

  “Thanks, bro. I won’t forget this.”

  “No big deal.” At least I get to spray a tag.

  “And make sure it covers all of that new Los Crooks tag.”

  “What?” My chest tightens. “Really?”

  “That’s the whole point. Don’t be stupid.”

  “You need to stay here, Kieran.” I look all around. “Just in case.”

  “Yeah, I’m keeping my eyes open.” He walks away. “I’ll be in the alley.”

  “But …”

  “Trust me. I got your back, Liam.” He rounds the corner.

  I step out of the light.

  Shake the can. CLIKCLAKCLIKCLAKCLIKCLAK. Mix the paint. Wrench the plastic cap off.

  “Kieran?”

  “SHUT UP AND DO THE DAMN TAG. I don’t have all night.”

  “Okay.” Look again. Now. Press down on the nozzle. PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST.

  Hate this smell.

  Finishing the shamrock

  It’s harder to do than St. B.

  Fill in the stem. PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST. Very cool.

  Wait. What are those shuffling sounds? Footsteps.

  “Kieran?”

  Hurry up. Finish. Get out of here.

  A guy steps out of the shadows. He’s wearing a black-and-silver Oakland Raiders jersey. Chicago White Sox hat. Definitely Los Crooks.

  “Irish Mafia’s trying to take over Los Crooks territory, huh?” He holds a cell phone out toward me.

  “What the …?”

  “Smile, shorty.” A flash goes off. “You and your bangers are done, man.”

  “No!” I throw the spray can. Hits him in the head.

  He stumbles. “You’re DEAD, fool!”

  Grab the Juice Green. Run. Around the corner. Into the alley. Pitch-black. “Kieran?” He’s gone. Crap.

  I run. Need to hide some
where. I head up and over a chain-link fence. Crouch down behind some bushes. Sharp branches shred my shirt, my skin.

  Tug on the holy medal around my neck. “Saint Brendan, pray for me.”

  Los Crooks guy runs into the alley.

  I wait. In complete silence. Heart’s pounding. Don’t even breathe.

  “I’ll find you, man!” He runs past me. “Count on it!” Turns left. Down the street.

  Looking up at the moonless sky, I find the tower lights. The JFKs. I wait … then run.

  I’ve got to get home.

  Sneaking into the apartment

  Mom’s asleep on the couch. TV on. No sound.

  Don’t wake her up. Carefully walk into the kitchen. Chug a huge cup of water. Calm down. My back stings.

  “Liam?”

  Great. “Yeah?”

  “Did you just get home?”

  “I’m getting a drink, Mom.”

  “Really? It’s almost midnight.”

  “Yep. Want me to turn the TV off?”

  “I’ve got it. Good night, then.”

  “’Night.” What a night.

  In our bedroom I can’t see anything. Patrick and Declan are snoring. Flick the switch.

  “Turn the light off!” Patrick throws his pillow. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Give me a minute.” I hang my shirt on the doorknob. It’s torn. Bloody.

  He sits up. “What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight.” Wish I’d been asleep two hours ago.

  “Hey, what’s all that stuff?” Points at me.

  “What?”

  “All over your hand.”

  Juice Green paint. “Nothing.” How will I make this disappear?

  “But …”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I flick the lights off and hand him his pillow. “Go back to sleep.”

  Speaking without a sound

  I open my blackbook—what the graffiti pros call their sketchbooks. Love this thing. Mom’s artist friend sent it. Very cool birthday gift. Practice my graffiti every day. This is my place to take chances. Rehearse. My way to say what I want. Prove I exist.

  Surrounded by colors in my hood, I sketch things from the JFKs. People. City buses. Gangs. Food. Light-rail trains. Buildings. Clothes.

  Today it’s a little girl playing three-on-three at the basketball court. Red LeBron James jersey hangs over her long dress. Yesterday it was Accordion Man. Standing on his usual corner, wearing a dirty brown suit and pink women’s slippers.

  Always something to draw. Always something about to happen.

  Never stop sketching. Want to be able to do more complicated tags. Show that I’m more than just a tagger. Practice the art and become a graffiti writer. Want to create something cool. Something beautiful. Maybe something that’s not considered vandalism. And not for Irish Mafia.

  Trying to forget about that shamrock.

  And Los Crooks.

  Fielding grounders

  I’m on Saint Aloysius Gonzaga High School’s varsity team. Today’s our first practice at the plush Crusaders Field. Minnesota Twins could play here.

  “This one’s going to Liam at shortstop,” Coach says. “Look alive, infield.”

  Heart pounding. Tug on my holy medal. For good luck.

  “Better be ready.” Senior at third base laughs. He looks at my cleats. “Hood rep.”

  “Worry about yourself.” I’m up on my toes. In ready position. “Burb clone.”

  “What’d you say, O’Malley?”

  CRACK! Ball heads toward me. One hop. Scoop it up. Crisp throw to first. Try not to smile.

  “Lucky play, freshman.” The junior playing second glares at me. “No room for mistakes. You’re not playing with your homeboys now.”

  Homeboys?

  “Okay. Let’s turn a double play.” Coach points with the bat. “Short to second to first.”

  “Understand that, ghet-to boy?” Third baseman keeps running his mouth.

  I look toward him. “What the …?”

  CRACK!

  Ball ricochets off my glove. Bounces over my head. Crap. I never miss line drives.

  My teammates laugh.

  Left fielder throws the ball in. “Hey, Coach. Get us a shortstop who belongs here.”

  Lighting the candles

  It’s my job at dinner every night.

  “I wanna help with the matches,” Declan says.

  “No. You’re only five. Have to wait until you’re older.”

  “Patrick’s twelve. How come he doesn’t get to light the candles?”

  “Because I do,” I say. But I let Declan blow out the match.

  “I won’t tell Mom.”

  “I’ll teach you when you’re older.”

  Mom, Patrick, and Fiona sit down at the table with us.

  “Okay, grace.” Mom bows her head.

  I have to lean across to reach Patrick’s hand. There’s an empty chair between us. It was Dad’s. A very long time ago.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. …” I say the words without thinking.

  Look over at that empty chair. After we left Dad, Kieran started sitting in it. Then Kieran left a couple of months ago. Mom changed the locks after he snuck back in. Stole her antique jewelry. Nobody wants to claim that cursed chair. So we lean instead.

  “Okay, what did everyone learn at school today?” Mom’s usual dinner question.

  Usually too much talking.

  “Mrs. A. teached us about the tyrannosaurus,” Declan says.

  Loved sketching dinosaurs when I was five. Dad threw my crayons away. Told me, “Only sissies waste their time drawing.”

  Declan lifts his hands like claws.

  “Does it like hamburgers or hot dogs better?” Mom smiles.

  “Mom, it doesn’t like any of those things. A T. rex eats other animals.”

  “Hamburgers and hot dogs are other animals,” Patrick says.

  A big bowl of Kraft mac and cheese sits in the middle of the table. Made with water. End of the month. Mom’s pay from her two jobs gone. Same with the food stamps.

  Fiona raises her hand. “I passed my cursive writing test. Now I can write all my work in cursive. Even math. And I can pass on to fourth grade.”

  “Good job.” Mom gives a thumbs-up. “I don’t even know if I remember how to write in cursive anymore. Isn’t that sad?”

  “Yeah, you’re really sad, Mom,” Patrick teases.

  Maybe I could tag in cursive. Not St. B. But maybe something new.

  “What about you, lads?” Mom looks at Patrick. Then me.

  Shrug. Take a bite of peas. Got dissed at baseball practice.

  She stares.

  “Um …” Patrick starts in. “We just finished The Giver in English.”

  Decent book. Good ending.

  “Now we have to work in groups to create fake communities with rules and stuff.”

  Kieran says rules are a bunch of horseshit. Unless the gang sets them. But he didn’t do a tag for Irish Mafia.

  “Earth to Liam!” Fiona clangs a fork against her plate.

  “Me?”

  Declan laughs. Water sprays out of his nose.

  “Sick!” Fiona shoves Declan.

  Mom sighs. Cleans it up with an old shirt.

  “Yuck, I can still see some cheesy snotty stuff on the table.” Fiona covers her eyes.

  “Knock it off, Fiona.” Patrick plugs his ears. “I’m trying to eat, and you keep putting the thought back into my mind.”

  “Enough.” Mom looks at Fiona. “How about you, Liam?”

  “I don’t know.” Know that I hate being at Saint Al’s.

  “You didn’t learn one single thing in school today?”

  “Ummm. Studied Pablo Picasso’s work in art.” Amazing. “Cubism.”

  “Cubism?” Patrick scoops up the last of his mac and cheese. “What’s that?”

  “It’s when a painting is made of mixed-up
pieces. So you have to look at it as a whole in order to understand it.” Would love to create something like Picasso.

  “Sounds interesting,” Mom says.

  Very cool. “It was okay.”

  Hanging out with my friends

  Me. Tyrell. Sean. In the courtyard of the JFKs. Showing off for some girls.

  Always the same. Throw punches. Pretend to be boxers. Girls laugh. Move around the concrete benches. Girls say, “Oh my God.” It’s fun for a while. Then someone actually lands a punch. Embarrassing. Girls say, “Ooooh.” Someone punches back. Hard. Things get heated.

  CLANG! Window slams against a metal frame. We all look to see what tower the noise came from. Praying it’s from someone else’s apartment. Someone else’s mom.

  “Tyrell! You told me your homework was done. Get up here right now and finish all this.”

  “I’ve got to use the internet, Mom. Got to go to the library first.”

  “Then why are you standing down there?”

  SLAM. We bust out laughing.

  “You heard the woman.” Tyrell grabs his Joe Mauer jersey. “And when I get upstairs she’s going to remind me, again, that I’m not going to get to college hanging around with you knuckleheads. Later.”

  I remember I’m supposed to read The Chocolate War for English.

  We move over to the playground. Rusty equipment. Broken swings. Back to punching.

  For the girls.

  Chatting with the dean

  Pulled out of freshman Latin. Great. Now I’ll be behind in another class.

  “Liam, I wanted to talk with you to see how things are going.” She smiles. “Is that okay?”

  “I guess.” Do I have a choice?

  “So, how are things at home?”

  “LosCrookssawmedoingatag.” Not that she’d care.

  “Would you speak slower, please?”

  “I said, so good; it’s all in the bag.” Too much talking.

  She stares. “Hmmm.” Opens a file. “It looks like you need to put more effort into your academic work.”

  Check my fingernails.

  “I know you’re a bright young man. Your standardized test scores are above average, and your grades from Most Holy Trinity were very good.”