Tagged

by Diane C. Mullen

  Picasso wants me to know something horrible happened.

  I got it.

  Get out my blackbook. Work on some new sketches while Guernica’s fresh in my mind. Trying to draw some of the paintings I’ve seen in Kat’s artist books. More traditional things instead of just St. B tags.

  Want to come up with my own style. Want to step up to the plate.

  Dying to paint a graffiti masterpiece. Like that incredible phoenix piece. Much more complicated than tags. Design something here in Lakeshore then spray paint it when I get back to Minneapolis in a couple of months. If I never move up to a three-color masterpiece, I’ll only be a tagger. A scribbler.

  Need to work hard. Come up with something that’ll make people stop and stare.

  Prove that I’m a graffiti writer. Maybe even an artist.

  Cruising through town

  Kat and I are headed back from an organic farm. We got chicken and beef from the farmer woman who was at dinner. Picked blueberries. Cucumbers. Very cool place. Rode along just for something to do. Weird to drive everywhere. Things are spread out. No city buses. No light-rail. In Minneapolis I walked everywhere.

  We wait at the stoplight. Across from a park. Kids play pickup baseball on the fields.

  “Look at that, Liam. America’s game at its best.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess? That’s all you can say, Mr. Hotshot Shortstop?”

  I smile. “Playing on my school team changed my opinion about baseball.”

  “Really? I thought you loved it.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You don’t have to tell me …”

  “It’s okay. I got recruited to play at a rich Catholic school in the suburbs.”

  “Your mom told me about that. She said it was a great opportunity for you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A top-notch school.”

  “Some people think so.” Not me.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Go ahead.”

  “First day of practice. The whole team had on perfect two-hundred-dollar Nike cleats. I stood there in my scuffed twenty-buck, bottom-of-the-clearance-box Adidas. They expected me to get the team cleats. Told me no Crusader would wear crap like my Adidas. I didn’t have money to get cleats like they had.” Talking way too much.

  “So you quit after the first practice?”

  “No. Later. I just stopped going.”

  “They continued to give you a hard time because of your shoes?”

  “I was never like those guys. They all played together on elite teams since they were little kids. I played in city park leagues with my friends. I wasn’t one of them.”

  “That’s why you quit?”

  “They didn’t want a freshman to be playing varsity.”

  “So?”

  “My teammates peed on my uniform in the locker room.”

  “They did what?”

  “I opened my locker to get dressed for a game. My uniform was soaked in pee.”

  “Are you kidding me? What did the coach say?”

  “I didn’t tell him. It doesn’t matter. I quit. Hey, the light changed.”

  “Wait a minute …”

  “No big deal. Green light.”

  “Actually, it is a big deal, Liam. You should’ve gotten the coach involved.”

  HONK! HONK!

  “Better move on, Kat.”

  Pretending like she knows

  Kat doesn’t know anything about me.

  So I quit Saint Al’s baseball. So I’m not wearing a Crusaders uniform. Who gives a crap? I hated Saint Al’s and every jerk on that baseball team. She has no idea what it’s like to want to fit in. To spend every day feeling like you’re invisible. Or worse, like a loser.

  Easier to quit than cry.

  Better to be angry than sad.

  She thinks that crap at Saint Al’s was a big deal?

  How about this, Kat? When your older brother tricks you into doing something dangerous. Tells you he has your back. Takes off when a rival banger shows up. Forgets about you. And you end up with the barrel of a silver Glock rammed against your head.

  That’s the definition of a big deal.

  Resisting boredom

  Walk up and down Main Street. Same things again, again. And again. I’ve grown bored of the scene outside my window. Nothing to draw. Nothing about to happen. Need some of the chaos of my hood.

  Drowning in Lakeshore.

  Walk up to the entrance of the hardware store. Mr. Philosopher working? He’d probably make me do his job. Again.

  A couple stands next to a riding lawn mower. Shiny green paint. Padded yellow seat. Black steering wheel. Nicer than most cars in my hood. Sign taped to the windshield says this company’s been creating beautiful lawns for more than twenty-five years.

  We used to have a decent lawn. Even a backyard. Then Dad came home. Drunk. Got mad at Mom. He screamed, “You miserable bitch!” Hit Mom. Hit Kieran. Hit me. Set the couch on fire. Finally passed out. Mom snuck me, Kieran, Patrick, and Fiona away. She told us, “No more.” Lived at a shelter for a while. Went home to get some things. Dad took everything but the dining-room table and chairs. He closed the bank accounts. Canceled the credit cards.

  No one’s seen him since.

  Helping Kat in her studio

  She’s trying to get serious about her latest metal sculpture. I move things around to give her more space. Scrape hunks of dried clay off the floor. Used tubes of paint are supposed to go into the garbage. Grab them.

  Hide the tubes in my pockets. Wait. Take them back out.

  “You want me to throw all these away?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “There’s still paint in some of them.”

  “Where?”

  Hold the handful up. “I’ll take these if you don’t want them.”

  “Okay. But I’ve got plenty of new tubes that I’d be happy to share with you.”

  “These are fine.” Into my pockets.

  Kat walks over to the big closet against the wall. Opens the doors. Every shelf filled. Every supply a real artist would ever need. Colored pencils. Crayons. Markers. Erasers. One whole section of spray paint. She carries a couple of two-by-three-foot plastic bins over to the table. Filled with tubes of paint.

  “This is my stash. See any other colors that you might need?”

  “Sweet. How about all of them?”

  She laughs. “Are you working on a new project? I thought that graffiti taggers—sorry—writers, used only Sharpie markers or spray paint.”

  “I’m thinking about trying some new things. Besides graffiti.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe some painting.”

  “I’d be happy to look at your work if you ever want to show me.”

  Never shown anyone my sketches. Not Tyrell or Sean. Not even Patrick. “I can go get my blackbook if you want. The one you got me.”

  “Great. I’ll clear a space here on the table.”

  I return and begin to show Kat a few pages. All the different sketches from around the JFKs.

  “I love this one,” she says. She points to my piece of the girl playing hoops back in the projects. “Such a colorful contrast between her traditional dress and the jersey.”

  Turn to my ideas for lettering. Sketches that copy Basquiat’s work. Cubism.

  Not my St. B tags. Flip through those pages as fast as I can. I stop on a sketch.

  “This is from your bedroom window,” Kat says. “It’s beautiful.”

  Shrug. “It’s okay.”

  “You’re really very talented, Liam. Your work has great range.”

  Shrug.

  “How serious are you about painting?”

  “I spend most of my time just trying to improve my graffiti.”

  “I encourage you to give painting some thought, too. You might have a real talent for it.”

  Nod.

  Really?

  Swinging on the porch


  Back and forth in the hammock. Shaded by a huge oak tree. Peaceful. Lake Michigan waves roll in and out. Same thing again and again. Know what to expect.

  What’s that? Sounds like girls’ voices from the sandcovered street. Singing a song.

  I glance quickly. Spot three girls. Turn and look down at my fingernails. Can still see them out of the corner of my eye.

  “Hey!” Someone’s waving at me.

  Wave back in a very uncool way. Helpless feeling. If Tyrell and Sean were here, we’d be punching each other. Acting like fools.

  Heading my way. Stand up and look cool, O’Malley. Try.

  “What’s good?”

  “How’s it going?” says the beautiful one from the bakery.

  “Okay.” Be smooth. “Hey, Sara.”

  “Hi, Liam.” She turns to her friends. “Hey, this is the new summer guy I told you about.”

  “You’re right,” says one of the other girls. “He does have gorgeous blue eyes.”

  “Thanks a lot, big mouth.” Sara crosses her arms.

  My face feels like a bad sunburn.

  Then she smiles her smile. Sara, cool as Lake Michigan.

  “Hey, Liam.” One throws up a peace sign. “Where’re you staying?”

  “Right here.” Point at Kat’s.

  “With the Lady Artist?”

  Again? Everyone must call her that. “I guess that’s Kat’s nickname.”

  “That’s what everyone calls her.” Sara shrugs.

  “Oh.” Should I say something funny? How about something clever?

  “Well … we better get going.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” Very stupid. Where’s Sean when I need to punch someone?

  “See ya around, Liam.” Sara waves.

  “Okay.” Extremely clever.

  They walk away. Sara stops. “We swim at the public beach, right down there, every afternoon. We play beach volleyball. The locals and the summer kids just hang out. Come down sometime if you want.”

  “Okay.” Sweet.

  Missing my hood

  Wish I were hanging out with Tyrell and Sean.

  Park league baseball. Video games. Sneaking into Target Field. Watching the Twins. TV.

  Wonder what’s going on at O’Malley manor. Check in at home. Need to hear familiar voices. I miss Minneapolis.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Declan.”

  “Liam!”

  “How’re things?”

  “I got a dinosaur from Goodwill.”

  “Cool.”

  “A brachiosaurus.”

  “With the long neck?”

  “Yeah. But he’s not scary.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s a nice kind,” he says.

  “Very cool.”

  “Yeah. Very cool.”

  “Where’s Mom, Declan?”

  “Next door getting something.”

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Whose apartment?”

  “Murphys’.”

  Probably sneaking a smoke with Mrs. Murphy. She doesn’t know I know.

  “Then let me talk to Patrick, okay?”

  “You hafta say the helping word first.”

  “Please.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I want to talk to Liam now,” Fiona interrupts. Loud and close.

  “No, Fiona. It’s my turn. Um, Patrick’s with Tommy because Kieran has to be in jail because he shot a gun up in the air and he has to go to the court then, and maybe he has to go to a bigger jail then because he did a bad thing, because of the gun, so Patrick’s not here.”

  Declan takes a deep breath. Goes back to arguing with Fiona.

  “Patrick’s with Tommy?” I tense up. That Irish Mafia loser. “Hello! Is anyone there?”

  “Shhh, be quiet or you going to get us into trouble, Liam.” Fiona sighs. “We’re not supposed to be using the phone.”

  “Give me back the phone,” Declan interrupts. “I was talking to Liam first.”

  THUD.

  “Saints preserve us.” Mom says. She’s back. “Can’t I even go next door for a breath of fresh air without you two fighting? Why is the phone on the floor?”

  “Mom?” C’mon.

  “Who broke the phone? This is why we can’t have anything nice. Happy?”

  “Hello?”

  “Both of you go to your rooms … NOW. Never a moment of peace.”

  Click.

  “MOM!”

  I push redial. Why is Patrick with Tommy?

  Annoying busy signal. I hang up. Try redial again. Busy signal.

  Patrick should not be hanging out with anyone from Irish Mafia. Especially not Tommy.

  Questioning the menu

  Kat takes me to the fancy Asian restaurant on Main Street. Order? I know what white rice is. Not so sure about all of this other stuff.

  “Have you decided?” Kat closes her menu.

  “Ummm.” I have no idea what any of this food is.

  “The fried rice is wonderful.”

  Place our orders. I’m starving.

  “So, you’ve been here about three weeks.”

  “Seventeen days.”

  Kat laughs. “Okay, seventeen days. How’s it going so far?”

  “Okay.” Mean it, I guess.

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.” Not great. Not horrible.

  “Have you met any other kids?”

  “A few.” Sara.

  “Good. I ran into Hank Masterson at the hardware store. He’s glad I have a decent young man staying with me for the summer.”

  Mr. Philosopher said I’m a decent young man?

  “Hank was the first person I met when I moved here from NYC. He explained the lay of the land here in this little town. He’s a good guy.”

  “Why did you move here again?”

  “I needed a change of scenery.”

  “Oh.”

  “Actually, I just needed a change. Period.”

  “Why?”

  “New York offered too many opportunities for me to mess up my life.”

  I nod.

  Waiter delivers our food. “Green curry with tofu, extra spicy for the lady, and fried rice with chicken, mild for the gentleman. Enjoy.”

  “Lakeshore allows me to focus on my art and remember what’s important to me.”

  “Right.” This food is what’s important to me. Smells so good.

  “Enough of that. Let’s dig in while it’s still hot.”

  Best thing I’ve ever eaten. Need to slow down. Don’t eat like a pig. Kat’s using chopsticks. Don’t want to look like an idiot. Stick with the fork.

  “It’s good to meet some kids your age. Plenty of locals, and the summer kids. Quite a few from Chicago have summer homes here.”

  “Nice.”

  “Well, you’ll let me know if you need anything, or if there’s something you want to do, right?”

  “Okay.”

  “By the way, I’m going to ten o’clock Mass tomorrow morning. Would you like to join me?”

  “Ummm.” I actually get a choice? Don’t really want to. “Sure.”

  Hurrying to the bakery

  It’s after Mass, which wasn’t so bad. I like the ritual of it. It’s always the same, so I know what to expect. The priest gave a decent homily. Kat and I left after communion. Nice surprise. Mom always makes us stay until the very end.

  Going to meet Sara. Jog. Slow down. Try to get there without looking stupid. We’re going to take her dog for a walk. No need to be in a hurry. Yes, there is.

  Open the creaky screen door. Two men and a woman standing in the middle of the room.

  “I wonder if it’s those troublemakers who gather down by the ice-cream parlor.” The man’s wearing a Lake Michigan (no salt added) shirt.

  Woman folds her arms. “Could be. I wonder why it’s just showing up now.”

  Dog barks outside.

  “All I know is graffiti’s not good
for business, what with the summer residents arriving,” the other man says.

  Don’t want to be here. Where’s Sara? Looking out the screen door. Big golden Labrador looks up at me. Sara waves.

  “It’s just plain ugly. Like a dog marking his territory.” Woman scrunches her nose up.

  What the …? Why do people always hate street art? It’s just another art form. The same thing shows up in a frame at a museum and everyone loves it. Look at Keith Haring. Basquiat. When art collectors saw their stuff on the walls in NYC, they loved it so much they convinced Basquiat and Haring to start doing the same thing on canvases.

  The three keep talking. “We should probably get the police involved before it becomes a bigger problem.”

  “Don’t want the tourists to think we have riffraff in Lakeshore,” man in the no-salt shirt says.

  Try not to look guilty. Open the door.

  “Hey, Liam.” It’s Sara. “This is Bowzer.”

  “Hey, fella.” I rub his head. Wish I had a dog. He lifts his paw.

  “That’s his way of saying hello.”

  “Oh.” Shake back.

  The woman walks toward us. “Sara?”

  “This is Liam, Mom.”

  “Liam?” She smiles. Same as Sara’s.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Catholic-school manners.

  “Do you have a last name, Liam?”

  “O’Malley.”

  “I don’t think I know your parents’ names.”

  Silence.

  Sara lays her hand on my shoulder. “He’s staying in town for the summer.”

  “Nice to meet you, Liam. Welcome to Lakeshore.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  “And this is my dad.” Sara points to the taller man. Polo shirt. Collar up.

  “A summer resident.” He stares at me.

  Look him right in the eye. No hand out for a shake?

  “Where are you staying, Liam?”

  None of your business, boojie. “Minneapolis.”

  Strolling by the harbor

  “My parents are kind of nosy.” Sara shrugs.

  “That’s okay.” Very nosy.

  “I love this harbor.” She shades the sun from her eyes. “It’s so peaceful.”