Goth Girl

by Melanie Mosher

  Copyright © 2017, Melanie Mosher

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A5

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1268

  Cover illustration: James Bentley

  Design: Heather Bryan

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Mosher, Melanie, author

  Goth girl / Melanie Mosher.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77108-468-0 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-77108-477-2

  (HTML)

  I. Title.

  PS8626.O8426G68 2017 jC813’.6 C2016-908039-0

  C2016-908040-4

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  To Jill and Sam, two of my greatest teachers

  The salty smell of Halifax Harbour mixed with the aerosol stench of the paint, making my nose twitch. The night air was cool, even though summer was almost here. I was just minutes from home, in my favourite spot under the overpass. The vibrations of the traffic above and the adrenaline of being creative made me feel alive.

  The surrounding noises faded away as I focused on the piece. The solid black outline I added made the colours pop. I had captured the feeling in my gut and displayed it for all to see. I nodded in approval, oblivious to the quiet crunching of tires on gravel. A sudden flashing of blue, red, and white light startled me and a siren broke my concentration. I dropped my cannon of spray paint, and listened as it rolled across the asphalt.

  “Shit,” I muttered to myself.

  I took a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. Act as tough as you look, Goth Girl.

  “Turn around, with your hands in the air,” came a man’s voice somewhere behind the light.

  I tried to stand still, like I was unmoved by his command, but my knees shook.

  “Turn around,” the voice demanded. He was closer this time.

  “Move the light so I can see,” I shot back.

  The light lowered slightly.

  I turned slowly, placed my hands on my hips, and shifted my weight to my left foot. I snapped my gum loudly, thinking fast. I spotted my paint under the shoe of the cop shouting orders. A second cop sat in the car, watching everything.

  “Put your hands up.”

  I didn’t move. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

  “Put your hands up, now,” he growled again.

  The light was too bright for me to see his face clearly, but I could see that his gun was still in the holster. His right hand was just a few inches above it, ready to move if needed. Staring at the piece, I swallowed, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Reluctantly, I raised my arms and spread my fingers.

  “Are you responsible for this graffiti?”

  I didn’t even bother answering such a lame question.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, kicking my paint out of the way and stepping forward.

  His breath reeked of stale coffee. I wondered if he had ever heard of a mint. “Picasso,” I snapped.

  “Don’t be a smartass. You’re coming to the station.” He motioned toward the squad car.

  Shit. I didn’t know what else to do, so I smacked my gum, hoping it would drive the guy nuts like it did my science teacher. If I was going to the station, I wasn’t going to make the trip a pleasant one.

  He grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, forcing me to turn around. He took my other arm and pulled it down to meet the first. The cuffs clicked into place.

  I looked at the graffiti I’d been working on. I wanted to remember every detail because I knew within weeks it would be patched. The City of Halifax was quick about getting rid of unwanted art.

  “Mind if I get a picture of this?” I nodded toward the wall I had just painted, thinking of my phone in my back pocket.

  The cop scoffed. “Yeah. Right.” With one hand still on my arm and the other on top of my head, he placed me in the back of the cruiser and slammed the door.

  A mix of smells bombarded me: alcohol, vomit, sweat, and stale cigarette smoke. There was a hint of cheap aftershave mixed in. I wondered if it belonged to the cop or one of his latest pick-ups.

  I slumped in the seat. I can’t believe this. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. How’d I get caught? But I knew. I’d let the artwork get to me again. Every time I painted and tagged I felt content and free. The colours sprayed out of the cans and onto the concrete like magic. I could blend them together with ease, but I wasn’t actually the artist: the art was travelling through me from another source. After all, that talent couldn’t be mine. The shading I had managed brought the picture to life; I had created emotion on a concrete wall. And now I was on my way to the police station. I felt sick.

  The cop got in, called in his arrest on the radio, and we headed downtown. My petty crime didn’t warrant lights or sirens. I closed my eyes and thought of the first time I’d snuck out at night to do graffiti. I wasn’t even out of the house for fifteen minutes. My heart pounded in my ears and I could barely hold the spray paint. When I shook the can, the rattle was so loud I stopped, certain everyone within a two-block radius could hear. I turned around and went home. That was a year ago.

  The fluorescent lights of the station made me squint after the darkness of the night and the squad car. There were only a few other cops around. One of them nodded as we walked by.

  The officer led me to a small wooden desk, plunked me down on a hard chair in front of it, and then took a seat on the softer chair behind. He bumped the desk as he sat and a pen rolled to the edge and fell to the floor. I stooped to pick it up, forgetting my cuffs. I lost my balance and quickly stuck my foot forward to steady myself. I tried to move to a more comfortable position, but it was pointless with my hands trapped behind my back.

  Seeing me squirming, the officer looked up. He got out of his chair and unlocked the cuffs. I wanted to rub my wrists, but I didn’t want to let on that they had bothered me.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, booting up the computer on his desk.

  I stared at his name tag: B. Mitchell. Trying not to be obvious, I checked out his face: the grey stubble, dark circles under his eyes, and a few too many wrinkles made him look old.

  I watched as he looked me over, like every adult I met.

  He looked at my spiked black hair.

  No, it’s not my natural colour, I thought, imagining I could read his mind.

  He looked at my face, noticing the heavy eyeliner and mascara. When he spotted my nose ring and lip-piercing, his hand automatically rubbed his own nose and mouth.

  He scanned my clothes: a plain black T-shirt covered by a black sweatshirt, plain except for the broken zipper and the hole in the sleeve, black leggings, and black army-style boots laced over grey hunting socks. I’m sure he didn’t notice the little artist easel pendent hanging from my shoelace.

  Finally, the officer’s gaze returned to my eyes. I stared at him, unblinking, waiti
ng for the usual look of sad disappointment. But his eyes were different: he was studying me, trying to figure me out.

  I shook my head. Look all you want. You see my get-up and draw your own conclusions. Which is exactly why I wear it. Mom says it’s to draw attention to myself. Wrong. I wear it because that’s all grown-ups see and I can be invisible.

  The thought of my mother drew me back to the present. Mom. She was going to flip out.

  “I said: what’s your name?” Mitchell’s fist smacked the desk close to me.

  I gave him my best what-the-hell-was-that-for? look. “Take it easy, man. The name is Vic. Victoria Markham.” I was proud that I’d made him lose his cool.

  “Address?”

  “2310 Leeds Street.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “August 31, 1998,” I said. “Exactly a year after Princess Diana’s death. Mom’s a royal family fanatic. She would have called me Diana, but she said the memory was too painful. So she named me after Queen Victoria instead. She said she cried for hours the day I was born. Not for me, though: for Diana.”

  Man, I was babbling. “Sorry, TMI,” I added.

  “What?” The cop glanced up from the keyboard.

  I shook my head. “Too Much Information.”

  “Oh. Well, royal family or not, we have to call your mother. What’s your number?” He picked up the phone.

  My heart sank. I sighed quietly and braced myself for Mom’s reaction.

  I watched as he dialled. Even though it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet, Mom would be asleep. She always went to bed early; that’s when I hit the road. I’d been sneaking out two or three times a week. At first I didn’t even paint. I’d just look at the concrete wall in front of me, imagine the artwork I wanted to create, and then scold myself. Who was I kidding? I didn’t have the guts to break the law or defy Mom.

  Then things changed, and I seemed to disappoint Mom without even trying. I did the dishes but all she saw was my unmade bed. I did the laundry but she screamed that I didn’t sort the colours properly. Sneaking out got easier. The air outside seemed different. It was easier to breathe, it was lighter. Anything could set Mom off, and I was on guard around her. Alone, under the overpass, I felt at ease.

  The cop’s voice interrupted my thoughts and I listened to the one side of the conversation I could hear.

  “Hello. Mrs. Markham? Yes, this is Officer Mitchell with the Halifax Regional Police, and I have your daughter here.” A pause. “Yes, Victoria. I need you to come down to the station.” Another pause. “No, she’s not hurt…Yes, I understand it is late…She was picked up for doing some graffiti.” He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes for a moment as he listened. Now he looked like I did when I listened to Mom: beat. Defeated. Done. Why did she have to ask so many questions? Couldn’t she just do what any other mother would do and rush down to the station?

  “We can talk more when you get here,” he assured her. “Okay, then. See you shortly.” He hung up.

  I watched him shake his head as he keyed more information into the computer.

  “We don’t need to wait for her.” I leaned forward in my chair. “I’m a big girl now. Give me the lecture and let’s move on.”

  He smiled wryly. “It’s not that easy. You’re a minor.”

  “Whatever,” I huffed, slumping back in the hard chair. Somehow I was old enough to buy groceries and cook meals, but I wasn’t old enough to get reprimanded without my mother being present. I shook my head again.

  “You know,” said Officer Mitchell, turning to me, “your art was good back there, and I’ve seen lots. I even tried it a couple of times when I was a kid. But it’s against the law to paint wherever you feel like it.”

  “What do you care?” I turned away, rolling my eyes. I couldn’t believe he thought my work was good. A flicker of pride fluttered in my chest.

  He sighed. “Look, I am just trying to help you out here. Lose the attitude. I gave you a compliment.” He stared at me, waiting.

  I looked down. “Thanks,” I grunted. “What does it matter, though? It’ll be gone in a couple of days.” I remembered the last piece I did: the clear lines and the intense colours really grabbed your attention. But then, less than a week later, it was plastered over with ugly grey paint.

  “That’s my point. If you’d put that artistic energy to better use, it’d be around for others to enjoy.”

  I looked back at his weary face. As if he really cared about my artwork. “Yeah, right.”

  “There’s a program here in the city—the Community Art Project. It’s for kids like you.” I shot him a look and he hurriedly continued: “You know, budding artists that need some...direction.” I softened. “Right now, they’re working on a mural along the boardwalk.”

  “So?” I’d seen that mural with the tall ships. It was good. I hadn’t realized it was being done by kids. “I don’t need any direction. I like to do what inspires me, not some paint-by-number.” I wanted to paint my own designs and work alone. I sure didn’t want to hang out with a bunch of kids I didn’t even know. I thought of my last report card: decent marks, but lots of comments like “not a team player,” “lacks social skills,” and “needs to put more effort into getting along with others.”

  “Just think about it.” Officer Mitchell turned back to his monitor. “It counts as community service, and I am strongly recommending it.” He clicked the mouse a few times. “I see here this is your first offence, and community service is the standard sentence.”

  First offence, huh? I smirked inwardly. I guess his computer didn’t know about all the tags and pieces I’d put up over the last year. I shouldn’t have tried a piece with so much detail tonight. It took too long. Now, I had my first offence. The words sunk in. Was I going to have a criminal record? Would this affect my university applications? I didn’t like being thought of as a criminal, but I sure wasn’t going to let this pig know that.

  I heard a door bang open and turned toward the commotion. Amongst the muffled voices, a familiar one rang out clearly.

  “Where’s my daughter?” Mom shouted at the officer who had risen to help her.

  She scanned the room and spotted me at Officer Mitchell’s desk. Ignoring the first officer, she stomped over to me. The look of sleep still clung to her: her hair was flat on one side and a few blanket lines hadn’t quite faded from her cheek. She wore a long coat and shoes, but I could see the pajama pants she had been wearing earlier peeking out underneath the hem.

  “What have you done now?” She glared at me like I was pond sludge.

  “Hi, Mom. Nice to see you.” I put on my best fake smile. “Let me introduce you to this nice policeman who gave me a lift here tonight.” I gestured politely to Officer Mitchell. Maybe a little humour would help her lighten up.

  “Don’t be sassy, young lady,” said Mom. “Do you know how late it is? I have to get up early to go to work, and this is the thanks I get.” Mom turned toward the policeman. “Julia Markham,” she said, putting her hand out. “Is she under arrest? Officer…Mitchell, is it?”

  He stood up and shook her hand. “I did make the arrest, but I have the option of forgoing the vandalism charge if she takes part in some community service.” He glanced at me before explaining the Community Art Project. “She’d be removing graffiti in the city and learning to paint in a more appropriate location.”

  “Victoria will do whatever you ask.” Mom placed her hand on my shoulder.

  “Not interested.” I tried to extract myself from her grip, but she clamped tighter, digging her nails into my shoulder.

  “Of course she’s interested.” Mom’s thumb jabbed my collarbone as she spoke. “You just tell me when and where. If she’s going to sneak out at night and cause trouble, she can certainly do whatever it takes to make things right.”


  “Are you sure?” Officer Mitchell paused, looking in my direction, waiting for me to respond.

  “Positive.” Mom said through clenched teeth.

  “Whatever,” I added. Man, I hated it when she answered for me. I was old enough to make my own decisions, even if they weren’t all good ones.

  “Okay then. I’ll make some calls,” said Mitchell. He reached into one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out a slightly crumpled business card. “Here’s my card if you have any questions.” He handed it to Mom, and then looked at me. “Vic, you’re free to leave with your mother. I suggest you make a real effort to stay out of trouble.” He held out his hand for me to shake.

  “Sure thing.” I stood and glared at him. Without another word, I spun on my heel and marched away, leaving him with his hand stuck out.

  “Teenagers,” said Mom, apologizing. She pocketed his card. “Thanks for your number.” She followed me out.

  When she met me at the door, Mom grabbed my upper arm with all of her strength and hauled me down the street. Once I spotted the car, I yanked myself loose and walked ahead. I figured the drive home would be our usual poor attempt at conversation—Mom would talk and I was supposed to listen.

  Before the key was even in the ignition, she started. “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing.”

  I could argue with the cop or even a teacher, but when it came to Mom, my fight was gone. I felt defeated before I began, so I didn’t even bother. James had argued with her all the time and what good did that do? Besides, Mom rarely listened to what I had to say.

  She heaved one of her heavy sighs, started the car, and pulled away from the curb. “I can’t believe you were traipsing around at night breaking the law. How could you do this to me? What if people at the hospital find out my daughter is a criminal?” Mom clung to the steering wheel with both hands and looked over at me.

  “Yeah. Like I care what the people at your work think.” I watched the lights whizzing by.

  I caught a glimpse of graffiti and grinned. Some of it was sloppy. Lazy. It needed to be covered. But good street art—the grand scale and exaggerated images—I love the look of work like that. A while ago I’d watched a TV show called Street SmART, where a bunch of contestants competed each week doing different styles of graffiti that were judged by professional artists. One by one, contestants were eliminated, leaving the last one to win $100,000. They made it look simple, but good graffiti is hard to do. I found that out when I began to paint. You can’t spray too heavy or the lines will drip; you have to be quick and decisive. And since you’re working so close, you have to be able to see the finished product in your head as if you were standing back, admiring it. It’s bigger than painting on a canvas. Much bigger. And better.