Zach smiled, and I felt warm despite the drizzle.
“Come on. Let’s go.” Zach reached for my hand.
We took off down the street. My heart pounded in my ears and my stomach filled with excitement. Zach’s grip on my fingers urged me on. I glanced back once and saw the other delinquents beginning to arrive. Zach and I rounded the corner, out of sight, and stopped to catch our breath. I let go of his hand and leaned over, gasping and laughing at the same time.
Standing straight again, I noticed the sparkle in Zach’s eyes, his cheeks flushed from running. “We did it!” I hooted.
But my excitement was short-lived.
“Where are you two off to in such a hurry?” asked a familiar male voice from behind me.
“Shit,” I muttered. This time I turned around before I was asked. “Hey, Officer Mitchell. Um, Zach and I were just having a little race.”
“Yeah. Well, let’s see who can get back to the rest of the group first.” He jerked his thumb back toward the group assembled at the front doors of the building.
I started walking back, but Zach didn’t move. I stopped and watched Officer Mitchell stride over to Zach and place his hand gently on Zach’s shoulder, as if to coax him.
Zach jerked away. “Hands off,” he snarled. He gave the cop a filthy look.
“Just go back to the group.”
Reluctantly, Zach complied.
We made our way back to the group. We didn’t speak, but Zach gave me a flash of his cocky smile and I knew he was feeling the same rush of adrenaline I was. If we’d been just a few seconds faster, we would have made it.
Officer Mitchell walked behind us the whole way, making sure we didn’t take another detour. He was pissed, but I didn’t care.
Cathy was the first to speak when we got to the group. “Hello, Vic,” she said. “Are you ready to see where you’ll be painting?”
I nodded.
“Good morning, Zach,” Cathy continued brightly. “Glad you decided to come with us. I know your dad will be happy you did.” She leaned in and said a little quieter: “This is your last chance.”
“Whatever,” grumbled Zach as he pushed by her and leaned on the wall by the glass doors. He took out his sunglasses and put them on despite the clouds.
“Hey, what’s up, Vic?” asked Russell. “Did the jock and the girl-in-black think they were getting out of the group today?”
“That’s not a very nice way to play with your new friends, is it?” Peter snorted and gave Russell a fist bump.
“Shut up,” I snapped.
“Relax.” Peter rolled his eyes. “We’re just here to make art.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Yeah,” said Russell. “Bring it on!” He jumped to meet Peter and gave him a high-five. His shoulder-length curls bounced.
“Okay, guys, we aren’t going into the building today, we are going down the street a couple of blocks to where we’ll be painting.” Cathy gestured with her hand to show which direction we would be heading.
We followed obediently.
“I hope the rain holds off so we can get to work.” Cathy spoke as we walked to a corner where there used to be a gas station. Now there was a construction site surrounded by a large plywood fence.
Rachael sidled up to Zach on the short walk. “Hi, Zach,” she cooed. “I thought you weren’t going to make it today, and I was so sad.” She pouted like a two year old. “This project really needs your strong muscles and great ideas.” She winked at him and smiled like an idiot.
I pretended to stick a finger down my throat and gag.
Russell and Peter hooted with laughter.
Rachael quelled them in an instant. “You’re not laughing at me, are you, boys?” she asked with saccharine sweetness.
Both punks stopped immediately. “No, no.” Russell cleared his throat, stood up straight, and wiped the grin from his face.
“Russell just told me a great joke.” Peter nodded.
“We’d never laugh at you,” said Russell, walking over and putting a hand on Rachael’s back.
“Okay,” she giggled.
I shook my head. I was grateful Cathy spoke before I had to witness any more of Rachael’s drama; I was afraid I’d puke.
“So! This is the spot for our mural,” Cathy explained. “You’ll use chalk to rough in the images you sketched out last week. That way, it’s easier to make changes as you work. Once you’re all satisfied, we’ll bring out the paint.”
I began transferring my ideas onto the wood panels. The conversation stopped as we all worked. I looked up and down the length of the fence. We were spaced evenly along the way with each artist claiming four panels. We had divided up the work and agreed to each start on a different section. Eventually, we would overlap and combine our styles along the length of the whole mural.
We worked away; Cathy and Officer Mitchell supervised and chatted. Occasionally, the sun tried to peek out from behind the clouds and I tried to covertly check Zach out every once in a while. Sometimes he’d catch me looking and wink. Most of the time, though, he was so engrossed in the work he didn’t even notice.
Cathy’s voice startled me. “Before we end for the day, there are a few places we have to go to clean up some tags and misplaced art. They’re all in the north end. We’ll be travelling in two cars: mine and the police cruiser.”
Zach groaned.
“That’s right. It’s not all fun and games.” Officer Mitchell spoke with his “I mean business” voice. He motioned for Zach to get into his car. I followed, as Russell, Peter, and Rachael got in with Cathy.
My second trip in Officer Mitchell’s squad car was way different than the first. I gladly hopped in the back seat next to Zach. The disgusting odours that had assaulted my nostrils last time were hidden by the delicious spicy smell of his body spray.
“So, have you ever been in a police car before?” Zach asked after the doors were shut and we were moving.
“Yup. This very one.” I nodded. “How about you?”
“Yeah. A couple of times. But the third time I got caught, they called my dad and he came and picked me up.” He looked out the window. “I liked the cruiser better.”
“How is a cop car better?”
“It’s not the car, it’s the company.” He smiled and reached for my hand. He gently rubbed his thumb on the back of my hand, almost like he was sketching something there. My skin tingled where he touched it. “Hey, speaking of cars, I got my license a couple of weeks ago. My dad agreed to get me some wheels if I stop doing graffiti.”
Wow. A dad and a car. Lucky guy. “Thanks for the warning,” I teased. “I’ll be safe on the sidewalk, right?”
“Not to worry. Next week I’ll pick you up and you won’t have to use the sidewalk.”
My stomach did a flip, but I managed to keep my cool. “Sure.”
We traded phone numbers and I gave him my address. I saw Officer Mitchell’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. There was disapproval in his eyes, but that actually made me feel even better. What do you know? I sank back in the seat. My mind yo-yoed between the present conversation with Zach and the possibility of being alone with him next week. It occurred to me that the only problem with the ride in the police car this time was that it was too short.
The first and second stops were both on Gottingen Street. Most of the tags we had to remove were just basic and lame; it actually felt good to cover them with fresh, clean paint. Tagging had been my first foray into “public art,” but I was always secretly glad whenever my tags got removed. They weren’t really that good, and it was as if the city clean-up crew were my personal human erasers. Now, I was painting full pictures and they weren’t half bad—seeing those patched stung.
The last stop was too familiar. I got out of the cruiser and stood staring as the vibrations of the traffic overhe
ad shook me to the core. My favourite spot now reminded me of all the things going on with my so-called family. It was no longer easier to breathe here. My emotions and thoughts about the card and Mom started bubbling to the surface. I took a shaky breath, pushing them back down.
“Wow, this one’s good.” Russell eyed the painted concrete in front of him.
“Yeah, do we really have to paint over this?” Peter asked Cathy.
“Sorry, but yes we do. It’s here illegally and has to go.” Cathy turned to me.
My throat got dry and my eyes began to sting. Get it together, Goth Girl. I swallowed hard, threw my shoulders back, and raised my chin. I wasn’t ready to admit it was my work. There was a reason I painted at night, alone, in the dark. My bravery faded in the sun. I picked up a roller and headed toward the stone wall.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around.
“Bold colours, heavy lines.” Zach raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward the picture. He spoke softly so the others wouldn’t hear him repeat the words I had said to him the first time we spoke. “Is this yours?”
I wanted to lie but I couldn’t. I nodded.
“It’s great.” He reached down and gently squeezed my hand. “Most of the stuff I painted was just to piss people off, but this….” He paused and took in the colours. “This is real art, Vic.”
The cartoon image depicted an ugly green queen perched on her throne, high on a mountaintop. Struggling up the side of the rock was a girl in a bright pink shirt, her blue jeans torn, her face scraped, and her fingers bloody. She was dodging falling rocks, thorny branches, and lightning bolts as the queen looked down, mocking her efforts. The colours were bold and bright. In the lower right-hand corner the bubble-letter tag read “Goth Girl.”
“Thanks.” I managed. My hand sizzled with heat.
“You are an amazing artist.” Zach stared at the piece.
“You’re smarter than I thought.” I pretended to punch him in the shoulder, blowing off the true feelings in my gut. It felt good to have him call me an artist. I wanted people to like what I did. And if another artist was the one giving the compliment, that was even better.
Zach laughed and put his arm around me.
Rachael noticed. “Hey, you two!” she called. “Get over here and get to work. Come on, Zach.” Rachael offered her hand to Zach. “There’s room right here.” She winked and flashed her dumb smile.
Zach made his way over but chose a spot between Russell and Peter.
“Goth Girl?” asked Rachael. “That someone you know, Vic?” She turned to me.
“Never heard of her,” I replied. “You think just because I look like this I know everyone who dresses goth?” My voice was louder than I wanted.
“Jeeze, calm down,” said Russell.
“I suppose you know every dumb blonde, then?” I continued barking at Rachael. I knew I was blowing my cover, but I couldn’t help myself. I felt angry and hurt, watching my work disappear. I had been secretly hoping my art, because it was good, would be allowed to stay.
Rachael just huffed and turned away.
The first stroke of paint made me feel sick. I bit my lip so hard it started to bleed. The physical pain was better than the ache in my heart. I began moving my roller faster and faster. I just wanted to be done.
When the session was finally over, I was exhausted but I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to Zach. I wanted to spend some more time with him, but his dad had pulled up in a shiny SUV. He was wearing a suit and tie. He didn’t look happy.
“That’s my ride. See ya next week.” Zach waved as he slid into the car.
I watched him go, wishing he could stay.
The closer I got to home the slower I walked. I had managed to keep the idea of having a father—a dying father—and a grandmother out of my mind when I was busy sketching, painting, and talking. But now. Alone. I paused on the front doorstep. I could no longer deny my curiosity about the contents of the card.
I took a deep breath and entered the house. I checked the answering machine. No messages. I sat in front of the computer and turned it on. No emails. Man! What’s up with this family? I hit the power button hard enough to shake the desk, knocking over the framed Mother’s Day picture. I left it.
Why hadn’t Elsie called or emailed? Weren’t grandmothers supposed to be kind and loving and bake cookies? And weren’t dads supposed to teach you to play catch and help you with homework? And get you out of trouble like Zach’s dad? I grabbed my phone and texted him: “Hey.”
His reply was instant. “Hey yourself.”
I smiled and sank into the couch as I sent the next message. An hour later I heard the door open and rushed up to my room. I didn’t want to talk to Mom just yet. And screw having a dad. I’d made it fifteen years without one. It was his loss.
____
At lunch on Monday, Justine asked about the card. “So did you open it?”
“Yeah. Get this: it was about my father. Apparently I still have one.” Even saying the words out loud felt strange. “But I’ve decided I don’t care.” I tried to sound convincing.
“Your dad is alive?” Justine asked, her eyebrows raised in shock.
“Yeah, but he hasn’t bothered to contact me, so I’m not going to bother with him. I have all I need without him and his mother.”
“Woah. Your grandmother?”
“Mhmm. The card was from her. She was trying to convince Mom to get me to meet Richard because he’s sick and might be dying or something.” I pushed my fries around on the tray. “Whatever, I say: so long Dad.”
“Really?” Justine eyes grew big with disbelief. “My dad had a mild heart attack last year and it was awful.”
“Really,” I said, but the word stuck in my throat and came out way too high. I slumped in my seat.
Justine stared at me for a minute. Then she nodded and changed the subject. “So, tell me about the rich boy then.”
I immediately sat up and began rambling. I told Justine about Zach and me trying to take off from the group and Officer Mitchell bringing us back. I told her about riding in the cop car with Zach, how good he smelled, and how easy it was to talk with him.
“And he’s going to pick me up on Saturday.” My smile was wide and I probably looked like a fool, but I didn’t care.
“Good thing you don’t like him, then, huh?” Justine laughed.
The conversation lulled as we both ate. I didn’t mind. My thoughts drifted to Zach.
Justine interrupted my daydreaming.
“Hey, want to know a funny story?”
I looked back at her and smiled. “Always.”
“Yesterday, my little brother climbed this huge tree in our backyard.” A grin grew on her face as she spoke. “He said he planned on scaring me when I got home from work.”
I nodded, letting her know I was listening.
“But the joke was on him. He climbed too high, spooked himself, and got stuck. We had to wait for my older brother to get home and help him out of the tree.”
We laughed as we gathered up our trays and books.
____
I entered English class. Mr. Fawthrope motioned for me to approach his desk. “How are things going, Victoria?” he asked. “You seemed upset the other day.”
“Fine.”
“Glad to hear that. But if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
“Sure thing.” I liked Mr. Fawthrope, but I wasn’t about to tell him about my family and all their troubles. I walked away and slid into my chair.
“Have a seat, everybody,” he called, “and get ready for today’s test.”
What? I’d forgotten all about the test. I hadn’t even finished the book I was supposed to read. I’d never forgotten a test in my life. Shit. Panic pounded in my chest.
When the papers were handed out I stared at th
e white sheet. I read the questions twice: How does the author use setting as conflict? Give two examples of symbolism from the novel. How does the protagonist change throughout the novel? I had no idea how to answer any of them.
I glanced quickly around the room. Everyone had their heads down, pens scratching across paper. Obviously, I was the only one unprepared. I leaned forward and sighed. I sat back up and looked at Kate, who sat directly to my left. Kate looked up for a second and noticed my blank paper. She smiled slightly, then returned to her writing, moving one hand along furiously and using the other to cover her work.
Thanks for the help. Not that I would cheat anyway. I’d never done that before, either. I tried to conjure answers to the questions. I knew they weren’t correct, but sitting there doing nothing was unbearable—and something I’d never really experienced before. The clock slowly ticked by. The bell finally relieved me of my torture. I handed the paper to Mr. Fawthrope, but I couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Sorry,” I said as I ran out of the room.
____
The rest of the school week was a blur and work was awful.
“Victoria, I thought I asked you to fill the cooler?” Mr. Habib motioned to the empty shelves where the milk should be.
“Right. Yes. Sorry, I forgot. I’ll do it right now.” I rushed to the stock room and tripped over a box of cans waiting to be put away.
“Damn,” I muttered as I reached for the rolling cans.
“Victoria?” Mr. Habib came around the corner to investigate the noise. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I picked up the cans quickly and stuffed them back in the cardboard box. As I made my way to the cooler with the milk, I looked up at the clock. Please let this shift be over soon.
Whenever I could, I texted Zach. If he didn’t reply right away, I’d scroll through the old texts and re-read them. I kept picturing him and remembered the way his hand felt on mine in the back of the police car.
I had gotten good at avoiding Mom, claiming I had lots of homework. And she didn’t seek me out. I guess we finally had something in common: neither of us wanted to talk about Elsie or Richard. But not talking wasn’t working either. I wanted to confront Mom and scream at her, but I didn’t have the guts. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the truth. Why had she lied? Why didn’t the man who was my father insist on seeing me?
Goth Girl Page 7
