Goth Girl

by Melanie Mosher

  I peeked around the corner to see what was happening. Elsie was looking around the store. She rarely bought anything except for the chocolate bars so I figured she was looking for me. Did she know all along that I worked here and just kept coming just to check up on me? Anger started to rise in my throat, but I managed to squash it. No, she had been genuinely surprised the other day. She didn’t know the girl at the store dressed in black and covered with scary makeup was her long-lost granddaughter.

  Mr. Habib rang her through, handed her a bag, and wished her a nice evening. Elsie took her purchase and left.

  When I finally came out, Mr. Habib looked at me closely. “Didn’t you hear the door?”

  “Oh. No. Sorry.” I clumsily unpacked the box of bars I had brought out from the stockroom and began cramming them on the rack.

  Mr. Habib grumbled and went back to his paperwork.

  It was week five of the project already. Zach texted me to say he’d meet me there. He’d had an argument with his father, and his dad wouldn’t let him take the car.

  As I got ready, I stared at Goth Girl in the mirror. I liked her blue eyes and how they stood out against the white foundation and crimson lipstick. I liked doing things differently than the majority of kids in school, and I sure couldn’t help what others thought of the look. It felt good to think that Zach liked me. Just the thought of him made my heart beat faster and my palms sweat.

  Russell and Peter were standing by the half-painted fence when I got there.

  “Hey, look, it’s Dumb and Dumber.” I teased good-naturedly. After hearing the two of them talk in Cathy’s car last week, I had reconsidered my first impressions.

  “Nice, coming from Dracula’s niece,” was Peter’s clap-back.

  “Clever! You’re smarter than you look.” I turned to Russell. “I bet you are too.”

  “I’ll never tell.” Russell grinned.

  “Well, we know we’re all great artists. Look at this fence.” I made a gesture with my hand like I was showing off a new car, pretending to be a model.

  “Sorry, Vic,” Russell snickered, “I don’t think you are model material.”

  “I’m crushed.” I said with mock sadness. I brought my hand to my brow and feigned a cry.

  “Speaking of models, here comes Rachael,” said Peter as he watched her prance towards us.

  “What’s everyone talking about?” she asked.

  “Just admiring the view.” Peter whistled and nodded. “And I like what I see.”

  “Well, you can look, but you can’t touch.” Rachael tossed her hair. “You’re not what I’m looking for.”

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Peter stood up straight and puffed out his chest.

  “Ratty jeans and a juvenile T-shirt?” Rachael wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so.”

  “Nothing wrong with jeans and a T-shirt,” said Russell looking down at his own attire.

  Rachael didn’t say a word, but the disgusted look on her face made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’d seen that same look on my mother’s face, when she was looking at me. Maybe I wasn’t good at speaking up for myself with my mother, but I sure wasn’t going to stand by while Rachael judged these guys.

  “Hey. You’d be lucky to date one of these guys. Maybe there’s more to them than you think.” Just like all of us.

  “Wow, Vic. I didn’t know you felt that way.” Russell moved closer and put his hand on my shoulder and gave me an exaggerated look of smouldering eyes.

  “Too late.” I turned to see Zach arriving. “She’s taken.” He gave me a kiss.

  Russell backed off, throwing his hands in the air. Rachael eyed Zach and pouted.

  Cathy arrived with our painting supplies, and everyone fell silent as we got to work. The only talk was of which colour to use where and what details to add to each scene.

  When we took a break, I walked over to Zach. He had just finished a section on the modern end of the mural. I reached up and wiped a spot of paint from his cheek.

  “Look, there’s white paint on your face. I knew it wouldn’t be long before you wanted to look like me.” I winked.

  “That’s what happens. Couples start to look like one another.” He wrapped one arm around me. My stomach did a backflip to hear him call us a couple. I could get used to this.

  Officer Mitchell cleared his throat. “We are just here to paint, folks,” he reminded us. “Save the romance for your own time.”

  “Prude,” whispered Zach.

  The cop gave him a look and kept moving.

  I gave Zach a quick kiss. It would take more than Officer Mitchell to keep me away from my boyfriend.

  “Victoria Markham,” hollered Mom on Sunday morning, waking me.

  Oh no. It couldn’t be good if Mom was using my full name. I crawled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. She probably wanted to rehash the subject of “Dad.” Good luck with that.

  “Yeah?” I wiped the sleep from my eyes and headed toward the fridge.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Mom stood glaring at me, with one hand on her hip.

  I shrugged. I could tell she was pissed, but I had no idea why. “I’m hungry?”

  “Don’t be sassy. Officer Mitchell called to say he was glad you made it to the community art project yesterday and that things seemed to be going well.” She paused, holding back her bombshell. “Then he mentioned a couple of weeks ago you tried to take off. He mentioned a boy being a bad influence.”

  “I was just going to get something to eat with a friend. No big deal.” I opened the fridge, peered inside, and closed the door, not finding anything. I reached for the cupboard to grab a granola bar, but changed my mind. I’d suddenly lost my appetite. Here we go again with a one-sided conversation. And what was up with Officer Mitchell? I wish he’d mind his own damn business.

  “It is a big deal.” Mom got louder. “You know you have to do this art thing. I thought you liked to paint.” Mom’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  Now it was my turn to raise my voice. “I do like to paint. It’s just that I thought some of the other kids were lame and I wanted to go to the mall. In the end, I didn’t miss anything, so forget it.” I started to walk away. There was no sense in even trying to make her understand.

  “Victoria, I meant what I said before: after this, the painting’s done. I don’t need you spending your time ‘creating art’ instead of doing what’s important. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes. I hear you, Mom. Loud and clear.”

  “And we aren’t done talking about your father, either. Elsie called again. He’s asking about you.”

  Yeah, but he didn’t call. I stomped up the stairs back to my room. You think you can tell me not to paint, Mom? No way. I slammed my bedroom door and grabbed my sketchpad. Why do I have to do whatever pleases her instead of me? And why do I have to go and see a father I thought was dead just because he might be dying?

  Eventually, I had to get dressed and go to work. It was great to have an excuse to leave the house. As I walked the couple of blocks to the store, I kept thinking of Zach. I read and re-read the texts we’d been sending.

  “Morning.” I sent a new text, not even sure if he’d be up yet.

  His reply was almost instant. “Hey. Off to work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Miss you.” He even included a smiley face.

  I looked around. If anyone saw me they would wonder why I was grinning like a maniac at my phone.

  I worked my shift and then headed straight to Walmart. I’d already filled my sketchbook and needed a new one.

  I grabbed the book and walked back through the clothing section. I could use a new shirt—black of course. As I passed the dresses, I thought of the security guard from my last visit. I wondered if the jerk was working today.

  A familiar vo
ice made me turn around. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was Rachael, talking with an older version of herself. There they were with their long hair perfectly combed, their eyelashes fluttering. The older one was dressed in a stunning outfit. Way overdressed for Walmart. I hid behind a rack of chunky knit sweaters.

  “Here, try this,” said the lady. “The pattern is gorgeous.” She thrust a dress at Rachael.

  “I don’t know, Mom.” Rachael put her hand out to take the garment. “It’s kind of skimpy.”

  “It’s not skimpy, it’s flattering. As I always say: if you’ve got it, flaunt it and, you’ve got it, my darling.” Rachael’s mom swept over to another rack, the hangers clacking as she sorted through more dresses. “We’re having the Johnsons over for dinner next week, and they’re bringing their son. This dress will get you noticed, and he’s such a nice young man.” She stopped moving hangers and fixed her daughter with a meaningful look. “He’s going to study medicine.”

  “I don’t need a nice young man.”

  “Of course you do, darling. You’re too young to understand, but every girl needs a man to look after her. Why do you think we spend so much time and energy to look pretty?”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “Nonsense. Go.” She placed her hand on Rachael’s back and moved her toward the fitting room. “Just try it on.” Rachael looked exhausted. It was the kind of look only a mother could evoke.

  I had never considered Rachael didn’t want to look like a walking Barbie doll. She was so good at it I figured it was genuine.

  I called Zach. “I just saw Rachael and her mom buying a new dress.”

  “Big deal.” He sounded uninterested.

  “I think she puts on the bimbo show to please her mother.”

  “Probably. So?”

  “It just kind of made me think about how little I really know people.” I hated people judging me and yet I was doing the same thing. It was nice to know I had someone to call and chat with about stuff like this. “She’s a great artist. I wonder how she ended up at group. She doesn’t strike me as someone who’d have the guts to break the law.”

  “I have no idea.” Zach’s tone was flat. He clearly didn’t want to spend his time talking about Rachael, so I dropped the subject. We talked about the mural as I walked home. When I finally said goodbye and hung up, my smile faded. I missed him already.

  ____

  That evening, I sat on the edge of my bed, waiting for Mom to go to sleep. I looked around and realized things in my room hadn’t changed much in the last few years, even though I had. I still had the soft pink comforter and the big fluffy pillows. But two things were different: a huge graffiti poster hung on the ceiling above my bed, and one of James’s paintings was on the wall beside my desk. After rescuing it from the pile on the living room floor the day he left, I had repaired the torn canvas and glued the frame back together. I had kept the painting safely stored in my closet until this morning. After Mom yelled at me this time, I took it out and hung it on the wall across from my bed so I could easily see it as a reminder that I was a painter, like James. He was more of a father to me than Richard had ever been. He was there when I needed him. Or last least, he used to be.

  I waited and listened. Mom’s nightly routine rarely changed: iron a uniform, shower, dry her hair, brew a cup of tea, read for a bit, then lights out. Today it seemed to take longer than usual, because I was eager to leave. The mural painting was great, but I hadn’t done graffiti since the night I met Officer Mitchell. I wanted to smell the aerosol and see if I could feel the excitement of doing what I shouldn’t.

  I texted Zach and he agreed to meet me. I grabbed my spray paint from its hiding place in the bottom drawer of my dresser and stuffed the cannons in my backpack. I slipped out the door and headed toward the overpass.

  When I got there I took a deep breath, smelling the salty harbour as I shook the can. I tried to think of something to paint, but nothing came to mind. The rush of excitement didn’t come either. I placed my hand on the rough surface of the concrete. It was cold, hard, and lifeless like the grey that now covered it. I stood there and closed my eyes, imagining the artwork underneath and the passion I’d felt the night I put it there. I turned my back to the wall and sat, bringing my knees to my chest and hugging them tightly. The thrill of illegal graffiti was gone. I didn’t want to pour my heart into something only to see it wiped out in a few days. I didn’t want to be just another “rebellious teen.” And besides, I was too distracted: breaking the law wasn’t going to help me figure out what to do about Richard.

  I waited for Zach, shivering in the damp fog. The light of my cell startled me out of my reverie, but I was relieved to read the words, “be right there.”

  Instead of Zach’s car, I saw a familiar shiny SUV slow down with the blinker flashing. Shit. Zach’s father must have caught him sneaking out and now he was coming to give me a piece of his mind. I held my breath as the SUV pulled over and crunched to a stop on the gravel. I stood up, but didn’t move toward the vehicle, watching the driver’s window lower.

  “Hey, you look like you just saw a ghost.” Zach smiled and his eyes sparkled.

  That look made me tingle, and I had to focus to keep my feet on the ground. Relief poured through me. I raced toward the car, opened the passenger door, jumped in, and threw my arms around Zach. “I’m so glad to see you. I thought it was your dad and you were in trouble again.”

  “What? Me in trouble? Never.” He laughed nervously.

  I sighed. Yes, this is just what I needed. I squeezed his hand and kissed him. His lips were warm and I forgot the damp chill of the evening.

  “I’m glad you texted me,” said Zach, kissing me back.

  “Me too.”

  He drove to Tim Horton’s and parked the car. We didn’t go in, but walked back to the overpass. Zach took one of the cans of paint. He quickly sprayed “Vic + Zach” and drew a heart around it. It was sloppy and the paint dripped. I loved it in theory, but wished he had taken his time. It reminded me of the scribbles the group had covered up the other day. It wasn’t art.

  “Aren’t you going to paint?” asked Zach.

  I shrugged. “Don’t really feel like it right now. Let’s just grab a coffee instead.”

  We walked back to the SUV and ordered coffee in the drive-thru. We drove to a nearby park—our park—but we stayed in the car.

  Zach was the first to speak. “So what’s up?”

  I launched into it. “Mom and I had a fight. She doesn’t want me to paint at all. So I went out to do graffiti…but I couldn’t do it. It didn’t feel right. I want to paint, but I don’t want to see it wasted again. I am so confused. Plus, I miss James and I want a father. But how could my real dad stay away for my whole life?” The words came out fast, and it felt good to share.

  “Wow. My bad girl is losing her touch,” Zach said. He held my hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the back of it.

  Each spot he kissed felt hot, even after he stopped. “Yeah, I guess.” I snuggled closer and closed my eyes.

  Zach didn’t offer any solutions. There weren’t any easy answers. We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then he said, “Hey, guess what I did?”

  “What?”

  He reached into the back seat, grabbed his notebook, and handed it to me. “I did that sketch of you.”

  I opened the book and couldn’t believe the beautiful young woman looking back at me. Her short hair fell around her face and her eyes looked bright and alive. One side of her mouth was raised slightly in a mischievous half-smile that made you wonder what was on her mind.

  “That’s me. You did all this from memory?” I asked, awestruck. “It’s incredible.”

  “When you have a gorgeous subject to work with, it’s easy. I don’t want to forget what you looked like that morning.”

  “Do I really look like that?�
�� It had been a long time since I really looked at myself without goth makeup. Putting it on was as routine as getting out of bed in the morning.

  “Yes, you do.” Zach pulled me close, put his hand on my chin, and gently tilted my face up. He looked into my eyes for a moment before kissing me deeply. The windows began to fog up with our breathing.

  Suddenly, a loud rap on the window and a bright light interrupted us.

  We both jumped.

  “What the….” Zach turned the key in the ignition and pushed the button to lower the window.

  Standing by the window was Officer Mitchell.

  “Hello, Officer Mitchell,” said Zach politely. “Nice to see you out on this lovely evening.”

  “Cut the bull, Zach. You know why I’m here.” He was all business. He aimed the beam of his flashlight at me. “Victoria, did you know this car was stolen?”

  “Stolen? No way, it belongs to Zach’s dad.” My mouth went dry and I felt my heart pound in my ears. The chill was back and I shivered.

  “That’s the thing. It belongs to Zach’s dad, not Zach. He did not have permission to take it this evening.” He looked back at Zach. “This is a serious crime.”

  “I can’t believe he called the cops.” Zach laughed bitterly.

  “Well, he did. So now we have to take you to the station,” said Officer Mitchell.

  “But—” I was trembling. I couldn’t process what was happening.

  “And you are going home.” The cop looked at me like I was a misbehaving child. “My partner will give you a lift.”

  Zach got out and climbed into the back seat of the cruiser. Officer Mitchell’s partner got in the driver’s seat of the SUV and buckled his seatbelt. I clung to Zach’s sketchpad. I wanted to do or say something tough—defend Zach or tell the cops to screw off. But I knew it was useless. The black eye makeup and spiked hair failed me.