As soon as we left the school, Ollie and I got food and milkshakes from this cheap burger joint on Southeast Division. My bare feet brush against my chair as I eat a handful of fries. The cold breeze hits my face, but I am too lazy to turn off the air conditioner.
I just lean my head back and enjoy listening to whatever is playing on Ollie's tape deck.
Speaking of Ollie, he happily slurps on his vanilla milkshake. His bright pink hair jerks violently in the breeze. He grips his left hand on the steering wheel. I see bits of black nail polish staining his stubby fingers and think about painting them.
After passing through another green light, Ollie parks his car at this giant, yet abandoned warehouse. It's usually a five-hour drive from the school, but the warehouse is a pretty big place if you're interested in skateboarding and graffiti, like me.
Rust garnishes the roof. The building stretches like a snake, gliding across the cracked concrete. Bold orange and burgundy leaves glued the tainted windows, while the doors looked as though someone had detonated them.
But despite wading around bird crap and sleepy homeless kids, Ollie and I treat it like our own Terabithia.
Speaking of Ollie, he lifts his large boombox in the air.
Three mixtapes fit inside his left hand like a glove. He asks me to get the duffle bag of his art supplies and his Polaroid camera from the trunk. I hurry back to retrieve the items, but when I return to the warehouse, I see Ollie slip the mixtape into his boombox and hit the PLAY button.
De La Soul's "I Am I Be" escapes from the speakers as he stretches his arms. His brownish-green eyes stare at the brick wall until I place his stuff besides his feet.
"Thanks!" Ollie grunts.
He drags a dark blue duffle bag close to his feet and pulls the zipper. I look over his skinny shoulders and then stare at the dozens of untouched paintbrushes, spray cans, bottles, chalk, crayons, watercolor paints, and other artistic tools revealing themselves under the glowing windows.
"Whoa!" I breathe.
Ollie ducks his head as I spot an orange sketchbook in the bag. The cover looks worn and dirty, but I can see his cartoon drawings scribbled all over it.
"Can I look at your stuff?" I ask him.
He looks away from the walls but nods in my direction.
"So, what are you doing to paint?" I asked, picking up the red spray can.
"No clue," he tells me. "I'm debating on whether I should do Daffy Duck or that smiley face from The Watchmen comic. I want to do a portrait of Keith Haring, but I think I am out of blue paint."
Flipping the pages, I see endless illustrations of homeless people, comic book characters, animals, cities, watercolor paintings, skateboard designs, and charcoal sketches of people's faces.
I turn to the final page and see an incredible sketch of me smoking on the school rooftop. The messy dreadlocks were drawn so thickly that I could barely see the eraser shavings. Ollie applied the right amount of shade for brown skin.
Lines stretch across my olive-brown bomber jacket until they reach my white floral dress.
"Wow," I mumble. "Did you seriously draw this?"
Ollie lowers his spray can. "No, Andy Warhol did."
"Oh, haha."
I look at the drawing again, but I start to remember the day I wore that outfit. It was two weeks ago, right after enduring an hour of Computer class. I hated the idea of sitting through another hour of French class, so I decided to go to the rooftop and smoke one of Matt's Camel cigarettes.
I remember leaning my back against the brick wall. I put my cigarette between my fingers and then lit the end with Matt's trusty lighter. But when I was about to close my eyes, I heard a quiet voice telling me not to move.
Opening my eyes, I looked to see this pink-haired kid crouching on the floor. He had his nose stuck in a sketchbook, so I couldn't see his face. Yet he wore a dark maroon crewneck sweater, ripped jeans, and shoes covered in colorful paint. His nails were painted this blue-black color.
I didn't know who the kid was, but I smoked and stood near the wall until he was finished.
"Wow," I guffawed. "I didn't know I was your muse."
"It's corny, huh?"
"No, I like your drawings."
"It's nothing," Ollie says, frowning. "They're just fucking doodles."
"Why don't you go to an art college in New York?" I ask him. "I'm sure they can use your drawings in an art gallery or whatever."
"My stepdad won't go for it," he tells me. "All he cares about is shaping me into some sport-loving, car-ogling, girl-chasing asshole.
I sit on the dusty debris, munching on four limp French fries. I offer a couple to Ollie, but he says no. Wiping the salt from the corner of my lips, I ask Ollie what his mom will think if he goes to art college.
"My mom always supports me," Ollie replies with a shrug. "She was my cheerleader. If I wanted to be an artist, she would sign me up for art classes. If I want a skateboard, my mom buys it, no matter what my stepdad says.
Ollie shakes his black spray paint can and places it against his ear.
"Fuck, it's empty," he mutters. "So, what's your job like at the movie theater?"
I hoist Ollie's camera to my face and snap a photo of him sipping on his vanilla milkshake. He licks the whipped cream off of his upper lip before setting the plastic cup down near his feet.
"I clean after assholes and deal with bitchy coworkers, but my manager is pretty nice."
"Yeah?"
I take the photo between my fingers and shake it.
"Yeah, he even pays me more than Gwen and Kiara. So, what about you?"
"I work at my stepdad's auto shop."
I stopped shaking the Polaroid. "Oh, fuck."
"Yeah, fuck me." Ollie sighs, picking up the red and yellow spray cans from the bag and shaking them. "He thinks that working with cars builds character, so he signed me up for night shifts."
"What an asshole."
"That's what I fucking told my mom, but she always tells me to give him time. That he'll change."
Focusing on the black Polaroid, I set the camera aside and then shook the photograph until the image appeared.
"I don't think I can do that," I admit. "See the good in people."
"Yeah," Ollie agrees. "Everyone is an asshole, no matter how hard they try to deny it."
I shove another photo inside my pocket and hold up Ollie's camera again. "I don't think you're an asshole."
"And I don't think you're a slut."
"Really, and what makes you say that?"
"Sluts don't talk about the deep shit. Plus, you know a whole lot about art and literature, so yeah."
A warm smile spreads across my face. I push my hair out of my eyes again, then tilt my head to the side.
"Maybe you should do Ronald McDonald," I suggest, slipping the camera inside my backpack.
"Fuck no," Ollie states, his flustered smile disappearing.
"That clown gave me fucking nightmares when I was five. I am not reliving my trauma again."
I threw up my hands in self-defense.
"Alright, ya big baby!" I moan. "I am just trying to be helpful."
Ollie is about to say something when a thought pops into his head.
"Wait, fuck," he mumbles. "I have an idea. I know what to paint!"
"A big dick?"
Ollie ignores me by grabbing a handful of spray cans.
He drops them on the floor, scrambles over to the boombox, and hits the REWIND button with his thumb.
Meanwhile, I sip on my Oreo milkshake and eat my cheeseburger. I don't remember if I finished my fries, but I was so obsessed with Ollie's artwork that I barely paid attention to what my fingers were doing. Ollie takes the white paper bag from the floor, devours his fries, and sets the sack below the vibrant graffiti.
Ollie hums to the music while he works. He sprays a curly, black line across the rusty, bricked canvas, then stops. Ollie takes a step back. He tilts his head to the side before applying a fresh coat of black paint under his arm.
Adjusting the rings on my fingers, I retrieve Ollie's camera from my bag and then capture another photo of him spray-painting.
At first, I thought he was drawing some sort of lopsided elephant, but when he picked up the yellow can, I moved closer to see Ollie trying to paint a monkey wearing a cowboy hat. He fills the dark outlines with neon paint until I check the time on my watch.
"Fuck." I sigh. "We better get to Study Hall."
Ollie tosses cans and mixtapes back inside his duffle bag and pulls the zipper shut. He stares at the paint on his fingers and mutters something under his breath.
After finishing my cheeseburger and milkshake, I toss the garbage inside the greasy paper bag and then carry Ollie's boombox.
We hurry to the station wagon, where Ollie and I chuck everything in the backseat. I make sure my backpack is sitting between my legs before Ollie buckles himself in and starts the car.
Ollie sighs a sweet relief as he parks his car in the school parking lot. We grab our bags and then rush to Study Hall. Three kids sit in the empty classroom. One is drawing profanity on his desk, while the others are swapping juicy gossip.
In the meantime, Coach Humphrey passes out on his desk. His entire face is covered in yellow sticky notes.
"Holy shit." Ollie laughs.
I put my finger to my lips and then nudge over to the empty desks in the back.
"Come on," I urge. "Let's sit over there before he wakes up."
Ollie's smile vanishes. He follows me to the back of the classroom and sits on the vacant desks. We take out our textbooks from our backpacks and pretend to read until I hear someone scream.
Coach Humphrey's head shoots up like a rocket. He rips the sticky notes off his face until he collapses on the floor. A Native American girl in a purple windbreaker gets up from her seat.
She asks if he is okay, but the coach pulls himself up and opens the door to see star-crossed lovers Stevie Baker and Johanna Myers standing in front of him.
Their faces turn white. Hot sweat trickles down their dark hair. Ollie and I crane our necks to the door. We tried to make out what those lovebirds were saying until I saw the blood stains on their clothes and hands.
"Whoa!" I gasp. "What the fuck?"
Coach Humphrey spins his head at me and tells me to stay in my seat and be quiet.
"That goes for every one of you kids!" the coach snarls menacingly. "Stay here and don't mess around!"
The kids trade weird looks at each other but then go back to what they are doing. Coach Humphrey looks at the classroom in contempt and then follows the couple outside the room.
I slouch in my chair for a few minutes, then grab my stuff. Ollie stares at me funny. He ignores the kids ogling us and then urges me to sit down.
"Come on, don't you want to check it out?"
"Fuck no."
I roll my eyes. "If you want to stay in the classroom, fine, but I am going to see what is—"
The fire alarm cut me off. Everyone stops whatever they are doing and then leaves the room in a single file line. The sirens keep blasting our ears as scared teachers push kids toward the school's entrance.
I look for the coach, but we can't find him through the sea of anxious kids. Ollie moves quickly until he sees five police officers entering the building and bumps into a black kid with a flat-top haircut.
"Watch it, queer!" the boy snaps.
I flip him off, then grab Ollie by the hand.
"Stay with me, alright?" I shout over the alarms. "Come on, our parents might be waiting for us."
Ollie covers his mouth but quickly follows me outside the school, where chaos unravels in front of us. We were like small kids in the mall—lost and confused. The lights blind us. Police officers sprint in and out of the school. Frantic parents pick up scared classmates in their old cars, while a few kids stay behind to talk to the cops.
My ex-best friends stand on the school lawn. Snots and tears ruin their makeup. News reporters see them and then train the fancy cameras to document the girls.
"MOVE!" someone yells.
Ollie and I take a step back and then watch two male paramedics push a yellow gurney between us. Sitting on top of it is a body shrouded in a blood-soaked blanket.
"Whoa," I mumble. "Is that a..."
"Yeah," Ollie says quietly. "I think so."
The paramedics push the gurney inside the back of the truck and shut the doors.
**********
There is something about Monday afternoons that makes you want to kill yourself. Especially when you're on your period. The shows you watch are boring, the chicken pot pie your big sister left in the microwave tastes like paste, and the body you just saw in an ambulance is still fresh in your mind.
Kicking off my sneakers, I lounge on the couch and watch Arsenio Hall's interview with Paula Abdul on the living room television.
I lower the cigarette from my lips and exhale a long drawl. A voice in my head reminds me that I should be studying for my Art History test tomorrow. The teacher says something about it being fifteen percent of your grade, but I don't feel like cracking open a textbook yet.
Not when I have questions.