Violet Grenade(6)

Why would you want me to go to sleep? You need me for this. If you'd just go back, we could really-

Go away!

We're almost home, fifteen minutes of treading across Detroit with my hands sweating, my heart racing, when Dizzy pulls me into yet another alley.

"I want to show you something," he says. "I was gonna save it until I could get a few more colors … "

Dizzy doesn't have to continue the thought. He sees the fear on my face, notes the tension in my shoulders. He knows I need a distraction.

"This way, my lady." He sweeps an arm in front of his body and bows like royalty, but the look in his eyes is one of worry.

I walk past him, my fingers itching to close around something I know will push Wilson down. I get to the end of the alley and see that it turns right and left. The butt of a gray wall spreads in front of me, its arms open in an embrace.

My eyes travel the ground and I spot them, five cans of spray paint.

Graffiti art? Wilson asks. Listen. Let's go back to the club. I'll handle everything.



       
         
       
        

I don't think, I just rush toward the cans, pick one up in my shaking hands, and open it. The pop of the cap raises goose bumps on my arms, and quiets Wilson. I hear him shifting inside me, but it's like he's far away.

Dizzy knows I like to dress up old forgotten walls. It started a few weeks after I left home. Exploring the streets of Detroit one night, I saw a kid-couldn't have been older than fourteen-tagging a wall. He was so enchanting doing it, graceful as a ballerina. I watched him from my place in the dark until he'd finished. Before he left, he pulled off a pair of blue surgical gloves and ditched them, along with two cans of spray paint, in a city trashcan.

I still remember what it felt like to pluck his leftovers from the other rubbish. What it felt like the first time I attempted to copy his movements. I was sloppy, unpracticed.

But it kept Wilson away.

I shake the can of orange, ensuring the sediments don't settle. Then I hold it upright, stiff as a prick, and take a deep breath. I know what I want here. I've been imagining it while I should have been sleeping. After giving one last shake, I start to spray.

I sketch the outline fast and rough, knowing I can worry about details later. Then I switch to a can of red and start on the letters, careful not to spray on top of wet paint. When I'm done with that, I snatch a can of black. As I work on outlining my letters, placing shadow in various places for a 3-D pop, Dizzy adds commentary to relieve the tension.

"The artist works with an intensity unmatched by the best in the industry," he says like he's an announcer at a golf game. "Look at the way she moves. I'm telling you what, Ted, Domino Ray is one to keep your eye on."

Domino, Wilson says. Don't push me away again.

I'm mute with concentration and, as the colors blend along the brick wall, Wilson's hold on my mind eases, bleeding down the grooves of my brain like wet paint.

Until, finally, he's gone.

I move on to adding flare and shadow to my piece as Dizzy continues broadcasting my steps to an invisible audience. Lowering my can, I step back and tip my head, trying to spot my mistakes. Streaks of orange and red and black wink in the streetlights, and my mood lifts at the work I've done.

I'm improving, but Dizzy won't hear me say that. He says it's impossible to improve when you're a graffiti savant. I love that he thinks you can be a savant at holding a can of spray paint.

I mutter without turning, "Thank you, Dizzy."

"Been picking them up a little at a time," he offers. And then, with sudden intensity, "Domino."

The way he says my name makes me freeze. I know that tone, and already my heart is tap-dancing with anticipation. He sounds as if he may say something that's deep enough to hold on to. Something real. Something that will change whatever it is we are. Do I want that? 

Blue and red lights flash across my wall, and a distinct wurp breaks our quiet alley.

"Damn it!" Dizzy yells.

I spin around to see Dizzy running down the alley. I race after him.

Fly! Fly!

He finds a door and tries the handle. It's locked. He throws his shoulder into it as the sound of a car door opening and closing reaches us. I drop my spray can and start pushing on the door, too. My skin burns with anxiety, and my head screams that I can't go to jail. I can't be alone with myself without any distractions. If that happens, Wilson will return.

I bang on the door with the flat of my palms and yell for someone to open up. Wrong move. Now I can hear the patter of police officer shoes hitting the ground. I glance in the opposite direction, but there's nowhere to go.