“Right, like that. It started when I was a kid and then I began connecting them and then it just seemed… finished.”
“So I'm assuming you have some sketch pads, or paintings, or something to prove this?”
“Prove what? It's my design. I didn't copy it from anyone if that's what you're implying.”
I was doing mental gymnastics, trying to track how we'd gone from sneaking around, to running for our lives, to an interrogation about my tattoo.
Taren ground his teeth. “That is not what I'm—” He took a breath and continued, his tone calmer. “Look, this is important. Do you have other copies of that symbol?”
“Yeah… in sketchbooks, like you said, on the cover of my algebra book, incorporated in a mural on my bedroom wall…”
Other than my tattoo, the one on my wall was my favorite. Mom had been on a high and awake for three days when I came home to find her stripping off the yellowing wallpaper that decorated my bedroom in our latest apartment.
“You're such a brilliant artist,” she had said, “it's about time you did a large installation!”
So together we painted—me sketching, her filling in colors. It took us late into the next evening, even with Mom calling me in sick from school. When it was done, we both collapsed into our respective beds and slept for hours. The next day I was in school by third period; Mom stayed in bed for two weeks.
“OK, that's good,” Taren said, “They'll want to see those. Where do you live?”
I gave him my address which he then punched into the GPS. I wanted to question him—it was absurd that he was so interested in my artwork, and who was 'they'?—but something about the intensity in his eyes and the speed at which he was driving kept me silent. A short while later we pulled onto my street, Taren cursing when he saw the patrol car in front of my house.
“I was hoping we would beat them here,” he said.
The living room was well lit, the drapes pulled back. My mother paced, gesturing frantically. The cops stood calmly, allowing her tirade.
“They're going to be here a while,” I said, knowing she wouldn't allow them to leave until she'd exhausted her fury at my disappearance. At least this tirade was legitimate.
“Is there anywhere else you'd have a copy of the design?”
“There's a coffee shop I go to, Buzz. They have a few of my pieces on the wall.”
“You've displayed it? In public?” He was incredulous.
“Well, why shouldn't I? It's my work.”
He didn't answer, just started the car and drove off.
***
This trip only took a minute or two. Buzz was less than a mile away, one of the reasons it was my favorite. The other was that it was open until 4 a.m. I'd become quite an insomniac in the past year and had started sneaking out around eleven, heading to Buzz to sketch. I'd stumble home too wired to sleep, and lie in bed until it was time for school. When I did sleep, it was fitful.
With no choice but to leave Callie in the car, we went inside.
“Em!” Clyde greeted me with a broad smile. His mohawk was blue today and he'd added a piercing to his eyebrow.
“Hey Clyde, how have you been?” I leaned forward on the counter.
“Can't complain. The real question is, where have you been?”
“Eh,” I hedged, “here and there. But I haven't been cheating on you, I swear. Buzz is my one and only coffee house.”
“I guess I can let it slide then. Here.” Clyde hit a button and the cash register popped open. “One of your pieces sold.”
“No way,” I said as Clyde handed me forty-five dollars. “Which one?”
Clyde pointed to the empty space on the wall behind me. My breath caught. Taren didn't need me to explain.
“Do you know who bought it?” I asked, trying not to let the coincidence unnerve me.
“Didn't get his name, but he came in yesterday. He nearly choked on his bagel when he saw it hanging there. Wanted to know all about you, asked if you had any other pieces here. I showed him the two small ones
“So I'm assuming you have some sketch pads, or paintings, or something to prove this?”
“Prove what? It's my design. I didn't copy it from anyone if that's what you're implying.”
I was doing mental gymnastics, trying to track how we'd gone from sneaking around, to running for our lives, to an interrogation about my tattoo.
Taren ground his teeth. “That is not what I'm—” He took a breath and continued, his tone calmer. “Look, this is important. Do you have other copies of that symbol?”
“Yeah… in sketchbooks, like you said, on the cover of my algebra book, incorporated in a mural on my bedroom wall…”
Other than my tattoo, the one on my wall was my favorite. Mom had been on a high and awake for three days when I came home to find her stripping off the yellowing wallpaper that decorated my bedroom in our latest apartment.
“You're such a brilliant artist,” she had said, “it's about time you did a large installation!”
So together we painted—me sketching, her filling in colors. It took us late into the next evening, even with Mom calling me in sick from school. When it was done, we both collapsed into our respective beds and slept for hours. The next day I was in school by third period; Mom stayed in bed for two weeks.
“OK, that's good,” Taren said, “They'll want to see those. Where do you live?”
I gave him my address which he then punched into the GPS. I wanted to question him—it was absurd that he was so interested in my artwork, and who was 'they'?—but something about the intensity in his eyes and the speed at which he was driving kept me silent. A short while later we pulled onto my street, Taren cursing when he saw the patrol car in front of my house.
“I was hoping we would beat them here,” he said.
The living room was well lit, the drapes pulled back. My mother paced, gesturing frantically. The cops stood calmly, allowing her tirade.
“They're going to be here a while,” I said, knowing she wouldn't allow them to leave until she'd exhausted her fury at my disappearance. At least this tirade was legitimate.
“Is there anywhere else you'd have a copy of the design?”
“There's a coffee shop I go to, Buzz. They have a few of my pieces on the wall.”
“You've displayed it? In public?” He was incredulous.
“Well, why shouldn't I? It's my work.”
He didn't answer, just started the car and drove off.
***
This trip only took a minute or two. Buzz was less than a mile away, one of the reasons it was my favorite. The other was that it was open until 4 a.m. I'd become quite an insomniac in the past year and had started sneaking out around eleven, heading to Buzz to sketch. I'd stumble home too wired to sleep, and lie in bed until it was time for school. When I did sleep, it was fitful.
With no choice but to leave Callie in the car, we went inside.
“Em!” Clyde greeted me with a broad smile. His mohawk was blue today and he'd added a piercing to his eyebrow.
“Hey Clyde, how have you been?” I leaned forward on the counter.
“Can't complain. The real question is, where have you been?”
“Eh,” I hedged, “here and there. But I haven't been cheating on you, I swear. Buzz is my one and only coffee house.”
“I guess I can let it slide then. Here.” Clyde hit a button and the cash register popped open. “One of your pieces sold.”
“No way,” I said as Clyde handed me forty-five dollars. “Which one?”
Clyde pointed to the empty space on the wall behind me. My breath caught. Taren didn't need me to explain.
“Do you know who bought it?” I asked, trying not to let the coincidence unnerve me.
“Didn't get his name, but he came in yesterday. He nearly choked on his bagel when he saw it hanging there. Wanted to know all about you, asked if you had any other pieces here. I showed him the two small ones
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