Tag Along by Tom Ryan Page A

She seems annoyed by the effort.
    â€œWhat are you guys doing here anyway?” I ask.
    â€œIt’s kind of complicated,” says Roemi. “Candace here is a hard-boiled criminal, and she almost got caught in the act by the cops, but she made a daring escape and then took me and Paul hostage, and now she’s forcing us to participate in her evil schemes. Speaking of which,” he says, turning to Candace, “this is the place I was telling you about! Ta da!”
    I have no idea what they’re talking about. Candace must notice the confused look on my face. “I was bombing,” she explains. “Doing graffiti. Or trying to, I guess. Anyway, these guys said this might be a good spot.”
    Graffiti? Seriously?
    She drops her backpack on the ground and walks over to look at the Ledge.
    â€œFor real though,” says Roemi. “Why aren’t you at prom?”
    â€œWell, I guess the main reason is my mom’s a bitch,” I say. I tell them about the hidden booze and getting grounded. About jumping out the window and the scene at Terry’s house. I obviously don’t mention Justin.
    â€œIt’s kind of my fault that your mom showed up at Terry’s house,” says Paul. “She cornered me in my driveway. Sorry, Andrea. I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known what was going on.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” I say. “I know better than anyone how pushy she can be. Why are you here anyway? Did you and Lannie break up or something?”
    Paul shakes his head. “Nah, nothing like that.”
    â€œDon’t even bother trying to get any info out of this guy,” says Roemi. “Paul’s being very mysterious this evening.”
    â€œWell, what about you?” I ask. “You’re obviously all dressed up with nowhere to go.”
    Roemi closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “If you must know, I was stood up.”
    â€œOh that’s right,” I say. “You had some big date planned, didn’t you? First gay prom couple at Granite Ridge?” He’s been talking about it for a month.
    â€œYeah, had is the right word. As in, I’ve been had. The bastard left me crying at the altar.”
    â€œDid he have an excuse?” I ask.
    â€œNope, just a one-line message on Facebook saying he was sorry. He’s sorry, all right—he’s a sorry son of a bitch. Anyway, what can you do?”
    Candace walks over to us. “This isn’t going to work,” she says, pointing at the rock face. “There aren’t any good spots left.” We look at the wall. She has a point. Every square inch is covered with crappy paintings and Sharpie autographs.
    â€œIt’s no big deal,” says Candace. “It was worth a shot.”
    â€œOkay, wait,” says Roemi. “We’re already missing out on prom; we can’t have a massive fail with this too. There must be someplace for you to get all artistic and shit. What are you looking for? What would be the perfect place to do this?”
    â€œSomething smooth and flat,” she says. “Something that doesn’t have a bunch of other shit already painted on it.” She cranes her neck and points up the side of the wall. “Like up there.”
    â€œIt’s, like, fifteen feet high,” says Roemi.
    â€œThat’s a total heaven,” she says.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” asks Roemi.
    â€œA heaven is a hard-to-reach place,” she says. “Hard to get to and hard to remove once it’s been painted on.”
    â€œKind of dangerous, don’t you think?” I ask.
    â€œExactly,” she says. “As in, you could die and go to heaven.”
    â€œIf it’s so dangerous, then what’s the point, exactly?” I ask.
    She shoots me a dirty look. “The point?”
    â€œThe point of risking your life to get to someplace dangerous just to paint graffiti,” I say. “I guess