Against the Wall (20 page)

“She's going to be okay,” I say.

He pulls it together and follows the doctor down the hall with Braden. Kelsea's not well enough to have a roomful of visitors, so Noah and I stay behind. He's studying me as if he's noticed something strange. I touch the place on my lip where Chip hit me, even though the mark is no longer visible.

“You're so grown up,” he says.

I drop my hand, avoiding his gaze. April said I should tell Noah about the abuse, but I'm reluctant to broach the subject. He's already overprotective. My secret makes me feel small. Sharing it would reduce me further.

Noah buys me drive-through breakfast and drops me off at SDSU. It's not the first time I've stumbled onto campus in the early morning hours, wearing the same clothes from the night before. Today I have a security guard escort. He walks me to my classes and back to the parking lot after they're over.

When I get home, April is there. She greets me with a hug and an offer for lunch, but I'm too tired to eat. I don't even take a shower.

I just crawl into bed, fully clothed, and sleep.

I wake up covered in sweat, heart racing.

I keep having the same nightmare about going back to prison. I'm in a large, temporary holding cell with dozens of other inmates. Some of them are Eastside members. We're given no food or blankets, which is typical for a drunk tank. I huddle in the corner and try to sleep, but I get attacked as soon as I drift off. I'm yanked upright and thrown into a crowd of crushing fists. I know I have to stay on my feet to survive, but I keep getting hit in the face.

I go down and they descend on me like wolves.

Shaking off the remnants of the nightmare, I sit up and check my pocket watch. It's after seven, and I have to be at the YMCA at eight.

Shit. I'm not going to make it.

I pull on my sweatpants and storm into the kitchen. I'm in that strange space between fuzzy sleep and nervous panic. Meghan is sitting at the table. Her eyes slide down my torso and jump back up. I forgot to put on a shirt, but it's nothing she hasn't seen before.

“Where is everyone?”

“Noah's at work. April and Jenny are still upstairs.”

Fuck. “I overslept,” I say, searching for a quick breakfast.

“For what?”

“I'm supposed to paint a mural with the teen group at the YMCA.”

“You're kidding.”

“Why would I be kidding?”

“No reason,” she says quickly.

I grab a carton of eggs and a gallon of milk

out of the fridge. She doesn't think I'm an appropriate role model for at-risk youth. I'm not, but I feel mildly insulted by her disbelief. I crack two eggs into a cup, add some milk, and drink it. Down the hatch.

“I'll drive you,” she says.

I nod my agreement, because I need a ride and the teen group is counting on me. I don't want to be late. It's good exposure, even if it's just volunteer work. Any street artist knows that getting up counts for more than getting paid. I take a shower and throw on some clothes. Then I grab my sketchbook and an old brown bandanna from the laundry basket. I'm ready to leave in ten minutes.

Meghan is waiting by the door. She's wearing a vintage T-shirt and cropped leggings with flip-flops. We haven't spoken since I left the hospital the other day. Noah told me that Kelsea's doing fine, and they're still looking for the suspect. He didn't ask me if I broke the promise I made about Meghan. I think he doesn't want to know. I'm under no illusions that his opinion on the matter has changed, though.

Nothing has changed. It can't happen again.

“How's Kelsea?” I ask.

“Better. They might release her tomorrow.”

I look out the window while she drives, shutting off conversation. Although I haven't seen Junior all week or heard any news about Eastside, my anxiety has grown. Maybe it's the recurring nightmare, or Kelsea's ordeal, or my unslaked lust for Meghan.

I just don't feel settled. I'm like a bubbling pot, ready to boil over.

When we arrive at the YMCA, it's almost eight. Anthony's already there with the teen group. Meghan parks in an empty space and turns off the engine. I don't expect her to get out with me, but she does. The teens look relieved to see me, as if they don't trust adults to follow through on their promises.

This thought gives me a heavy jolt of apprehension. I'm an adult in their eyes, maybe even a
role model
.

Jesus.

Anthony smiles at Meghan. “Hello.”

“This is Meghan,” I say, after a pause. I don't know how to introduce her.

She shakes hands with Anthony and the teens. They probably think she's my girlfriend, which is odd. I've never had a white girlfriend. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who would date a felon, either.

“The wall got tagged again last night, after we painted it,” Anthony says.

I'm not surprised. A fresh wall is a beacon for taggers. “I can cover it,” I say, checking out the supplies in the back of his truck. He has spray paint, regular paint, brushes, rags, water, protective masks. Everything I asked for.

Meghan puts on her Panama hat and we start walking down the street together. “Do you want me to leave?” she asks quietly.

“No,” I say, after a moment of contemplation. I might actually need her. I'm nervous about fucking up or losing my cool. This is a large mural that has to be completed in one day. It's not like working at Fine Ink, where I can focus on being friendly. When I'm doing an art project, I tend to really bury myself in it. “Maybe you can keep an eye on the big picture and sort of…coordinate things.”

She seems pleased by my suggestion. “Okay. I'll be the project manager.”

The first order of business is to paint over the new graffiti, which is minor. We're lucky the wall didn't get bombarded. I give Paco a can of white and show him how to spray for maximum coverage.

I also need something to stand on for the upper portion of the mural, so Anthony goes back to the YMCA for a ladder. While he's gone, I study my final sketch. Now that I'm in front of the wall, I'm not happy with the layout.

“What do you think?” I ask Meghan.

She glances at the sketch with interest. “I don't understand how the couple fits in. There's hearts and flowers over here, virgin sacrifice over there.”

I frown at her interpretation. “This isn't a virgin sacrifice.”

“What is it?”

“It's an image from a famous Aztec story, sort of like Romeo and Juliet. It's based on these two volcanoes in Mexico. The volcanoes represent the lovers. He was a great warrior and she was a princess. She heard he was killed in battle and died of a broken heart. He came back the next day, but it was too late.”

Her mouth makes a soft O. “Everyone knows this story?”

“Mexicans do.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I had the wrong idea completely. It's beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.”

I glance at the sketch again. She's right about one thing: the scene isn't well integrated. “Should I take them out?”

“No, move them to the center. Your strength is faces and figures.”

I narrow my eyes, picturing the couple as the focal point. I can see it. My imagination fills in the other details like a blossoming rose. I can twine the flowers through the lettering. Everything comes together, curling around the central image.

“You're a genius,” I say. Then I kiss her, on impulse.

It's a bad impulse. Because my heart blossoms the same way, pumping with vibrant emotion.

She stares at me in surprise.

I can't pass that off as an ordinary attack of lust, so I don't even try. I sit down to make another sketch. Maybe I can avoid eye contact with her for the rest of the day. I definitely need to avoid lip contact.

Anthony and the teen group like the new focus of the piece. It makes more sense from a practical standpoint, too. I can concentrate on the most difficult image while the teens work on the simpler elements below.

I cover my nose and mouth with my bandanna and get started. I outline the lettering in the lower center. Instead of
VIVA AMOR
, I go with
AMOR ETERNO
. I weave in more roses and leaves throughout. Then I add the heart on one side and a dove in the center. When I'm done, I take a step back to study the outline. It already looks good.

I put the girl who did the heart design in charge of this part, because she's the best artist and it's her vision. The teens have to fill in the colors using paintbrushes, which is an easier tool to master than a spray-paint can.

Meghan nods her approval. “How long should this take them?”

“Several hours, if they do it right.” I glance at my plastic watch. “Signal me at eleven.”

I get up on the ladder while Paco stands below me with a crate of supplies. My sketch of the couple is based on Jesus Helguera's famous painting
La Leyenda de los Volcanes
. I want the piece to be instantly recognizable, more of a reproduction than a reimagining. But I'm also going for a style I call cholo art, which is popular in prison and has a distinct look, sort of like an engraving.

I make a grid before I begin, because the space I have to cover is huge. Then I start to develop shapes. If I mess up the proportions, the whole piece will be ruined. It takes me an hour to nail down the outline of the warrior. Then I tackle the princess he's carrying and start to add the other details.

“It's after eleven,” Meghan tells me.

Damn. I'm soaked in sweat and the wall is still mostly white. I climb down from the ladder, feeling a touch of vertigo. I've gotten up high before but this is by far the tallest building I've painted. It's hard on my equilibrium, not to mention my respiratory system.

Anthony brings pizza and sodas for everyone. I accept a slice, but I can barely drag my gaze away from the wall. I have so much more to do. It's crazy.

“How does the lettering look?” Meghan asks.

“Good,” I say, stuffing my face. The heart isn't finished yet, but that's because it's intricate. “They're doing a great job.”

“What should they do next?”

“They can start adding accents and shading. Dark green for the leaves and vines. Dark red for the roses. Shading around the edges creates depth.”

“You should do an example for them.”

I nod my agreement. She's not a bad project manager. But then, she's always been a people person, bringing out the good in everyone.

Even me.

“What about underneath?”

“I was going to use that space for handprints, to make the mural more interactive. All of the teens can add a handprint and their names. So can the neighbor kids, if they want.”

“Is the paint safe for skin?”

“Probably not,” I say. I didn't think of that.

“We could use markers to make outlines of their hands, instead of handprints.”

“Okay, but markers wear off. You need to reinforce the outlines with paint.”

“What color should we paint the background?”

“Brown. I want brown handprints.”

She smiles, taking a sip of soda. “It's going to turn out great.”

“You think?”

“Don't you?”

“I've got a long way to go.”

The teens finish their pizza and gather around me, chatting. I show them how to do the accents for the roses and lettering. It's pretty basic. They seem excited about the project and eager for my attention. I give Meghan a sidelong glance, so she steps in to get them back on task. I climb the ladder and cover my face with the bandanna again.

The next six hours pass in a cloud of paint, with a soundtrack of rattling cans. I create a backdrop scene of snowy volcano peaks. Then I add the final touches to the couple, reinforcing shapes, deepening colors, refining expressions.

I've noticed that there's a crowd gathering below, but I don't take my eyes off the piece, not even when I get down to the ground. Anthony moves aside the ladder and I touch up a few mistakes. Then I remove my bandanna and take a step back to study my work. I wish I had more time, but I'm pleased with the results. The princess is lovely in her fringed white dress. The warrior's headpiece almost looks like real feathers. Meghan's handprint idea turned out well. There are dozens of hands underneath the vine lettering.

Anthony appears next to me, all smiles.

“How do you like it?” I ask him.

“It's one of the best murals I've ever seen.”

“You must not have seen very many.”

“I've seen my share,” he says. “Are you going to sign it?”

I stare at the wall, considering. This isn't Eastside territory, but it's close. If I put my full name on the piece, they might tag it just to fuck with me.

After a moment of indecision, I pick up a can of black spray paint and crouch down to the lower right corner. Before I went to prison, I marked all of my work with an e. It was my way of claiming ownership without incriminating myself.

Today I create a new signature: ehl.

It's not that mysterious. My full name is Eric Hernandez Lucero, Hernandez for my father and Lucero for my mother. I wonder what my parents would think of this mural. My dad was a real Chicano, brown pride and all that.

My mom thinks pride is a sin.

As I straighten, I glance around the crowd warily. I didn't realize the mural would draw this much attention. Someone's going to take a photo of me and post it on social media. I might as well send my rivals a text alert of my locations.

I'm about to make my escape when I spot Meghan with Jenny. They're adding another handprint to the mural. April and Noah are standing nearby. Meghan must have called and invited them here. Something in my chest tightens at the sight.

This is what family members do. They come to your major life events and show support.

April steps forward to give me a hug. “It's beautiful,” April says, her voice husky. “Absolutely beautiful.”

My eyes mist over. Stupid paint fumes.

Anthony introduces himself to April and they both start gushing about my talent. Noah doesn't chime in. Before I can find an excuse to leave, Meghan brings Jenny over. I greet her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Tío,”
she says, wrapping her little arms around my neck. “You painted a building.”

“And you added a magic handprint to make it perfect.”

“I did,” she agrees.

The teens gather around me, followed by a group of curious onlookers. I shake hands with strangers and smile at their compliments. Normally I don't mind people telling me how awesome I am, but right now I'm on edge. When I finally extract myself from the crowd, Anthony detains me again.

“There's a woman from the
San Diego Times
here,” he says.

“Don't give her my name.”

“Why not? This is great publicity for an artist.”

“I don't want any publicity.”