Forgive

The familiar rattle of the spray paint can echoed off the walls of the alley, joining the distant car horns and music. I brushed my hair back behind my ear with my free hand, took a breath, and began to work. Baselines first, the black paint shone in the dim alleyway lamplight. The smell overwhelmed my nose, making me recoil back and cover it with the collar of my old t-shirt. I continued to paint, the curved and straight lines flowing easily from my mind to the wall. 

I was lost in the motions. Arm and wrist moving expertly, I painted my message, my mark, on the old brick wall of the comic shop. My shadow moving with me, I stood on my tiptoes to reach the highest points and crouched to reach the lowest. Dancing to my own rhythm, I painted my heart out. The world around me became a distant haze. I was completely unaware of anything but my art— at least until I stepped into a very deep puddle. I felt the coolness seep in between my toes and soak my sock, shocking me from my reverie and making me jump back. My sneaker was drenched with murky city water. Great. 

“Oh man, these are white!” I whined to the darkness, my voice bouncing off the damp alley walls. “Well, not anymore.” I sighed a puff of air into the cool night. My mom was going to kill me. Not only because I was out past my curfew, but because I had ruined the very shoes she told me only to wear to school. I cursed, glaring daggers at the puddle before my shoulders slumped and I looked up at my artwork in defeat. It still had at least an hour to go before it was finished. Did I want to finish it with a drenched shoe and soggy sock? I jerked the strings of my hoodie angrily. If I left it now, I could get caught coming back. It was now or never. 

With another sigh, I shook the paint can again and went back to work. Once I was in the zone, I completed the baselines and began to add colors and accents. Shoe squishing beneath my foot, I was constantly reminded to watch where I was stepping. The puddle reflected the lamplight like it was beckoning me over. I glared at it. 

“I’m not going to step in you again,” I spat. The paint fumes must have been getting to me.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump. “Mom” glowed on the screen as I took it out of my pocket.

Shit.

 I winced, knowing I was in for it. My thumb hesitated over the answer button, my mind scrambling for an excuse when, after a few rings, it went silent. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding before I unlocked my phone and went to my texts. 

Sorry, I forgot to tell you I have study group tonight. We’ll be ending in a few hours. Promise. Forgot about curfew. 

A second later I saw she had read it. I slumped against the wall next to my artwork. That was close. Good thing I disabled the tracking feature on my phone. 

Shaking the worry from my body, I bounced back to work. Colors and lines, dashes and streaks, this had to be my best one yet. Hopefully, I could finish it now. No more interruptions.

As if on cue, I heard the scuff of running feet on wet pavement. My heart thumped as I turned around, fearing I had been caught, when I saw a figure running in the opposite direction holding a few of my paint cans.

“Hey!” I yelled, dropping my paint and starting after the figure. “Give those back!” My hood fell from my head as I ran, the cool night breeze blowing it back. My hair flew out, wild and bright in the dark, the blue hue shone like a neon light. The wind felt good on my face and hair as I ran, but there was no time to enjoy the pleasantries. 

I was fast for my age, so it wasn’t long until I was a few feet away from the person. 

Just a little further…

I then noticed there were many twists and turns in the alleys, but this person didn’t go down any of them. He or she was staying in a straight line. 

With a burst of strength, I leapt forward and grabbed the person, sending us both to the ground. The cans fell from his or her hand and rattled on the concrete. I pushed myself away from the fallen lump of a person and grabbed them. Standing, I roughly kicked the thief in the side, who recoiled with a grunt.

“What do you want?” I said coldly as I pulled my hood back up. “You wanted me to catch you.” The figure, dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie, shook on the ground with what appeared to be laughter. He or she rolled over, unfazed by the wet pavement, to reveal a boy’s face. Still a bit round with boyhood, he grinned up at me through a veil of dark curls.

“Was it that obvious?” he asked from the ground, chuckling. He had a faint accent. Spanish, maybe. 

I glanced around, hoping no one had seen what had just happened when I saw another figure in the alley nearby holding a trash bag. I recognized him under the pale light of the shop next door. He was looking right at me.

“Hey, Mr. Feng!” I called too cheerfully, waving my arm stiffly. I could only imagine what was going through his head right now. Mr. Feng owned the Chinese restaurant near the comic shop and was a family friend. It was very possible he would tell my parents about this. Their only daughter out at night beating up kids. 

This night keeps getting better. 

Mr. Feng hurried back into his shop, garbage forgotten. I turned my attention to the boy on the ground. 

“What the hell man? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re gonna get me into?” I gestured to where Mr. Feng had disappeared before bringing my free hand to my face to cover it.

After a moment of self-pity, I sighed and dropped my hand to find the boy on his feet in front of me. He was still grinning.

“Would you stop that?” I asked warily. “It’s a little creepy.” The boy laughed, his voice a bit deeper now that he was standing. Maybe he was older than I thought. Standing, he was a few inches taller than me. 

“Diego,” he said, offering his hand. I raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you kidding me? You just friggin’ stole from me and now you want to be friends?” I began to walk in the direction of my painting. “Hell no, thank you.” He jogged after me. 

“Wait! I have a deal for you!” 

“Not interested, thanks.” 

“You give me your paints and I don’t call the cops on you.” I froze. He stood next to me, watching my expression. I didn’t meet his eyes.

“What for?” I asked shortly, feeling fear begin to wrap its terrible hand around my heart. I kept my face neutral, staring at a crushed soda can a few feet away.

“Vandalism and physical assault,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“You tricked me!” I exclaimed, immediately turning on him and poking a finger to his chest. “You planned this! You little son of a —,”

“Hey, now! There’s no need for that kind of language,” he smirked. “So? What’ll it be?” I was silent, considering. My paints were my hobby, my escape. Without them, what would I do? I could buy more, but I’m not very liquid with money at the moment. And those paints were not cheap. Not even at Wal-mart.

But then again, I couldn’t go to jail either. 

With a sigh, I held out the paints to him. He grinned widely and just before he could grab them, I snatched them away with a smirk of my own.

“I’m Skye,” I said, “ and I’ll give you these on one condition.” I rattled the cans for emphasis. “You know how to use these?”

……………

“Why do you even want my paints?” I asked, spraying a few more accents onto my artwork. “They’re not the best in the world.” Diego smiled over at me from a few feet away, spraying the last few final lines on the painting. 

“Just to annoy you,” he said sweetly. I squinted in confusion, dropping my arm that was holding the paint. 

“Dude, you don’t even know me. Why do you need my paints? You have to know you’re stealing, like, one of the only fun things in my life right now.” Diego stared at me for a moment before averting his eyes to continue his work. Annoyed, I huffed and turned back to my section. Diego had agreed to help me finish it if I gave him the paints afterwards. We were making progress, aside from when he would interrupt me on the most delicate of features, trying to make me screw up. 

We didn’t talk for a moment. Only the spraying sounds of the paint and the distant city noises filled the alleyway. Diego spoke first.

“I need the money,” he murmured. I stopped painting again and turned to him, curious.

“So you go around stealing people’s life’s work?” I snapped.

“I saw an opportunity and I took it, alright?” His voice was sharp, defensive. “And it’s not for me. My family... We can barely get food.” His dark eyes bore into me; they were filled with so much anger I actually felt a finger of fear touch my heart.

“Look, I’m sorry.” I held my hands up in surrender, eyes wide. He seemed to remember himself then, unclenching his fists and looking away. An uncomfortable silence surrounded us like an overly-warm blanket. 

“I’m sorry too,” he said softly, barely heard over the city noise. He looked up at me like a lost puppy. I nodded and gave him a soft smile. 

After a short session of quiet concentration, our work was finally done. I could see the moon in between the dark concrete buildings that towered over me. It was later than I thought. I was definitely in trouble. 

A smear of black paint across his forehead, Diego smiled at me when he finished the last outline. We both moved together, backing up, to see its full glory. 

You could see where Diego had taken over, his lines more sharp and jagged while mine were curved and rounded. My side had more colors like purple, green, and gold, while his only varied in blues and oranges. Taller than both of us on our tip-toes, it reached out farther than both our arm lengths together and took up most of the wall. Altogether, the painting spelled one word:

Forgive.