A person's motivation isn't always apparent.
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| Photo Credit |
“You don’t have enough contrast. And your shadows are off.
Where is the source of light? Come on, Poppy! This is Art 101 stuff. You’ve got
to determine the source of light.”
I gritted my teeth and shook the can of spray-paint slowly
up and down, up and down, while biting my tongue. Log’s abrasive teaching style
always made my concentration scatter like autumn leaves. “The fricking source
of light is moving,” I growled. “Like the train.”
Log rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at my
picture. “Doesn’t matter man. It’s your job to imagine the constant. That’s a
mess. Fix it.”
As he walked away I imagined fixing his face. I’d tell him
the source of light is my fist just before slamming it into his gaunt cheek.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’m two-thirds his height and less than half his weight.
He’s got years of street experience. And I’ve got none. He’d see my weak handed
throw coming before I started to throw it. And who’s he calling “man” anyway?
“Hey, Poppy. Why you frowning?”
My stomach swooped like it was on a carnival ride as soon as
I heard the low rumble of Axiom’s voice. My gaze devoured his lean frame and I
knew by the time I was staring doe-eyed at him, all signs of my anger had
evaporated.
I shrugged. And though I wanted to glare at our camp host’s
retreating back, I smirked instead because my mind filled with memories of
Axiom and I sneaking away from the campfire and the feel of his calloused
fingers skimming over the swell of my hips. How the tangy smell of paint from
the day mixed with the earthy smell of the woods around us.
Ax chuckled. He leaned forward until our foreheads almost
touched. His voice growled lower and gruffer than before as he whispered in my
ear. He trailed a knuckle down my bare upper arm. “Hey, Poppy. Why you
grinning?”
Goosebumps erupted. A shiver ran through me. Should I admit
I hoped we could sneak away again? He shifted closer and the warmth of his body
radiated against me. I ached to touch him. He held a can of paint, but his
fingers were clean and no telltale scent enveloped me. I considered wrapping my
fingers with his, but mine were stained with paint. When my gaze met his
startling blues—heavy lidded like a contented cat—I forgot everything but
sneaking to the woods.
Ax parted his lips like he was going to speak, but then
turned to scan my art. When he cocked his head and frowned, my heart skipped a
beat. He didn’t like it anymore than Log. Then his eyes rested on my signature
flower and his face relaxed into a mixture of pleasure and – what, longing?
“Of course your poppy is fabulous. I love how it’s half
crushed under the kid’s boot. Really powerful image for those who follow your
work.”
His gaze zigzagged across the mural. His brow furrowed. An
eyebrow arched. My stomach clenched as it waited for his verdict. I turned my
attention back to my art and finally saw it from Ax’s and Log’s perspective.
Gah! It was crap! The kid’s shadow loomed in front of him, while the shadow of
his nemesis reached toward the kid. What was I thinking? Shadows can’t be
facing each other.
Wait. What was I thinking?
I stepped back, drawing Ax’s attention. He stepped with me,
an amused expression on his face, as if he couldn’t wait to hear how I would
attempt to explain this hot mess of art. He mirrored another step backward with
me.
It was from that vantage point that I saw it all. The
shadows of all the living things in the mural; the people, the plants, the pets
– all stretched inward toward a center point.
I felt the presence of other campers as they gathered
around. Maybe it was my serious reflection that drew them. Maybe Log quietly
urged them over, hoping to make a ginormous fool of me. Since the first day I
arrived, he’d been playing a two-faced game with me, trying to humiliate me all
while he smiled and played nice. Was it because I paid my own way instead of
getting in on scholarships like the gang member kids did? Was it because my
mailing address was The Acres instead of down in the barrio?
I reached over and grabbed a can of deep purple paint in my
right hand and a can of silver in my left. Shaking them aggressively, I stepped
toward the mural.
“In the immortal words of William Shakespeare; all the
world’s a stage,” I spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “And all the men
and women merely players.”
I started to spray. The cans moved with fluid flourish,
creating flowing script. The right hand did the heavy lifting and the left
swept in to add highlights and a sense of “pop” to the graceful cursive. I
stepped back and smiled.
Each
of us lives in our own spotlight.
Ax snaked an arm around me and kissed the side of my head.
“Brilliant, babe.” I ignored the tension in his embrace. With one final
squeeze, he walked over to Log, while dozens of campers crowded around me
asking questions about the symbolism I’d only just identified.
But the surrounding voices were only drones. My mind was
elsewhere. See, we all have our secrets. Including us rich kids. From the
tender age of five, in order to give me a leg up in the office politics of my
future, my privileged parents had me trained by an ex-KGB agent, in the fine
art of reading lips. I was his prized pupil until he dropped dead of old age
eight years later. Even though Ax and Log both stood mostly in profile to me I
could see their conversation and my blood thrummed in my ears and my temper
rose.
They were both disappointed I’d pulled off another piece of
work my fellow campers considered a masterpiece. Ax had been sure I’d be too
distracted by my raging hormones to pull it all together in the end. Log
growled that Ax had promised he’d be able to discredit me, but now they were
even more threatened by my work.
That made me pause. Why would they feel threatened? Log was
a camp counselor at an underground camp for graffiti artists and Ax was a
fellow stude…oh no.
I pushed my way through the crowd of students still firing
questions at me, even though I wasn’t responding. I marched up to a surprised
Ax and grabbed the hem of his shirt while doing the same to Log. I yanked
upward. A line of X’s snaked across each of their ribcages as if erasing the
rib that lay beneath.
“You’re both part of The Missing Rib?” I snarled. “Is this
camp just a ploy?”
Log’s smile curled with malice. “The Missing Rib is
everywhere. We infiltrate all aspects of life. Ax and I are doing exactly
what’s intended of us. Rooting out the females intent on moving into positions
hirer than is appropriate.”
I’d heard the mission statement of The Missing Rib before,
about how women should be beholden to men for the sacrifice they made for their
creation. But I’d never heard someone who so thoroughly believed it. It was
graffiti camp, for crying out loud. I mean, seriously, are female graffiti
artists threatening to take over the world?
My stomach soured. Then I remembered Ax’s part in the
deception and my breath caught. I swung my accusing gaze on him. “This is what
you believe too? Women don’t belong in graffiti?”
“There are only two places women belong.” Ax held up a
finger with each point. “In the kitchen and in the bedroom.”
My head felt like it was going to explode from the anger
building inside me. Ax’s stare was devoid of emotion and I knew the night
before had been a complete ruse. A part in a play.
A play.
I spun and looked at my mural. The artwork that so
threatened their – what – machismo, manhood, artistry?
Just then a whistle blew and the train car my mural decorated
lurched forward.
Log leaped toward it, flailing his hands. “No! We need to
destroy it. Don’t let it get away!”
But nobody moved. Not even Ax, who still held a can of paint
in his hand. The campers watched the train gain momentum and the mural roll
south to points unknown. I shook the can of purple paint still clutched in my
hand and imagined the mural I could paint on Log. How I could make him look
like the coward he was, a man who hid behind a big scary organization and
deception. I wondered if I could get some of the campers to hold him down for
five minutes.
When the train car was out of site, the campers turned
toward Log and Ax, whose eyes widened with fear. I smiled and set the paint can
down. I wouldn’t need it.
As I walked away, I chuckled at the irony of events. I’d
joined the camp in rebellion of the skirt and blazer life my parents wanted for
me. Yet instead of learning how to improve my art, I learned the most effective
way to beat people like Log and Ax is through the legal system. Looks like I’ll
by donning that blazer after all and some day prosecuting members of groups
like The Missing Rib.
Those boys had better watch their backs. After all, graffiti
is a crime.
About the author:
When her children
were young and the electricity winked out, Kai Strand gathered her family
around the fireplace and they told stories, one sentence at a time. Her boys
were rather fond of the ending, “And then everybody died. The end.” Now an
award winning children’s author, Kai crafts fiction for kids and teens to
provide an escape hatch from their reality. With a selection of novels for
young adult and middle grade readers and short stories for the younger ones,
Kai entertains children of all ages, and their adults. Learn more about Kai and
her books on her website, www.kaistrand.com.
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