He’s better looking than Jonathan James, the football god star quarterback. If Reizo weren’t nuts, he’d probably have all my old girlfriends checking out the tight blue jeans he wears.
There’s something unique about him. Intense. Weird. My feeling meter detects confusion and pain.
He fidgets and turns to leave, but abruptly changes course and walks toward me.
I touch my phone, reminding myself where it is.
He takes off his backpack and pulls out a leather notebook, then hands it to me.
After setting my paintbrush brush down, I flip open the notebook. OMG. His sketches are so cool. Angelic clouds and colorful landscapes, fiery underground cave scenes, tombstones hovering above the page.
As I continue thumbing through the sketches, I realize they’re all drawn in three dimensions. Each picture reminds me of a page in a pop-up book.
“These are really good.”
Reizo shrugs. I see sweat beads on the top of his forehead. Nervous? That surprises me.
“Ever think about using paints?” I ask.
“I do,” he says. “Use paints, that is.”
“Oh?”
“Mainly spray. Easier to cover large surfaces.”
Tagging. He must be a tagger. Come to think of it, I’ve seen some of these images before.
“Large, like on a wall?” I ask.
“I call it a gray canvas.” He chuckles.
I feel his energy change, gentle and sincere.
“So you’re the 3D tagger?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I recognized the fiery hell sketch. It was the tag on the firehouse door that made the news, right?”
His smile grows. Waves of warm energy radiate from him. “Yep.”
“I remember the story, but the media didn’t ID you. They caught you, right?”
“Well, not exactly. A block away the cops arrested me when they saw yellow paint all over my fingertips. Circumstantial evidence, in my opinion.” He rolls his eyes. “I agreed to a plea deal. Probation.”
Reizo takes back his sketchbook.
I pick up my brush, dip it in paint, and then apply it to the canvas.
“Look, I have to go. Nice talking with you . . . Oh, and by the way,” Reizo says with a smile, “branches turn violet on a sunny day and the top leaves on your tree should match the sky color . . . Later.” He turns and jogs away.
“Wait—”
Reizo ignores me and continues on.
There’s something electrifying about his energy, shifting from excitement to worry, from simple to edgy. It pulls me in, but it doesn’t crush me. That’s a first.
I stand up and shout, “I’m Aimee!”
He glances back at me. “I know. I’m Reizo. At least for today.”
His jog turns to a sprint.
WELCOME TO THE CLOUD
Login: general
Password: *********
Cloud: How may I be of service, General?
>>find enforcer carmina
running..............
Cloud: I am done with system check.
>>report
303 not found error
>>report enforcer status
Anomalies: 10 Enforcers Missing
>>report reckoner status
Direct comm:
2 Reckoners with 1 Enforcer
Communication encrypted
Information tap not possible.
Quantum Interference Detected
Dimension Flux Detected
>>search special status
Password: *********
104 Followers Active
?Would you like to activate?
>>yes
?Would you like to use of Force?
>>force authorized
?Allow innocent casualties?
>>acceptable
>>logout
Good-bye General
Login:
chapter six
I replay the encounter with Aimee. Anger should be what I’m feeling about the smiling girl who screwed up my plan, but I’m curious instead. She actually thought my sketches were cool.
I adjust the rope on the pulley that’s secured to the top of the courthouse fire escape and lean back to observe my latest masterpiece. The gray courthouse wall now pops with color. It turned out better than my sketch. Stairway to Heaven. The judge will seriously remember me.
“You’re going to fall,” says Honesti.
“Jump,” says Bouncer. “Dive on your head.”
Jerk.
The voices continue rambling nonstop, polluting my thoughts and freezing my brain. Screw Bouncer. No way am I going to jump. I’ll make my exit when and where I want, but not here.
“Shut the hell up!” I scream as loudly as I can.
“Keep your voice down!” whispers Honesti.
“Don’t you scream at me, boy!” shouts Bouncer.
“Easy!” yells Honesti. “Will you stop?”
The voices continue to argue.
My head starts to pound, stabbing my brain again and again. I feel a headache sprout and grow until it’s piercing the back of my eyes.
“Lower your voices!” I yell louder than Bouncer’s shouts.
Incredibly, it works. They listen and shut up.
Hand over hand. Grip. Release. Grip. Release. I lower myself into position in front of the lower right corner of my latest 3D masterpiece tag.
The gray Franklin County courthouse has officially received a facelift: Stairway to Heaven. The stairway image disappears upward into a cluster of white puffy clouds, light ray streaks, and golden sunshine. The piece is shaded and painted to trick the viewer’s eye into believing the scene is three real-life dimensions. It is by far my best piece ever.
I spray my personal wildstyle mark, “REIZO.”
“The place where judges are judged and taggers rule.” I mutter. “I’d enjoy sentencing Judge Samuels for being a jerk. I’d sentence him to one year of tagging, the most heavenly of community services. I’d make him add color to heaven’s cinder blocks. I wonder what he’d paint on them?”
“He’d probably hire a real painter to do the work,” says Bouncer. “Not a lame punk like you.”
“I think Reizo is very talented,” says Honesti.
I look downward. A five-story fall would be quick.
Maybe Bouncer has a point? A new Exit Plan?
“Do it, brother man!” shouts Bouncer, as if he’s watching me. “Before the 3 a.m. drive-by.”
Bouncer’s sudden outburst rattles me. I nearly fall, but manage to grab ahold of the rope.
Not here. Not now. Go to hell, Bouncer.
Besides, it’d be way too messy compared to Murdock’s epic pond. Tomorrow I’ll do it.
Eternal naptime.
I lower myself until my feet reach the ground. I decide to leave the pulleys behind since I won’t need them anymore. For some reason I can’t explain, I collect my rope and pull it over one shoulder. Habit, I guess.
I adjust my backpack and bolt. After three steps, my head starts pounding. A migraine is coming on. But I don’t slow down.
In and out of the shadows I run. My bed is a mile away—Wild West Apartments, low-income housing for families in need.
“Can’t you run faster?” says Honesti. “You better move.”
“He’s slower than a mule,” says Bouncer. “Just give up!”
“He is not slow!” yells Honesti.
“Kick yourself,” adds Bouncer.
My brain churns like an ice cream-maker mixing a semisoft mess. I need to hurry before I collapse or black out. Oh, man. This headache is bad. Melting down on the rough streets around my neighborhood is not an option. I push myself to run faster.
“Please hurry, Reizo!” yells Honesti. “You can make it.”
Sweat runs down my face as my thoughts drift.
I remember when Honesti suggested I put my art on display. “Something to focus on,” she’d told me
. “Spray colors in layers of fine spray to blend and mix them together on the walls.”
The idea worked surprisingly well.
When the cops caught me tagging, I confessed. But getting caught didn’t stop me from going out a few weeks later to perfect my 3D angelic tombstone creation on the bell tower at City Hall.
In my opinion, City Hall needed to show respect to Franklinville’s ancient city cemetery at the edge of town. The piece looked epic from the perspective of people at school, but the media reported that it was the work of a satanic maniac. Go figure.
Then I spruced up the local Burger Shack, where most kids from Theodore High go after Friday night football games. "Who knew the media would think giving cows assault weapons to protect themselves from bastard butchers would be in bad taste? How’d those reporters like to be freaking cows?"
Clearly, people don’t want to admit there’s realness in my art—truth in visual form. If the judge got sentenced to milk a cow and then slaughter it to make cheeseburgers, he’d give up meat too. Maybe he’d even give up milk.
People lie to themselves all the time, brainlessly existing in their gray world.
I got busted again during my next project—the firehouse. Who knew there’d be a fire at 3:33 a.m., just as I finished spraying fierce 3D flames from hell on the big black door of the station? The piece turned out awesome and made the evening news.
The media called it satanic again. A few firefighters said it was rad and some thought it was cool. Two cops didn’t give a shit when they took me away in cuffs.
My head throbs and tears run from my eyes. The mega-massive brain-freeze grows more intense, but I keep jogging. I grab at my head and stumble, knocking over a trashcan.
“Cows with assault weapons?” says Honesti.
“Brother man don’t get it!” says Bouncer. “He too stupid!”
“I get what Reiz was trying to say,” says Honesti. "I guess."
“Brother man needs a slap,” says Bouncer. “Slap yourself, boy!”
“Lower your voice,” says Honesti.
“Stop!” I yell. “I hate you both!”
Two dogs bark as I run close to a chained link fence.
“Hate us?” asks Honesti. “Really?”
“You don’t deserve to breathe,” says Bouncer. “Hater boy!”
After a few more minutes, I don’t understand what the voices are saying anymore as they continue to rant on and on, back and forth. It’s worse than an Olympic curling event gone mad, sweeping, crazy people coaxing gray stones to move faster. Yelling at a rock as if it understood.
I run with both hands over my ears. “I’m almost home.”
chapter seven
Chilly mornings at the pond are my favorite time of day. Watching the tall saw grass swaying and fluffy clouds floating across the sky.
Great Uncle Pete runs the ranch that’s been in the Murdock family for over a hundred and fifty years. We all pitch in to help him manage it from time to time. Uncle likes to tell people that collecting cow pies bought him his first tractor. He thinks everyone should spend a summer or two working on a ranch.
Just before summer break, he asked if I’d paint him a picture of the pond. Told me to take all summer if I needed. I’m pretty sure Mom put him up to it.
The lawn chair and easel are where I left them yesterday. It only takes a few minutes to set up my paints and fill a Mason jar with pond water. A new painting is on my agenda for today. Dark green water in the center, lighter near the grass-covered mud bank. Breezy ripples riding the surface. I’ll call it Pondscape.
I can’t stop thinking about Reizo. His intense energy radiated in waves like the rhythm of my cell’s ringtone—Bach on the cello. Low pitch. High pitch. Long note. Short note. Repeat.
I dip my brush in green paint and apply it to my mixing board, which is next to a small patch of black. I blend colors for the pond’s middle.
Reizo Rush. His half-smile shrug with a reluctant wave.
A fish breaks the surface in an echoing snap, swallowing a small fly. Breakfast.
The image of the fish consuming the fly in one swift move lingers in my mind as my teeth crush a granola bar. I dip my brush into black and add a fish outline lurking under the surface.
I don’t get it. The pond is secluded. Most people in Franklinville don’t even know it exists, but Reizo found it.
I glide my brush tip smoothly over the paper’s surface to the rhythm of a solo cello. Bach’s Cello Suites, No. 3 in G Major: Gigue playing on my cell. I love the emotion in it all.
Long stroke. Short stroke. Parallel. Semicircle. Dip. Paint. Flow.
My mind drifts as I paint to the emotion of the solo cello, thinking about my NDE visit with Grams. Brilliant colors. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple. Golden light. I felt so much love and joy. Warmth.
Near the pond, Grams sat on a lawn chair waving. But it wasn’t this pond. It was more like a divine duplicate of this pond. I found myself sitting on a lawn chair next to her. I gazed at rays of light touching everything around us, connecting us, flowing through us.
“Be fearless and follow your passions,” she told me. “Live to experience. Paint your life one frame at a time, scene by scene. Most of all, my dear Ames, love with everything you have. There is more for you to do, child.”
A flash brings me back to the present moment. The pond before me returns to focus. I hear the richness of the cello playing.
Fast. Intense. Dip. Stroke. Faster. Heart racing. Long. Short. Breathing rapid.
Tears trickle down both cheeks.
I recall the overwhelming emotion I felt when I was with her. The love I felt.
I paint faster. Adding more color. Stroke. Glide. Semicircle.
Faster. And faster until I stop mid stroke and stare upward, crying out, “Oh Grams. Grams. I—”
I drop my brush and sob into my palms. But I’m not sad. I’m not angry. I’m not scared. I’m overwhelmed.
A moment passes and my breathing slows. My hands steady. I pick up my brush and slowly apply paint.
“I know it happened, Grams,” I whisper as if she can hear me. “Just as the pond is in front of me now, I know it.”
My heart stopped. I died that day. Then I came back to life and woke up in the recovery room with a nurse standing over me. My death was documented in medical records.
“I know my visit with you was real,” I whisper. “I heard your words.”
It was a joyful experience visiting Grams, overwhelming love. But even with such awesome feelings, I still wanted to come back.
Tears stream down both cheeks. It wasn’t a dream or some drug induced delusion. Realer than real, I remember everything in such vivid detail, everything, except one thing, the most important thing.
“What am I supposed to do, Grams?” I shout as loudly as I can, causing two ducks in the pond to take flight.
A moment passes and an unnatural silence rolls over the pond, as if all the creatures are waiting for Grams to respond.
But an answer doesn’t come.
WELCOME TO THE CLOUD
Login: general
Password: *********
How may I be of service, General?
>>incarnation search
Password: *********
?Assigned role?
>>enforcer
?Soul name of enforcer?
>>carmina
running..............
Cloud: I am done with search.
>>report
1.9 Billion Possibilities
>>activate background search
Activated
>>special status update
Password: *********
94 Followers Active
10 Followers Lost
60 Enforcers Active
15 Enforcers Terminated
3099 Innocents Lost
Council Unaware
Reckoners Unaware
Keepers Unaware
Enforcers Unaware
br /> >>logout
Good-bye General
Login:
chapter eight
When Mom opens the blinds in my room, it takes a second for me to see she’s wearing her gray maid’s uniform and thick white work shoes. Her long brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, like she keeps it when she’s working.
“Feeling better, sweetie?” Mom wipes the dresser with a rag and grabs my small trashcan, as if she was at one of her housecleaning jobs.
I sit up and yawn. My muscles ache, but the migraine is gone. “How long?”
“It was a bad one this time, honey. You even needed a frozen bag of peas.” Mom looks away and picks up a sock on the floor. “Is the headache gone?”
I nod and rub my stiff neck.
“Good.”
My gaze intensifies. “How long, Mom?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that now,” she says, gathering more of my dirty clothes. “It’s summer. Dr. Stewart wants to see you tomorrow. But I think we’ll wait until your scheduled appointment. You seem better today.”
“That’s fine with me.”
Dr. Stewart is no friend of mine. From day one, I swear Stewart has been searching for a flaw to justify locking me up at Willowgate forever. He succeeded a few times too, after I got caught tagging and talked to the voices when I was in handcuffs. But Mom always manages to get me discharged within a few days.
I try to remember what happened before the migraine hit. Courthouse painting. Pain. Collapsing on my bed. I only remember fragments.
I raise my voice a little louder, but not much. Being disrespectful never works with Mom. It just makes everything worse. “Will you please tell me how long I’ve been in bed?”
Mom stops cleaning and peers at me as if she’s trying to read my mind and simultaneously tell my fortune. “Two days, Reizo.” She lets out a loud sigh. “Do you need me to stay home with you today? I can if you want.”
“What? I missed two days?” I groan and fall back onto my pillow. “No. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. I’ll check on you in between jobs, okay?”
I nod, and then realize I don’t hear the voices. Not even whispers. Just emptiness. The silence feels heavy.
Hell. Mom gave me meds.
“You need to take your medication at lunch time,” she says. “Noon. I have cereal for you on the table and a sandwich for lunch in the refrigerator. Promise me you won’t forget to take your meds?”
My heart stops and then starts up all at once. Did she look in my backpack?
“I’ll be fine.” I avoid promising. Taking meds that make me brainless is the last thing I’ll be doing after she goes to work. Mom doesn’t understand how creating art is like breathing for me. She’ll never understand. No one will. Adding color to the gray is my entire life.