Violet Grenade

  “I know you hate it when I—”

  “Stop,” I say. “Just don’t.”

  He holds up his hands in defeat. “I’m ready to go when you are.”

  I move to my closet—a pile of clothes on the floor that Dizzy stole for me—and bend to dig through it. Behind me, I hear him turn to leave.

  “You are so beautiful,” he says under his breath before he’s gone.

  I almost charge after him. I almost beat his chest and scratch his face with my dirtied nails. Anything to make him regret what he said. But I just tighten my hands into fists and I count—one, two, three…ten.

  Now my blood is even Steven, and everything’s going to be okay. It’s just Dizzy. His words are easy enough to forget. I smile like I mean it and lay a hand against the wall. It’s solid, real. If this wall is treated right, it’ll stand straight as the stars long after I’m dead. This particular wall is white with blotches of gray from God knows what.

  But my wall, the one in my future house, will be blue.

  I walk back into my bathroom, the one uglied by water stains and years of neglect, and pull on a black skirt and tee, lace-up heels, and green-and-black-striped tights like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West. Then I hook in my piercings—lip, ears, eyebrow, tongue—and swipe on enough eyeliner and shadow to cause anyone’s mama to shiver. Finally…hello, darling…I slip on my pink wig.

  My armor is complete. But then I catch my reflection in the cracked mirror. My jaw tightens as I take in what Dizzy saw. The face of an angel, isn’t that what they always said?

  They. They.

  Them.

  I see the same inventory Dizzy does: large blue eyes, soft skin, blond hair kept hidden beneath a wig. But there’s more than meets the proverbial eye here. There’s something else that he doesn’t know about. That no one knows about. There’s a darkness living inside me. A blackness that sleeps in my belly like a coiled snake.

  His name is Wilson.

  Chapter Three

  Monsters

  It takes us twenty minutes of walking through the sticky night to get to Havoc. Dizzy leads me to the side of a white brick building and into an alley that reeks of spoiled food.

  “What’s going on, creeper?” I ask him. “Why aren’t we going in?”

  “We are.” He glances around, searching for something. “There.” Dizzy half jogs down the alley and then approaches a window. “VIP access.”

  “We’re going through the window?” I ask, wondering why I’m surprised.

  “It’s packed every night. They can pick who they want to let in.”

  And that isn’t us. That’s what he’s saying. If bouncers are allowed to pick, they won’t pick us. I stumble toward Dizzy, sure my feet are bleeding from the long walk in my ridiculous heels, and stop when something catches my eye. There’s a man sitting behind the green Dumpster. He’s homeless. A toddler would know this.

  His face is mangled in a way that makes my stomach lurch. One of his eyes is missing, a single slash across the space where it should be. His other eye is oozing something yellow. And along his neck is an angry rash that’s slowly climbing its way onto his cheeks.

  He attempts a smile. “Evening.”

  His voice is gentle, and I try to return the gesture as Dizzy calls my name.

  “Have a good time,” the man says sincerely, nodding toward Dizzy.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I dig into my pocket and pull out what little cash I have. I hand it to the man.

  “Domino.” Dizzy’s voice holds a warning.

  I move away from the man and toward Dizzy. “Let’s go.”

  “Why did you give that guy our money? Dude looks like a monster.”

  I eye the man over my shoulder. “I’ve seen monsters before,” I say. “They don’t look like him.”

  They look like me.

  There’s a tap-tap-tap from behind me, and I turn to see a guy standing inside the window, waving. He slides the glass up and reaches out an arm. Music explodes into the alley as if it’s offering a hand, too.

  “Hey, big man,” Dizzy says.

  “Hurry up,” Window Guy responds. “It stinks of herpes in here.”

  Dizzy gives me a boost. Using the guy’s arm as leverage, I pull myself through the window. It’s a perfect opening. My body slides through the square and lightly brushes the frame. I bet whoever put this window here figured it was immune to break-ins, but they never counted on Dizzy and me.

  I land in a bathroom that’s covered in magic marker.

  For a so-so time, call Trini!

  Aiden + Amber = Pimp Juice

  Jessika is a LIAR and SKANK

  I love it instantly. Just a few more streaks of color and—

  Window Guy calls for my help and together we drag Dizzy upward. Halfway through the window, Dizzy gets stuck. In an instant, he becomes a kicking, swinging madman, his fear of tight places overcoming reason.

  “Calm down, Dizzy,” I yell as I tug harder. “Just. Calm. Down.”

  I pull backward with all my might, and he crashes onto the floor. Then he bounds upright as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just have a completely unwarranted panic attack. Dizzy throws me a grin, and a girl with short black hair and red lipstick swings through the door.

  “What’s going on in here?” she asks. And then, “No. Never mind. Whatever it is, I’m in. That’s how I roll.” Except when she says roll it’s more like roooooooll.

  Dizzy slams his hand down on the porcelain sink and points at her. “I like you, girl. I’m going to name you Black Beauty.”

  The girl gallops and slaps her butt as if she’s riding a horse. She is, without a doubt, wildly drunk.

  Dizzy takes her arm. “I’m also going to let you buy me a drink.”

  I’m hurt when he vanishes with the girl. Sometimes I feel like our relationship is a close one, or as close as it can be between two homeless people harboring demons. Other times it feels like I’m standing in place as Dizzy walks away, or perhaps trailing behind as he’s a step ahead.

  I’m overthinking it. Of course I am. Who do we have if not each other?

  Window Guy glances in my direction. He’s short and thick and built like a closed fist. He smiles with one side of his mouth. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says. And then he’s gone, following after Dizzy and Black Beauty.

  I quickly recover from being ditched. After all, I enjoy being alone, and there’s no better way to be alone than in a place like this. After straightening my pink wig, I walk through the bathroom door to where the music thumps even louder. The room is dark and the ceiling low. A dozen globes hang overhead, lighting up different colors. It reminds me of one of those Christmas houses that times the lights to the music, each strand taking its turn to shine.

  The club, Havoc, is packed. Bodies pulse against one another and, as I pass them by, I am forgotten. It’s a feeling like no other—to be present and invisible at once. I don’t appreciate that the people are so close, that they are everywhere. But they don’t see me so it’s okay.

  It doesn’t take long for me to lose myself in the music. I dance alone, and in my head it feels like I’m normal, like all these people are my friends and they give me space, but they care about me, too. My head falls back, and I raise my arms into the air. Music injects my veins and rushes through my body. It takes me away, far away.

  Until.

  Until someone grows nearer than the others. An arm wraps around my waist and hips brush my rear.

  “Back up,” I yell, because there’s no way he’d hear me otherwise.

  He doesn’t back up.

  I spin around and the guy—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes that remind me of a Sunday school boy but I know better—pulls me tighter. He leans his head down to my ear and tells me I look sexy. Do I want to dance?

  We’re already dancing, and the answer is no. It’s always no.

  “Let go of me,” I holler. “I won’t say it again.”

  The guy grins so t
hat I can see every tooth in his mouth. His cheeks are bright red, and his brow is covered in sweat. He isn’t unattractive, but I can smell what’s beneath his sweet cologne. He is ugly on the inside. And his hands are on me.

  He spins me around and my stomach clenches.

  I’m being pulled backward toward a corner and oh my God no one is seeing what he’s doing. Or they see and don’t mind. My heart beats so hard it aches, and my breathing comes fast. But I don’t care about that. I care about what will happen if he keeps manhandling me.

  I fear what I will do.

  The guy pushes me against a wall so that my belly touches sheetrock painted black. His hands roam over my body, exploring the curveless shape of my torso. If he only knew. If he only knew he had an explosive in his grasp.

  He runs a finger over my lips.

  He pulls the clip off the grenade.

  He pushes his mouth against the back of my neck.

  He relishes the danger of the bomb in his hand.

  His palm slides down the flat of my stomach.

  Seconds left until detonation. Take cover!

  Inside my head, I scream. Outside my head, I scream. I thrash against him but he uses my weakness to his advantage. I am shy of five feet tall, and I am built of bones.

  He is built of steak dinners and whole milk.

  His hands move lower and lower, and deep inside the recesses of my brain, something sinister yawns awake. No, no, no! Nothing to see here! Go back to sleep!

  It’s no use.

  Wilson stretches tall and smiles to himself.

  He looks around like he’s amused by what’s happening to us.

  Hello, Domino, he says. It’s been a while.

  Chapter Four

  Spray Paint Savant

  I lift my legs off the ground and the guy holding me falters. His grip loosens, and I drop to the floor in a ball. I shoot under his legs and scramble backward, nearly losing my wig. Springing to my feet, I blast across the dance floor like a bullet from the barrel of a gun.

  I spot Dizzy near the bar, raising an amber-colored bottle to his lips. Shoving people from my path as best I can, I get to Dizzy. Only then do I turn back to ensure Manhandler isn’t following me.

  He isn’t.

  But I’m still here, Wilson says. And I can help.

  Shut up, shut up! I press into my temples as I lurch forward.

  Dizzy notices my face. “Follow me,” he orders.

  I nod. I know this plan. We’ve done it a hundred times before when the going stops going, when a store clerk catches me lifting a Snickers bar, or when a fellow street rat harasses us, or when Wilson threatens to surface. Dizzy may not know about Wilson, but he knows I have demons, and he’s always ready when they come crawling.

  Fight or flight, that’s what they say.

  Dizzy and I fly. Always fly.

  He tips his chin toward the front door, and we swim through the crowd like eels. Behind us, Black Beauty calls for Dizzy to come back. But he won’t. We don’t ever stand too close to each other. We don’t ever ask personal questions. But when it’s time to go, Dizzy and I are in the same flight formation.

  He pushes through the heavy double doors and together we head toward the house. I walk fast and don’t mind the ache my high heels cause my feet. I want the pain. I want that and more. Anything that will make me forget about what almost happened with the guy. But more importantly, anything that will make Wilson go back to sleep.

  Why would you want me to go to sleep? You need me for this. If you’d just go back, we could really—

  Go away!

  We’re almost home, fifteen minutes of treading across Detroit with my hands sweating, my heart racing, when Dizzy pulls me into yet another alley.

  “I want to show you something,” he says. “I was gonna save it until I could get a few more colors…”

  Dizzy doesn’t have to continue the thought. He sees the fear on my face, notes the tension in my shoulders. He knows I need a distraction.

  “This way, my lady.” He sweeps an arm in front of his body and bows like royalty, but the look in his eyes is one of worry.

  I walk past him, my fingers itching to close around something I know will push Wilson down. I get to the end of the alley and see that it turns right and left. The butt of a gray wall spreads in front of me, its arms open in an embrace.

  My eyes travel the ground and I spot them, five cans of spray paint.

  Graffiti art? Wilson asks. Listen. Let’s go back to the club. I’ll handle everything.

  I don’t think, I just rush toward the cans, pick one up in my shaking hands, and open it. The pop of the cap raises goose bumps on my arms, and quiets Wilson. I hear him shifting inside me, but it’s like he’s far away.

  Dizzy knows I like to dress up old forgotten walls. It started a few weeks after I left home. Exploring the streets of Detroit one night, I saw a kid—couldn’t have been older than fourteen—tagging a wall. He was so enchanting doing it, graceful as a ballerina. I watched him from my place in the dark until he’d finished. Before he left, he pulled off a pair of blue surgical gloves and ditched them, along with two cans of spray paint, in a city trashcan.

  I still remember what it felt like to pluck his leftovers from the other rubbish. What it felt like the first time I attempted to copy his movements. I was sloppy, unpracticed.

  But it kept Wilson away.

  I shake the can of orange, ensuring the sediments don’t settle. Then I hold it upright, stiff as a prick, and take a deep breath. I know what I want here. I’ve been imagining it while I should have been sleeping. After giving one last shake, I start to spray.

  I sketch the outline fast and rough, knowing I can worry about details later. Then I switch to a can of red and start on the letters, careful not to spray on top of wet paint. When I’m done with that, I snatch a can of black. As I work on outlining my letters, placing shadow in various places for a 3-D pop, Dizzy adds commentary to relieve the tension.

  “The artist works with an intensity unmatched by the best in the industry,” he says like he’s an announcer at a golf game. “Look at the way she moves. I’m telling you what, Ted, Domino Ray is one to keep your eye on.”

  Domino, Wilson says. Don’t push me away again.

  I’m mute with concentration and, as the colors blend along the brick wall, Wilson’s hold on my mind eases, bleeding down the grooves of my brain like wet paint.

  Until, finally, he’s gone.

  I move on to adding flare and shadow to my piece as Dizzy continues broadcasting my steps to an invisible audience. Lowering my can, I step back and tip my head, trying to spot my mistakes. Streaks of orange and red and black wink in the streetlights, and my mood lifts at the work I’ve done.

  I’m improving, but Dizzy won’t hear me say that. He says it’s impossible to improve when you’re a graffiti savant. I love that he thinks you can be a savant at holding a can of spray paint.

  I mutter without turning, “Thank you, Dizzy.”

  “Been picking them up a little at a time,” he offers. And then, with sudden intensity, “Domino.”

  The way he says my name makes me freeze. I know that tone, and already my heart is tap-dancing with anticipation. He sounds as if he may say something that’s deep enough to hold on to. Something real. Something that will change whatever it is we are. Do I want that?

  Blue and red lights flash across my wall, and a distinct wurp breaks our quiet alley.

  “Damn it!” Dizzy yells.

  I spin around to see Dizzy running down the alley. I race after him.

  Fly! Fly!

  He finds a door and tries the handle. It’s locked. He throws his shoulder into it as the sound of a car door opening and closing reaches us. I drop my spray can and start pushing on the door, too. My skin burns with anxiety, and my head screams that I can’t go to jail. I can’t be alone with myself without any distractions. If that happens, Wilson will return.

  I bang on the door with the flat of my palms
and yell for someone to open up. Wrong move. Now I can hear the patter of police officer shoes hitting the ground. I glance in the opposite direction, but there’s nowhere to go.

  Dizzy stops throwing his weight into the door as the pig rounds the corner. The cop looks like a shar-pei, all wrinkles and blond fuzz. His hand is on his gun, and he’s got that stance that says he’s ready to follow if we run.

  “Put your hands where I can see them.” He says this like we’re children.

  Dizzy starts to raise his hands.

  He stops when the door beside us swings open.

  “What do you want?” someone inside growls.

  Dizzy drops his hands and dashes in. I dash, too, and decide then and there that Dizzy is magic, that he can make himself disappear just like he can a bottle of Yoo-hoo.

  Inside the building, we’re running blind. I slam into a table and it scrapes across the floor. I hear Dizzy crashing, too. We reach the opposite side of the room as the person who opened the door yells for us to get out.

  Dizzy and I find another door at the same time. He reaches for the handle and we explode through it.

  The cop is right there.

  Right. There.

  He grabs Dizzy from behind and twists his arm in a way that makes Dizzy scream. I can’t stand the sound of hearing him that way. I can’t stand it. I throw myself on the police officer to get his hands off my person.

  Dizzy groans from the ground.

  How did he get on the ground?

  “Run,” Dizzy tells me. “Go!”

  The cop spins around, and I have to let go before I fall. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out how to get us both. His hand reaches for his gun. I don’t think he’ll use it. It’s just to scare me. But nothing scares me more than losing Dizzy. I grab his arm and bite down. He roars, but doesn’t let go of Diz.

  “Domino, dammit,” Dizzy says. “Leave!”

  I’m not going to. I don’t think Dizzy would leave me, and so I won’t leave him. I’m set to plunge my teeth into the cop’s arm again when flashing lights stop me. There’s a second cop car pulling to the curb.