I study her out of the corner of my eye. Her expression is as smooth and serene as always. But then she swallows, and I notice the tightness around her lips and the quiver in her jaw.
Is she… telling the truth?
The number three appears above the doors, and the second they open she fast-walks out without a backward glance. I stare after her for so long the doors start to close, and I have to shoulder my way through to force them to open again.
I am suddenly so over it. Over everything. The long hours, the cutthroat competition, the untrustworthy colleague who has me questioning her intentions when I have so many other, more important things to worry about.
Tonight—and the final surprise I have in store for Perry and his business—can’t come soon enough.
And then I just have to get through tomorrow.
* * *
“How did I let you talk me into this?” Brie mutters later that night, pulling her baseball cap lower down her forehead. Crickets chirp from the overgrown side yard, while the Twenty-Eighth Street warehouse’s white exterior shines in the dim streetlights.
My heart sinks. “If you’re having second thoughts, I don’t blame you. What we’re doing isn’t exactly legal, and—” I say, but she cuts me off.
“Oh no. Bring on the misdemeanor. I meant that.” She wrinkles her nose at the jars of paint lined up on the grass as though they hold arsenic instead of acrylics. Brie’s artistic skills extend to mathematical modeling and the occasional whimsical cross-stitch, and that’s about it. Art—more precisely, paint—has never been her thing.
“I’ll handle the painting. If you could just hand me what I need as I go and keep a lookout for bystanders, that would be great.”
Grinning, Brie rolls up the sleeves of her loose long-sleeved shirt. “No problem, boss. Bystanders, get ready to check yourself. Move along!” she shouts into the night. Her words bounce down the empty street, echoing off the darkened windows of Blooms & Baubles next door.
“Shhh. Are you nuts? I don’t want to get caught!”
“Oh, we’ll be fine. You’re not robbing an ATM, you’re painting a wall. Banksy does it all the time.”
“Banksy is an international icon. He can paint whatever and wherever he wants.”
She swats the air at what’s probably a mosquito. “Why are you doing this, anyway? I mean, it’s awesome, but this is the biggest risk I’ve ever seen you take—trespassing, defacing private property. Why do it? Do you like Perry that much?”
“It’s not just for him. It’s for me too. I want to do this. I can’t explain it, but I have to.” I don’t say that I can’t explain because I don’t fully understand it myself. The festival starts tomorrow, and this is my last chance to do something that can make a real, tangible difference.
Yes, part of me is doing this simply because I know it will help Perry, and the thought of making him happy makes me happy too. But it also feels like my own personal revolution. My way of veering off my predetermined track and doing something that speaks to my soul, even if it’s risky. After a year of struggle and a lifetime of doing what’s expected of me, I need this more than I can articulate, even to Brie.
Grinning at the blank wall in front of us, I nudge Brie with my elbow. “Joy of painting aside, picturing the look on Roger Szymanski’s face when he sees his warehouse this weekend gives me life.”
“Well, I can’t think of a better reason than that,” Brie says, lifting her hand to high-five me. She gathers up the bag of paintbrushes. “Let’s get to it. Darkness is our friend, and the night won’t last forever.”
“Neither will Roger’s plan.” Unfolding the sketch I’d tucked into my back pocket earlier, I attach it to the wall with painter’s tape—the blueprint for my mural. I examine the jars of paint on the grass, pick one, and gently shake it before twisting off the lid. Brie hands me a flat, three-inch brush, and I dip it into the jar’s dusky purple depths. Lifting the paint-laden brush to the bare white wall before me, I make the first strokes of what I can only hope will be a game changer—for me, for Perry, for the city of Cleveland, for all of us.
I know the moment Brie and I arrive at West Twenty-Eighth and Jay Avenue at 10:40 on Saturday morning that something’s off. Twenty-Eighth Street is blocked off with traffic barricades between Providence and Jay, exactly like it’s supposed to be. But besides the dozens of tables and handful of volunteers dotting the street, the block is otherwise empty.