Are You Mine

Chapter 2


Fox


I huff as I push the big box up on the stack. Even though I didn’t get back from the party until two in the morning, I still managed to get to work on time today. I tug the pallet wrap tight and circle the boxes. This pallet of books has a long, bumpy journey ahead of it in the back of a tractor trailer.

The book warehouse I work at operates seven days a week, which causes most of the other guys to complain, but it’s great for me. Saturday and Sunday shifts, plus night shifts throughout the week keep me making the money I need, plus a little extra for my savings account.

“Come on, Fox,” Jason says as he glances at the clock.

I pause and look at my watch. It’s ten ‘til three. There’s plenty of work to do in the next ten minutes, but most of the guys stop early to go stand around the computer until they can clock out.

“Hold on. I’ll meet you over there.” I don’t watch him walk away; I finish wrapping the pallet, then put the wrap away, shove on the pallet a bit, just to make sure it’s ready for shipment, and finally, I put the store sticker on it.

I still have five more minutes, so I take the broom and sweep the packing station before heading over to stand next to Jason.

“Big plans night?”

“Nah,” I answer. “Gotta work.”

“The Burger Joint? Aren’t you tired?”

“Nope.”

He shoots me a disbelieving look. “Thought graduation was yesterday, man. Why didn’t you take a day off?”

Jason’s got to be nearing thirty years old, but he looks like he’s my age. He’s easy to talk to and doesn’t make me feel stupid for just graduating even though I celebrated my twentieth birthday last month.

“I did take a day off. I didn’t work at all yesterday.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know how you do it, man. Two jobs and school?”

“Not anymore. School’s over, and you know what? You’ve got two kids, that’s another full time job, so—”

“Have you even thought about college?” He puts his number in the computer.

“I make good money here.” I don’t add the bit about how not working would make it even harder for my dad to pay the mortgage and the medical debt.

“Yeah, but you don’t want to do this for a living. Trust me.”

I quickly punch out and smack him on the back. “Did you go to college?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re still working in a warehouse, so what’s the point? Adventure is all around us. It doesn’t take a genius–”

“The girls. That’s the point. The college girls, Fox. All those hot little co-eds with their wild streak now that their parents aren’t watching all the time.”

I chuckle as we start walking out to the lot. “You’re on the internet too much, dirty old man.”

He gives me a wounded and offended expression. “Dirty, maybe. Old, definitely not.”

“Don’t you have a daughter?” He says nothing, but I know he does, so I continue. “One day she’ll go to college, and I’m sure you don’t want a dirty old man thinking about her wild streak. Besides, I don’t have to be in college to hang with college girls.” I don’t wait for a response. “Have a good night. See you Tuesday.”

My shift at the Burger Joint starts at four, so I have enough time to change into my uniform, scarf down a sandwich and fries, and pick up my paycheck from Friday. Five hours later I emerge from the restaurant smelling of grease and sanitizer.

“Hey there, kid,” my dad says to me from the recliner. He’s got the soccer channel on, but he’s looking at me.

“Hey, Pop.” I pull off my uniform shirt and toss it to the floor before flopping down on the couch. “How was your day?”

He grunts his answer as he turns his attention back to the television. Sundays are the days he sees Ma, so I know how his day was.

“How was the party last night? Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m like a ninja.”

He laughs. “That was your Halloween costume when you were seven. You really got into character. I couldn’t find you for days.”

“Whatever,” I say as I chuckle.

“But the party was good?”

“Yeah. Lots of drunk kids. I took about five of them home.”

“Good boy,” he says, but then the muscles in his face slacken as he goes back to watching the TV.

I sit there with him for a few more minutes, but it’s a Real Madrid game I don’t really care about, so I grab my shirt and go out to the kitchen. First, I write out a check to my dad for rent and my share of the utilities, then I make myself a huge bowl of cereal. Between bites, I start a load of laundry and check my cell messages. I have about fifteen, all from friends asking me to do something with them.

Gage is the only one I call back. “Dude, you wouldn’t believe these girls out tonight. It’s totally sick.”

“Getting a lot of numbers?”

“Getting more than numbers. You should come out.”

“No way. I’m not going into the city for some girls.”

“Whatever, man,” Gage says. “But they’re hell of a lot hotter than those Pechimu high school girls.”

“Maybe,” I mumble as I shovel the last of the cereal into my mouth. “But I’ve got big plans tonight, so—”

“Plans? What? Tagging the bridges? You do that shit all the time, come out! I know you don’t want to go to NYU with me, and that’s cool, but dammit, Harrington, get your ass out here.”

“I’m not twenty-one like you.”

“You look older than twenty and you still have the ID I got for you, right?”

“Yeah.”

Gabe chuckles into the phone. “Then get your lazy ass down here.”

Lazy. Yeah, right. “Next weekend for sure, but I can’t—”

“Spend a lot of money. You’re saving for your trip. I know, I know, but you don’t drink, so what money will you spend?” There’s some commotion in the background, then Gage says, “Hey, gotta go.”

“Alright. Have fun.”

“Always.”

I’m sure Gage’s friends will have to pick him up off the floor before the night is over, or they’ll have to search New York to find which random bed he wakes up in tomorrow morning. Maybe both. This has been his idea of a good time since he graduated high school two years ago. It’s definitely not mine.

With a good night shout to my dad, I head down to the basement. I moved down here when I was fourteen. Pop thought I’d be a bit too lonely and never come up, but then he remembered who I was. Lonely isn’t a word someone could readily pin on me, and while I enjoy time alone, I have too many friends to keep to myself for long.

But the basement gives me the space I need.

I have about an hour and a half before my dad will go to sleep, so I go slow taking a shower and getting dressed. I put on “Die Die Die” by The Avett Brothers and sit down at my desk. I don’t think anything has changed since the last time I picked up a pen and lined paper, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep checking to see if it has.

I’ve had this image in my mind all day. Well, technically since the party last night, but it developed from there. The image is of a girl with dark auburn hair, a little nose ring, and amazing crystal blue eyes, but instead of a high school party as the backdrop, I’m thinking of her in a more natural setting.

I take a breath, then put the black pen to the paper and scratch out There was a tree and underneth sat a gril.

Damn. I erase the sentence and try again.

A gril sat under the aok tree.

Damn. I erase again, then grab a blank sheet of drawing paper and finally just sketch the girl sitting under an oak tree.

Nothing’s changed. No magical cure for the way my mind works. My dyslexia still screws up my attempts at writing down my thoughts and ideas.

I have some time before I can comfortably leave the house, so I start mixing up paint, and tape the sketch to the easel. Running my hand down the wall, I confirm the primer and paint I applied before work today is dry. I do a quick sketch of the girl and tree again before picking up the brush to start the painting.

Before I know it, it’s past one in the morning, but the painting is finished. I don’t wait for it to dry before grabbing my camera to snap a picture. Just like most of my ‘on the wall’ creations, I’ll paint over this one, too. From the picture, I can recreate it, but apart from the girl, there’s nothing exceptional about this one.

Once I have everything loaded up in my old VW bug, I make the twenty minute trip to the bridge. I’ve scouted this out several times, but it’ll be my first time tagging it. I’m dressed all in black, more like a ninja than my dad knows. My sky blue car stands out, but there’s nowhere to park it to make it less obvious.

I can’t worry about the car though, I have to be quick as I grab the cans of color and jog to the middle of the bridge. There are two metal rails I’ll have to hang over, but as long as there’s not a lot of traffic, I should be fine. Ninja-like, I stay to the shadows as much as I can, then when I’m where I need to be, I shake each can, line them up, and tilt my body over the side of the rail.

Gage went out with me one night before he left for college, but he’s not really the thrill-seeking type, so it wasn’t as much fun as it could’ve been. He spent the whole night telling me that I was going to fall and wind up as a bunch of goo on someone’s windshield.

Obviously, he was wrong.

This isn’t meant to be a perfect work of art, just something simple that proves I was here and did it, so while I could be a lot more detail-oriented, I work fast. It’s not easy using spray paint to render a recognizable picture, and it’s even harder when you’re doing it almost completely upside down.

When I’m finished, I run across the two-way road and do the same thing on the other side of the bridge. It’s about three in the morning when I get back into my car. I’m incredibly stoked this spot of the interstate is as dead as it is. No one saw me. The cops didn’t show up, and I live to tag another bridge.

But not tonight.

I drive around to get a good visual of my work, and like the dork I am, I laugh in excitement. The brown fox stares back at me as a lasting testament. It’s marker that shows I was here, that I did something. You know, just in case I die tomorrow or something, my dad can drive this highway and see my permanent legacy.

Okay, so it’s a little less than permanent. I guess it’ll only last until the state of New Jersey or this little town raises enough money to paint over it, or until rain slowly peels it away.

I don’t care what anyone else says, those foxes are awesome. They’re better than just tagging my name or my initials or some random word. I’ve spent my life perfecting those foxes. The first time I remember drawing them was way back in kindergarten. Crazy things were going on at home, and I spent so many hours with a piece of paper and pencil, and I just knew if I could perfect this fox, my mom and dad would see what a great son they’d created and they’d stop fighting all the time.

Unfortunately, my childish plan didn’t work, and it wasn’t until I was much older that I realized the fights weren’t really fights. Even after my mom went away, I continued perfecting the fox. It’s gone through a few different incarnations, but the one I just put on that bridge is the best of all of them. Not too realistic, but not quite cartoony.

My hope is that it’ll make at least one commuter smile on their trip to or from the city.

***

The best thing about not being in school is that on Monday I sleep until noon.

Pop’s at work when I wake up, so I take my time with everything, and intentionally stroll around the house in nothing but my boxers. This is the first day in forever I don’t have to either work or go to school, so I almost don’t know what to do with myself.

I decide to go out.

I get all the way to my car, only to realize I’ve left my sketchbook inside. After retrieving it and starting my car, I realize the notebook filled with drawn gods and monsters is still laying next to my Xbox, so I go back in again.

This time, before I take the steps out of the basement, I look around to make sure I’ve gotten everything. I love impromptu outings, but it’s hard for me to organize on the fly. Sure enough, my new pencils are over next to my signed New York Red Bulls soccer ball.

So a half hour after I started out, I’m in the car, headed to Pechimu’s town center. It’s a nice day and there’s bound to be something to draw. One of my favorite quiet places is the gazebo in the middle of the park outside city hall.

When I get there, there are a million things worthy of my paper and graphite, charcoal, and wax, but I’m not feeling it. All the colored pencils stay inside my messenger bag, even though the colors around me call for their use.

Today, despite the good mood I almost always feel, my heart is heavy. Maybe I just got too much sleep, or maybe it’s just because I have a lot of freedom today. I don’t know. All I know is that instead of the blue and red birds, or the brown squirrels, or the vibrant green trees, or the colorful people going about their day, I draw in charcoal. Nothing but black and white.

I try to stop my hand as it moves over the paper, rendering what I see in my head today, but I can’t. I am possessed by the pictures in my mind again. When they are out, I look down to see the illustrated version of a dream my mother once described to me. Except to her, it wasn’t a dream, it was real.

The dark hooded figures jump out of the page, like they’re lunging at me, trying to wrap their black skeletal fingers around my throat like my mom feared. My first instinct is to rip it up. I want to get rid of this drawing as if doing so would make my mother’s mind work right again.

But I don’t rip it up. I slip it between the manila folders I removed from my bag when I first sat down. It’s not often these moments hit me. I usually don’t think about things like this, and when I do, it’s not for long, but I keep the drawn documentation of them as a reminder of certain facts I don’t normally want to see.

Once the picture is hidden from view, it’s like the sun shines again. My heart lightens and my mood lifts, just the way I like it. But before my mind has a chance to take me someplace I don’t want to be again, I gather my things in my arms and leave the gazebo.

I need a change of scenery.

As I head to the library, I focus my thoughts on something beautiful, something I want. I’m thinking about reddish brown hair and super pale blue eyes, a pair of nice red lips set in a frown. Then I picture them curving up into not just a smile, but a full expression of complete happiness and bliss.

With a jarring thud, my body comes to a halt. I look around and see I’ve ran into someone, or ran over more like it. Everything I’ve been carrying is on the ground and I have to decide to help the girl up or gather all of my hard work.

It’s an easy decision. I grab her by her biceps and hoist her up until she’s on her knees. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You looked deep in thought; I should’ve dodged better.”

She helps me gather my things, and it’s not until everything’s off the ground that I see I’ve run into a girl I spoke to at the party. She went to Pechimu High, but she doesn’t hang around with my friends much, so I don’t know her well.

“Myka, right?”

She nods. The bright blue spikes on top of her head don’t budge. Myka stands up, hands full of my drawings, and I follow suit. After shoving a bunch of stuff in my bag, I hold my hands out for the rest, but she’s too busy sorting through the pictures to notice.

I don’t mind her looking. After all, I did body check her to the sidewalk just a second ago.

“These are really, really good.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you writing a graphic novel?”

I scratch my head and look down at the pages in her hand for just a second before answering. “I’m drawing one.”

“This looks awesome. I’d love to read it one day when it’s finished.”

I might have the words I’d like to see on the pages, but chances are I’ll never be able to write them, but I don’t say that to her. I avoid the awkward conversation about my learning disability, and go with, “Yeah, that might take a while.”

She’s shifting through the pages like she’s looking for something. I could stand here all day and let her, but then I remember what I was thinking about when I bumped into her. “So you know Saige, right?”

Myka’s green eyes snap to me. There’s something guarded in the look, but she says, “Yeah.”

“So, like, what’s her deal?”

She studies me for a moment in a way that makes me shift my weight and carefully pluck the papers out of her hands. The silence grows a little uncomfortable, and just when I think this is going to turn into a bizarre moment of my life, she asks, “So what do you know about steampunk?”