shrug, pissed that he ruined my surprise. If I got them from anyone else, he’d smoke one. It’s just cuz they’re from Henry that he’s mad.
There’s more I want to tell him. About Roxy and what it was like at the clubhouse. The stories I heard from the other Red Bloodz about almost getting stabbed or outrunning the cops. Glory stories, Henry called them. But the way Koob’s looking at me, I keep my mouth shut. He won’t want to hear any of them. “He’s looking out for me.”
“Is that what you call it?” he mumbles.
“He’s teaching me things.”
Koob’s head snaps up. “Like what?”
The secret burns in my throat. “Survival skills.” I grin.
“Henry’s a boy scout now?” he says with a smirk. “You learning how to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together?”
In the distance, there’s traffic, cars fighting to get up the bridge. I snort at Koob and shake my head. “Useful stuff, like how to make money. He thinks I can bring home a grand a week if I work with him.” Just saying it made my stomach flip. How different would my life be with money in my pocket?
Gravel crunches under his feet, as Koob moves closer. “Are you dealing?”
Henry told me not to say, but it’s Koob. I have to tell him. I shake my head. “Cars, man. He’s teaching me to lift them.”
At first Koob laughs, like I’m joking, but when I don’t smile back, he shakes his head. “Shit,” he says under his breath.
“It’s not like what you think. Henry told me, when a car gets stolen” — I drop my voice even though no one else is around — “people get their money back, from insurance or something. It’s like a win-win. We get paid and they get paid.”
“Are you shitting me right now?”
I shake my head, thinking I probably should have listened to Henry. Koob’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. “If someone’s stupid enough to leave keys in the car, they deserve it.” Henry had said that, too.
“He’s using you,” Koob says.
I back away, staring at the ground. “No, he’s not,” I mumble.
Koob takes a breath. “You can’t see it because he’s your brother, but he is. I’m serious, man. Do not get involved with this shit.”
I look at him, but I’m pissed. I go along with his plans, following him up to the tops of buildings, sneaking out in the middle of the night to train yards. That’s all illegal, but I do it.
“Henry’s looking out for me,” I say again. I can hear Koob breathing beside me and I think he’s going to walk away, too pissed to paint.
We don’t fight, me and him, ever. Maybe he’s jealous I got something else going on, that Henry wants me to hang with him. “Pretend I never said anything about Henry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You’re gonna get burned.”
I shrug. I don’t wanna fight with him, so I let it drop. Him and Henry are like the angel and the devil, one on each shoulder.
“There’s a car down there we could end-to-end.” Koob says. His voice is stiff. He puts all the cannons back into the bag and slings it over his shoulder. I stuff the joints into the pocket of my hoodie. “Practise the piece I showed you, before we throw it up.”
We walk along the tracks, balancing on the metal rails. I keep slipping off, but Koob, even with the bag, stays steady.
Between the train cars, a big yellow moon glows. Like an eyeball, watching us.
Jakub
I crouch over my sketchbook, drawing. Sometimes, an idea pops into my head and I have to find a scrap of paper, a gum wrapper, anything, before I forget it. I see how people look at graffiti art that has meaning. They stop to take it in. They respect the artist. There are some guys with talent around the city right now. Creeping, like me, in the night and leaving behind a piece that forces people to stop and stare in the morning.
This new piece that’s taking shape isn’t about my name. It’s about this place. A human head and torso, bound and gagged with a building for legs: half-man, half-structure. Looks good in my sketchbook, but throwing it up scares me. What if people think it’s stupid and laugh at it? Or worse, a king tags it with TOYS, the ultimate insult to a graff writer. Tag Over Your Shit.
Dad comes home late that night, humming Polish folk songs. It’s when I know he’s happy, the quiet rumble in his throat making him nod his head.
“Jakub!” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “I have news,” he sings. “Great news!”
He’s been with Father Dom. They probably got into the Polish vodka people give Father Dom at baptisms and weddings. He has that loopy look on his face, his grin so big I can see gaps where he’s missing teeth.
I don’t smile back. I know what he’s going to say. The letter arrived. Sure enough, he pulls it out of his pocket and wags it in front of me. “Accepted to St. Bartholomew’s! As a bursary student. They’ll pay your way, as long as you get good grades and stay out of trouble!” I lean closer to my sketchbook, hunching over the pencil lead as it scrapes over the paper. I don’t want him to see my face. A private Catholic school in a good part of town, St. Bartholomew’s Academy is the answer to Dad’s prayers for me.
Dad grabs me and gives me a kiss on each cheek. His whiskers scratch my face. He lets out an explosive laugh of joy and punches the air with his fist. Shaking his head in disbelief, he mutters, “St. Bartholomew’s,” and raises his eyes to the ceiling and what’s beyond, to heaven. To my mom.
He’s excited enough for both of us. It takes Dad a minute to realize I’m not rejoicing with him. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
He flaps his hands at his sides, like a flightless bird, and shakes his head at me. “What, then? This is a gift.”
“More like a punishment.”
Dad swears in Polish. “This place has done this to you! We’re stuck in shit and you think it’s where you belong.”
Pushing away my sketchbook, I stand up. The West End is all I know. How would I fit in with a bunch of rich kids? “I get good grades, what does it matter where I go?”
St. Bart’s was Father Dom’s idea. He and Dad dragged me to the interview. I wore a collared shirt dug out of the donations box in the church. It stunk like mothballs. When we were at the interview, I looked at photos of the graduates. Rich kids from that part of town. I’d never fit in with them. They’d smell the poor on me. Schools like that aren’t made for kids like me, no matter how smart I am. No matter how much I deserve the chance.
Dad frowns, desolation pulling at his face as he slumps into his chair. “That’s what I thought about Poland. Your mother was the one who wanted to come here. I would have stayed, made the best of it.” He’s getting nostalgic; booze does that to him, too. I sit back down.
