High-pitched laughter from somewhere nearby makes me jump. I pull my cap low on my forehead, cross the street, and walk the streetlamp-lit sidewalk that runs parallel to the building. The hum of an engine catches my attention and grows louder with every step I take. I glance over my shoulder as a street sweeper rambles through the intersection, then disappears. When I reach the end of the block, I duck around the corner of the beautifully lit building and scan the area.
No one’s in sight.
Carefully, I unzip my bag, remove one of the cans of paint Dewey purchased, and shake it. The clicks and clatters hammer in my ears. My breath comes fast and sharp. My heart pounds as I wait for someone to appear—to understand what I am about to do.
Once the can is ready, I go still.
No one comes running to see what caused those sounds. No one is close enough to see or stop me.
I run my free hand along the rough, reddish-brown stone and stow the cap of the spray-paint can in my bag. Then I step back, take a deep breath, and try to forget everything I was conditioned to believe about the purpose of the City Pride Department. Even still, regret grows deep in my chest. Which is stupid. This is my plan. There is no reason to feel bad about marring the government’s veneer of perfection. The fact that I do, despite everything I know, chases away any lingering doubts about what must be done.
The paint can is cold in my hand. Fixing the image of the logo in my mind, I clutch the hard metal, raise the canister, and press the nozzle.
Vibrant pink hisses a terrible and triumphant song as it streaks through the air onto the section of wall in front of me. Color seeps into the stone in an imperfect curved line, which irritates me because there is no fixing it and even if I could, there isn’t time. So, I step slightly to the side and start spraying again.
Squiggles of pink.
Fast yellow swirls.
Shots of orange that are supposed to resemble licks of flames.
Then I reach for the black to create a quick outline to make the other colors pop.
The majority of art is created on screens. It was the medium my mother taught me to draw on. It was the one I watched my mother’s hands work with every day as she created magic with colors and shapes. Yet, despite her skill with modern design tools, my mother’s first love was applying paint to canvas. I remember the way she held the brush—as if it were an extension of her hand—much like the way I feel about my stylus. When I was little, I sat on the stool in her studio and watched her work for hours, saying nothing as she danced with color on the canvas, creating meaningful beauty where there was once only a sea of shapeless white.
My father never approved. He felt painting on canvas was not much better than using paper. A waste of resources. Selfish. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t try harder when my mother let me take the brush and spread the color on the small square of stretched fabric. Or maybe it was because no matter how hard I tried, the colors smeared and created images that were nothing like the ones I had designed in my mind.
“Painting requires more care than the drawing you do every day. And it should,” my mother said when I grew frustrated and threw down my paint, sending spatters of crimson across the yellow of my shirt. “Mistakes on the screen can be removed with just a stroke of a stylus or a push of a button. What you do with a brush and canvas—it’s harder to make disappear.”
I wish I remembered exactly what I said in response, but I don’t. Instead, I remember her picking up her own brush and walking to the painting that had become an unpleasant mess of muddy browns and iron-gray streaks despite my desperate attempts to create the beach scene my imagination had conjured.
“Painting can be frustrating, but to me it is wondrous. I feel as if I didn’t just create the work, but instead I’m a part of it. That who I am comes alive in the texture of the work.”
I didn’t understand. Not then. Not years later when she gave voice to that same thought. How anything could be more real than seeing a design come to life onscreen where the color choices are infinite and precise, and mistakes could be removed with no more effort than the blink of an eye? It didn’t make sense to me. Until now.
For the first time, I think I feel what my mother experienced when she painted the canvases that led me to the La Salle Street Bridge—to Atlas and the Stewards—to this moment here at the back of a structure that once housed thousands upon thousands of paper books.
My heart beats fast. My hands work faster, slashing color in long and short bursts of air. Drips of paint bleed downward from the design where my hand lingered too long. The drips are mistakes. Flaws that everyone will see. I don’t care. Maybe it isn’t perfect, but neither am I. And this painting, as destructive as it might be perceived, is part of me. Maybe that is why the color on these stones means more to me than anything else I have ever created.
I spray for the last time, shove the can back into my bag, and step back to look at what I have done. Artwork where it didn’t belong. An image that wasn’t carefully discussed and reworked and approved by the government.
“Hey!” someone shouts somewhere in the distance, and I don’t wait around to see if he’s yelling at me. I run.
My feet pound the pavement as I zigzag through the city blocks until finally, I slow, walking to where I have stashed the maroon-and-black bicycle I found sitting on the porch this morning. Neither Dewey nor Atlas claim responsibility for the gift, but I’m grateful. I pull it out of the rack, throw my leg over the bar, and pause to listen for sounds of sirens or approaching cars. In the distance, there is the faint beeping of a truck backing up followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of a jackhammer. Comforted by the normal sounds of roadwork, I put my foot on the pedal and ride north through the city to the second of the three locations whereI plan to make my mark tonight.
My legs are tired and my skin damp with perspiration by the time I ride down the block to Dewey’s house—the other logos painted without any sign of the Marshals. Tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll be happy about it. Tonight, I’m too tired to be anything but relieved. The porch light glows—welcoming me back—as I wearily carry the bike up the steps and lean it against the house. The door isn’t locked. I open it slowly and find Dewey sitting beside an illuminated brass lamp in an otherwise darkened living room. He is fingering the battered gray fedora, which rests in his lap.
“I didn’t think you’d wait up.”
Dewey studies me as I step into the room. “I had company until an hour ago. Atlas was quite insistent on being here to make sure you returned safely, but all his pacing was making it hard for me to read, so I kicked him out. Whoever said we need more togetherness really missed the mark.” He shrugs. “I messaged him when you came up the porch steps in case he was still inclined to worry.”
“I told Atlas to wait at his house.” Although I can’t help wishing he was here instead of staying at the house his father inherited from Atlas’s grandfather.
“You had to know he wouldn’t listen,” Dewey says quietly. “He didn’t understand why you didn’t want him with you tonight.”
“He said he did.” I drop my backpack onto the other armchair and notice specks of pink, orange, and black paint dotting my fingers. If the Marshals had caught me, my hands would have given my guilt away.
“He lied. People dedicated to the truth still do that, you know. It’s not the only thing he’s lying about.” Dewey pushes to his feet. “I tried to explain to him using small words so he could understand how difficult tonight was for you.”