“I practiced a bit with the paint cans before I left. I was able to work fast when I was out in the open.”
“That’s not what I am referencing.” He looks down at his hat. “Your mother would be proud of what you did tonight, Meri. And of what you are going to do next.”
My throat grows thick and dry.
“Atlas grew up believing everything about our government was wrong. You were raised to think the world was exactly right. It is not surprising that actively putting a mark on the thing you were taught to honor and respect would trouble you.”
I shrug as if it couldn’t matter, but Dewey isn’t done. “Perhaps it will help for you to remember that something must break before it can be rebuilt. Change isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be, if it truly means something. And sometimes the breaks make things more beautiful. Did you cover Kintsugi in your art class?”
I blink. “No. What’s that?”
“It’s the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. When fixing something, most people try to do it in a way that hides the fact that it was ever broken. They think the break means the piece is flawed.” Dewey smiles. “But with Kintsugi, artists don’t attempt to camouflage the damage. They highlight the location of the repair with powdered gold or silver in celebration of the piece’s unique history. By doing so they transform it into something even more special and give it second life.”
If our efforts work, I plan on looking up Kintsugi pottery.
“So,” Dewey says. “Your outing was successful?”
I nod.
“Tomorrow’s . . .” He glances at the clock; it’s post-midnight, and corrects himself. “Tonight’s adventure will be easier for your heart if not your body. The Marshals will no doubt be made aware of the situation. By this weekend they will be on high alert.”
“Which is what we are counting on.”
“When your friend Stef and the others meet you on the La Salle Street Bridge, the Marshals will be scouring the city in greater numbers than they were tonight. Odds are some will be swept up by those Marshals.”
Spine’s lifeless face flashes in my mind.
“Atlas doesn’t think they’ll agree to help,” I say, picking at a dot of paint on the back of my hand.
“He doesn’t want them to help. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyes meet mine. “I think you do. After all, if it is just the three of us painting the logo, it will take more time for Gloss’s popularity to grow. That would alter the timeline and buy him a few extra days to find information that will make it unnecessary for you to take the next step.”
I shake my head. “We don’t have a few extra days. His father and Isaac might not have much time left.” If they aren’t already dead. “Atlas knows we have to do this now or we could lose this chance for good.”
“Just as he knows Stef and the others will join because they are young—like you.”
“Which means what?”
“People your age lead with their hearts instead of listening to what’s in their heads—although I suppose you don’t have all that much in your head anyway, comparatively speaking.” He glances down at the hands I have fisted at my sides. “Taking risks is hard for those worried about losing what they already have. It’s the reason Scarlett and many of the other Stewards spoke of change even as they resisted it. It’s that same fear that drove your father to leave you even when in his heart he knew he should stay.”
The unexpected mention of my father jabs past my defenses. Tears burn hot in my eyes and I’m too tired to push them away.
If he notices the emotional blood he’s drawn, Dewey’s detached expression and bland tone don’t show it. “I suppose that is my long way of saying I have no doubt Stef and the others will join us because the future means more to them than their past. They will come for the same reason that you will make the choice Atlas wishes you didn’t have to make.”
His words hang in the air and his eyes lock with mine. Understanding and fear swirl behind his eyes. Then he shrugs and whatever I saw is gone when Dewey says, “That is a conversation for another night, seeing as how I have wasted much of this one.”
I shove aside my own fear that I have been pretending for days hasn’t been growing and say, “I hope you’re right, Dewey. About the others joining.”
“You should have realized by now that I am more often right than not.” Before I can come up with a biting response, he places his hat on his head and starts toward the stairs. “You’ll find rubbing alcohol and nail polish remover in the bathroom upstairs. They should help you remove all evidence of tonight’s adventures. Tomorrow, I will buy gloves.”
“Dewey,” I say. Slowly, he turns and I scramble to try to come up with the right words for what I want to say. Only, I can’t seem to find them, so all I can offer is, “Thanks—you know.” I shrug and jam my hands into my pockets. “For waiting up.”
With his face covered in shadows, it is impossible to tell what Dewey is thinking in the silence. Finally, he clears his throat and sharply says, “It’s not like I did anything out of the ordinary. It was just as easy to read in the living room as it would have been up in the library. Make sure you turn off the lights.”
It isn’t until he disappears up the stairs and I am reaching for the light switch that I realize Dewey wasn’t carrying a book. He had lied about why he was downstairs and I blink back tears.
I couldn’t remember the last time anyone cared enough to wait up for me.
Six
I am barely awake as I work on the assignment Nicolle gave me, to familiarize myself with competitors’ page designs, when I hear one of the designers working behind me say, “You have to see this! City Pride was just arriving to scrub it off the walls, so Mica took a picture to prove it was there.”
The excitement level spikes in the room as the designers all make a beeline for the picture. By the end of the day it’s clear everyone in the building has seen the photos of the spray-painted logos. Most are upset that public buildings were defaced, but there are several who are more disappointed to learn the images were removed before they would get to see them in person.
Their disappointment is short-lived.
By Friday, all anyone can talk about are the mystery paintings throughout the city that Atlas, Dewey, and I have lost sleep creating. Gloss employees have started to get up early to hit the streets looking for where the logo turns up next. They will all be gone by the time I grab my next spray can, but hopefully that will change if Stef and her friends make the choice to show up tonight. The cover story of the logo’s creation and Mrs. Webster’s insistence that the spray painting was the work of overzealous fans has held—for now. Dewey and Atlas had created a few dummy online accounts to back up Mrs. Webster’s claim, though two sets of Marshals have returned to question Mrs. Webster and various members of the marketing team about the painted images.
“They wanted to know if we arranged for someone to do the paintings as part of our marketing campaign,” one indignant woman huffed to several colleagues, who were huddled over a community box of doughnuts. None of them noticed the snaillike pace of my coffee pouring as they reacted to the news.