Say it Louder (2 page)

The tall redhead, Violet, and the tiny brunette, Stella, look about ready to burst.
 

“Ask us what’s awesome about today,” Stella says.

“Just tell me.” I don’t do giggly. I do wry or sarcastic or ironic, but I’m not a giggler.

“No,
ask
us. Say, ‘What’s so awesome about today?’”

“Come on, play along,” Violet coaxes.

“Fine. What’s so awesome about today?” I throw a singsong cadence into my question.

Stella looks at Violet and nods. “You tell her.”

“Today is the day … they accepted my feature! In
Atlantic Arts
magazine!” Violet’s voice rises to a squeal and Stella squeals along with her. And even though I’m not a squealer or a giggler, I feel a bolt of excitement race up my spine, the same one that zings through me whenever I complete a tattoo or a painting.

The story is going to be
real
.

Violet’s been following me for the better part of the last year, even though I didn’t realize it until a few weeks ago. She took pictures of my street art—even followed me to Europe—and then she got her friend Stella to interview me and write a story about what I do.

I knew Violet queried the piece to some magazines, but I never thought she’d actually sell it. Who even cares about what I do with spray paint and stencils well past midnight?

But this is real: A feature. A photo spread. Concrete proof that I made art.

And it can’t be erased.

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn around as my throat constricts, unwilling to show them the raw emotions twisting my face.

I could pole-vault an Olympic height right now. Leap tall buildings in a single bound. Fly off the Brooklyn Bridge and Never. Look. Back.

Arms wrap around my shoulders and Stella’s bouncing beside me. “Well? What do you think?”

I gulp in air and try to steady myself. I feel like a woman who’s just discovered she’s a superhero—excited and scared and so full of possibility that the ground shifts beneath my feet.

It’s fucking scary. And awesome. And—“Wait. When?”

“Next issue,” Violet says. “They’re already doing layout! We’re here to figure out a couple of things the editor asked, but mostly we’re here to celebrate!”

Stella points to a cloth bag she’s carrying. “I’ve got champagne and cupcakes. Since I’m not drinking, that means I get double the sugar, right?”

“Dibs on red velvet,” Violet says.

They carry me away with chatter and propel me out of the shop. I lock up a bit early since there are no more appointments on the books and follow the girls several blocks south to Violet’s Lower East Side apartment.

I’m in a daze listening to them, absorbing it all.

“This could be your big break, you know,” Stella says. “If the photos are a hit, you might even become a big-deal artist.”

“Like Banksy,” Violet adds reverently, mentioning one of the world’s most famous street artists, whose identity is still cloaked in mystery.

Stella doles out the cupcakes and pours champagne while Violet goes over the editor’s notes and a dozen little facts to check.

But then there are some big facts:
Atlantic Arts
wants to use my name and photo. They want to tell
my
story. But I want the art to speak for itself.

“I don’t want to be the focus,” I say, licking a dab of chocolate frosting off my knuckle. “It’s not like street art is exactly legal. I could actually get busted for vandalism.”

I don’t add another word:
again
.

“We thought of that,” Stella pipes up. “Look at this.” She passes me a file folder with the feature story and prints of each of Violet’s photos. They’re all environmental photos of my art, except one is unmistakably me: pink hair, black V-neck shirt, ink on my arms.

You’d never recognize me from the picture. My face is a blur because the photo is crisply focused on my hands and sketchpad in the foreground. Violet explains that when Stella was interviewing me, she took some shots of me sketching.

I thought I’d erased them all from her camera, but apparently I missed a few.

“I’m hoping we can use this one with the shallow depth of field, since it doesn’t show your face.” Anxiety pinches Violet’s voice. She wants, maybe even
needs,
to use my photo.

I look more closely, debating her request. My ragged nails are in sharp focus, and my fingers grip a brush-tipped marker as I sketch my tag—VIIIM, a stylized version of my name, upside-down. I sign all of my work that way.

I hesitate, but give in to Violet’s pleading emerald eyes. “I—I guess that’s OK.”

“The editors also want to use your full name,” Stella adds. “What’s your last name?”

I shake my head. “No. No way. I don’t need that kind of exposure. You’ve got my tag and my art. I don’t want to share any more.”

“Why not? For once we’ve got media on something good.” Stella rolls her eyes and I know both she and Violet have been burned by the gossip press for their own indiscretions, made public by their relationships with Tattoo Thief’s band members.

When your name is public, everything you do and everything you are is public.

And I don’t want that to be me.

I want to make a dent in this word, but hell if I’m going down the way they did.

“Willa is enough,” I tell Stella firmly.
 

I don’t want any connection to my past life. Willa Gillespie is gone.

CHAPTER THREE

I buzz the intercom on a plain Lower East Side apartment door and Violet’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Who is it?”

“It’s Dave.”

There’s no response and I panic—I’m about the last person Violet wants showing up at her door, considering what Kristina just did to her. “Violet—wait! Give me a minute. I’m here to apologize. And I really need to talk to Stella.”

After a very, very long pause, her disembodied voice comes through: “One flight up, first door on the left.”
 

There’s a scrape and click as the intercom disconnects, then a harsh buzz from the unlocked door. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, Violet’s door is already open partway, with an angry little Stella blocking the entrance.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.” Stella’s frown accuses me. “Unless you’re here to
really
apologize—and I mean fucking
grovel
—you ought to leave now.” Stella places her hand on her hip and sets her jaw. She could give even the most intimidating bouncers a run for their money with that look.

“I do need to apologize,” I tell her, and try to hold back a sigh.
Just add it to the long, long list of shit I’m wading through today.
“Let me in. Please?”

Stella gives me a hard look and nods once, opening the door enough for me to slide into Violet’s apartment. I’m definitely interrupting something—there’s champagne on the table, one bottle empty and another started, plus cupcakes.

Did I just walk into a party?
 

My eyes sweep the room and I nod at Violet, and then at a stranger: a curvy girl with pink hair and a black, V-neck shirt. Ink decorates her well-muscled arms. Her jeans are ratty and her Doc Martens scuffed.

She looks like she could beat the shit out of me.

I blink, taking in this woman. My tongue suddenly feels too big for my mouth and I swallow, willing words to come.

Stella pokes me in the side and settles back into her chair, arms crossed. She doesn’t invite me to sit. I stumble one step closer to Violet and this pink-haired girl.

“We’re waiting for your apology. And if Kristina’s been beaten to a bloody pulp, we’d love to see pictures, too.”

There’s a glint in Stella’s eye that tells me she’s not entirely joking, but Violet gasps. “Stella. There’s no need for—”

“You know what we fucking need?” Stella starts, but Violet hisses. “Sorry, Vi. You know what we
freaking
need, Dave? We need a hell of a lot more than an apology, considering your
girlfriend
just ruined Violet’s life.”

I spread my hands, at a loss. “My
ex-
girlfriend is about to ruin mine, too.”

At that, Stella softens. She points to the couch. “Sit.” She fills a glass with champagne. “Drink.”

I hesitate.

“For me. I’m stuck with iced tea.” Stella makes an exaggerated pouty face and takes a swig of her tea, her newfound sobriety still in force. I tentatively accept a glass and sip, feeling the bubbles tickle my nose.
 

Violet and the other girl sip theirs, too. My eyes stray to the girl—badass written all over her street-smart look. I follow the curve of her breast into the V of her T-shirt and drag in a breath.
Focus, dumbass.

Of course the wrong thing comes out of my mouth. “What’s going on here?”

“Shut up, Dave. Apology first!” Stella commands. Violet cracks a smile at her tiny friend’s ferocity.

I turn to Violet, my face contrite and pleading, but I feel the other girl’s curious gaze crawl over me. “Violet, I’m here for two reasons. The first is to apologize for my part in what Kristina did to you. Jayce confronted me at band practice this afternoon. He told me he’d leave the band unless I left Kristina. And it took this—her hurting you—for me to see how evil she is.”

“Your—part?” Violet’s voice is choked.

“I never knew about your pictures,” I say quickly. I hear the door rattle behind me but push on. “Jayce kept all of us in the dark, except Kristina. It was the only way he could get her to accept you on our trip to LA. But the part I played in it was that I knew Kristina was collecting … dirt. On all of us. And I was afraid of her outing my secret so I stayed with her, but that gave her access to all of yours.”

I bow my head, ready for an angry onslaught. Instead I hear a high, affected male voice behind me. “What’s this about outing you? Honey, coming out is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Stella laughs, shattering the bitterly serious moment, and I turn to see a short man in tight jeans and sleek hair sashay over to perch on the arm of the couch.

“This is my roommate, Neil.” Violet introduces us. “And Dave is in my boyfriend’s band.”

Neil eyes me speculatively. “Queer or questioning? Or just curious?”

I shake my head. “None of the above. I wasn’t talking about coming out as gay.”

Neil frowns. “Oh, that’s no fun. Violet, next time, you bring home a boy who likes
boys,
OK?” He casts another glance at me. “And prettier. This one’s a bit of a mess.”

Neil stalks out of the living room to the back of the apartment and Stella hoots with laughter.

“Shut up.”

She laughs harder, and now even Violet and the pink-haired girl are giggling. I feel my ears flame with embarrassment.

“Seriously, Stella, shut it. Don’t you think that was rude?” Violet’s lips thin as she tries to hold back a chuckle. “It’s just Neil. You should have heard what he called Jayce. A ‘B-grade bouncer’ or something.”

That gets me chuckling. I take another swig of the fizzing champagne and the laughter really hits, hysterics from the roller coaster I’ve been on today.

Suddenly the blaring fact that my life has gone to shit in a matter of hours goes mute for a few precious minutes. I’m sitting in a cheap apartment drinking cheap champagne with two of my best friends’ girlfriends and a pink-haired mystery girl, laughing so hard I’m gulping in air and Stella’s snorting and that sends all of us into another round of laughter.

“Stop! Stop it. I can’t breathe,” Violet chokes out.

“Make him come back,” the other girl says. “He’s funny.”

“He’s evil and I still kind of love him for it,” Stella says, and hiccups. “You should see what he writes in his restaurant reviews. It could scar you for life.”

When we all catch a breath, Violet turns to me. “Thank you for your apology. I don’t expect one from Kristina, but if you’ve cut her out of your life, that’s good enough for me.” She takes a steadying breath. “You said you were here for two reasons?”

I nod. “I need some advice.”

CHAPTER FOUR

He’s got the worst poker face of any guy I’ve met. I watch him talk, his body language, his facial tics, his tells that tell me a lot more than his words do.