Page 94 of SNOB

Woah. “The PowerUp Crew? That’s you too?”

PowerUp is a popular street art collective on the east coast. Real political. Real badass. Their work gets featured in social media, magazines and even the news. And they want me?

“You really like my stuff?” I ask. They’re mostly sentimental, and not nearly as thought-out as PowerUp’s stuff.

“Yeah, want to be on our team?”

My eyes lock on his when he says that word.

Team.

I’ve been on my own for the last while and I’ve wanted nothing more than to be on a team again. A real team. And now, without Mac helping with my art, a team like PowerUp is useful. We could be like the CoBra Movement or the Guerrilla Girls. I could be part of a team that means something.

A gust takes another of my drawings, Mac’s face floating with the wind. A twist comes to my gut and when my eyes move back to Picasso, that twist tightens.

I have to let go of Mac. I have to move on. There’s no coming back from that and I’d be stupid to pass this up. “Tell me more, Picasso.”

“You can stay with us. No cost.”

That does it. A roof over my head is crucial. I’ve made worse decisions. So with a smile, I hold out a hand. “Deal.”

“This is it,” Picasso says, lifting the gate to the freight elevator.

This is a far cry from The Hill, but it’s much better than where I’ve laid my head lately.

The smell of tobacco blends with the haunting blend of industrial decay, musty but I'm used to it. I didn’t expect much walking into what looks like an abandoned warehouse, but I try to keep my spirits high as my eyes wander the space.

Weathered brick walls surround us, concrete floors under my shoes. Worn-out mismatched furniture is one of the few things in the large open space, another large wooden door at the far end.

Three men sit around old wooden crates, all their eyes on me as Picasso ushers me in. With the way the large windows take up the space, it should be brighter in here. But pieces of wood and yellowed newspaper block out much of the sun. The only lighting includes an old lamp next to a tattered ottoman, and a spotlight hanging near the large wooden door.

Clack!

My shoulders rise to my ears as Picasso locks the gate to the elevator behind me.

“What’s wrong, Butterfly?”

That name makes my stomach flip, my ears so unused to that name coming from anyone but Mac. I thought using it as my street artist alias would take away some of its power, but it still does something to me when I hear it.

And it always reminds me of him.

While it’s warmer here, a chill runs through me when Picasso puts his hand on the small of my back. A distant siren wails in the background, another sound coming with it. My eyes follow the closer sound to the large wooden door at the far end. Reminiscent of an old garage door, it fits the industrial vibe.

The sound comes from beyond it again, my brows furrowing. A moan. Or a cry.

It gets drowned when music fills the room. Old-school hip-hop. It plays from an old stereo near the ripped leather sofa one of the men sits on.

“So? What do you think?” Picasso asks, appearing in front of me with his arms spread wide.

“It’s uh, nice?” I wince, hating the influx at the end of my response. I expected more art on the walls or a ton of supplies, but I don’t see any. Looking on the bright side, there’s a lot of opportunity to brighten up the place with my work.

“What, you think you’re better than this?” Picasso crosses his arms.

While there’s a roof over my head, and heat filling the space, it feels cold here. Colder than it did with Uncle Jake, way colder than at The Emerald.

A coldness I never felt with Mac.

“It’s uh, it’s great.” Better than the floor of a parking garage. Forcing a smile makes Picasso’s arms drop before he moves to a small kitchenette at the side of the space.

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