Page 45 of The Delivery

“That’s the point. We’re making this memorable. Can we get a little cooperation for the memories?”

“You can get the same effect with the contrast by manipulating the photo,” Rocco chimes in, defending my case.

“Let me do my part. Acknowledge that it’s important,” Tommy says with a sternness I haven’t seen from him before. I don’t know what Rocco does for a living, but I get the idea they’ve had this argument many times and it’s important to Tommy that Rocco see the value in what he does. I get it. I’ve been in a relationship before.

“It’s fine, Rocco, let him play. Does me good to switch it up. Bring out my inner whore.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Tommy says, pleased with his win. They make up with a pat on the ass and a quick kiss on the cheek.

Rocco gets a few shots from his iPad until he’s happy with something that will work for a stencil. I’m about to become street art. It’s kind of exciting. It’s really sheer genius. The idea is so simple—just tag back his artwork to let him know I’m here and I’m looking. We find a FedEx store with Coco’s help, and on one of their computers, Rocco enlarges the image and then darkens it until there’s nothing but bold shapes made from the contrast. Then we get it printed out onto thick paperboard, where we’ll cut out the negative spaces with a box cutter to make the stencil. Rocco downloads large, gothic font letters to trace for the message. As soon as we cut them out, Rocco and Tommy start to argue about what the tag should say. Rocco wins the battle with the “Lana’s in Paradise.”

“It sounds kind of dramatic. What if he can’t figure it out?” I say, scratching my head.

“The reunion is going to be epic, and the wording is appropriate in this case,” Rocco says.

“And besides, if he can’t figure it out then he probably doesn’t deserve your vajay,” Tommy says with a smirk.

I throw him the stink-eye.

“What? Sorry if I’m the only one who thinks it’s worth something,” Tommy says, feigning offense.

“We could put my cell phone number on it and get straight to the point.”

Meanwhile, Rocco has already begun to stencil out his idea around my face.

“If we put down your number, you’d be filtering calls from every jackass in Tijuana. Tommy is right. We want this to be epic. Let Mister Cruz do a little bit of the work. He needs to prove he’s worth it.”

In the end we have a stencil that looks pretty much like me give or take a little allotment for artistic license and also perhaps for Tommy’s flair for drag queen styling.

“My eyebrows look epic.”

There I am looking morose and maybe a little too mean, with the words stenciled above me, “Lana’s in Paradise.” Then below it reads: “Please come find me.”

I get a little teary-eyed looking at it. I never could have made something like this on my own. I’m so lucky I found these guys. If anything will work to find him, this will be it. I know it; I can feel it down in the marrow of my bones.

“Thank you guys for sticking around to help me. I’m so glad I met you. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you,” I say, breaking into tears and a smile.

“Come give us some sugar,” Rocco says, beckoning me toward them for a hug.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had such great friends.”

“And certainly not such good looking ones,” Tommy says through our three-way hug.

“Lana, have you ever thought to search social media? A lot of artists use Twitter and Instagram to document and announce their projects, especially if it’s illegal street art,” Rocco says, pulling away from the hug.

“Oh, I am on Instagram with my brother!”

“Maybe Mozey follows your brother. Didn’t you say they’re friends?”

“Well, I know for a fact that they don’t because Lex and I only follow each other.”

“What do you mean?”

I grab my phone and open Instagram to show them my home screen with my one follower and my one person following. I’m kind of proud of it in a silly way—like it somehow exemplifies my unique bond with my brother. To other people it might just seem like I’m a misanthropic antisocial weirdo—which I guess is true to some extent too.

“You’re right. I should look on here. He probably does have an account. What about hashtags? Should I just search for street art?”

“Give me his full name, girl genius. I’ll do it for you. You and Tommy go spray paint and try not to end up in a Mexican jail,” Rocco says, warmly winking at Tommy.

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