Page 97 of Vicious Little Snakes
I can’t breathe. Fuck. I can’t breathe.
“—your piece said nothing, son. It was just another pretty picture.”
My eyes jump up to meet his because, for a second, his voice sounded exactly like my father’s. I feel like I’ve bottomed out as I hold my head up, refusing to look as battered as I feel.
He gives me a tight smile, rapping his knuckles on the desk. “We hope to see you back next year. Once you’ve explored more mediums and styles. You do show promise. But you need to find your voice, Liam.”
He stands, so I do the same, but I’m on polite autopilot, saying goodbye as I walk out of the room. I haven’t even formed a thought as my phone rings, and Arden’s number comes into view.
“Hey.”
Music blares in the background. “Liam. Where have you been? Meet us. I’ll text you the address. There’s someone here you have to meet. He’s an artist too.”
I should go home. Keep my head straight, but to hell with it. I could use a distraction.
“Yeah. All right.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m slung back on a vintage couch somewhere in the middle of Chelsea, listening to a girl tell me a story about how she once met one of the British princes and how she could’ve easily been royalty. This was a dumb idea, coming here. It’s not working because I don’t want to be numb anymore.
A much deeper voice from beside me calls my attention as the girl turns hers to someone else.
“Arden says you paint.”
Some dude with curly black hair and designs tightly cut into the sides of his head stares back at me.
“Sometimes.”
He nods, scratching his chin with paint-stained fingers. Not paint, though, spray paint.
“Cool, us too. I’m Matias.”
Us?
“Liam.”
He rolls his eyes, pulling a blunt from his pocket.
“Yeah, I know. Arden told me. She also said you were going to art school.”
My head falls back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I’m still undecided. What about you? Are you applying somewhere?”
He laughs and sucks in a heavy pull off his blunt, extending his hand to offer it to me, but I shake my head.
“Nah,” he says with a held breath before releasing a whoosh of smoke. “I’m not going to college, but everything you need to know about art is on the streets anyway.”
I start thinking about that, wondering if he’s right as he adds, “You should come with us some time—Banksy over there does some dope-ass pieces if you wanna check ‘em out.”
My head lifts over my shoulder to look at who he’s speaking about because I know it’s not the real Banksy, only to see this dude’s mirror image coming toward us.
“You two wouldn’t be related at all?” I joke.
He laughs, “Yeah, we get that a lot. That’s my brother Mac. So you down or what?”
My forehead wrinkles. “For?”
Mac joins in, sitting on the back of the couch. “Making a statement. Live a little, or are you only about those rich boy paints and easels?”
I can’t help my grin. “You’re talking about tagging.”
