Drawn Page 7
They both step back, pull off their masks, and survey the blood red Meat is Murder slogan. In the observed silence, the breeze whistles past my ears and ruffles my shirt.
“Awesome,” Viviane declares. “Now it needs the artistic touch.” She looks at me expectantly.
“You want me to spray-paint something?” Vivianne trusts me enough to add to her statement?
Viviane holds out the can, and I accept it. It’s cold in my hand and big enough around that I have to grip it tight. I should have prepared for this. This is the field. What made me think I could get in with a bunch of graffiti artists without having to do some actual graffiti?
But now that I’m staring up at the canvas, the same old image comes to mind.
Of me.
“I can’t.” I hand the can back to her. “I need more time. I can’t wing something.”
“What kind of artist are you?” she says.
“You didn’t even tell her what we were doing when you decided she should come.” Sebastien asks scornfully.
She grabs back the spray paint. “I didn’t have time. She’s the one running around at all hours of the night and ditching school all the time.” She looks up at me. “Would you have come if you’d known?”
“About the vandalism, you mean?” I ask.
“Vandalism?” She pulls up to full height. “No. That’s what they want you to call it because they want to define it. But it’s not vandalism. It’s not about being angry or trying to get back at the man or that stupid stuff the news says. It’s about helping Animals. They can’t defend themselves. They can’t speak for themselves. We give them a voice.”
My heart contracts. On the roof of a convenience store, halfway into a misdemeanor, I start to like this girl.
~~~~~
Stella Artois Restaurant and Bar, Brussels, Belgium
Sebastien sprays tonic water from a dispenser into three tall glasses, one for each of us, and tops them with limes.
“A toast.” Viviane clinks her glass against mine. “To a new teammate.”
Sebastien brings a bottle of beer to his lips, his eyes unsmiling as he watches me, like he thinks I’m going to freak out.
“Stop that.” Viviane swats his cheek. “No judgy glaring. You’re the one who said we had to take it to the next level design-wise. She’s the next level.”
My mission is to infiltrate and influence graffiti artists—not amateurs when there are pros out there, not animal rights activists when I’m trying to bring down nuclear testing programs, and not artists related to my CIA handler when there are a dozen others who will do. I don’t know whether having Viviane at my side will help or hurt my case. Although seeing the effects of her charm on the opposite sex so far, she seems like an asset.
“Let’s plan the next one.” Viviane pulls her stool closer to the bar. “And this time, you can actually do something,” she says with a glance at me. “I was thinking maybe something around Feed it, don’t eat it. Isn’t that catchy?”
I don’t answer, not because I’m worried about my voice, but because I don’t know what to say—I’m rarely asked for my opinion, and here I don’t have a positive one.
“What?” She slits her eyes at me. “What’s wrong?”
I peek at Sebastien, but he has his back to us and is restocking the rear counter with bottles.
“Spit it out,” Viviane says.
“Isn’t that saying kind of…tired? Even I’ve heard it before. People are going to read it and walk away. Isn’t protest art supposed to be about making people see—even when they’re not looking?” I rack my brain for the Kid Aert quote. “Isn’t it about getting people to open their eyes?”
At this, Viviane rolls her eyes.
Sebastien turns, crosses his arms, and stares at me. What? I’m right, aren’t I? I hurriedly glance down at my napkin and clear my throat. “You need to give them something they haven’t seen before.” My pencil swishes back and forth like it’s a pendulum drawn by the very rotation of the earth—left-right, left-right. My bracelet clangs softly with each swish. “Something like this.”
I push the napkin across the counter to Viviane. She glances down at the drawing. “What the hell is it?”
I’ve drawn the famous Magritte painting—a man in a bowler hat whose face is partially obscured by a green apple. But instead of a man, it’s a pig with pointy ears and the makings of a chubby nose peeking out from around the apple’s edges. “You were saying those guys cared more about paintings than pigs, so maybe…”
She studies the sketch, eyes pinched.
“Forget it.” I make a move to ball up the napkin, but Sebastien presses his palm against my shoulder. “Chouette.”
He seems shocked to have said it, because he swallows hard and for a moment he leaves his hand on my shoulder, its heat searing through my sweatshirt, my very skin.
It’s a relief when he removes his hand to snatch up the napkin and study it more closely.
“A pig,” Viviane says. “You want everything I stand for, all that I care about, to be symbolized by a pig in a bowler hat?”
“It’s not the bowler hat that matters.” I sketch out a quick outline of the pig as the Mona Lisa. “See? It’s about giving people something recognizable but different.”
“You mean like, there’s power in a single, repeatable icon,” Viviane says, parroting the Kid Aert maxim with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“Yeah,” I add. “Think of the crucifix. The swastika. The peace sign.”
“Oh fine.” She throws up her hands in the air. “I know when I’ve been beaten. We’ll use the friggin’ pig. Sebastien, get me some croquettes to soothe my ego.”
I spin around on my stool to see Sebastien grinning at us. It sets me back, this actually friendly smile as he backs up into the kitchen through the swinging porthole door, saying, “Tout de suite, Vivi.”
“We can’t hit the Magritte tonight,” she says. “Besides, it’s too big for a first hit. I’d say we should hit the slaughterhouse, but it’s in the middle of nowhere so no one would see it. Maybe the Cochon headquarters downtown? That’s their primary distributor.”
“Their primary distributor is called pig?” I ask.
Viviane’s eyes round with delight. “Whoa. Double genius, and you didn’t even mean it. Ooh, this job is going to be huge.”
“Do you know any other artists?” I force myself to sound casual, noncommittal. “Maybe ones who are into political corruption, that sort of thing? We could join forces.”
“Corrupt politics is what leads to travesties against animals. Like those poor dolphins that—” Her voice breaks. “The ones that were caught up in that net and were strangled to death.”
I never choke up in front of strangers for anything, much less a dolphin halfway around the world. “Um, you okay?”
“I wish Dad would talk to me.” She self-consciously presses her wrist to her mouth, like she Goosed, like she didn’t know that’s how she felt. But now that she’s said it, she sits tall, her hands moving a mile a minute. “He doesn’t think I get it, but I do. Companies need to make money. It’s impossible to be zero impact, but I have ideas that he could consider if he’d give me half a chance. I bet they don’t even use the latest nets. It’s a total myth they’re more expensive, because they last longer, so if you account for replacement costs, it’s a win. For everyone.” She kicks the bar counter.
If only she knew the truth—that her dad has nothing to do with Continental Fisheries’ practices, that the reason he doesn’t talk about work is because it’s not his real job. I bet it kills Porter that he can’t tell her.
Sebastien walks back in carrying two plates, each topped with two oval, breaded things. “Deux croquettes,” he says, placing one in front of each of us.
I poke the meal with my finger. The breaded exterior indents to mush. “What is this?”
“A delicious deep-fried potato ball.” She wipes at her eyes. Here I thought I was the only one good at putting on a happy face. �
�Don’t let it get cold. Vegan food doesn’t have to be vile. Now come on, let’s finish up these plans for world domination.”
~~~~~
Café Jacques, Brussels, Belgium
As I approach Porter’s meet-up site from the cobblestone alley, adrenaline gives a bounce to my step. Sneaking onto a roof pales in comparison. That was child’s play. This is the real thing. I tighten my scarf and wipe the moist droplets of fog from my cheeks as I walk inside.
Porter is seated in a dark corner, as obscured from me as he is from his own daughter. As obscured as she is to him. Whatever secrets Chelsea and I may have had from each other pale in comparison with Viviane and Porter. The bizarre realization that I could, in some way, be closer and truer to Chelsea than this father is to his own daughter would be laughable if it wasn’t so potentially dangerous.
I have to warn Porter.
His gaze skims over me, not even hesitating a second although I know he sees me. He is speaking with someone. A bulky guy in a suit with his back to me and the door. I recognize the double roll of fat on his neck. Halim Waled, head of the M—— Environment General Authority. I’ve faced hardened criminals, but something about being in the field, the unpredictability of it, is more exhilarating.
Porter sits facing the only exit—the door I came through—like any decent spy would do.
I slip into the booth next to Porter and Halim so that I face Halim’s back and can watch Porter’s facial expressions for subtle signals.
“Qwayyis,” Halim says. “Il-Hamdu-Allah. Wa ant?” He says he’s doing well, thanks be to God, and how is Porter.
Porter answers in kind. “Ana bekhair, shokran.”
A wire-thin waitress asks me what I would like.
I wait for the opening.
“Mademoiselle?” the waitress prods.
Porter asks Halim how his son is doing. May as well get in a Goose if I can.
“Deux croquettes, s’il vous plait,” I say loudly enough so that my voice will carry to the booth next to me. My hands tense in anticipation of Halim’s answer.
I can’t understand the medical terms he uses, but I get the drift from the break in his voice, if not his words. His son’s condition is much improved from the recent care.
Porter expresses his joy, which seems so real, so genuine. Porter offers him a handkerchief from his back pocket. I expect him to probe further, push harder, but instead he keeps up the Arabic. He asks Halim about his son. Whether he plays sports. How he performs academically. I almost expect them to whip out wallet photos as I eavesdrop. Porter has photos of Viviane all over the house. They live on the walls, they rise with the staircase. Viviane as a baby, learning to walk, as a toddler with a fistful of cake before the candles have been blown out, kicking a soccer ball up a field, tongue dangling from her lips in concentration. A collage of life—how much of it real in a life where your identity is a lie? How many times did she think her father was away on business or on a boat trip? Anywhere but where he was and being anyone but who he is.
“Can I trust you?” Porter asks.
I’m so caught off guard by the sudden shift that I don’t speak in time. Shit.
“Of course you may,” Halim says with a shaky voice. “I am forever grateful. Shokran jazeelan. Shokran jazeelan.”
“Then we will proceed as planned.”
I cough quickly.
“Insh’Allah,” Halim says and he stands to leave. A standard polite departure.
Porter stays behind. He orders another beer. As the minutes stretch out, a sinking feeling settles inside my chest. I should have been ready for that opportunity when Porter asked whether he could trust Halim. Porter is disappointed. Probably thinking of a nice way to fire me and send me back Stateside.
Where I’ll be benched.
Or worse, sent back to the Lab.
My fingers shake and my fork clings against the plate. I set it down. By the time Porter joins me in my booth, I’m breathing low, shallow gulps of panic that I mask by taking another bite of now-cold mushy potato.
“Not bad.” He takes a sip of beer.
“I’m sorry, sir. I missed an opportunity.”
He takes another sip. “Is something on your mind?”
I shift forward. There are no excuses for failure but maybe, if I tell him about Viviane it will take his mind off my mistake. “It turns out…Viviane might be involved in the community. She might even know some of our desired assets. It’s a small city. She has many friends. We’re the same age as the assets.” Why am I covering for her now?
He purses his lips and takes another sip. “Use her as part of your cover.”
“Use her?”
“Of course. A convincing cover is what makes a field agent valuable and nothing lends itself to a good cover more than family and friends.”
I incline my head to show him I understand, but I don’t really. I guess it’s fine for Rachel—she knows what she’s in for and considers herself his partner in crime. “Does Viviane know what you do?”
He studies the beer in his hand. “The CIA doesn’t allow you to inform children until they turn eighteen.”
Children. He sees Viviane as a child. How does he see me? Chelsea never saw me that way, did she?
“Is there a problem concerning Viviane?” he asks, finally meeting my eyes. “Is there an issue there?”
I start to tell him everything—every detail—but I remember the look on Viviane’s face as she held dominion over downtown and the pitch in her voice when she talked about her dad.
“No.” He’s my handler. Handler stuff is all we need to share.
VI
St. Anne’s International Academy, Brussels, Belgium
I round the door jamb into first period. My gaze goes straight to the Goosed redhead who’s been bounced from the seat beside mine to one in the back row. The nun’s doing? Or maybe the redhead herself? Viviane’s in my line of sight, with her big eyes and encouraging smile, trying to catch my eye. She tilts back her chair and pats my desk, as if saying, It’s all ready for you, I’ve been holding it for you.
She winks at me before throwing a glare at the redhead in the back. Viviane, then? I glance away from her and walk to my seat. I have to focus on work, not class drama.
Priority one? My assignment.
I pull out the list of prominent local graffiti artists and scan the file, looking for vulnerabilities. Gambling debts. Family in trouble. Even something like ego. A person doesn’t pick up a paint can without a healthy dose of issues to go with it.
Viviane leans over the aisle. “What’s that?”
I slide my textbook over my files and scribble lines onto a notepad.
“French vocab,” I say.
“Lemme know if you need help. Je le parle bien.”
“I’ll be fine.” I pull out the English-to-French dictionary and thumb through it. I flip the pages to C and draw my finger down the columns of words. What began aimlessly takes on laser focus.
Chouette. It means awesome.
First period, second, third—they fly after that.
I grab a mind-bendingly tasty eggplant sandwich from the deli and score a spot under the willow tree of the school courtyard to sketch. I tilt my head to the side. Something about the sound of a pencil on paper, the soft scratch, the swish of charcoal, is like a lullaby. Tension seeps from my body. My eyes hood as though I’m in a trance.
I tune out the sounds of the schoolyard. Me. A sleek catsuit. A heroic pose. It’s me but not me. Not yet. But I want…I want people to look me and see this. See her—the confidence and certainty and goodness. Even if I don’t feel it yet. At least not on paper.
My phone buzzes. I jump and the pen gashes through the page and stabs the illustration through the forehead as I answer. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
Chelsea.
It’s gotta be four in the morning for her. She’s usually meticulous about shut-eye during the work week. “Is there something wrong with the case?”
“Oh. Is there another case?”
“No, Sasha…I’m callin’ to hear about your first week.”
Checking up on me, is she? “Everything has been going great. But you know I can’t talk about it.”
“Your first week of school, hon.”
“Oh.” And like that, I want to be back at her mansion, coffee cup in hand, chatting about the day. How can she do this to me? How can I let her? She’s the one who wanted to bench me. “School’s been fine.”
“And…” I can practically sense her wincing on the other end of the line. “Is your art class going okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Evocative, my ass.
I scan the courtyard for Viviane. She’s clustered with the Athleticas and a few other girls at the other end of the courtyard. She looks at me, holds up her sandwich like a flag and waves it, asking me to cross the courtyard to her.
Part of me wants to, but there are too many girls. Too many Goose opportunities. I shake my head and point to the phone.
She exaggeratedly shrugs. I tune back in to Chelsea.
“—sure you’re disappointed, but you’re talented, Sasha. You need the right person to see it.”
I know, I know. “Oui, je sais, je sais.”
“You sound like a native.”
“Don’t be all dramatic, now.”
She’s silent. The quiet stretches on. I press the phone tighter to my ear. Maybe she thinks I meant it seriously. Doesn’t she remember? It’s what we do.
“Chelsea?” my voice cracks.
“Yeah, hon, I’m here. Sorry, got…distracted. How you doin’ with the new roommates?”
“Not bad.” Across the courtyard, Viviane is telling a story. Her hands spin around themselves and something goes flying out of her sandwich to splat on the ground. I laugh out loud.
“What’s that?”
“Just Viviane being funny.”
“Your handler’s daughter?”