Goth Girl Read online

  Mr. Habib was stocking shelves with toilet tissue and paper towels when I walked in. He was almost buried by cardboard boxes when he saw me.

  “Hello, Victoria.” He was the only one in the store.

  “Hey,” I said and went out back to grab an apron. I tied it around my waist. I didn’t do anything that required an apron, but Mr. Habib considered it a uniform, and insisted I wear it. “Then people know you work here,” he’d say.

  I was counting the cash in my till when I heard the door chime and looked up.

  “Hello, dear.” It was one of our regulars. A charming little woman all dressed in her best old-lady-polyester stretch pants, her grey curls freshly set. She was always very pleasant to me despite my appearance. It wasn’t something I was used to.

  “How many chocolate bars today?” I smiled. This lady came in at least twice a week and always picked up two or three: Mars Bars and Coffee Crisps. Always the same kind. I wondered who had the sweet tooth. Was it her? I would have asked, but Mr. Habib said it was none of our business what the patrons bought, as long as they paid.

  “Oh, I think I’ll just get two today,” she said, selecting a couple of Mars Bars. “They’re my son’s favourite.”

  Question answered. I nodded.

  “How was school today?”

  “I got an A on a paper I worked really hard on,” I told her. “That was good.” It was nice to have somebody ask who seemed to genuinely care.

  “That’s wonderful.” She smiled her dear-old-granny smile.

  I couldn’t help but smile back. “You know,” I said quietly, “you can get these at Costco for a lot cheaper.”

  “I know. I tried that, but my son found the box and ate the whole thing in a couple of days.”

  “I’d do the same thing. Mars Bars are my favourite, too.”

  She laughed, took her change, gathered up the plastic bag, and headed out the door. “See you soon,” she called with a wave.

  “Sure thing.”

  Next into the store were three boys, younger than me, who I didn’t recognize. They walked up and down the aisles but never made any motion to buy anything. They kept looking back at me and whispering. I was just about to tell them if they weren’t going to buy anything to clear the hell out when Mr. Habib came around the corner. I swallowed the insult.

  “Can I help you, boys?” Mr. Habib looked each one in the eye. He didn’t like kids hanging around or who didn’t buy anything.

  One guy picked a pop out of the cooler and raised it up toward Mr. Habib like he was going to give a toast. “Just gettin’ a drink.”

  Mr. Habib frowned and stood there for a minute, watching, before returning to the back room.

  At the counter, the guys were fidgeting as they got their money out.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “We heard you might be able to score us some cannons.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah. And what are you hoping to do with the paint?” These guys didn’t strike me as budding artists. I scanned the bottle of pop. “That’s a dollar seventy-five.”

  The boys were clearly relieved that I knew what they were talking about. “We want to teach ol’ man Phillips a lesson,” said the first boy, digging in his pocket for a toonie.

  “He’s our principal,” added the second.

  “Yeah,” piped up the third boy. “He gave us detention for a week just because we banged up a couple of lockers.”

  The first boy leaned over the counter, dropped the toonie in my hand, and whispered. “We’re gonna tag his house.”

  And this is what gives graffiti a bad name, I thought. I gave the first guy his quarter in change.

  “Sorry, guys. There’s a city bylaw that says no spray paint to minors. And there’s no loitering in the store.” I nodded to the exit.

  “Thanks for nothin’ weirdo.” They slammed the door behind them.

  On Saturday morning, I walked to the address Officer Mitchell had given me. I enjoy walking. I hate the bus with all those people jammed into a small space like sardines…sometimes it doesn’t smell much better than canned fish either.

  I passed Mr. Habib’s store. He was in the doorway, shaking a mat with one hand and holding the broom in the other. He tried to put the mat back in place but it got caught in the half-opened door. I grabbed the door handle and pulled, releasing the mat so he could continue to sweep. He nodded in thanks. I waved and walked on.

  I stopped at Tim’s and grabbed a coffee: double double, just like James. I hated the taste of coffee when he used to offer me one—bitter and strong—but now I liked the warm feeling it gave me. Plus the caffeine helps me stay awake after a night of tagging. Two old dolls waiting in line gave me a once-over, shook their heads, and clicked their tongues: “tsk, tsk.” I just nodded at them and I continued on my way.

  It took about twenty minutes to get to the address Mitchell had written down. I looked up at the office building and then checked the piece of paper—twice. There wasn’t anything to be painted here, and there was no graffiti to be removed. I thought we were supposed to be painting outside. That cop probably fed me a bunch of bull. Figures. I rolled my eyes and stormed into the building, making the glass in the door rattle.

  I marched over to the board listing the companies and the floors they were on, ignoring the lady sitting at the information desk in the lobby. She raised her head and looked me up and down over the glasses that balanced on the end of her nose. “Youth group? Third floor,” she chirped.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, even though I heard her clearly. I jabbed the up arrow for the elevator.

  “I assume you are looking for the youth art program?” Her squeaky voice, like nails on a chalkboard, made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “It’s on the third floor.”

  “Oh no,” I snarled. “I’m here for a job interview. I’m meeting the building manager on the sixth floor. He’s looking for a fresh, non-judgemental person for the information desk.” I entered the elevator and watched the lady huff and adjust her glasses. I blew her a kiss as the doors shut.

  When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, I could see a few kids over to the right, standing around awkwardly. These must be my literal partners in crime. I moved to the left and leaned against the wall, out of the way. I thought of all the places I’d rather be: home in my room, school, work, or under the overpass with my backpack full of cans and caps. I smiled at the irony. That’s what got me here in the first place.

  The office door across from me opened to reveal a short woman who looked like the “before” picture on one of those makeover shows. Her clothes, a sweatshirt and jeans, were boring, run-of-the-mill, Value Village sale items. She wore no makeup and her hair had no real style. Plain. I wondered if her name was Jane.

  “This way guys,” she gestured to the office behind her. “Come on in. I’m Cathy and I am the facilitator for the Community Art Project.”

  I listened to feet scuff across the carpet, stalling, not wanting to move forward. Like cattle to the slaughter. Reluctantly, I followed.

  “Have a seat.” Cathy motioned to the office chairs surrounding a large table. In front of each place was a piece of paper and a couple of pencils. Two guys and two girls, including me, sat.

  “I’ll stand,” said the third guy. He stood, back to the wall, with his arms folded over his chest. He didn’t look any more interested in being here than I did. He also looked about my age, but that’s where the similarities ended. He oozed money. Every bit of his clothing was brand-name. His hair was perfect. He stood with his thumbs in the pockets of his expensive jeans, while his jacket hung open to reveal a Polo Ralph Lauren shirt. He didn’t even bother to take off his Oakley sunglasses. Spoiled rich kid.

  “And your name?” asked Cathy.

  “Zach.” It was more of a grunt than a word.

  “Nice to meet you, Zac
h.” She then went around the room and asked each of us our names. I looked around the table as the others answered.

  “Russell.”

  “Peter.”

  “Rachael.”

  “Vic,” I said.

  Everyone seemed to share the same lack of enthusiasm.

  Rachael sparkled and shone like a porcelain doll, complete with eyelashes that fluttered as she spoke. I bet she thought her long, flowing, blonde hair hypnotized the boys and her tinkling laugh made them drool. Give me a break. I’d seen her type before and it made me nauseous.

  Russell and Peter were two of a kind. When they were waiting outside the office, I noticed their pants hung low on their hips and bunched at their ankles. Did they think anyone wanted to see their underwear? Russell’s shirt had a Green Lantern symbol and Peter’s had an Angry Birds character. The biggest difference between them was their hair: Russell had curly brown locks that almost reached his shoulders and Peter’s hair was reddish and cropped close to his head. They nodded at each other and did a fist bump; they must be buddies: Dumb and Dumber.

  I shook my head and surveyed the room. The furniture was sparse: a tiny desk in the corner that must be Cathy’s and the long table where we were sitting. Three of the walls were plain white, each with an ugly abstract painting; boring mixtures of browns, greens, and beiges. The earthy tones were dull and muted, giving me the urge to grab some spray paint and liven them up. The fourth wall was all windows. The sun shone brightly through the glass and I noticed the carpet in front of the window was faded. Natural light is great for painting, but too much reflection from the sun makes it hard to see your work. I frowned. We should be outside instead of in this stuffy room.

  Cathy squinted in the sun, trying to see us all. She moved toward the window and reached for the chain to close the blind. She struggled to reach, so I jumped up and grabbed the chain for her.

  When I turned back toward the group, Russell had his hand over his mouth and pretended to cough.

  “Teacher’s pet,” said Peter at the same time as the coughing.

  I shot him a look and bared my teeth as though they were fangs. “I don’t like the sun,” I quipped. “Or garlic.”

  “Or wooden stakes through the heart.” Peter nodded, getting my drift.

  I sat back in my chair, silently scolding myself. I shouldn’t have been so quick to help.

  “Now that you know each other’s names, let’s get started,” said Cathy, sitting down and ignoring the banter between Peter and me.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be outside?” asked Zach, finally sliding his glasses up to rest on his head. He took off his jacket and flung it in the empty chair in front of him. I couldn’t help but notice how the sleeves of his polo were tight around his biceps and his chest looked rock hard.

  So, I wasn’t the only one that wanted to get out of this room.

  “We’ll get to that. Today is about planning. We will be working on a semi-permanent painting for the fencing, or hoarding, that surrounds a construction site on Windsor Street.” She gestured vaguely to the windows. “It’s a few blocks from here. They’re building new condominiums, so we’re going to design a mural that represents what it means to live in Nova Scotia. It can be specific to Halifax or include the entire province. It can be about the past, the present, or the future. You’ll have to decide, and you have to work together to come up with one mural, not a series of individual ones.”

  “How about we just paint a picture of ourselves being forced to paint against our will?” Zach smirked. Then he pretended to paint with one hand and tighten a noose with the other.

  There was something about this guy I liked, despite his appearance.

  “Well, Zach, I was hoping for an idea that would represent more than just the few of you in this room. We want it to speak to a larger population.” Cathy looked around the table. “Any other ideas?” Her voice was calm and never changed, despite the attitude she got from Zach. I liked his approach, but I was also intrigued by her ability to ignore it. Maybe I would just sit back and listen as the day unfolded.

  I wondered how Zach ended up here. And who showed up to paint dressed like that? But I liked that he had spoken first. I eyed Barbie and the two knobs, who never even opened their mouths to offer suggestions. I didn’t speak up because I couldn’t care less—I had no interest in sharing my ideas with these jerks—but I bet those three simply didn’t have any ideas at all. Just empty space.

  Rachael looked back at me with disgust in her eyes and wrinkled her nose. She had the nerve to judge me. Well guess what, princess, at least I’ve got a brain. I bet your head is filled with nothing but hot air.

  She didn’t speak but continued to glare. Finally, she tossed her perfect hair over her shoulder and looked down at the paper in front of her. She took a pencil and twirled it around in her hand a few times. I got bored of watching the yellow swirl of the pencil and stared at the bland brown paintings instead.

  “So why all the makeup?” asked Russell, looking at me.

  “What’s it to you?”

  He shrugged. “Just don’t get it. Clearly it takes time and effort to do all that.” He moved his finger in a circular motion around his own face. “And Rachael obviously spends time and energy, too. But the results are so different.”

  “Yeah. One you want to look at…and one you don’t,” Peter added. He nodded at Rachael, who smiled and blushed. Then Peter turned back to me and shook his head.

  Cathy cleared her throat. “Any other ideas about the mural?” she asked again, trying to work past the bickering.

  I looked up at her and then back over at Peter. “I’m okay with you not looking at me,” I whispered, loud enough for him to hear. I raised my shoulders and gave him an oversized lame smile. What did he even know about me?

  I grabbed the pencil in front of me and began to doodle—a few flowers, a cat, a bunch of innocent cows being led to an unmarked building. I glanced over and noticed Zach had finally taken a seat at the far end of the table away from the rest of us. He had even picked up a pencil. I looked around the table at the others and saw they were all sketching, ignoring Cathy’s attempt at discussion. It seemed that, despite our differences, we all had at least one thing in common: we couldn’t turn down the invitation of a blank piece of paper.

  “Take your time,” said Cathy. She got up from the table and settled behind her desk at her laptop and began typing. She seemed relaxed and unfazed by our talk and aimless doodling. I guess she gets this stuff from all the delinquents she meets. “We are spending three hours together each Saturday for the next two months.”

  “No way,” said Zach, a bit too loud. His head flew up from his paper and he gave her a furious look. “I’ve got better things to do.”

  “What about my job?” I turned toward Cathy. She stopped typing and looked at me.

  “Sorry. You’ll have to make other arrangements.”

  “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” Peter practically sang the words. “Suits me fine. The more I’m here the less I have to be at home with the old man.”

  I wondered what he meant by that, but I sure wasn’t going to ask. All I could think of was trying to explain to Mr. Habib that I couldn’t work Saturday mornings for the next two months.

  I heard a quiet sniffle beside me and turned to see Rachael wipe at her nose with the back of her hand. She must have felt me staring because she looked up at me. I could see the shine of tears in her eyes.

  It sucked having to be here, but I sure wouldn’t cry over it. Especially not in front of other people. I reached out and touched Rachael’s arm. “Aww. Does this mean you won’t get the salon time you’re used to?”

  “Allergies.” Rachael huffed and looked back down at her paper. “Freak.”

  No one spoke for a bit. We just doodled. Again, I looked around the table and covertly eyed each paper. Racha
el was alternating between her pencil and index finger. She’d make a few lines with the pencil and then blend with her finger. She wasn’t done, but it was easy to tell she was drawing the Halifax waterfront. Peter was working on a dinosaur with scales and teeth so detailed it looked like it could leap off the page. Russell had sketched a guy on a skateboard and great letters in a really cool font that read, “Zoom.” Zach was drawing a guy in a noose. Wow, these guys are good.

  Cathy finally interrupted the silence. She hit a button and a screen came down over one wall. She tapped a few more buttons and a picture of the Tall Ships boardwalk mural appeared.

  “This is one of the projects a previous group did,” Cathy explained. She stood and moved around the room toward the screen. She held a small remote control in her hand. She changed the images as she spoke. “Here is another.”

  It was a picture that covered the whole wall of a brick building that must be a daycare. At least that’s what the painting suggested: it showed kids playing on swings, skipping rope, and blowing bubbles. You could see the fun they were having just by looking at their faces. Huh. Faces are hard.

  As the pictures changed I began to get excited despite myself. The next one was exactly my style: exaggerated cartoon-like images painted in bright hues with clear outlines. I started to get the same vibe I did when I was under the overpass—like I wanted to paint and nothing else. I took a deep breath and released it. I looked around at the others. I didn’t want them to know how much painting meant to me. But I wondered if they felt the same way.