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I didn’t leave any graffiti last night after swim lessons, partly because I
almost got caught the night before with him and it was a good idea to back
off for a few days, but also because I suddenly didn’t want to.
Masen was the release now.
And I hated that.
When Misha disappeared, and I didn’t know if he was getting my
words, I started leaving them at school for people to read. It’s stupid and
childish, but one day a couple of months ago, when things got to be too
much, I was afraid I’d start screaming. So that night, before locking up the
pool, I made a snap-second decision and took out my Sharpie. I wrote on a
locker—a special message for just that person.
It was a fluke. It wouldn’t happen again.
But the next morning when I saw him read it over and over before
finally writing it down and taping it to the inside of his locker, before the
janitor could clean it off, it became something I wanted to do again. The
messages became more frequent, bigger and louder, but never personal.
Never with students’ names.
Not until last week with Lyla’s business aired on the front lawn. That
wasn’t me, and it was all the more reason for me to stop. Others were
following my lead now, and I didn’t want it to get any more out of hand.
They’d hired security, so it was only a matter of time before they got the
cameras working and someone got caught.
Especially when I’d been using washable spray-paint and only using
markers on things, like metal, that could be cleaned, and not damaged, with
nail polish remover. But the lawn had to be cut, since whoever did it had
used permanent spray-paint, and the pressure washer didn’t work. How long
before it got really destructive?