Orfyn

 

 

After sleeping off my exhaustion, I go into Sister Mo’s office and turn on the ancient computer to look for posts about Take This Cup. On Rosa’s page, as I instructed, is my painting with the caption, A New Orfyn.

The blues and reds stand out well, and the Stanley Cup looks almost three-dimensional. The flesh tones are lifelike, and the glares of Jesus and his disciples make them look badass.

Then I see it.

A reflection in the dirty window next to the painting. Lampblack hair cut in a fade, and a streak of Cardinal red paint slashing across the guy’s light brown cheek.

It’s clearly me.

Rosa posted the wrong photo. My stomach twists so hard it nearly bowls me over. Beads of sweat sprout on my forehead. My identity is blown. I want to believe it’s not disastrous, but I know better. The mayor offers a reward for turning in people like me, and it’s only a matter of time before someone needs the cash. The thing is, no matter how beautiful my paintings are, or how much people like them, it’s still vandalism. Officially, criminal mischief. I could be facing up to a year in jail and some serious fines I could never pay.

How am I going to tell Sister Mo? My recklessness will damage the reputation of St. Catherine’s Home for Children—something Sister Mo takes very seriously. When word gets out that one of her orphans was arrested, it’ll prove to those people who think we’re no-good that they were right all along.

I am so screwed.

Rosa has to delete that post. I start to message her, but then the site acts funny. When I refresh it, not only is the post with the incriminating photo not there, all of her previous posts have disappeared.

She must’ve noticed my reflection, but why would she remove everything about herself? I search every site that’s ever posted anything about Orfyn. No alerts about a new painting. No slightly blurry but recognizable photo of me in the window. No Take This Cup. No Rosa. No nothing.

The last thing I should do is go see her. The surest way to get caught is to return to the scene of the crime. But I have to. There’s bound to be a bunch of people there taking photos, so I get into disguise, which pretty much means covering my T-shirt with a hoodie.

By the time I get to Rosa’s neighborhood, I’m feeling twice as nervous as I did in the alley. My hastily-made plan is to loiter in the bodega up the street and case the scene from there. That is, if the store owner lets me hang out without buying anything. When I get near, I’m surprised there’s no crowd. Is it possible no one noticed something that colorful? I stroll by the alley, trying not to seem like I’m obviously looking for something, pushing my hoodie slightly to the side.

It’s gone! Take This Cup is gone.

The brick wall is still intact, though it looks like it’s been acid-washed, leaving not even the slightest haze of color. It’s as if my painting was never there. I’m used to my work being ruined, but not this quickly. Or thoroughly. Why would someone go through the trouble of erasing Take This Cup from an alley wall?

I look up at Rosa’s fire escape. Maybe she saw what happened. I count the windows and figure out which apartment is hers. After making my way to the front of the building, it only takes a few random buzzes on the panel before someone lets me in. The entryway smells like urine. I make my way up the sticky stairs, and pass an old man sleeping on the landing between the second and third floors. The sound of gunfire blares from behind a door, and I’m seriously hoping it’s coming from their TV. My unease grows with every step.

Rosa’s door is ajar. I push it open a crack. “Hello?” I’m greeted by silence. I push the door open a bit further and peek in. “Rosa?”

Even from the hallway, I can tell they’ve moved out. And in a hurry. There’s the stuff you take and the stuff you leave. Her place is strewn with the things that weren’t important enough to pack up.

Then it hits me. No painting. No Rosa. Abandoned apartment.

I need to leave. Now.

 

 

“I have to tell you about something I did.”

I lead Sister Mo into her office as dread latches onto me. I shut the door, sit in the chair in front of her desk, and tell her what happened, not daring to leave anything out. I brace myself for her reaction.

“There is a chance no one saw that photo,” she says in her thick, Kingston lilt.

I want to believe her, but it all happened too fast to be a coincidence.

She crosses herself. “Good Lord willing.”

I follow her example, needing all the blessings I can get. Lesson learned: street artists and photo ops don’t mix. I’m sorry, Rosa. I thought I was doing something nice for you. And yeah, I admit it. I was showing off, too. My pride getting in the way again. I can only pray she’s okay.

Sister Mo studies me with her deep-set eyes, and I swear she’s been aware of every thought I’ve ever had. “The girl who saw your painting, did she say she was leaving today?”

“No.” Rosa would’ve told me. We talked about everything.

“Does she know who you are?”

My stomach clenches as I think it over. “I never told her my real name or where I live.”

Sister Mo gets a distant look, as if she’s seen the ghost of someone who used to piss her off. “Don’t go back to that place, you. I’ll call the Chief, and we’ll learn what we can learn.”

She means this. The family tree of St. Catherine’s includes a council member, two state senators, more than a handful of lawyers and, yes, the Deputy Chief of the New York City Police Department. Couple that with a bishop who owes Sister Mo a few favors, and you get the idea of her pull.

But because of me, she needs to admit all is not right at her orphanage. If they discover I’m a vandal who stays out all night, people may start to question if Sister Mo is properly watching over her wards.

If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make sure this doesn’t screw things up for her or St. Catherine’s.