Wednesday night at Pizza Vendetta. Geno’s been after me to make Zambonis, so I make twelve of them, in between all the other pizzas and pizza tasks I’ve done, and wrap them for the freezer. We should have enough for two months. People don’t order them all that often.

At nine, Geno tells me I can go do my homework, but I go out to my truck and of course Rory is there.

“Epic’s next piece is going to be amazing. AMAZING.” She does a funny little dance, then leans over to kiss me. It’s still like an exploding supernova, and just as quick.

“Let’s go. I have a curfew now, and I’m only allowed to drive to school and work.” I start the truck and she gets in.

“A curfew? What are you, twelve?” Even in the shadows, I see the smirk on her face.

“Yes, didn’t you know?” I glare in response to her smirk.

I don’t ask her for directions to get to Epic’s—I remember most of it, and I want to see if I can get there by myself, landmark to landmark. I only blank one time, but Rory gets me started again.

When we arrive, she hops out and keys the code for the garage door, then motions me inside. David materializes and we bro-hug when I get out of the truck, clasped hands with a shoulder bump, not a real hug but it’s something. We haven’t talked much since he asked me out.

“Very masculine of you, young man in the skirt, to bro-hug with such authority.” I give him a fist bump for added emphasis.

“I’m only a six-pack away from dating girls and wearing pants.” He’s got on a short frilly skirt that looks like a Hawaiian vacation, the flowers are so bright.

“Maybe a few six-packs.”

He tosses me a construction worker’s measuring tape. “Help me measure the inside of your truck.”

“Why do you need to know that?” I open the back doors and push them wide, leaving space for both of us to climb in.

“Epic’s got to know how many pieces your truck can handle.”

“No live animals, right?” You can still catch a whiff of sheep if you breathe deep enough.

“Nope. Just papier-mâché. But a lot of it, and some of it’s really big.”

I go stand by the front seats with one end of the tape measure, and he stands at the end of the truck bed, by the doors. It’s about eighteen feet long, and eight feet wide. Plenty of room for whatever Epic’s got going on.

Then David holds out his hand. “Now give me your keys.”

“My keys? Why?” That’s a weird request.

“Just give them here and quit asking questions.”

I drop them into his hand. He climbs out of the back of the truck.

A huge THUMP-whack-THUMP-whack-THUMP-whack noise start up somewhere in the garage.

“What’s that?” I jump off the back deck of the truck and walk around to see.

Rory’s in the far corner, presiding over this huge machine that’s making the big noise. It kind of looks like a copier, but it’s a little more mechanical than that. “Epic’s printing press. He needs more money.”

“Where’d he get it?” It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen.

“Not sure.” Rory shakes her head. “I think he bought it when a magazine was going out of business. He never buys anything new.”

Every time the machine gives a ka-CHUNK, a fresh print slides out and you can smell the ink. Each sheet has a few rows of what looks like hundred-dollar bills, except that where Ben Franklin is supposed to be, there’s a guy in Ray-Bans with really funky straightened hair and a feather boa around his neck. Probably can’t use them to buy smokes at the Kwiky Pik.

“Is that Warhol?”

Rory points at the wall, where there’s a replica of a Campbell’s soup can painting. “Who was more against consumerism than Warhol?”

“It might be funnier if it was Donald Trump.”

“Tell that to Epic.” Rory gathers up the sheets and carries them over to another table, where there’s something that might be a paper-cutting machine. There are stacks of money next to the machine, and she hands me a stack as she points toward another table. “Just cover the forms in this glue, then smooth the bills on.”

“What are they?” I peer at the thing on the table, and it doesn’t make much sense. It looks kind of like an airplane, long and rounded, but with big bumps on one end, on either side of the long rounded part.

Rory’s on the other side of the table, and she rolls her eyes, because I don’t get the joke. “Come stand over here.”

When I move closer to her, I understand—it’s a penis. Balls and shaft, all laid out in glued-on newspaper, ready for its final coating of cash. It’s maybe a foot long.

I need to process this information. “Epic is making penises, and we’re covering them with fake money that has Andy Warhol in a feather boa on them. Then what?”

“Then we lay them around Nicollet Mall, in front of various places, on Friday night. And they get one of these stuck on top.” She reaches below the table and comes up with a sign on a stick. The sign says CONSUMERISM CAN SUCK ME. “Each penis also gets two stickers.” I notice squares on the table that say BE EPIC and NOT A FELON. Obviously Epic reads the paper, too.

“And he thinks we can just lay these out on Nicollet Mall? With all the security cameras everywhere?” My mind flashes to a picture of my face on TV in my living room, my parents’ heads exploding. Though at least they’d understand where I’ve been. “We’re gonna get caught for sure.”

“Ski masks, of course, just like we did with the ATMs. I still have ours.” Rory leans close. “We’re penis ninjas.” She kisses me, and I hear a throat clear from somewhere close to the printing press.

“Don’t rub it in.” David, coming back from the far corner of the garage.

“Sorry, cuz.” But her tone of voice tells me that she is nowhere near sorry. “Get your glue stick on, Frankie.” Rory hugs me, then slaps me on the ass, and I frown. She grins.

I send David some thought vibes: Sorry, dude. We’re still bros, though.

“Does Epic give us instructions in case we get caught and taken in? What do we do then?” I open a jar of glue, and my hand cramps from gripping the lid so hard.

Rory laughs. “That doesn’t happen. Relax.”

David hands me my keys, and he shows me another set, which he pockets.

“Epic has a key machine? How cool is that?”

David nods. “He bought the remnants of a mom-and-pop hardware store years ago. When we were in London, we did a piece that was about three blocks long, and the person who was supposed to drive the getaway truck lost their keys when he got chased by a dog. We had to walk three miles back to the hotel. Considering how big Nicollet Mall is, and the cop possibility, I think it’s good to have two sets.”

“David, you’re a smart dude.”

“A six-pack away from being the president of the United States.” He nods.

I start smoothing glue on the penis and plastering the Warhol money on top of the glue, and David shapes small penises over at another table. Rory disappears through a door in the back of the garage.

David holds up a penis for me to see. “Did you read the article in the Pioneer Press?” That’s St. Paul’s newspaper.

“How could you miss it?” It was another two-page spread of Uncle Epic’s art during the time he’s been home, the eyes and the sheep, plus a bunch of little pieces Epic did in the last few years. The reporter talked about how Epic was one of the most important artistic voices of his age, how you don’t get a show at the Walker if you’re not somebody important, and no, Epic’s not a felon, haters gonna hate, street art is a victimless crime, and shut up. Sounds like Marta did her PR work.

“What did Epic say about it?”

David shrugs. “All press is good press. Read the sticker.”

“But why the hell is he doing something as public as Nicollet Mall?”

“Do you think he’ll be there with us? Who’ll be caught and who won’t?” He gives me a look and goes back to shaping his peepee.

“So he lets his crews take the fall for him?”

David gives me another look. “That’s part of the usefulness of crews.”

I let that sink in for a second.

“Look, it’s not like I resent Epic for that fact. We know it’s part of why he needs us, and we do it because we’re cheap labor and we’re family. But we keep him making art, and that’s important.” He shrugs again. “Epic’s work isn’t the same old crap. It’s direct and blunt. It’s also not online, either, where you could just pass him by. People can’t ignore him when he’s plastered penises across a pedestrian mall. So we help. Though my mom’s not happy the cops are watching more than usual.” David smiles. “But she believes in him, too. She’s his sister.”

“The family that makes art together stays together?”

“Something like that.” He’s working on another penis.

“How many little peepees does Epic want?” There are three on my table that I’m covering in money, and David has three more on his table, plus one that he’s working on.

“Probably ten. He’s going to put them in front of doors and stuff like that. Casual, like they belong there. And not for every business, just for some. Then there are some bigger dicks that will go to bigger businesses.” He points at a huge table by the door that Rory went through. The penises on that table are probably four feet long. “Those two go by the Target and the Macy’s. They’re big ol’ consumer dicks.”

“Nothing wrong with being straightforward. And I suppose we need to make some more CONSUMERISM CAN SUCK ME signs?”

“That’s my job for tomorrow.” David points to a pile of wood and cardboard, next to a small can of paint. “Right now we’ve got to get the little dicks covered in money so we can work on the big one.”

“The big one?”

He makes some this-high and this-wide gestures. “There’s got to be at least one big dick, right? It goes in front of the WXXO studio window, propped up on a board so it’s visible to the entire viewing population.” WXXO is a TV station that does a big morning show on Saturdays, and one of their studios looks out onto Nicollet Mall.

“I wonder how long it will be before someone notices it.”

“No idea.” David grabs a big white piece of foam board that’s leaning against the table leg. “I also have to make the BE EPIC sign for the Giant Sausage.” He waves the sign around. “Be epic, ladies and gentlemen. Have some of this here giant weenie!”

Rory comes back with some beach balls. “OK, boys, here’s your scrotum for Minnesota’s Big Wang. Get going so the glue can dry.”

David and I bust out laughing so hard that we can’t do anything but fall all over ourselves and the balls Rory handed us. “Scrotum” may be the funniest word ever, and we’re tired and punchy. Just when we’re finally stopping, one of us will say “scrotum” and the other will say “Minnesota’s Big Wang” and someone will say “it needs to dry,” and we’re back laughing again. Then David chokes out, “Look at Epic’s one hundred percent Minnesota beef stick!” and I can’t even stand up anymore.

After we get our acts together, we start working on ways to cover the beach balls with papier-mâché. It takes us a little bit, but we get it figured out, and the balls look good. Kind of like real testicles. Once everything’s covered, we get some glue and money plastered onto the wet paper. Rory started up the printing press again, and there’s more THUMP-whack-THUMP-whack-THUMP-whack in the background, followed by the occasional ka-CHUNK when the press cuts the money. It’s really too bad we can’t print real money.

David lays a huge PVC pipe on the table. “Here’s our shaft.” And he cracks up so bad he can’t talk for a while, and that gets me going, but we make ourselves stop and we build a penis shaft over the pipe.

My practical brain kicks in before too long, and I look at David. “Where’s the board for this thing? If we don’t get it on something flat, it’ll break when we move it.”

“Over there.” It’s leaning by a random TV, and he brings it back to where we’re working. “Let’s slide the balls on first.” We get the scrotum settled, and then we carefully move the shaft onto the board.

Finally it’s done, and it looks really, really good, for something that’s six feet long, with balls that are four feet wide, total, and everything’s covered in fake money. As long as your expectations are reasonably low, this is a piece of art.

David and I marvel for a while, then we count the little dicks that are still to be covered in money: six. There are six dicks that are already finished. And David has to make some more CONSUMERISM CAN SUCK ME signs, plus the BE EPIC sign that will go on the Great Minnesota Bratwurst.

“We’ve still got a lot of work to do.” David yawns. “But it’s three.”

Holy shit. I pat myself, looking for my phone, but it’s nowhere. “Show me.” David flashes me his phone. It’s 3:05, to be exact. I sprint for my truck and start it up before David gets to the door control. It gets stinky really fast from the exhaust. “My kielbasa is in extreme danger. Open the damn door.”

Rory shouts from somewhere, “Nobody needs carbon monoxide poisoning, Frankie.”

“Sorry, Rory. Sorry, David and Epic.” I holler it out the window. And I back out of the garage like I’m on fire. The last thing I see is Rory. Sorry, baby. No good-night kiss for you.

It’s at least fifteen minutes to get home from Epic’s garage, and when I get there, the entire house is blazing, though mercifully the ballroom lights at the top of the house are still dark. Nobody’s been up to visit Donna or all the ghoulie materials, thank god. I park, take a deep breath, and open the door.

My mom and dad are asleep in the living room, one on each end of the couch. I tiptoe through the living room and almost make it to the stairs when I hear a “Get back here, young man, before you make it any worse on yourself than it already is.”

I go back.

My mother is standing up, nudging my dad’s legs as she goes so he’ll wake up, too. “Did you notice all the texts you had?”

I check. Ten. “I was busy with David and Rory. My phone was in the truck. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

“Do you not realize that it’s a school night, which also happens to be a work night?” If her eyes were laser death rays, I would be dead right now. Her bathrobe’s open, and she pulls it around her pajamas like she’s just as angry at the robe as she is at me.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“You’re grounded. And your truck is gone.”

I can’t process it. “You mean I can’t drive it?”

My dad’s finally awake and in the game. “No more driving until you start respecting us and the limits we’ve set for you.”

It’s like a hammer blow. “But I need it. I need to haul stuff.”

“What would you ever need to haul?” My mom’s eyes are still blazing, even though she’s yawning. “It’s not your job to haul stuff. All you need to do is get to school and work.”

“That bitch Rory—you hauled her around.” Now Lou’s in the doorway, hair looking like she stirred it with an outboard motor, yawning to match my mom’s yawns.

“What does she mean?” My dad’s wide awake now.

“Just . . . never mind.” I don’t want them to know Rory was here or anywhere near my truck. “Please don’t take it away. Please.” How will I get the next ghoulie down to the Kwiky Pik? How will we get the dicks to Nicollet Mall in two days? They can’t destroy my life. “Please don’t do this.”

“Too late.” My mom holds out her hand. “Keys, please.”

“Please don’t do this.” I am so close to crying.

“Think about it the next time you stay out until three thirty on a school night.”

I drop them into her hand. “When can I have it back?”

“When hell freezes over. I have no idea. Right now, everybody’s going to bed. Nobody thinks well at this time of day.” She swats Lou on the butt. “Shoo.” Then she points at me. “You’re our slave for a while. Just know that. Now go.” Her face softens, and I see the tears in her eyes. “We’re worried, Frankie. You used to be such a good kid.”

“I was a fucking bored kid. I just didn’t have anything else to do.” I stomp up the stairs to my room. When I hear Lou go into her room and close the door, I slide out of mine and sneak up the stairs to Donna Russell, who would never take my truck away.

First I text David: Asshole parents took my truck away. Hold tight to those keys. Don’t tell E. Will work out a plan.

Then I set the alarm on my phone, since I have to get up in three hours for school. They’ll chuck my ass down the street if I don’t get up.

Then I can’t help it—I sob into Donna Russell’s soft blanket legs.