1997
The day after Artie’s night visit to Jesuit, the school hummed, vivid and alive, in a way it never had before. He could see past the bright bulletin boards with their wavy corrugated borders, past the maps and posters, and the other boys, his classmates and friends, each jockeying for social position, or hoping not to be noticed, each preoccupied with their little lives.
Artie had seen the other school, the school at night. He thought of it, suddenly, as the real school, the school’s true self. He had seen its bones. He looked past the decorations, listened underneath the too-enthusiastic tones of Mrs. Hinds, the art history teacher, explaining the kiln process of firing clay. He knew the school’s empty heart, its articulated skeleton, the soft whisper of its soul, independent of the teachers and children who used it in the day.
Artie took careful notes about the history of pottery in the Western tradition, though he was barely listening. He thought of his initials on the wall behind the ginger plants, but he delayed going there. He made a rule for himself, a single glance when he happened to pass by. Art Appreciation was on another side of the building, and English and history in the afternoons kept him away from that entrance. To go out of his way and seek it out felt coarse, antithetical to the spirit of his secret.
He went through the entire school day without seeing it. At home he finished his schoolwork and played with his little sister while his mother went to fetch his brother from soccer practice. He set the table before being asked and read in his room after dinner. He felt himself operating like a smooth machine, powered by the simple act of writing on the school’s night wall. He fell asleep at nine and woke before his alarm the next morning. Friday. French class after lunch. The walk from his locker to class would take him past the spot.
He tried not to think about it, to simply let it happen—a casual glance on his way in the building. But the day jerked and stuttered as though some grit seized the gears. Irritability set in. Even before he passed the mark on the brick, he could tell it would be a disappointment. The exhilaration of the day before felt childish now, embarrassing. The school was merely the school, it had no secret heart, no affinity for Artie. Nothing special existed just for him.
Though he’d gotten plenty of sleep, he felt drained, couldn’t concentrate. The morning was math and biology, and it droned on, irrelevant, enervating him further. At lunch his friends were scheming a sleepover plan for the weekend, at David’s. David’s parents had a pool house with a big-screen TV, a Nintendo, a popcorn machine, and they usually left the boys alone out there, staying inside, drinking wine with their friends.
Artie had no enthusiasm for the sleepover. The graffiti loomed, he’d see it soon. More than anything he was ashamed of his former excitement. He saw now how stupid it had been to put off looking at the marks on the wall. He should have gotten it over with yesterday. He said something to his friends—sure, yeah, he’d ask his mom if he could spend the night.
The bell for afternoon classes finally rang, and Artie rose, went to his locker, and gathered his textbooks for the afternoon. He exited the doors under the covered walkway. He had no desire to see it now, the evidence of how lame he’d been. Out with a car at night, he could have gone anywhere, but the place he came was school. It was a move a dumb kid would make, predictable, pathetic. The secret drives still held promise for him. The problem, he understood now, was his destination.
Though Artie didn’t care about the graffiti anymore, some impulse compelled him to complete the cycle he’d begun. He sidestepped to the edge of the sidewalk that gave him the best view. He kept his posture straight, his eyes ahead, until the moment he was abreast of the wall, right before the entrance of the Language Arts Building. He flicked his gaze to the left, without slowing down or turning his head, and gained the briefest impression of smudged letters on bumpy red brick. And then he was inside the building, then sitting in class, straightening his books on his desk, and then the bell rang, the teacher started talking. Artie felt blank, emptied out. At least the thing was done.
That night he went to David’s and stayed up late, eating junk food and playing video games. He did his best to hide his boredom and frustration. Restlessness stirred in him, and he ignored it until he could be alone.
Sunday his dad offered to take him driving. They practiced in the usual parking lot and his dad commented that Artie seemed much more confident than before. The compliment touched him—his dad’s attention was so often divided.
“I wish I could go on the streets,” Artie said.
“It’ll happen soon enough, bud. When it’s time, you’ll be ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
“It’s a whole different deal on the road with other cars, son.”
“I know.”
“Your mother will be sending you out on all kinds of errands. I bet you’ll be sick of it within a week.”
“Doubt it.”
His dad checked his watch. “Better get going,” he said. “Pull into a parking place and let’s switch.”
“Can we get a map?” Artie said. “So I can learn my way around.”
“Sure, bud.”
At a gas station they picked out a folded paper map of the city. Artie studied it later, marked the places he knew: home, school, his friends’ houses, the church, the park where they played soccer. The movie theater where his parents dropped him off with his friends the first time he’d been in public without an adult, when he was eleven. It had taken him months of pleading before his mom consented. Artie was sick of everything in his tiny existence. Sick of being young.
He regarded his room, the blue-checked curtains that framed his windows. The table under the window that had been there since he was little. It was wood painted a cheerful yellow, chipped on the corner. He’d chipped it on purpose, years ago, to see what would happen. His mother hadn’t even noticed. The map was the most grown-up thing he had ever owned. Even his beloved collection of Spider-Man comics was suddenly a thing he would one day leave behind, without regrets.