Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page B

my jeans, but for once I was in luck, because this looked like the spot. A crowd had gathered in front of a wall decorated with a mural: gigantic meat cleavers and steak knives. I chained my bike in front of a power station across the street, listened to the buzz of electricity, and started looking for Morgan.
    She wasn’t at the table near the gallery entrance, where hipster chicks in motorcycle boots and neon tights waited in line for booze. I asked if they’d seen Morgan. Nobody paid attention to me. Could I blame them?
    “Who’s asking?”
    I recognized that twangy Southern accent. Finch, the guy from Skully’s party. He never stopped smiling. His stupid mustache would put Dali to shame.
    “A friend,” I told him.
    Finch’s smile tightened.
    We marched through the gallery’s cavelike entrance, which was draped with strips of plastic. Inside, I found Morgan talking to her unstable ex-boyfriend, Brent.
    “Do you think anyone would notice if I smoked a joint?” he asked.
    Morgan giggled. “You crackhead.”
    “What if I smoked a cigarette at the same time?” he said. When he spotted me coming, he scowled. I kept looking at the studs in his chin. If only I had a crowbar.
    “Aaron. You made it,” Morgan said.
    Normally, I’d be getting a little freaked out. I couldn’t handle parties, and these people made me feel stupid, like I could never say the right thing. But as long as Morgan was around, I’d be okay.
    “Yeah. Well, I almost got assaulted by a gang of ten-year-olds on bikes,” I said.
    Finch barged between us. He kissed Morgan on the cheek. “You know this guy?”
    “Doesn’t everybody?” she said. “He’s my hero.”
    “Is that so?” Finch stared.
    “She’s kind of exaggerating,” I said.
    “Finch,” the guy said, sticking out his hand. Was that his first name or his last?
    “Yeah. I remember. You were at Skully’s party.”
    Finch took off his hat and bowed. His hair was a tangle of reddish-brown snarls. He was older than us. Maybe in his midtwenties. He had a few crinkly wrinkles around the eyes, as well as freckles.
    “Walk,” he said, steering Morgan toward a metal staircase.
    “I am walking,” she said.
    He pushed her forward. “I would say you’re sort of shuffling.”
    “Don’t touch me.” Morgan jerked away.
    They wandered down a hallway on the second floor, and Brent and I followed them. The air was sweltering. My T-shirt clung to my back. “Where the hell are we going?” I asked.
    Finch jingled a set of keys and unlocked a door. Inside was another musty room with a cement floor. The walls swarmed with hundreds of postcard-sized doodles.
    “Welcome, kids,” he said, extending his arms.
    I squinted at a drawing of a topless girl, splattered with something dark and gluey, like chocolate syrup. Her arms and legs were all twisted, her bazooka-sized boobs swelling out of the frame. It was scary as hell.
    “Stop staring at my breasts,” said Morgan, sneaking up behind me.
    “That’s you?” I blinked.
    “Part of me,” she said. “Wanna buy some art?”
    “How much?”
    She grinned. “Ten.”
    “Ten bucks?”
    “No. Ten thousand. But for you, I’ll take a rain check.” She tore one of the drawings off the wall—a girl morphing into a tree—and stuffed it in a plastic baggie. “ Gracias ,” she said, handing it to me.
    I tucked it into my messenger bag. Did Morgan really see herself like that, with her body all out of proportion?
    “Smells like dogs in here,” said Brent. “Your place is in serious need of AC. It’s hot as balls.”
    Finch led us toward the back. We snuck behind a curtain that separated the gallery space from the “sitting area,” as Morgan called it. She collapsed onto a saggy couch and kicked her feet near an industrial-strength fan.
    “This isn’t helping. It’s just throwing hot air around,” she said.
    “Quit your bitching,” said Finch, pulling back another curtain. I got a glimpse of pizza boxes and sleeping bags and