boutiques and restaurants. It’s also a pedestrian-only deal in the daytime. There are these gates that close to block off traffic until 5:00 p.m., when they open
up to allow cars through at night.
However,
somebody
closed the gates late last night after the shops closed, and while the street was blocked off, that somebody painted the word ENDURE in fifteen-foot-tall gold letters
down the middle of Maiden Lane. The letters were designed to look like an old-timey Western saloon sign.
My heart squeezed when I saw the word glittering across our TV screen on the morning news. A reporter interviewed the owner of a café whose tables were set up around the gigantic
E.
Using it as a chance to advertise, he said he “rather liked” the graffiti and encouraged the public to come check it out in person and buy a latte.
ENDURE. Did it mean anything? Was he expressing something about whatever he was going through? Was it a sign that he was ready to communicate again?
Later that afternoon, while Mom was taking a shower and getting ready for her shift, I heard footsteps bounding down the basement stairwell, and I made the instant decision to get some unbiased
advice. So I tugged on fluffy socks and headed downstairs to Laundry Lair.
A door to the right led to the garage. The one on the left led to Heath, and it was closing as I called out, “Hey!”
Heath’s head popped around the doorframe. “Yo.”
“How was work?”
“Umm, fine. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, then why are you asking about my day like some 1950s housewife?”
“I need your advice about something before Mom gets out of the shower.”
He held the door open and waved me inside. “That’ll be in thirty seconds, so you’d better talk fast.”
I strolled into the room as he closed the door behind us. Huh. Laundry Lair was . . . surprisingly clean. His single bed was pushed up against a wall, and it was unmade, sure. But normally the
floor was covered with clothes (which was ironic, since the washing machine and dryer were
literally
four steps away from his bed), and his curtained-off clothes rack was filled with empty
hangers. Today, however, everything was put away, and the stuffed chair in the corner wasn’t piled with books and video-game cases. I curled up on it while he changed shirts.
“What happened to the brimstone wall?” That’s what we called the painted cinderblock above the laundry-folding ledge, where a thousand metal slash punk slash indie band and bar
stickers formed a giant collage of fiery, hellish logos. At least, they’d been there a few days earlier. Not anymore.
“I gave it a funeral. Mom was right. Everything was peeling, and all the sticker residue was covered in dust. It was sort of disgusting.”
“O-
kay
. Since when did you start caring about being neat?” Because he was the messiest guy I knew.
“Are you here to give me a hard time? Because I thought you wanted my advice.”
I sighed. “So, let’s just say I met this guy on the Owl bus one night when I was coming home from the hospital, and we hit it off, but I found out he was on his way to commit a
crime.”
“He sounds like a winner.”
“Hush, it was a really minor crime.”
“Minor like scoring an ounce of weed, or minor like illegal parking?”
“Somewhere in between?”
Heath pulled a T-shirt over his head and stared at me, mouth open. “Stealing a car?”
“What?” I practically choked. “That’s ten times worse than buying drugs.”
Heath snickered. “Okay, what, then? He was robbing a gas station, but it was because his grandmother needed the money for surgery? Or was it just something stupid, like egging
someone’s house?” When I didn’t answer right away, his eyes widened. “Hold on. Not egging, but something like it? TPing? Oh, shit!
No way.
Are you kidding? The
thing at the museum?”
The blood drained from my face.
“Holy freaking . . .” he murmured. “It really
was
for
up to allow cars through at night.
However,
somebody
closed the gates late last night after the shops closed, and while the street was blocked off, that somebody painted the word ENDURE in fifteen-foot-tall gold letters
down the middle of Maiden Lane. The letters were designed to look like an old-timey Western saloon sign.
My heart squeezed when I saw the word glittering across our TV screen on the morning news. A reporter interviewed the owner of a café whose tables were set up around the gigantic
E.
Using it as a chance to advertise, he said he “rather liked” the graffiti and encouraged the public to come check it out in person and buy a latte.
ENDURE. Did it mean anything? Was he expressing something about whatever he was going through? Was it a sign that he was ready to communicate again?
Later that afternoon, while Mom was taking a shower and getting ready for her shift, I heard footsteps bounding down the basement stairwell, and I made the instant decision to get some unbiased
advice. So I tugged on fluffy socks and headed downstairs to Laundry Lair.
A door to the right led to the garage. The one on the left led to Heath, and it was closing as I called out, “Hey!”
Heath’s head popped around the doorframe. “Yo.”
“How was work?”
“Umm, fine. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, then why are you asking about my day like some 1950s housewife?”
“I need your advice about something before Mom gets out of the shower.”
He held the door open and waved me inside. “That’ll be in thirty seconds, so you’d better talk fast.”
I strolled into the room as he closed the door behind us. Huh. Laundry Lair was . . . surprisingly clean. His single bed was pushed up against a wall, and it was unmade, sure. But normally the
floor was covered with clothes (which was ironic, since the washing machine and dryer were
literally
four steps away from his bed), and his curtained-off clothes rack was filled with empty
hangers. Today, however, everything was put away, and the stuffed chair in the corner wasn’t piled with books and video-game cases. I curled up on it while he changed shirts.
“What happened to the brimstone wall?” That’s what we called the painted cinderblock above the laundry-folding ledge, where a thousand metal slash punk slash indie band and bar
stickers formed a giant collage of fiery, hellish logos. At least, they’d been there a few days earlier. Not anymore.
“I gave it a funeral. Mom was right. Everything was peeling, and all the sticker residue was covered in dust. It was sort of disgusting.”
“O-
kay
. Since when did you start caring about being neat?” Because he was the messiest guy I knew.
“Are you here to give me a hard time? Because I thought you wanted my advice.”
I sighed. “So, let’s just say I met this guy on the Owl bus one night when I was coming home from the hospital, and we hit it off, but I found out he was on his way to commit a
crime.”
“He sounds like a winner.”
“Hush, it was a really minor crime.”
“Minor like scoring an ounce of weed, or minor like illegal parking?”
“Somewhere in between?”
Heath pulled a T-shirt over his head and stared at me, mouth open. “Stealing a car?”
“What?” I practically choked. “That’s ten times worse than buying drugs.”
Heath snickered. “Okay, what, then? He was robbing a gas station, but it was because his grandmother needed the money for surgery? Or was it just something stupid, like egging
someone’s house?” When I didn’t answer right away, his eyes widened. “Hold on. Not egging, but something like it? TPing? Oh, shit!
No way.
Are you kidding? The
thing at the museum?”
The blood drained from my face.
“Holy freaking . . .” he murmured. “It really
was
for
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