Ruin Me Page 6

  GoST jumps and grabs hold of a small cement ledge. Whatever fantasy I ever had about being a street artist dissipates. I might or might not have any artistic ability. But I definitely do not have the upper-body strength: I’m the girl who failed the rope climb every single year in gym.

  From the ledge, he scales high enough to unhook a metal ladder from alongside the first level of the fire escape. It drops with a clattering sound.

  GoST pulls himself to the ladder, and lands on the fire escape in seconds. He climbs back down to me.

  “Follow me up. I’m going all the way to the roof, but you stay a level below me, okay?” He picks up the bucket and paper.

  “Yes.” I don’t even know this guy, but I would follow him anywhere.

  We start up the fire escape. Somehow, it’s darker than it seems on the ground. GoST moves like a cat burglar. I am slow and cautious.

  “Um, what if the police show up?” I say in a loud whisper.

  “I’m going to run. Do not follow me. You’ll just get caught, and by running you’ll look guilty. You’re just a bystander. No matter what happens, remember that.”

  “Okay. By the way, my name is Lulu,” I say.

  No response.

  “What should I call you?”

  “You don’t have to call me anything,” he says. “In fact, the less talking, the better.”

  He reaches the top, pulls himself onto the roof, and I stay down a few steps. I watch him set up his bucket, then unfurl two massive sheets of paper.

  GoST gets on his knees, perched at the edge of the roof. He leans over the edge of the building, dangling the paper.

  “Go down a few steps and hold the bottom. And tell me if it’s straight,” he says.

  I scramble down, and reach for the edge of the paper with a shaking hand. My entire body is pulsing with adrenaline.

  “Move to the right a few inches,” I yell up at him. He makes his adjustment, then starts rolling on the wheat paste.

  The poster is blue and white, but I can’t tell what it’s supposed to be until GoST hangs the second half that fits seamlessly against it. Again, I pull the bottom straight. He glues both pieces together, then climbs down the ladder with his rollerbrush to reach the edges and bottom.

  It’s the Facebook logo—a blue square with the white lower case “f” and also the hand “like” symbol. But instead of a thumbs-up, it’s giving the middle finger.

  I love it.

  “Let’s go,” he says. We climb down the stairs faster than we went up. When we reach the ladder he tells me to just jump.

  “I can’t,” I tell him.

  “It’s not that far.”

  But I’m too nervous. He jumps. I continue, step-by-step.

  I half expect him to leave without me as soon as he hits the ground, but he waits.

  “You might have to move a little quicker at some point. No fear. This is the easy stuff.”

  I nod.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say. “Why did you poster that instead of stencil and spray paint? Don’t get me wrong—it looks amazing … ”

  “I’m trying to take some time off the clock. The cops are getting aggressive. Let’s go. There’s another spot I want to hit right around the corner.”

  Back on the street, he points to the streetlamps with the Whitney banners hanging from the middle.

  “I really want to replace those,” he says, his dark eyes bright with excitement. They are intelligent eyes, knowing and ambitious. I wish he’d take off his mask. I am dying to see his face, touch his neck, feel—I shake my head.

  “Replace them with what?” I finally ask, trying to distract myself, not quite trusting my voice.

  “Not sure yet.”

  “How would you reach them?”

  “Not sure of that, either,” he says. “The fucking Whitney. Just what this neighborhood needs.”

  The Whitney Museum, which has always been on the Upper East Side at Sixty-eighth and Madison, is moving to a new home by the High Line, scheduled to open in 2015.

  He brings me to another alley, an extremely narrow one between two buildings. The back of one has large windows and is clean with obviously resurfaced bricks. The one directly across from it is faded and still sports some old graffiti—bubble letters and a few scattered tags.

  The base of this fire escape is much lower to the ground. It’s as if the engineer knew that there would never be anything worth robbing in the building.

  We stop at the top level of the fire escape. The roof is still a good ten feet above us, but GoST is already setting up his bucket and paint roller. I glance across the alley to see rows of large, narrow wooden crates and some oversized frames balanced against the window inside the building next door.

  It’s the storage room of an art gallery.

  “Hold this edge,” he says, rolling the paper against the building. We work differently this time, side by side instead. He rolls on the glue, moving the roller with quick, methodical strokes. His nearness is electrifying. I accidentally-on-purpose brush my shoulder against his. GoST is real, he is here, and in a single night, he has turned me from an audience into an activist. I want to say these things. I want to put my arms around him. I want things—and I feel things—I want to feel him. It scares me a little.

  The poster is up. It’s a thick gold picture frame—the kind you see in a museum. Inside is a black-and-white stencil of a sheep. I stare at it, not even realizing he is already heading back down. Apollonaire’s decades-old words run through my mind: Museums represent the mummy of a culture that has long since been dead. If he was that harsh on museums, I can only imagine what he thought of art galleries.

  “You coming, or what?” GoST calls from below.

  I take the steps down quickly. From the ground, I look back up one more time. God, I want my camera.

  “Next time,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I’m gonna bolt. But if you’re into it, I’m doing something on Friday and could use an extra set of hands.”

  “Yeah. Absolutely.” I nod, eagerly.

  “Meet me in front of Chelsea Market at noon.”

  “Daytime?”

  “Yeah. That’s usually when noon is.”

  “Right. See you Friday at noon.”

  I watch him walk off into the darkness, the unlit side streets swallowing up his form before I am ready to see him go.

  It’s only when I start walking to find a cab that I realize Friday is the preview party for the new gallery space.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I wake up to a knock outside my bedroom door.

  “Go away,” I yell at Niffer. But then I remember Niffer is in Spain, and I’m back to having my mother as a roommate.

  I haven’t lived at home since the summer before freshman year. Surprisingly, my mother left my room largely untouched. I guess she knew all along that she’d get me back here one way or another.

  “Rise and shine.” My mother breezes in. She is already dressed for the gallery luncheon in a black Prada dress. It’s a difficult length, falling to mid-calf, but my mother pulls it off. The waist is cinched, the sleeves short, and it has a mandarin collar. It’s completely out of place standing in front of my old Nirvana poster.

  “I picked this up for you at Bendel’s to wear to the party this afternoon.” She unzips a garment bag to reveal a white eyelet dress. I don’t like it. But all I care about is whether or not it can withstand the wrinkle-inducing act of being stuffed in a duffle bag to be changed into after my outing with GoST. I’m meeting him at noon at Chelsea Market, and I have to be at the new gallery space eight blocks north at twelve thirty.

  “I might be a few minutes late,” I tell her.

  “We’re leaving from here in a car at eleven thirty. Why would you be late?”

  “I have a, um, dentist appointment.” She can’t argue with oral hygiene—can she?

  *** ***

  I pace in front of Chelsea Market. GoST is ten minutes late and I’m anxious enough about time withou
t this delay. Finally, I see him strolling up Ninth Avenue. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. I’m wearing Converse, my army-green cargo pants, a black t-shirt, and my hair is pulled into a high ponytail. Waiting for him, I’d felt jittery. But now that he is here, I am ready for action.

  He’s not wearing the ski mask, but he’s sporting a black flannel hunter’s cap with long ear flaps which, combined with his mirrored sunglasses, hides almost as much of his face. The one thing it doesn’t hide is his cleft chin, and his strong jaw with at least half a week’s worth of stubble. He has sensual lips.

  Jesus. GoST is hot. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  “What’s that?” he asks, eyeing my duffel bag. I want to ask him the same thing—he’s carrying a ton of stuff. Some type of circular case strapped across his back, a large duffel bag in one hand, and long, black canvas cases slung over each shoulder. These are marked PROPERTY OF NYU/TISCH. Is GoST a student at NYU?

  “I have to change and be somewhere as soon as we’re done,” I tell him.

  We walk up Ninth for a block and then take a left, heading to Eleventh Avenue. I start to relax about time, because we are heading in the direction of where I will need to be for my mother’s party, not heading away from it.

  I follow him, wanting to ask if he attends NYU. But he’s clearly not in the mood for conversation, so I stay silent.

  He turns onto West Twenty-third street, leading me to a cement courtyard and through an alleyway behind a building. The sun is intense, and I forgot my sunglasses. I look up to the top of the building, but can’t see because of the harsh glare.

  At the base of the building, he unloads his gear and pulls down the fire escape ladder. I look up, blinking against the light, shielding my face with my hands.

  “Didn’t you bring a hat?” he says to me.

  “Um, no.”

  He unzips his backpack and hands me a black baseball cap.

  “Oh—thanks,” I say, already hoping he doesn’t ask for it back. I want a souvenir, proof that this really happened. Because I feel like he could disappear and I will never see him again.

  “Here’s the drill,” he says, pulling a thick white rope from the bag. “When I get to the roof, I’m going to throw one end of this down to you. You’re going to tie it to this stuff, one thing at a time. I’ll pull the bag up, then drop the rope back down to you for the next bag.”

  I’m dying to know what’s in the bags. Clearly, this is not a simple paint and stencil job.

  He didn’t tell me what to tie first, so when he final throws the rope down, I pick the flat round case. It’s heavier than I expected. When I’ve secured it as tightly as I can, I step back. Looking up, I see GoST watching. I give him the thumbs-up. Slowly, he pulls the bag up the side of the building.

  We repeat this process with both long cases, and then finally, the huge duffel bag. When he successfully drags the duffel to the roof, he calls down to me.

  “Okay—I’ve got it from here.” And then he disappears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Are you kidding me?

  There’s no way I’m leaving without seeing what he’s going to do.

  Just leave, a part of me screams. I could just leave, find a Starbucks, change, and barely be late for the luncheon.

  Instead, I walk to the fire escape ladder and start climbing.

  My sweaty hands are slippery on the metal rungs. When I reach the fire escape, I resist the urge to look down, and head toward the roof.

  But at the final landing, I am surprised by the distance to the roof. I can’t do it. I stand there, eyeing the cement ledge of the roof and having bad flashbacks to the rope climb at Spence.

  Heart pounding, I climb onto the metal bar running alongside the top of the fire escape. I reach for the ledge, and I’m able to get my hands on it easily. Pulling myself up is the hard part, but I’m surprised by how much leverage I’m able to get and as my feet leave the metal bar, I feel a surge of elation.

  But my joy is short lived—I’ve pulled myself as far as I can. Now I’m stuck dangling between the roof and the fire escape six stories above ground.

  “Help!” I yell, panicking

  “Jesus, what the hell are you doing?” GoST yells, quickly dropping flat on his stomach, his arms reaching down, circling my torso.

  “Pull yourself up as much as you can,” he says. “I’ll get you up.” I pull harder than I ever tried to do anything in my life. GoST does the rest, hoisting me up and holding me tight as he rolls us both away from the ledge. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it will stop working, and I’ve ended up on top of him while he’s flat on his back. The sun is beating down on us, and I can smell his skin, my face resting in his neck. A piece of brown hair has escaped his hunter’s cap. And I am shocked by how much restraint it takes not to press my lips to the stubble on his jaw.

  “What the hell are you trying to do, kill yourself?” he says.

  Embarrassed, I jump to my feet. “I just wanted to see what you’re doing. I mean, I came this far.”

  He shakes his head. “If I wanted you up here I would have brought you up.”

  “I won’t get in the way.”

  The absurdity of this comment—after what just happened—renders us both mute.

  GoST walks away, toward the center of the rooftop. I follow him, relieved to be on solid ground. But my relief disappears when I realize where we are.

  Directly across the street from my mother’s new gallery space.

  Town cars are already lined up out front. A photographer snaps photos of Julianne Moore and her husband walking inside. Inez is directing a delivery around back.

  No. This can’t be happening.

  GoST is crouched next to one of the round exhaust vents of an air conditioner, duct-taping a large, colorful expandable tube to it—the type of fabric used for pop-up play tunnels for little kids. The size of the tube matches up perfectly with the circumference of the exhaust vent, and I realize how meticulously he has planned whatever it is he’s about to do.

  Sensing my stare, he turns to me. “You might as well make yourself useful. See those light stands over there? Can you set them up? Adjust them to about your shoulder height.”

  I don’t know if I should stay or leave. Stalling, I fumble with the metal light stands, while GoST tapes a second tunnel tube to the first so that the length extends to the edge of the roof.

  I manage to get the light stand to the right height and stabilized. GoST waves me over, and I carry the stand to him. He sets it up under the tube, and then uses big metal clamps to secure the tube to the light stand so that it is elevated off the ground. He does the same thing with the second one, so the entire length of the tube is off the ground and stretches exactly to the edge of the roof. Again, I am amazed by his preparation and precision. The tube vibrates with the steady stream of air-conditioner exhaust pumping through it. Overall, the colorful setup looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, and I can’t help but smile.

  My smile fades quickly though: a) I’m now extremely late to the party, and b) the party is in disturbing proximity to whatever he has planned.

  GoST is now dragging the large duffel over to the tubing. He crouches down and unzips it. I peer over to see what’s inside, and my stomach drops.

  It’s filled with cash.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask nervously.

  “I made it.”

  “You made it? You counterfeited a massive load of money? You do realize that’s a federal offense, don’t you!?”

  GoST shakes his head. “It’s not counterfeit. It’s art.” Then he smiles. Sort of. “You should see your face. And when you recover, feel free to come over here and help me get all this inside the tubing.”

  GoST opens a cutout flap on the top of the tube and starts shoving the bills inside. Some of the fake money has spilled out, and I see the fake bill is a hundred. But the IN GOD WE TRUST has been replaced by IN GoST WE TRUST. And instead of Benjamin Franklin’s fac
e, it’s my mother. Blood rushes to my face.

  “Hey—can you load some of that in here?” he says as he quickly stuffs mounds of the paper into the opening.

  I stand frozen, stunned. It all seems too insane to be a coincidence. Does he know who I am?

  He’s looking at me, wondering why I’m just standing here. It’s hard to read someone’s face when it’s covered with glasses and a hat that drops down like a Midwestern hunting cap. But I am certain there is nothing to suggest he has any clue that I am a part of the art establishment he despises.

  And I want to keep it that way.

  I walk slowly to him, then grab a wad of the cash. Working side by side, we take turns feeding the “money” into the tube.

  And that’s when I start hearing shrieks from below. I run to the edge and peer down. GoST’s contraption is raining the fake money onto the guests arriving at my mother’s party. The photographers turn their attention from the A-list guests to the shower of fake money. Amidst the chaos, I spot Brandt getting out of a cab.

  “Back away from the edge. I don’t want anyone to see you,” GoST says.

  But it’s too late: My mother has emerged from the front entrance, no doubt to see what all the fuss is about. Sharp as always, she homes in on the source.

  She looks straight up at me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Let’s go,” GoST calls from the other side of the roof. I’m just standing in place, rooted in panic.

  “What about all this stuff?” I’m stalling. The idea that my mother might have seen me is paralyzing.

  “Just leave it. I told you.”

  GoST is already a few steps below me on the fire escape. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely maneuver my way down.

  “You okay there?” GoST calls up to me. The distance between us is growing. He is almost on the ground, and in my state of panic, I have stopped descending.

  My mind rushes into nightmare scenarios. I imagine the police surrounding the parameter of the building, my mother in the center of it all, pointing me out to them.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say, telling myself just to put one foot below the other. Finally, I land with a thud on the ground.