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VANDALS Emily Heilman
Neither of them really cared about getting caught. At least, Nash didn’t. Or so it seemed. Daniel tried to ignore the heavy feeling of his hands, the blue can of spray paint feeling even heavier. He tried to ignore the shakiness in his legs, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He gave Nash a side glance. Nash was examining their canvas with a discriminating eye. They were down on Oak, at the bridge that crosses the shallow part of the river. It was summer; the crickets chirped loudly, but hidden in the reeds, the frogs were even louder. Everything was dark around them, except for the single streetlamp that stood at the corner of the road down the block, and the light of the waning moon that drifted in and out as the clouds moved east. Daniel watched Nash eye the abutment as if he were doing a maze with only his eyes, like he was constructing a tag before paint ever hit brick. Their canvas was certainly not blank—the chipping brick was covered in faded and overlapping words, some with sharp edges and multiple colors, some simple phrases done quickly and for political purpose, a few haphazard dicks here and there. It wasn’t much of a gallery; people weren’t likely to take notice or care about the things painted there. But it was tradition, Nash had said. At least, it had been Nash and Alex’s tradition, before Nash and his mom lost him to a locked bathroom door and a Smith & Wesson. Daniel shifted from foot to foot and shook the can a little. “Know what you want to paint?” Nash didn’t look at him but squinted at the canvas and stroked his short beard. “Not sure. Might just do my signature tag.” He shrugged and began doing just that. Nash got to work, and Daniel looked down at the can in his own hand. Never had he done something this blatantly illegal. This was the first time he
