Infinite Repeat Read Free Page A

probably broken down after a show.
    I slipped out of my car and headed across the gravel toward the strip of trees at the back of the lot. The trees led to a fence. Beyond that, the airport. The giant runways stretching out like so much blank canvas.
    It wasn’t like I was a big graffiti artist or anything. I’d tagged only a few things, and always with the same image—an H and a J with a noose between them—the logo of my dad’s old band, Hangman’s Joke. I had done it on the side of a train, an underpass, and a couple of abandoned buildings.
    I’d been thinking about the airport for a while. It was riskier, but tonight needed to be big, bold. Sweeping. Tonight I was going to do the abandoned terminal. And then a runway. Maybe two. There was just something about all that flat concrete that called out to me.
    I made quick work of climbing the ten-foot chain-link fence, ignoring the sign about trespassing. Dropping to the ground on the other side, I reached out with one of my hands to keep from face-planting in the wet grass. Then I cut across the nearest runway, dodging the glow of fluorescent overhead lights as I went. I made my way around the edge of the abandoned terminal.
    My heart had finished its drum solo. Strangely enough, now that I was in more danger, I felt calm. Tagging did that for me. The hiss of the spray can. The sharp scent of chemicals. In a moment, I would be in the zone. Glancing around, I pulled a bright blue can of paint out of my backpack. I shook it, hesitantly at first, and then harder. I shot a stream of color at the cool metal of the terminal wall, just to make sure the paint was flowing properly. Then I tested the breeze and positioned myself upwind. If my mom caught me sneaking in looking like the victim of a paintball massacre, she would know what I’d been up to.
    I left my backpack against the corner of the terminal and picked a spot that was slightly illuminated by the nearest overhead light, but far enough away so that I could hide in the shadows while I worked. I started by outlining the H and J as always. The paint spewed from the can, and with it some of the feelings that were all twisted up inside me.
    I stepped back as I swirled the can in an arc. My dad was dead, and the rest of the band had formed a new group without him. This was the best way I knew how to keep him alive. People would see this and talk. Even if it was only a handful of airport personnel who saw it, they would tell people.
    People talk about everything, even the stuff they don’t care about.
    Especially the stuff they don’t care about.
    And once the airport came with its solvents and paint and erased my work, I’d wait a couple of weeks and do it again. Or maybe a couple of months. I never quite knew when the urge to tag would hit me.
    After outlining the letters, I filled them in with blue and shadowed them with black. I was putting the finishing touches on the noose when the darkness rippled around me. I stopped painting and scanned the area, but I didn’t see anything. No movement. No lights. Still, the air suddenly felt heavy with tension. I turned toward the corner of the terminal.
    My backpack was gone.
    “This yours?” An airport security guard materialized from the shadows. He wore a bright blue TSA uniform. My backpack dangled from his gloved hand.
    Behind him stood two local cops—one guy, one woman. The guy looked only a couple of years older than me. The lady cop was closer to my mom’s age. She had her taser drawn and looked like she might be hoping to use it.
    “Down on the ground,” she said.
    I knew better than to argue. I lowered myself to my knees and laced my fingers behind my head.
    “All the way down, on your stomach,” the guy cop added.
    I got down flat, turning my head and pressing one cheek against the cool asphalt runway. My heart started rattling around in my chest again. This was going to be my third arrest. My mom was going to kill me. Worse, she was going to blame