The Knife and the Butterfly by Ashley Hope Pérez

Author:Ashley Hope Pérez [Pérez Ashley Hope ]
Language: ita
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780761387282
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group

CHAPTER 25: NOW

With Tigs gone, I’ve got even more time to kill when I’m stuck in the cell. I think about sketching something out in my black book. I’ve got a point back on my pencil, but then I remember what happened before, Lexi sneaking in through my pencil. No way I’m going to let her screw up the last page in my book.

Instead, I burn up some hours planning what I’d do with these cell walls if they’d give me some cans. Maybe what I’d paint is a kind of map of my life, different times laid out like neighborhoods. This is what life looks like with my moms around: lots of green, a park where they give away cinnamon pastelitos and balloons to little kids. There’s me and Eddie and Mami standing by a fountain that really works. There’s Pops walking to work with a lunch sack and a clean uniform. This is what life looks like after my moms died: dark colors, the Bel-Lindo buildings leaning all crazy like they’re going to fall down, broken balconies hanging loose. Eddie and me are sitting in a courtyard, circled around baby Regina. She’s the one bright spot with her pink and yellow dress. Pops is walking away from us carrying a fifth of tequila. I think about what’s next—Regina going away, clicking in with MS, Pops getting picked up, meeting Becca. That’s a lot of hoods. Already I’ve got way more than I can fit on these cramped-ass walls.

This happens to me a lot when I’m thinking out a piece. Lots of times I can’t find a wall big enough for everything I want to put in. I get caught up in details I want to add, but when you’re working with cans, it’s the little stuff that’s hardest to paint. Even with super-thin caps. But I like the challenge. For me, canning is about a lot more than tagging up a wall. Sure, getting my tag up in a heaven spot gives me a high, and I make it my business to do throw-ups any time I’ve got a can. But what I really like is working out a good piece. It’s this whole process. First you plan your shit out in a black book, then you look for the right wall. After that, you’ve still got to rack your colors.

If you’re underage, you steal your cans because there’s all these crazy restrictions on selling aerosols. That’s thanks to fools like Pelón huffing paints and getting mommies and daddies in the suburbs all worried about their brats’ brain cells. I can walk into any ghetto pawnshop on the Southwest Side and buy a knife without getting asked questions, but Wal-Mart won’t sell me a 97-cent can of spray paint.

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