An Accidental Residency

By Hallie Gordon

Still grieving after the loss of her father and unable to express the pain, Lexi Gold, a troubled seventeen-year-old, loses herself in late-night graffiti outings looking for the perfect Manhattan rooftop to tag. These sessions lead to romance and danger as she finds herself surrounded by a crew of street artists that force her out of her comfort zone, while a case of mistaken identity changes her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hallie Gordon
• Release date: Jun 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532377501

Hallie Gordon

Hallie Gordon, a dyslexic young adult writer with an authentic voice. Uses her love of storytelling and her own challenges to both express and connect with readers. When not doing homework, Hallie can be found avoiding college life while day dreaming of new book ideas and what to eat for dinner. To learn more about Hallie you can visit http://accidentalresidency.com , her Instagram page @Officialhalliegordon, or her writers blog http://trafficforthesoul.com

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An Accidental Residency

By: Hallie Gordon

Copyright © 2018 by Hallie Gordon

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-1-5323-7750-1

www.AccidentalResidency.com

Dedicated to everyone trying to make it with a broken heart. We’ll be alright.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, artists, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter One - The Beginning

Chapter Two - Mildly Rude

Chapter Three - My Death Would Be Unortunate at Best

Chapter Four - Roses in Strawberry Fields

Chapter Five - Heels Higher Then My GPA

Chapter Six - The Endless Cycle of Pretending Everything's Okay

Chapter Seven - Everybody Knows We Belong

Chapter Eight - Bring Him Flowers

Chapter Nine - A Plan for Disaster

Chapter Ten - Angry Lovers

Chapter Eleven - You Jump, I Jump

Chapter Twelve - We All Have Our Escapes

Chapter Thirteen - Pandora's Box

Chapter Fourteen - Bad Ideas, Prison Sentences

Chapter Fifteen - 'Til Death, We do Art

Chapter One - The Beginning

Crouching, I reach into my pack and pull out a large spray can, popping the top off. I push down on the nozzle with my index finger. Colored spray flying out of the small hole makes a sound similar to the sizzling of food in a hot frying pan. I let my arm guide my hand into manifesting my vision on the brick wall, my canvas, in front of me. It’s never like this, where the art just flies. Where I forget everything and all that matters is creating what's in front of me. Damn I think, my knees cracking as I awkwardly try to shift my weight onto my other leg. I really should have done that yoga shit with Jade. I wipe my runny nose with the back of my frozen hand. My fingerless gloves are not protecting me the way I’d hoped they would. With a puff of air, I blow the pesky little strands of hair that have fallen out of my ponytail away from my face. Being out in the cold for hours did a number on my now- aching bones. But I couldn't care less. A little pain was a small price to pay for forgetting.

The clear black line the spray created slowly starts to fade as I drag my arm down, rough red brick freckling through the stippled black. I heave an annoyed sigh as I shake the can rapidly, the metal ball on the inside clanging around loudly like a pinball in a pinball machine. I cringe, waiting a moment as the sound bounces of the alley walls. God, that thing is so annoying. Isn’t it funny it’s called a pea? I bet half the taggers in New York City don’t even know it’s called that. Advantages of having art classes, I guess.

Switching my medium back to acrylic paint, I take the tip of my brush and swipe a glob on my makeshift palette, placing the paint in the middle of the rusty metal frying pan in my hand and swirling it around in a circular pattern before adding another shade. The two shades swirl within each other like koi fish in a pond before finally starting to become one. I’m just about to add another stroke to my piece when I hear the splash of disturbed puddles hitting concrete echo against the alley walls as footsteps approach. I don’t want to turn around.

Hey, what do we got here?

The gravelly male voice behind me starts a rising panic in the pit of my stomach.

As if I needed any more trouble, I think, internally screaming as I start to collect my supplies casually but quickly throwing them in my bag, purposely leaving my frying pan and the spray can next to me out.

Looks like a tagger, another voice replies coolly in a much deeper tone than the first.

I zip up my bag and continue to work, shaking my spray can and still not facing the two increasingly aggravating men. Looking at my finished piece on the wall in front of me almost puts a smile on my face. It would have if this situation hadn’t commenced.

A tagger, huh? Well, this tagger better have some cash on him, he says. I could feel him approaching me and it sends shivers up my spine but at the same time ignites something in my body. The air around me becomes thicker with every step they take, tension growing as I continue to shake the can. The metal pea inside makes an eerie noise.

Not yet, I tell myself as the footsteps get louder.

Looks like you're out, he states with clear amusement in his voice. I can feel his presence directly behind me. His friend lets out a hyena-like cackle.

Nope, I reply as I spring from my squatting position and twirl around on my heels, spraying the black paint directly into his eyes. A guttural, almost primal shriek rises from the back of his throat as he desperately wipes at his eyes. Turning on my heels once more, I maneuver around his now doubled over body, and rush toward the street past the awestruck friend of my now-pathetic wannabe’ mugger. He catches my arm as I run by, his painfully tight fingers digging into my muscle. My hand instantly releases the spray can and it hits the pavement with a loud ‘clank’. With my free arm, I swing my small, paint-stained frying pan down at his forearm, the rim hitting with a disgusting crack. In one swift motion, I bring the flat, blunt side of the pan straight to his face. I take this opportunity to slide out of his grip, a stream of obscenities rapidly flowing behind me as I run down the alley.

Hey!

Confused, I swivel my head around, searching for the gruff voice.

Up here!

An older man with an untrimmed, bushy beard leans over the top of the building above me. He points down at the black fire escape zig zagging down the brick wall, window- to-window. I hear a groan from behind me and I see my friends are getting back up. I strain to pull myself up on top of the dumpster under the fire escape. I almost slide off thanks to the glossy slanted lid before a large hand reaches out. Like a drowning woman, I grab it with all my strength as my strange savior yanks me up onto the base of the fire escape to safety. Following his lead, we trek up the sets of steps to the roof. A light, comforting breeze dances across my skin as I step onto the concrete, leaving raised hairs and relief in its path. After taking a breath, I finally get a good look at the man who has just saved me. With his tall and wiry structure, I imagine he must be even skinnier under the thick coat over his shoulders.

I finally manage to sputter out a thank you. The stranger turns to face me; he couldn't be a day over twenty-five and yet his face was sunken. Fine lines etched into the skin on his forehead and around his mouth made him look much older. But bright blue eyes, eyes that gleamed with kindness despite having seen too much, shined through the apparent hardness of the rest of him.

Don’t worry about it. He smiles and waves his hand dismissively. You were badass down there. I mean, that was some straight ninja voodoo shit. A frying pan? What are you? Fry cook by day, tagger by night? I’m Mike, by the way.

He holds out a gloved hand, the top half of his fingers popping through the holes. I take a step forward and smile, taking his hand in mine, and notice the dirt under his fingernails.

Nice to meet you, Mike. And, I’m neither.

Mike gives me a quizzical look as I step back to look over the ledge, checking to see if the two douchebags who wanted to assault me were gone yet.

Oh, too good to be a tagger, huh? You got a name then, Michelangelo? he replies cleverly.

A street name? Nah, not yet. But that one's not too terrible, I reply, turning back to him. He’s sitting on the ground next to a large black backpack, which I’m assuming is full of everything he owns.

Ah, so you are fine arts, he laughs, seemingly proud of himself.

Taking my bag off my shoulder I reach into it and search the bottom. Here, I say holding out the Subway sandwich I had brought as a late-night snack. Take…

I don't accept charity. You think because I’m homeless I’m gonna’ take your shit? That's yours, he interrupted, crossing his arms.

It’s not charity. It’s payment, I reply, sandwich still in my extended hand.

Payment? he asks, raising a brow. I know I’m good looking, hun’, but I don't do that kinda’…

Payment for saving my ass back there. And an investment for you to come up with a badass street name for me. Come on, help me out, I plead, extending my arm one more time to him. Mike looks at me for moment before smiling and nodding his head, taking the food.

Deal.

Alright then. I step off the roof and onto the fire escape metal grate. See you around, Mike.

Wait! He rushes to the ledge as I’m already a quarter of the way down the steps. Your name!

I sigh and continue walking down the steps, shouting back, Lexi!

After making my way back down the fire escape, I slide off the dumpster top, looking both ways before returning to my work on the wall. As I collect the rest of my brushes and supplies that I didn't get a chance to stick in my bag, I admire the image. It’s my best work yet. I snap a quick picture on my cell phone before beginning my walk to the subway. It was only 2:30 in the morning, pretty early for me to be heading back. But it was a school night.

The city is dirty. Piles of garbage bags line the streets, and along with the bus fumes, urine, and cigarettes, they create a scent cocktail that lingers in the nostrils long after one has moved along. It was always loud, too, day or night. Jackhammers. Garbage men clanging cans together. The endless stream of car horns, bus engines, and the buzz of voices in a crowd. But this place was alive. In fact, I don’t think night ever met a town it couldn't overshadow until it met New York City. No, this place was lit from the inside, a billion pinpricks of incandescence wrapping the whole of five boroughs in a web of energy. Despite everything about this city and the fact that I was almost mugged just a few minutes before, I have never seen a place more beautiful.

The subway ride home was quick with, thankfully, minimal drunk-people sightings. Stacking up a few crates, I climb up onto a dumpster, similarly as I did with Mike, to get to my apartment building’s suspended fire escape. I drag my tired body, which was finally coming down from the adrenaline rush, up the metal steps. Removing the thick wooden paint brush, I stuck into the window frame to prop open my window, I crawl inside and plop down on my bed, utterly exhausted. I wiggle my still fully-clothed body under my covers and shut my eyes for what seems like the first time in a full twenty-four hours.

Chapter Two - Mildly Rude

Lexi, are you up?

My mom is shouting through my door, jolting me awake. I look over at the clock. Five fucking thirty. You’ve gotta’ be kidding me.

Yeah, yeah, mom, I'm up, I yell back, practically falling out of bed. It’s a pathetic act of defiance, the clumsy exit from bed. Once grudgingly on my feet, I shuffle over to my cheap floor-length mirror.

You can't be late again! I’m serious! she shouts as I examine my reflection with a frown. My dark sable brown hair is tangled like a rat's nest on my head and the bags under my eyes are most definitely not designer.

I know, Mom! I reply, trying desperately to wrangle my hair into a bun.

I pull a non-descript sweatshirt over my head and reach for the pair of dog tags hanging off my desk lamp. My fingers run themselves subconsciously over the cool metal and its punched indents. I love you I whisper into the fist clenched around the tags before carefully placing them back on the lamp.

Lexi, come on! Jade’s here! my mother shouts as I hear the front door open. I sigh and grab my green army jacket. ‘I can’t hide in here forever,’ I say to myself for the millionth time. My daily mantra, really. I feel like I’m storming a hill as I walk out of my room and into the waiting world.

Jade sits cross- legged on one of the stools in front of our kitchen island in her usual fashionable attire. Jade was the only girl I knew who could make a simple white T-shirt look high fashion in five minutes. Her sunglasses, which were probably Dior or something, laid perfectly on top of her sleek black bob. Where she gets the money for Dior sunglasses, assuming she actually paid for them, I will never know. I don’t want to.

Hey, babe.

She smiles as she’s gesturing me towards some of her breakfast bar as I slide onto the stool next to her. I smile back and break a piece off as my mom rushes back into the combination kitchenand living room we have in our apartment.

Oh, God, Lexi, not his jacket again? You wear that thing every day, she exasperates on her knees, rummaging through our couch cushions.

Oh, right. I forgot I’m the only one who cares to remember dad, I sigh quietly. She is too preoccupied to pick up on the venom in my tone. Better that she doesn’t, I guess. I hold out my hand to Jade, begging for more of the breakfast bar, to which she rolls her eyes and places the whole thing in my hand.

It’s been almost a year and a half now, honey. Look at that thing. It’s full of rips and stains and… Her voice trails off as she is now elbow deep in the cushions. She looks like a badger going after a gopher in its den. God damn it! Where are my keys?

I reach across the counter and stick my hand in the small ceramic bowl that she herself, ironically enough, had put there specifically for our keys and pull out her massive set of keys (God, does she even know what they’re all for?) and jangle them in my hand. Mom looks both relieved and exasperated as she walks over and snatches them from me.

Thank you. I’ll be home late, so don’t wait up. There's those microwavable dinners you like in the freezer, she rattles off as she heads out the door and I casually nod in response, used to the whole ‘Don't wait up’ spiel.

Come on. Ace is already at the bus stop. One more tardy and you're in for another detention, Jade says authoritatively as she walks to the door. The sound of her black booties clicking against the wood floor is oddly mesmerizing.

I know, I groan, following behind her like a scolded child. Sorry I can't be as perfect as you, Jade, I mock, nudging her as we walk to the elevator.

Don't beat yourself up, kid. No one can. She laughs in a joking tone, though I’m not actually sure she was.

The two of us make our way out of our shared apartment building and onto the busy street. In any tough city, you can always find the good people. Just wake up early. You’ll find all the hard-working individuals on their way to work: nurses in their scrubs, men and women in suits rushing to catch their subway, construction workers, people taking their kids to school. It’s the dregs that are holed up, sleeping off whatever they did the night before.

A frosty fall breeze snaps me out of my thoughts and I realize we are already at the city bus stop. I swear, my body goes into auto-pilot mode. That, and Jade knows I am prone to absent-minded fogs