The Mura

68 Short Story

We sit side by side in front of the wall. Me, Cath, Martin, Emilio, and Mr. Suarez. Between each person are cans of paint, orange paint trays, and a few brushes, each one a different size and shape. No one speaks. We just sit, cross-legged, eyes searching the cracked gray cement wall of the building as if there is some answer to be found there.

Behind us, the basketball court. Normally, on a weekday afternoon in mid-October, before it has gotten too cold and dark for outdoor recreation, the court would be alive with voices and the smack of basketballs hitting the pavement, but today there is nothing and no one but us. The small rusted-out set of bleachers on the side of the court, too, is empty. Beneath it there is a backpack, purple with camo patches sewn into the fabric. It belongs to Natasha. For a moment I consider bringing it to her house after we’re done here. But then, of course I can’t do that.

Mr. Suarez speaks, finally, but doesn’t take his eyes off the wall. “Well,” he says. Martin says, “Well.” Cath says, “Well.” Emilio says, “Shut up.” “Marco?” Mr. Suarez turns to me. “Anything you’d like to say to commemorate this moment?” He picks up one of the brushes next to him and points at me.

I think for a minute. Cath makes a face like get on with it already and Mr. Suarez raises his eyebrows at me and Emilio burps loudly. I smack an open palm against the wall a few times. “Do any of us even know what we’re doing? I mean, like know how to paint? Or draw? Or scale a mural, or—” Mr. Suarez laughs. “That’s the spirit.” There is no patronization in his voice. “Everyone, let’s give Marco a round of applause for his inspiring and uplifting pep-talk.” He puts down the paintbrush and claps loudly. No one else moves. “So the idea here,” he says, unfazed, “is that we each pick a section of the wall and paint whatever we’d like on it. The sections don’t have to go together, just think of something important to you—a specific scene, lyrics of a song, a special person in your life—and paint it as best you can. When we’re done, it should look like a set of five panels, and hopefully each panel will tell a different story. Or,” he is smiling wide now, and his excitement kills me a little, “if we’re lucky, maybe they’ll tell a story that’s not so different.”

“Gross,” Cath whispers. Emilio looks at Mr. Suarez and shakes his head. “If I had known joining this group was just gonna mean painting rainbows and sunflowers on stupid buildings, I never woulda let my mom...” he trails off.

Mr. Suarez, though, is still smiling. He gives us each a small nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Martin is the first one to pick up a brush. He is also the only one of us who looks even remotely excited. “Come on,” he says. “Stop being apathetic jackasses and for once in your lives try to care about something.” He looks at Cath and Emilio and me and we look back at him, all of us surprised at how stern his voice sounds. “Stop staring at me, you freaks. Just paint. You heard Suarez. Just freaking paint.” He stands up, picks up a paint tray and a gallon-sized can and walks to the far-left end of the wall. Emilio sighs loudly but follows Martin, grabbing a can and a paint roller.

Cath doesn’t move. “This is my section,” she says to me. She opens her arms wide and gestures to the wall. “Claimed.”

“Fine,” I say. I move to the far-right end of the wall, still with no idea what I want to paint. There are no scenes or song lyrics I like enough to immortalize them on a building right in the middle of South Bronx.

Mr. Suarez comes up behind me, hands clasped behind his back, thick glasses sitting low on his nose. He looks out of place in his sweater vest and fancy brown shoes, but he acts as though his being here is the most normal thing in the world. “Don’t think too hard.” “There’s nothing,” I say.

“Yes, there is.” “I don’t think so.” “Marco.” “What.” “You have something. I know you do.” I shake my head and he jabs a finger in the middle of my chest. “In there.”

“So, what, you want me to like, paint from my heart or something?” I scoff. “Come on, Suarez, even you gotta realize how dumb that sounds.”

“Maybe it sounds dumb. But that’s all there is, Marco. In this entire world, that’s all there is.” He points again at my chest and then walks towards the others.

I turn to face the basketball court. A couple balls lay abandoned at the half-court line, and even from here I can tell they are deflated and useless. The hoops do not have nets and their backboards are covered in rust and bird poop, and looking at them I understand why Mr. Suarez chose this building to paint the mural on, and not the building behind the school or the one next to the community center that used to be a bank.

My eyes fall on the backpack underneath the bleachers. The backpack that belongs to Natasha, the one person I want to talk to more than anything and the one person I cannot talk to. I look at the backpack, listing in my head everything I know to be in there. Extra socks for gym, several packs of grape bubblegum, an emergency sewing kit, lip gloss, an eyelash curler, a set of gel pens. Nothing, I think, that is actually required for school.

Suddenly, I know exactly what I am going to paint. I turn back to the wall where Emilio and Martin and Cath are busy at work. Mr. Suarez stands a distance away, watching them with a satisfied smile on his face. I search the paint cans for green and pick up the last unused roller. “Find some inspiration?” Mr. Suarez asks. “We’ll see.” I paint without stopping, without noticing the sun going down or the rest of the group packing up the supplies and getting ready to go home. I do not register the numbness in my fingers from the growing evening chill.

“We can come back tomorrow, Marco. It’s getting dark,” Mr. Suarez says.

I take a step back. “It’s okay. I think I’m done.” I drop the paintbrush into the tray and for several moments I just look at the wall, at what I’ve created. It’s not very good, the ratios are screwed up and some of the colors have mixed together, creating ugly brown patches in certain spots.

Mr. Suarez takes a few steps closer, Emilio and Cath and Martin close behind him. “I think it looks great,” he says.

Cath squints. “What even is that?” “It’s a long story.” “I guess it’s kinda cool,” she says. “Boys?” Mr. Suarez says to Emilio and Martin. Martin is quiet for a minute. He folds his arms across his chest and nods. “I get it. I think.”

Emilio says, “You’re weird as hell, dude.” “Alright,” Mr. Suarez says. “Good work today, gang. We can come back tomorrow.” He gestures for me to stay behind as the others walk back toward the bus. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s really good, Marco.” “I don’t know.” “I do.” “It’s not exactly how I wanted it to be.” “That’s not what matters.” “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.” “Just give it a chance, okay?” He looks at me and I know he understands and I realize he is waiting for me to respond. “Okay,” I say.

***** Later, after I get home, I send Natasha a text for the first time in close to four months.

Hey, sis, (sorry, I know you don’t want me to call you that anymore) you left your backpack at the basketball court today. I saw it under the bleachers. Maybe you left it on purpose, or maybe you actually forgot it this time. Either way, you should probably pick it up. Not tonight, though, you shouldn’t go there at night. It can be hard to see. Go tomorrow morning, after the sun’s gone up, okay? You don’t have to respond to this if you don’t want to. Or if you want to, that’d be great, too. Anyway. I guess that’s it. Marco 69 Short Story