LITMIR.BIZ

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      I stopped confessing my graffiti to Father Dom. He knows I’m not sorry. I’m sorry for sneaking out on Dad and lying, and for stealing cans of spray paint, and for the stupid tags I used to leave on people’s garages.

      The only time I’ve seen Father Dominic get mad, like spitting-when-he-talked angry, was the day I confessed that I’d tagged a garage the night before. Turned out, the garage belonged to one of the congregation. The old guy had come to Father Dom in tears about the vandalism on his freshly painted garage door. I promised him I was done tagging people’s property. And I meant it.

      I don’t want to be just another tagger, laying scribbles down anywhere, like a dog pissing. I want to take what I do with cans of spray paint to a different level. But I don’t have anyone to guide me. I’m self-taught. Other than Lincoln, I don’t know any graff writers, at least not by face. I know the handles of the guys with serious talent, kings who are all-city and put up pieces that run for weeks, even months, in heaven spots; the best, most noticed spots that can’t be cleaned away. But graff writers move like shadows, disappearing when daylight hits.

      We settle into silence until Father Dom clears his throat. “Big match tonight. Wisla Krakow is playing Cracovia.”

      Father Dom has been trying to lure me into loving his soccer team, Wisla Krakow, since I was a little boy. He bribed me with their red soccer jersey for Christmas one year. I wore it non-stop for a few months. He thought he’d converted me, but I just liked the colour, and that it wasn’t second hand.

      “Your dad might come over and watch. You could join us.”

      I give a noncommittal shrug.

      “Something bothering you?” A group of ladies shuffle past us, nodding at Father Dom, who puts his hands together and bows to them.

      I finger the frayed cuff on my hoodie. “Kinda.” He waits for me to say more. I look around the church; everyone is lost in the solitude of their prayers. “Lincoln’s brother wants him to join the Red Bloodz.” Sunlight shines through the stained-glass window above the altar. Suddenly, the room glows with colour.

      He lets out a long sigh and sits back, resting his hands on his stomach. “I hope it’s an easy decision for him.”

      I shrug, wishing the same.

      “I’ve seen a lot of boys follow this path, Jakub.” He draws his bushy eyebrows together and frowns. “They end up in prison, or dead.”

      He isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know.

      Lincoln

      Henry sidles over to me when Koob leaves. “Where’d your friend go?” he asks.

      I glance at him. The dagger tattoo stabs me in the face, it’s so close. “Church.”

      Henry laughs. “You shitting me?”

      I shake my head.

      “Church,” he mumbles, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Why’re you friends with him, anyway?”

      You’d know if you hadn’t been in jail for a year and a half, I think.

      Henry doesn’t wait long to hear my answer. “You’re gonna have to pick sides, you know. At some point. Guys like him and you don’t stay tight.”

      Henry doesn’t know shit. Me and Koob are like brothers, course we’re gonna stay tight. Henry points to his crew by the fountain. “You see them? They get it. They know what it’s like to grow up around here. To survive.”

      “Koob grew up here,” I tell him.

      Henry flicks the brim of my hat. “I know why you wear that hat. You’re hiding. That’s what it’s like to be us. You think your white friend has to hide? ” He gives a chin nod to the guys. “They get it, little brother. We get it. The Polish kid, he’ll never get it. The system was made for him.”

      What system? I don’t get a chance to ask because a low-rider blasting rap music stops beside the park. It’s Rat. Hanging one elbow out the window, he lays on the horn. Henry laughs and gives him the finger. “C’mon, you can ride with me. Those guys are on their own.” He nods his head at the guys by the fountain. I catch Jonny staring at me. His boney face twists with jealousy.

      So I walk out of the park with him, like he’s the king and I’m the prince. Rat raises an eyebrow when I get in the back seat, but doesn’t say anything.

      Henry slides his hand over the dash of the car and whistles. “You do good work, man,” he tells Rat.

      “Wait till you see the engine. V8, 220 horsepower.” They talk about cars in a language I don’t understand, so I tune them out. It’s nice being in a car and not walking. The tinted windows keep it cool. I take my hat off and let the a/c swirl around my head. Feels good.

      We turn the corner, and the piece Koob did last night jumps out at me. It’s a sweet piece. I lean forward to point it out to Henry and then stop myself. He’s got no love for Koob. Seeing his graff writer name splashed up on a building isn’t going to impress him.

      Henry twists around in his seat. “School starts today,” he says.

      I shake my head. “Next week.”

      “Not for you.” Rat pulls into a small parking lot on Mountain Ave. “Al’s Automotive Repair” is written in faded blue letters across the front of the building. There are a couple of beaters and some rusted-out car parts along the side of the building. “Wait here,” Rat says and goes to open the building. Henry and I stand in the lot. The ground is covered in crushed rock. I kick at it with my toe and a cloud of dust rises up, making my shoes all chalky, hiding the drips of spray paint. There’s spilled oil stains in a few spots. Big, dark splotches that look like dried blood.

      Rat rolls the garage door up, sheet metal clinking on the rail. Inside, there’s a car on the hoist. Half the engine is on the garage floor. Tools and shelves filled with chemicals line the walls, and a layer of grime coats the metal chairs that Rat scrapes across the floor to us.

      “This is where the magic happens.” Rat taps a smoke on the back of the package. He lets it dangle from his mouth as he cups his hand and holds the lighter up to it.

      “What magic?” I ask.

      Rat gives a crooked smile. A trail of smoke floats out between his lips. He looks to Henry.

      “After a car gets lifted, we bring it back here to the chop shop. Rat switches out the plates.”

      Rat turns his head and horks up a wad of phlegm. He spits it on the ground, but when he grins at me, a string of saliva stretches from his yellow teeth to his scruffy chin. He wipes it away on his sleeve and I almost puke in my mouth.

      “Come on. You’re gonna practise.” Rat takes a putty knife and a long rod off its hook on the wall and we walk back outside to a blue car with a rusted-out body and smashed-in tail lights.

      “You look like you’re gonna wuss out on me.” Henry narrows his eyes.

      I shrug like I’m totally cool with it. “I’ve never boosted a car before, that’s all.”

      Henry shakes his head, disappointed. “By the time I was your age, I was stealing three or four a week.”

      “Till you got caught,” I mutter, too low for him to hear.

      Rat jimmies the putty knife between the door and car and then slips the rod in. In five seconds, he’s pressed the unlock button and he’s sitting in the driver’s seat. “Hot wiring’s a bit trickier. Everyone’s getting these immobilizers now.” He frowns. “Older cars you can do the old-fashioned way.” I climb in the passenger side to watch. “You gotta break the steering lock to get at the switch. Once you do that, connect the wires and …” The engine sputters to life.

      “You try.” Rat and I get out and he locks the car. It takes me a few

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