Read If for Free Online Page B

Then I started to spray. Red. Blue. Green. Spray paint swarmed the dull brown of the box that once housed someone’s Home Depot shipment.
    As I tried to focus on small details—the tweaker’s rotten teeth, the tear trickling down the girl’s face—my hand began to tremble. I gripped it angrily to still it, but the tremor remained and I threw the can down at the cardboard.
    I couldn’t get what I wanted on those pieces of cardboard. I was too afraid to get lost in the art. I couldn’t get off the meds that caused the random tremors. I was tense. I would not—could not—let inspiration take hold.
    I never had to try to paint. I was considered a prodigy when, at age seven, I was already creating stuff better than most adults. I could see things in my head and then my hand and eyes just knew how to manipulate the pencil or the paint to make it real.
    What made me unique at a young age was not just my ability to copy something I had seen, but to interpret things, make stylistic choices. It wasn’t until my mother noticed I was saying some weird shit like: “Sarah’s voice looks like fireworks,” or “Miller’s making my fingers cold,” did she get me evaluated. It turns out, not only did I have an ability to paint the world, but I flat out sensed things differently than everyone else. One thing fed into the other, providing an infinite well of creativity.
    Of course I had lessons and training, but my true abilities came from within, a frenzied hysteria of color, sight, sound, touch, taste. Anything worthwhile had to happen from complete openness. That meant no tamping down of emotions, and no stifling meds.
    So after a few hours, I kicked at the colorful flattened cardboard, frustrated and defeated. Maybe others would be pleased with the images on the cardboard, but all I saw was shit. Shit. Shit.
    I packed my cans of paint and headed downstairs. I guessed I would head back to Skid for a while. It’s the place where you don’t have to worry about getting ticketed for vagrancy. Enough time had passed that the girl would have gone on with her daily life and we wouldn’t have to go through the whole awkward thank you process. Maybe she wouldn’t even recognize me during the day. That would be ideal.
    I had been walking for a few minutes when I heard someone call out. “Hey!”
    I kept walking. I didn’t know anyone. None of my business. “Hey!”
    Shit. I saw the distinct tone and shape of the voice. Yes, sometimes certain sounds looked the same, but this was distinctly hers. I had admired it for way too long to not have recognized it.
    “Hey—you!” I tucked my head down and picked up my pace, hoping that I’d be forgotten.

    BIRD
    “Simmons, Fonteneau, Ortega, Swan, Falco. Everyone else, thank you. That will be all for today.”
    Another rejection, another day in the life of Annalise Robin Campbell, also known as Bird or Birdie. The sting never dulled, but I wouldn’t let it stop me. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, so I couldn’t be mad about it being hard. At least that’s what I recited to myself. The truth was, the thing I loved was becoming a source of pain for me. It used to be my escape. I could dance and forget about the ways in which I was different. But after a year and a half in LA, dance was becoming a way to shine a spotlight on that flaw. I just needed a friggin’ break, one break to remind me of what it was like to feel joy when I danced instead of pressure or disappointment.
    I pulled on my arm warmers, slipped my messenger bag over my shoulder and headed out the door of the Downtown LA auditorium that was just walking distance from my home. It was early afternoon and I was starving. I scanned the street for any cheap, good places to grab a meal, and then I saw him.
    It was like an omen. Two failed auditions already this week, and I had also still been unsuccessful in finding the guy. In fact, I was considering taking up Trevor’s offer to do the piece and the related investigative