We sat on the top of our bus shelter watching the world go by. The sun was just setting, and the footpaths were busy with slapping feet. The litter swirled in the gutters and the plastic covering the windows of a smashed up shop flapped in the chilly wind.
“So, what are we gonna do tonight?”
I flipped up the hood of my long, grey hoodie and tucked my knees into my chest. Staring at my scuffed high tops I replied to my boyfriend’s question. “Drain, maybe… Got your paint?”
“Yeah,” Chaz answered, squinting into his stained backpack. In unspoken agreement, we jumped off the bus shelter onto the grimy pavement and grabbed our bikes. Strands of my long black hair escaped my hood and curled around my face as my hood slipped off. The wind whooshed past as I dodged between pedestrians, bunny hopping and popping a wheelie when I had space. Chaz was right behind, grinning, his brown hair slicked back by the breeze. I didn’t hesitate to cut through deserted side streets and alleys; I knew the way. The grey shadows stretched longer in the twilight, and my heart pounded in anticipation of the night ahead. I had been hanging with Chaz every night since age ten, but it never got old. Whether we were just sitting on the bus shelter or mucking around on the bikes, we always found a way to make every night different. Now we were fourteen, we had added many different activities to our nightly schedule. Graffiti and shop lifting were daily pastimes where we lived, and it wasn’t hard to get into it. The adrenaline pulsing through you when you sprayed your tag on a wall, or slipped an invaluable item from the newsagents into your hoodie, was irreplaceable.
Backpacks bouncing, we hopped onto park benches and down stairs, twisting and jumping with a practiced confidence. Finally we reached the drain, and dropped our BMXs, panting.
“Beat you by a mile.” I teased, winking at Chaz.
“No chance babe, no chance,” He replied smiling. He slid his backpack off and balanced it on the seat of his rusty bike, pulling out two cans of spray paint. He chucked me the red one, and I turned swiftly to survey the walls. Weaving colours, telling stories of challenge and determination, rule breaking and defiance. I picked out my own story through the mass; cold nights with my best friend, breaking rules because there was nothing else to do. Stepping forward, I raised my arm to add a new chapter, as I heard the hiss of Chaz doing the same on the wall behind. When I was finished, I strode back to admire my work. The bright, dripping red was my symbol of rebellion, and I was proud.
“Right, moving on?” Chaz’s voice echoed in the large drain.
“Never gets old does it?” I answered as we picked up our bikes. Chaz nodded his agreement thoughtfully, and we set off again. We had no real path this time, just riding wherever we felt like, enjoying the wind in our faces. Somehow we made it back to our Chaz’s house, and sat out on the balcony. We just sat looking at the stars for I don’t know how long, but time didn’t matter because I was with Chaz. His scarred hand found mine in the dark and I turned to look into his eyes. A teasing smile spread across his face and he leant forward to kiss me cheekily.
Most would not agree that a dirty veranda above a rowdy council estate could be romantic, but I tell you from personal experience, it can.
