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3
E L L A
The marine layer hung over the city, cutting the bright power of the sun.
The forecast had promised clear skies by seven o’clock, but the forecast
had clearly lied.
“They’re gonna start on time. Promise you that.” Amilcar took the
binoculars from his brown eyes and squinted at the sky. The sides of his
head were shaved, and a cluster of short dreadlocks stuck up from the top.
My watch said it was three minutes to seven thirty in the morning, the
legal start time for any construction in Los Angeles. We were on a rooftop
with dozens of other gawkers. A lot of people had showed up to see the
destruction of this particular little house in Westlake that sat between
apartment buildings. The crowd lined the sawhorses protecting the property,
all called by a Twitter account owned by the Guerilla Arts Collective. By
design, no one knew who was in the GAC, because what they created
involved a host of illegal activities. Trespassing. Vandalism. Maybe a little
theft if you wanted to get technical.
“NPR just retweeted,” Tasha said. She was sixteen, in tight braids with
beads on the ends, and her brother Amilcar’s legal ward. He didn’t let her
contribute to the piece when, late at night, we broke in and worked on it.
She did the social media in secret, keeping her hands clean so she could go
to college.
“It’s not going to work without the sun.” I held out my hand for the
binoculars and Amilcar handed them over.
“It’s gonna work, Fance,” he said, using his nickname for me as if he
was making a threat. It was short for Fancy, my terrible tag name from back
in our graffiti days.