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"Dallas," I hissed. The sun had hit its pinnacle and shone brightly over us, swirling hues of magnificent colors painted overhead. With Dallas leaned against the jet black car that wasn't his, wisps of unkempt hair pointed in every which direction and his sharp teeth poking through his smile, he was as reckless as could be. My heart pounded and my forehead dripped with rivulets, eyes continuing to dart towards the house in hopes that nobody would exit and end up calling the police. It was quite obvious that people like me and Dallas were anomalies in such a pristine neighborhood.
"Ever lived a little, Holls?" He asked, flicking his tongue and rustling around in the bag. I placed my hands on my hips and shifted my weight from one foot to another.
"Bold words for somebody who's spent a good portion of their life in jail." I cocked a brow. Dallas's head shot up and I expected a baleful glare but unexpectedly he emitted a howl of laughter. I furrowed my brow and shushed him, rushing over in a haste.
"Fair play sweetheart." He licked his plump lip and grasped a can of bright green spray paint. "Now let's see what you can do with this thing, huh?"
"We're doing this quick and then bolting the hell out of here. I'm not going to jail tonight." Dallas flicked open his switchblade and crouched, beginning to dig the end of the untouched blade into the paint job.
He nodded his head and muttered a quick, "I got it." I glanced once more at the party home and observed the figures moving through the shadows of the window curtains. I shook the bottle vigorously and placed my finger on the knob, before realizing I hadn't a clue what I wanted to write.
"Dallas, what should I write?" I squinted and hung the bottle by my side. Dallas peeked his head over the roof of the car and grinned childishly
"A penis?" He suggested.
I creased my brow and waved him off. "No, you idiot. This isn't fifth grade. I want something that'll hit home, you know? Really want him to know how I felt."
Dallas snickered and pushed his hair back, crouching down into a kneeling position. The screeching of the blade against the paint continued. "You want him to cry write a goddamn poem. The point is to hurt the car, not his feelings."
I rolled my eyes and frowned, twisting my jaw as I gave the bottle one last shake. With an outstretched arm and steady hand, I pressed down on the knob and the paint went spurting onto the car. The contrasting colors were vivid, a bright neon green against the jet black cover. Dallas's screeching stopped and a loud pop joggled the car.
