Artistic License

The water stained cement walls of the ware house put off a dank scent that reminded Liira of the boiler room at her old high school. She leaned back with one foot against the wall and tried push aside memories of youth, but they buoyed to the surface. It seemed like a decade since she'd seen her hiding place in the boiler room at Terravella High, but really it had only been about three years.
She remembered that last time.

It was the end of the first week of her sophomore year, and it had been unbelievably nice out that day, if a bit chilly. Winter came early in those parts. She'd slipped into the boiler room doorway and shoved the door shut behind her, not bothering to be quiet. No one had ever really paid much attention to her, not that she particularly wanted to be notice, she dressed plainly and kept her long wavy blonde hair either in braids or under a bandana, since her baseball cap had be confiscated at the beginning of freshman year. On that particular sunny morning though, she would be noticed. She let down her newly dyed black hair from where she had hidden it under a bandana, letting the printed piece of cloth fall to the boiler room floor at the foot of what she assumed to be a water heater. Liira slid her bag off her of shoulder and swung it around to sit at her feet. She crouched and pulled out a bulging plastic bag and carefully pushed it back towards the door. She then pulled out a bag full of clinking metal cylinders and a notebook and sat to wait until her cell-phone alarm went off.
She mostly sketched, dozed, and read while she waited. She rolled a joint, but decided to save it for after her stint. She thought back on the day that had just transpired and was surprised she'd been able to make it through.
She was already watching her phone clock when it 10pm hit, and she turned off the alarm before it even vibrated. She flipped through her notebook one more time, folded it lengthwise to stick in the back pocket of her baggy non-descript blue jeans, grabbed the cylinder filled bag, and headed for the door.
"Alright Lilith," Liira murmured, half prayer to the obscure goddess, half to break the silence. "It's night, and I'm flying, don't let me get caught." She dropped the bag and pulled the cap off of the fir spray paint bottle. "Yet." she added as she looked at her notebook one more time before shaking the bottle to get started.
Seven hours later she'd finished the rough outlines and most of the base coloring and spent a few hours filling in details before heading back to her hideout. She grabbed her bag and headed for the teachers lounge. The door wasn't locked, so she let herself in and used the microwave to start some popcorn. After rifling through shelves, cabinets, and a full sized fridge she dumped her findings on the table. A peanut butter sandwich triangle, instant coffee, a pack of Camel Lights, and a package and a half of store-brand Oreo’s.
Just as she finished eating, her phone vibrated at her hip. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced at it. Then lit a cigarette, "Mom," it blinked at her as she lifted it to press "ignore call". She turned her phone off. She'd spend this weekend alone with her art. The next two days were spent creating murals and messages. The gym was colored with athletes both famous and local as well scenes of past dances and rally’s Liira had gleaned from old yearbooks. The hallway of the first floor was colored with depictions of major world events, soldiers, draft lotteries, wars, conferences, marches and protests. The second level with symbols and scenes of major religions as well as minor and obscure ones, a vast variety of cultural symbols and a myriad of races represented among them. The bathrooms were painted with scenes of prom kings and queens, of couples also taken from old year books and scenes class skipping antics that were relived every year for generations. The gym locker rooms sported similar murals of the boy whose named she couldn't place who'd killed himself years before after being bullied for being gay. The third floor of the school was the floor or dreams. Of current and past students finding places in the future, in the military, business, in activism, in trades. Here were painted books and concerts and art galleries, New York and San Francisco, London and Paris, even and astronaut on the moon.
Mid-afternoon on Sunday she'd finished not only most of the food, but the painting as well. Liira returned to her boiler room, where she'd rested in between caffeine highs, and slept soundly on the cold concrete floor.
Monday's morning bell jolted Liira awake. She dug into her spare bag of clothes and emerged from her hiding spot as kids started to filter in, speaking in hushed voices and staring awe at the work around them and at the girl in black boots, dark jeans and black shirt with she sleeves cut of, her paint splatter hands, face and arms revealing her as the artist. Or culprit. She ran.

"Are you Liira McShane?" A voice pulled her from reverie. She nodded, searching for her voice. The tall man who approached her remained her of a California Surfer boy in a Boston business suit. His broad features and blue eyes smiled at her. "Thanks for coming down, I'm John Ferranti. We spoke on the phone." She finally found her voice, "Yes, I recognize your voice, how are you?"
"Fine now that we're both here, I'm really looking forward to getting this dump resurrected. Would you like to see some of the plans I drew up? Of course the mural will be your design, but I've mapped out some concepts I'd like you to work with."
"Of course."
"Great let's get started, this warehouse is going to look great when your done with it, your portfolio was just astounding."
As Liira listened to Johns droning about artistic license and whatnot, her thoughts drifted once more to her school. She wondered if any of her work there was still on the walls. She'd never bothered to go back, as a matter of fact, she'd left town entirely that night, hitching a ride from a truck stop and heading southbound on the freeway. She'd never even looked back. "Maybe," she said to herself after John had left, leaving his sketched plans in her hands. "Maybe there is a time to look back..."