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I don’t bother with a towel as I walk out of the bathroom. No one can seeme.

No one ever sees me.

It’s notthe alarm clock that wakes me up. It’s the buzzing of my phone telling me I have an incoming message.

From Willy. A picture of his hand wrapped around his sizable penis and the words,wish it were you.

Rolling my eyes, I check the time and choke on my tongue.9:30. Shit.

After running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I fly down the stairs and out into the way-too-bright morning light. Breaking out into a jog, I dodge dog walkers and kids on skateboards.

The subway platform is packed. I squeeze through the crowd right as the train doors close. Of course, my messenger bag gets caught and nearly takes my head off. After yanking it free, I stumble deeper into the car as the train takes off.

My job isn’t the most glorious one in the world, but it pays the bills. Working as the receptionist/assistant at a small, independent art gallery satisfies my urge for creativity when I can’t be out on the streets, tagging buildings and making bold statements. Statements that have elitists clutching their pearls and crying for retribution.

As the train lurches along, I end up wedged between a group of college students heading to class at Ashford University. One couple catches my attention.

The guy, with his perfectly coiffed hair and designer clothes, gestures wildly to his girlfriend. “I’m telling you, babe. That graffiti is ruining the aesthetic of the whole neighborhood. It’s a total eyesore.”

The girlfriend, equally put together in her sundress, flats, and oversized sunglasses, shakes her head. “I don’t know, Louie. I think there’s something kind of…powerful about it. That flaming stack of dollar bills is a statement against the 1 percent.”

I scratch my nose to hide my smirk. If only they knew that the artist is standing right beside them with his messenger bag on the floor, pressed against the guy’s Gucci loafers.

Louie, the boyfriend, scoffs. “Statement? It’s vandalism, plain and simple. And it’s not just a building here or there. I heard it’s all over the Upper East Side.”

My smirk widens into a full-blown grin that I no longer bother to hide. My parents’ world has always been nothing more than one of privilege and excess. A place where art is a commodity to be bought and sold, not revered, and never appreciated.

They think they own their culture and can trade it like stock options. It’s satisfying being able to shake things up. Watching them gape in horror while trying to make sense of something that isn’t up for auction is better than anything I could ever come up with.

It’s almost too easy to get under their skin, my graffiti forcing its way into their carefully curated spaces. My grin stretches even wider as the guy decries that his precious world is under attack.

The girlfriend leans in conspiratorially. “I heard a rumor—not sure how true it is—that the artist is the black sheep of a wealthy family. A real rebelwitha cause.”

Louie rolls his eyes. “A rebel with a cause? Try a toddler throwing a tantrum to get his mommy’s and daddy’s attention.”

The hand not currently gripping the metal pole clenches. What he said hits way too close to home. As much as I want to tell myself that I’m doing it only to make a point, I am also doing it for the attention. Granted, I don’t leave my name on any of my artwork, so is it really going to attract my parents’ ire if they have no idea it’s me?

I’ve put up with a lot of shit over the years from them, but they’re still my parents. They’re supposed to be the two people who’ll love me unconditionally, who I can go to when I need a shoulder to cry on. But they’re as emotionless as robots. All they care about is how much money they can make, who they can rubelbows with to climb that social ladder up to the heavens. They have no space in their heart or minds for their son.

And it fucking sucks.

The train screeches to a halt, jostling me forward. I slam into Louie’s back. He turns, ready to unleash his annoyance, but something in my expression must give him pause. He swallows the remark on the tip of his tongue and quickly averts his gaze down to my messenger bag at his feet. “I think you dropped this, bud.”

He picks up the bag and hands it over to me. Our fingers touch as I take it from him, but it gives me no pleasure.

With a curt nod, I shoulder my way onto the platform, hustle up the stairs, and make my way to Washington Street.

The gallery’s front window displays gaudy sculptures and paintings from past exhibits. Inside, it’s more of the same. I find my boss moving some of the stuff to the sides to make space for more folding chairs. A podium sits atop a small stage at the back of the room.

“Harrison!” She waves me over. “What do you think? Does the place scream ‘poetry slam’ yet?”

“It’s an art gallery, Danielle. If you want a real poetry slam, find a library.”

She scowls. “Hey! You know I’d much rather have another exhibit. However, this place is barely scraping by, and the organizer was offering a good amount of money to host. Would you rather be out of a job?”

“Of course not. It’s just…”

She sighs and adjusts the cat-eye glasses on her face. “I know. But what can we do? I’m not made of money.”