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playground and sink into a couple of swings, sucking back our smoothies and enjoying the sun on our necks.
    “So, you hear from Felix?”
    The little hairs on my arms raise up. I am mid-sip and have to fight not to choke on the mouthful of berry slush that suddenly tastes like bile.
    “No,” I lie. “I doubt he’ll call again.”
    “Huh,” says Marissa, watching me out of the corner of her eye as she swings gently back and forth. “Wouldn’t have figured that.”
    I don’t particularly want to lie to Marissa. I just don’t want to talk about Felix.
    “Didja know his name means ‘lucky’?” Marissa asks.
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “Uh-huh. Latin, I think. You know, same root word as feliz .” She chucks her empty cup in the general direction of a trash can and starts swinging higher.
    She is doing it on purpose. Baiting me. Rooting around, seeing if she can get a response. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but she knows me well enough to be pretty damn sure there’s something.
    “What does Sal mean?”
    “ Sal means ‘asshole’!” Marissa yells from the very top of her swinging arc. Marissa never misses a beat.
    A couple of middle-aged, I’ve-given-up-on-myself moms start giving us the stink eye, letting us know that the swings are intended for their slimy little offspring, not for foul-mouthed teenagers. My god, how they can even stand to live in their skins I will never understand. I mean, I know my mother is the exception, not the rule, but come on .
    I can tell that Marissa isn’t about to give up her swing to the brats, but I stand up. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go check out the waves.”
    ***
    Not much is happening in the water. The sets are small, one to two feet; every now and then a wave comes in about thigh-high. The lines are mostly walled, nothing to ride.
    That’s fine with me. I haven’t felt much like surfing lately.
    I ditch my empty cup in a trash barrel near the biggest art wall. Today is Monday, so no one is painting. I glance over what was painted yesterday—mostly shit, in my opinion. The typical stuff—big letters, heavy shading.
    I kind of hate the Venice Art Walls. I shouldn’t; I get the point of them—to give people a legal place to make their mark.
    But the rules! Ugh.
    The short list:
     
Painting on the Walls permitted only on the weekend.
If you’re caught painting Monday through Friday, LAPD will slap your ass with a ticket, minimum.
If you’re under eighteen years old, no spray paint. Period. Brushes and rollers only.
You need a permit to paint.
You must wear said permit at all times while painting.
You must obtain said permit ahead of time, either in person or online.
Only three artists at a time can work on the Large Walls.
Sketches for the Large Walls must be submitted and approved before they can be painted.
Break any of the rules and LAPD will be waiting.
All artwork must be completed before sunset. No painting at night. (People only want art made in the bright, healthy California sunshine, I guess.)
No “Restricted Content” on any of the Walls.
    What exactly is “Restricted Content?” Basically anything they want it to be. Profanity, of course, and “gratuitous” violence, anything “too” sexy, anything about drugs or gangs or anything else they decide to deem “graphic” or “obscene.” No definitions on the website for the words graphic or obscene , of course. Nice and vague.
    So it’s a forum for public art, as long as you play by the rules.
    Bullshit.
    Marissa knows better than to comment on anything she sees on one of the Venice Art Walls unless she wants to get an earful from me. But today she doesn’t seem to feel like yanking my chain; she looks preoccupied.
    “Everything okay?” I ask.
    “Mm-hmm,” she says and smiles at me. Takes my hand.
    Her fingers feel warm and strong as they entwine with mine. Her hands aren’t stained and cut up; they are clean, her nails even, her skin soft. We walk up the beach a ways like