Propaganda-

Propaganda. The word stared back at me, upside-down, like a dog that's never seen a cat. I admired my work and then shook the tin spray can again before finishing it off with a "CH" in smaller lettering below the word. "CH", my initials: Cameron Holloway.

It was true. The word. Propaganda, I mean. It was true that it affected enough people to make it worthy of spray painting the side of an overpass on the highway with all ten letters. Plus two more for my initials.

It was summer. How could you blame me for trying to have fun? This 'fun' had been particularly hard. It had taken me all night, tagging the cement upside-down when no cars were near.

I was on the ground now, on the side of the highway, realizing with embarrassment that my 'g' was backwards.

P-R-O-P-A-upside-down G-A-N-D-A.

Like a child had written it.

The engine on her bike was heard before I saw her fly by, skirt flapping in the wind behind her. I only caught a glimpse of her and immediately stereotyped her: Goth.

Sleek, black hair that clutched closely to her shoulders because it was so straight, eyes that looked plastic-blue through her riding goggles, and pale skin, about hue of flaxen crème.

Crème skin. It was a funny thought while it lasted.

It was interrupted, however, by a loud, screaming noise coming from the other side of the overpass. It sounded like brakes that were slammed on because the owner dropped something, such as a cake, in the road behind.

Oh yes, frosting and all, spread out on the cement. I would have laughed, but somehow, the concern on this 'Goth's' face made me hold back.

Her motorcycle was sideways on the road beyond the overpass. The girl, older than I by a few years, had jumped off to see if her cake could be rescued.

I realized how stupid I must have looked, standing there blankly with a spray can under dripping, black letters, watching this poor girl mourn over a cake.

I came to my senses (as dull as they were) to ask the girl if she needed help. Now, I was stupid looking and creepy, standing there like a zombie with a spray can, under dripping, black letters.

She looked at me, her expression telling me that she hadn't seen me yet, and shook her head. She stood up, a perfect opportunity to study her properly under the street light.

Same features as before. Only with almond-shaped gray eyes – so realistically ordinary – strapped-up heels, leather lashings threaded up to her knees, just visible in the slit of her long, black skirt. She had on a simple, plain, black blouse with nothing special about it.

The first thing I that ran through me head was just as stupid as I looked: 'I wonder how she rides a motorcycle in heels?'

This was a stupid night for me.

I stared blankly at this girl after she denied my offer. I looked exactly as I felt: like a stupid, 17-year-old boy who was too caught up in this strange woman to do something.

I dropped my spray can and it rattled as it rolled away from my feet. Not far enough to simply say, 'It rattled as it rolled away'. I would have preferred that one. She glanced at the now solitary spray can and then up at the overpass.

"Your 'g' is backwards," she said bluntly, staring at me with her average, gray eyes.

I looked at the overpass, then the can, and then back at her. "I didn't do that," I said stupidly. I had a feeling she could see through my stupid lie.

She nodded and looked down at her destroyed cake. "Well, no mind crying over spilt milk," she stated, looking just as strange as me, standing in the middle of the highway under an overhang with the word 'propaganda' painted on, backward 'g' and all.

"Cake."

"What?" Strange look.

"Spilt cake."

An awkward silence stunned the air and then the most unexpected phenomena happened: she laughed.

It was a kind, hearty laugh that many girls lacked these days or covered with high-pitched squeaky voices. I prefer hearty laughs. Rattling away's and hearty laughs. My world how I chose it.

"You're not a Goth," I said, accidentally out-loud when I realized it.

"So what am I?" she asked, moving out of the road onto the light brush.

A car roared by, splattering cake across the concrete. The girl glanced at it but quickly looked back at me, ignoring her splattered cake. We heard the soft noise of the car swerving around the motorcycle, past the overpass.

I looked away from her motorcycle back into her ordinary eyes. At first, I stuttered, not knowing the answer.

"I don't know," I said blankly.

"Me either," she replied. "But my name is Fringe."

"Your real name?"

"No."

"What is your real name?"

"It doesn't matter. I go by Fringe."

Her voice didn't seem annoyed or angry. I really couldn't read her emotions with the face she was giving me.

"I go by Cam," I said, again feeling stupid.

"Short for Cameron, I presume?" she asked.

I stood there stunned, not knowing what 'presume' meant so I covered by saying, "It doesn't matter."

Fringe tipped her head. "Do you need a ride somewhere?" she asked, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at the motorcycle lying in the road.

"If its not too much trouble," I said quietly with a shrug.

"No problem. Come on," she said, walking to the black Harley. A scent of rosemary perfume floated from her into my nose. It was heavy and pungent. Likeable. Very likeable.

She mounted her bike. Her hand pat the seat behind her and I obeyed her silent gesture and swung my leg over the leather seat. I blushed heavily when I slid down the seat to the point where the insides of my thighs were hitting her hips.

So close.

She didn't seem to mind. Expecting it maybe? I could do this. I had no idea what to hold onto so when she grabbed my hands and pulled them to her waist... Well, I had never touched a girl like this before. If she saw my face, she would see my heavy blush. Red. All over my face.

So red. I could feel the red. Burning.

"Where to?" she asked. Her voice sounded... savage.

"You know where Saint John's Church is?" I asked.

"No. I though there was only one church around here."

"It's small. What about the Walmart off of 2nd West Street?"

"That dump? Okay..."

I looked down at my dirty jeans when she said this. I knew where I lived wasn't Beverly Hills but it was home.

Fringe kicked on the gas and revved up the bike. She shot off and her hair instantly whipped back into my face. Not ten seconds of speeding later, she spun the bike around and took off in the opposite direction, leaving skid marks in the road.

"Where are we going?" I asked. It was hard to yell. The engine was louder than my voice but I think she heard me.

"You'll see!" She yelled.

Yeah, she heard me.

More words, letters. All flashy, shinning down on me.

"Starbucks?" I asked Fringe who was pulling off her goggles.

"Open 24/7!" she said perkily and pulled me through the door. "Sit," she said, nodding to a table and then rushed off to the counter.

I shifted in my seat, feeling pathetic... and still stupid. The café was empty besides us and the lone barista. Fringe came back a few minutes later, two steaming drinks in her hands and a bag tucked under her arm. The coffee was good, warm. Calming. Fringe sipped on hers slowly. I had never had such good coffee before.

"Propaganda?" she said, pulling a chocolate chip cookie to share.

"What?" I asked.

"Propaganda. Why did you write it?"

"Huh?"

"On the overpass."

"I told you, I didn't paint that."

"Why did you have a spray can, then?"

"Dunno."

"You don't have to lie to me."

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

"You won't tell anyone?"

"Of course not."

"Oh."

She took another sip of her steaming coffee. "You don't have to tell me. It's okay," she said.

"Why did you have a cake with you?" I asked. "How did it fall?"

"It was strapped to the rack on my bike in a pastry box," she said, looking into her black coffee. "The box opened somehow and well... The rest is history." She smiled. Just another small thing I noticed.

"And my first question?" I said, my voice trailing off.

"I was bringing it to my boyfriend. It's his birthday," she said, slightly too abruptly for me.

I shifted uncomfortably. Why would I every think she would like me? Another stupid thing. She has a boyfriend. I guess now I was dreaming that she would kiss me on the cheek and whisper, 'but then I found you' but it didn't happen.

"You should go see him than," I said. "I can walk home."

"It's over seven miles. My boyfriend can wait," she said.

A long pause before:

"Ideas scattered about to support a principle, usually that are fake just to make people believe that something should be a certain way" I said.

"Pardon?" she asked, slightly surprised.

Better than my 'huh?'

"Propaganda."