I don't own iCarly
"I can't believe you talked me into doing this." Freddie mumbled, tossing his backpack down and digging around for the spray paint.
"Oh, don't be such a baby." Sam teased, poking the edge of his shoe with her bare toes. Freddie laughed and shook his head.
"I'm not. I honestly am amazed that you convinced me to come graffiting with you. It's a little strange that you invited me in the first place, though, don't you think?" he asked, looking up at her. She raised her eyebrows and shifted her weight to her other bare foot.
"Just give me the paint, nub." she laughed, reaching towards the backpack. Freddie brought the two spray cans out, then looked to her.
"Red or blue?" he asked.
"What do you think?"
"Sorry. Dumb question." Freddie chuckled, handing Sam the red spray can and shaking the blue one up near his ear. Sam examined the brick wall in front of them and then checked the clock on her phone.
"Okay. Knock yourself out, Benson. If we're not already gone in ten minutes, I want to get out of here, okay?" she asked, pulling the top of the can and standing back from the wall, writing something in the air with her finger.
"Got it." Freddie nodded, already at work on the other far end of the wall.
To the two teens, the can was not a can. It was an extension of their arm. An extension of their mind. The can was their voice and the wall was their microphone. They marveled at the power to created intricate patterns, twists, and curves with the flick of a wrist. I could say that painting made their troubles fade, but I won't because for one thing, that sounds terribly cliche, and two, it's not true. Their troubles don't just fall away as soon as they shake up the can. But their troubles are expressed. On a wall for everyone to see. They shared their troubles with the world, and this was better than any over-paid, middle aged psychologist could do.
Unfortunately, graffiti, or whatever you want to call it, is not entirely legal (it should be) and most crotchety old citizens would be happy to turn in a couple of rebellious, artistic teenagers who were trying to express themselves.
Freddie heard the sirens first.
"Oh shit." he whispered, and his partner in crime froze, her hand holding the can, poised at the end of a particularly detailed red flourish. Her eyes widened when she saw the red and blue flashing lights approaching.
"Drop the cans and run!" she screamed, chucking the red can over her head and bolting down the ally, then turning right, squeezing through the two foot path between the chain link fence and the back of the apartment complex. Freddie dropped the can, grabbed his backpack, and sprinted after the blonde streak that was scaling fences and trampling through the backyards of strangers at a world record pace, both of them laughing the whole way home.
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