Zee's Way

by Kristen Butcher

  We knew the fun couldn’t last though. In fact, it only took one day for Jackman to kick the other guys out of his store too. So they egged his windows. That’s when the cops started patrolling the shopping center on an hourly basis, and since we were what they were looking for, we stayed away.

  “Loser!” Mike shook his fist at Jackman’s Market from the safety of the oak tree. “You’re a freakin’ moron, Jackman! We got rights, you know!”

  “What gave you that idea?” Horace said sarcastically.

  “You know what I mean,” Mike scowled, smacking the studs of his leather wristband against the tree.

  “Mike’s right,” Danny said. “We’re being persecuted! And it’s not fair. It’s not right. It’s against the law!”

  Horace frowned. “Well, there’s no use cryin’ about it. We need to do something.” Then he nodded toward the street.

  We all turned just as a police car drove past real slow. The cops inside looked us over but kept driving. We glared back. That’s all. We didn’t want them to stop.

  After the cruiser turned the corner, Horace pushed himself away from the tree. “The way I see it, we got two choices. We can try to find someplace else to hang out—”

  “There is no place else,” Benny cut in.

  Horace frowned. “I wasn’t finished.”

  “Sorry,” Benny apologized.

  “As I was saying—we can find someplace else to hang out, or—” Horace paused, and when he started talking again he was smiling, “—or we can convince the store owners to change their minds.”

  In other words, we could step up the war. Until the merchants agreed to let us into their stores and treat us like human beings, we were going to do everything we could to make their lives miserable.

  That’s why I dug the spray paint out from under my bed. I still wasn’t thrilled about painting the wall, but what could I do? The guys were counting on me.

  On my first graffiti expedition, I’d had surprise on my side. But that wasn’t the case anymore. For all I knew, the merchants were waiting for me to strike again. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Old Man Feniuk had sold me the paint. I could be walking into a trap!

  I took a couple of deep breaths. There was no sense getting paranoid. But with cop cars crawling all over the place, I’d have to be extra careful.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  My stomach jumped. It still hadn’t landed when the bedroom door opened, and my dad walked in. I’d been about to stuff the last two cans of spray paint into my backpack, but I quickly changed my mind and set them on the drawing table instead. With a little luck my dad wouldn’t notice.

  “Thanks for the privacy,” I complained.

  My dad looked offended. “What are you talking about? I knocked.”

  I glared at him. “What’s the point if you walk in right after? I could’ve been naked or something.”

  He started to snicker. For some reason he found that funny.

  I didn’t.

  “What do you want?” I growled.

  His smile turned to a frown. “What is it with you? You’re always so damn defensive. I came to tell you I picked up a shift tonight. Wilcox is sick, so I’m taking his route. You’ll be on your own. If you have to get hold of me, call the dispatch. The number’s by the phone.”

  I nodded. I knew the drill. It wasn’t the first time my dad had worked nights. He had a regular bus route during the day, but he was always willing to take on another shift. Especially since Mom left.

  “What are your plans?” he said.

  I shrugged. “Dunno. I don’t really have any. Maybe I’ll do some painting.”

  That was the truth, more or less, but the second the words left my mouth, I knew they were a mistake. My dad glanced at the drawing table and saw the spray cans. His eyes narrowed.

  “What’re you going to do with those?”

  “These?” I picked up one of the cans. “I’m trying a new technique I saw in an art book. It’s kind of like airbrushing, but you do it with spray paint.” I figured that was a pretty safe answer since my dad knows absolutely nothing about art.

  “Oh yeah?” he said. “The only thing I’ve ever seen spray paint used for is graffiti.”

  It felt like someone had broken my knees. Did my father suspect what I was going to do? I looked away to hide my guilt.

  But he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice. “That damn stuff is everywhere,” he began to rant. “Park benches, tunnels, Dumpsters, overpasses, even mailboxes! I see it all day long. It’s a bloody eyesore! As fast as you paint over it, it’s back again. You can’t even tell what it’s supposed to say. Obviously it doesn’t take a whole lot of brains or talent.” He threw up his hands. “You had to get me started, didn’t you!” Then, muttering under his breath, he stormed off down the hall.

  Chapter Four

  That’s how most conversations with my dad go—one of us ends up yelling and walking away. And no matter who it is, I’m always left feeling like someone dumped a beaker of acid in my gut.

  This time the thing that set my stomach churning was the crack about graffiti artists having no talent or brains. If my dad felt that way, it was a safe bet other people did too. And though I knew that shouldn’t matter, it did. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was stupid.

  I picked the paintbrushes up off the table. I didn’t want them thinking I had no talent, either.

  The next morning the guys gathered around the oak tree to check out my work.

  “That’s way cool, man!” Benny grinned at me and then at the wall of Feniuk’s Hardware.

  “No kidding!” Danny agreed. “It looks like a real door. I bet if we keep watching, someone will try to open it.”

  Everybody laughed.

  I didn’t say anything, but inside I was smiling. The door I’d painted on the wall did look almost real—from across the street anyway. It was the right height, it had a jamb and a sill, and the glass in the window looked like it was reflecting sunlight. I’d like to hear my dad say that didn’t take talent.

  But, of course, he was never going to see it. Today was his day off, and after working a double shift, he wouldn’t be out of bed until sometime in the afternoon. By then it would be too late. The door would be gone.

  As if on cue, Feniuk banged his way out of the hardware store with his painting supplies. One of his employees trailed behind with the ladder. You could tell the guy was volunteering to do the painting, but Feniuk waved him away.

  When the clerk had gone back inside, the old man stared at the wall for a couple of minutes. I guess he was trying to figure out where to begin because—except for the door—it was one big tangle of graffiti.

  He finally headed for the end farthest from the Dumpster and started painting. Little by little the graffiti disappeared as he worked his way toward the middle. When he got to the door, he moved to the other end of the wall and began painting his way back again. Then, pulling a hand-kerchief out of his pocket, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped back to look at his work.

  The only thing left to do was the door.

  As Feniuk loaded the roller with paint, I felt my body stiffen. I glanced down at my hands. They were fists. I unclenched them, but ten seconds later they were tight balls again.

  Feniuk was going to paint the door. It wasn’t like I hadn’t known it was going to happen. So why was I letting it bug me?

  Because that door was art—maybe not a Rembrandt or a van Gogh, but it was still art. My art—and I didn’t want it destroyed. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t do that either.

  Feniuk raised the roller to the top of the door and touched up a spot on the concrete block just above it. Then he walked the length of the wall, looking for other places he’d missed. Finally he returned to the door, picked up his paint supplies and headed into the hardware store. A couple of minutes later the clerk came out to collect the ladder.

  Instantly Horace and the other guys started whooping and hollering and givin
g each other high fives. They seemed to think we’d scored some kind of major victory.

  Maybe we had, but that wasn’t how it felt to me.

  I couldn’t stop staring at the wall. The graffiti was gone, but the door was still there. Considering I hadn’t wanted it destroyed, I should have been relieved. But the truth is, I felt worse than ever.

  And that’s because I’d just been robbed. The door, the jamb, the sill, the reflected sunlight, even the Closed sign that I’d painted in the window—they were all still there, but they didn’t belong to me anymore. Feniuk had stolen them. He’d painted over the graffiti because he didn’t want it. But he’d kept the door. Why?

  And how was I going to get it back?

  The way I figured it, no one would expect me to paint graffiti two nights in a row. So that’s exactly what I was going to do.

  I got to the hardware store around 1 a.m. and immediately started pulling spray cans from my pack. They felt pretty light, but there’d been no time to get more paint. Anyway, if I’d tried to buy some, Feniuk might have gotten suspicious. I was just going to have to make do with what I had.

  I worked fast, draining every drop from the cans. When the last one was dead, I chucked it into the Dumpster and headed for the door. Digging a charcoal stick out of my pack, I sketched in the changes I wanted. Then I cocked my head to one side and squinted, trying to visualize the way it would look when it was finished.

  Dumping brushes and tubes of acrylic onto the pavement, I got right to work. It was just a matter of painting some new things over some old ones. I’d already planned it out, so it came together pretty quickly. Closed sign gone, replaced by a big hole in the window. Glass shards lying on the ground nearby. Soccer ball sitting beside them.

  I took a step back to study the finished product. Perfect! It said everything. The way the door looked now, there was no way Feniuk would leave it on his wall. He’d be out with his roller as soon as the sun came up. That was what I wanted, but at the same time it was a depressing thought. I stared at the door some more, trying to paint it into my memory in case I never saw it again.

  From the corner of my eye I caught the glare of headlights at the other end of the block. I dove behind the Dumpster. Then I looked back toward the wall. My pack and all my supplies were still sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, plain as day, but I didn’t dare go back for them. I held my breath and waited.

  Then the lights passed by and the car was gone.

  But I’d gotten the message. It was time to beat it out of there.

  I scrambled back to the sidewalk and started cramming everything into my pack. At least I tried to. But nothing wanted to go. Paint tubes squirted through my fingers; brushes got caught in the sidewalk cracks. My water bottle rolled away.

  “Damn!” I swore, making a grab for it.

  And that’s when I realized there was someone standing near the end of the wall. I looked up. My mouth went dry. It was a man with a baseball bat.

  “I thought I might find you here tonight,” he said.

  Chapter Five

  My feet were moving before my hands could even grab the backpack. As for my brain—it wasn’t working at all. My heart was pumping straight adrenaline, and all systems had switched to automatic pilot. I had one goal—get away from Feniuk as fast as I could. In a matter of seconds I’d put the Dumpster between us and was halfway across the boulevard. I glanced over my shoulder. The old man hadn’t moved.

  I felt my body start to relax. This was no contest. Feniuk was old and out of shape. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to keep up the chase for more than half a block. And though he had a baseball bat, it wasn’t much of a threat if he couldn’t get close enough to use it.

  With that thought in mind, I turned on the jets and tore onto the road. In another minute Feniuk wouldn’t even see me, let alone catch me.

  “John Zeelander.”

  My brain didn’t believe my ears, but my feet did. They froze in mid-stride and I went sprawling. But just as fast, I was up and moving again.

  “John Zeelander!” Feniuk called once more, louder this time.

  I hesitated. He knew my name!

  “423 Barrett Avenue.” Feniuk struck again before I could gather my wits.

  I could feel the blood draining from my face, and though the night was warm, my skin turned to gooseflesh. Feniuk knew my address too!

  “844-9736.”

  And my phone number!

  That’s when reality set in and I stopped running. It didn’t matter how much distance I put between Feniuk and me, I wasn’t going to get away from him.

  So I just stood in the middle of the street, waiting for the police cars to close in. The sirens, the flashing lights—I’d seen it in the movies a dozen times.

  But this wasn’t a movie. It was real life. There were no police cars. But that didn’t change the fact that I was in more trouble than I’d ever been in before.

  I tried to think what was going to happen next. Was Feniuk going to beat the hell out of me with that baseball bat? He didn’t look like the violent type, but you could never tell. More than likely he’d turn me over to the police. Then I’d end up in juvenile court and probably jail. But before all that, the cops would call my dad.

  I cringed at the prospect. I’d rather face the baseball bat.

  Swinging it onto his shoulder, Feniuk began walking along the sidewalk. He took his time. Once he got past the Dumpster, he stopped and motioned to me.

  “I think it’s time we had a talk.” The way he said it you’d have thought he was suggesting a chat about the weather.

  I took a deep breath and started moving toward him. Whatever was going to happen, there was no point putting it off. I got as far as the boulevard. Then I stopped.

  I guess Feniuk must’ve seen me eying the bat, because he took it down from his shoulder and leaned it against the wall.

  He shrugged. “Protection. Can’t be too careful. I’m not as young as I used to be.” He squinted at the fresh graffiti. “Which is why I’m not enjoying this little game as much as you apparently are.”

  “It’s not a game,” I snarled. No sense letting him see I was scared. He had enough advantage as it was.

  Feniuk must’ve heard the attitude in my voice. He looked at the bat like maybe putting it down hadn’t been such a good idea. But he didn’t pick it up again, and after a couple of seconds he walked away. Dumb move. Another kid would’ve grabbed that bat and clobbered him with it. I resented the fact that he didn’t think I would.

  “How do you know my name?” I growled.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I didn’t hire a private detective, if that’s what you’re thinking. You and your friends are pretty well-known around here. So I asked a few questions, got out the telephone book and there you were.”

  As easy as that! Now, on top of being scared and mad, I also felt stupid.

  “So what are you going to do?” I glowered at him.

  “Me?” He shook his head. “I’m not going to do anything. You, on the other hand, are going to do quite a bit.”

  I folded my arms belligerently over my chest. “You can’t make me do anything.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. And that’s why I’m not going to try. I’m an old man. You think I don’t know that?”

  I didn’t say anything. I just kept glaring at him. We both knew he had an ace up his sleeve, and sooner or later he was going to play it.

  He kept walking until he reached the center of the wall. Then he turned to face it. For the longest time he studied the changes I’d made to the door. “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he muttered over and over, but that was all.

  Finally he clasped his hands behind his back and—still staring at the wall and rocking on his heels— said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  A proposition? I hadn’t been expecting anything like that. “What kind of proposition?” I said warily.

  “Well, the way I see it, you have vandalized the wall of my store with your gra
ffiti three times now. Twice I’ve painted over it, and as you can see—” he held out his arms to take in the wall, “it needs to be painted again.”

  He paused. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t.

  He carried on. “You don’t strike me as a stupid fellow, so I’m sure you can appreciate that paint costs money. The time it takes for me to put it on the wall is money lost too. Somebody has to be accountable for all that money. And from where I’m standing, that somebody is you.”

  “Are you saying you want me to pay you back for your labor and paint?” I tried not to let him see my relief, but the truth is I felt as if someone had just thrown me a life preserver. I had money in my savings account. I’d gladly fork over some of it if it would get me off the hook.

  But as soon as Feniuk answered, I realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. “Yes—and no,” he said. “I have tallied the costs, and I’ve come up with what I think is a fair figure. What I propose is that you work off the debt.”

  “What!” I blurted. “Work it off? How?”

  “The same way you accrued it.” He glanced at the wall again. “You paint. I shall pay you a minimum hourly wage until your debt is repaid. You can start by covering tonight’s graffiti. After that,” he pointed to the door I’d made, “you can finish this.”

  “It is finished,” I snapped.

  He looked at the door some more and then at me. “Are you sure? It seems to me it still needs something.”

  I felt my back stiffen. “Well, you’re wrong.” No old man was going to tell me how to do my art.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you don’t like my proposition, we’ll just have to settle the matter some other way. Should I call the police or your home?”

  Chapter Six

  By the time I crawled back through my bedroom window, there wasn’t a whole lot of night left. I’d been up for nearly twenty hours, so I should have been exhausted. Maybe I was. But there was so much going on in my head, I didn’t even consider sleeping.