Zee's Way (2 page)

Jackman dismissed Horace's objection. “You haven't even got the guts to own up to what you did. Not that I'm surprised. Punks, I tell you. Somebody ought to take a belt to your backsides.”

Horace sauntered to the curb and leaned out over the pavement. “Oh yeah? Like who, for instance?
You
?” Then he snorted and strolled back to the tree.

It was a dare, and Jackman took it. Purple with rage, he charged onto the road.

Beeeeeeeeep
!!

From out of nowhere a car came speeding toward him. Jackman's arms went up and then he spun away and fell.

I stopped breathing. Time stopped ticking. It felt like we were going to be caught in that second forever.

Then suddenly everything started moving again. The shopkeepers rushed onto the road, and Jackman struggled to his knees. He hadn't been hit.

But the incident had shaken the merchants up enough that they forgot about Horace and me and headed back to their stores.

“We win that round,” Horace announced after they'd gone.

“Maybe,” I replied, “but you know they're—”

A bunch of clatters and clangs cut me off. Feniuk, the old guy from the hardware store, was trying to get a metal ladder out of his shop. It took a while, but he eventually won, leaned the ladder against the graffitied wall and went inside again. A minute later he was back, juggling rags, a paint can, a paint tray, brushes and a couple of rollers.

Horace patted me on the shoulder. “Too bad, Zee. It looks like your billboard is history.”

While Feniuk painted over the graffiti, Horace and I sat in the shade of the oak tree and razzed him. Actually, Horace did the razzing.

“You missed a spot,” he'd holler every
once in a while, or “Looks like it's gonna take a couple of coats,” and sometimes, “You need a hand?” And then he'd clap.

As for me, I just watched. Heckling isn't really my style. Actually, graffiti isn't my style either. So it was almost a relief to see the fluorescent insults vanishing from the wall.

At the same time, though, it was also deflating. The graffiti had been a way of telling the merchants they were being unfair. And as each word was painted over, it felt more and more like they hadn't heard me. So why had I bothered?

After nearly two hours, Feniuk looked like he was going to keel over. He was red in the face and drenched in sweat. I could hear him puffing clear across the street. Anybody could see he was too old and out of shape for that kind of work—especially on such a hot day. So when he finally dragged the ladder back into his store, I was relieved. I had enough on my conscience without adding his heart attack to the list.

As soon as the door banged shut, Horace jumped to his feet. “What say we do a little shopping?”

“The graffiti may be gone,” I pointed out, “but I don't think anybody's forgotten about it.”

Horace shook his pants pockets. They jingled. “I got money, man, and I wanna spend some of it. We been sitting here all morning. I'm starved. Let's go to the market and get some donuts.”

I couldn't believe my ears. “You got a death wish?” I said. “If we go in there, Jackman will kill us!”

Horace screwed up his face. “You think?”

“Obviously more than you.”

“Maybe you're right.” Then Horace's expression cleared again. “We can go see Jackman tomorrow.” He headed for the road. “Come on.”

“Come on where?” I asked suspiciously.

He turned and looked at me as if I was brain-dead. “I told ya, man. I'm starved. I need to eat. Let's go to the drugstore and get some chips or somethin'.”

Reluctantly I got to my feet and started to follow him.

“Then we'll go to Feniuk's Hardware.” Before I had a chance to protest, he jerked a thumb toward the wall, which was once again spotlessly white. “You're gonna need more paint.”

It seemed to me that going into the hardware store was like poking your nose into a hornets' nest after you've stirred up the hornets. Only an idiot would do it. Or—in the case of Horace and me—two idiots.

For the first few minutes all we did was wander the aisles. After that, we went to the paint department. Even though I'd told Horace I wasn't going to do any more graffiti, he
piled spray paint cans into my arms. Then we headed for the checkout.

Feniuk was working the cash register. As soon as I saw him, I wanted to drop the paint and run. But if I did, I knew Horace and the other guys would never let me hear the end of it.

So I plunked the paint onto the counter and waited for whatever it was Feniuk was going to do. He looked at the cans; then he looked at me. I knew he knew what the paint was for. The question was, what was he going to do about it.

To my surprise, he didn't do anything. He just rang in the sale and told us to have a nice day.

I was stunned. Our little visit hadn't gone anything like I'd thought it was going to. Not only had Horace and I made it out of the hardware store alive, we'd been told to have a nice day! Did that mean the merchants were ready to call a truce?

On that hope, I took the spray paint home and stashed it under my bed.

A week later I hauled it out again.

Instead of getting better, things had gotten worse. Jackman had banned Horace and me from his store completely. And he wasn't kidding around. He even threatened to fire any staff that let us in. It's a wonder he hadn't slapped up Wanted posters.

But since Danny, Mike and Benny were still allowed in the market, they bugged Jackman for us. As Mike went out one door, Benny went in another. When he left, Danny showed up. Mostly the guys just kept the clerks chasing them around the store—though they did manage to add a frog to the lettuce display and swipe the pricing signs in the canned goods aisle.

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.

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 giving
each other high fives. They seemed to think we'd scored some kind of major victory.