Zee's Way (3 page)

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.

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 graffiti 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?”

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.

I just threw myself onto the bed—clothes and all—and tried to think of a way out of the jam I was in.

But there wasn't a way out. It was a maze with no exit. No matter which way I turned, I was trapped. If I didn't paint the wall, Feniuk would tell my dad. If I did paint the wall, somebody else would tell my dad. The whole neighborhood shopped at Fairhaven. Someone was bound to see me there. Either way, I was dead.

Not literally, of course. In my whole life, my dad has only cuffed me a couple of times. He's a yeller, not a hitter. So why was I worrying? That was another thing I couldn't figure out.

I'm not sure when the darkness started leaking out of the night, but by the time my dad's alarm went off, the sun had taken over my room.

I listened to the familiar morning sounds—water running, electric razor buzzing, dresser drawers scraping open and then footsteps in the hall. I stared at the door, waiting for my father to come crashing through it, hollering his head off.

Of course it didn't happen—he couldn't
possibly know yet what I'd done—but that didn't stop me from imagining his reaction. And it didn't stop me from feeling relieved when his footsteps continued on to the kitchen.

I looked at the clock. Feniuk had told me to be at the hardware store by eight, and it was already after seven. But until I smelled coffee brewing, I stayed right where I was. There was no way I wanted to face my dad before he'd had his morning fix of caffeine.

He was well into his second cup by the time I got to the kitchen. He looked up from a flyer he was flipping through. Then he glanced at his watch and frowned.

“Are you sleepwalking or what?” he said. “It's not even 7:30. And it's summer break. Since when do you roll out of bed before noon?”

I took a huge swig of orange juice before answering. Lack of sleep had turned my arms and legs into deadweights, and I was hoping a little sugar would energize me. I
wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and belched. “Look who's talking,” I said. “Yesterday you slept until the middle of the afternoon.”

“After I'd pulled an all-nighter, pal,” he sneered.

Hadn't I just done the same thing? I shook my head and gulped down some more juice.

“See this?” Dad pointed to the flyer on the table. “It's a thirty-five inch television selling for half price. That's a great deal. We're talking two-tuner picture in picture, stereo sound, three line digital comb filter, multifunction timer, front A/V input jacks…”

I peered over his shoulder as he read out the TV's features. “Sounds good,” I said when he finally stopped for a breath. “You should get it.”

He squinted at me as if trying to decide whether or not I was serious. And then he grinned. A rare flicker of excitement lit up his eyes. “You know,” he said, “maybe I will. A deal like this doesn't come along
every day. And God knows we're due for a new TV. The old one is on its last legs. There's no telling when it's going to pack it in.”

I nodded. “Could happen right in the middle of the Stanley Cup.” Hockey is my dad's favorite thing, and missing a big game would probably kill him.

The mere thought made him wince. “Wouldn't that be a kick in the head!”

I dropped a couple of bread slices into the toaster. “Right. So why take the chance? Buy the TV.”

As soon as I said that, my dad did an about-face and started arguing against the idea.

“I don't know. Maybe I'm rushing things. Half price is still a lot of money. And besides, where would we put a television that size? There's no way we could squeeze it in where the other one is.”

Obviously Dad had flipped into his negative mode. It happened every time he got close to feeling good.

“So put it someplace else,” I said, barely able to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Like where?”

I poked my head into the living room and looked around. It was gloomy and messy. I tried to remember a time when the room had looked different, a time when there'd been flowers on the tables and the windows had let the sunshine in—a time when my mother had been there. It seemed like forever ago.