Zee's Way (6 page)

“What about the broken window at Jackman's Market? Are you going to tell me you didn't do that?”

“That was an accident.”

“So why did you run?”

I shook my head in disgust. “What choice did we have? We knew you wouldn't believe us. And you didn't, did you?”

He seemed to think about that for a while. Then he said, “What about the graffiti?”

“That was after,” I grumbled.

“After what?”

“After you banned us from the shopping center. After you sicced the police on us. After we knew you were never going to listen.”

Feniuk frowned. “Never's a long time. I'm listening now.”

The angrier Mike got, the faster he walked. The rest of us practically had to run to keep up.

“It's a crock!” He took his temper out on a stone. It ricocheted off a lamp standard and skittered onto the boulevard. Mike ignored it and kept walking. He hung a left at the corner.

“Why do you say that?” Danny called after him.

Mike didn't even bother to look back. “They're not going to change their minds.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Mike spun around. “Have you forgotten? They hate us!”

“Maybe not,” Horace said. “Maybe they're just afraid of us. If what Feniuk told Zee is true, Jackman and the others didn't intend this thing to snowball out of control any more than we did.”

Mike's eyes widened. “Don't tell me you're on their side now too!”

I felt my back stiffen. Mike still thought I was a traitor for painting the mural.

I decided to turn the tables. “You act like you don't want this war to end.”

He shot me a dirty look.

“Feniuk said he'd talk to the other merchants—explain our side,” I pointed out for at least the fifth time. “He understands that we're not hanging around to cause trouble. Any stuff we've done was either an accident or self-defense. Feniuk is pretty sure he can make the other merchants see that.”

I looked around at the group. Everyone seemed to be waiting for somebody else to do the talking.

As usual, it was Horace. He shrugged. “Okay—so we give it a few days. What have we got to lose?”

Horace had stuck his neck out for me with the other guys, but I don't know that he was any more convinced. It seemed like I was the only one who thought things were going to work out. Maybe it's because I'd been part of the negotiations. I'd been around Feniuk for nearly two weeks and I knew what he was like. Though the two of us might not see eye to eye on everything, I was pretty sure the old man would keep his word. But, of course, my friends couldn't know that. All they had to go by was me. And considering I was spending almost as much time with Feniuk as I was with them, I could understand why they were nervous.

I wished things would hurry up and get settled. I hated being stuck in the middle.
But after two days, nothing had changed. Well, actually there had been one change, but that had nothing to do with the guys and me. At least I don't think it did.

Bernie's Shoe Repair had gone out of business. Overnight the space had been cleared out and there was a For Lease sign in the window. Not a surprise really—if you think how many people wear runners these days. I might have thought my friends and I had scared him away, but none of us had ever even gone into that store. I guess nobody else had either.

As for the mural, it was finally starting to look like something, though not exactly what I'd planned. To one side of the door I'd painted a handful of merchants—Mrs. Costello, Bingham from the pharmacy, the guy who owned the hair salon, the Loonie Bin lady and, of course, Jackman. But instead of making them look mean and nasty and evil like I'd intended, I turned them into caricatures. They didn't totally look like themselves, but anyone who
shopped at Fairhaven would recognize them and have a laugh.

Mike would've said I'd sold out, but I thought of the move more as insurance. I still wasn't finished the mural, and if things didn't work out, I'd go back to my original plan. But until the merchants made a decision about us, there was no sense getting them riled up.

Mrs. Costello was the first test. She showed up just as I was packing up for the day. The guy who owned the dry-cleaning store was with her.

“Ohhhhh!” she gasped, her gaze flitting over the entire mural and finally coming to rest on the caricature of herself.

Though I continued to pack up my stuff, I kept one eye on her. For about a minute, she didn't do anything but stare at the mural. I started to get worried. What if she hated it?

But I guess she didn't, because finally she put her hand over her mouth and started to giggle like a little girl. Then she pointed to the caricature and said to the guy from the
dry cleaners, “Do you see that? It's me! It's a drawing of me.”

The guy started to laugh. “Yeah. And it looks just like you. You and Peterson, Jackman, Mrs. Wilson and Bingham. You're all perfect. What a hoot!”

Mrs. Costello's smile evaporated and she wagged a finger under the guy's nose. “Didn't I tell you the boy was an artist?”

He nodded. “Yes, you did. You certainly did.”

Though I was relieved that Mrs. Costello didn't mind seeing herself on the wall, it felt weird to hear myself being talked about like I wasn't there. I picked up my paint supplies and stood up to leave.

Instantly Mrs. Costello glommed onto my arm and pulled me toward the dry-cleaning guy as if she was showing off a prize poodle. “This is him,” she beamed.

The guy stuck out his hand, and then realizing mine were full, he pulled it back again. “George Riley,” he said. “I own Fairhaven Cleaners.”

I nodded.

Mrs. Costello poked me in the back. “Well, tell him your name. Go on.”

A couple of days ago the woman had been afraid to come near me, and now she was giving me etiquette lessons. I have no idea why I didn't tell her to mind her own business.

“Zee,” I said to the guy.

“That's no kind of proper name,” Mrs. Costello clucked her tongue in disgust.

I shrugged and turned to leave, but the guy stepped in front of Mrs. Costello and said, “Well, Zee, I have to tell you how impressed I am with your painting. For days now, Mrs. Costello has been bragging about you to anyone who'll listen. She thinks you must be related to Michelangelo. She says the only difference is that he worked on ceilings and you work on walls.” He smiled self-consciously.

“Thanks,” I mumbled and started for the store again.

“But I didn't come out here just to compliment you on your painting,” Riley called after me.

I turned around. “No?”

He shook his head. “No. As I said, I really like your style. I can visualize something like what you've done here on the front window of my shop. I'd like to hire you to paint it—if you're interested,” he added quickly.

Something inside me went ping—as if a wire that had been coiled tightly around my chest had suddenly been cut. I breathed deeply. I even allowed myself to smile.

“Thanks, Mr. Riley,” I said. “That's cool. And I'd like to, except—”

Mrs. Costello pushed her way past the dry-cleaning guy. “Except what?” she demanded.

“Except I already have a job,” I said, nodding toward the wall. “I work for Mr. Feniuk.”

“Not anymore,” said a voice behind me. It was Feniuk. Once again he'd sneaked up on me. He stuck a yellow receipt under my nose. There was a big red Paid in Full stamp on it.

“I'm not that skinny,” Benny protested. “And my nose isn't anywhere near that big.”

“You wanna bet,” Danny said. Of course, everybody laughed.

The guys were sprawled on the boulevard in front of the wall, watching me paint. Even though Feniuk had said my debt to him was paid, I had to finish the mural. It was a matter
of pride. The old man had offered to pay me, but I couldn't let him do that. After all, I was the one who'd messed up the wall in the first place. Anyway, as soon as I was done, I'd be painting the window at Fairhaven Cleaners. And I would be getting paid for that.

I moved on to the caricature of Mike. I curled his lip like Elvis, and around his neck I put a wide leather band with metal spikes.

“He looks like a bulldog!” Benny howled, obviously glad it was someone else's turn to be in the hot seat.

Doing his best to look like the painting, Mike waved his studded wristband in Benny's face. “And don't you forget it,” he snarled.

It was great to see everybody in a good mood again. We still hadn't found out if we were welcome in the shopping center, but Feniuk, Riley and Mrs. Costello were clearly on our side, and that was a start.

“Why so many chains?” Horace complained when I got around to painting him.
“I know you said a caricature is supposed to exaggerate stuff, but there's so much metal around my neck it's a wonder I can stand up. And what's with the head? Do you think it could get any bigger?”

“That's a question we all ask,” I grinned.

Horace opened his mouth to zing me back, but a woman's scream cut him off.

I guess we should've stayed out of it, but there was so much commotion going on outside Jackman's Market, we had to find out what it was about. Besides, by the time we got there, a huge crowd had gathered and no one noticed us anyway.

A woman was sobbing and clawing at Jackman's chest. “My daughter, Jessica, I only took my eyes off her for a second! Where could she have gone?”

“She can't be far.” Jackman patted the woman's back in an effort to comfort her. But she just wailed louder.

“What happened?” I whispered to a woman in the crowd.

She shook her head. “The lady's little girl wandered off.”

That's when we heard the police sirens.

“C'mon.” Horace instantly started jogging toward the street. I thought he just wanted to clear off before the cops arrived, but when we hit the sidewalk, he said, “Okay, Mike, you and Benny take Beaver-brook. Go a couple of blocks if you have to. Zee, you and Danny look on Madison. I'm gonna search Fontaine. How far can a little kid get in five minutes? One of us is bound to see her.”

He was right. Danny and I hadn't even gone a block when we heard Horace whistle. By the time we caught up with him he was halfway across the shopping center parking lot, heading for Jackman's Market. And there was a little girl riding on his shoulders.

“Hello,” she beamed at us. She had one of Horace's chains around her neck, and it was puddling on the top of Horace's head.

“Jessica!” The little girl's mother came running toward us at full speed.

“Hi, Mommy,” Jessica smiled.

Horace put the little girl down. Instantly the woman swallowed her up in her arms. Eventually, of course, Jessica started to squirm, and the lady had no choice but to let her loose. Hanging onto the kid with one hand, the woman stood up and put out her other hand to Horace.

“Thank you,” she said, and you could tell she meant it. “Thank you so much.”

The crowd—which had followed the woman over—broke into applause.

Horace grinned self-consciously. “You're welcome, but I didn't really do anything. She was playing with a cat in somebody's yard. I just called her name and she came.” Then his expression got all serious again and he said, “But you know, lady, you really ought to teach your little girl not to go with strangers. What if I'd been a weirdo or somethin'?”

Even the guys and I could see what a goofy thing that was to say, and we laughed right along with everyone else.

Until Jackman stepped up.

The day got quiet again, and I held my breath. Jackman stuck his hand out. For a few seconds Horace just looked at it. Finally he took it—and shook it—Jackman with it. The crowd laughed again. So did Jackman and Horace.

And that's when I knew everything was going to be okay.

I waited until everyone had cleared off the shopping center parking lot before I headed back to the wall. There was still one more part to do on the mural, and I wanted to do it alone.

When I was done, I stood on the boulevard and drank it in. I thought about how I'd tried to send a message to the merchants with my graffiti—and how that had failed. Then I thought about Horace and Jackman shaking hands. I looked at the mural again. Yeah. It was right. It told the story as it really was.

It was a storefront. There was a door in the middle and display windows on both sides.
A blue-and-yellow awning hung overhead. On one side of the door stood the merchants, eying the broken window in the door and the incriminating soccer ball on the sidewalk. On the other side of the door stood the guys—the obvious culprits. And in the middle, kneeling on the sidewalk and picking up the pieces of glass, were Feniuk and me.

“I told you that door needed something, didn't I?” Feniuk said from behind me. “You were bound to figure it out sooner or later.”

I turned. Feniuk was smiling, but for once it didn't bug me. Jackman was standing beside him. And surprisingly, that didn't bug me either.

Jackman was soaking up the mural and moving his head up and down like one of those bobble-head dolls.

“It's good,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied and began gathering up my paint things for the last time.

They watched me for a while, and then Jackman cleared his throat. “You know,”
he said, “one of the problems with getting old is that you forget that you used to be young.”

I thought about that. Since I hadn't been old yet, I couldn't really argue. So I nodded.

I hadn't realized Jackman had been holding his breath until he let it out in a gush. “Did you see the shoe repair shop has closed?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I saw that.”

“It's a small space—hard to rent.” He cleared his throat again. “Well, the thing is, the other merchants and I have been talking, and we thought that…I mean there's no point in having the place sit empty…we can't have you kids standing around the—”