Zee's Way (4 page)

Not that Dad and I were total slobs. We ran the dishwasher and did the laundry. The Spotlessly White Cleaners did the rest. But their once-a-week visits couldn't stay ahead of the clutter, and mounds of junk had grown everywhere. My gaze came to rest on the chair and music stand in the far corner. Well, almost everywhere.

“Put the TV over by the window,” I said, returning to the kitchen and plunging a knife into the peanut butter.

“No.”

“Why not?” I knew I was treading on forbidden ground, but since I was already in a pot of trouble, what difference would a little more make?

“You know why not.” Dad's voice was quiet, kind of like the calm before the storm. “That's your mother's place. It's where she writes her music and plays her cello.”

I ignored the warning. “You're wrong.”

Dad's head shot up and his eyes flashed, but not even that could stop me. I was going to have my say.

“She used to do those things.” I raised my voice to discourage any interruption he might be planning. “But in case you haven't noticed, she doesn't do them anymore—at least not here. And that's because she left. Remember? She skipped out, took a hike, jumped ship. It doesn't matter what you call it. The end result's the same. She's not here! And she's not coming back!”

Dad sprang out of his chair so fast the table lurched and coffee slopped onto the flyer.

“Yes, she is!” he roared, as if shouting could make it true. “She is coming back! She's just taking time out to follow her dream. But she'll be back. You'll see. She'll
come home. And when she does, she's going to want her music corner.”

“
Time out
?” I practically choked on the words. “You don't take time out from family, Dad! What's the matter with you? You talk like Mom's on some kind of vacation. Why can't you face the truth? She walked out on us!”

There are no words to describe the look that came over my father. All I know is that it scared the heck out of me. I thought he was going to hit me. Maybe he thought so too. Maybe that's why he pushed past and slammed out the front door.

When I got to the hardware store, the ladder and paint supplies were already outside. That was fine with me. The sooner I got to work, the sooner I'd be finished, and the less chance anyone would see me.

I figured Feniuk must be inside the building, so I headed for the entrance and pushed on the door. It wasn't locked, and as it swung open, a bell jingled. Feniuk was standing
dead ahead. He frowned at his watch and then at me.

“You're late. When I say eight o'clock, I don't mean five minutes after. I was just about to pick up the phone.”

I rolled my eyes. “We're talking a lousy five minutes. What's the big deal?”

“In business, Mr. Zeelander, five minutes is a very big deal. It can mean the difference between making a sale and losing one. You see that sign on the door? It says we're open from nine to nine. If a customer shows up at one minute after nine, the store should be open. If my employees are late, it won't be, and the customer will go somewhere else.”

I scowled. “I'm not your employee.”

“Until your debt is paid, you work for me three hours every morning, Monday through Friday. That makes you my employee. Don't be late again.” Then he turned away and started tidying the shelves.

I stared in disbelief. Feniuk was acting like he owned me.

As I opened my mouth to protest, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Time is wasting, Mr. Zeelander,” he said quietly. “I suggest you get started.”

The guys showed up just before the shopping center opened. Normally they'd still be sawing logs at nine in the morning, but there's no way they were going to pass up the chance to razz Feniuk while he painted over my latest graffiti. Except, of course, it wasn't Feniuk who was doing the painting.

“Zee? Is that you, man?” Horace yelled from the oak tree.

I checked to make sure Feniuk was nowhere around. Then I motioned for the guys to cross the road.

In a matter of seconds they were on me like a pack of wolves. “What are you doing? What's with the roller? Where's old man Feniuk? How come you're painting over the graffiti?”

I put my hands up for quiet. “Listen, would ya! He caught me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me. Feniuk caught me. Last night, just as I was finishing the wall.”

“What do ya mean, he caught you? Did he grab you or something?”

I shook my head. “No. But he had a baseball bat.”

Danny's eyes opened wide. “Did he hit you with it?”

I shook my head again.

“So why didn't you run?” That was Benny.

Before I could explain, Feniuk came around the corner.

“Mr. Zeelander,” he called from the end of the wall, “I hired you to paint, not talk.”

Instantly Horace's mouth dropped open and he fell back a step. “What!” Then his face snarled up and he shoved me. “You're working for him?”

The other guys glared at me. They all thought I'd sold them out.

“It's not what you're thinking,” I said. I needed to convince them that I wasn't a traitor. I pictured myself telling Feniuk exactly
what to do with his paint roller. But I didn't dare say the words out loud. The old man would be on the phone to my dad before I'd finished the sentence. Then I'd have an even bigger problem. I'd just have to find another way to show the guys I hadn't gone over to the enemy. “I can't explain right now,” I whispered so Feniuk wouldn't hear. “I'll tell you everything later. Meet me at my house at noon.”

They didn't say a word. They just kept staring like they'd never seen me before.

“Mr. Zeelander!” Feniuk was getting impatient.

“Come on, guys. You gotta trust me.” I hoped my voice didn't sound as desperate as I felt. “Once I explain, you'll see I didn't have a choice. I swear! Just be at my place at noon. Okay?”

As I waited for an answer, Feniuk began walking toward us. That was enough for Horace. He spat on the sidewalk and started back across the road. So, of course, the other guys followed him.

“Dissension among the ranks?” Feniuk said as he watched them go.

I had no idea what that meant, but I sure as heck wasn't going to ask. I sent Feniuk a dirty look and went back to slapping paint on the wall. Instead of going away, he stood there gabbing at me. The last thing I wanted was to get chummy with the person who was ruining my life, so I ignored him. Finally he got the hint and went back into the store.

I looked at my watch. I still had almost two hours to put in. I'd be lucky to stay awake that long, never mind push a roller. I was physically beat.

Unfortunately exhaustion hadn't reached my brain. It was still thinking about Horace and Benny and Danny and Mike. Feniuk had chased them away before they'd agreed to meet me. If I could talk to them, I was pretty sure I'd be able to make them see how Feniuk had trapped me. But if they wouldn't give me a chance to explain, there was nothing I could do.

The thought was depressing. It made me more tired than ever. I would have given anything to fall asleep and forget my problems. In less than twelve hours I'd managed to lose my friends, send my dad over the edge and get blackmailed by Feniuk. Could anything else go wrong?

It was a mistake even to think that.

As I was gathering up the paint supplies, I heard the flip-flop of thongs coming down Harper Street. I looked up just as the person wearing them rounded the corner onto Madison Boulevard.

It was Mrs. Polanski. She's the biggest busybody in town, and she lives right on my street. Quickly I looked away. If she saw me, she'd want to know what I was doing. And if she found out I was the one who'd been painting graffiti, it was guaranteed she'd tell my dad. I could feel her eyes burning holes in my T-shirt, but I didn't turn around. If I made like I didn't see her, maybe she'd go away. Right—and maybe my mom would be sitting in the living room when I got home.

The flip-flopping thongs picked up speed as Mrs. Polanski hurried across the road.

“Zee?”

Since she was right in my face, it was impossible to pretend I didn't hear her. So I acted surprised instead.

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Polanski.” Smiling really hurt. “Going shopping?” It was a long shot, but I was hoping I could sidetrack her.

No such luck.

“Never mind me,” she frowned. “What about you? What are you doing here…?” Her voice trailed off as she glanced meaningfully at the paint things. Then her eyes narrowed and she started to wag her finger in my face. “Are you up to no good? Mrs. Ramsay said the storekeepers have been asking questions about you. You're not the one who's been writing terrible things all over this wall, are you?”

I opened my mouth to lie—what choice did I have?—but suddenly Feniuk was standing beside me. And he was beaming at Mrs. Polanski.

My stomach slid into my sneakers.

Though I don't know how to stop doing it, I've come to the conclusion that worrying is a waste of energy. What's going to happen is going to happen whether I worry about it or not. All worrying does is give me a head start at feeling awful. And sometimes it's for nothing.

Take Feniuk spilling the beans to Mrs. Polanski. I was a basket case thinking how
my dad was going to freak out. But it didn't happen. And that's because Feniuk gave Mrs. Polanski the same story he'd given my friends—I was working for him. So there was nothing for my dad to freak out about.

As for how miserable life was going to be if my friends never spoke to me again, that didn't happen either. Horace and the boys were waiting at my house when I got there. And though they weren't very friendly at first, they warmed up after I told them how Feniuk had blackmailed me.

That night I slept like a log, and the next morning I woke up feeling great. I didn't even care that I had to report to Feniuk at the hardware store. I'd just put in my three hours and split.

Of course, it was going to be a bit more complicated than that, because now I had to paint the mural. And that meant coming up with an idea—preferably something that would make Feniuk sorry he'd ever forced me into doing it.

I dug around in my brain for inspiration. I could always plaster vines and flowers all over the wall. I was pretty sure Feniuk would hate that.

Yeah, but so would I. I went back to thinking.

My reason for doing graffiti in the first place was to show the Fairhaven merchants they were discriminating. So why not use the mural to send the same message? Good idea, but how was I supposed to do that? What could I paint?

Whatever it was, it had to start with the door. That was about the only thing Feniuk and I agreed on.

By the time I reached the hardware store, a glimmer of an idea had started to form in my mind. It was still pretty foggy—there were lots of details to work out—but at least I had a starting place.

I pushed open the front door at eight o'clock on the nose. Feniuk looked at his watch but didn't say anything. What could he say? I was right on time.

“I'm going to need a brush about an inch wide, a small can of brown or black paint—something quick-drying, like exterior latex—and some rags,” I told him.

He looked surprised. “That's all?”

“For now—until I get everything sketched out.”

His face cleared and he nodded. “Of course, of course. Are you going to need a ladder?”

I shrugged. “I guess so.”

I hauled the ladder outside while Feniuk rounded up the supplies.

“There you go,” he said, setting them on the sidewalk. Then he squinted toward the sun and flapped a hand in front of his face. “It's hot already. When that sun gets a little higher, it's going to be sweltering.”

I didn't look up from the paint can I was opening.

“Where's your hat?” he asked. “You can't work in the sun without a hat. And sunglasses. You're going to need those too. The sun bouncing off that wall will blind you.”

“I'll be fine,” I muttered, moving the stepladder into position and climbing onto it. “I'm out in the sun every day and I never wear a hat. And I don't even own sunglasses.”

“I have some in the store. You can use those,” he offered.

“Look,” I said, scowling down at him from my perch. “I told you I'm fine. So are you going to keep talking at me, or are you going to let me paint?”

Feniuk raised his hands in defeat. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind…” He left the sentence hanging and went back into the store.

I took a deep breath and sized up the wall. It was big. This wasn't the first time I'd worked on it, of course, so I should have realized that. But when I was doing the graffiti, I wasn't thinking about the overall appearance. I was just scrawling words. If there were gaps between them or if they overlapped, I didn't care. It didn't matter what the finished product looked like.

But the mural was different. It was going to take a bit of planning to get everything in proportion.

I climbed down from the ladder and went over to the oak tree, where I had a view of the whole wall. For a good five minutes I just stood there and stared, trying to figure out the location of everything I wanted to paint. Then when I had an idea of sizes and shapes, I headed back across the street and started laying things out.

I thought about how hard it had been to paint in the dark. But that was nothing compared to working in the sunlight. The way the sun's rays ricocheted off the white wall, it felt like razor blades slashing at my eyes. I couldn't look without squinting, and after a while I couldn't look at all. Every time I tried, my eyes would water and I'd have to turn away.

Though it bugged me to admit it, Feniuk had been right about the sunglasses. And after an hour of fighting the glare, I finally swallowed my pride and asked to borrow
his. I expected a big I-told-you-so or at least a smirk, but he just handed me the sunglasses and went back to what he was doing.