Zee's Way by Kristen Butcher Page B

but now I wasn’t so sure.
    Horace’s big face broke into a grin. He shrugged. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, it’s not like the paintings you usually do, is it?”
    â€œThat’s because it’s
not
a painting,” I corrected him. “It’s
graffiti
.” I didn’t want anybody confusing what was on the wall with real art.
    Horace shrugged. “Graffiti, painting—it’s all the same to me.” Then he gave me a hip check that moved me over a couple of feet.
    â€œHey!” I protested.
    Horace flexed his arm and admired the barbwire tattoo circling his bicep. “Sorry, man. Sometimes I forget my own strength.”
    I couldn’t argue with that. Horace was built like a small mountain, and even his good-natured nudging tended to leave bruises.
    â€œHow come you didn’t let me in on the plan?” he asked.
    â€œBecause I didn’t have a plan,” I said. “The idea just sort of came to me when I found the spray paint in my basement.”
    Horace nodded and pointed toward the shopping center. “Looks like things are heating up over there. If the old lady from the flower shop waves her arms any faster she’s gonna go up like a helicopter.” He laughed at his own joke and then shouted across the street, “Nice paint job! Who’s your decorator?”
    The merchants swiveled toward the sound, their curiosity turning to anger as soon as they saw us. Then the owner of Jackman’s Market began stomping toward the road. Horace and I kept leaning against the tree.
Be cool
, I told myself as the muscles in my legs tensed for takeoff.
    One of the other merchants grabbed Jackman’s arm. “Forget it, Leo,” he said. “They’re just trying to get your goat. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
    Jackman stopped. He glowered at us. Then he shook his fist. “Punks!” he yelled. “That’s what you are—punks! Sneaky, good-for-nothing punks!” He waved his arm at the wall. “Look at this mess! You’ve got no right defacing people’s property like that.”
    â€œAnd you got no right accusing people of a crime without any proof!” Horace yelled back.
    Technically, he was right. The merchants didn’t have any proof, so they shouldn’t assume we were the ones who’d done thegraffiti. But the truth is, we
had
done it—well, I had anyway. Suddenly I felt like a criminal.
    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.
    â€œWe win that round,” Horace announced after they’d gone.
    â€œMaybe,” 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.