Zee's Way Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€œZee?”
    Since she was right in my face, it was impossible to pretend I didn’t hear her. So I acted surprised instead.
    â€œOh. Hi, Mrs. Polanski.” Smiling really hurt. “Going shopping?” It was a long shot, but I was hoping I could sidetrack her.
    No such luck.
    â€œNever 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.

Chapter Eight
    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 howmy 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.
    â€œI’m going to need a brush