Kristin Butcher... has novel ideas

In Zee's neighborhood, there is very little in the way of recreational facilities or activities for teens. So when a small shopping strip is built, the young people start using it as a hangout, much to the displeasure of the local merchants, who see the teens - pierced, dyed, and tattooed - as impediments to business. Feeling the sting of discrimination, Zee and his friends retaliate, and it isn't long before battle lines have been drawn. Things get pretty ugly until Zee discovers that the paint brush is mightier than the sword.

(Excerpt from Chapter 2)

The reason I painted the wall at night was so no one would see me. But darkness - the thing that makes night a good time for hiding - also makes it a crummy time for painting. Darkness blurs lines and erases details. And it sucks the life out of spray paint until every color looks gray.

So when I returned to the scene of the crime the next morning, it was like I was seeing that graffiti for the first time. I had no sooner stepped onto Madison Boulevard, than the three-foot high words started screaming at me!

My first impulse was to hurl myself at them and smother them into silence. My second impulse was to make a run for it. But I didn't do either of those things.

Instead, I joined Horace who was leaning against the oak tree.

He gestured towards the wall and the stunned shopkeepers huddled in front of it. "You did that?" There was surprise in his voice.

"Yeah. What's wrong with that?" I muttered defensively. Last night the graffiti had seemed like a good idea, but now I wasn't so sure.

Horace's big face broke into a grin. "Who said anything was wrong? I'm just surprised, that's all. I mean it's not like the paintings you usually do, is it?"

"That's because it's not a painting." I snapped. "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.

"Hey!" 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.

"How come you didn't let me in on the plan?" he asked.

"Because 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 towards 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 towards the sound, their curiosity turning to anger as soon as they saw us. Then the owner of Jackman's Market began stomping towards the road. Horace and I just 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, foulmouthed punks!" He waved his arm at the wall. "Look at this mess! You've got no right defacing people's property."

"And you got no right accusing people of a crime without any proof!" Horace yelled back.

That caught me by surprise. Technically, Horace was right. The merchants didn't have any proof, so they shouldn't have assumed we were the ones who did the graffiti. But the truth was we did do it - well, I did anyway. Suddenly I felt like a criminal.

Jackman dismissed Horace's objection. "Cut the crap! You haven't even got the guts to own up to what you did. Like I'm surprised. Punks, I tell you. Somebody ought to take a belt to your backsides."

Horace walked 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 towards him. Jackman spun away and hit the ground.

I stopped breathing. Time stopped ticking. It felt like we were going to be caught in that moment forever.

Then suddenly everything started moving again. The shopkeepers rushed onto the road, and Jackman struggled to his knees. He wasn't hurt.

But the incident had shaken up the merchants enough that they forgot about Horace and me and headed back to their stores.

"We win that round," Horace announced after they'd gone.

"Maybe," 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. "Looks like your billboard is history, Zee."