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  Feel like I just turned a double play. Complete satisfaction.

  Ha. More than a whisper of graffiti in Lakeshore now. Supplies into my backpack. Hands covered in paint. Three colors this time.

  WHOOP, WHOOP. What the … ? Siren?

  “Lakeshore Police! Stop where you are!”

  Hell, no! Grab my backpack. Run. Down Main Street. Alley behind Sara’s bakery. Hide somewhere back there. Cop car right behind me. Spotlight following every step. Get off the street. Not behind the bakery. Cop can drive back there. Heading back toward Kat’s.

  No.

  The school. Get to the woods behind the school. Where’s the alley near the school? Spotlight from the squad car shines on the street to my left. I race through the alley. Heart pounding. Cut across to the street on the other side of these houses.

  Remember ding-dong-ditching with Kieran when we were little kids. What would he do now? No way to outrun the cop. Where should I go? Hide. Find someplace. Now.

  Open garage. Perfect. Hide between the car and the wall. Hoodie off. Cop saw me. Shove it in my backpack. With my bandanna and spray cans. Best to hide everything here. Get it later. When it’s safe.

  Where’s the cop?

  Haven’t seen her headlights. No spotlight. Don’t be stupid. Stay in the garage. Wait. Completely silent. Breathe. Stay here as long as I have to. Until I’m sure she’s not around anymore. Wait until daylight. It’s got to be close to four o’clock by now. I can sit still for a couple of hours. Then jog back to Kat’s. Make it look like I’m just out for a run.

  Silence. Even my heart is slowing down. I did it. Maybe I actually finished my first piece and got away.

  Wait.

  Can’t wait. Maybe take a quick look outside the garage. See what’s what. Extremely quiet. Just one step …

  “Freeze!” Bright light blinds me. “Lakeshore Police.”

  Crap. Now what? She’s walking closer. Get rid of the spray cans. Evidence is in my backpack. Stash them someplace right now or I’m busted. Reach in to get the cans out.

  “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” Black handgun pointed at me. Glock.

  Freeze.

  “SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!”

  Arms up. Hands out.

  “Get on the ground. Now.”

  Dropping to my knees. Glock two feet away from me.

  My face on the pavement.

  “Put your hands behind you.” Her knee grinds my body onto the concrete. She slaps the handcuffs around my wrists. “Gotcha, you little punk.”

  Fighting to stay calm

  In the back of a police car, my body’s twisted sideways. No room for my legs. Arms pinned behind my back. Every muscle tight. Have to pee. In so much trouble. Can’t believe I’m sitting in the back of a squad car. In handcuffs.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Liam.”

  “And?”

  Silence.

  “We can make this easy or difficult, Liam.”

  “O’Malley.”

  “Do you have any ID?”

  “School?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “It’s in my backpack.”

  She reaches over and grabs my stuff off the seat.

  “I’ll get it for you.” I lean forward.

  “Can you take these handcuffs off?”

  She looks at me in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got it.” Opens the big compartment of my backpack.

  Cans of spray paint are in there. “No, wait!”

  She turns around. “Are you refusing to cooperate?” Stares at me through the plexiglass.

  Calm down. “No. My ID’s not in that part. It’s in the small pocket on the front.

  She opens my wallet. “Where’s Saint Aloysius Gonzaga High School?”

  “Minneapolis.”

  “Oh, city kid, huh?”

  Pacing in a small room

  Cop called it the closet.

  Concrete walls. No windows. Bench drilled into the cement floor. Metal door with a peephole. Locked in a closet.

  “I’m not a criminal.” I don’t belong here.

  Back in the squad car, she asked me why I painted the graffiti. Wouldn’t admit to doing it. Then about the STB tags. Told her I didn’t know anything about them. Not a lie because I didn’t do any STB tags. I did St. B tags. Then she brought me here.

  Jail.

  Kieran’s in jail. He’s been in juvenile detention plenty of times. I’m not Kieran.

  Sit down. What’s happening?

  Cannot sit on this bench. Can’t be still and wait. Cop said she’d be back. Need to walk. Don’t even know what time it is. What time is she going to be back? Have to tell Mom. No place to walk when you’re in jail. Not much room to move around in a closet. Mom’s going to be furious. No. Worse than that. Disappointed. Again. And Kat? Maybe she won’t have to know.

  “Who’s going to have to know about this?” I say to no one.

  Silence.

  Cannot believe this is happening. All I wanted to do was paint a piece like Basquiat. Prove I’m a graffiti writer.

  Door opens.

  “Let’s go, Liam.” Cop’s carrying my backpack. And a small black case.

  Follow her to a bigger room. Table. Two chairs. No windows.

  “Have a seat.” She takes a camera out of the small case. “Put your hands flat on the table. Palms down.”

  Click. Flash goes off. Picture of my hands. Splattered. Midnight Black. Shock Blue. Tornado Red.

  “Flip them over so your palms are up.”

  Click. Flash. Evidence.

  “I need to inventory the contents of your backpack.”

  I’m done.

  She takes out three cans of spray paint. Black from Hank’s hardware store. Blue and red from Kat’s studio. Next comes my hoodie. Bandanna.

  “What’s this?” She lifts my blackbook.

  Shite.

  She opens the cover.

  “That’s mine!”

  “Calm down.”

  “It’s private.”

  “It’s evidence in a crime.”

  “A crime?” Play stupid.

  “Exactly.” She quickly looks through everything. Page after page filled with sketches of my ideas. She lands on a page. Crap. There’s my final sketch for my Street Art: Live from the Hood piece.

  Exactly like what’s on the wall of the bathhouse.

  Feel sick. Like I’m sitting here naked.

  “Liam O’Malley, you are being charged with the misdemeanor crime of criminal damage to property under the graffiti ordinance law of MacDonald County. And with one count of misdemeanor fleeing while committing a crime.”

  Can’t breathe.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

  Nod.

  “Do you understand your rights, Liam?”

  “Yes.” My chin starts shaking. No crying.

  “You have the right to call a parent or adult guardian. Who would you like to call?”

  No one.

  “Liam?”

  “My mom’s in Minneapolis.”

  “What’s her number?”

  “I’m staying with someone here.”

  “Name and number?”

  Stare at the floor.

  “I’m going to need to release you to an adult. You’re a juvenile, so you can’t stay in this jail. Otherwise I’ll have to take you to a county foster home.”

  “Katherine Sullivan.” The Lady Artist.

  Trudging back by the scene of my crime

  It’s the day after I had a second Glock pointed at me.

  It’s five hours after Kat signed me out at the police station.

  She told me I needed to go to the coast guard station with her. Dropped something off for that Coastie friend from dinner. Now K
at and I are on our way back.

  No talking. A lot being said.

  The closer we get to the beach, the harder it is to walk. Strong wind’s blowing the sand all over. Stinging my face. Pull my hood down over my eyes. Grateful I don’t have to look at Kat.

  Big red sign at the public beach. “Warning: Extreme Danger! Swim at your own risk.” The bathhouse is straight ahead.

  She stops. “So there it is.”

  STREET ART: LIVE FROM THE HOOD

  It covers the whole wall. Even more amazing in daylight. I’m proud of my work.

  Still.

  “Well, if you’re going to make a statement, it might as well be big.”

  Huge gust of wind slams into us.

  I don’t know what to say.

  She looks out at the pounding water of Lake Michigan. “Angry waves,” she says.

  Appropriate.

  “There are so many artistic options for expressing yourself, Liam.” She turns and walks away from my piece. “You chose one of the most troubling.”

  “Wait.” I jog over to her. “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? You got arrested.”

  “But I didn’t hurt anybody.” Look out into huge waves. “I was just trying to …”

  “Liam. I’m not your mom. I’m not your boss. I consider you a fellow artist and I’m going to treat you that way.”

  I nod.

  “But,” she says, looking out toward the lighthouse, “I’m going to call you on it when I see you making less-than-wise choices.”

  “Okay. I just wanted to make something amazing.”

  “I get that, Liam, I do. But …”

  “And you said graffiti is an art form. I just wanted to create something beautiful that people in Lakeshore don’t usually get to see.”

  “And it is beautiful.” She leans around me. Looks at my piece. “Your color choices are wonderful and the lettering style is very unique.”

  “Thanks. It’s called wildstyle.”

  “But the way you created it was illegal and trespassing.”

  Gusts of wind almost knock us over.

  “I created it so people around here would think differently about graffiti.”

  And so I could feel differently about Lakeshore. Maybe feel like I belong here.

  Breaking the news to Mom

  “YOU WHAT, LIAM?”

  “I got arrested.”

  “What don’t you get?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “Send me away?”

  Click.

  Arguing all day

  First with Kat. Then with Mom. Now with Sara.

  “It was only a piece.” Shake my head. “Actually, it was a legendary piece.” I rep my work.

  “It’s graffiti, Liam.”

  “So?”

  “So I live here.” She crosses her arms.

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “And?”

  “We have summer people and tourists who come to Lakeshore to get away from what they see in the city. The money they spend in our little town for three months pays most of the business owners’ bills for the whole year.”

  “I don’t understand how my piece is something people would want to get away from.”

  “It’s graffiti. People associate it with gangs and crime. If they see the same stuff here that they have to deal with at home, they’ll find someplace new to spend the summer.”

  “Who cares? I’m just trying to do my thing. I wish I could spend my summer someplace else, too.”

  “That’s nice. Maybe you should think of someone other than yourself.”

  “You know nothing about me, Sara.” My stomach lurches. “So don’t lecture me.”

  “Someone needs to.”

  “I’m out of here. I don’t have to listen to your crap.”

  “Then don’t, Liam.”

  I walk away, then turn around. “And you know what? I do live in the hood. And I do know about gangs. And I do know what it feels like to have a gun jabbed against the side of my head. But I’d still rather be back in my dangerous-as-hell hood than stuck here in Perfectville. Where nothing is ever allowed to happen.”

  Trying to getaway from myself

  I need Lake Michigan.

  Sprint toward the angry waves. Wind takes my breath away. No stopping. Sprinting across the beach. Into the fury. Can hardly hear myself think.

  What did I do?

  Arrested.

  Complete idiot.

  Running. Reach the shore. Feet crash into the water. Huge gust of wind slams me back. Stops me from going into the water. Preventing me from doing what I want. Shoves me away. Just like Mom, the headmaster at Saint Al’s, the baseball team, everyone.

  “GO TO HELL! ALL OF YOU CAN GO TO HELL!” I yell into the screaming wind. Out toward Minnesota.

  I’m a wreck.

  I bend low into the shortstop-ready position and charge into the pounding water. Waves punch my chest. Tackle me back toward shore. Knee-deep. Struggle to stay on my feet. Waiting for the next wave. Push forward as fast and as far as I can. Will not let this water beat me. Next one knocks me flat on my back. Wave rolls away. Kieran went away. Left me tagging for Irish Mafia. Right over Los Crooks.

  “YOU SAID YOU HAD MY BACK, YOU DOUCHEBAG!”

  Kieran wrecks everything.

  Can’t close my mouth. Wall of water crashes down onto me. Underwater. Tumbling. Spinning. Pummeled by the pounding surf. Struggling. Knocked over again and again. Just like Dad. The drunk who hit Mom, Kieran, me. Fractured our family. No phone calls. No playing catch in the yard. Not one single thing in seven years.

  “I HATE YOU, YOU BASTARD!”

  Dad wrecked it all.

  Another wall of water. Dive straight into it. Force drags me along the sand on the bottom of the lake. Pins me down. Can’t get up. Undertow takes me back out toward the deeper water. Can’t control my body. Please help me, God. Can’t move my legs to stand. Can’t move my arms to swim. Can’t do anything to help myself. Can’t hold my breath. Get off the bottom. Help me, Saint Brendan. Panicking. Need to breathe. Get out of here. Help me. Someone please help me. Don’t leave me here. Saint Brendan, pray for me. I don’t want to die. Undertow’s keeping me down. Can’t fight anymore. Drowning. Drowning. Drowning.

  No.

  Won’t let go. What can I do? Move. Try. Swim. Up to the surface. Breathe. Breathe. Stay above the water. Open my eyes. Where am I? Find something.

  Lighthouse.

  The lighthouse. Straight out from Kat’s. Tower in the sky. Beach to the left. Get to solid ground. Swim. Move. Thrown backward. Up and under the water. Out of control. Slam against something solid. The shore. Pull myself up onto the sand. I vomit. And vomit. Try to catch my breath. Lungs burn. Chest hurts. Ears ache. Whole body’s been pounded. Close my eyes.

  I’m battered.

  I’m alive.

  Remembering Saint Brendan’s prayer

  Been saying these words since I was in second grade.

  Shall I pour out my heart to You, confessing my manifold sins and begging forgiveness, tears streaming down my cheeks? Shall I leave the prints my knees on the sandy beach, a record my final prayer in my native land? Shall I then suffer every kind wound that the sea can inflict? Shall I take my tiny boat across the wide sparkling ocean? O King the Glorious Heaven, shall I go my own choice upon the sea? O Christ, will You help me on the wild waves?

  His words always made me feel safe when I was scared. Now I understand what they mean.

  Cross myself.

  Grateful.

  Appreciating a new note on the fridge

  I notice it this morning.

  “I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top.” (Claes Oldenburg)

  Definitely get this one.

  Remember when I was Declan’s age. Colored all the time. Dad hated it. Mom got me a box of sixty-four Crayola crayons for my birthday. Loved
all those colors. Memorized every single name. Still angry that Dad broke all my crayons. He screamed and threw all the pieces into the garbage can.

  I ran. Hid under my bed.

  Waited until I was positive he was asleep that night. Snuck out. Dug through the garbage. Remember the crappy smell. Didn’t matter. I picked every single broken piece of every single crayon out of the can. Cleaned each one. Taped all the pieces back together. Didn’t work. No matter how careful I was.

  Didn’t cry. Used the pieces anyway.

  Enjoying the Fourth of July parade

  Sitting on the curb of Main Street.

  Not as big as the parades in Minneapolis. It’s okay. Little kids on decorated bikes. Lakeshore High School marching band. Mayor waves from a Chamber of Commerce float. Four Little League teams walk by in their uniforms. Dogs are dressed in red, white, and blue. Shirts and hats for dogs? Fire engine. Ambulance. Police car’s being driven by the cop who arrested me. Look down at my fingernails until she’s out of sight. Sirens blare on and off. Clowns run around, throwing candy. Always been afraid of clowns. Don’t really know why.

  Flatbed truck rolls up. Music’s thumping. Sailors’ Volleyball State Championship Runners-Up are passing. Truck’s decorated with blue and gold balloons. Sara stands on the back. She looks at me.

  I feel like a loser after our scene the other day. Mouth “Sorry.” Give a pathetic wave.

  She nods. “Me, too.”

  I smile.

  “The beach this afternoon?” She shouts over the racket.

  “Okay.” My voice a little louder than my pounding heart.

  “See you later.”

  “She’s a nice girl.” Kat smiles.

  “Who?” Does she know?

  “Sara? You could invite her over for dinner sometime.”

  Shrug.

  “Oh, puhleeze.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask her.”

  “Good.”

  Nice to just sit here. Observe everyone going past me. People all around me. Last time I went to a parade at home, the Bloods and Los Crooks started fighting. BANGBANGBANG. Mass chaos. Tyrell and I fell facedown on the ground. Arms over our heads. Didn’t want anyone to think we saw something. Never said a thing. Snitching makes you a punk in my hood.