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  Now everyone on both sides of the street is standing up. Guys taking their hats off. Everyone’s clapping. Convertibles driving our way. Men riding in the cars. Waving to everyone.

  War veterans.

  Three Iraq vets in the first car. Don’t look much older than I am. Soldier riding shotgun only has one arm. Vietnam vets roll up wearing old, faded camouflage shirts. Black-and-white POW/MIA flag’s attached to the back bumper. Next the World War II soldiers. Elderly. Sitting safely on the seat.

  I spot Hank. Hard to imagine him fighting in a war. He looks right at me. Salutes.

  I do the same.

  Soldier on.

  Deciphering the decision

  Got my notification letter in the mail today.

  According to the County District Attorney, I’m officially charged with a misdemeanor. I’ve been tagged as a criminal. If the cost to remove my piece had been over one thousand dollars, it would’ve been a felony. My St. B tags on the bench, garbage can, and stop sign definitely would’ve put me over. Didn’t admit that to them.

  Feel like I swallowed a golf ball.

  Have to appear in court to plead guilty or not guilty. It says another letter with the date and time will be forthcoming.

  Great. Something to really look forward to.

  Dreaming about baseball

  Back at the championship game last summer. Minneapolis City Park League. Me. Tyrell. Sean. Saint Al’s coach there to scout me. Went five for six. Home run. Offered a full-ride scholarship.

  “Remember that arts camp we talked about?” Kat’s voice wakes me up.

  Where is she? Try to remember where I am. “What?” Must’ve fallen asleep on the couch.

  “Lake Michigan Academy of Fine Arts. The place where I teach.”

  “Oh.” Exhausted. Cut rosebushes for Hank all morning.

  She walks into the living room. “The high-school visual arts section starts on July seventeenth. That’s in two weeks. There may still be openings if you’re interested.”

  “Openings?”

  “For campers. Visual artists like you.”

  Never thought of myself as a visual artist. I’m a graffiti writer who ended up in jail. Me a visual artist? At an arts camp? I don’t think so. “What does it cost? I don’t have very much money.”

  “Nothing. You’re living with me this summer, and I’m a faculty member.”

  “I still haven’t found out when I have to go to court.”

  “The county attorney said you’d hear something by the end of the week. Remember?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Fine.” She walks out of the room. Back in. “You know your ship can’t come in if you don’t ever send it out in the first place.”

  What the … ?

  She walks out the screen door. Lets it slam behind her.

  Shipping in or out

  Kat told me my ship can’t come in if I don’t send it out.

  How does she know what my ship is?

  Do I even know?

  I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be an artist. I’d even told Kieran that I wanted to be one before I did that stupid shamrock tag. If I want to prove it, then maybe I should go to that camp for artists. Couldn’t hurt.

  But what happens if I figure out what my ship is, I send it out, and it still doesn’t come in? What if I don’t have what it takes to be a visual artist? What if Kat’s only suggesting it because she wants to get me away from graffiti? Or, worse, that I’m her charity case.

  Why does this have to be so confusing?

  Pulling Picasso off the shelf

  Open the book. Back to my favorite painting. Guernica. Horrible. Beautiful. Study what Picasso did. Considered his greatest masterpiece. Picasso painted a piece. What he saw going on around him. Picasso’s very cool mural would fit right in on a wall in my hood.

  Could I ever do something like this? Not really my style. What is?

  Says here that “Picasso’s painting style changed over the period of his life more than any other great artist. He was always trying new and different things.” Always changing things up in his work. Picasso did his thing.

  I want to learn how to do mine. Be brave enough to try different things. Don’t want to just keep doing the same thing. Even Basquiat moved from wall to canvas. Went from tagging to painting.

  At Lake Michigan Academy of Fine Arts maybe I can learn how to paint like Picasso. Maybe get good enough to paint a mural. Something huge like that amazing piece in the alley at home. Learn how to do it right. Create a mural using both spray and brushes? Don’t know.

  Maybe.

  Raising my hand in the witness box

  I’m standing next to the judge.

  “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the county attorney says.

  “I do.”

  “You may be seated. Please state your full name for the record.”

  “Liam Brendan O’Malley.”

  He reads all the details of my crime out loud. I say yes to every question he asks.

  The judge turns toward me. “Do you understand the severity of your actions?”

  “Yes.” And no.

  “Are you willing to make restitution for your crime?” He stares.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I sentence you to repair and repaint the wall you’ve vandalized, complete thirty hours of community service by picking up garbage on Main Street and on the public beach, and serve probation for a period of one year. Probation will begin immediately in Lakeshore and continue in Minneapolis when you return at the end of the summer. I will forward a copy of your sentence parameters to the Juvenile Justice Center in Minneapolis.”

  Nod.

  “If you do not complete your responsibilities, or break the rules of your probation, I will see to it that you spend time in a juvenile detention facility. Do you understand me, young man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Struggling with my decision

  “There are still openings at the camp,” Kat reminds me. “I checked with the director.”

  “Oh.” But I might look like a fool in front of everybody. Would have to be away from Sara every day for two weeks. What happens if I’m not as good as the others? What if I don’t fit in? Not sure I want to take a chance. Gave up on baseball. Something I loved because I felt like a loser. Got to start making some changes. I don’t know what to do.

  Maybe I’m just …

  “You don’t have to let me know today. Soon, though.”

  Basquiat said that all he wanted was to be famous. He could learn to draw later.

  I don’t want to wait until later. I want to learn everything now, while I’m in Lakeshore. Don’t know what’s going to happen when I get back to Minneapolis, but I know I won’t be able to go to an arts camp for free.

  Cleaning up my mess

  Walk to the hardware store. Need to buy supplies. Have to spend most of the summer money Mom gave me. Ordered to clean up my art. Hope Hank’s not here.

  Brass bell clangs when I walk in. Hank’s not at the front counter. Just the woman who works part-time. I walk down the narrow aisle in the middle. Toward the paint supplies. Past the shelves of spray paint.

  Stop.

  New colors. Mediterranean Teal. Sunburst Yellow. Meadow Green. Harbor Blue. Sunrise Red. These would look unbelievable on a huge piece. Sail Blue. Grass Green. Hot Red. Chrome Silver. I could create a very cool piece with—

  “Need a hand with something?” a man’s voice says.

  Jerk around.

  CRRAAAASH. Three cans hit the wood floor.

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  It’s Hank. He picks up the can of Harbor Blue. “I thought that was you, Liam.”

  Great. “Yeah.” I put the others back up on the shelf.

  “Got something that needs painting?”

  “No. Um. I’ve got some other painting supplies to buy.”

  “What’s on your
list?”

  “I’m good.” I nod toward him. “But thanks, Hank.”

  “Let an old man earn his keep, will ya?”

  Hope he doesn’t ask too many questions. “Okay. I need extra-strength paint remover. A wire brush. A bucket for water.”

  “Surface?”

  “What?”

  “Where are you trying to remove paint from?”

  “Concrete. A wall.” Don’t want to lie to him. “One of the walls on the bathhouse at the public beach. I. Umm. I painted a graffiti piece there.”

  “Graffiti, huh?”

  We walk to the back of the store.

  “Let’s see … paint remover.” He bends down to the lowest shelf. “Graffiti’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Wish it weren’t.

  “You don’t strike me as a criminal, Liam.”

  Shrug. “I’m not.”

  He gets the rest of the supplies.

  “Takes a man to admit his mistakes.”

  Nod.

  Walk to the checkout counter.

  “That should do you, then.” Hank shakes my hand. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  “Not in this town.”

  Hank gets it. Smiles.

  Walk two blocks to the public beach. Sunny day. People everywhere. Open my backpack. Take out the vest I’m required to wear. Neon orange with reflective yellow strips. Criminal.

  Stare at my masterpiece. Hope everyone will remember. Even after it’s gone.

  I cover Street Art: Live from the Hood with paint remover.

  Back to an empty white wall.

  Back to boring little Lakeshore.

  Spending time with the locals

  Been hanging out with Sara’s Lakeshore friends when I’m not helping Kat or Hank. A few Chicago guys. Beach volleyball most afternoons. Pickup baseball games at the park.

  Now Sara and I are at a beach party. Sitting around a bonfire. Orange glow of the flames looks cool against the dark sky.

  Two guys walk up carrying a big red cooler. “Refreshments?” Everyone takes a beer.

  Sara stands up. “You want one?”

  A beer? “Umm …”

  “Take a few, man. That graffiti mural you made was more than cool,” one of them says.

  “Thanks.” I knew I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I want to nudge Sara, but I don’t.

  “You’re covered.” Another guy gives me the okay sign. “No one’s going to snitch.”

  Now what am I supposed to do?

  “Take a hard lemonade if you want, dude.” The bottle’s in front of my face. Dad’s voice screams in my head, “Take a drink, ya little girl!” Kieran and I promised each other. Kieran didn’t care.

  I take the bottle. Wait. “Actually, no. I’m on probation.” Hand it back. “I’m good.”

  Sara sits back down. “Yeah, me too.”

  “It’s cool if you want a beer,” I say. Does she drink? “I can’t because of the court thing.”

  “That’s right.” She leans close. “Juvenile delinquent.” Smiles. “I don’t really like the taste anyway.”

  “Oh.”

  She holds my hand. I like Sara. A lot. Want to tell her about the arts camp.

  “How about some weed or something from the family medicine cabinet?” someone says. Don’t know who. I definitely should not be here. Don’t want to spend time in juvie when I go back to Minneapolis.

  “You want to go for a walk, Sara?”

  “Sure.”

  We walk along the beach. Feet in the water.

  “I want to tell you about something.” I hold her hand.

  “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

  “You do?”

  “Liam. I’ve been around summer guys my whole life.”

  “So?”

  “You’re going to tell me that you like hanging out with me, but you’ve got a girlfriend at home, right?”

  Bust out laughing.

  “That’s funny?”

  “No. I’m laughing at me. I don’t have a girlfriend at home.”

  She moves closer to me. “Really?”

  I kiss Sara for the first time. “Really.” She kisses me back.

  I’ll tell her about camp later.

  Enjoying an actual date

  Me and Sara.

  Thanks to some money I made trimming trees for Hank’s friend, I was finally able to ask Sara to a movie.

  Now we’re sitting outside the ice-cream place. Double scoop of raspberry chocolate chip for me. Banana split for her.

  “Hey, what were you going to tell me about the other night?”

  “What?” Love this ice cream.

  “You said you wanted to tell me about something. But then we started making out.”

  I smile.

  “That you remember,” she says. And laughs.

  “How could I forget?” I kiss her. “What do you think of Lake Michigan Academy of Fine Arts?”

  “Nice. Best of the best.”

  I shrug. “Kat told me about a camp there. Not sure I want to go.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She sets her bowl down. “What do you mean?”

  “You should definitely do it, Liam.”

  Gang wannabes walk past. “STB. Don’t forget it, son.” They point at my tag.

  She watches them continue down the sidewalk. “I thought you wanted to be an artist.”

  “Yeah. But I haven’t made my decision about the camp.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Yes, I do. “Because I’m scared.”

  She holds my hand. “Of what?”

  “Not being an artist.”

  Accepting that timing is everything

  I just read this quote by an artist named Jim Hodges:

  “[Picasso] was an artist who was always restless, always putting challenges in front of himself: doing and undoing, building and destroying. I see Picasso … as someone who was phenomenally gifted and never satisfied.”

  That’s the final thing I needed. I’m going to the arts camp.

  Finally tell Kat my decision.

  “I’m glad, Liam.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I need to learn how to paint a mural.

  “I’ll let registration know right away. Camp starts in a week.”

  “Okay.” Hopefully this’ll turn out all right.

  Requesting permission from Mom

  To go to camp. Phone’s ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Fiona. It’s me.”

  “Me who?”

  “Liam.”

  “Oh. Are you still in jail?”

  “No. Is Mom there?” Please let her be home.

  “When did you get out of jail?”

  “Let me talk to Mom.”

  “Just in case you want to know, I’m the only one of my friends who has two brothers who had to go to jail.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s embarrassing. Sheesh.”

  “Fiona?”

  “What? Are you going to apologize for making me embarrassed?” she says.

  “Nope.”

  “What, then?”

  “Put Mom on the phone.”

  “MOM! Liam wants to talk to you. I don’t think he’s in jail this time, but I’m not sure.”

  “Liam?” Mom picks up. “Did something else happen?”

  This is great. “No.” Can hear Fiona laughing hysterically.

  “Just a minute, Liam. Fiona! That’s not funny.” Sighs. “So how are you, honey?”

  “Fine. I was wondering if you’d give me permission to go to the arts camp where Kat teaches.”

  “Arts camp?”

  “Yeah, a camp for kids who are artists. Remember you told me about it?”

  “Yes, I remember the camp. I’m just pleasantly surprised that you want to go.”

  “Kat’s getting me registered. I need your permission.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Free. She’s on the faculty.”

  “Oh. Right.”


  Silence.

  “Mom?”

  “Sure. You have my permission. When is it?”

  “July seventeenth through the thirty-first.”

  “Wow, that’s …”

  “Five days from now.”

  “I’m really happy that you want to go. I know that you’ll do great.”

  “Thanks. Kat said that she’ll call you tomorrow with all the details.”

  “I only work in the afternoon tomorrow. So she can call me in the morning. Wait, I have to go to Kieran’s preliminary hearing in the morning, but I’ll be home for lunch.”

  “What’s going on with Kieran?”

  “Not much. We met with his public defender last week. It’s going to be a while before his actual trial. I guess that’s not bad, though. The Los Crooks guy who pulled the gun on you is already in prison.”

  “Really? How?”

  “He had other outstanding felony warrants. I heard he got a twenty-year sentence.”

  “Oh.” Thank God. Maybe I won’t have nightmares about him anymore.

  “Everything’s okay with you?”

  “I’m good.” Honestly.

  “Did you finish your community service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ve got to get to the garden. Need to get the beans and raspberries picked. Tomatoes, too.”

  “Tomatoes? It’s early.”

  “I know, but the plants are already covered with ripe cherry tomatoes.”

  “Hmmm.” Love those things.

  “At this rate, who knows what’ll be ready to harvest when you get home in August.”

  “Probably the pumpkins.”

  “Right.” She laughs. “I’ll talk to you later, then?”

  “Sure.”

  Hoping to see Sara

  She’s working at the bakery. Bowzer’s sleeping under the tree. Surrounded by a crowd of tourists.

  “Hey, buddy. You’re a great dog.” I scratch behind his ears. Tail thumps on the sidewalk. “I’ve got something to give Sara. Sketched something special for her. I’ll be back out later.”