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and a bunch of other stuff. So considering a guy like
him
, it would be harder to justify sending me away to, like, a boy’s home or something. Man, if that happened, I would’ve left. I would have gotten out of town as fast as I could because they’d kill me in a place like that. The Dekker kind of kids? They’re scary.
    Besides, this was my
life
. I had plans, things I was supposed to be doing. I had my eye on art school; I mean, when I did
art
-art, it was pretty good, and something about the idea of painting like Rembrandt and Velazquez and Caravaggio excited me. The way they used chiaroscuro, all those inky shadows and sudden light and drawing in the dark, was a language I understood. And Dali or Picasso: I wanted to understand how they
drew
out what they painted as a person or watch. For me, when the painting was going well, it’s like I said: There was this click in my head, like someone had thrown a switch somewhere and all of a sudden, I was on this different plane of existence. I know that sounds crazy, but I’ve read books about artists and writers and composers, and they all say the same thing: how when you’re creative, your brain works differently. My science teacher called it an altered state of consciousness, right-brain thinking. Something like that.
    Anyway, when all was said and done at court, my punishment came down to community service and reparations. Which was a legal way of saying I had to repair the damage I’d done—repaint that side of the barn. My community service wasn’t bad, just working in the old-age home twice a week. Except the judge slapped me for eight hundred hours total, or some ridiculous number that would take me until past New Year’s to finish. But still, it could’ve been worse. I didn’t mind being around old people. The ones who remembered things were pretty interesting, actually, and I’d never had grandparents, so it was okay.
    And I had to see a shrink too. Twice a week. So I guess maybe the test results weren’t too good.
    I figured that between the work on the barn, the community service, the shrink, and school, they were out to make sure I didn’t have too much downtime.
    The thing was, I’d done Eisenmann’s barn in my
sleep
. Considering how my dreams had been going lately, I wasn’t too sure they could put the genie back into that particular bottle.

IV

    Saturday. Another dog day scorcher. I started on the barn. Sometime between Wednesday and then, Eisenmann had gotten a bunch of scaffolding put up.
    “That’s pretty high.” Uncle Hank had sent Deputy Brandt with me because, technically, I was supposed to do this under the supervision of the court. Being a deputy, Justin Brandt filled the bill, and he’d volunteered. He was another one of the adults in town who didn’t hold with the way everyone else felt about me, but that might’ve been because he wasn’t all that much older than me. Aunt Jean had kind of adopted him when his father got disabled in a foundry accident.
    Wrapping his fist around one of the scaffold supports, Justin gave it a good shake, grunted when nothing came crashing down. “Seems sturdy enough. You should be okay.”
    “Oh sure. Heights don’t bother me.” I lied.
    Justin hooked his thumbs in his utility belt. “Why Eisenmann doesn’t just tear down this old place, I don’t know. The idea of making you scrape off red paint so you can paint the barn over in another color red . . . that’s just plain mean.”
    That was an understatement. Before I could scrape anything off, I had to brush on an acid-based softener. Otherwise, I’d be chipping out wood. The softener didn’t stink, but it would burn something fierce, so I also had to gear up in these coveralls and wear gloves and goggles, like those hazmat guys. Let the softener get to work, and then scrape off the paint without taking half the wood with me. I’d be lucky not to end up a puddle of grease on account of the heat.
    Justin said, “Man, I’d like to help