“Yeah. Cool.”
“No school baseball team, though.”
“After Saint Al’s I don’t even want to play for a high school anymore.”
“We’ve still got our park team.”
“Yep.”
“Your mom should talk to my mom. Get all the info.”
“I’ll tell her,” I say.
“Hey, what’s up with your brother?”
“Which one?”
“Patrick.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he banging?” Tyrell says.
“What? Why?”
“I saw him down at the corner market. Irish Mafia took over that area. He was standing with that clown, Tommy.”
“He told me he wasn’t with those guys.” I feel like I’m going to vomit. “You sure it was Patrick?”
“Yeah. Wearing a Boston Celtics shirt. Looked like he was a drug runner for the corner boys.”
“What the—?”
“Every time a car would drive up for a buy, Patrick would go get the stuff,” Tyrell says.
“Crap.”
“Tried to talk to him, Liam. He told me to step off.”
“I already got into it with him. We already discussed this mess.”
“Patrick was with Tommy. I’m sure of it.”
“SHITE! I told him to stay away from Irish Mafia.”
“He’s listening, man,” Tyrell says. “Just not to you.”
Wrestling with what to do
How do I keep Patrick out of danger?
Start sprinting up and down the beach.
Why, God? This isn’t fair. Please. I got accepted. Found a place where I belong. Why are you letting all this other crap happen? I’m trying to be a better person. Now this stuff with Patrick. He lied to me. How am I supposed to know what to do? Shouldn’t have to worry about all of this. Please make this go away. Please. Patrick isn’t my responsibility. He’s just my younger brother.
I stop running.
Tug on my holy medal. Rip it off my neck. Throw it as far away as I can. Out into Lake Michigan.
“GO TO HELL!” I throw a handful of wet sand up into the sky.
I was taught that you’re always with us, God. That you never leave us. “WHERE ARE YOU NOW, HUH?” Because you don’t seem to be with Patrick. And I thought you were by my side, but how can you be if you’re not watching over my little brother?
I hate my life. Hate you too right now, God.
Aching all over
From my episode at the beach yesterday. Body feels like I just played a doubleheader. Lost both games. Everything hurts. Especially my heart.
Look around my summer bedroom.
Not the one I share with Patrick and Declan.
Not the one that opens onto a parking lot.
Not the one on the eleventh floor of a project in a big city.
Not the one that Kieran used to share with us.
How long until Declan’s got that room all to himself?
I get out of bed. Walk over to the window. Fog rolling in. Huge dark cloud. Appropriate. Spreading over the big lake. Covering everything. Just like a dirty sponge.
Crap of a day.
Get back in bed. The low moan of the foghorn begins. From the lighthouse. Beam of light shines around my room. No way.
“Are you kidding me?”
Spinning through my mind
Struggling.
Believing.
Fighting.
Realizing.
Resisting.
Leaning.
Agonizing.
Accepting.
Rebelling.
Conforming.
Hating.
Loving.
Knowing what I’m going to do.
Telling Sara
We sit outside the ice-cream place.
“I got accepted to Lake Michigan Academy of Fine Arts.” Still can’t believe it.
She screams. “That’s great.” Hugs me.
“Not really.”
“Why?”
“I can’t stay.”
“Why not?”
“I have to go back to Minneapolis.”
“Liam.”
“Patrick needs me.”
“Your mom. Can’t she take care of Pat—”
“No. It’s not the same,” I say. “And I’m not going to tell her that I got accepted.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want her to know right now. She has no idea of what’s going on with Patrick.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“You can’t. You don’t have any brothers or sisters. You don’t have to deal with the things we do because of where we live.”
“This is your opportunity to get away from there, Liam.”
“I know there’ll be more opportunities for me.”
“Art school is such a great chance.”
“I’m Patrick’s older brother. He matters more than a chance.”
Riding the waves
No use fighting. Let the water take me. Wherever it wants me to go. Like Saint Brendan. He questioned. Was angry with God, too. Went back onto the wild waves. Even though he was scared. He believed he would figure things out. He knew he’d find his way in the storms.
Saint Brendan the Navigator.
Letting Mom know
“I got my letter from Lake Michigan Academy of Fine Arts.”
“Well? Drumroll …”
“I’m not going.”
“What?”
“I didn’t get accepted.” Don’t want her to worry about Patrick.
Silence.
“Mom?”
“Oh, Liam. I can’t believe you didn’t get in.”
“No big deal.” Yes, it is.
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
“I know.”
“Okay. So … umm. Okay,” she says. “Well, school starts soon.”
“Right.” My summer’s almost over.
“And Tyrell’s mom told me about his charter school.”
“Yeah.”
“And there are some other good schools around—”
“I don’t want to talk about schools right now, Mom.”
“I know, honey. But we’ll need to get something—”
“Please, Mom. Just tell Patrick I’ll be back in Minneapolis next week.”
“Okay.” She sighs. “Well, at least you’ll be back in time for your birthday.”
“Yeah.”
“It’ll be nice to have you home.”
Home?
“I love you, Liam.”
“Love you, too.”
Returning library books
“Well, now I know why you were interested in the art books.” Librarian smiles. “Your mural is absolutely beautiful, Liam.”
“Glad you like it.”
“Picasso and Basquiat would both be proud.” She puts her hand out toward me. “Congratulations.”
Shake her hand. “Thank you.”
She picks up The Chocolate War. “So, what’s your opinion?”
“I liked it.”
She nods. “Because …”
“Mostly because Jerry did what he thought was right. Even when he knew it could turn out to be awful.”
Pedaling to the academy
Kat’s Coastie friend let me use his old-school beach bike. I want to take one last look around.
Ride to the top of the hill. Stop. Whole campus in front of me. Sand dunes on both sides. Big lake in front. Old and new buildings situated together. Look left. Behind the outdoor auditorium. There’s the Visual Arts Center. Have to get there.
Fly down the hill. Wind tries to slow me. No. Faster. Pedal faster. Stomp back on the pedals. Slam the brakes. Tire skids across the sidewalk, makes a black line six feet long. Marking my territory.
Main doors are unlocked. Luck of the Irish. Enormous windows let the outside in and the inside out. Pay attention to every detail, O’Malley. Remember. I walk down the long hall. Ceramics. Sculpture. Drawing. M
etals. Digital Arts. Photography. Printmaking. Fibers.
Last studio on the right. “Painting.” Here it is. Chill climbs up my back. Can’t go in. Can’t not go in. Don’t have a choice. This painting studio was mine. I was here. Belonged. I should be coming back. One of these stations was reserved for me. Can’t come back. Remember everything about this place. Look. Smell. Touch. Every detail. Don’t forget anything.
Lake Michigan Academy of Fine Arts was my chance. I took a chance, and they were willing to take a chance. Now it’s ending. Am I making the wrong choice? Doesn’t matter. Have to leave. Now.
Pedal back up the hill. Stop at the top. One last glance? No.
Don’t look back.
Holding Sara’s hand
“I’ll miss you.” Hate this.
She’s crying. “Will you be back next summer?” Smiles through her tears.
“I’m not sure.” My heart’s going to drop out of my body.
“Liam …”
“I know.” I hug her because I mean it.
Stopping by the rose-covered house
“I’m leaving tomorrow, Hank.”
“That’s what I heard.” He pats my back.
I nod.
“Yessir. Sure will be strange not seeing you around this small town.”
“Yeah.”
“You want some lemonade, Liam?”
“Sure.” Not in any hurry.
We sit on his porch. Silence. Watch the boats anchored in the harbor.
“That’d be great to live out there.” I point to my favorite sailboat. “Looks peaceful.”
He rocks in his chair. “Liam, I want you to remember that a ship is safe in harbor—but that’s not what ships are built for.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You will,” Hank says. “You’ve got a good compass, young man.”
Walking a different section of the beach
With Kat. Waiting for the sun to set. Waves pick up. Wash over my footprints. Makes it seem like I never walked in Lakeshore.
“Who’s going to help you move the rest of your new sculpture?” I ask.
“Hmmm … I think I’ll ask my carpenter friend. Remember you met him at dinner?”
“He’s cool.”
Wind picks up. Little kid plays tag with the waves. Back and forth.
“Wish I could see it when it’s finished.”
“Me too.” She smiles. “I’ll send you some photos.”
“Okay.”
The sun’s sinking lower. We sit on the sand. Watch the huge ball of fire disappear into Lake Michigan. Just like my first night in Lakeshore.
“Kat … I …”
She puts her arm around my shoulder. “You have a home here, Liam. If you ever need anything. Or if you change your mind about arts school.”
She knows? I haven’t told her anything about Patrick.
“The admissions office inadvertently told me that you had phoned them to decline the acceptance. Something about a family situation?”
“Yeah. Patrick’s been hanging out with Kieran’s gang. I need to get home to try to help him. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I can’t do anything from here.”
“I have siblings, Liam. I understand.”
“Did you tell my mom that I declined?”
“No. I figured you would let her know when the time is right. I trust your decision.”
“Thank you.” Relieved.
She turns toward me. “I admire your selflessness. You’re a good older brother.”
I nod.
“Keep me posted, okay?”
“Okay.” Can’t do this. Too much happening. Help.
“I love you, Liam. And I’m always here for you.” She holds me close. “Never, ever forget that.”
I cry.
Praying slowly
I think of Saint Brendan’s dying words:
I fear that I shall journey alone, that the way will be dark; I fear the unknown land, the presence my King and the sentence my judge.
I fear my journey, too. Don’t know what’s going to happen in Minneapolis.
Think about all the pieces of Saint Brendan’s life.
He was scared. He went anyway. Didn’t have any choice.
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?
Please be with Patrick until I get home, God.
Tug on my … Crap. Medal’s gone. I pitched it into Lake Michigan.
Please be with me, too.
“Saint Brendan, pray for me.”
Imagining empty walls at home
Think of Minneapolis. Not the worst place in the world. Have to keep looking forward. Focus on my art. Check out that graffiti-mentoring opportunity. Try to convince someone to let me paint a mural somewhere at home, too. Something that reflects my aesthetic. Maybe something influenced by the work of Diego Rivera. Use spray paint if I want.
Get inspiration from my hood. Create my own thing. Not cubism. Not something that hangs on a wall in a museum. Just ordinary, everyday life. Things that happen all the time in the projects. Good and bad. Beautiful and ugly.
Social Realism.
Created by someone who knows what’s real.
A street artist who’s tired of being tagged by everyone who doesn’t know him.
Hoping for a fresh canvas.
Holding pattern over Minneapolis
Plane’s circling around downtown. Can’t land just yet. Close my blackbook. Nothing but skyscrapers down there. Same buildings Tyrell, Sean, and I see from the roof of the JFKs. Target Field right below the plane. Twins are playing. Afternoon game against the Red Sox.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now flying over Minneapolis. The captain has turned the seatbelt signs back on. We are in our final descent and will be landing shortly.”
Gliding over the chain of city lakes. They look more like ponds to me now. People everywhere. Skateboarding. Rollerblading. Swimming. Walking. Running. Biking. Some trees. Some sand.
No lighthouses.
Coming back to my hood. Lots more concrete. Parks.Projects. People. All thrown together in a heap.
Big city. Big projects. Small lakes.
Different from Lakeshore, but it’s the place I know by heart.
Following my compass
I’m back where I belong.
Walking through the airport. Surrounded by a huge crowd. Energy vibrating through my feet. Feels good. Down the escalator to luggage claim. What now?
“LIAM!” The O’Malley family greets me. Declan’s jumping up and down. Fiona’s making weird faces. Mom’s waving. Patrick stands behind the group.
He looks okay. Not wearing any Irish Mafia crap.
Hugs from Mom and the little kids.
Homie hug for Patrick. He seems taller. But still has to look up to me. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.” He cracks his knuckle. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks.” Grab my Crusaders baseball duffel bag.
“Liam! Liam! Here’s my brachiosaurus.” Declan shoves it in my face.
“Very cool.”
“Hey!” Fiona jabs her finger into my chest. She reads the logo on my shirt. “What’s Lake Michigan Academy of Fine Arts?”
“A place I went this summer. An arts camp.”
“Are you an artist or something?” She stares.
I smile. Am I an artist? “Yes.”
“That’s a lot better than being a prisoner, sheesh!”
Same ol’ shit.
“Oh, before I forget.” Mom pulls a brochure out of her purse. “Take a look at this.”
There are awesome designs on the cover. Great colors. “Minneapolis Fine Arts High School?” I look at Mom. “In Minneapolis?”
“Downtown. And registration is still open for this year.”
Nod. Don’t know what to say. “Ummm …”
“We can schedule a meeting and a tour if yo
u think you’re interested.”
“Okay, but …”
“Mom!” Fiona interrupts. “Declan made his dinosaur bite me.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“We can talk about it later.” Mom pats my back. “I’ve got to get you four home, and then I have to be at Kieran’s pre-trial hearing by three thirty.”
I follow my family out the doors. Fiona and Declan argue about who saw me first. Mom searches for the keys to the minivan. Patrick’s three steps in front of me. My kid brother. I match his stride. Step for step. I have his back. It feels good to be home.
I think.
I hope.
From Lakeshore to Minneapolis in the blink of an eye. Was it a dream? Back to my hood. JFKs. Back to not knowing what’s around the corner. Back to being with my family. My friends.
This is my real life. What next?
Empty walls are waiting to see what I have to say.
Acknowledgments
Monumental thanks to my editor, Julie Bliven, for passing me the ball again and again until I finally made the winning shot. You, and your assists, are the best. I dig you like an old soul record!
Colossal thanks to my agent, Joan Paquette, for believing in all my work and for finding the perfect home for Liam’s story. I’m so happy you’re in my corner. You’re a gem!
Heartfelt gratitude for the part each of you have played in making my dream come true: Megan C. Atwood, Marsha Wilson Chall, Francine Conley, Sue Ellen Cooper, Karen Bonnici Czarnik, Cecilia Konchar Farr, Antonia Felix, Pamela Fletcher, Paula Foreman, Kristin Gallagher, Molly Beth Griffin, Hamline University’s MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults and MA in Liberal Studies programs, Gay Herzberg, Carol Hodgkin, Kristin Hoefling, Ron Koertge, Debbie Kovacs, Laurel Learmonth, Mary Logue, Magers & Quinn Booksellers, Waive McDonald, Minneapolis street artists, Claire Rudolf Murphy, Don Nelson, Lon Otto, Joy Lehto Paeth, Penelope Phelps, Laurie Pickett, Marie Prsynski, Marsha Qualey, Nicole Rasmussen, Mary Rockcastle, Saint Catherine University, Anita Silvey, Sojourner Project (Holly and Rachel), Caren Stelson, Lennon Sundance, Betsy Thomas, Pamela Trier, Anne Ursu, Jody Van Riper, Western Michigan University, Walker Art Center (especially my fellow gallery guards), Tina Wexler, Leslie Keeley White, and Wild Rumpus Books for Young Readers.
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