balance on the seat without his feet touching. It doesn't work very well and every few seconds he grabs the next bike before he falls.
Stick punches my shoulder. "Big D and his gang are leaving. Let's follow."
"What?" I panic. I can't tail Big D. I barely have time to get to the art festival.
"They jumped you this morning. We need to find some dirt on them."
I nod and follow, waiting for a chance to lie and break away.
After standing in the crowded T for half an hour and walking what felt like a mile, I lean against the black iron fence in front of a brick building. "I need a breather. In fact, I don't feel very well. Think I'm going to head home."
They act like I didn't say anything.
"Who would put fake sheep in front of their house in the city? That's stupid," Turbo mocks.
I tilt my head back in front of the tall brick building. I glance at the fake sheep and then my gaze travels up the side of the building. It doesn't quite seem like a lived-in house. Kind of cold and unfriendly. I shiver.
Stick smacks Turbo in the arm. "It's an art museum, dummy. And those aren't sheep. They're lions."
"Art museum? Where's Big D?" I ask.
Dad's words repeat. Only you can help me. Only you can help me.
I think of Ms. Charpetto encouraging me to attend the art festival.
"Chill, loser. They crossed the side street into the park."
Turbo brightens as he glances from the park to the museum. "Maybe they're planning on robbing the museum. Ya know, like a big art heist." He rubs his hands together.
"Dummy. The Gardner was already robbed years ago by the best of the best." Stick's eyes glaze over as he stares at the gray brick walls of the museum. "They never got caught." He shakes off any daydreams. "Big D isn't that smart."
"The Gardner?" My heart rate picks up. I'm at the festival. My dad could be within a hundred feet. Waiting.
Stick nods toward the park. "Let's see why they're stalking a community art show."
The cold truth causes sweat to break out on my forehead as I think about Dad. If I find him, what will I say? Will he remember our meeting? Or will he just hand off more vague advice about what I'm supposed to do?
Stick jabs me with his elbow and rocks his hips back and forth in a grinding motion. "Maybe you'll get a chance to talk to your lover girl, Ms. Charpetto."
I laugh and play off the joke but my thoughts are elsewhere. My arms and legs tremble. Dad could be over there right now among the Rembrandt copies and other amateur artistic attempts. My friends can't be with me. We have to separate.
"Let's split up, cover the park to find Big D, and meet back here."
3:45 p.m.
The park outside of the art museum isn't really a park. More like a bit of grass sprinkled with a few oak trees and benches. But for the city, it might as well as be as large as a football field.
Laughter trickles through the crowd from proud parents and art enthusiasts.
Somewhere in the crowd is Dad.
Maybe he's lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to walk by or maybe he's striding through, hiding behind the program with a hat pulled low on his head.
I lean against a table. My heart pounds and I feel weak all over. My stomach churns and I stifle the urge to vomit.
After several deep breaths, I shuffle down rows and rows of tables lined up on the side of the park closest to the museum. I barely notice the paintings and sculptures, wanting to steer clear of Jetta and Big D.
The sound of popcorn popping rattles my nerves. The smell of fries, hot and crisp, just pulled from the grease turns my stomach. I want to grab the next whiny kid begging for food and shake him. So many people dress in green velvet coats and green wigs. Overkill. All the sounds and smells blend together into a buzz.
Every aisle, a little of the hope drains, leaving behind the familiar bitterness that eats away at the faith I had in Dad.
I search face after face. Nothing. What could Frank have meant? A journey? It's beginning to sound like bullshit.
The artwork blurs and I have no clue which paintings are copies or which ones are famous. Most of them are like the puke painting in Ms. Charpetto's room. The sculptures and the paintings are not of an object, but each artist's interpretation of a feeling, or some shit like that. This must be what Ms. Charpetto will have us do in that art class. Not sure I'm ready for that.
I weave through parents pushing strollers, old ladies jabbering with their cronies, and reporters snapping pictures.
No sign of Dad.
After I walk past another piece of clay twisted into a weird shape, I peer between a pottery bowl and a painting of what looks like the ocean and spot one of Big D's goons. Just ahead.
He walks through the crowds and glances nervously behind him every few seconds. He looks suspicious but I don't care.
"Excuse me, young man." An ancient woman with bluish hair scolds. "Only participants are allowed behind the tables."
"Uh, sorry. Won't happen again." I pass her and squeeze through tables on the other side. The lady complains about today's youth, but I shrug it off. Nothing I haven't heard before.
A high-pitched giggle pierces the air and blood rushes through my veins.
I stop.
I walk the other way, following the sound of the familiar laugh and voice. It leads me through the people like the Pied Piper's song. The crowd pushes back, but I slip through and hide behind another large painting of rainbow-colored swirls.
I peek around the corner.
Jetta stands next to the puke painting from Ms. Charpetto's room. It's hers. The painting I mocked this morning. She chats with an older student. Her red bow has been straightened and her hair brushed.
I watch, entranced. Hope sparkles in her eyes. She twists her hands in excitement. Her pink lips twitch nervously. She flashes a shy smile at compliments. Jetta is her own art form. Except I can't frame her and put her on the wall of the coffee shop. Someone like Jetta can't be contained.
I plug my nose at the first smell of expensive perfume. An older woman with a bushy fur around her neck and a chest like a bulldozer pushes past with the air of a billionaire, or at least a millionaire. She strides across the aisle between the tables, the crowds miraculously parting for her.
Jetta's about ten feet away when my neck prickles.
The woman reminds me of a shark, nosing its way through the murky waters in search of a kill, sniffing for blood.
One man with a Red Sox cap steps boldly out from the crowds. He stops in front of the shark.
"Good afternoon, Alfred." The woman speaks with a sharp, in-charge voice. "Out of my way."
The man has guts. His voice is gentle but firm, more like a minnow compared to a shark. "I will not let you do this."
"You have no say in the matter. I've been looking for far too long." She tries to elbow past him, but he stands his ground.
The woman puts her hand behind her back and waves as if motioning to someone. She continues to talk in a quiet voice I can't hear. I search the crowd of green top hats and curly green wigs as two men in crisp black suits stride behind the man and close in on Jetta.
In that instant I know they're there for her. She's in trouble.
My gut commands me to act. The man with the Red Sox cap is oblivious to the whole thing. Usually, my gut is reliable. I know when to stop teasing Stick. I know when to leave Mom alone in her room and not bug her for money. And when walking the streets, I know when Big D is lurking. Except for this morning when I was too distracted by Jetta's smile and fluttering eyes to listen to my gut.
I flash back to her pink lips and the spark that sets my blood on fire. The fierce loyalty in her eyes as she protected me, her first friend in Southie. Her intoxicating smell that makes me want to stack the wall around my heart higher but at the same time inspires me to kiss her.
I rush toward her, but a flock of older women cross my path like a gaggle of geese. They preen their hair and flap
their arms. They snap pictures of almost every piece of art and painting; and laugh and talk loud enough for the whole park to hear.
"Jetta!" The buzz of the crowd swallows my cry. I might be mistaken. The men in black might've been closing in on a priceless painting, and the rich lady is just a stupid art collector. I dodge a toddler and dart around the old cronies.
On the other side, the men in black are nowhere to be seen.
And Jetta is gone.
4:30 p.m.
Jetta just laughed and smiled without a care in the world. Now the space is empty.
The other art students are caught up in talking with their parents and posing for pictures. Their smiles proving they didn't witness a thing. Her painting stands alone, the swirl of colors representing the panic that fills my throat.
On rubber legs, I stumble into the scene. The scent of peaches tickles the air with her presence. I whirl in all directions but can't see anyone suspicious.
Doubt niggles in the back of my thoughts, trying to shame me. That I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Because I fell for a girl during the time it takes to walk to school, because I felt things I hadn't felt in months, because I allowed myself to care, I must be punished somehow. I'm not allowed to be happy. So now I'm concocting the worst-case scenario. Jetta has probably gone to the bathroom and she'll return any moment and we'll laugh over my stupidity.
Seconds pass. Each moment a long extended pause in my life.
I fall to my knees and run my fingers across the ripped up grass. I trace the fresh impressions of a man's shoe. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of red. Intricate designs