It felt as though the sound of glass shattering and the gun firing on the poorly painted plywood echoed throughout the darkened neighborhood. I could see all the colors drip down the chipped paint and dribble into the grass, and I saw the light turn on. I heard a voice behind me. “Run.”


The hood of the gray sweatshirt I was wearing fell back with the wind to reveal my long fiery hair. “RED! Hey Red!” I heard Mr. Jenkins yell hoarsely to my back.
I started to turn my head when something caught my wrist. Toby.
“Don’t look back,” he said, his voice strained. “Don’t look back.”


The team congratulated us on our success. Some success. Toby handed them the photos of the ruined house. They handed me the pictures of my shabby house and promised they’d keep their mouths shut about my ‘verge of homelessness’. At least that was out of the way. Toby looked at his feet almost the entire time. At the very end, when everything was almost quite he said, “I feel terrible.” He’s not the only one. I feel so guilty about it; I saw Mr. Jenkins trying to scrub the paintball stains off his house on the bus this morning. Some success.


I volunteered to help re-paint Mr. Jenkins house. He posted a sign-up sheet on the bulletin board in the hallway. Only six signed up, two of them are Toby and me. The rest are from The Active Helpers club or delinquents trying for some extra credit.


We painted the house on a Saturday, pretty sky blue, not the gross greyish-yellow he had before. Toby painted a pretty flower design on my hand during lunch break on Mr. Jenkins lawn while the delinquents smoked and the clubbers searched for weeds to exile from the grass. Toby uses such delicate hands when he paints.


When we finished painting, Mr. Jenkins called Toby and me out from the rest of the group. “Toby, Lauren,” he said looking at each of us. “I know that the rest of the people here came to up their grades or to get praise, but you two came here today out your own good will.”

“You know that I can’t do things like this anymore,” he said gesturing to the wet paint. “And that I have trouble socializing sometimes. But you signed up and, well, um… , I guess I’m just trying to say thank you.”

And then Mr. Theodore Jenkins did something he never does. He smiled. It was a warm smile filled with happiness and gratitude that lifted up his face and made him look at least ten years younger. It was beautiful.


I felt something then, and I know Toby felt it too because he started to open his mouth to speak. But I was quicker, “Really, it was nothing Mr. J. If you have any more problems, please, let us know.” Then I turned and walked away. When I got to the green Honda that my rich Uncle gave me for my 15th birthday, the only support he’s ever given our family, I spun around and said “Toby, you coming?”


“Why didn’t you let me tell him that we were the ones who vandalized his house?” Toby asked me in the car ride home.

“Because if you told him, I would have started crying.” I said not taking my eyes off the road.

“Oh.”


Later, my dad would ask me how the painting went. I would tell him that it went well and that Mr. Jenkins thanked us and we went on our way. I know that this isn’t a big deal, that I shouldn’t be reacting this much. But the fact that I took advantage of a helpless old man with a sick wife made me feel like I was punched in the stomach. The only thing that made that feeling go away was Toby, because he felt that way too.


I went to visit Mrs. J on a Sunday, when Mr. J was in church. I brought her a bouquet of wildflowers, all different shades of purple. I put them a little vase next to her hospital bed. I sat there, and I talked to her. I talked about school and what was going on at home. I told her about what a pretty color her house is now and how I couldn’t wait for her to see it. But when I looked at her hollow, sleeping face. I thought that she was a person who deserved to know.

“I broke your windows and I shot paintballs at your house. I vandalized your home even though I knew that neither you nor Mr. Jenkins are fit to fix it, all because of some stupid dare made by my so-called friends. And - and I’m sorry.” I sat there for a while until I couldn’t stand to sit there any longer.

Then I got up and left. I drove home and staggered through the front door and into my room.

And I cried.

I cried for all the things I’ve done and have been made to do. I cried for Toby and his never-ending guilt. But most of all I cried for Theodore and Sara Jenkins. I cried for Sara and her cancer and Mr. J for his sadness. Then it was over. I had nothing left to cry for. I made a decision.


When I told Mr. Jenkins that it was me who vandalized his house, I never mentioned Toby. And I’m glad I didn’t because I don’t ever want Toby to see the look that Mr. J gave me then. It wasn’t angry or hateful; it was a look of disappointment.

“That’s all I needed to say, Sir,” I said, and walked out.


I was called to the principal's office later that day. Lauren Straughtner please report to the principal's office immediately. Lauren Straughtner please report to the principal's office immediately. Everyone was looking at me.


The chair was not particularly comfortable. It was hard and plastic, mostly everything in the principal’s office was, and it smelled like laundry detergent and bug spray. The principal was a slight woman, with short-cropped hair and too much make-up surrounding her eyes and mouth.

“I’ve heard,” she said. “That you were the one who violently destroyed, my friend and fellow co-worker, Mr. Jenkins home. Is this true?”

“Yes,” I said. She looked a little taken aback by my forwardness; most students deny everything she says. But she recovered and continued with my interrogation.

“Did you have any accomplices in this act of terror?”


“No,” I said. I’m never going to turn Toby in for an act he barely participated in.


“Are you sure? It takes a lot to fire a paintball gun. I’m not sure a girl like you could do the job.”


“I could fire one right now if you have to see to believe,” I offered.


“I believe you. Now, what drove you to commit such a terrible crime?”


Crime. I committed a felony.


“It was a dare.”


“Do you mind telling me who dared you to ruin an innocent man’s refuge?”


“Yes, I do mind.”


“Oh come now. Your secrets will remain anonymous. Why don’t you just tell me and get over the guilt of selling someone out.” I could tell the principal was starting to crack. You could see a little vein pulsing out of her eye shadow that seemed to extend across her forehead.


“Whoever dared me, is not your concern Ms. Principal.”


Then the principal leaned all the way across her desk and hissed at me in a harsh whisper: “Listen brat, I’m trying to be the nice guy here, but you’re making it really hard for me to do that. I know that high school students are ‘unstable’ and ‘sensitive’ but you just have to let me do my job, okay? Okay.” I could smell the numerous breath mints she’d eaten within the three hours that school’s been going.

Then there was a knock at the door. The principal instantly swung back into control and took a deep breath before she said: “Come in.”


“Ms. Straughtner, your grandfather’s waiting to pick you up in the parking lot,” said the man in the doorway, the janitor I think.

“Thank you Ryan, I’ll have her out in a minute,” said the principal.

Once the janitor was gone, she continued smiling at the door until you could hear him clunking down the steps to the first floor. Then she turned and looked at me and said: “We’ll finish this later,” and I was excused.


My grandfather came to pick me up? First of all, I have my own car. And second of all, both my grandfathers are dead. I was glad he got me out of that disinfected plastic palace, but seriously, who is this guy?


It was Mr. Jenkins. The man who freed me from the principal’s grasp was the very man who got me in.

“Mr. Jenkins, I don’t understand. Why did you do that and how did that janitor think you were my grandpa? You work here!” I stammered.


“He’s new. He doesn’t know everybody in the building yet,” he replied calmly.


“Okay, so then why did you get me out of there?”


“I was enlightened by a concerned student, that you were blackmailed into painting my house.”


“Who told you that? Nobody knows that except for…” Except for Toby.

Mr. Jenkins seemed to wait until I realized who could have possibly spilled out what I had been keeping secret before he talked again.


“I went to the hospital yesterday after church. My wife is sick there you know?” He paused to glance at me from the corner of his eye. “The nurses there told me that there had been another visitor earlier that day. A pretty young girl with bright red hair, they said. She left such a beautiful bouquet by Sara’s bed.
They also said that the girl left in tears.”

“Could have been anyone,” I replied, unwilling to give in.

“My dear Lauren, are you trying to deny your good qualities?”

“What good qualities? I don’t have any.”

“Well for starters, you’re kind, funny, and extremely bright. And I’m sure you’re friend Mr. Toby Ringer could disagree on this one, but from the point of view of an old man, you have excellent eyesight.” I blushed. Toby had urged me many times to get my eyes checked because I failed the eye test he had set up in his room even though he knew I could never afford glasses.
“That’s not a quality.”

“It is in my book.”

“Mr. J, why’re you so being nice to me? This isn’t usually how the victim treats the criminal.”

“Maybe it’s because I don’t view you as a criminal. I never did. Truthfully I was angry at you at first, but when I thought about how you’d repainted my house you probably felt guilty and were looking for a why to forgive yourself.”

As a 17 and-a-half year old, you tend to have a crazy phobia of ending up in The Juvenile Detention Center just before you turn 18 and I realized that this entire time, the only thing I was afraid and ashamed of was that I had turned into a delinquent and was going to end in up jail someday. That I would end up like those pot-smoking bums who helped paint Mr. Jenkins house, only ten times worse.

“Now here’s a tissue, let’s get you cleaned up,” Mr. J said holding out a handkerchief from his pocket. Only then did I noticed that I was crying. I immediately felt embarrassed and took the handkerchief.
“I’ll drive you home-”


“-But my car-”


“-Can wait till morning. I have a feeling that you’ll be getting a visit from your friend Mr. Ringer very soon.”


We didn’t talk on the car ride home. I felt thankful for the silence, I’m not sure I could have handled anymore communication. But when he dropped me at the curb I felt the need to say something more to him.


“Um Mr. J? Thanks, for everything.” He just smiled one of those radiating smiles and drove away in his gray Jeep.


Mr. J was right, Toby did come visit me. Almost directly after school infact. He burst into my room, glasses askew and breathing hard.

“Lauren! I came as fast as I could! I had to drop by at home first to grab something but I’m here now.” His sudden appearance in my doorway was so startling I just started laughing at him, the most I’d laughed in weeks.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Should I hold your hand?” he later asked sitting on my bed.

“What?!”

“Y’know, for mental stability.”

“I’m fine thank you.”

He shrugged, “Your loss.”


“Toby, were you the one who told Mr. Jenkins about my ‘situation’?” I blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer.


“. . .”


I took that as a yes. I reached up and tousled his cocoa-colored hair. “Thanks buddy.” He blushed.
That’s when I noticed the large package Toby had brought with him.

“By the way, what’s in that thing you brought?”

“Oh yeah! I almost forgot!” he said ripping away the paper from the object. “Honestly, I thought that when I got here you’d be in tears so I stopped at home to take this with me. Thought it’d cheer you up.” I gasped.
It was a portrait on canvas. A portrait of me on canvas. I was laughing with a pair of glasses I’d never seen before resting on my head, keeping my hair from blowing in my face. I looked so happy.

“Can I hold your hand?”

“Why?”

“Mental stability. Come on, I’m in a fragile state here. I could break any second,” I warned.

“Fine,” he took my hand, it felt as natural as breathing, like we’d done it a-thousand times.

“Can I keep it?” I whispered.

“Keep what?”

“The painting.”

“Of course you can keep it! That’s what I brought it here for.”

I squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

“Let’s go visit Mrs. J this weekend,” he said suddenly.

“Okay.”

“We can go, just us.”

“Okay.”

“You’re just agreeing with me?”

“Yep, how long can you stay?”

“As long as you like. Why?”

“My mental stability.”

“Geez Straughtner, high-maintenance.” No more words were said that day.

My dad said that’s how he found us a few hours later, sound asleep on my cot, hands entwined. “It was only a matter of time,” he said. Just a matter of time.