Free Marked by Norah McClintock

chapter one
    It all started when I ran into Dave Marsh, a youth worker who was assigned to me the last time I was in trouble. I kind of got the shakes when I saw him. He is one of those dead-serious guys who can look you in the eye and know that you’re hiding something from him. He can also tell what it is you don’t want him to know. I saw him coming out of a store down the block, and I immediately turned to walk in the other direction. I wasn’t afraid of him or anything.It’s just that, well, I didn’t want to talk to him, given how most of our conversations had gone in the past.
    I was half-turned around when I heard his booming voice call my name, “Colin Watson.”
    It was as if he had called out “Freeze!” Because that’s what I did. I froze. Then I took a deep breath and turned to face him.
    The next thing I knew, he was looking me over like he was a drill sergeant and I was some messed-up grunt recruit. Or maybe he was checking me out for stolen goods. But all I had in my hand was a small bag from an art supply store.
    â€œAre you trying to avoid me, Colin?” he said.
    See what I mean? He nailed it just like that.
    â€œNo, I just—” I didn’t know what to say. I never know what to say when I get surprised like that. Dave used to tell me that this was my saving grace—the fact that I’m not quick on my feet. I’m not a bad liar—it’s more likeI can’t come up with a lie in the first place. Dave said that meant I wasn’t cut out to be a bad guy. Maybe that was supposed to make me feel better. But, mostly, it made me feel like an idiot.
    â€œStill drawing, I see,” he said, looking at the bag from the art supply store and at the pencil sticking out of my shirt pocket. He never missed a thing.
    â€œA little sketching, yeah,” I said with a shrug. I like to draw. I like it a lot. The past year I’d even had a half-decent art teacher who said nice things about my stuff and gave me lots of tips and pointers. She said I had a good eye. It was the best compliment I’d ever received.
    â€œYou got a job lined up for the summer?” Every youth worker I ever met was big on kids having jobs. Jobs teach responsibility. They’re a positive way to spend your spare time. They give you money so maybe you won’t go out and shoplift like I used to.
    â€œI’m looking,” I said. It was sort of true. I
was
looking. But I hadn’t put in any applications yet. I didn’t want to work at afast-food joint or be a clerk in some stupid store. I wanted to do something interesting. Preferably something outdoors.
    His sharp eyes drilled into me. Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to give me a lecture about getting out there with my résumé.
    But guess what? He didn’t.
    â€œI heard about someone who is hiring kids for the summer. It made me think of you. In fact, I was planning to look up your phone number on Monday when I got into the office so that I could call you and tell you about it.”
    I was so surprised that I almost fell over. I mean, I hadn’t seen this guy in eight or nine months. And it wasn’t like we were friends or anything. I was just another screwed-up kid, and it had been his job to straighten me out. But here he was, telling me that he had been thinking of calling me and doing me a favor, when he wasn’t being paid to help me anymore.
    â€œIt’s sort of in your interest area,” he said. “It’s art-related—although noteveryone would agree. A couple of the utility companies have been hiring kids to clean up graffiti on utility poles. It pays minimum wage, but it’s an outside job. The thing is—”
    Here it comes, I thought. The catch.
    â€œThere’s minimum supervision involved,” he said. “Which means it isn’t right for most of the kids I work with.”
    And this is where he surprised me