Wanted Page 17

  “Apparently you’ve missed the end, when they catch the bad guys. Or didn’t you pay attention to that part of each show?”

  “But we’re not bad guys.”

  “So there’ll be some kind of karmic CSI slipup because, hey, we’ve got a purpose? We’re doing this to benefit the community, to make death mean something, to get back at the bullies?”

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Josh’s cheeks get flushed when he talks about this. I get it. He thinks his dad killed Mrs. Mendez.

  I scan the Nevada Appeal Josh brought over.

  Has Carson City Become the Land of Vigilante Justice?

  Anonymous Donation to Clinica Olé Covers Costs of Lost Vaccinations

  “Hey. That’s nice.” I point to the Clinica Olé article and skim the rest of the paper. “Do you think somebody saw us?” I show it to Josh.

  “We’ve done three robberies and used Babylonia each time, right? How come the Nevada Appeal doesn’t write about the manifesto?” Josh asks, raising his eyebrow.

  I shrug. “I dunno.”

  Josh smiles. “Think about it. Because the people know why they were robbed, those aristocratic assholes. They know. They’re not going to report all the details. It’s the perfect crime, Michal.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re cleaning up after us. But how did Seth know we left a manifesto?” He taps PB & J.

  “I, um, sent it to him.”

  “You sent it to him?”

  I nod.

  “Don’t you think we should talk about this stuff?” Josh asks.

  “I know. I just got all excited about it when I couldn’t sleep at three in the morning or something and wanted to make sure somebody read it, so that there wouldn’t be any doubt.”

  “We can’t stop now.” Josh taps the list. “All these people are total hypocrites. This guy”—Josh points to our next target—“is easy. He does work for half the homes around here—cash jobs. He’s the type to have his cash strewn all over the house before his Friday payday.”

  “And if there’s no cash all over the house?”

  “There’s always gonna be cash—something worth our time.” He pulls himself up from my lap and faces me. “Look at what we’re doing. We’re becoming something big. Magnificent.”

  I feel blood rushing through my veins, feeling the prickle of immortality. Forever. It scares me because what comes after is emptiness and doubt. “I need to work out the odds. It’s what I do. I need to know that we won’t get caught.”

  “The payoff is worth the risk,” Josh says. “Calculated risks. Like placing bets. We’ve studied the targets. We won’t lose.”

  How can anybody be so sure?

  Chapter 31

  I COULDN’T WAIT FOR TODAY,

  and now my hands feel sticky-hot in the surgical gloves. We crouch around the corner of the house and listen to round seven.

  “I’m not going to go. Like, why should I go to some stuffy, horrible cocktail party with you?” The daughter’s voice is screechy, whiny.

  “I’m not going to say it again. Get in the car!”

  “I hate you!”

  The front door swings open and slams shut. I count four bodies going to the car, one sobbing. I hold up four fingers. Josh nods and we push ourselves against the cool brick of the house. I keep telling myself we’re invisible. Nobody can see us.

  The car pulls out of the driveway, its red brake lights blinking at the end of the street.

  “Okay,” I mouth.

  Josh nods and throws the raw steak over the fence. We listen for the dog, a deep growl lodged in its throat until it sees the meat. He downs the meat, whimpers a little, then is silent. We peek over the fence. The dog’s tongue lolls out the side of his mouth.

  “You didn’t kill it, did you?” Josh asks.

  I shake my head. “I hope not. Benadryl. Half a bottle.”

  We climb into the yard. This place is a dump, a breeding ground for crabgrass and tumbleweeds on steroids. I stop and stand over the dog for a second, just to watch his chest move up and down, up and down. “He’s alive,” I say.

  “Half a bottle? A little heavy-handed.”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  The kitchen window above the sink, like always, is open. Josh punches open the screen and climbs in. I grab his hand, and he yanks me in; the sill wedges in my gut. I muffle a moan.

  We replace the screen—a small tear in the corner the only trace of how we got in.

  We search through desk drawers, kitchen drawers, cabinets, and closets. We creep upstairs. I tap my watch and hold up ten fingers.

  Josh shakes his head. Fifteen.

  “Hurry,” I say.

  I look in every single drawer upstairs. Josh goes for the closets. I join him, holding shoes upside down, looking for money, sweeping away at some cobwebs in the very back corner of the master closet.

  “Good idea,” Josh says, rummaging around the piles of shoes on the bottom of the closet floor. “Payday.” Josh holds up a wad of bills that were shoved into the toe of the rankest-smelling cowboy boots I’ve ever encountered.

  A door downstairs closes so hard the windows rattle. A girl is yelling, “I told you I didn’t want to go! I’m not ever coming out of my room.”

  We listen as she runs upstairs, slamming her bedroom door, cranking up music on her stereo. Prepubescent teens with overgelled hair fill the air singing “Vampire Kiss and Tell.” Doesn’t anybody listen to Johnny Cash anymore?

  I think I hear a car drive away.

  My back is pressed against the closet wall behind a sea of flannel shirts. Over the music, the only thing I can hear is the thrum of my heart. My rib cage feels like it’s pushing against my heart, squeezing it between pulses and throbs. We pull our masks on over our faces.

  We’re going to get caught.

  They’ll call in snipers and SWAT and shoot us down because of some adolescent kid and a tantrum.

  I try to sift through my thoughts—other than the ones of my impending incarceration—to get hold of the situation. What’s the best way to work the odds to get out of this mess that doesn’t include taking a hostage and getting on Interpol?

  Run like bloody hell.

  Note to self: work out.

  Sweat stings my eyes. I wipe my brow and blow upward, trying to de-steam. Josh puts his finger to his lips and peeks his head out. Light spills from under her bedroom door. The rest of the house is dark, except for a dim light coming from downstairs. Josh points to his eyes and points downstairs.

  Stay in your room. Stay in your room. Stay in your room.

  No one else is home.

  Josh spray-paints BABYLONIA on the wall. I tape the manifesto on the door.

  I listen for the girl upstairs, trying to detect any movement, but can only hear the refrain “Vampire kiss and forever love, bite and oooo-oooo.” The music is muted behind closed doors, then floods the entire house in a screechy, high-pitched frenzy. I realize she’s opened her door.

  I hear the creak of hinges and hiccupy sob-talk. “She’s ju-ju-just a giant premenstrual u-u-u-unit. And he’s a swollen pros-sta-a-ate with a ne-ne-necktie.” Hiccup.

  I grab Josh’s hand and tug at it. We rush from the house to the garage. There’s a tiny broken window above the tool bench.

  Does Josh have absolutely no dimensional perspective?

  I point to my ass, then the window, and throw my hands in the air.

  Josh shakes his head, nodding toward the door.

  “Oh.”

  “After you,” he mouths, and we step into the night. We close the door behind us, making sure it’s locked just as we hear the screaming.

  Hiding their shame. Our greatest ally.

  Chapter 32

  Sanctuary 6:30 Schat’s

  I CHECK MY COMPUTER.

  Nice. Text sent. Same with preprogrammed tweets.

  Alibi in place.

  I’m seventeen years old and worried about having a solid alibi. Breaking curfew doe
sn’t seem like a big deal anymore.

  There’s something powerful about being the person nobody expects me to be. Most Likely to Stage a Heist isn’t a yearbook category. Should be. Though I’d never qualify. And it makes me wonder if everybody’s just a shell hiding the real deal. If that’s the case, maybe Nim has a shot at becoming a decent human being one day.

  Maybe Moch, too.

  Lillian left me a note: At clinic. Dinner in fridge.

  I can’t stomach the cementlike mac ’n’ cheese. I want to go to Moch’s house and eat an enchilada, a tamale—something with color and flavor. But seeing a frozen dinner at Moch’s house again would depress me too much. I eat an apple and lie in bed, listening to the drip drip drip of the bathroom faucet. I finally put the margarine tub in the sink. The sound is different—less pingy. Familiar. At first the water splats against the plastic, but then as the tub fills, the sound becomes muted and soft.

  I replay everything about the past night—the sounds and smells, reliving the feeling, a sense of euphoria, like my brain is screaming. Like I’m really alive.

  I look at the time.

  Three o’clock.

  I download “Vampire Kiss and Tell” from iTunes.

  I think I’m going crazy.

  Lillian knocks on my bedroom door. “Mike. It’s getting late.”

  Six fifteen.

  Crap.

  My curtains have that pinkish, almost daytime, light to them. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t up before the sun. I pull on the cleanest-looking shirt I’ve got and some crumply-soft blue jeans.

  Need to do laundry.

  I get to Schat’s just after six thirty and buy a pint-size cup of coffee, thinking I probably should switch to decaf.

  But that would defeat the purpose.

  Caffeine: legalized speed.

  More come than I expect. A couple take out The Gambler. At first I think they’re morons since we don’t need the ruse, but then I realize it’s part of their ritual. Superstition is as grounded as God—hearsay, but enough to keep you walking the line in case hell is real.

  I open my book and read:

  It was as in a fever that I moved the pile, en bloc, on to the red. Then suddenly I came to myself (though that was the only time during the evening’s play when fear cast its cold spell over me, and showed itself in a trembling of the hands and knees). For with horror I had realised that I MUST win, and that upon that stake there depended all my life.

  “Rouge!” called the croupier. I drew a long breath, and hot shivers went coursing over my body.

  That wakes them up.

  “Okay, guys, March Madness has begun. And this weekend, we’re going to see who fills out the bubble spots. The thirty conference winners are automatically in, as is the season champ for Ivy League. Here’s the list.” I hand them the list of teams. “So we’ve got thirty-four spots up for grabs. Really, though, many of these bubble spots are pretty obvious. I’ve narrowed it down to fifty-three filled spots, leaving eleven teams.”

  I hand out the list of the remaining teams that might make one of the thirty-four bubble spots. “Low payoffs for the twenty-five teams that I see as sure bets. Higher payoffs for the remaining eleven spots. Not too high. Too many variables, especially considering it’s up to a random group of ten people. But it’s something to whet your palates.”

  My team’s there. U-Dub. It’s kind of a long shot, considering their record. But their best player, Alex Gutzman, was out for an injury during their four biggest losses, plus they have seven top-fifty wins away. The Huskies could just pull this off and sneak in.

  And Gutzman’s in his prime.

  I feel the charge of blood rushing to my brain. Zing! It’s not like I’m placing a real bet—one that matters. I could just bet on the Huskies to support my future alma mater, get a solid connection to my future. I calculate how much I should bet.

  “Hey, Mike. You here?” Javier’s handing me his bet and ten bucks. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “It works,” I say. I take zero-period kids’ bets first, then everybody else’s. The crowd trickles to a few. I buy a pecan roll and sit down to eat. My hands tremble.

  “May I?” Marilyn asks, and pulls out a stool next to mine. We haven’t talked much since divisional playoffs, but just sharing that Saturday made things different between us, like saying “hi” in the hallways was normal.

  She’s nice.

  “Would you like some?” I offer her a bite of my pecan roll.

  She covers her mouth. “I’m doing the Keep My Mouth Closed diet.”

  “So that’s why you’re quiet in class, huh?”

  She laughs. “Saturday Sadie, Karen, and I are going shopping. Just hanging out. If you’d like to join us.”

  I wait for the catch—the trade-off. She picks at black nail polish.

  “Um. Yeah. Sure.” I feel lame. So this is how normal friendships begin? Shopping? I laugh.

  “What?” she asks. “Is shopping too normal?”

  “Normal?”

  “Well.” Marilyn lowers her voice. “You’re a bookie. Maybe being normal is boring?”

  “It’s just different.” I turn red. “It’s okay. I mean, that’s not a big deal. I just . . . Never mind.”

  Marilyn smiles. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says.

  “Sure,” I say. What are the odds?

  “What are we doing tomorrow?” Josh asks, pulling some books from his locker. “I can’t believe how much homework I’ve got this weekend.” He comes in closer. “I totally slept through first block.” He flashes me a tardy slip. “Number four. So? Tomorrow—what are we going to do with . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s have a homework day next week.”

  We haven’t decided what to do with our last robbery funds. I’ve been doing a spreadsheet to work out the investment analyses of each place of interest and have narrowed the organizations down to Brain Food, Advocates to End Domestic Violence, and Planned Parenthood. All serve the population we’re hoping to help.

  “So, tomorrow?”

  “I’m going shopping. Girls’ day.” It feels foreign coming out of my mouth. It’s something in my magazines and in every teen movie on the planet. Girls’ day. Like an institution.

  “Can’t you cancel?”

  “Can’t cancel. Shopping calls,” I say.

  “But tonight I’m stuck with some kind of community cocktail thing. We won’t get to hang out.”

  I try not to be dazed by this—this newfound social life. This is what teens do: socialize, make plans, make backup plans, have boyfriends. I hope my cheeks don’t turn crimson—hope Josh doesn’t realize I kind of think of him as a very platonic boyfriend.

  This is lame. A bracelet and larceny don’t constitute a relationship.

  Do they?

  I come back to Josh midsentence. “—schmoozing with some guy who’s running for Congress next term, blah blah blah. It’s a perfect place to spy on our next hit. I bet he’ll be there. You in for tonight, then?”

  “I really really don’t want to go to a party. Plus I have Mrs. Hensler, too. Calculus, Creative Writing, AP Government—Friday-night fun. I’m sorry.”

  “So when can we—” He raises his eyebrows up and looks a lot like the guy from American Psycho.

  I shake my head. “Not for a while. We’ve got to let things cool down.”

  “That’s what they’ll expect. The sooner we hit, the more off guard they’ll be.”

  “It’s just—”

  “We’re doing something. You know how hard it is to get people talking about anything other than themselves?”

  Josh is right.

  It’s a weird itch. I feel like we can be doing more. Making more. Lillian came home the other night gushing about another anonymous donation—enough to cover the stolen vaccinations. And it’s a ripple effect of giving, because after the Nevada Appeal reported about anonymous donations to Lillian’s clinic, it seems all of Carson City now wants to donate. Everybody
’s getting the spirit—wanting to be center stage. But “Anonymous” is getting all the press. “Anonymous” is the one who threw the pebble—more like a boulder, actually.

  Anonymous is Babylonia.

  “Next week,” I say.

  “Talk Sunday?” Josh asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Betting this weekend?” Josh asks.

  “On that I’ll find something trendy, my size? Nope. Not betting on that.”

  “Why do you do that?” Josh asks.

  “What?” I say.

  “Always put yourself down.”

  I shrug and can feel heat rise to my cheeks. “I don’t always put myself down. It’s just a joke.”

  Josh scowls. “Anyway, I’ll call you Sunday. Maybe I can invite you to breakfast? The Cracker Box?”

  “I can do the Cracker Box. I’ve actually always wanted to go. Just never have.”

  The bell for last block is dangerously close to ringing. No classes with Josh today. We’ll have Mrs. B first block on Monday.

  “I have a tuxedo fitting after school.” He pretend-hangs himself from a tie. “Have fun tomorrow,” Josh says, squeezing my hand in his. “I’ll call you!”

  After school, I go to the grocery store and buy some plants, then drive to Moch’s, leaving them on the porch. I bring Sonic Burgers to Lillian. I can’t stomach another just-add-boiling-water meal at home.

  She’s not home, so I leave her burger on a plate in the kitchen and call Leonard.

  “It’s been a while,” he says. I hate how sleazy-dweeb he is. It’s an unsettling combo of traits. “Who do you have your eye on?”

  “Three hundred on U-Dub.”

  “Go Huskies.”

  “Yeah. Go Huskies.”

  That night my heart bursts through my chest watching Gutzman make a miracle jump shot at the final buzzer. I collapse on the couch, letting the relief wash over me. My phone beeps:

  Josh: Dying here at this cocktail party.

  Me: Drama Queen. You’re eating foie gras and drinking bubbly bevs.

  Josh: Foie gras? The most expensive cat food on earth. Pass.