The Life and Crimes of Bernetta Wallflower

by Lisa Graff

  “I told you, I want to ask you a question,” he replied. He gripped the windowsill with his right hand and began hoisting himself inside the room.

  “If you move one inch closer,” Bernetta said, “I’m going to scream.”

  “No, you won’t,” Gabe told her, slinging a leg over the sill. “If you were going to scream, you would have done it already.”

  “How do you know?”

  He shrugged as he slid the other leg into the room. “I’m good at reading people. I’m like Bill Pullman in Zero Effect.”

  Bernetta squinted her eyes at him. “What do you want?”

  He was all the way in her room now, sitting on the edge of the windowsill. Bernetta had her hand on her doorknob, ready to bolt if he came any closer.

  “I was thinking about that night at the dinner club,” he said. “When you took my watch? You were good. Real good. You must have lightning hands or something.”

  “That’s not a question,” Bernetta said.

  He scratched his head. “Yeah, well, anyway, I wanted to talk to you after the show, but then you fell and everything, and—”

  Bernetta was not going to give him another chance to talk about her tailbone. “Did you follow me here? Have you been sitting in that tree since I got home?” Bernetta’s mind raced, trying to remember everything she’d done in the past few hours. Had she done anything horribly embarrassing, like talk to herself or pick at her sunburn?

  Gabe shook his head. “Nah, I just got here a few minutes ago.”

  “But then how did you know where I—”

  Gabe produced a wallet from his back pocket and grinned. He was obviously very proud of himself. “The address is on your sister’s driver’s license,” he said. He tossed the wallet across the room, right at Bernetta’s feet.

  “You stole my sister’s wallet?” Bernetta didn’t make a move to retrieve it. Her hand was still firmly gripping the doorknob. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Gabe shook his head. “No, don’t worry! I didn’t take anything. I didn’t . . . I just wanted to see where you lived, that’s all.” He shrugged. “She probably hasn’t even noticed it’s missing yet.”

  “But why did you want my address?”

  “ ’Cause I have a business proposition for you.”

  “A what?”

  “See, I had this idea. . . .” He dug the toe of his sneaker into Bernetta’s carpet as he spoke. “I think we should be partners. Actually, I know we should. I saw you at that club, and I just knew it.”

  “Partners?”

  “Yeah, you know, like Bonnie and Clyde? It’d be perfect! Anyway, I wanted to talk to you after the show, but I didn’t ever get to, so I thought maybe that was that. But then I saw you today at the music store, and it was, you know, a sign. Just like in Close Encounters of the Third Kind when Richard Dreyfuss makes that mountain out of mashed potatoes, and then later he figures out he has to go to Wyoming.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look, I need a partner, and you need nine thousand dollars. It’s totally a sign.”

  “A partner?” Bernetta squinted at him. “Bonnie and Clyde? Didn’t Bonnie and Clyde rob banks?”

  He rolled his eyes. “We’re not gonna rob banks. Jeez, you think I’m crazy?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Just let me explain what I—”

  “I’m not going to steal anything, all right? So you should just go home right now.” Chocolate bar eyes or not, this kid was bonkers.

  Gabe shook his head. “But we won’t be stealing.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s your great plan then? Worm farming?”

  “No,” he said. “We’ll be confidence men.”

  “What men?”

  “You know, grifters.”

  “What?”

  “Con artists,” he said. “You know, like in The Sting.”

  “The Sting?”

  “Yeah. Have you seen it? It’s probably one of the top ten best movies of all—”

  “What is wrong with you?” Bernetta said again. “I know what con artists are, okay? They steal money. And I told you already, I’m not stealing anything.”

  Gabe’s brown eyes lit up with excitement. “But that’s just it,” he said. “It’s not stealing. Not really. It’s their job.”

  “What’s their job?”

  “They’re tricksters. Hustlers, right? But they’re not thieves.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what’s the difference?”

  “See, thieves take money. But con artists, they get people to hand it to them.”

  Bernetta narrowed her eyes at him. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Oh, come on,” Gabe said. “We’d be perfect together. I want to get into the confidence business, and you need a ton of cash by the end of the summer. I don’t know why you need it, but nine thousand dollars for a con artist is practically nothing. We could make double that in two months.”

  “Why don’t you go con people by yourself then?”

  Gabe shook his head. “Nah. A con artist has to have a partner. Nine Queens, Matchstick Men. Even Paper Moon. It just doesn’t work by yourself.”

  “I really will scream, you know.”

  “Just think about it. I’ll give you a day. Meet me at the Championship Mall Tuesday morning when you change your mind.”

  “Good night,” Bernetta told him.

  “Nine A.M.,” he said. “Food court. See you then!” And he slipped like a serpent back into the tree.

  7

  IMPOSSIBLE KNOT n: an effect in which a magician ties a knot in a scarf or rope without ever removing either hand from the object

  Elsa had said to lie low, and she was probably right. Elsa was almost always right. But Monday afternoon after their dad left for rehearsal, their mother had bustled Colin off to a dentist’s appointment, and Elsa was away at a friend’s house, Bernetta knew what she had to do. And it did not, unfortunately, involve lying low.

  She slipped a five-dollar bill from her desk drawer into the front pocket of her shorts and headed downstairs and out the door. Then, with a quick look to the right and left for potentially snoopy neighbors, she whipped one leg over her bike and pedaled off at top speed down the street.

  That Gabe kid was an idiot, Bernetta thought as the wind whistled past her ears. She was not going to steal. There were other ways to make nine thousand dollars.

  She screeched to a halt in front of the ReadyMart and parked her bike outside. Then she strolled through the automatic doors—confident, like she owned the place—and walked right up to the counter.

  “One five-dollar quick pick, please,” she told the man, slapping the bill on the countertop.

  He scrutinized her from under thick tufts of gray hair. He seemed to be trying to figure out exactly how much trouble Bernetta was going to give him. “Get outa my store,” he said at last.

  Bernetta stood up a little straighter. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’d be happy to. But first I’d like one five-dollar quick pick, please.”

  He drummed his fingers on the counter. “I don’t sell lotto tickets to minors,” he said. Each word came slowly and clearly, as if he thought Bernetta wouldn’t be able to understand him otherwise. “It’s illegal.”

  Bernetta had anticipated this. But she was determined to get that ticket. Tonight’s jackpot was 10.5 million. Ten point five million dollars. If she won that, or even a teeny tiny fraction of that, she could go back to Mount Olive. If not, she’d be off to public school. It was up to the lotto gods to decide her fate.

  “That’s okay,” Bernetta told the man. “It’s not for me. It’s for my dad.” She pointed outside, where a fortyish man was filling up his pickup truck.

  The old man glanced outside. “Your dad, huh?” Bernetta nodded. “Well, your pops comes in here a lot, but I’ve never seen you be
fore.”

  Bernetta cleared her throat, her brain churning. “Well, um, actually,” she said slowly, “I’m only visiting. Yeah. My parents are divorced, and I live with my mom. In a different town.” Bernetta couldn’t tell if the man was buying her story or not, but she thought it sounded pretty good. “That’s why I’ve never been in here before. Anyway, he just told me to come in here real quick, and I know he’ll be awfully mad if I don’t—”

  “Why don’t you run out there and get him?”

  Bernetta stiffened, and the man smirked at her.

  She glared back. “Look,” she said, her voice noticeably less sweet, “how ’bout I just get a three-dollar quick pick? You can keep the change.”

  The man snorted. “You’re some kinda weirdo, you know that? You think I’m gonna lose my job for two bucks?” He shook his head and smiled, showing off his yellow teeth. Then he turned toward the lottery machine, and Bernetta couldn’t see what he was doing. “You got some nerve, coming in here like that.” He was silent for a moment, but when he turned around again, he was holding an orange-and-white piece of paper with three lines of numbers printed on it. “If this wins the jackpot, you better come back with an adult, you hear me? No way I’m handing out cash to some scrawny kid.” He snatched the five-dollar bill from Bernetta’s hand and opened the cash register drawer with a clang. “Oh, and carrot top.” He closed the drawer without giving her any change. Bernetta grabbed the ticket. “Your pops just drove off without you.”

  That night after dinner, at precisely eight o’clock, Bernetta sat on the top step of the staircase, where she’d be able to hear the news unnoticed. That was the only way to do things now, since her grounding included the Great TV Banishment. The lotto ticket was gripped tightly between her fingertips. She’d been too afraid to look at it, to learn the numbers that were going to decide her fate.

  As the news reporter began announcing the lotto numbers on the TV, Bernetta took in a quick gasp of air. Her fingers tensed around the paper, and she finally allowed herself to look.

  “Fourteen,” the man on the television called out. “Twelve. Twenty-nine. Six . . .”

  When all the numbers had been announced, Bernetta flung herself back on the carpet and crumpled the lotto ticket into a ball. Loser. No 10.5 million for her. Not even a single dime. The lotto gods had spoken. Good-bye, Mount Olive, hello, public school.

  She could hear footsteps climbing the stairs, and soon her mother was stepping over her. She was holding a basket of laundry.

  “Hey, Bernetta,” her mom said, “you all right there?”

  Bernetta draped her arm over her eyes dramatically. “Peachy,” she replied.

  “Well, after we put Colin to bed in an hour or so, your father and I thought you and Elsa might like to play a game of Scrabble with us. How does that sound?”

  Scrabble? Scrabble? Her life was over, and her mom was asking her about Scrabble?

  “I’ll think about it,” Bernetta said, and her mom continued down the hall.

  There had to be something good about going to Harding Middle School. Maybe they served really good mashed potatoes at lunch or something. And she wouldn’t have to wear a uniform anymore. Although Bernetta actually liked wearing a uniform. It made morning clothing choices so much easier.

  She could hear her father on the couch downstairs demonstrating a magic trick to Colin. She sat up and slid a few steps farther down the staircase to watch.

  Her father tugged at each of his sleeves in turn. “Nothing but my arms up there, right?” he said. And then he snapped and produced a banana.

  He held it out for Colin to inspect. “An ordinary banana, Col, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yep,” Colin said. “As normal as toothpaste.”

  “Take a good look at it, why don’t you? Make sure it hasn’t been tampered with.”

  Bernetta had seen this trick before. It used to be one of her favorites. An ordinary banana that, once peeled, turned out to be somehow—magically—presliced. It had taken her years to figure out how her father did it. And once she’d finally solved the mystery, she almost wished she hadn’t. Because all it involved, really, was a straight pin, stuck inside the banana at one-inch intervals and flicked through the fruit horizontally, until the banana was sliced. No magic words, no incantations. Just a straight pin and a little wrist flicking.

  Downstairs Colin peeled the banana and squealed as he discovered the perfect one-inch slices inside. Magic.

  Bernetta leaned back on her hands, the lotto ticket still clutched in her fist.

  What was that word Gabe had used? “Trickster”? It was weird, but all of a sudden what Gabe had been saying didn’t sound so different from what her dad did every day, trick people. Convincing people that a trunk was completely empty when really his daughter was crouching inside it, just underneath the drop-away bottom. What was honest about that?

  What if—Bernetta allowed herself to think those words, just for a second—what if she really did it, really joined that Gabe kid? Was tricking people into handing you their money so very different from convincing people that your father could produce birds from thin air? At least Gabe’s way she’d be making a profit.

  But no, she knew she couldn’t do it. She smoothed out the lotto ticket in her hand and inspected it again. The lotto gods had been very clear. The ticket was a loser, so she was meant to go to Harding.

  Wait a minute.

  Bernetta held the slip of paper closer to her face.

  The ticket wasn’t the only loser.

  It was as plain as day, right at the top of the paper. The date. It was for last Friday’s lottery. The Ready-Mart man had sold Bernetta an old lotto ticket, and she hadn’t even noticed. Cheated again.

  She took in a deep breath of air, then another one, and another, thinking things over. In the past three days she’d been grounded, kicked out of school, and treated like a leper, and she hadn’t even done anything. And Bernetta knew that everyone would continue to treat her like that indefinitely, no matter what she did. She could be a saint her entire life, and they’d still think she was a criminal.

  So why not actually be a criminal?

  The thought was sour, like lemon rind almost, but she chewed on it anyway, and to her surprise it got a little sweeter.

  If Bernetta could find a way to go back to Mount Olive and not do anything worse than what everyone thought she’d done already, would that really be so terrible?

  Maybe she would join that Gabe kid. They’d be Bonnie and Clyde without the bank robbing. Couldn’t hurt to try it, anyway.

  Could it?

  The more Bernetta thought the idea over, the more she liked it. She’d need a good alibi, though, somewhere she could tell her parents she was going every morning. She sat on the staircase, folding and refolding the lotto ticket into fourths. And before she knew it, she’d come up with the perfect solution.

  Maybe Bernetta really was born for this Bonnie and Clyde stuff after all.

  She went to her room, dug yesterday’s newspaper out of the trash can, and scoured the help-wanted section until she found it.

  NEEDED. SUMMER BABYSITTER. 2 KIDS. GOOD PAY.

  It was just vague enough to work. Bernetta ripped out the ad carefully and crossed the hall to Elsa’s room. Her toes curled into the carpet as she walked, every fiber tickling her bare feet. She raised her hand to knock on her sister’s door but then stopped and let her hand hang there for a moment.

  Did she really want to lie to Elsa? The one person who truly trusted her? Should she do that? Could she? Bernetta lowered her arm.

  On the one hand, Bernetta had never lied to Elsa, not ever, not even when she’d had a crush on Doug Himmelbach in third grade—and Doug Himmelbach had picked his nose.

  On the other hand, there was no way her parents were going to agree to let Bernetta babysit for an entire summer without Elsa’s a
pproval. Elsa was the queen of sweet-talking, and Bernetta needed her help.

  Bernetta raised her other hand and knocked.

  8

  MISDIRECTION n: the act of diverting the spectator’s attention away from a secret move

  A half hour later Bernetta was setting up the Scrabble board with Elsa and their mother, while her father dished up ice cream.

  “Pistachio for you, right, Bernie?” he asked.

  “Huh?” Bernetta said. “Oh, yeah. Pistachio. Yeah. Thanks.”

  Frankly, Bernetta’s mind was elsewhere. Mostly it was concentrating on the way her legs were shaking underneath the table and on wondering if her parents were going to notice and realize she was panicked. But a little bit of her mind was focused on Elsa, calmly selecting a letter tile from the bag, not looking in the slightest like a girl who was about to tell a whopper of a lie to her loving parents.

  She was going to do it, right? She had said she was going to. She’d promised. But what if she chickened out? What if she—

  “Bernetta?”

  “Hmm?” Bernetta turned to her mother, who was eyeing her curiously.

  “Do you want to pick a letter, sweetie? We’re drawing to see who goes first.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure thing.”

  Bernetta selected a tile from the table and turned it over to show everyone. She got an L. L for liar, she thought.

  Elsa drew a G. “Looks like I’m going first,” she announced.

  As Elsa pondered her first move, Bernetta rearranged her tiles and tried to concentrate on forming words. It will all be okay, she told herself. But she didn’t really believe it.

  Elsa played “waiter” on the first move, and Bernetta marked down her twenty-six points. “Nice job!” their father declared as he took a slurp of his ice cream.

  Their mother had just scored seven points for “love” off Elsa’s e when Elsa spoke up.

  “So, Mom, Dad, I wanted to ask you guys something.”

  “What’s that?” their father asked, studying his tiles carefully.