“It happened this morning,” she says. With each word, puffs of visible heat smelling like Italian dressing waft directly into my nostrils. I back away nodding and forcing a smile, but Zefi is legitimately interested.
“What else do you know, Ma’am?” Zefi’s notebook pages are bubbled from the wet and the point of his pencil is worn down almost to the wood, but putting away his tools of the trade would be journalistic blasphemy. I look on, strangely pleased as the pencil gouges three holes in the waterlogged paper before he reaches the end of the first line.
“Maybe it’s the same person who stole from Glenda last week,” she says. “Poor Glenda didn’t see it coming. He came in while she was spraying the bouquets one last time before closing. Grabbed the till and ran.”
“Glenda, as in the Rose Avenue Florist?” Zefi asks, finally closing his notebook and wedging his pencil between his wool cap and the back of his ear lobe.
“You know her, dear?”
“Mother’s Day sneaks up on me every year,” Zef says with a charming chuckle. “It’s the only other burglary on the block, right?”
“The o-o-only one,” she sings, lifting a spindly finger above her head proudly, as if she were talking about a rare gem or the Ice Man. And it’s this displaced enthusiasm that gets me wondering why she’s here. Through the snowy haze, I can see the bright pink on her cheeks and electric blue on her eyelids. It’s like she’s dressed up for the occasion, even if the occasion is a crime scene. I dare to step closer, to breach the misty veil between us; and when I do, I discover crater-deep wrinkles and large plastic-white teeth. This is what forever in human years looks like, and I back away.
“Do you know Gus?” Zefi asks.
“Course I know Gus,” she says. “His parents, bless their souls, were immigrants. Came from Ecuador with nothing. Gus grew up here. Went to Lincoln High.” The black frizz she has for hair swats at my face as she shakes her head. “Sweet boy.”
“Come on, Zef,” I whisper, pulling him toward the other side of the crowd where there are kids from school, kids who probably have a better clue as to what’s happened than Madame Forever. But Zefi won’t budge.
“The burglar was dressed in black and had a ski mask.” Madame Forever rests her knobby fingers on Zefi’s shoulder. “He grabbed a six-pack of Arizona Ale as he left too.” She lifts her hand slightly from his shoulder only to drop it back down, pulling him in closer. “One more thing, dear,” she says. “The boy supposedly had baby-blue eyes.”
I drag Zefi out of her clutches and we reach the other side of the crowd, where the stench of lemon and baby powder has given way to the smoky smell of ice. I breathe in deep. We listen in to find out that the criminal has been given a name. The Rose Avenue Burglar.
“I’m out of here, Zef.” I start toward the street corner, the “Rose Avenue Burglar” scratching inside my head like nails down a car door. By giving the shithead a name for his bad behavior and a name like the Rose Avenue Burglar, we are basically asking him to come rob us again. Hell, I’d take Rose Avenue Burglar over Freshman any day. And that’s when I see Todd’s Mustang parked behind the bushes, between Gus’s station and the main drag.
“What’s Todd doing here?” Zefi asks, catching up with me. “Why would someone stay in their car and watch instead of find out what happened?”
“We’re not all journalists, Zef,” I say.
“It’s like he already knows what happened.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t care,” I say.
“The only one not curious at a crime scene is the criminal,” he says, blowing into his hands. “He’s got nothing to be curious about. He knows how it all happened.”
Zefi’s words have hit a nerve, and I nudge him hard.
“What if it’s Todd,” I whisper, pulling Zef’s collar toward me. He was in the school hallways this morning, but what if he’d sneaked away after the bell had rung, gotten into his car, and gone to Gus’s? Far-fetched, maybe. But a possibility.
“You don’t know shit,” Zefi scoffs with a roll of his eye. “Gus is no angel either, Alex. He’s got a minor rap sheet of small-time infractions. But I’m not running around making accusations that he’s the burglar.”
“How do you, Josef Timberline, know about Gus’s rap sheet?” We turn into Zefi’s neighborhood, and I spot his orange-shuttered split-level up the block. “Ever heard of libel?”
“Just because Todd’s a shitty driver doesn’t make him a criminal, is all,” he says. “You need proof.”
While Zefi’s all fact, I guess you could say I’m all feeling. Holmes versus Columbo. On a slow day when I used to hang out in the shop, Dad and I would inevitably find ourselves watching Columbo reruns from the seventies. For the first time in a long time, my lips soften to an almost-smile with the thought of something Dad-related.
“Proof is all that matters in an investigation,” Zefi adds, and he couldn’t be wronger.
“What about what my gut tells me?”
“Guts?” Zefi scoffs. “You gotta dig deeper than that. Proof, I say.”
“The blue eyes. The leather jacket.” And then something pops to mind. “On our way to school this morning, there were empty bottles of beer rolling around on the floor.” I pause. “Arizona Ale.”
The mention of Arizona Ale and Zefi’s nonchalance fades to urgency. “You say he doesn’t drive you home on Wednesdays.” He rubs his chin. “Where does he go and what does he do on Wednesdays?”
“When I don’t have to think about Todd, I try not to,” I say.
“Let’s follow him,” Zefi whispers. His eyes are wide and he’s licking his lips, which means he’s got a plan. “Spend the night at my place tonight. And if there’s school tomorrow, we ride bikes. You’ll take my dad’s.”
“Why bikes?”
“He’s probably leaving school grounds, and we’re going to follow him.”
“What happens if we catch him doing something illegal?” I say.
“You mean like counting stacks of money or heaving human-size duffel bags leaking blood into his trunk?”
“Do we confront him? What happens next?”
Zefi shrugs.
“We get stabbed to death. That’s what we do,” I say.
“Do you want to nab Todd or not?”
“Not so sure,” I say.
“I’ll take ‘not so sure’ as a yes.”
We push open the door to Zefi’s house and take off our shoes as soon as we’re inside. I curl my frozen toes around the strands of orange-red shag in the entrance hall and a warm, blissful sensation washes through me. When you’re as beaten down as I am, even strands of wool can be a mood changer. And that’s when I decide that taking charge of my life and being the town hero could do me and my ego some major good.
“We’re gonna get him, Zef.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says, rummaging through the cabinet under the television. “Whatever happens, Todd could never kill us both.”
“He’d go to jail for the rest of his life,” I say, as if jail time would make the idea of getting killed palatable.
“He’d be tried as a juvie,” he says.
“Nothing about Todd is juvenile.”
“His parents are loaded,” Zefi says.
“I know all about rich kids,” I say, gritting my teeth like Dad used to whenever he stepped foot on Greenbriar grounds.
“I mean CEO-of-some-major-international-company loaded.”
“I think principle wins out over money when it comes to murder,” I say.
“Since when do you know anything about principles?”
“When you skateboard into a girl’s mouth, you get expelled. When your dad leaves you high and dry, he gets cut out of your life,” I say. “Principles.”
Zefi is playing with the fuzz on his chin like he does when he pretends to think. “What if we find out
that he’s actually a pretty good guy?”
“Impossible,” I say, unsure of whether he’s talking about Todd or Dad.
“I can picture the headlines now.” Zefi stretches his hands in front of him and squints. “Lincoln Students Catch Rose Avenue Burglar.”
The title has a nice ring to it. I picture a photo of Zef and me with our shoulders back and chests pumped out like master fishermen, and Todd standing in front of us in handcuffs like our whopper catch.
“Mom’s old-lady channels,” Zefi mumbles, clicking on the television as he continues his search for the consoles we need for a little morning Bravely Default.
While Zefi delves into the cabinets, I plop on the couch and watch the shrink on television talk to a sobbing couple. The woman is huffing out tears like a real tear machine; the man has his thumb and middle finger pressed up against his temples and is crouched on the stool, shaking. Crying in public by mistake is one thing; but putting yourself onstage for the world to see you cry is idiotic.
“Cheating, Jake, is a major breach of trust.” The doctor, whom I’m assuming is Dr. Mike, given the name in white lights behind him, pats Jake’s shoulder. “But it didn’t come out of nowhere.”
“No, ‘it’ came from Mississippi for a job interview,” the woman cries out.
“This is going to be hard to accept, Malory,” Dr. Mike says. “But you are part of the reason why Jake cheated.”
I stare wide-eyed at the screen as Jake straightens on his stool, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“We hadn’t had a real conversation or been intimate for months, Malory,” Jerk-Off Jake says. The word “intimate” makes me cringe, but this interview is like a car crash. I have to watch.
“Are you saying this is my fault, Dr. Mike?” Malory’s eyes are wide in shock.
“No, Malory. Jake’s coping skills are underdeveloped,” Dr. Mike says. “But you played a role here too.”
“You don’t listen to me, Malory,” Jake whines.
“This guy’s a wuss,” I say.
“But Dr. Mike’s right.” Zef pulls his head out of the cabinet long enough to glance at the screen.
“You spend too much time with your mom,” I say.
“Jake’s had an affair, but Malory’s not all peaches and cream.”
“Peaches and cream?”
“Maybe I am a little heavy these days in Mom-time,” he says, squeezing his shoulders back into the cabinet.
“It’s probably the same with families as it is with couples,” I say.
“You didn’t make your dad leave, if that’s what you mean.”
“You don’t know the way I talked to him sometimes.”
“That’s what teenagers are supposed to do,” Zef says. “We’re built to be renegades.”
But Zefi doesn’t know how I judged Dad and his job. He doesn’t know about the messages sitting in the voicemail of my cell, one for every day since he’s left. I’ve never even listened to one. Maybe his leaving had as much to do with me as with Mom.
“Dr. Mike’s bullshit anyway.” Zefi emerges holding Bravely Default. “Just society’s way of keeping the losers from realizing they’re losers.”
“Our great society just bequeathed a criminal a half-decent name,” I say. “The Rose Avenue Burglar. Our pathetic society is protecting the wrong ones.” I feel a growing attachment to Malory’s anger. Anger is easier to swallow than guilt. Safer too. But once that seed of guilt has been planted, it takes over. I watch it happen to Malory, whose tears of righteous fire have disintegrated into a slobbery mess and hunched shoulders. That same guilt is breaking through the previously indestructible surface of my anger too. I can feel it compromising the few salvageable bits of self-esteem I have left.
“Turns out anger is a powerful crutch,” Dr. Mike whispers for the world to hear. He rubs Malory’s shoulder. “Let it go,” he declares to the applause of his studio audience. “In the name of the happy life you deserve, Malory. Let it go!” Dr. Mike throws his hands into the air like he’s throwing a softball, and the credits start rolling.
And then Zefi’s house goes black.
5. CHARLOTTE
Tuesday
I slide into my usual position behind the cash register, not because I expect lots of customers in the thick of a blizzard, but because the radiator is hissing, heat visibly emanating from the painted metal, and I’m cold. I check to see that the tennis ball is still under the freezer as I hold my hands over the steaming heat. Once I can feel my fingers again, I turn on the string of white Christmas lights that we keep stapled around our storefront window year-round and watch through a yellow-white glow as all of Lincoln High sloshes down Rose Avenue, this time toward home.
Ever since Margo’s visit to the store this morning, things have been a little off. Along with the fact that I’m at the register now and not in first-period English, the tennis ball has shifted a little to the right under the freezer. In the far-right corner of the storefront, the string of lights is drooping, which is new too. There is an uncomfortable hush in the street despite the stream of people, a hush that has infiltrated the store as well. I can hear Dad in the back room speaking quietly with someone—a man—and even though I’m curious to know who he’s talking to, I opt to stick by the heat and try to conjure up images of Alex, of his sparkly blue eyes and dimples and easy smile. I can feel butterflies flutter gently back to life with the mere potential of a crush, and I’m relieved. No, Margo can’t quite ruin everything. I hear Dad and the other man shuffle out of the office and am surprised to see Gus.
“Whatever you need, just let us know,” Dad says, patting Gus’s hunched shoulder.
“What’s going on?” The butterflies stop cold as soon as soon as I see Gus’s pale, empty stare and Dad’s furrowed brow. “Is Mom okay?”
“Your mom’s fine. My station was held up this morning, before she got to work.” Gus is stern, his usual perky step is heavy. He turns back to Dad. “Detective Salvero thinks it’s the same guy who robbed Glenda.”
“And did you hear what happened last week at Rose Avenue Shoes?” Dad whispers even though we are the only people in the store. “Someone tried to pry open Henry’s rolling grill.”
“Any damage?” Gus asks.
“Just some superficial dings,” Dad says. “Henry’s storefront grill is top of the line. Alumatec, I think.”
“We have a padlock from the hardware store,” I say. “That’s as far as security at Miller’s goes. Might as well put up a sign that says ‘Criminals Welcome.’”
Gus squirms his way behind the counter for a cup of coffee and his usual three packets of sugar. “That corner mirror’s still all you got inside?”
“That and the padlock.” Dad shakes his head with a sigh. “What kind of world are we living in?”
“The kind with a police button under the countertop, Dad.”
Dad shrugs. “We’ve been crime-free for seventy years and now we’re going to shell out big bucks because of some jerk? I don’t think so.”
“Never even a shoplifter?” Gus chokes on his coffee. “I’ve got one every other week. A pack of gum here, a bag of chips there.”
“But you’ve got a different client base. All kinds pump gas. Our clients are—”
“More sophisticated, I know.” Gus has heard Dad say it a thousand times. “Shoplifters come in all shapes and sizes, Karl. A pack of gum from the station or a wedge of imported cheese from Miller’s, it all boils down to stealing.”
“1996,” Dad clears his throat. “A guy paid for a lotto ticket and tried to walk out with a pack of cigarettes too. I grabbed back that pack so fast he never knew what hit him.”
“You never told me about that, Dad!”
There is a pre-divorce glimmer in his eye and I want to hear more, but in the time it takes for Gus to interject—because he always interjects—the twinkl
e dies.
“Doesn’t sound crime-free to me,” Gus says.
“I don’t know much about socioeconomic brackets and shoplifting statistics, but what I do know is that there is something called the Miller pride,” Dad says without apology. “We’re not going to stand for someone stealing from us.” He throws an arm around my shoulders, which would suggest that I, too, am brimming with this same sense of family pride. “It used to be that this pride was security enough.”
“I would’ve let him have the cigarettes,” I say. “That Miller pride may have skipped a generation with me.” I’m not trying to be provocative, just honest, but Dad is giving me his pursed-lipped, wide-nostril frown.
“Don’t be so sure,” Gus pipes in. “Adrenaline turns butterflies into fighter planes.”
But as images of this morning’s Margo incident resurface, I wonder if my body even knows what adrenaline is. I fear I’m forever the butterfly.
“Can someone be adrenaline-deficient?” I ask half-kidding, and Dad and Gus laugh. What happened with Margo this morning was different from some stranger swiping cigarettes. Maybe that’s why my adrenaline hadn’t kicked in. A criminal doesn’t ask to steal, they just do it. Margo had asked, and I had chosen to let her. Adrenaline flows when things go haywire. And when I think about it, there was nothing haywire about this morning. I’d made a choice, and that changes everything. It was simple barter-system economics: my name for some snacks.
“Well, Gus, you’re quite the fighter plane,” Dad says. “To have kept your register intact with a gun pointed at your head is impressive, my man.”
“Gun?” I gasp. “Glenda never mentioned a gun!”
“Glenda probably gave over her till without a fight.” Gus chuckles proudly. He crumples his empty coffee cup and drops it into the trash before rounding the counter to the door. “He did get away with a six-pack of Arizona Ale though. The best stuff around.” He shakes his head and stares at the ground, but playing modest isn’t his strong suit.
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