by C. G. Drews
Except he doesn’t want to get away.
His heart knots and his limbs ache, not from the flu any more, but with this dull feeling like he’s making a mistake. But he can’t stay.
He takes the stairs silent and fast, but he presses his fingers to the front door for one moment while his heart crumbles and the stolen money in his pocket burns.
He leaves.
He has to run to catch the bus, backpack jangling wildly like he’s carrying half of Christmas. He uses stolen cash to get downtown, feeling sick about turning up at the mechanic’s after beating up that apprentice. And also because Avery might be gone.
Where else can Sam go?
Back to the De—
Yeah, OK, hold that thought and put it in a deep box and don’t touch it again.
He gets a few odd looks on the bus and then remembers the bruise on his cheekbone and his dishevelled hair and tired eyes.
He looks like trouble.
He finds a cafe for a lunch, an iced coffee and two tomato and pepper sandwiches. The De Lainey cash just slips through his fingers. This is his life. Steal and spend and stay alive. One good day – OK, the best day – with nice people doesn’t change his reality.
His reality is stealing until he and Avery can afford their own house. If Avery hasn’t run away or got hurt or freaked out or been arrested—
Don’t think like that.
Sam walks into the mechanic’s, bypassing stacks of tyres and oily toolboxes and a truck unloading crates of spare parts. It’s not a big shop and the brick walls are painted swimming pool blue. Sam usually comes in the back, but not today. Not in case bloodstains still cling to the rough cement steps.
He jams his hands in his pockets and strolls in like it’s no big deal. But his eyes skim the workshop for the apprentice he beat up. Which is why, distracted, he walks straight into the boss.
The boss wears grease-stained overalls and his hair is salt and pepper. ‘Sammy Lou.’ He has a voice like old engines. ‘For the fiftieth time, your brother doesn’t get visitors in work hours.’
Sam’s heart leaps. He’s still here.
‘Sorry,’ Sam says. ‘I’ll wait till his break.’
‘Break?’ The boss gives a rattling laugh that’s the opposite of amused. ‘You know what’s breaking around here? My mind on why I kept that kid on. He’s incredible at fixing engines, sure, but hell to everything else about him.’
Sam hangs his head so hair flops in his eyes and his shoulders bunch pitifully. He’s practised this look for maximum patheticness. ‘I’m really sorry for distracting him. He’s been eaten up with worry about what he did, sir. He just needs—’
‘Oh, save it.’ The boss jabs a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Just don’t distract him. I’m two days behind on work thanks to your brother wrecking one of my cars and the fact my other boy got jumped. If he gets behind schedule, I’ll take it out of his paycheck and your ass. I am this close to firing him, I swear.’
Sam ducks under the boss’s arm and hurries towards the back of the shop. So Avery got his second chance. And no one’s figured it was Sam who jumped the other apprentice. They’re good. Great, even. He sees Avery leaning over a Toyota with its hood popped, his coveralls slung around his waist and a black tank tight around his chest. His bare arms are stick thin and smeared with grease.
Sam thumps against the car and peers in like he knows about engines. He doesn’t.
Avery looks up, eyes brightening for a second – but then his lips cut into a frown.
Is that about their fight?
‘You stayed,’ Sam says.
‘What?’ Avery pauses, arms half lost in the engine. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The other night? You said you were steal— um, getting a car and then driving away. With or without me.’ Sam meant to say it offhandedly but it comes out twisted.
Avery’s eyes narrow. ‘That was just talk. Does my boss know you’re here? He’s super angry at me, so … so just get off the car.’
Sam shoves off. ‘Sorry. Because of the paint?’
‘No.’ Avery’s voice pinches around the edges. ‘Because you’re just like Dad and I hate it.’
It’s a long thin knife straight into his heart. So Avery knows what Sam did. Oh, he definitely knows.
Avery drops his spanner in the toolbox and his hands flap, too hard, too fast. ‘You hit him, you h-h-h-hit him—’ He stumbles backwards, trying to stop himself cycling. ‘My boss couldn’t fire me because we’re so behind, but-but-but you said you wouldn’t hit people any more.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sam smothers his panic because if Avery flips out here, the boss will toss them both. And this is all Avery’s fault anyway, right? ‘But hey, you were the one who screwed up and got drunk and drove that customer’s car into a wall. You need this job.’
‘That was an accident. I got – confused.’ Avery’s eyes flick everywhere but to Sam’s face – not always an indicator that he’s lying since Avery doesn’t do eye contact anyway, but Sam can tell when he is. Especially when Avery jabs his fingers into Sam’s chest – right on the bruise.
Distraction.
He’s lying.
Sam bites back his pained whimper.
Avery’s voice rises. ‘You meant to break someone’s hand. I don’t want – I-I hate it when you’re like that. I hate it. I hate it.’ He stops flapping, thumb touching the corner of his mouth. His scar.
Agonising heat flushes Sam’s cheeks. He’s nothing like their dad and Avery’s hitting low to say it. He wants to shove him back, but he can’t. He’d never touch Avery to hurt him. Never.
‘You need this job.’ Sam’s voice is low. ‘So we can save up for the house.’
‘There won’t ever be a house!’ Avery lets out a real cry then and Sam has to grab his flailing arm so he doesn’t punch a toolbox and break his fingers.
‘Avery, stop. Please. I’m sorry.’ Sam tries to stroke his arm, but Avery snatches free.
He scowls.
But his breathing evens out.
‘Even if we came up with the money,’ Avery snaps, ‘I’m only seventeen. I can’t rent.’
‘It could just be something small—’
‘No, it’s impossible. Shut up about it.’ Avery’s teeth clench. ‘And stop … stop being like him.’
‘Then stop drinking,’ Sam shoots back. ‘I mean it. Don’t ever do that again.’
Avery’s lips pull back in a snarl. But he just flips Sam off and storms back to the car. He starts dropping and fumbling tools, a good way to get the boss coming over in a rage, and Avery is fresh out of second chances. It drives Sam mad, because Avery is good with engines. He can take apart anything and put it back together clean, oiled and working ten times better. You give him a problem with a mechanical solution and he’ll find it.
But he has to stay calm. Not get overwhelmed. Not let anyone see him freak out.
People understand a cute seven-year-old boy screaming on the floor because he’s autistic. They call the police when that screaming little boy becomes seventeen.
The police must not find the Lou brothers. After what Sam did at school last year? He just, he … he can’t—
No, they can’t be found.
Sam wants to shout: Look, Avery! This is exactly why you can’t be alone! Who’d calm you down if I wasn’t here? But he doubts Avery even realises what Sam does for him.
Forget it. They’re brothers. This is what brothers do. Sam will hit himself before resenting Avery for needing help, OK?
He fiddles with a loose thread on his jeans. Moxie’s jeans. He can’t believe he forgot to change. He can’t believe he’s still clawing for the impossible wish of having his own home. But he needs a dream as big as the moon or else he’s just an invisible boy with empty hands.
He sighs and tucks the leftover cash he stole f
rom the De Laineys into Avery’s back pocket. He’ll add it to their savings.
‘Can we not fight?’ Sam whispers.
Avery braces his arms against the engine and lets his head hang down, shoulder blades sticking up like achingly sharp wings. ‘S-stop hurting people. You’ll hit the wrong person someday and get yourself killed.’ He looks up, eyes like broken oceans.
‘Then stop screwing up,’ Sam says.
They let their impossible requests hang in the air, bitter as failure.
Even though they look dishevelled, all grease stains and undone shoelaces and tired eyes, the Lou brothers can sit on the edge of a water fountain on the Esplanade, unnoticed. No one looks twice. Sam swings his legs, plastic milkshake cup clasped in sweaty hands.
They’re here to work.
The sun is high and hot and the shops and restaurants and tourist traps along the beachfront are alive with the flurry of the lunch hour. Last night equalled cricked necks as they slept in the back of a stranger’s car. Sam had to vanish before the boss arrived, although he stowed his backpack in a storeroom because Avery tried to unzip it and that’s not happening. Then Avery, who’s pulling double shifts while the other apprentice is off, was given an unexpectedly long lunch break because the boss had to go out of town. He clearly doesn’t trust Avery alone in the workshop.
Fair.
Which ends up with the Lou brothers analysing tourist targets.
Their eyes are sharp and their list of needs specific: they want someone well dressed and distracted, hopefully sunburnt to proclaim tourist status. Someone happy or affectionate. Someone who’ll care.
‘I guess we’ll do the hit-and-then-run-away routine,’ Sam says at last.
Avery gives him a sour look. He still wears the grease-stained singlet from yesterday, but he has jeans on now and battered red Converse. He could use a bath.
There’s a toilet block not far from the ocean where you can get a sixty-second lukewarm shower. It’s supposed to be for sand-encrusted swimmers from the ocean, but it’s downright helpful if you’re homeless. It’s downright unhelpful if you think of the De Laineys’ warm shower and soap and comfortably softened clean clothes. Sam still has on the smiley-face shirt and Moxie’s jeans. Does she wonder about him?
Why’s he even thinking that? That’s over.
Sam rubs the back of his sweaty neck. ‘Well, we can’t do the one where you fake-vomit. We’re not set up for it.’
‘OK, we can do the Hit ’N’ Run job,’ says Avery. ‘I’m hitting, you’re running.’
Sam gives him a flat look. Obviously that’s how they divide the parts. He can’t even fake hitting Avery. ‘Stop calling them “jobs”. What do think this is? A movie?’
‘If this is a movie,’ Avery tips his milkshake cup up for the last drops, ‘then I want my money back.’
He hands his cup to Sam to throw out, because obviously that’s what little brothers are for. Sam considers throwing it back at his face, but everything about him and Avery seems unbalanced at the moment. Like it’s sliding. He wants to catch it before someone falls.
He puts it in the bin.
Avery stands, anticipation in his jittering arms. His eyes comb the crowd and he starts hopping up and down until Sam kicks his shoe to remind him to act inconspicuous.
Sam tugs at the collar of his shirt, too tired for this. His mind slips back to the butter-yellow house and the comfortable armchair in the sun and the way Moxie’s hand brushed his—
Avery shoves him.
It comes so fast that Sam doesn’t have time to brace himself. He takes a stumbling step backwards, falling against a passer-by in a tangle of limbs and hair flopping over his face.
‘I’m sorry!’ he gasps as the person shoves him off with a startled grunt.
Their handbag isn’t quite zipped.
Sam’s hand is in and out before he stands up.
Then Avery is in front of him, shoulders knotted, jabbing a finger into Sam’s chest. Right on the bruise. Sam’s wince is real.
‘You want to run that by me again?’ Avery shouts.
Sam slaps his hand away. ‘Hey, take it easy.’ He’s not faking, though. Avery’s a little too into it today.
‘Shut the hell up!’ Avery shoves him again. He puts in more force than usual, like he hasn’t left their recent list of frazzled disagreements behind and it’s playing out as his body uncoils frenzied tics. Not good. It’ll be harder to gauge when he’s about to—
Knuckles collide with Sam’s jaw.
His neck snaps to the side.
His teeth sink into his tongue.
The boardwalk reaches up and Sam’s face
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with a dull thwack on the floorboard. His vision fractures.
Avery really really forgot to fake that punch.
Hands are already on Sam’s arms, grabbing him, asking if he’s OK as he’s roughly propelled into a sitting position. Blood dribbles down his chin. Someone gives a heartfelt gasp.
A tall man in a Hawaiian shirt pushes Avery back and Avery starts jumping again, swearing viciously while his arms go like windmills. People back off and stare. Sometimes Sam feels guilty about this – using Avery like a sideshow distraction while he slips wallets. But they’ll never get enough for a house just with Avery’s mechanic job.
Voices flood over Sam.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Hey kid, can you stand?’
‘Call the police.’
Sam snatches at an arm to steady himself. ‘I’m fine.’ The words slur without trying. He gets tangled up in someone’s handbag as they haul him to his feet. His hand darts toward a back pocket.
Behind him, Avery’s shoved Hawaiian Shirt, fingers moving in a lightning dance to steal a wallet.
Someone gives a grateful cry. ‘Here comes a security guard!’
Sam’s body tenses. He wipes knuckles across his lips, smearing blood, as he looks for the grey uniform of security. They need to run now. He’ll have to drop the wallet he’s just barely tucked under his shirt. He needs to get Avery—
And then his eyes catch on a girl with a knot of frizzy brown hair, wearing a loose tie-dye vest over a white shirt and cut-off jeans. She hangs over a stroller with an armful of serviettes for a baby with its face in an ice cream cone. But she’s paused, wipes halfway to the baby’s face.
Moxie stares at him.
Sam jerks away. Did she see his face? She didn’t. She wouldn’t have.
Please.
His breath tangles and he looks desperately at Avery, who now stares with saucer eyes up at an enormous security guard.
It’s Sam’s fault. He let himself get distracted.
They should be gone by now.
Sam doesn’t think. He just reaches out to the closest Good Samaritan and yanks a wallet out of his pocket.
‘What? Hey!’ The person lunges at him.
Sam tips two fingers in salute and then—
runs.
The security guard grabs for Sam’s shoulders, but Sam ducks under his arms just as Avery turns the opposite way and bolts. He vaults a flower garden with wild abandon, bark chips and purple petals spraying under his shoes. Then he’s gone.
He never looks back to see if Sam made it.
That’s fine. Sam takes care of himself.
Sam dives into the crowd at breakneck speed, leaving a trail of shouts after him. The security guard chases, shouting into his walkie-talkie. But Sam’s already down the street, weaving around cars as they blast horns and hit brakes, and then he runs until he’s thoroughly lost amongst tourist hats and buskers and restaurants serving vinegar crabs and hot salted chips. Noise runs over his back. Bodies shove
him out the way.
He’s hidden.
He’s lost in a crowd.
He pulls up the hem of his T-shirt and wipes blood off his lips. Then he tugs the stolen wallet and iPhone out of his back pockets. The last wallet is still in his hand. Not a bad haul.
He walks and flips through them.
Tosses the first one out – just cards and silver coins.
The second is a fat tourist wallet. Fifties and twenties. He shies into an alcove as a group of kids on skateboards shove past. Then he drops that wallet in a flowerbed. The phone he’ll give to Avery, whose friends can fix it for selling. If he can find Avery.
His fingers press gently at his jaw. Another bruise. It’s not like that’s usual for him, right?
But this is Avery. He hates hitting.
Sam shouldn’t have got distracted, but it was Moxie and his eyes only caught hers for a second and he doesn’t want her to recognise—
Stop. Stopstopstop. It doesn’t matter. She’s nobody to him.
Sam chews the inside of his aching cheek and wanders around the rows of shops, but there’s no sign of Avery’s oil-stained elbows. Great.
His eyes flick over crawling traffic to the boardwalk and ocean beyond. The sea is cut emeralds and the sparkle hurts his eyes. But he keeps looking. Searching.
Part of his thundering heart knows he’s not really looking for Avery.
And he sees her again.
Moxie De Lainey.
She’s across the road now, one hand pushing the stroller while the other gestures wildly at her dad, who’s got a plastic kiddie trike over one shoulder. Sam wonders if she’s talking about him.
Yeah sure, Sam. The entire world revolves around you. She probably (definitely) didn’t recognise you.
She probably (definitely) didn’t care.
A group of noisy shoppers passes and Sam melts behind a display of handmade hats and beaded anklets. His fingers move automatically to pocket something when a scream splits the air above the growl of the traffic.
‘TOBY! STOP.’
Sam’s fingers freeze. His head snaps up.
There’s a break in the traffic and a small bundle of colour has tipped over the sidewalk and run for the road.