The Boy Who Steals Houses

by C. G. Drews

  ‘There’s still flour on your face.’

  He scrubs at his cheek hurriedly.

  ‘No, you missed it. More to the – oh, here.’ She reaches across the infinite black chasm of theft and lies and hungry hearts and brushes flour off his forehead.

  Something explodes on the TV screen but Sam stares at his hands, fingers tangled in nervous disarray on his lap, and Moxie is still watching him.

  ‘You’re kind of like Goldilocks,’ Moxie says suddenly as the superhero and heroine swoon into each other’s arms on screen amidst an exploding building. ‘But with pancakes instead of porridge.’

  ‘Goldilocks wasn’t sorry.’

  ‘But you are.’ It’s not a question.

  Moxie’s body relaxes and her shoulder leans against his. The pressure is warm and soft and everything. And he falls into it. Just a little. He won’t let himself get too comfortable – he’s not that stupid. But for the barest moment between patchwork frowns, he’s wanted.

  He falls asleep.

  How could he?

  Sam snaps awake so fast that he swallows his heart. His limbs flood with terror, real terror, because he can’t be caught sleeping right out in the open in the De Lainey house again. Moxie is gone. The sun has dipped and the room is full of shadows. He’s been nestled into the laundry, his head cushioned amongst tea towels and dozens of soft shirts.

  And the house is anything but quiet.

  Car doors slam outside and boots tramp across the wooden floors accompanied by the clash of voices.

  ‘Dad said we’d knock off at three. Does it look like three to you?’

  ‘Dude, we were waiting on that timber shipment. It’s not Dad’s fault.’

  ‘I need a sandwich.’

  ‘Shotgun the shower.’

  ‘You can’t shotgun the freaking shower—’

  ‘Whoa, Moxie did the dishes?’

  ‘Holy hell, she’s finally been possessed by aliens.’

  Mr De Lainey’s voice booms from outside. ‘Jack. LANGUAGE.’

  Sam is suffocating. It’s like last time, when he woke in the office to a flood of De Laineys and the knowledge that he was about to feel fists in his stomach. But this time he has nowhere to hide.

  He’s sitting in the L-shaped sofa in a mound of washing and Moxie is gone.

  ‘The one who stinks to high heaven,’ says Grady, ‘gets the shower first.’

  ‘But that’s not fair.’ Jeremy hops in a circle, unlacing his boots. ‘Jack perpetually smells like a sewer. I was cutting timber with Dad. I have more sawdust than hair.’

  ‘That’s because you’re bald.’

  ‘It’s called a crew cut and it was for a good cause.’

  ‘Shotgun the shower!’

  ‘I’ll kill you, Jack.’

  Jack glides past with a very self-satisfied smile and tosses a backpack on the sofa.

  Directly on to Sam.

  Sam catches it with his face.

  ‘Oh,’ says Jack, backtracking to stare. ‘Oh.’

  Sam scrambles to his feet, clutching the backpack to his chest. He has to run. He has to run right now.

  And then the back door bangs open and Moxie marches in, the babies tumbling after her. Her arms are covered in glitterised stickers and there’s grass in her hair.

  ‘My friend Sam is staying for dinner,’ she announces. ‘And isn’t it Jack’s night to cook? He better get his stinky ass in the shower.’

  Mr De Lainey appears at the front door then, leaning on it to take off his boots. He narrows his eyes at Moxie. ‘Language.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Moxie raises her hands innocently.

  ‘I’m overworked and underpaid,’ Jack says.

  Moxie waves vaguely at the room. ‘Show of hands who cares.’

  Grady has his head in the fridge and Jeremy just smirks.

  ‘I hate you all,’ Jack says and then cuts another look at Sam. ‘Wait, he’s your friend? I thought you said you didn’t know—’

  Jeremy throws his boot at Jack’s stomach and he lets out an omph. Jeremy flees for the back door and Jack chases with a roar, question forgotten.

  Sam abandons the backpack shield since he’s apparently invited and slips over to Moxie’s side. ‘Do they … are you going to tell them?’ His throat is dry.

  ‘They still don’t know you were the creepy intruder,’ Moxie says. ‘But I’ll claim you as my friend and they’ll forget I said you weren’t. They’re boys. Their brains are the collective size of a pea.’ She looks at him. ‘Hmm, oops.’

  Considering his recent decisions, she’s not wrong. ‘What will you tell your dad?’

  Moxie sweeps her dishevelled hair out of her face. ‘Let’s worry about that later. Right now we get to play a fun game called “dinner time chore avoidance”. Oh, and I hope you had a nice nap.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep.’ His voice is distressed, even though he tries to hide it.

  ‘You look tired, Sam. Now shut up and come and see my latest project.’ Her voice lowers to a mutter. ‘Because if I’m going to adopt you, then you might as well be a captive admirer.’

  He is a captive admirer.

  But not on the topic she has in mind.

  He follows her dutifully to the corner of the room where her sewing machine is set up. They have to squeeze behind a bookshelf of toys and a play kitchen and then they’ve entered Moxie’s domain.

  A tall shelf overflows with boxes of pins and patterns, material and lace. There are a dozen half-done projects scattered on her table and piles of scribbled designs in blue and red ink. A dress dummy displays a pinned outfit of emerald green. When he looks closer, he can see the pockets have been embroidered with tiny yellow daisies.

  ‘Is that the thread I gave you?’ He rubs a finger along them.

  Moxie’s smile is wry. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I am a solid admirer.’

  ‘You’re a solid weirdo,’ Moxie says, but he can tell she’s pleased.

  Dinner is loud and messy and intoxicatingly alive.

  Sam sits squashed between Moxie and Jeremy and he feels safe. Probably because he’s far enough away from the two smallest De Laineys, who still believe food is more fun to paddle in than eat.

  Also because he’s far away from Mr De Lainey.

  Sam just … he can’t with adults. They frown, they shout, they hit. Mr De Lainey seems like the opposite of that, but Sam’s tattooed the caution to his bones. Just in case.

  It’s spaghetti, which seems to be the complete range of Jack’s cooking skills. Jeremy made garlic bread and now they’re arguing whether that counts as ‘helping’ and whether Jack is now required by household law to aid on Jeremy’s cooking night. The baby faceplants in a bowl of sauce. Grady eats and reads and doesn’t get a single drop on his paperback, which is probably a sign of dark magic. Dash has a sword bound with twine and twigs on the table and at least four people rotate in telling her to get rid of it.

  Mr De Lainey leans over Sam and Moxie’s heads to get at the cheese and manages to give Moxie a half hug and then rest a hand on Sam’s shoulder for just a second.

  Sam flinches.

  But all the De Lainey father says is, ‘Sam, it’s great to see you again.’ He smiles warmly, squeezes Sam’s shoulder and then moves away.

  Moxie pokes Sam’s leg under the table. ‘He’s the softest squish you’ll ever meet. He’s buff because he’s a builder, but trust me, he’s the kind of guy who saves spiders.’

  Jeremy leans over, mouth full of spaghetti. ‘What are we whispering about?’

  Moxie stabs at him with her fork. ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Less conspiracies, more eating.’ Jeremy deposits two soft rolls of garlic bread on to Sam’s plate. ‘I’m still concerned Sammy’s going to turn sideways and we’ll lose him for ever.’


  ‘We wouldn’t want that,’ Moxie says.

  Sam shovels in food to hide the smile. His knee knocks against Moxie’s – an accident, obviously – and she gently taps him back.

  ‘So, Moxie.’ Mr De Lainey clears his throat. ‘I could only organise the concrete truck for this weekend, which means I need—’

  ‘Wait, wait.’ Moxie sets her fork down with a crack. ‘You’re taking my weekend now?’

  Her father sighs. ‘Moxie …’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine.’ Moxie’s teeth clench. ‘Obviously I’m just a home-grown babysitting service.’

  Sam casts an anxious glance at her, suddenly seeing fissures and fractures through the walls of the De Lainey life.

  Moxie snatches her fork and stabs a meatball. ‘I am not their mother.’

  ‘Mama!’ says the baby, a handful of tomato sauce squishing through its fat fingers.

  ‘No,’ Moxie snaps. ‘No and no.’

  The baby’s lip juts out.

  ‘Seriously, Moxie?’ Jack says. ‘Can we just eat without one of your self-pity sessions?’

  ‘You can’t talk!’ Moxie whips to face him. ‘You never have to look after them. I’m only fifteen. I’m a kid too. And they’re exhausting and … and frustrating!’

  The baby pops open a wide pink mouth – and howls.

  Sam winces.

  ‘All right, let’s calm down,’ Mr De Lainey says.

  No one listens.

  Jack rolls his eyes at the dagger look Moxie gives him. ‘It’s not like you’re the only one working.’

  ‘Jack, maybe shut up?’ Jeremy says.

  ‘I never get to stop,’ Moxie shoots back. ‘Who got up for the baby last night? Me.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ Mr De Lainey tries again, but Moxie is already half out of her chair, bunched fists on the table.

  ‘Who’s been up since five with Toby? Me.’

  Sam slowly eats another piece of garlic bread, feeling guilty for even seeing this. But in that moment, his heart tugs for Moxie.

  He gets it.

  A life tangled with siblings who can’t look after themselves? Sam gets it.

  ‘Who gets called “mama” like eighteen times a day, which is like a stab in the guts every single time?’ Moxie’s face is red. ‘ME.’

  The baby’s howl escalates so Toby joins in at a clashing pitch and Mr De Lainey scrabbles to try and soothe them both.

  ‘We all miss Mum,’ Jack says. ‘You’re not special.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Moxie shoves away from the table, nearly tipping the bench, and Sam grabs it as it wobbles wildly. ‘Shut the hell up, Jack!’

  ‘Moxie, language.’ Mr De Lainey is barely heard over the chaos.

  Grady snaps his book shut, snatches car keys, and walks outside.

  ‘Grady,’ Mr De Lainey calls, sounding a little desperate. ‘Hey, just wait a—’

  The front door bangs.

  Mr De Lainey puts his head in his hands.

  Moxie flips around in a whirl of purple and mint shirt and storms towards the stairs.

  Jack snaps garlic bread in half. ‘Oh, so now she’s going to get out of the dishes? It’s like Moxie is the only one “suffering” around here.’

  ‘Just stop, son,’ Mr De Lainey says quietly.

  Moxie gets to the bottom step, fingers clenching the rail, and then she twists back to Sam. ‘Come on.’ It’s a command.

  Sam jumps out of his chair, stuffs a last piece of bread in his mouth, and ducks after her. They sweep upstairs and leave the clatter of crying below. Over the top, Jeremy’s saying, ‘Wow, way to go, Jack,’ while Jack snaps, ‘I miss Mum too, OK?’ and Dash yells for someone to shut up the kids. And then a wail cuts above them all from the three-year-old:

  ‘I want Mama!’

  Moxie pulls Sam into her bedroom and slams the door.

  For a second he just stands awkwardly on the duct tape divider that separates elven catastrophe from a sewing cyclone. One step and he’ll end up in a button jar or a box of tin foil play-coins.

  Moxie flops on to her bed and buries her face in her knees. ‘You can officially take back your comment about my family being “awesome”.’ She lets out a bitter laugh.

  Sam gingerly tiptoes across the room, hesitates, and then climbs on to the bed next to her. Half his nerves knot and shred, like she’ll scream at him how dare you come this close, you creeper and stalker and thief? But she doesn’t.

  They sit shoulder to shoulder, listening to the dimmed chaos downstairs.

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ Sam says.

  Moxie tips her head sideways, cheek still resting on her knees. ‘Do tell.’

  He bites his thumbnail and then forces himself to stop. Don’t tell. Don’t be miserable and needy or she won’t want you around. Don’t don’t don’t—

  ‘My dad used to beat the hell out of my brother and me.’ Sam’s biting his nail again, not realising. ‘But … we were little and my brother’s autistic so he just caught it more …’ His thumb’s bleeding.

  She stares.

  God. He should not have said anything.

  ‘It’s fine now.’ He tries to pin a smile on his face. ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘OK, wow. I am such a jerk.’

  ‘No …’ Sam’s heart thuds. ‘No, please. It’s – you’re allowed to hurt. It’s not a contest.’

  Moxie sighs and digs fingers into her scalp. She swivels on to her stomach and reaches under the bed to drag out a small box. A packet of marshmallow chocolate biscuits is snatched and shared and they both chew in silence.

  ‘I really miss my mum,’ Moxie says. ‘I’m being a complete jerk to Dad, but … I’m tired and I hate trying to be her and—’ She bites savagely at a biscuit.

  Sam looks out the window at the darkening sky. They’re quiet. Alone. Comfortable.

  ‘I should go.’ Sam doesn’t move. ‘Thanks. For … today.’

  ‘Are you sure talking to my dad would …’

  ‘End with me in prison.’

  ‘Because of the stealing?’

  Sam’s heart speeds up. ‘Yeah,’ he says, the lie soft as butter on his tongue. He thinks of the school. The blood. Running away. ‘I’m sorry … I’m … I’m really, really sorry.’

  Moxie stretches out her legs, and it’s probably definitely an accident, but she leans harder against him, her hair tickling his ear.

  He’d give anything to stay like this.

  ‘Just sleep in the office again,’ she says finally.

  ‘But you nearly murdered me for—’

  ‘Throwing a bucket of glitter at you is not murder, you drama queen.’

  ‘You try getting it all off.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ She reaches out to brush behind his ear. She presents fingers of glitter in proof. ‘The difference is now I’m inviting you.’

  ‘But your family—’

  ‘I’ll figure it out tomorrow.’ She offers him the biscuit packet. ‘It’s just one night.’

  Sammy is a breath and a whisper away from fourteen and he just wants time to stop.

  Life has grown complicated, his wishes and wants screwed like broken marbles in his lap. He can’t do this. He doesn’t know how.

  He stuffs another wad of toilet paper up his bloody nose and tips his head backwards against the brick school wall. Shouts and voices have dimmed as kids load into buses. Now there’s just the pound of a basketball on the court where stragglers play – where Sammy sits forgotten in the corner. Bloody. Tired.

  Shoes slap on the court and kids shout in annoyance as Avery suddenly hurtles through the middle. His shirt is inside out, collar popped, tags fluttering.

  He looks happy.

  Sammy’s worried.

  Avery arrives out of breath and drops to his knees in front of Sammy, fingers fluttering. �
��I kissed someone.’ His eyes are the darkest seaglass, shimmering with anticipation.

  Sammy stares at him.

  ‘I kissed Elle,’ Avery says. ‘But she said “no way” to being my actual girlfriend and to ask someone else so I asked if it has to be a girl or can it be a boy and she laughed and said whatever I want –’ he speaks faster and faster ‘– and did you know you can pick whoever you want, which is good because sometimes boys are as pretty as girls and she said she’ll still kiss me sometimes because I’m cute and dumb and then her brother West is fixing up his uncle’s Hyundai and said I can hang out and watch if I want and—’

  ‘OK, whoa. Stop.’ Sammy pulls the paper out of his nose. ‘You’re talking way too fast.’

  Not just talking. He’s going way too fast for Sammy to keep up. In everything. Being a year above Sam in high school means Avery isn’t around him all the time and is instead watching fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds – watching and copying and wanting.

  He’s going too fast.

  He’s not like them.

  He’s going to get hurt.

  Sammy claws for words, but they sift through his mouth like sand. ‘You can’t go around kissing. Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ Avery rips at the dandelion weeds in the cement cracks.

  Sammy tries to steady himself. He aches. The cut under his eye where a backpack buckle clipped him is swelling and he’s trying not to use his left hand until he figures out if his fingers are just bruised or – worse.

  He’s not ready for this kind of conversation with Avery.

  ‘Because,’ he says, closing his eyes, ‘they’re messing with you. To hurt you.’

  Avery frowns. ‘Or maybe they like me.’

  Sammy’s about to say ‘as if’ but catches himself. He knows this school is full of rejects and cruel smiles and barred windows, but does it matter if Avery can’t see that? Isn’t that nice for him? ‘Are you sure these kids want to be your “friends”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sammy cuts him a hard look. ‘Do you even care about them or just the fact you can see a car being fixed?’

  Avery opens his mouth. Closes it. His bottom lip juts out and he looks wounded. ‘I want to go to their house and maybe learning to fix cars can help me get an after-school job at a mechanic’s somewhere.’ His voice brightens. ‘I could earn money, right? Money for our house.’