The Boy Who Steals Houses

by C. G. Drews

  This is Sammy’s wish, the dream he holds like a broken box, careful so the edges don’t cave in. He talks about it when they lie in bed, Avery crushed against his side because he sleeps better when he’s back to back with his brother, matching their breaths.

  Sammy has the dull feeling that he’s being manipulated.

  ‘Did you say you’re going with them now?’ Sammy says.

  ‘Yup.’ Avery points to the front gate where a group of teens is messing about, waiting.

  Not the kind of people Sammy wants Avery around. All crass jokes and cold smirks.

  Does Sammy want Avery around anyone? OK, fine. No. He’d keep him in his pocket if he could, safe and warm, with hands over his ears when kids start shouting sick slurs at him because of his tics. There are a few kids at school who are nice enough, like August and her boyfriend, but Avery can’t tell the difference between someone laughing with him and at him. He picks friends badly.

  ‘You’re not going to anyone’s house,’ Sammy says. ‘We’re going back to Aunt Karen’s.’

  Avery’s eyes narrow. ‘You don’t want me to have friends.’

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘You don’t think I deserve anything good to happen to me.’ He starts rocking on his heels, eyes damp.

  How’s Sam supposed to explain? How’s he supposed to be fiercely proud Avery’s growing up and fiercely protective at the same time?

  He doesn’t know how to let go of Avery. Doesn’t think it’s the right time.

  ‘Look,’ he says, soft and calming so Avery stops the wild rocking. ‘Look, there are rules for this sort of thing, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Sammy clutches for handholds in this slippery surface. ‘The rules … well, you can’t kiss people and hang out at their houses if …’ He sees Avery’s fingers slipping into his pocket. Ah, perfect. ‘If you still have toy cars.’ Sammy tries to keep the triumph out of his voice. ‘You can’t have both. It’s like being a kid versus growing up. You either have the toy or you have kissing.’

  No way is Avery going to give up that car.

  A reason amongst millions that he’s not ready for this.

  Avery pulls the toy car out of his pocket. It’s silver now, paint worn off and wheels gone and edges smooth from six years being comfortingly thumbed in Avery’s pocket. He flips it over with long thin fingers, staring.

  Sammy tests his nose. Still bloody? He wads up more paper and knows he won and they can go home. Sam will make sandwiches and Avery will trawl the newspaper for houses they can dream could be theirs and—

  ‘OK.’ Avery puts the toy car in Sammy’s hand.

  Sammy’s heart gives a thin, thudding leap and then just—

  stops.

  Avery bounces to his feet. ‘I’ll be back at six or something.’ His eyes flick to the teens by the gate. One waves him over.

  Sammy’s fingers close over the toy car. ‘W-wait. What exactly are you – wait, Avery, we need to talk about—’ He snatches a corner of Avery’s shirt. ‘Please, just listen. Don’t do … don’t …’ He wants to rip out his hair. ‘No kissing and don’t let anyone touch you.’

  Avery looks down quizzically at Sammy currently touching his shirt.

  ‘I mean,’ Sammy says, teeth grating, ‘under your clothes. If clothes cover it, you can’t touch it. It’s the rule, OK? Till you’re … eighteen.’

  He holds his breath, desperate for Avery to accept this.

  Avery frowns. ‘OK. It’s the rule.’

  ‘You know West is a jerk, right?’ Sammy’s voice is too high.

  Avery frowns and pulls out of Sammy’s grasp and then he seems to take in, for the first time, Sammy’s swollen cheek and bloody, crusted nose. ‘You hit people. That’s worse than anything West does. It’s bad, Sammy. It’s so so bad.’

  Sammy’s teeth clench. ‘I didn’t hit anyone. I promised I’d stop, didn’t I? They jumped me.’

  Avery flicks his fingers by his ear. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Avery, please …’

  Let him go, Sammy. He doesn’t belong to just you.

  ‘Just please,’ Sammy whispers, ‘don’t let them hurt you.’

  But Avery doesn’t hear because he’s already crossed the basketball court and vaulted over the broken-down fence to trot up to his new friends. His smile is puppy-dog wide. Innocent and anxiously excited. West drapes an arm over his shoulder. Laughs at him.

  Or with him?

  These kids are older and they’ll push him into things he’s not ready for.

  Sammy looks down at the toy car in his hand. A tear hits it, hot and wet.

  He’s crying?

  He’s stupid to be crying.

  When he looks up again, the group has gone and he’s alone in a near empty school – just overgrown grass and a forgotten basketball and crinkling food wrappers.

  Alone.

  His knuckles tighten around the toy and then he gives a tiny, melted cry and throws it. Hard. Fast. Gone.

  He drops back against the wall of the school, head curling against his legs as the universe spirals out from under his fingertips.

  Their routine becomes pleasantly seamless after a week.

  Sam lurks in the office until the house clears out and then he emerges and tucks himself into Moxie’s day. This generally involves tricking the little boys into eating breakfast and wrestling them into clothes while Moxie snatches a few minutes at her sewing machine. Then the babies promptly ditch their clothes in favour of the wading pool. Sam and Moxie oversee while eating salted caramel popcorn and lying on their backs under a frangipani tree.

  They talk.

  Sam turns out his pockets and discovers there are words in the bottom. They come out faster the more he’s around Moxie. And she doesn’t glare when he stammers or roll her eyes at his opinions.

  Wow, he actually has opinions.

  ‘I’m actually not descending into madness with you around,’ she says later, scrolling through her phone and eating popcorn. ‘Or thinking too much about my mum.’

  He checks her eyes quickly, waiting for the sad cloud and the stiffness that always follows mentioning her mother. But today her smile is sad and small and then she just shrugs.

  ‘Maybe I’m a tiny bit glad you sneaked into my house.’

  ‘Has your dad noticed that, um …’

  ‘That you never leave? He commented that you’re always around, but,’ she flips a kernel into her mouth, ‘he still thinks you go home at night.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Obviously. Soon. Someday.’ Moxie twirls her phone to show him a photo of a model with wind-scrubbed hair and a wild rainbow shirt. ‘See this? This could be you.’

  Sam looks up, alarmed.

  ‘If you modelled for me, which would do wonders for my portfolio. You’d need to cut your hair though. I’ll bribe you with chocolate truffle cupcakes.’

  ‘But if you bake them, isn’t that more of a threat?’

  ‘Careful, sir,’ she says. ‘There is a time-out corner and I will use it on you.’

  Sam self-consciously tucks his hair behind his ears. ‘I don’t have money for a haircut.’

  ‘Right.’ Moxie chews her lip. ‘But do you actually like it long? Because you could just get it tidied. You look like a haystack.’

  ‘It gets in my eyes,’ Sam says. ‘But I can’t—’

  Moxie sits up suddenly, screwing up the picnic blanket they’re sprawled over. The baby and Toby are licking watermelon ice blocks and slapping them on Sam’s arms intermittently. He’s a sticky mess.

  ‘I’ll cut it.’ There’s a dangerous spark in her eyes.

  Sam is decidedly nervous.

  ‘I’m good with scissors.’ Moxie makes a snipping motion with her fingers. ‘How hard can it be?’

  They de
cide to do the responsible thing and watch YouTube clips first. Moxie fetches her sewing scissors and Sam sits on the bottom veranda step.

  ‘Take your shirt off,’ she says, ‘so I don’t get hair on it.’

  His heart should not speed up as much as it does right then.

  He shrugs out of it obediently and balls it into a knot. He decides to not look at Moxie’s face at all considering he still has remnants of road rash and smudged yellow bruises. No girl’s heart is going to stammer at seeing him half undressed, that’s for sure. And he doesn’t want to see disgust in her eyes.

  His shoulders hunch over slightly and she sits behind him on the steps.

  She ruffles fingers through his hair. ‘It should be just like cutting out a dress.’

  ‘Please don’t cut out a dress in my hair.’

  ‘Ye of little faith.’

  Grady’s jeep clunks into the driveway at that moment and three sawdust-covered boys tumble out. They’re arguing loudly about how much caffeinated energy drink you could consume before giving yourself a stroke and they don’t notice Sam and Moxie until the little boys run to the fence and shriek for attention.

  ‘Hey, babies.’ Jeremy swoops in, folding himself in half over the gate to kiss their watermelon-sticky noses. ‘And what cities have you felled today? How have they—’ He looks up and then nearly falls face first over the gate.

  Jack is there in an instant, a devilish grin spreading over his face. ‘Whaaaaat did we interrupt here?’

  Moxie snaps her scissors at them. ‘Haircutting. You’re next, Jack. I might take off a few ears while I’m at it.’

  Jack’s grin fades. ‘Over my dead body, pipsqueak.’

  ‘That can also be arranged.’

  Grady stomps over and surveys everyone with a tired sense of indifference behind his glasses. He sneezes once, mumbles, ‘Hay fever,’ and then shoves through the gate and into the house.

  ‘He’s going to get the shower first,’ Jack says.

  Jeremy clambers through the gate. ‘Sneak.’

  The twins charge indoors, and Jack manages to give Sam’s shoulder a rough playful shove on his way up while Jeremy yells, ‘Relationship goals!’

  That’s not … what Sam and Moxie are. They’re friends … right?

  Moxie snorts and waits till they’re gone before scooting closer. Her knees press against Sam’s shoulder blades and she runs her fingers through his hair again. Spiderwebs of sensations dart across his skull.

  ‘Don’t move.’ Moxie snaps the scissors experimentally, which instils zero confidence in Sam.

  The scissors snip.

  Wisps of corn silk strands drop on to Sam’s shoulders.

  ‘So I may have been planning this for a while,’ Moxie says. ‘I’m making this waistcoat, see,’ she goes on, unaware of the explosions happening under her fingertips every time she touches him. ‘It would look so good on you. And as a budding designer, I really should have bodies behind my clothes occasionally.’

  Sam’s brain struggles to catch up. ‘Me? But I’m …’

  ‘Remarkably pretty. Don’t let it go to your head.’

  Cool metal touches his neck. She fluffs hair out from behind his ears. Can she feel them burning hot?

  ‘Plus you kind of owe me, because after all I’m giving you a great hair—’

  The scissors snap shut.

  Moxie jerks back. He misses the sensation of her touch for half a second and then she says exactly what he doesn’t want to hear.

  ‘Oh no.’

  Sam’s shoulders straighten. ‘What do you mean “oh no”?’

  ‘Um.’

  Panic hits. ‘Moxie.’

  ‘OK, OK, don’t stress. I just …’ There’s a tense pause. ‘Crap.’

  His hands fly to his head, but she smacks them away before he can feel the damage. Moxie twists, scissors swivelling so Sam has to duck to avoid losing an eye.

  ‘JEREMY,’ she hollers. ‘JEREMY, I NEED YOU.’

  There’s a thud inside the house and then Jeremy appears with a sandwich in one hand.

  ‘Words I always want to hear,’ he says, ‘especially from my annoying little sis— Oh wow, Moxie. That’s not good.’

  ‘What?’ Sam says, his voice four notches too high. ‘What’s going on? How bad? Moxie? Moxie.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Moxie says. ‘I watched three tutorials.’

  ‘That is confusing,’ Jeremy says. ‘Surely three tutorials are enough to become an expert.’

  Moxie turns on him, a lethal grip on those scissors. Sam drops his face in his hands.

  ‘Either help,’ Moxie snaps, ‘or feel my wrath.’

  Jeremy rolls his eyes and hops down the steps. He holds his sandwich out and Moxie trades him the scissors. Then he takes her spot behind Sam and rumples a hand through Sam’s hair. It’s considerably less exhilarating.

  ‘Shorter at the sides and longer at the top. You’ll look great.’ Jeremy snips much faster than Moxie was going.

  Sam’s going to be bald.

  ‘You have a buzz cut,’ Sam says, voice thin. ‘What do you know about haircuts?’

  ‘I used to have extremely long hair, my friend,’ Jeremy says cheerfully.

  Moxie takes a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Hey,’ he says.

  ‘Focus.’ Moxie snaps her fingers at him and then nudges Sam with her toe. ‘He donated it to cancer kids. How long did it get, Jeremy? Halfway down your back?’

  ‘It was a mane of beauty.’ Jeremy sounds wistful. And totally unfocused.

  Sam resists covering his ears in hopes of protecting them.

  ‘You were majestic,’ Moxie says. ‘Like Rapunzel.’

  ‘Oh, the glory days.’

  More hair falls on Sam’s shoulders. A lot of hair.

  ‘Aaaand … done!’ Jeremy snaps the scissors shut and lays them on the steps. He brushes off Sam’s shoulders and then pats him on the head. ‘Go find a mirror.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Sam says.

  Jeremy shoves him off the steps and yanks his phone out of his pocket. He flips it on to camera and then spins it so Sam has to look.

  OK.

  It’s not too bad.

  His head feels strangely naked and he can actually see. Jeremy’s raked it back from Sam’s face and without the weight of the length, it’s naturally mussy.

  ‘Also,’ Jeremy says, holding up a hand that sparkles in the afternoon sun, ‘I believe you’ve got glitter in your hair. Unexpected, I admit, but I’m a fan.’

  Moxie chokes on the sandwich and hurriedly hands it back to Jeremy. ‘Well, wow, Jeremy! I think you should quit the building industry and take up hairdressing.’

  ‘All those faces I could gently caress.’ Jeremy grins at Sam and then the mischievous light in his eyes dims.

  ‘Thanks.’ Sam rubs the back of his bare neck, suddenly worried he didn’t say thank you fast enough.

  Then he notices Jeremy’s looking at his ribs. Oh, right. He snatches his shirt, even though his back is itchy with rogue strands.

  ‘Are you all right, Sam?’ Jeremy’s voice is soft and he’s obviously looking at the still healing road rash.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Sam looks away.

  Moxie picks up the scissors and taps them against her palm. ‘The ribs, however.’

  ‘Unacceptable,’ says Jeremy. ‘He’s staying for dinner right, Moxie? I’m cooking. We’ll stick some potatoes to this skinny lamb.’ He pockets his phone but his tone goes serious for a moment. ‘But really, Sam. If you’re not getting enough to eat, you come here, OK? Any time.’ Sunshine crackles back into his eyes. ‘I’m making brownies.’ He ducks back into the house.

  ‘Make it caramel!’ Moxie yells at his back. ‘And thanks for saving us!’

  ‘Welcome.’

 
Moxie twirls on Sam and folds her arms, tilting to the side to survey him. ‘That was fun.’

  Sam itches his neck. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘And you have a whole face. Fancy that.’

  She hops down the steps so they’re level on the grass, so close that if he stretched out his arms he’d have to hug her.

  She musses his hair again, frowning as she arranges it. ‘And you even have eyes.’

  She can probably hear his heartbeat as he rockets out of his chest. She’s so close, her hands all through his hair.

  ‘I like your eyes,’ she says. ‘They look like infinite blue skies of possibilities.’

  Is she … would she … kiss him?

  ‘That really wasn’t so traumatic now, was it?’ Moxie steps back, half a smile perched on her lips, but no longer touching him.

  She has no idea, does she? What she does to his heart.

  ‘Ow,’ he says, dispassionately since Moxie doesn’t seem to care where she stabs her pins. Sympathy is not her strong point.

  She mumbles something around a mouthful of pins that sounds like ‘Baby’ and then jabs another one into his shoulder.

  He sits on the kitchen table while she turns him into a living porcupine. It’s the weekend and he’s been Moxie’s shadow for fifteen days. The guilt of soaking in this sweet, simple summer and not fighting with Avery for so long weighs on his chest. He’ll check on him tomorrow. Make sure he’s eating. Make sure he’s not on the edge of a meltdown.

  The house is strangely devoid of the constant flow of Jeremy and Jack’s friends. They’re having a morose game of Monopoly at the other end of the table with Dash who, as Sam has been forcibly told, is ten and three quarters, and is currently draining the life out of her older brothers.

  ‘Mayfair,’ she crows. ‘And I have hotels.’

  Jack drops his head on the table with a loud thunk.

  ‘Hey, don’t do that,’ Jeremy says, petting him tenderly. ‘You’ll knock out your brain cells and you don’t have enough to spare.’

  Jack swears at him.

  Mr De Lainey, of course, enters the room at that second. He has an eerie gift for appearing whenever his children are doing something disagreeable. He strolls over to the table and holds out his palm to Jack. ‘Phone.’