The Boy Who Steals Houses

by C. G. Drews

  Fast at locks.

  Slow to notice his brother cracking around the edges.

  They’re banished to their room without dinner, even though Sammy didn’t do anything. He’s so freaking hungry and the gallon of cold water he drank just gave him a stomach ache.

  It’s dark and too warm and he lies on his face in mussed sheets, picking at threads with fingernails gnawed bloody.

  The bunk bed creaks. A small thump. Then Sammy feels the familiar weight of shivering, spidery limbs pressed against his back. The night’s too warm for this and Sammy’s hungry and tired and annoyed. But Avery rests his head against Sammy’s spine and Sammy lets him. Counting breaths. Calming down.

  ‘You want to tell me what’s going on yet?’ Sammy says.

  Silence.

  ‘I know you’re freaking out about something. How am I going to fix it if I don’t know what it is?’

  Avery’s whole body shudders.

  Sammy closes his eyes, thinking of trying the bakery before school tomorrow since they often give away those pink-iced sugar buns if they’re stale. He could eat nine right now. Twenty-nine.

  ‘Is my brain broken?’

  Sammy stiffens. His blood runs hot and he wants to rip out of bed and and and … smash something.

  He stays very still. ‘Who said that?’

  Avery presses his ear harder to Sammy’s back. ‘Everyone.’

  ‘West? Elle?’

  Silence.

  ‘I don’t really like them any more.’ Avery’s voice is small. ‘They and the others … they copy me. Like when I tic and—’ He stops. ‘They think I don’t get that they’re laughing at me. But I do.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’

  Silence.

  Sammy rolls over and pulls the blankets away from Avery’s head. ‘Did they do something to you? You have to tell me, OK? If they hit you or-or-or screwed around with you or—’

  A sliver of light from the open window touches Avery’s brow, knit with pain and something like fear. ‘If I tell you then you’ll hit them and you can’t keep hitting people.’

  Isn’t Sammy supposed to be the reasonable one here? He groans and knuckles his eyes. ‘I won’t hit anyone. Just tell me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Avery.’

  Avery rolls to face the wall. ‘Every single person in this world is full of bullshit.’

  Sammy’s heart aches. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Avery’s fingers trace the cracks in the wall plaster. ‘Can I … can I have my car back?’

  Sammy wants to hit himself, really really hard. His throat is dry when he says, ‘I don’t … have it any more,’ and he’s never hated himself as much as now.

  A shudder runs across Avery’s thin shoulders.

  ‘Avery?’ Sammy whispers. ‘Please talk to me.’

  Avery starts to cry.

  It’s quiet that Thursday and impossible not to feel drowsy while sprawled out on the De Lainey sofa buried under button tins. Moxie and Sam scour second-hand stores on the weekends when they’re not babysitting. They come back with treasure. Peculiar costumes to rip apart. Strange tins of buttons. Odd hats to remake.

  Moxie always looks so pleased when she’s hauling a strange vintage curtain out of a box and whisper-shouting, ‘Just imagine this as a dress!’

  Their latest find was a four-litre bucket of buttons. He and Moxie planned to eat popcorn and sort them, except Moxie’s best friend, still spending the summer overseas, wanted to video call, so Moxie barricaded herself in her room for ‘extremely needed girl time’. The three older teens are out and Dash is showing her homemade Thirteen Elven Warrior Whatever footage to her dad. The house still smells of Mr De Lainey’s moussaka – garlic and spices and béchamel sauce. He sold the desk from the office. He hasn’t mentioned the missing money again.

  Sam sifts through buttons. He loves how they feel, cold and knobbly, every one a different pattern and shape and colour. Avery would love doing this. Sam is consumed with sorting and nothing else.

  Because this he can do.

  This is safe.

  He checks the clock and decides Moxie is due back soon. Time to put on popcorn. It’s proof of how long he’s been in the house that he knows where the electric popcorn maker is and how to outwit the sticky buttons.

  He’s rummaging for kernels when his eyes fall on the fruit bowl.

  Mr De Lainey has left a tumble of house keys and wallet sitting there. The keys stare at him with rows of metallic teeth. The wallet is old, seams popping.

  Sam stops.

  Don’t. Just … don’t.

  But his hands are in the fruit bowl, popcorn forgotten, before his brain catches up.

  Razors of guilt hook into his ribs until it feels like he’s being pulled apart. He sees Mr De Lainey’s disappointed eyes. Avery’s understanding slice of a smile. Sam’s backpack full of glittering keys sinking beneath the grimy sea. He owed everything to those keys. They kept him alive, kept him weighted to the earth when everything else threatened to cut him loose and send him spinning to die amongst the endless dark.

  Fingers shaking, he unhooks the house key.

  He puts it in his pocket.

  He doesn’t touch the wallet.

  Cars pull into the driveway followed by a smattering of boys’ shouts and revved engines, and then the door crashes open and Jeremy and Jack sweep in. Sam’s heart catapults in his chest and he runs across the room, dives back on the sofa and covers himself in buckets of buttons. The pocketed key digs into his thigh.

  whywhywhywhy what if they saw—

  Sam takes a breath. No one saw. The twins will do the usual: raid the kitchen, argue about the injustice of being seventeen without their own car, and insult each other as they go upstairs. Moxie will come down soon.

  Nothing happened.

  Instead, two shadows fall over his head and – perfectly synchronised – they vault over the back of the sofa and land on either side of Sam.

  He snatches at the tub as buttons fly into his face.

  ‘Saaaaammy,’ Jack says.

  ‘Sam.’ Jeremy pats Sam’s knee.

  Sam does the logical thing – he panics.

  They know.

  They’ll see what a miserable pathetic creep he is. Who steals house keys? Who does that? They’ll hit him and throw him out and—

  ‘We need to have a little chat.’ Jeremy fakes a demure smile.

  Mischief lights Jack’s eyes. ‘About your intentions with our purest of little sisters.’

  The air gushes out of Sam’s lungs.

  Oh.

  Then he stiffens right back up.

  Wait.

  ‘Since you’re here so much,’ Jeremy says.

  ‘Without supervision.’ Jack throws an arm around Sam’s shoulders and effectively pins him there.

  This is worse than being caught with the key. ‘I haven’t …’ Sam says.

  ‘Hush, hush.’ Jeremy leans slightly into his grip on Sam’s knee, proof that Sam is going nowhere ever again. ‘Let the big brothers talk.’

  ‘See,’ Jack says, ‘Moxie hasn’t had a boyfriend before.’

  Jeremy flicks Jack’s head. ‘Dude, she has so. Remember that kid with the glasses last year? I think she dumped him after he said girls don’t like superhero movies.’

  ‘Fine, a serious boyfriend,’ Jack says. ‘Sam is practically a live-in.’

  They have no idea.

  ‘We’re not like that … I mean, it’s not …’ Sam says weakly.

  ‘Shut up.’ Jeremy is calmly pleasant. ‘It is. You’re just both babies and too shy to smooch.’

  Jack’s fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder. ‘And this is the part where we remind you Moxie has three strapping older brothers.’

  Sam swallows. ‘And you’ll
kill me if I hurt her? That’s cliché, guys.’

  ‘Moxie can pound you herself,’ Jeremy says.

  ‘And then when she’s done,’ Jack’s eyes are evilly bright, ‘we’d remove your entrails via your nose and use them to truss you up like a Christmas turkey and then toss you to the sharks while you wear nothing but your boxers.’

  Jeremy gives Jack a tired look. ‘Why so complicated? Just say we’ll kill him.’

  ‘We’ll kill you,’ says Jack. ‘Bloodily.’

  ‘Well, I’m not doing anything.’ Sam clutches buttons. ‘I mean – we haven’t even … kissed or anything.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jeremy’s face falls slightly. There’s a pause. ‘Do you need advice?’

  Jack smacks his twin on the head. ‘That’s the opposite of what we’re doing here.’

  ‘Aw, come on,’ Jeremy says. ‘Sometimes the babies need helpful hints. But just small tips to match Sammy’s small height.’

  ‘Yeah, are you sure you’re not, like, twelve, Sammy?’ Jack says.

  Sam glares.

  There’s a thump on the stairs and then Moxie appears. The goodness of catching up with her friend shines in her red cheeks – until she sees her brothers. Her brows tighten in that trademark lemon scowl.

  ‘What,’ she growls, ‘is going on here?’

  Jack rumples Sam’s hair. ‘We’re just giving him the safe sex talk.’

  Sam chokes.

  Jeremy whacks him helpfully on the back.

  Moxie folds her arms. ‘Oh, so this is a display of dominating male chauvinism, as if you have ownership of me and feel it’s your duty to “protect” me because I somehow “belong” to you.’

  Jeremy spreads his hands out in innocence. ‘We’re just making sure Sammy has honourable intentions.’

  ‘Do it again,’ Moxie says, ‘and you’ll find itching powder all over your soap.’

  ‘You don’t even own …’ Jeremy starts.

  Moxie is pure darkness. ‘Would you like to bet?’

  ‘We’d tell Dad,’ Jack says. ‘And you’d be in deep trouble.’

  Moxie points towards the stairs. ‘Don’t even think of playing a blackmail game with me, because I have so much on you.’

  Jack snorts.

  Moxie tilts her head, tapping her fingers against her chin in mock consideration. ‘I suppose I’ll just randomly mention to Dad that your little “summer begins, let’s have fun!” camping trip involved alcohol.’

  Jeremy and Jack glance at each other over the top of Sam’s head.

  ‘You guys aren’t allowed to drink?’ Sam says.

  ‘Our mother was Greek and Catholic,’ Jeremy explains, ‘and Dad isn’t but he’s raising us like she’d want, you know? Safe and strict. So no drinking. Or swearing.’

  ‘Or sex,’ Jack adds.

  Moxie smiles sweetly. ‘There’s one you’ll never get to struggle with.’

  Jack growls and starts to get up but Jeremy grabs the back of his shirt. ‘We’ll find you a nice human with low standards someday.’

  ‘Don’t Catholics drink wine?’ Sam says. ‘Or the blood of Jesus or something?’

  ‘I’ll beat you for your ignorance later,’ Moxie says. ‘It’s just our dad has a zero tolerance policy on alcohol. So keep that in mind, you two –’ she aims this at the twins ‘– and remember that Dad will literally lecture you for nine hours if he knows you’ve been drinking. Remember that time he grounded you for like three months and you had to always be in his sight?’

  Jeremy sounds reflective. ‘Ah. How could I forget? All our friends thought we’d died.’

  Jack looks like murder. ‘I hate you, Moxie.’

  She batters her eyelashes. ‘Love you too, sweet cakes.’

  Jeremy pops to his feet and smiles brightly. ‘Well! I have stuff to do! ’Night all!’

  Jack extricates himself from crushing Sam, glowers at Moxie, and then follows Jeremy. They argue their way up the stairs about whether they can put Moxie in a box and sell her online.

  Moxie plops down beside Sam. She picks through the button box for a quiet second and then casts a wary glance at Sam. ‘What did they actually say?’

  ‘Something about me needing to have honourable intentions.’

  ‘Absurd. Especially considering I found you living dishonourably in our house.’

  The stolen key burns hot in his pocket. He resists the urge to close his fingers around it. Protect it.

  He shouldn’t want the stupid key as badly as he does. What’s wrong with him?

  Sam’s voice is soft. ‘I guess you’ll have to tell them soon. About … me.’

  ‘Holidays are nearly over.’ It’s neither agreement nor disagreement and Moxie doesn’t look at him.

  Suddenly she snatches the button box away and dumps it on the floor. He starts to protest, but she presses four fingers to his chest and his heart stops beating.

  ‘Lie down,’ she says.

  He does.

  His world grows crushingly tight. He doesn’t know what to do. What he’s allowed to feel. He doesn’t know what she wants from him, if she even really likes him or just feels sorry for him or—

  His head hits the perpetual pile of laundry and then Moxie lies down beside him. They stretch their legs out, squished tight together so Moxie doesn’t fall off the edge of the sofa.

  She puts a hand on his chest. Spreads her fingers out.

  ‘Your heart is beating very fast.’ There’s a soft laugh in her voice.

  Slowly, Sam slides his arm around her back – to help her not to fall.

  Honourable intentions.

  Moxie’s head is on his shoulder, her hair soft against his chin.

  He’s holding Moxie.

  He will never move again.

  ‘We should probably talk,’ Moxie says.

  Sam closes his eyes. The house is so quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the click of cicadas outside.

  ‘School starts soon.’ Moxie gently draws a circle on Sam’s chest. ‘And I’ve lied to my dad all summer, which … I mean, I feel bad.’

  A lump sticks in Sam’s throat. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t change a single day. It’s been … it’s been perfect. After my—’ Her voice wobbles slightly and she takes a deep breath. ‘After my mum died, I just wanted to cut holes in everything. Literally. I’d just started sewing, but I ended up wrecking everything I made. It sucked, OK? She left this tiny baby and all these kids and Toby calls me “Mama” by accident so the baby calls me it all the time. And I want to scream. I want to just be a kid and make art and not take care of everyone.’

  Sam is quiet. He so deeply, so desperately doesn’t want her to say he’s been just a distraction.

  He wants to be—

  something.

  Someone to her.

  ‘And then Kirby went on that stupidly long holiday and I thought I’d spend the whole summer alone and, well, miserable. Then I found you. Stealing my family.’

  ‘I was actually trying to steal your house.’

  ‘All of it?’ She draws an invisible smiley face on his T-shirt. ‘Goldilocks.’

  ‘I don’t want …’ Sam’s voice cracks around the edges. What does he say? He doesn’t want it to end? He doesn’t want to leave? To lose her? He wants to hook his fingers into the last cracks of summer and hold on?

  ‘I don’t want it to end either.’ She pushes herself up on an elbow and looks down at him. ‘You snuck up on me, Sam. I felt bad for you and then you reminded me to care about things again. You fit so perfectly with me and I just … I like it. I like you. Obviously.’

  Something floods through Sam’s chest, something intense but sweet, like summer and starbursts and wild hopeless longing.

  ‘I like you quite a lot too,’ he whispers.

 
A smile curves half her lips. ‘Can I ki—’

  There’s a thump like someone just ran bodily into a wall and then a throat clearing. ‘AHEM.’

  Moxie shrieks and falls backwards off the sofa.

  Sam shoots upright, guilt plastered thickly on his face.

  Jeremy stands on the bottom step, wearing comic pyjama pants and holding a toothbrush. He slides towards them cautiously and peers over the sofa at Moxie, now flat on her back on the floor, glowering.

  ‘Sorry to break up … whatever that was,’ Jeremy says in a tone that doesn’t sound sorry at all. ‘But Dad said Sam can spend the night. So long as he calls his parents.’ He pauses. ‘He stays on the sofa. While Moxie stays in her room. Just to clear that up.’

  Moxie looks at Sam and they both burst out laughing. Like he hasn’t been staying here for weeks.

  Jeremy looks confused. ‘OK. Wow, you weirdos.’ He turns to go and then backtracks. ‘I guess you don’t need advice, Sammy.’ He winks.

  Sam pulls a pillow over his face.

  Moxie shoots a suspicious look from one to the other. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Jeremy cheerfully flees.

  Moxie’s eyes narrow but then she climbs back on beside Sam and he’ll be lying if he doesn’t admit he desperately hoped she would. They fit together more comfortably this time, his arm not so awkwardly around her and her face nestled against his chest.

  ‘It’s like I live here or something,’ he says.

  ‘It’s like you live here or something,’ she agrees. ‘And since you live here and are therefore beholden to me for ever—’

  ‘I’m worried.’

  ‘—then you can’t say no when I tell you about this party at the beach we always go to before summer ends. Basically our whole school shows up.’

  Sam’s breath hitches at the word school.

  ‘It’s a Catholic school,’ Moxie goes on, ‘so it’s pretty calm. But we dress up fancy and dance and tell everyone they’ve grown over the summer, etcetera etcetera. Someone always smuggles alcohol and we light a bonfire. It’s like the last holiday hurrah.’

  ‘I … can’t. If someone knows me—’

  ‘No one’s going to know you. Unless you went to St John’s, which seems unlikely.’