by Lee Chambers
Defensively, Amanda snapped, “What?”
six
Aaron leaned over the sink, face to face with his reflection in the cracked mirror. “But to my mind, although I am a native here, and to the manner born, it is a custom. More honored in the… in the… BREACH! In the breach, than the observance.”
He smiled, fairly pleased with himself. Then he turned on the faucet and splashed refreshing cold water over his cheeks. Aaron took two paper towels from a rusty dispenser, dried his face, then stopped–he could hear two voices, right outside the bathroom. The first one sounded like Tremblay? What was that old bastard doing now?
Aaron opened the door an inch, holding his breath as he eased it, hoping it wouldn't utter a creak and give him away. “So, where are we at right now?” Tremblay asked gruffly.
“It looks like they got away with four, maybe five-million,” Carl answered, slightly aroused by the size of the numbers.
Holding his silence, Aaron mouthed the words “holy shit” and closed the door again.
“Holy shit,” Tremblay balked, seemingly sharing Aaron's sentiments.
Aaron went back to the mirror, grinning to himself. He didn't want to get caught eavesdropping–especially information that was so incredibly interesting! Maybe five million. Even his Dad would consider that a lot of dough… Wait! It probably was his dough! Aaron couldn't resist listening in, just for a while longer. Carefully, he pushed the door ajar again.
Meanwhile, Carl crunched on his lollipop. “Rosie called it in–as soon as she got back from lunch.”
Tremblay nodded soulfully. “Good old Rosie. Any witnesses?”
“Someone saw their van leaving the bank. There's already an A.P.B. out on it, but so far nothing.” Aaron stiffened in surprise as he remembered seeing a van, next to the bank. The bearded man! Aaron clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp and he vanished inside the bathroom, accidentally releasing the spring-loaded door too quickly, causing it to bang ever so lightly.
Tremblay's head flicked around, like a rattlesnake. His hearing was damn acute for an old timer. Lifting his hand, he pressed his palm flat against the bathroom door, ready to push, when suddenly the end-of-class bell rang loudly in the corridors. Tremblay looked disconcertingly at Carl and they both walked away, right before they were up to their necks in spotty, snot-nosed teenagers.
A chorus of slamming lockers harmoniously illuminated the corridor. Mike put his sad excuse for a sword into his locker, with a shrug. Then he closed his locker door with a booming bang, revealing Aaron standing behind it. Grinning, Aaron announced, “You'll never guess what happened!”
“You finally learned your lines?” Mike remarked, sarcastically.
“Someone robbed the bank!”
Steve emerged from behind his locker door, plastered with sexy bikini babe posters. “Get out.”
“Seriously. But, we can't talk about it here,” Aaron added mysteriously. Aaron turned around and walked away without another word.
“Looks like we are bailing on History,” Steve said with a cheeky grin. He exchanged glances with Mike and then the pair followed Aaron down the corridor, past a gaggle of giggling cheerleaders and through the main doors.
The trio burst out onto the side lawn of the high school. The late afternoon sun shone bright and the grass, newly cut, scented the air. Aaron breathed in the freedom and smiled. From the back of the school came the shouts of the football coach and the grunts of the players.
“Crap, we are going to have to sneak past Coach Houston and the team,” Aaron realized.
Steve glanced towards the field, looked at Mike and responded, “You up for it?”
Mike shifted his feet. From left to right and right to left; he contemplated their danger for a few minutes before he finally agreed, but with a little less self-assuredness. “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Aaron looked around plotting their escape. To the left was the athletic parking lot, and to the right the school. Behind them lay the student parking lot, and the entire athletic field lay directly in front of them.
The football field, in its entire splendor, featured the team and the coach as they pummeled dummy carts. Coach Houston yelled out, “Let's go again, girls!” Half of the team set up and held the dummies while the other half prepared to tackle.
On the coach's feral cry, the players roared and rushed the carts, each tackling the dummies within seconds of each other. Mike, Steve and Aaron listened to the primal grunts and the loud connective 'Wham!' that half of a football team made against a field of dummies.
“Um, guys… I'm not sure about this,” said Mike.
“Don't be a wuss!” Steve lamented. “We just have to be quick.”
“No, I think we have to be careful,” argued Aaron.
“Careful, quick and lucky,” Steve chimed in.
“Oh boy,” said Mike while biting away on his fingers.
“C'mon guys,” Aaron said sternly. “I'm telling you. I saw the robbers. It was them. We gotta do this.”
Mike looked worryingly at Steve. Steve stared towards Aaron, then squinted his eyes “What's your plan?”
“Well…” Aaron said while staring towards the field. “We have bleachers to hide us half of the way. But then we have to make a break for it. We'll be out in the open for 25 yards, and then we'll be home free in the woods.”
“Let's do it!” yelled Steve, a little too loudly.
At the sound of Steve's yell, the coach glanced in their direction, but just as he was turning to look, a player fell face first on the field. Coach Houston spun on the player instead and screamed through his megaphone, “Get up, Girlie!”
Aaron, Mike and Steve took their chance and ran for the bleachers.
The player, covered in grass stains, pulled himself up and joined the team in jumping jacks. Coach turned to look toward the school, where the boys had stood. No one. Coach shrugged and turned back to the team.
“Oh my God, that was close!” Mike stage whispered to Aaron and Steve. “I was pretty sure we were getting detention for the rest of the year. You better not be screwing with us Aaron.”
Aaron, focused on the task at hand, ignored Mike. From their hiding place behind the bleachers, Aaron could see glimpses of the team's workout. The team jogged back and forth across the field, entering and exiting the boy's line of sight while they sat in wait.
“We should probably move to the end of the bleachers to wait for our opportunity,” Aaron said quietly.
“OK, let's go,” Steve said, a little too loudly again.
The coach perked up at Steve's voice and cocked his head in their direction. The boys stood still, and they held their breaths while the coach tried to hear another sound. Steve shifted his foot and accidentally kicked the bleachers, and the scraping sound seemed to reverberate across the entire field.
Coach Houston looked directly at the bleachers, almost boring a hole into each of their heads. Mike flinched and hissed as loudly as he dared, “He can see us.”
“No, he can't,” Steve reassured, quietly this time.
The coach stared for what felt like a full minute. Finally, with his team impatiently fidgeting in front of him, waiting for their running orders, Coach Houston turned his attention back on the practice.
The boys breathed an audible, but quiet, collective sigh of relief. They each allowed their loudly beating hearts to settle before deciding to continue. Motioning with one hand for Mike and Steve to follow him, Aaron led the way.
They tracked along the rusty frame of the bleachers, and the two story seating structure managed to contain them for the majority of the field. Reaching the end, they peeked around toward the practicing team where they find Coach Houston staring directly in their direction.
“Get back,” hissed Aaron, who was the first of the three to spot the searing stare of the coach. Mike and Steve scrambled back to the comforting security of the bleachers, and Aaron joined them.
“Maybe we should go back,” Mike said, pleading in an almo
st questioning tone.
“Trust me, Mike,” Aaron said, looking dead into Mike's eyes. “This will be worth it.” Mike curled his lips and gulped, nodding slightly in agreement.
The boys sat for a few minutes, and soon they heard Coach Houston, larger than life, once again bellowing out orders to the team. His barks and jeers echoed around the stadium. Aaron peeked around the bleachers again, and relaxed his shoulders when he saw Coach Houston as he monitored the sea of athletes in a sweaty synchronized set of sit-ups.
“We're good to go,” Aaron said, waving Mike and Steve to the fence, which was slightly downhill from the field.
The three walked alongside the fence, and as they ventured around to the far end of the track and away from the action on the field, they felt almost carefree. Almost.
When they reached the end of the hill, they dropped to an army crawl and elbowed their way up the hill to stare at the practicing team. The coach was still yelling commands into his megaphone, and the team was busy practicing their huge, lolling skips -- the exercise that always cracked Steve up.
As the team skipped like little girls across the field, Steve threw his hand across his mouth to stifle a laugh, snorting to hold back his crazy hyena-type laugh. But the harder and harder he tried not to laugh, the louder and louder his snorts became.
Mike looked at Steve in dismay, but Aaron started to laugh as well, although his laugh was a silent pantomime. “They look like fools!” he whispered in glee.
Looking at both of his friends, Mike shook his head and turned away. The coach was looking away now, so Mike said, “If you guys can control yourselves, we can finally get out of here.”
Instantly, Steve and Aaron sobered and looking in the coach's direction. His back was still turned, so all three looked at each other and nodded. Then they broke across the field, under the goal post and past a smaller set of bleachers, without being spotted by anyone.
They dived into the woods and ran for a few yards before high-fiving their victory.
Aaron glanced over his shoulder, like a spy in some pulp novel. They weren't noticed.
seven
Steve and Mike were already moving ahead and began talking excitedly–and loudly–about spending the bank robbery money as they walked deeper and deeper into the woods. “First thing I'd do is buy a Porsche. A black one,” Steve chirped.
“Boxster, Nine-Eleven or Cayman?” asked Mike, as if this was a realistic possibility.
“Nine-Eleven. Duh.”
“Carrera, Targa, Turbo or…”
“What are you guys talking about?” Aaron chimed in.
“The money. If we find it,” Steve nodded.
“Yeah, what are you going to do with your share?” Mike poked Aaron in the ribs; playful roughhousing.
“He doesn't need it, dink, he's already loaded.”
“We're not keeping it,” Aaron said authoritatively. End of story.
Steve and Mike halted in their tracks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why?” Steve and Mike both said, almost in unison.
Aaron kept walking before Steve and Mike caught up with him. They entered into a denser thicket of the woods, as Aaron finally answered them. “Because it belongs to my Dad, that's why.”
“Oh my God, you're kidding, right?”
“What do you mean?” Aaron asked Steve, as he stepped cautiously on the slippery wet stones, crossing the river.
With a single push, Steve toppled Aaron from his footing, and Aaron was forced to step with a splash into the shallow water. “Hey, watch it, these are new shoes!”
“Yeah, bought with the gazillions your old man already has. He's not going to miss a lousy five!” Steve barbed.
“It's not just his, dumbass,” Aaron shouted, shaking off his leg as he walked onto the river bank. “The money belongs to Pineville.”
“Listen to Mister Morality all of a sudden, sheesh.”
“He does have a point, Steve,” Mike said, creasing up his forehead with concern. Steve had a tendency to push it too far. All over a bag of imaginary money. Not worth shoving your mates into the water and picking holes in their family. Mike glanced over at Aaron with an apologetic nod. Then, moments later, Steve shoved Mike into the tall grass. “Hey!”
Mike picked himself up and huffed angrily. Then he ran to catch up with Aaron, leaving Steve to trail behind.
Looking into the distance, Aaron and Mike trudged along an old railroad bed, between a set of train tracks. Moss and grass had partially hidden the rails of the rusty old relic, and the wooden ties were rotting beneath the forest floor.
Steve was still fooling around as he balanced himself on the rail. “You idiots ever hear of insurance?” Steve said, concentrating as if he was walking on a high wire between two skyscrapers. “The bank will cover every dollar of that money. Nobody's going to lose out. Trust me.”
“And what does everybody do in the meantime, huh?” Aaron retorted. “People need money to survive. They have to get paid.”
“Who gives a shit, Aaron?”
“Your father would.”
“How do you know?” Steve accused, suddenly breaking his concentration and stepping down from the rail. The game was over.
“He works at the mill, right?” Aaron looked at Steve, already knowing the answer. “Where do you think the payroll is before they cash their checks?”
Steve glanced down at the ground, moodily, like he'd fallen off an actual high wire. “You sure know how to ruin something before it even starts.”
The brooding trio walked between the tracks in a quiet frustrated huddle, before Mike said, with an uplifting tone, “Maybe there'll be a reward?” Nobody answered him, so Mike rammed his fists into his pockets and continued on in a collective silence.
They left the railway tracks and walked onto a path into the woods, where Aaron had seen the van. “It was parked right here,” Aaron said, pointing to an empty void.
“Sure it was,” Steve rubbed his chin and rolled his eyes.
“I'm not lying.” Aaron saw that the tire treads and footprints had all merged into a quagmire of sludgy mud, each print indiscernible from the other.
“You believe him, Mike?”
“I… I don't know,” Mike stuttered.
“Screw you guys.” Aaron raised his middle finger and then stomped off down the path. The van was gone and so was any shred of his story's credibility.
eight
“Come on, Aaron! I'm kidding,” Steve said, trying to catch up. The thrill of the chase amused him, until he struggled to uncurl his lips and look apologetic. Aaron turned just in time to see the remnants of Steve's stupid grin.
Mike was looking down at his feet, pensively. “What do you think happened to it?” he pondered. His quiet and detached tone was disarming; caused both Steve and Aaron to glance over and consider his question carefully.
Aaron started, “Carl probably found the van right after he…”
“Banged Miss Becker,” Steve spat out, finishing Aaron's sentence.
“What?” Aaron asked, snapping his neck to glare at Steve.
“Ewww…” Mike groaned, shuddering at the thought of two authority figures bumping uglies.
“Bullshit,” Aaron shook his head.
“It's true.”
Aaron walked away again, reiterating his point of view: “Bull. Shit.”
Steve shrugged reflectively. “Don't believe me then.” He veered off into the woods, muttering as he stumbled through the brush. “It's not my fault your girlfriend would rather do Carl than you.”
Suddenly, Aaron was behind him, shoving Steve over. The force of the two palms slammed against his back launched Steve forward, almost tripping over a dead branch.
“She's not my girlfriend, asswipe!” Aaron barked at Steve who had whirled around, wide-eyed.
A flash of anger stole across Steve's eyes as he lunged at Aaron, returning the push, flipping Aaron onto a bush. “Come on, guys,” Mike called out, waving his a
rms like a ref at a boxing match. Aaron bit his lip, before swinging his leg deftly to knock Steve's legs out from under him. With a thud, Steve hit the ground hard; his head bouncing off a small piece of rock.
A guttural roar erupted from deep inside of Steve's chest. He rolled onto his side and grabbed Aaron by the shirt, yanking his face in the direction of his balled fist. “You sonovabitch!”
Aaron felt a searing pain in his jaw, as he lashed out at Steve's eye with the sweep of his knuckles. “She's not worth it, guys!” Mike hollered over their heads, watching the blurring flurry of jabs and slaps.
The fight began to gain momentum and the pair rolled over, so that Aaron had the upper hand. He rubbed his sore chin, eyed his chaffed knuckles, then turned to Steve who was shaking off a dazed expression. “Stop it!” Mike implored, screeching like a girl.
Aaron and Steve suddenly smirked at Mike's over-the-top cry, before laughing at their own ridiculousness, rolling around in the mud, like a couple of kids who'd realized they were arguing over marbles. “Calm down, Mike. And give us a hand, will ya?” Steve said, raising his hand for a lift.
Grabbing their outstretched hands, Mike pulled Aaron and Steve half-way to their feet. The loose dirt was crumbling beneath the sole of Mike's sneaker and then, without warning, he found himself veering downwards–all three now tumbled over, sliding down a steep slope of long grass and slick mud.
A haze of green blades whipping passed their faces. The murky palette merged with the shadows as the boys crashed through the brush at the end of the slope. Their collective yells broke the silence of a small clearing, an old campsite, which they entered en masse, with flailing limbs and mud-smeared clothes.
Aaron leapt to his feet in a cat-like reflex, checking himself for cuts and bruises. The right knee of his designer jeans were torn on a branch on the way down. “Just perfect.” Yet, then Aaron quickly thought to himself that the rip had actually improved the look of the jeans ten-fold. He smiled inwardly, as Mike got up and walked to a fire pit in the center of the clearing, full of sooty grey ash.