The Classy Crooks Club

by Alison Cherry

  “It’ll have to be good enough,” Grandma Jo snaps. She secures the back doors as best she can with another bungee cord. “We need to get out of here. Everyone in.”

  Cookie hops into the driver’s seat, and I help boost Betty into the back and fold up her walker. When she’s settled between Edna and me, she takes my hand and squeezes. “Thank you, dear,” she whispers. “Mission accomplished. You were absolutely wonderful.”

  I squeeze back, not too hard so I won’t hurt her fragile fingers. As we zip away from the crime scene, we both turn and watch out the rear window as the corners of a flowery blanket flap in the breeze around two stuffed, furry, very liberated bear feet.

  14

  The grannies don’t come over all weekend. I wonder if Grandma Jo told them to stay away for a while—she’s still incredibly grouchy about the end of the bear heist, and she spends dinner every night telling me stories about armies that got flattened because they didn’t obey their generals. It seems unfair that I have to deal with her bad mood all alone—it was Cookie’s idea to defy her, not mine. I miss the ladies for other reasons too; our last two heists have been so exciting that I was hoping to fit in one more before I go back home to my safe, normal life. But if we don’t start planning right away, there won’t be time, and my career as an ethical thief will be over just as I was getting really good at it.

  Soccer used to be my escape when things weren’t going well at my grandmother’s house, but practice on Monday doesn’t feel like a relief at all. It’s impossible to enjoy playing—or even concentrate on it—when I’m constantly thinking about whether every word I say is going to make someone mad. Instead of focusing on my technique, I spend the entire practice watching for signs that Maddie hates me and avoiding Brianna so I won’t have to tell her I’m not going to her party. Rejecting the invitation is definitely the right thing to do, but who knows how she might punish me once she decides I’m not cool after all?

  I relax for the first time when I get home from soccer on Monday and hear Cookie’s raucous laughter coming from the storage room. I change into jeans and a clean T-shirt and dash in to see everyone, even though I know I’m not supposed to run in the house. Cookie beams when she spots me and beckons me over. “Look!” she says, holding out her phone. “Stanley showed me how to use the camera! Doesn’t Teddy Roosevelt look wonderful in the master bedroom?”

  I had assumed Cookie would keep the bear in her parlor or her study, like Bill did, but there he is on the phone’s tiny screen, looming over the bed like he’s contemplating chowing down on the fluffy pillows. Cookie’s wallpaper, carpeting, and enormous canopy bed are all a startling shade of red; it looks kind of like a meat locker in there. I scroll to the next picture, and my heart does this stupid fluttering thing when I see Stanley posing next to the bear, in shorts and sandals, making a goofy face like he’s scared he might get eaten. I consider texting it to myself, but Cookie would probably notice if I started typing away on her phone.

  “He looks great,” I say, then turn off the phone really fast before anyone notices I’m not actually talking about the bear. “You did a good job taking the picture, Cookie.”

  “I wish I had a grandchild to teach me how to use all this newfangled technology,” Betty says quietly. “I can barely make my phone dial someone properly.”

  “I’ll help you with your phone anytime,” I say. “You can pretend I’m your grandchild. I’m sure Grandma Jo won’t mind sharing.”

  “What’s that?” asks Grandma Jo, who’s feeding Picasso small pieces of mango.

  “Nothing,  Jo,” Betty says. She winks at me like it’s our secret, and a little bubble of happiness expands in my chest.

  I peer down at the new blueprints on the table. “So, what are we working on this time? Whose turn is it to pick the target?”

  “It’s my turn,” Edna says. She has so many scarves on today that I can’t even tell if she’s wearing a shirt underneath.

  “What are we stealing?”

  “Liberating,” Betty and Cookie correct me in unison.

  “A painting,” Edna says.

  I suddenly feel uncomfortably hot. Stealing Picasso isn’t even remotely the same as stealing a Picasso. “Like, from a museum?” I ask, and my voice comes out high and squeaky.

  “No, no,” Edna says. “From a house.”

  “Might as well be a museum, though,” says Cookie. “Look at this place!”

  I take a look at the drawings. I don’t know how to read blueprints, but it looks like there are at least forty rooms, and the swimming pool and four-car garage are labeled, so they’re easy to spot. When I lean in close, I see the words Entertainment Area penciled onto a room on the basement level. It looks big enough to be a private movie theater.

  “This is amazing,” I say. “So, what’s so special about the painting?”

  “I made it,” Edna says, totally matter-of-factly.

  “Really?” I say. “You paint?” What I really mean is, You paint well enough that other people hang your work in their houses?

  “She’s quite well known in the art world, actually,” Betty says.

  “Wait, was painting, like, your job?” Up until this moment I’ve never considered that the grannies might’ve had actual jobs. In my mind, they’ve always been retired, planning heists and playing cards. But of course they must’ve done other things before I met them.

  Edna nods. “It still is my job. I paint every morning from five to noon.”

  “Wow.” I turn to Cookie. “What’s your job?”

  “I used to sell real estate for a living. But that wasn’t my real job.” Her eyes get misty behind her giant bug glasses. “I was a muse.”

  I wait for her to say more, but she seems to think this is self-explanatory. Finally I say, “Um, what does that mean?”

  “I inspired people to make great art, darling,” she says. “Sculptures, music, dance pieces.” She lifts her arms in a slow ballet move, then lets them drift back down, and her bracelets clink back into place. “Most art made by men is inspired by beautiful women, you know—men rarely think about anything else. And I was very beautiful when I was young.”

  “You’re still beautiful,” I say, and Cookie pats my cheek.

  “Flatterer,” she says, but I can tell she likes it.

  “Betty, what was your job?” I ask.

  “I was a teacher, dear. Second grade. Oh, I loved those children with all my heart. I never had any of my own, you know.”

  That makes total sense—Betty actually looks kind of like what my second-grade teacher, Ms. Colbert, might look like when she gets old. They have basically the same haircut. “When did you retire?” I ask.

  “Oh, I can’t remember exactly.”

  “It must’ve been around 1991. Right, Betty?” Cookie asks.

  Betty shoots her a sharp look. “Yes,” she says. “That sounds about right.”

  I’m pretty sure 1991 is the year they were talking about the other night, when Betty was super interested in someone’s trial. There has to be a connection; maybe she got so wrapped up in her true crime stuff that she stopped doing her job properly. “Why did you—” I start to say, but Betty cuts me off.

  “It was time,” she says. “It was just . . . time.”

  I want to ask more about it, but her voice sounds final; this subject seems to be off-limits. She’s probably embarrassed about whatever happened; maybe she got fired or something. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, so instead I ask, “What are you going to liberate when it’s your turn?”

  Betty shakes her head, and for a second she looks a little sad. “I’m just in this for the thrills, dear.”

  “Really?” I say. “You’re going to skip your turn?”

  “I already have almost everything I need.”

  “There must be something you want, though, or a cause you believe in.” It doesn’t seem fair that Betty should put herself at risk for her friends over and over without ever getting any payback.

 
“I don’t need to liberate anything to be happy, darling AJ,” she says. “All I want is to be here with you.”

  “Well, okay.” If Betty doesn’t want to take her turn, I certainly can’t force her. I turn back to Edna. “So, why are we stealing—um, liberating—your painting? Did someone take it from you, and we’re getting it back, like with the bear?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Edna says. “They bought it at auction, but I miss it so. My paintings are parts of me, and I need them near me to give me strength as I head into the third act of my life.”

  Okay, this isn’t quite as bad as stealing from a museum, but it still doesn’t sound as ethical as the other two heists. “So, you’ve stolen other paintings, then?” I ask.

  Grandma Jo puts Picasso down on a perch and joins us at the table. “Goodness, Annemarie, there’s no need for you to ask so many questions. We’re wasting time.”

  “Jo, she’s one of us,” Cookie says. “There’s no reason to keep information from her.”

  “She’s one of us right now, but she won’t be in a week,” Grandma Jo says. “It’s far too risky to tell her everything and then send her back to her family. Information should be distributed on a need-to-know basis.”

  Of course, there are lots of reasons I’m excited to go back home next week—I get to see my parents and Snickers, and I’ll finally be able to walk to soccer and skate around the neighborhood and watch TV again. But the way Grandma Jo’s talking, it sounds like she expects our entire relationship to be over after I leave. It’s not like we’ve become friends or anything, but it did seem like she was finally starting to trust me and respect me a little. I don’t want things to go back to how they’ve always been between us, where I see her on holidays three times a year and she sighs at my unladylike interests. We actually have things in common now, and it hurts that she still doesn’t want me to be part of her life. I’ve been trying pretty hard to get into her good graces, but now it seems like I haven’t made any progress at all.

  “Do you want me to leave you alone?” I ask, and my voice sounds shakier than I meant it to. “I promise I’m not going to spill any of your secrets, but I guess I don’t have to help this time, if you guys don’t want me to.”

  I expect Betty or Cookie to jump in and stand up for me, but it’s Grandma Jo who says, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re here for eight more days, and you can be very useful to us in that time. There’s no reason for us to be inefficient with our resources. Now, come here and help us figure out how to get this painting out of Westlake Manor.”

  At least my grandmother’s giving me a little credit for being smart and useful; that’s way better than the first week I was here, when she called me an irresponsible savage. But I don’t want to be a resource. I want her to see me as a person, as part of the team.

  I go over to the table and look at the blueprints anyway. Maybe I can pull off something really spectacular during this heist and Grandma Jo will never look down on me again.

  “The first step is finding the painting inside the manor,” Cookie says. “There are forty-three rooms, and it could be anywhere. I’m sure the security system is no match for our Edna, but we’re going to want to be in and out. This is a heist, not a scavenger hunt.”

  “I’m terrible at scavenger hunts,” Edna says faintly.

  “Stupid, stupid,” Picasso agrees.

  Grandma Jo ignores them both. “We’ll need some inside recon.”

  “I could try my trick where I play the helpless, dotty old lady desperate for a bathroom,” Betty says. “If they let me in, maybe I could give them the slip and take a look around?”

  Grandma Jo looks pointedly at Betty’s walker. “You’re not exactly the master of stealth you once were, Betty. The Westlakes will never fall for that.”

  Betty heaves a sad sigh. “I guess you’re right.”

  Something suddenly clicks inside my head. “Wait a minute. Did you say the Westlakes?”

  “They own Westlake Systems,” Edna explains. “It’s a software company.”

  “Do they have a daughter named Brianna?”

  “I think that is their daughter’s name,” Grandma Jo says. She looks at me sharply, like I’ve been eavesdropping on conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear. “How did you know that,  Annemarie?”

  “I know her,” I say. “She goes to school with me, and she’s on my soccer team.”

  “AJ, that’s wonderful news!” Cookie crows. “Are you two friends?”

  “Do you think you could finagle an invitation to go inside the house?” asks Betty. “Oh, that would be marvelous.”

  Up until this moment, I had no intention of going to Brianna’s party. If Maddie found out I was even considering it, I know our friendship would be in serious trouble. But how can I pass up this opportunity to prove to Grandma Jo once and for all that I’m worthy of her respect? This is my last shot to make her see me as something more than a silly, useless, wild kid.

  Maybe Maddie would never have to know. If I can keep secrets about breaking into someone’s house and stealing a taxidermied bear, surely I’m sneaky enough to keep a secret about a stupid lobster boil at Westlake Manor.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say to the four ladies assembled in front of me. I pause dramatically, drawing out the moment before my big reveal, and then I drop the bomb. “I already have a way in.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Cookie.

  “Brianna’s turning thirteen on Saturday, and I’m invited to her birthday party,” I say. “If you need an inside woman for this job, I’m your girl.”

  The delighted look that blooms across Grandma Jo’s face is worth braving a hundred parties with the Bananas.

  15

  The last two heists have required learning new skills: navigating in the dark, getting used to birds, picking locks. But this project requires a whole different kind of training. By Saturday, I have to learn to blend in with Brianna’s friends so I can carry out my mission without attracting unwanted attention. If anyone finds me skulking around remote parts of the house, I’ll need to seem like I’m the kind of girl who belongs there, like I’m over at Westlake Manor all the time and know exactly what I’m doing.

  And that means I’ll have to go undercover as a girly girl.

  I consider asking Amy what I should wear to the party, since her super fashionable stepsister takes her shopping sometimes. But I can’t risk the conversation getting back to Maddie, and the two of them seem to share everything these days. So instead I start spending my evenings investigating the pictures on the Bananas’ Instagram feeds. I’ve never really paid that much attention to what I wear as long as it fits, but I quickly discover that nothing I own is remotely appropriate for Brianna’s party. The Bananas seem to wear cute little dresses to one another’s celebrations, and the only dress I have is this horrible flowery thing my mom made me wear to Ben’s high school graduation.

  The next morning, while Grandma Jo’s reading the Wall Street Journal and taking tiny sips of tea with her pinkie extended, I swallow my pride and ask her to buy me a dress. She usually answers my questions without even looking up, but this time she actually lays her paper down on the table, as though my request deserves her undivided attention. Behind her half-glasses, her eyes are wide with surprise. “I’m afraid I must have misheard you,” she says. “I could have sworn you just asked for some proper clothing.”

  I concentrate on serving myself some more bacon so I don’t have to look her in the eye. “Um, yeah,” I say. “Is that okay?”

  Grandma Jo blinks, and for once she actually seems at a loss for words. Finally, she says, “I’d be delighted to buy you a dress, Annemarie. It will be nice to see you looking feminine for a change.”

  “It’s mostly for camouflage,” I say so she won’t get her hopes up too much. “I need to look like I belong in Brianna’s house, you know? But, um, I guess it couldn’t hurt to look nice, too.”

  “It certainly couldn’t,” Grandma Jo says. “I don’t hav
e time to take you myself—the Brookfield Zoo is coming to collect the ocelot and three of the birds this week, and I have a lot of things to attend to. But I won’t be needing Stanley on Friday, so I’ll have him drive you to the mall then.”

  My stomach does an uncomfortable little somersault. I can’t quite decide if the thought of parading around in dresses for Stanley is thrilling or too mortifying for words; it kind of feels like both at once. But I can’t back out without explaining why to my grandmother, so I agree. Maybe he’ll help me find the right stores and then wander off on his own to shop for ties or shaving cream or whatever else guys buy.

  “I trust you’ll pick out something classy,” Grandma Jo continues. “The skirt should be no shorter than your knees, and the top should be decently cut. There is no need to show your bosom to the world.”

  I turn bright red, but I just nod. It’s not like I have any “bosom” to show the world, even if I wanted to. My chest is about as flat as this dining room table.

  By Friday morning, I’m so nervous I can barely manage three bites of breakfast. Under normal circumstances, I’d call Maddie and tell her how terrified and excited I am, but then she’d ask why I was going to the mall in the first place, and I don’t want to lie to her any more than I have to. I try to spend the morning practicing lock picking in my room, but I can’t concentrate at all, and I end up playing Zombie Squirrels on my phone instead. When it’s finally time to go, I brush my hair and put on a little lip gloss Amy gave me, then head down to the garage. Of course, then I chicken out at the last second and wipe the lip gloss off with the back of my hand. I don’t want to be too obvious.

  Stanley’s leaning on the hood of the town car and reading a magazine, and he smiles when I come out. “Hey, Miss AJ,” he says. I love how he still calls me that. “You ready to go?”

  “Yup,” I say. “Thanks so much for taking me.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he says, and I wonder if he really means it. Is it possible he might actually like spending this extra time with me? I start wishing I’d kept the lip gloss on.