The Classy Crooks Club

by Alison Cherry

  “Your painting is really beautiful, Edna,” I say, stalling. “I love the way the paint, like, sticks up off the canvas. How did you get it to do that?”

  Edna gives me a big smile. “Thank you, dear. I used a palette knife to apply the paint. That painting is one of my very favorites; I can’t wait to see it again.”

  “Um, yeah. About that.” I take a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. I, um . . . I don’t think we should steal it.”

  “Liberate,” Cookie and Betty correct me.

  Grandma Jo’s eyebrows pull down into a stern V shape. “What? Why not? Is it alarmed? Is it behind glass? It doesn’t matter—Edna can get around it.”

  Edna nods. “I’m a master.”

  “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s not protected or anything. It’s just . . . I think it’s wrong.”

  Nobody speaks for a minute, and the grannies exchange confused looks. Finally Cookie says, “What do you mean, dear?”

  “I mean, it isn’t right to take something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  “It does belong to me,” Edna says. “I made it.”

  “But the Westlakes bought it. Look, I got this dress at Nordstrom. Are you saying it still belongs to Nordstrom, even though I paid for it?”

  Edna blows out a puff of air and makes a vague, dismissive gesture with her hand. “Money doesn’t mean anything. It’s the spiritual connection that matters.”

  “It’s not really about the money, though,” I say, a little more confident now. “The girl who has your painting now? She loves it. It’s been hanging in her room since she was a baby, and it’s, like, her favorite thing in the whole world. I’ve never seen her care about anything the way she cares about it, including the actual pony she got for her birthday when we were ten. Don’t you want someone who cares about your work to have it? If you took it away from her, she’d be so upset, and she has enough stuff to be upset about already.”

  For a second I think I’ve gotten through to her. But then Edna says, “It’s very nice to know she appreciates it. But I’d still rather have it back.”

  “Her parents can buy her another painting, dear,” says Cookie. “I read in a magazine that her father is one of the richest men in America.”

  “I know they can afford another painting. That’s not the point. It’s wrong to take someone else’s stuff, even if you think you deserve it more! You can’t really know what other people’s lives are like or what things mean to them.”

  All four of the ladies look at me like they’ve never even seen me before. Then my grandmother says, “I told you we shouldn’t have trusted her with this.”

  I hate how she’s talking about me as if I’m not even here. She suddenly sounds so cold, and her tone makes me feel like I’ve been kicked in the soft place below my ribs. “How can you say that?” I snap. “I’ve been incredibly trustworthy! I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do, and I’ve kept all of it a secret. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone about the other stuff you’ve stolen. But I think you should call this heist off. Can’t you steal another abused animal instead? I’m sure there are plenty of birds that need your help.”

  “We’ll liberate another animal when it’s Jo’s turn,” Cookie says. “It wouldn’t be fair to skip Edna.”

  “But stealing Brianna’s painting isn’t fair, either!”

  “We’re going forward with the project,” Grandma Jo says. “Loyalty is what matters most, and Edna’s a loyal friend who always works hard to help us get what we want. If this is what she wants, we owe it to her to help her get it. Good people try to make their friends happy, Annemarie. Since when do you care about this Westlake girl? After all I’ve done for you, I’d have thought you’d be on my side, not hers.”

  I haven’t felt this red-hot anger bubbling up inside me for weeks, not since Grandma Jo took my phone away and told me Maddie was a bad influence. But now the anger-lava is back, churning in my stomach. After all she’s done for me? What on earth has she done for me but take me in reluctantly, rope me into an illegal organization, and try to keep me away from my favorite people?

  I’m about to shout all of that at her, but that’ll prove to Grandma Jo that I really am an impulsive, immature child who can’t control myself. So I stand up very straight and take a couple of deep breaths, trying to be a hollow reed like Edna taught me. Then, as calmly as I can, I say, “I know I can’t stop you from stealing the painting. But you’ll have to do it without me.”

  I glance over at the other ladies, then wish I hadn’t. They’ve always stood up for me, and now they’re looking at me like maybe they’ve been wrong about me all along. Even though I’m positive I’m doing the right thing, I feel like I’m betraying them. Especially Betty.

  My grandmother moves toward me, and even though she’s leaning on her cane, it seems like she gets taller and more imposing with each step. She looks furious, and I’m suddenly a little afraid of her. “Tell us where the painting is, Annemarie,” she orders, her voice cold and cutting. “You owe us that, at least.”

  I’m about to snap back that I won’t, that I don’t owe them anything, but then I get a better idea. Grandma Jo is always talking about how there are consequences for breaking the rules, but she and her friends break the rules all the time, and they certainly never seem to pay for it. If I don’t tell the grannies about Brianna’s dog, there’s no way they’ll get past the entryway before they’ll have to hightail it out of there. Even if the Westlakes manage to catch them and call the cops, I’m sure the punishment for breaking into a house is much less harsh than the one for stealing an expensive painting. They’ve been lucky so far, but maybe this will make them think twice about what they’re doing. I don’t want them to go to jail or anything, but I do want them to see that this isn’t a game.

  “Fine,” I say. “The painting’s in Brianna’s room. You go up the curved staircase in the entryway, turn left, and it’s the first room on your right.” That’s actually where the master bedroom is, but in case the dog doesn’t bark up a storm, this will ensure that they walk right into a trap.

  “And the alarm system?” my grandmother says.

  I pull up the picture of the alarm box on my phone, then show it to Edna, who nods like she’s recognizing an old friend. She jots down some numbers on the edge of the blueprints and hands my phone back to me. She seems distant, and I wonder if she’s furious with me too, but it’s hard to tell. Edna always seems distant.

  “That’s all we need from you, Annemarie,” says my grandmother. “Go to your room and wait there until dinner.  This hallway is off-limits to you from now on. If I catch you here, you will no longer be allowed out of the house.”

  There’s not a trace of warmth or respect in her voice; I may as well be a total stranger. It stings more than I expect, knowing things might be like this between us from now on. It’s not like we’ve ever been close or anything, but we were finally making progress. The version of Grandma Jo who brought me Coke instead of tea and thought I was smart enough to help plan a heist was way better than the version who sent me an etiquette book for my birthday.

  I guess never having something at all hurts less than getting what you want and then losing it again.

  “What are you waiting for?” Grandma Jo says. “We have things to attend to.”

  As I turn and leave the room, I hear Betty say, “Don’t you think that was a bit harsh, Jo?”

  “Don’t question my behavior,” my grandmother snaps. “You don’t exactly have a flawless moral compass.” There she goes again, implying that the only person who stands up for me around here is somehow defective. I guess now I’ll never find out what Betty did that’s supposedly so terrible. Who knows if I’ll ever be allowed to speak to her again?

  I stomp up the stairs and try to slam the door, but it’s too heavy and only makes an unsatisfying, muffled thump. The second I throw myself down on my bed, my phone starts ringing on my night table, and I lunge for it. Maddie’s picture is on the screen, an
d for a second, all I feel is relief. If she’s reaching out to me, maybe that means she’s over all the stuff she said to Amy at our sleepover about our friendship falling apart. Right now I could really use a friend who loves me no matter what.

  “Hey,” I say. “You wouldn’t believe how annoying my grandmother is being. She’s such a—”

  “I like your new dress,” Maddie says, cutting me off. “Did Brianna help you pick it out?” Her voice sounds poisonous. I’ve never heard her use that tone before, not even when Brianna tried to give her the used gowns at soccer.

  “My . . . what?” I hold the phone away from my ear and check to see if I pressed the video chat button by mistake, but it’s a normal call. She can’t possibly see me.

  “I saw the pictures, AJ,” Maddie spits. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t?”

  “What pictures? What are you talking about?”

  “The ones on Instagram? Of Brianna’s party? For someone who made such a big fuss about not wanting to go, you look like you had a pretty great time.”

  Oh no. I am so stupid. Of course all the girls posted pictures of the party the second we left—how did I not think of that before now? Why did I idiotically assume I could keep this from Maddie? “It’s not what it looks like at all,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s not? Because what it looks like is that you lied to me and went to that party behind my back, even though Brianna’s a raging jerk who makes fun of your best friends right in front of you. I thought you were on my side, so I’m not sure exactly what I’m supposed to think when I see you getting makeovers and eating cake with them.”

  “Maddie, I am on your side. I really didn’t want to go. It was—”

  “If you didn’t want to go, you shouldn’t have gone! Can’t you see what a monster she is, AJ? Or did she brainwash you with all her sparkly, expensive stuff ?”

  “I don’t care about her stuff! Listen to me, okay? It wasn’t—”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do!” Maddie yells. “If you want to eat lobster rolls and get your nails done with the freaking Bananas, fine, I can’t stop you. But if you choose them, don’t even bother pretending we’re friends anymore. Go call your new BFF Brianna if you want someone to listen to you. I am so done with this.”

  “No, Maddie, wait—” I start, but I hear a click, and she’s gone.

  I call her back right away, but the phone just rings and rings until it goes to voice mail. I leave a long message, and then I send her a bunch of texts, apologizing like crazy for going behind her back and assuring her that I didn’t really have fun at the party. But she doesn’t answer. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and part of me wants to hurl the phone across the room and watch it smash into pieces against my grandmother’s stupid mission chifforobe. But instead I pull up Instagram and scroll through Brianna’s photos.

  There I am, front and center, standing with some of the other girls by a pot of boiling lobsters, my arm linked with Sabrina’s. My fake-curly hair is blowing in the breeze, and I’m smiling broadly with my glossy pink mouth. I look exactly like the Bananas, like I belong there with the rich, popular girls. I look like I’m having a great time. But I know how I was feeling as Victoria snapped that picture: awkward, gawky, totally out of my depth. Three seconds after that photo was taken, I’d sneakily checked my phone so I’d know how many more minutes of the party I’d have to endure.

  And now, because of this stupid, lying photo, I’ve lost my best friend.

  I wipe my eyes, expecting my hands to come away black with melted mascara. But I guess they used the waterproof stuff on me, too, because even as my tears drip all over the bedspread, my painted-on face stays right in place, sparkly and perfect and totally fake.

  18

  The next few days at my grandmother’s house are absolutely miserable. As if to punish me for standing up for my beliefs, Grandma Jo takes my phone away again and puts me to work learning how to set a proper table. (She actually makes me measure the distance between the forks with a ruler.) To make matters worse, Coach Adrian has some sort of family emergency and has to go out of town, so we don’t have soccer for an entire week. I could call Maddie from the wall phone in the kitchen—I know her number by heart—but I’m positive she doesn’t want to talk to me, so I don’t even try.

  As if losing my best friend isn’t bad enough, Grandma Jo keeps me completely isolated from Cookie, Edna, and Betty. I’ve gotten used to seeing them every day, and I miss Cookie’s jokes, Edna’s weird, nonsensical advice, and Betty’s warm unconditional love. I’m pretty sure they’ve forgiven me for backing out of the art heist—when we pass each other in the halls, they always smile and ask me how I’m doing in lowered voices. But they never linger or try to make conversation, and I have a feeling Grandma Jo has forbidden them to communicate with me.

  Even though we eat dinner across from each other every night, my grandmother doesn’t talk to me either, unless you count her repeated warnings that if I do anything to alert the Westlakes to the heist, I’ll be very, very sorry. She doesn’t even bother to correct me when I use the wrong fork anymore, which shows how much she’s given up on me. I know it’s a waste to gulp down Debbie’s delicious food without even tasting it, but I always eat as fast as I can and head straight up to my room to get away from Grandma Jo. I spend the hours before bed rereading all Ben’s old comic books for the millionth time. I’d kind of like something new to read, but I won’t stoop to asking Grandma Jo to lend me something from her library.

  I can’t wait to go back to my normal life and forget this stupid month ever happened.

  Grandma Jo plans the heist for two days before my parents come back from Brazil, and though I’m totally against what they’re doing, I can’t help feeling left out as the grannies assemble in the entryway in their black clothes. I sit quietly on the top step in the dark, listening to them test their earpieces—“Agent Cardinal, do you copy? Agent Heron, do you copy?”—and a pang of jealousy shoots through me. After days stuck in this house with nobody to talk to, I’m desperate for an adventure. I miss the feeling of my lock-pick pouch strapped snugly around my waist, and even though I know it’s stupid, I tiptoe up to my room and clip it on under my shirt. Maybe I’ll pick every lock in this house as soon as they’re gone, just to prove that I can.

  The moment I think that, Grandma Jo appears at the bottom of the staircase. Sometimes I think she can read my mind. “Let’s go, Annemarie,” she says.

  “What?” I say. “I told you I wasn’t helping you this time.”

  “Of course you’re not helping,” she says. “But you don’t really think we’re going to leave you here alone to sabotage us, do you? You’ll stay within our sight until the target is secured.”

  “What makes you think I won’t call the police after you have the painting?”

  Grandma Jo rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Annemarie. You’ll have absolutely no proof. We’re obviously not going to leave the painting out where anyone could find it. It’ll be your word against ours, and no police officer is going to believe a twelve-year-old over a group of dignified, respectable ladies.”

  She’s probably right, and it makes me furious. I dig my fingers into the banister and try to keep my anger in check. “Fine,” I say. “But I’m not getting in that van with you. You can’t make me.”

  “You’re coming with me, dear,” says Betty, her voice soft and sweet, the exact opposite of Grandma Jo’s. “You know I can’t do anything more than be the lookout with these creaky old hips. I’ll be sitting in the car at the end of the Westlakes’ driveway, and I was so hoping you’d keep me company. I need some quality time with my girl before you go.”

  She smiles up at me, and she looks so hopeful that some of my anger melts away. Betty seems to respect my decision not to be part of this heist; she just wants to hang out with me because she genuinely likes me. It would be nice to have some alone time with her before I go back home, and I’d finally get to leave the house for a little while
. I’ve set the grannies up to walk into a trap, but if Betty and I aren’t anywhere near the house, we won’t get in trouble when the cops come.

  “Let me get my shoes,” I say.

  Edna smiles at me when I come downstairs, and Cookie reaches out to pat my shoulder, but when Grandma Jo glares at her, she removes her hand. “Take route B to the house, Sparrow,” she directs Betty, already in Mission Control mode. “The trip should take approximately twenty-three minutes. If we arrive first, we’ll wait until you’re in place to enter the driveway.”

  “Copy that,” says Betty. “Come on, Agent Swan.” It feels like a little act of defiance that she’s using my code name, and I smile.

  I follow Betty to her car, which is parked in front of Grandma Jo’s house. For some reason I had pictured her driving a boxy sky-blue car the color of the flowered dresses she likes to wear, and I’m disappointed to see that it’s a boring black one. There aren’t even any bumper stickers or fun little toys dangling from the rearview mirror. “Help me get my walker into the backseat, dear,” she says.

  “Should we put it in the trunk?” I ask. “There’s probably more room.”

  “No, no. The trunk is a little crowded at the moment. It’ll be fine back there.” So I fold up the walker for her, stash it behind the driver’s seat, and give her a hand as she slides behind the wheel. When I close her door for her, I feel like Stanley.

  I walk around to the passenger’s seat, but Betty stops me when I open the door. “Why don’t you sit in back?” she says. “The statistics say it’s twice as safe, and I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”

  This seems a little overprotective—Stanley and my parents always let me ride in the front. But it’s not worth it to argue over one ride, and it’s kind of sweet that Betty’s so concerned about my safety. I slide into the back, and the walker’s tennis ball feet rest against my left leg.