Path of Thieves

by Sunniva Dee

  “Does he still carry a knife?”

  “Worse.” It wouldn’t be fair to keep it from her.

  “A gun?”

  “Sort of.”

  “No, it’s not ‘sort of.’ Either he carries or he doesn’t carry a gun.”

  “Did you find your grandfather?”

  She quiets, lip trembling like it did a decade ago. I was destined to make her cry.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that I thought about it. I’d lost someone a year earlier too, my mother and sister.”

  “They died?”

  “No, Dad and I moved away from them in a hurry. It was in the middle of the night too, and they live far away.”

  “Have you seen them since?” Her breath chafes on an inhale. We’re talking about me, while she should be concerned about the gun downstairs.

  “No, I haven’t. They live in Alaska. I don’t have money to go anyway.”

  “Steal something so big you can afford a plane ticket.” I look up and find her gaze meeting mine. “Because time runs out before you know it. The night you broke into my grandfather’s house, he’d had a heart attack in a supermarket parking lot. Mom found him in time though, and he stayed with us for another five years.” She bites her lip. “I miss him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t steal from here.”

  “What are the options, you think? Listen, I don’t want my father to know you’re here.”

  “You still don’t trust your father.”

  “I trust him, but I don’t trust him.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Do you or don’t you?”

  “I trust him with me, but I don’t trust him with anyone else. He’ll do anything to survive—”

  “To steal is his way of surviving?”

  “It’s his job.”

  “You steal too.”

  “I hate it!”

  She quiets.

  “You stole when you were eight years old.”

  “Thanks for reminding me. That’s great.”

  Nadine’s face breaks in a glimmer of happy white, cheeks plumping, and I’d like to always make her smile. “You’re a reluctant pick-pocket of houses. What’s your plan for the future, Cugs Charles George Cain? What do you want to do for a living when you grow up?”

  “How about be a really good football player?” I sound like I’m joking. Suddenly, I want to tell her the truth and have her believe me, that I’ve got a future, that this life is temporary, that I’ve received offers from four different colleges to play on their team.

  She sighs, a barely perceptible nod displaying that she’s heard me. “Can you not steal from us, please? I don’t want them to look for you. If you don’t steal anything, I’ll cover all traces of you.”

  “And if we do—because I see no way of keeping my father off your Apple products—what are you going to do?”

  She lifts her shoulders. “I don’t know. Give me your phone number.”

  “Are you crazy? No!”

  “Cugs, it’s time. I found two more laptops. They’re not even unwrapped. Let’s hit a few more houses and call it a night,” my father calls from downstairs.

  “Okay,” I call back.

  Nadine glares, and I’m not sure if it’s over my father’s message or my need to keep my phone number private. Until she says, “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll give me up to the cops.”

  “Didn’t I just tell you that I don’t want you to be caught? Where do you live?”

  “Obviously, I can’t tell you that. Man, if you were a detective, you’d fail miserably. ‘Hey, you, murderer—can you give me your deadly weapon? I need it.’”

  She straightens, forcing back her amusement.

  “Gimme your cell.” She reaches for me, eyes on my bulging pocket, and I think she’s planning to pull it out herself. The blanket she’s wearing makes her slow, so she’s out of luck. It’s instinctive when I waggle my phone over my head, half-grinning.

  “You’re such a baby. I was just going to put my number into your phone, but I guess not.” She scribbles her digits on a post-it note and passes it to me. “Because it’d be cool to see you again before I turn thirty.”

  “You want me to call you?” I’m so surprised my jaw slackens.

  “Hence the phone number. Now, go make your dad proud. Steal a bunch of stuff from all the other peeps around here too.” She crosses her arms.

  “And you’re not going to give out a description of me?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. It depends on how I feel in the morning.”

  I don’t think when I lean forward. I just need to touch her, and she doesn’t step away. I’m not brave with chicks, but I keep on leaning in until our lips meet. I keep us there, still, and then I back out of the room until I reach the top of the stairway.

  “Coming?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah. I’m coming.”

  “Cugs and Bear. Focus up here, please,” Mr. Pheating says.

  “Sorry, sir.” We both straighten in our chairs, but then the speakers blare in a message.

  “Charles McConnely to the front office. His sister is here to pick him up.”

  I freeze.

  Paislee? Bear mouths.

  “Cugs, you can go.” Mr. Pheating folds his arms over his chest like I just masterminded my own early dismissal. He waves a hand behind him in the direction of the whiteboard. “Before you leave, write down the homework.”

  I do it quickly and on autopilot.

  No way it’s Paislee.

  In thirty seconds, I’m packed and out of my chair. Bear gives me the thumbs-up as I exit the classroom, backpack hinged over my shoulder. Maybe it’s Cynthia and they don’t know she’s Dad’s new wife?

  I walk the opposite way, to the window in the music room. The parking lot has all familiar cars, except one with Tampa Bay Estuary plates. Definitely not Cynthia’s.

  I edge along the wall until I get to the front office. There’s an opening in the curtains. I peer in, and a girl sits there. The color of that long hair. I know that brownish red. Her hands resting in her lap, even her posture gives her away.

  My heart begins to thud. I haven’t seen Paislee in a decade. I promised I’d call but didn’t, and now I can’t go in there and meet my sister. Where did she come from? Why?

  What am I supposed to do?

  The decision comes quickly. I stride down the west hallway in the opposite direction of the front office until I find a bathroom where I lock myself into a stall.

  Stress pours from me in a deep exhale. It sticks in my calves though, causing pain to cramp my muscles. I slouch on the toilet seat. Lift my legs high and press the soles of my feet against the door in a stretch. All these years.

  The speakers blather again. Loud and insistent, they demand that I present myself in the front office. I know Rosemary’s routine. If someone doesn’t come on the second try, she’ll head to the classroom and extract the student herself.

  Five minutes later, the bathroom door opens and swivels shut with a groan. “Cugs. You here?”

  Bear. He shuffles to the far stall where I am and gets on his hands and knees. “I see you. What’re you doing?”

  “What do you think? I’m not going out there to meet her.”

  “Paislee? Why not?”

  “Because what the hell’s she doing here? She doesn’t live in Florida.”

  “Oh okay, she flew in to meet you? Makes sense that you’re hiding then.”

  “No, seriously, would you’ve flown in just like that? She’s out of her mind.”

  “Yeah, well. Just giving you a heads up you’re wanted in the front office.”

  “Tell them you can’t find me.”

  I remain in the bathroom long after Bear leaves. I need to digest what just
happened. I suppress the thought of Mom. I hope she’s okay.

  After the bell rings, I take the back exit out. It’s a short walk to the locker rooms in front of the football field. I’m early, with only a few guys trickling in. Usually, I go by Grocery-Pete’s and grab a snack before practice, but today I won’t risk it. I’ll play hungry.

  “Over here,” Bear rumbles, waving a thick fist in a swirling motion for me to join the lunch gang. There’s no need for him to remind me. We’ve been at the same table since sophomore year.

  I’m still reeling from Paislee’s visit yesterday. I dodged her last minute, and now I’m not sure how I feel.

  “Coming, dude. Liza, did you save your flan for me like you promised?” I wiggle my fingers come-hither style.

  Liza rolls her eyes and turns her back to me. Small and blindingly white, she’s the polar opposite of her boyfriend.

  “That how you treat me now, man? You need to find your own flan girl,” Bear says as I take a seat next to him. Lucia Borgias passes, a few friends flanking her. She settles in at the end of the table to our right.

  “And Luce’s a good flan girl for you. Better get it together and grab her before it’s too late. She’s ripe for the picking,” Bear whispers.

  “Omigod, stop talking like that,” Liza says. “You sound like some sleazy, anti-feminist film.”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to be a feminist.”

  “Yeah and hopefully, you’re not trying to be, like, a male chauvinist either.”

  I groan when they make up, PDA-ing and causing brief but typical discomfort in the group. Lunchtime is nice. It’s ribbing of friends and forgetting stuff in my brain.

  Coach yells, meaning business. “Eight days left until the game against the Rattlers!” he roars. “What happened to the lot of you? Have you forgotten every single thing I’ve taught? You need to get your heads out of your damn butts!”

  “Butt,” Bear snickers into my ear. I slap him away. “Seriously though, what’s wrong with ‘ass?’” he asks anyway.

  After practice, I stalk to my wreck, stick the keys in the ignition, and rev the engine. My muscles are sore from Coach’s abuse.

  “Coach’s so funny.” Simon hops in beside me, having lost out on the ride home with his mom. “He’s, like, ‘How’re any of you going to make it to college level? Doesn’t he get that we’re over and done with? Bear’s all set of course, and you too—”

  “So, so with me. I haven’t committed yet.”

  “Oh wah-wah. You’ve got four offers, dude. Total luxury problem right there.”

  A flap of uncertainty hops against my ribs. “Recruiters still work on our sophomores and juniors, though. Thomas, for instance.”

  “I know.”

  “And miracles happen for seniors too.” It’s thanks to Coach that I haven’t committed to any of my offering schools. They’re not power five schools, but they’re all good. Still, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with the Gators, and Coach thinks I have a chance if I play my cards right this season.

  Simon snorts. “Not for me.”

  Back at the prefab, Cynthia dearest is wearing one of her skimpy outfits again. She has an infinite amount of them. Golden legs and red-lacquered nails that disturb skirt hems have become the new norm in the prefab.

  She’s impatient today, scratching her white-blonde head while she waits for the sausages to cook in the pan.

  “What’s for dinner?” It’s damn obvious, but I’m trying for small-talk to keep my mind off her body. Unfortunately, she turns from the stove, all breasts and low-cut V-neck.

  “Oh hi, Cugs! How was school? I’m making mashed potatoes and sausage. Or more, like, I’m heating up the mashed potatoes, because I’m not actually mashing them from scratch or whatever. You know? This brand’s good though.”

  “School was fine.” I curse inwardly, wishing there was a switch somewhere in the groin area; I’m not attracted to her. I’d go so far as to say I’m a tad repulsed by her personality. “Where’s Dad?”

  Cynthia and my father have only been married for two months. They started dating a few months prior to that—if you can call it “dating” when people go straight to base fourteen million on their first night. In the room next to yours.

  “He’s over at the Depot with Toeffel and Oliver. He’ll be back once they sign off on today’s shopping.”

  There are two things that baffle me about Dad and Step-Cynth. One: he has already told her every detail about his job, and two: she refers to it in the same lax way my father does.

  She bites her lip now, seductive without meaning it. “Did you know your father’s into old-timey German foods? He loooves sausage.”

  I utter something short and affirmative and stride toward my room. My foot slides on a bra in the crummy hallway that separates the bathroom from the bedrooms. Just what I needed. Not. I kick it out of the way, close the door, and drop to the bed on my back. I think about women. About last weekend’s shopping.

  Nadine.

  I lift my cell above my head. Wiggle it from side to side, studying it without unlocking. It’s been three days, and there are no rumors about police leads on the South Beach break-ins. How crazy is that, to not report any details when you know who raided your parents’ home?

  I call her.

  She instantly picks up. “Is it you?”

  “If you mean Cugs, then yes, it’s me.”

  “Hey. I wondered when you would call.”

  “Not if?”

  “Why ‘if?’ It would be silly to accept someone’s number if you weren’t going to call.”

  “I could have accepted it to not hurt your feelings. Can you imagine: ‘Cugs, here’s my number!’ and me: ‘Naw, that’s a’aight.’”

  She giggles. “Done did talk about this. You asked, ‘You want me to call?’ And I said, ‘Yep, wouldn’t have given you my number if not.’”

  “Whatever. You think you’re so smart.” My grin cracks through my voice.

  “Because I am. Wait, are all phone convos with you like this? If so, we better stick to text messages, because my head’s spinning.”

  I find myself laughing. She’s funny and much more relaxed when I’m not breaking into her house. “Why didn’t you report me to the police?”

  “You kissed me.”

  You kissed me. I don’t even know what to say to that. Except—

  “I pressed my mouth against yours. It was hardly a kiss.”

  “Really?” She doesn’t like my answer.

  “What I mean is I could do so much better than that.” And geez, look at me talking up my face-sucking skills. I grab the bridge of my nose.

  “You could?”

  Is she curious? If so, awesome, but the situation is still awkward. I need to fix it. Caution to the wind. Let silliness prevail.

  “Face-time me.”

  She does, and I press blowfish-lips against the screen, adding half-grunted, half-moaned sucking noises to the mix. I end it with a slurping doggy-lick across the screen, dry it off with the back of my hand, and look to see her reaction.

  She’s quiet. I can’t see her at all actually, only the fabric of some curtain or whatever. “Nadine? Are you there?”

  Nothing. The view I have on the screen wavers, tips to the ceiling, and then crashes to what could be a seat cushion.

  “I can’t see you,” I say. “Shit. That was too much, huh?”

  A strangled noise, reminiscent of a small animal hits her microphone. Then she swerves into focus, eyes watering with hilarity. “Oh man. You’re crazy.”

  “Good crazy?”

  “Very good crazy.”

  I feel myself grin wide.

  Sometimes I think life’s getting there.

  Before long, I’ll be done with high school, with living at the prefab, and I won’t have to do break-ins to surviv
e. No, I’ll be doing football.

  I still have to impress though, keep getting better for that chance Coach thinks I have with the Gators. Which means I can’t flake on cardio. On Coach’s recommendation, I’m up at five every morning, and I run for an hour before school.

  “Coach, do you think I should take a break now that we’re so close to the Rattler game?” I ask three days prior to D-day.

  He brushes me off with a half-grin. “No, no. You watch too many movies. Hey, once you go pro, we’ll talk. In the meantime, you’ll need all the workout you can get, so keep goin’.”

  Thursday, I jog home from practice because the wreck has a rendezvous with Tom, Newbark’s cheapest mechanic. Coach’s right: running builds my endurance and makes me feel lighter. Unfortunately, it also makes my thoughts run.

  I wonder if Paislee has a car. Of course she does, and a great job too. With a great job, her car isn’t on the verge of breaking down all the time like mine. No, I bet she doesn’t have a wreck. I hope. She’s a good, careful driver too, I’m sure. My brain’s an Etch-A-Sketch. I shake my head.

  Life is getting better, what with Lucia Borgias’ stare lingering on me from the bleachers for much longer than before. Liza claims she finally likes me. Good thing too, because that took forever.

  A text pings in on my phone from Nadine. She’s sent me a meme, a round head with wide eyes and arms, saying, The moment you realize you’re a stick figure.

  While I type haha, she follows it up with the picture of her mouth shaped like a kiss. I erase what I wrote and re-type, I was going to write HAHA. I changed my mind. I keep running while I scroll through all the emoticons in the universe and land on some imprint of lips.

  You’re even cuter in text messages, she replies.

  I key out my response: OK.

  A Facebook notification flashes and disappears over our chat. It’s disturbing. I must have read it wrong. I switch to the messenger app—

  And I didn’t read it wrong. It’s my sister.

  I stop, lungs heaving.

  Paislee Marie Cain just requested my friendship on Facebook. Wow. I’ve been by her page in moments of weakness, but everything there is set to private. It’s okay though. I’m not the kind of person who caves in and forgives anyway.