3

by Nick Pirog

  I laugh, then say, “That’s exactly why I’m calling.”

  He lets out a little whoop.

  I ask, “Am I remembering correctly that you went through a lock-picking phase?”

  My dad went through as many hobbies as I could remember — rollerblading, flying kites, model airplanes, yo-yo, I think he might have even bought some turntables at some point — and it was impossible to keep track.

  “I did,” he says. “I got pretty good actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I bought six or seven locks off EBay and after a couple weeks, I could pick most of them.”

  “How long would it take you?”

  “Sometime ten minutes, sometime two days.”

  “Well, it’s worth a try.”

  It takes a second for it to dawn on him what his role in this caper will be. “You want me to pick the lock to the school?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll go start practicing right now. When are we doing this? Couple weeks?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, as in tomorrow, the day after today.”

  “Yes, why? You got something on your schedule?”

  “No, I just….it might take me awhile to locate my tools.”

  My dad’s basement is a thing of nightmares. A trophy room of failed hobbies stacked four feet in every direction.

  “When is the last time you had a tetanus shot?” I ask.

  He laughs, then tells me he’ll be here tomorrow ready to go.

  ::::

  It’s 3:57 a.m.

  I wanted the last few minutes of my day alone, but the Three Amigos had other plans.

  Murdock is taking up Ingrid’s entire side of the bed. His head is resting peacefully on the pillow, his nose half an inch from my ear. Rasmussen is literally nestled into my left armpit. Lassie is on my chest, resting his head on my sternum.

  If I walked outside and slept in the middle of the street, all three of them would follow me and sleep right next to me on the cold asphalt. This almost makes me forget how crazy they drove me earlier; how I spent nearly every single one of my precious sixty minutes dealing with their nonsense.

  Lassie walks forward and gazes down at me.

  Maybe he can feel my frustration.

  He licks my nose.

  Then my eye.

  Then my forehead.

  “Okay, stop. I get it, you love me.”

  He gives my face one more lick, then lies down, his face a centimeter from mine.

  Meow.

  “A code name? Why?”

  Meow.

  “For tomorrow?”

  Meow.

  “Fine, what do I care — you can have a code name.”

  Meow.

  “Justin Timberlake isn’t a code name. It’s a name, an actual name, of some guy you are in love with.”

  Meow.

  “Megatron? That’s kind of cool.”

  Meow.

  “Ghostface Killer? That’s a bit much.”

  Meow.

  “Clarence? That’s terrible.”

  Meow.

  “Blossom? Like the show?”

  Meow.

  “Just pick one, I’m gonna fall asleep any second.”

  Meow.

  “Pistol Pete? Naw.”

  Meow.

  “Fidel? Too soon bro, too soon.”

  Meow.

  “Catnado? I don’t get it.”

  Meow.

  “Dwayne Johnson’s Right Biceps? That’s a bit long.” I think for a moment, then say, “How about Bisquick?”

  Meow.

  “I don’t know. Pancakes just sound really good right—”

  :04

  “Okay, so here is the plan,” I say, pointing to the Google Earth image I pulled up on my laptop. “We will park the car here, three blocks from the school. Me and my dad—”

  Meow.

  “Sorry, Nightcrawler and Mock Turtleneck will cut through the basketball court and try to find a back entrance. Mur—I mean, Stinkbomb—will position himself under this tree, and serve as a lookout. Three barks and we know to abort mission.”

  “What if there are video cameras?” my dad asks. He is on the couch, Murdock’s tail whipping against his legs. He is wearing dark jeans and a black-ish mock turtleneck that he would be wearing whether we were breaking into an elementary school, playing poker, or eating at a five-star restaurant.

  “I’ve run past the school a handful of times and there are definitely video cameras outside the main entrance. We have to assume there will be others. That’s why we’ll be wearing these.”

  I pull out a baggy that Isabel left in the closet and toss my dad a mask.

  He catches it, then laughs.

  The mask is of a man in his fifties. Salt and pepper hair, and a long steep nose.

  “President Sullivan?”

  “Yep.”

  I pull out mine and put it on.

  “Obama,” my dad says, laughing. “Nice!”

  I take it off, then glance at my cell phone.

  3:06 a.m.

  Time to wrap things up.

  I nod at Lassie and say, “While we are picking the lock, Lass—sorry, Bisquick—will be searching the windows, looking for any sign of Billy.”

  Meow.

  “Right, for any sign of the Package.”

  Meow.

  “Who is Willow?”

  Meow.

  I look at Rasmussen, sitting on Murdock’s head, whiskers twitching away.

  “Willow will be in my fanny pack.”

  I take a breath, then continue, “Once we get in — if we get in — we split up and find the Package as fast as possible. If we don’t find him by 3:45, we pull out.”

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s do this thing.”

  ::::

  Channing Elementary is a mile and a half southwest of my condo. It is smack dab in the middle of a residential neighborhood. It is a red brick building, with “Channing” written in stenciled white letters on the gymnasium. A wrap-around inlet, where kids can be dropped off and picked up, cuts through a patch of yellow-green grass filled with budding aspen trees as well as a tall flag pole. The grounds and parking lot are well lit with street lamps and a series of floodlights bathes the concrete and stone benches near the entrance.

  The parking lot is half-full and I suspect, because street parking is impossible to come by — we parked five blocks away when we couldn’t find a spot — the local residents are allowed to use the lot on the weekends.

  Since I never attended a day of school in my life, I had little to compare it to, but according to the statistics I pulled up, Channing is relatively large as far as primary schools are concerned. Close to four hundred and fifty kids attend the school, which is one of four that feed into the middle school three blocks over.

  Murdock/Stinkbomb makes his way towards the largest of the aspens out front and plops down.

  My dad, Lassie, and I, walk leisurely past the school on the sidewalk, then dart behind some bushes.

  My father and I pull on our masks.

  “You ready?” I whisper through the mouth opening, my own hot breath rising into my eyes. The eye holes are fit relatively well, but my peripheral vision is cut off slightly.

  “Yeah,” my dad says.

  We sprint around the bushes, cross through a playground, then a basketball and tetherball court.

  It is 3:19 a.m. when we reach the far back of the school.

  “All right, Lassie,” I say. “Start checking the windows.”

  He glares at me.

  “Sorry—Bisquick.”

  He nods, then dashes off into the darkness.

  My dad/Mock Turtleneck/President Sullivan scurries toward the building. It takes a long couple minutes until we find a door.

  My dad kneels down and opens up a similar fanny pack and pulls out his lock pick set. Apparently, he was unable to locate his old set in the basement and was forced to buy another one.

  I pu
ll a small flashlight out of my back pocket and shine it on the lock while he goes to work. He has two separate tools and he slinks, stabs, twists, turns, and probes them in the lock. After less than three minutes, he successfully picks the lock and pulls the door open.

  My dad seems as surprised as me.

  “Nice work,” I whisper.

  He beams.

  I wait for an alarm to blare but it never comes.

  My dad holds the door open.

  “Lassie!” I whisper.

  Ten seconds later, he comes zipping around the building.

  “You see anything?”

  He shakes his head.

  Nothing.

  We enter the school.

  Soft lights flicker overhead, barely illuminating industrial, red-patterned carpet.

  My dad kicks down the door stopper, leaving the door open a couple inches in case we need to make a speedy escape.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s split up. We are looking for a third grade classroom. I’m guessing all the third grade classrooms will be down the same hall.”

  “That’s how it worked when I went to school,” my dad says, then adds, “back in the day.”

  The hall we are in is covered in art work.

  Finger painting.

  We move down the hall, and I shine the flashlight on a large piece of blue butcher paper that reads, “1st Grade.” The paper is filled with names. Written in marker, I assume, by the students. Some are sloppy, some are neat.

  We continue on until we come to a T.

  “I’ll go this way,” I say. “You two go that way.”

  Lassie and my dad start away from me and I continue until I come to the main entrance. I tip-toe past, thinking if they have any high-tech surveillance, this is where it will be. I pass by without incident, then continue until I reach a wide intersection of three corridors.

  Hmmmm.

  I choose the far left.

  I hit the library, then the cafeteria.

  No classrooms.

  I am set to turn around when I hear a noise emanating from further down the hall.

  The gymnasium.

  I turn my flashlight off and continue for thirty yards towards the gymnasium’s double doors. There are several pieces of paper taped to the door, but it is too dark to read them.

  I put my ear to one of the doors and listen.

  Silence.

  I gingerly pull the door open.

  Three inches.

  Five inches.

  Ten inches.

  I lean my head inside.

  The moonlight streams through several windows set high on the gymnasium walls, illuminating basketball hoops and the court below.

  My breath catches.

  The floor of the gym is covered in lumps.

  More than a hundred lumps. Some tightly grouped together. Others off by themselves.

  Kids in sleeping bags.

  I mouth, “Holy Shit.”

  I pull my head back and ease the door closed a millimeter at a time, until it successfully closes with just the slightest of clicks.

  I flip my flashlight on and shine it on the doors.

  I read the pink flyer.

  Annual Sleepovers are Back!

  2nd/3rd graders — Fri, April 21st, 7:00 p.m. — 8:00 a.m.

  4th/5th graders — Fri, April 28th, 7:00 p.m. — 8:00 a.m.

  Beneath is a list of activities. Board games, dodgeball, Wii on a huge projector screen, snacks, a movie, etc.

  I take a deep breath.

  Today is the 21st.

  Of all the nights we decide to break into the school, it has to be the night that over a hundred 2nd and 3rd graders are having a mass sleepover in the gymnasium.

  This would explain why Principal Hartwick said the kids would begin taking Billy home on Saturday morning. It’s because they would all be here on Friday night. Also, it explained all the cars in the parking lot.

  I pull off the flyer then speed walk back towards the office.

  I have to find my dad and Lassie and we need to get out of here.

  “Dad!” I whisper. “Lassie!”

  I pass the main entrance and head down the hall I last saw them go down.

  I poke my head into the first classroom I see.

  “Dad! Lassie!”

  They aren’t in there. They aren’t in any of the rooms on this hall.

  I double back.

  I head back towards the office, then head down the middle corridor. Halfway down I see a large piece of green butcher paper.

  4th grade.

  This time the student’s names are written in cursive.

  I expect the corridor to end, but it continues on, until I reach another piece of butcher paper.

  Yellow.

  3rd grade.

  I ponder what to do.

  It would be foolish of me not to poke my head into the classrooms real quick and see if I could find Billy. Or, was every second I waste not finding my dad and Lassie another second closer to getting caught and ending up in jail.

  I hear a squeak and look down.

  I totally forgot about Rasmussen.

  I unzip the fanny pack and he sticks his head out.

  He squeaks something.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “Let’s go find him.”

  I zip him back up, then duck into the first room. I splay the flashlight around but don’t see a cage.

  I move onto the next room.

  Again, no cage.

  Next room.

  The flashlight illuminates a cage in the back right corner.

  Bingo.

  I weave my way through the small desks and approach the cage.

  I shine the flashlight inside.

  “Hey Bill—”

  It’s not Billy.

  It’s a turtle.

  The turtle slinks his head in and out of his shell.

  “Sorry, buddy. Not what I’m looking for.”

  I exit the room.

  I dip into the final 3rd grade classroom.

  There is a cage in the back left.

  When I’m less than five feet away, I know it’s him.

  It’s the Package.

  Billy is curled up, lying in a pile of saw dust just to the left of a running wheel. His eyes are wide and his head swivels from side to side.

  “You don’t recognize me?” I ask, then remember I’m wearing a Barrack Obama mask.

  I push up the mask.

  Billy runs forward and smashes the little puff of white on his nose against the glass.

  “Yeah, you remember me.”

  I reach down and unzip the fanny pack.

  Rasmussen sticks his head out.

  At the sight of his brother, Billy goes berserk in the cage, zipping around, kicking up all the saw dust, nearly breaking the running wheel off its hinge.

  I lift the lid and reach my hand in the cage. Billy is still zipping around at Mach Four and it takes me several attempts before I successfully grab him. I plop him into the fanny pack with his brother, sending the two into a frenzy of squeaking and wrestling.

  I hear footsteps.

  They are too light to be my dad’s and too heavy to be Lassie’s.

  My heart races.

  I slowly zip the fanny pack back up then flop my shirt out over it.

  I pull the mask off the back of my head and stuff it in my front pocket.

  I turn around.

  A little girl is standing in the doorway.

  She is wearing light pink pajamas and she is holding a stuffed elephant.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  ::::

  I stare at her for a moment.

  Thinking.

  Finally, I say, “I’m Jason’s dad.”

  Her eyebrows scrunch together. I wait for her to turn and run. To start screaming, “Stranger danger.”

  She doesn’t.

  “Oh,” she says with a smile, her two front teeth missing. “I’m Shelly.”

  She walks forward.

 
; I can feel the gerbils still pouncing on one another in the fanny pack. I slowly move it around my waist to my back.

  Shelly stops three feet from me.

  “Jason picks his nose,” she says.

  Of all the fake kids I could have picked, I chose the nosepicker.

  “Really?” I say, leaning down a couple inches. “I’ll talk to him about that.”

  “Sometimes he eats them.”

  “Gross.”

  “I don’t mind,” she says, shrugging.

  “Oh, okay then.”

  “What are you doing?” she asks, trying to look around me at the cage.

  “I should ask you the same thing,” I say, talking a couple steps forward.

  “I had to go tinkle.”

  She must have snuck out to pee, then decided to check on her classroom. Or maybe even, to check on Billy.

  “Why didn’t anyone go with you?”

  “I’m a big girl. I can go tinkle all by myself.” The last four words came out, all-by-MY-SWELF!

  “Well, let’s get you back to the sleepover, okay?”

  Hopefully before anyone comes looking for you and finds you with a stranger and two gerbils in a fanny pack.

  Pretty sure, that would make the news cycle.

  After a long second, she says, “Okay.”

  :05

  The last thing I want to see on my way to the gym is my dad and Lassie. If Shelly saw either of them, I had a feeling she might take off running, or scream, or who knows what else.

  Luckily, we don’t pass them on our way back.

  As we pass the cafeteria, Shelly says, “What is that?”

  I lean forward and peer through the glass partition leading to the cafeteria.

  Update: the last thing I want to see on my way to the gym is Murdock on top of one of the cafeteria tables licking whatever food particles are left over.

  So much for being the lookout.

  He must have gotten bored, walked around to the back, pushed open the propped door, and then followed his nose to the cafeteria.

  I pray for him not to see us.

  To just continue going about his business.

  He looks up.

  His ears go stiff.

  He smiles.

  He bounds off the table and comes rushing through the open doorway. He sees Shelly and slows, then lies down. He doesn’t want to scare her.