by Heidi Ayarbe
I laugh. Hope you survive. Bye.
I don’t know why I don’t tell Josh that I just won three hundred seventy dollars. Maybe that bet’s just for me.
Power of anonymous. Purpose. Difference making.
Chapter 33
The Tech Finishes Season 1–28: School Looted after Win
Underground Essay-Writing Ring Exposed
The Philanthropic Society of Babylonia: Thousands Donated
“YOU SEE THAT? ROBIN
Hood,” Josh says. He’s added a few things to his ceiling—including the sign of Babylonia.
“Nice.” I wonder if that’s wise. Wouldn’t that constitute probable cause?
“Yeah. I thought you’d like that. And we’ve only just begun.”
“When your head shrinks from the size of the Goodyear blimp, let me know.” I’m lying on the bed beside him, watching how I’m part of his collage now.
He plays with my bracelet, tugging on the dice. “Why can’t you just enjoy this?”
“I can. I do. We’ve just got to stay focused.”
Josh squints his eyes. “Focused.” He widens his eyes and squints again, then says, “Focused on what?”
“I don’t know.”
Josh tucks a pillow under his head. “I need a nap. Join me?”
“You’re really cutting into those nine extra years.”
“Ah, Michal, it’s not quantity, it’s quality. What we’re doing—how I feel—it’s as if we’ve captured infinity.”
Before my face turns thirty shades of crimson, I leave Josh to his nap. I’ve got to organize Sanctuary, study for calculus. I’ve got to return Marilyn’s calls. This new friendship thing weighs on me.
I’ve got to stop by Moch’s and visit.
I’ve got to take a long cold shower.
I’ve got to stop loving Josh because he doesn’t realize that to be infinite, there’s no beginning, no end, and I feel like he’s my beginning and ending and everything that counts in between.
Josh rushes up to me at the courtyard. “We’re headlining five newspapers.” He recites the headlines to me:
“‘Babylonia Watch: Are You on Their Radar?’ ‘Babylonia Serial Burglars: What’s Their Agenda?’ ‘Rise in Anonymous Donations Raises Eyebrows: Should Charities Accept Anonymous Contributions?’ ‘Babylonia Makes Vigilantism “Cool”’ ‘Babylonia Chess: Predicting Their Next Move.’”
“One Warhol portrait short of immortality.” I count the words. “Six. I’d better write that down,” I say. “My memoir homework has suffered of late. Speaking of . . . good memory.”
“I didn’t want to bring the papers in. You know. It would look—”
“Too interested?”
He looks at my 7Up. “No coffee?”
I shake my head. “Going decaf.” The only things I can stomach are saltines and 7Up. There’s gotta be a Hollywood diet based on those two food ingredients alone.
“That’s a serious step.”
I nod.
Seth comes by and hands us PB & J. Babylonia doesn’t headline it but Luis Sanchez does.
Freshman Luis Sanchez Dies at Washoe Med
Last January 24, our classmate Luis Sanchez was beaten, evidently by a bat, and brought into the Carson Tahoe Hospital ER by two adolescents who refused to give their names. While in surgery, he suffered a series of ministrokes and cerebral hemorrhaging, slipping into a coma.
He lost his battle yesterday afternoon, surrounded by his three younger sisters, mom, and dad.
Luis was a member of the school band. He played trumpet. His favorite song was “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
His birthday is next week.
He would’ve been fifteen years old.
And it’s like watching a disaster unravel in slow motion. Over Josh’s shoulder I see Comba.
He is alone.
“No!” I shout. But I don’t know if he can hear me, because Trinity is screaming. Caleb Masterson, Nim Binder, and three other friends push Trinity out of the way, stepping in front of her. The courtyard clears, kids running.
Dean Randolph pushes his way against the tide of panic—too slow, too slow.
Comba draws his knife, shoving the blade into Caleb, pulling it out, the slow-motion movement of Comba pulling the blade out. He makes another jab just as someone pulls him away, the crimson blade falling to the tiles. Moch has shoved Comba facedown onto the floor, knee on his back, screaming for help. “Call nine-one-one!” Teachers push the rest of us toward the gym.
Students sob.
We hear sirens come toward us. I hear some kid say, “Everything’s okay. The cops and ambulance are here.”
That’s what I used to think.
And the thing is, I’m just as guilty. I watched them kick him. I watched them run away. I know who was there.
I did nothing.
I did nothing. And he died.
Chapter 34
AFTER SCHOOL, I BRING A
bouquet of minisunflowers to leave at Luis’s parents’ house. Their porch is covered with notes and flowers and pictures. I don’t even ring the bell. Moch walks up with a group just as I’m leaving. I stop and wait. I just want to say I’m sorry.
When Moch and his friends get to the porch, a young girl runs out of the house. She can’t be twelve. “¡Hijo de puta! Es culpa tuya, ¡pedazo de mierda! Mi hermano se murió por ustedes. Ustedes.”
Moch drops his head and retreats like he’s trying to reverse the scene. He doesn’t look me in the eye. He turns on his heel at the curb and walks away, jumping into the car that’s idling at the end of the road. His friends follow.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Sorry. Did I wake you up?”
“I don’t sleep. That’s been established.”
Josh says this through a very ill-disguised yawn.
“Yeah. During the night. I bet you haven’t made it through an entire block of class to date.”
“You okay?”
“Just a little sad, I guess.”
“I know.”
“You do?” Why does my sadness feel like a train, and Josh is only on for the ride? Why doesn’t he blame me for Luis Sanchez’s death? Why doesn’t he say anything about it, about what a coward I am?
“I do.”
He sounds so sincere. Does he feel the loss like I do? Does he know how important Babylonia is?
“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d bet you’re trying to catch up to those years of sleeplessness I’ve already banked. You’re just jealous.”
“Okay, Rip Van,” I say.
“I’m glad you called.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know if I should.”
“You always should. Wanna come over for pre-infernal coffee?”
“Pre-infernal?”
“Referring to the educational institution to which we belong.”
“I don’t do caffeine anymore.”
“We’ve got decaf. Rosa makes a mean pot.”
Mrs. Mendez is in the air. Rosa came the week after she died. And filled the place that can’t be filled.
Maybe we both hear her—feel her.
“That wouldn’t be weird—me coming over?”
“Weird . . . because?”
“Because. I dunno.”
“I’m putting the coffee on. Decaf.”
“I don’t do just black.”
“We’ve got Irish cream creamer, Italian cream, peppermint, French vanilla, and pretty much any kind of sugary guck you want in your coffee.”
“I’m out the door.”
The sugar has kicked in, and I feel alive, anyway. I check my pulse.
Yep.
Alive.
Josh is on major caffeine buzz—he made a separate pot—five cups, two hours.
I finally ask. “Have you heard? About Caleb?”
Josh nods. “Pretty bad. It looks like he’ll be peeing in a bag for a long time. He’s on a kidney transplant list.”
I lay my head on the granite countertop, the smooth
stone cooling my face. “I think I should probably come forward, say something. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Will you get in trouble for not saying anything before?”
He sits next to me, laying his head on the counter so we’re nose to nose. “It’s not your fault.”
But it is. “Isn’t there something about the guilt of silence of the masses or something? I did nothing.” I think about the bat tucked in the corner of my closet and get that same sick feeling, like I did at the field.
“You’re doing something now.”
“I have bad dreams, like I’m being buried in an avalanche of snow. I wake up suffocating.”
“Disturbing.”
I pause, then say, “That’s how my mom died. Maybe she’s haunting my conscience, telling me that I need to—”
“They’re bad dreams. Nothing more.”
“I want to go to the Great Basin National Park. Just see where she died. Say good-bye. Just . . . is that stupid?”
“We can go.” Josh is so close, the tips of our noses almost touch. We have cyclops eyes.
“I can’t breathe,” I say. “My chest hurts all the time.”
He rubs my cheek. “You’re not suffocating. You’re here.”
“How much money do we have?” I ask, even though I know. I like to listen to the sound of the word: thousand.
“We got almost three thousand from our last job,” he says. “That can help the Sanchez family.”
“Can you pay off guilt? Is it working for you? About Mrs. Mendez?”
Josh cringes. I know that’s what he’s been trying. It doesn’t work. I can tell by his face every time Rosa comes into the room—every time he sees Moch. “Others will come forward,” Josh says. “They’ll find out who did it.”
“It just doesn’t seem like enough,” I say. “It never does.”
“How can we make our money grow?”
“Open a CD? Invest in the stock markets? We’ve got limited options.”
Josh raises his eyebrows. “But think about it. We could really make some cash. You know how to place the bets—smart betting. Not emotional betting.”
I shake my head. I think about the bet I made, the one I didn’t tell Josh I was placing. The Huskies made the bubble—they’re going to compete, playing tonight in the first round. Major underdogs now on people’s radar. My radar.
I won three hundred seventy dollars, and it felt like I’d won the world. But U-Dub isn’t smart betting. I think of my list of imaginary bets—the ongoing list. I’ve won.
A lot.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“We’re not making enough,” Josh says. “We’ve gotten nearly ten thousand dollars in three robberies. We’ve given away over seven, leaving us with three. But that’s just a drop in the bucket.”
“It’s too big a risk. What if—” We can’t afford to lose this money. People actually need it. It’s going somewhere, to Moch’s family, Luis’s family, charities. This money actually has a reason.
“The big question is this: What games are on this weekend?” Josh says.
“Some games tonight and tomorrow. Saturday starts second round—down to thirty-two teams. Bigger betting.” Tonight the Huskies play. I want to place a bet on them—take my initial investment and earnings and see how far this will take me. I feel guilty keeping this from Josh, like I’m lying to him.
“So how much have we got to win?” Josh says, forever the optimist.
I open up my notebook. I’ve been thinking about this for a while—a long while. I already texted everyone last night and send out a reminder an hour before: Sanctuary 7:00 Library.
Josh’s phone beeps. He looks at the text. “I’ll be there.”
I nod.
Drowning. Moments of panic, then peace.
Chapter 35
“BIG CROWD,” MISS CAMPBELL,
the librarian, says, opening the doors for us. “Finals?”
“Senior projects, calculus, AP History, and French. We’re studying zombie hour.” I hold my decaf in hand, pretending it’ll give me the zing I need. At least it tastes like coffee. Mind over matter.
We take out various textbooks. Miss Campbell would know we’re full of it if we started reading The Gambler. There are only so many years the same group of kids can read from the same book. I’ve memorized something for the group, though, to set the mood:
No, it was not the money that I valued—what I wanted was to make all this mob of Heintzes, hotel proprietors, and fine ladies of Baden talk about me, recount my story, wonder at me, extol my doings, and worship my winnings.
It works. I’ve made Thursday and Friday worth something, given it meaning. Kids will go to Nim’s annual party at Clear Creek but will only be thinking about the games. A few of us even place a few side bets on how long it’ll take for Nim’s party to get busted.
Bets are placed.
Saturday, third round begins and I’ll take bets until noon, giving out a fair dose of hope for Saturday and Sunday bettors.
And Monday, Seth will have another headline for PB & J. A scoop only he’ll get.
The house is practically invisible from the road; the cobbled stone driveway curves around leading to the cabin—more like mansion cabin, the giant home hidden behind a screen of old-growth pine trees. The automated radio goes on—four o’clock sharp. It’s overcast—outside, the light is gray-bright.
We got a smattering of rain—a cloudburst that graced the dry foothills with drops of water, flooding the air with the spicy sage smell.
I inhale, grateful for the perfume of the mountains.
The bad thing—leaving footprints. We’re careful to walk on beds of pine needles and avoid stepping in mud.
Josh points to his watch.
I hold up ten fingers times two.
He nods.
After Thursday dance classes, they go to Java Jungle and get smoothies before coming home. It leaves us about forty-five minutes, but we need to be in and out in twenty—just to be on the safe side.
We walk around the side of the house, ignoring the BEWARE OF DOG sign. The dog is an arthritic, incontinent bassett hound that can barely move. They leave the back sliding glass door ajar and him lying right next to it every afternoon in the hope he’ll get the energy to relieve himself outside.
We drop a T-bone by his snout. He half wakes up, sniffs the air, attempts a growl, then rests his nose back on the bone, hanging his tongue out to get some of the juices.
“Poor dog.”
“No kidding,” Josh says.
Every house has its sound—like the way it breathes. Some homes whistle, like when windows are left barely open and the wind blows. Some homes creak. Some homes sigh. It all depends on which way the house faces, how thick the windows are, what the house is made of. I listen. This is a creaker—cracked-open windows facing east. A wooden cabinlike home next to the mountains, the hush of pine needles brushing against the windows, occasional pelts of sap making soft thudding sounds like thick patters of rain. The rumble-snore of the dog adds to the sounds.
It’s a quiet kind of noisy—the kind of place too easy to get spooked, panicked. But when I take a minute to listen, it’s like getting to know the house and its secrets. And I know how to filter the sounds.
I scan the room—a typical mess of Barbies and stray puzzle pieces, half-peeled crayons and Disney DVDs. I sift through the DVDs—in the pile there’s a Cinderella repeat with a cheaply photocopied Cinderella cover.
Rookies.
I pop open the DVD case.
Bingo!
We work our way through the rooms, rifling through the medicine cabinet, another five hundred dollars in an expired prescription bottle of Amoxil. We search through the spice rack and junk drawer—finding bits and pieces to add to the take.
Josh points to his watch.
I hold up ten fingers.
We hurry upstairs and start with the master bedroom—getting some petty cash from blue jeans lying on the floor,
an envelope taped under the office desk drawer, and the typical countertop small change.
We both head to the master closet to search through jewelry boxes and shoes. I stop. Something isn’t right. Something feels different. The sounds of the house have changed. The automated radio has clicked off. The windows groan. Clouds have opened up to spatter rain—uneven pelts on windows.
The closet door opens.
She coughs. Josh and I lock eyes and turn around to see a little girl in pink pajamas, a rat’s nest of curls tied back in a ponytail. I’m not good with ages, but she can’t be more than seven years old. She wipes her nose, a tear dripping down her cheek. She’s holding a cell phone in her trembling hand. As soon as she gets a good look at us, she opens her mouth and wails.
It feels like somebody is pumping ice water through my veins, and my heart rate surges to try to push the half-frozen blood through my system. I’m quite certain my veins are spasming from the freakish hyper blood pump.
Josh grabs her phone and I wrap my arms around her, putting my hand over her mouth. I hold her tight. Too tight. “Shhhh,” I say. “Shhhh shhh shhh.”
She bites my hand and kicks her leg high, her heel landing on my bad knee, grinding into it. I yelp and fall to the ground, the little girl on top of me. She makes a run for it and Josh nabs her, passing her back to me. I lock my legs around her, my arm around her neck.
“Just stop it,” I say. “Just. Shut. Up.” I glare at Josh. She’s not supposed to be here.
Fat tears stream down her cheeks mixed with nose slime and that eucalyptus vapor rub smell. She’s one snotty kid. “You’re hurting me,” she whimpers.
“I’m so sorry. I really am. I’m just really nervous right now, you know.” I loosen my grip a little, just a little, and try to still the trembling in my hands, in my voice. “We won’t hurt you. But you can’t scream. Okay?”
The little girl nods. I loosen my grip more and feel bad because she’s peed herself. Josh yanks a shirt from a hanger and hands it to her. She cries so hard, she hiccups. I pass her the shirt. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.”
“Smart,” I say. “Smart. Um. How old are you?”