Things have been bad lately. More than bad. The arrest was almost a relief. There was all this awful tension building at home. It is at the very least an explanation for why my parents spend most nights yelling at each other, for why our house doesn’t feel like a home. I’m not suicidal—really, I’m not…but I can’t deny that sometimes I am curious about it. About how peaceful it might feel to let things end.
I let out a long, slow breath. Then I close my eyes and step into the air.
The van is cool. Well, not cool exactly, but the perfect getaway car for a heist. It’s nondescript, dust-covered gray, with a lineup of cartoon-character people stuck to the tinted back window. A mom. A dad. Two kids. A dog. Man, I hate those stupid gringo decals. Like anyone really needs them to figure out whose ride this is. But as awesome as they are, the real kicker is the MARY KAY CONSULTANT sign stuck to the driver’s side door. Eddie’s gonna love that.
“This one,” I say, smiling at the prospect of showing it to him. Getaway drivers—hell, all guys—like something sexier than this, but since he’s not here…
I’m getting that slight tingle in my fingers. It’s my gut’s way of telling me the job’s going to go right. I unzip my backpack, pull the tow kit and my gloves out from under a stack of college books, where I hid them. I tell the other guys the books are just props to make me look more like a student—out studying late for an exam, instead of a thief trying to steal a car—in case one of LA’s finest happens to pull me over. But that’s only partly true. I’ve actually read most of them. Plus, I like having them with me. They’re my good-luck charms.
My cousin Benito—he goes by Benny—yawns and takes point at the back of the vehicle, eyes glued to the entrance to the apartment building’s parking lot. I’d lay odds he’s not watching the street, though. He’s been staring at the sky on and off for the past hour, daydreaming. The LA skyline is pretty sweet, but not something he hasn’t seen a million times before. We don’t talk about it, but I know he dislikes this part of the job as much as I do. You’d think stealing cars wouldn’t be nearly as big a deal as the bank jobs, but in some ways it’s worse. More personal. This van belongs to someone—a woman with kids. We have to steal our getaway cars.
“I gotta get a Red Bull or something, dude. I’m dyin’. Hurry up already.” Benny stretches and groans loudly, his arms coming up over his head, his back arching. He’s nearly four inches shorter than me, twice as thick, and nothing but muscle. He reminds me of a boxer or something, all coiled-up energy. “You think the boys are still at the party?” Benny sounds wistful. We left the rest of our crew at Jeannette’s house. We never take the whole team to lift a car. We’d attract too much attention. Last we saw of them, they were gathered in Jeannette’s backyard scoping out the girls. “Maybe we could go back after we drop this bad boy off?” he asks, hopeful.
“Nah, man. It’ll be over by now.” I stick the wedge into the car door and pry it back enough to shove the air bladder into the gap. I start squeezing the hand pump, the bladder inflating in time with the pulse in my neck. Two seconds more and I’ve got the long metal rod in place, hovering over the unlock button. The car clicks. The lock disengages. The sound sends a tremor down my spine. I pull open the door. The cinnamon-apple scent of the car deodorizer makes my lungs squeeze shut in an instant. It’s so bad that I consider breaking into a different car. But that’ll just waste time, so I yank the air freshener out and throw it to the ground.
I drop into the driver’s seat, check all the usual places for keys. It’s nuts how many people leave a key inside their car. Stupid. Every time I find one, I want to leave a note that reads, “Doors have locks for a reason.” Mom types are the worst about it. I mean, I get it. My sister’s only three, so I know little kids’ll make you stressed and forgetful and stuff, but this is LA. You can’t let your guard down. Ever. Still, somehow they always do. Easy targets. I’d be a pendejo if I didn’t go for their cars first.
The glove compartment is stuffed with insurance papers and not much else. There’s nothing in the driver’s side door, tucked into the visor, or under the floor mat except crumbs. But then, boom! There’s a key tucked into the coin tray beneath a thin layer of sticky-looking pennies and a stash of baby wipes, diapers, and a box of Goldfish crackers. I grab the crackers, then slip the key into the ignition and start ’er up. Some god-awful kids’ music fills the car, a dozen high-pitched voices singing about peanut butter and jelly. It’s a song that my own mom would never be caught dead playing for my little sister. She’d rather play Maria some Plastilina Mosh or my dad’s stuff from when he used to do covers around LA with his band. I start fiddling with the buttons until I find a station that doesn’t make me want to rip out my eardrums.
“Let’s roll,” I say.
Benny slips into the passenger side. I put the car in drive, and we ease out of the garage. I’m in no particular hurry. It’s quiet this time of night. Most people who live around here are asleep. I put on my turn signal and hang a left. There’re maybe ten other cars on the street and then a stretch of empty road, but I don’t speed up. The first rule of stealing is not to look like you’re stealing. Speed hints at panic, and panic calls attention to itself.
“Wanna grab a burger or somethin’?” Benny yawns again, and suddenly it’s contagious and I’m yawning myself. The brief jolt of adrenaline I had when we settled on this car is already fading away. There was a time when I would be jacked-up for hours, but now stealing cars is just too easy, that’s all. Thinking about it makes my stomach sour. I don’t want it to be easy. It means it’s become my normal. Not good.
“Nah, I’m beat. We got church in the morning, remember?”
“Ha! It is morning, genius. Don’t be such a tight-ass white boy. You might as well stay up all night now. So…burgers? Come on, you know you want one.” Benny jabs me in the ribs, grinning. I hate it when he calls me white boy. Makes me feel like I’m not like him, that I don’t totally belong. I try not to care. The boys tease Carlos for being fat all the time, and he doesn’t complain—except it’s not the same. Carlos can lose weight. I’ll always have a white father. I give Benny the side eye and punch his shoulder.
“Ow, bro,” he laughs, massaging his arm. I rub my eyes. They’re squinty with fatigue. I won’t even get four hours’ crash time before I’m squished into a pew, listening to Father Diaz give the mass. I shovel a few Goldfish into my mouth and offer Benny the box.
“No burgers,” I say. “I gotta help my mom fill an order for her company before church. It’s gotta go out Monday first thing. I’m gonna be wrecked if I don’t squeeze in an hour or two of sleep.”
This is only partly true. I do have to help my mom tag and box over a hundred T-shirts for this hipster clothing store downtown—her first big order in a very long time—but I also want to read this book my English teacher recommended. Benny doesn’t need to know that, though. He’ll just start ribbing me again. It’s better for both of us if he thinks I’m doing something nonintellectual. Benny and I are more than cousins—we’re best friends—but this is one area of my life he doesn’t get. None of my boys are all that interested in pleasure reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea or To Kill a Mockingbird. You’d think they would be, because it’s such an escape, but man, for them it’s the opposite. Benny had issues learning to read in the first place, and getting called out of class to hang with the reading specialist embarrassed him big-time. The others would rather be shooting hoops or out picking up girls or whatever. Gabriel dropped out of school a while back, and Eddie and Carlos have started entertaining the idea of doing the same. It’s just not that important to them. I get why. Hard to think about the future when you’re trying to survive today. It just sucks when they get defensive every time I try to do something different.
It’s a theory I have. The hole theory. Sometimes people who are stuck in a really deep hole don’t see the point in trying to get out. The climb just feels too high. And when you want to escape, they get all freaked out beca
use if you actually manage to get out, they’re stuck in the hole alone. I think Benny’s afraid that if I get too into books and stuff, we won’t have anything in common. Or that I’ll start seeing him differently. That won’t happen, but I can’t make him believe that, so I just don’t talk about what book I’m into currently or acing my SATs or applying for college scholarships.
“Oh, bro, that sucks.” But Benny doesn’t look the least bit sorry about the prospect of my having to fold a bunch of lady shirts before mass. In fact, he’s grinning like a freaking five-year-old who’s just heard the world’s best fart joke.
“So how come Eddie doesn’t take this crap over for us? He’s the driver—it should be him,” I say, barely keeping the frustration out of my voice.
“ ’Cause Eddie’s about as stealthy as an elephant. What, you don’t like spendin’ time with me, homes?” Benny pretends to be insulted.
“Not even a little bit,” I say dryly. Dude practically lives at my house, we hang out so much.
He laughs, lowering the window and sticking his hand into the wind. He lets it ride the current, dipping and swooping. He’s back to watching the sky. Again. His expression changes, goes all serious.
Probably he’s thinking about the fact that none of us is completely in charge. If we were, we wouldn’t be robbing banks in the first place. The question of who the real boss is is complicated. For us, it’d be Soldado, the leader of Florencia Heights, but he answers to dudes even higher up than him. We’re just the final link in a very long chain.
After a bit he says, “You know you wouldn’t seriously let Eddie do it anyway. You gotta have your fingers in the whole thing all the time.”
He’s not exactly wrong. I feel better when I have more control—even if it’s just perceived control. Simple truth: we’re the guys on the ground. If stuff goes sideways, we’ll be going to jail. Not Soldado or whoever he reports to. When it comes to putting my butt on the line, as much as I love my crew—my boys, Eddie, Gabriel, Carlos, and Benny—they aren’t all that careful about stuff. This is also part of my hole theory: If you’re deep in the hole, you aren’t scared of going deeper. But if you’re halfway out, man, the fall is freaking terrifying.
I think it ticks Gabriel off that I want to control things—like I don’t trust him or the other guys or something, but it isn’t that, not exactly. I mean, they know all my secrets and have my back no matter what. And I got theirs. But I don’t always trust their decision-making when it counts. Not for nothing, but Carlos gets sloppy sometimes. Like the bank we hit a few months back when he let out a string of curses in Spanish, handing the cops the biggest clue so far as to who we are. I mean, they don’t know for sure we’re Mexican—we could be Puerto Rican or Cuban—but given how many Mexicans there are in this city, it’s the first conclusion they’ll reach. I doubt they’re going to think it’s a bunch of white dudes dropping f-bombs en español just to screw with them. Every job leaves a trail, no matter how hard you try to muddy it up.
Eddie is the getaway man mainly because he lacks the kind of presence you need to have to go into the banks. He’s maybe one hundred fifty pounds soaking wet, and even at a yell his voice is weak. Like someone socked him in the voice box or the balls or something.
Gabriel is the only cool head other than mine, but as good as he is at being in charge, too, I can never quite let him, not all the way, even if he is five years older. Mostly because the way he acts, sometimes I think he expects to end up in jail someday. Like he figures it’s his birthright, since his dad’s there. His mom has told him as much more than once after he’s screwed up. And most of the time he doesn’t seem to worry too much about the consequences of what we’re doing.
The God’s honest truth is that the guys rely on me to be the brains. And as the brains, I feel the need to oversee all the decisions these guys make when it comes to the jobs. We’ll be okay. As long as we keep to the rules we came up with when we got roped into this whole thing:
1. Get in, get out.
2. Only shoot in self-defense.
3. Don’t get greedy.
4. Don’t get caught.
5. Only trust each other.
Simple enough. But I’m always surprised at how hard it actually is to follow them in the heat of the moment. We’ve managed so far—longer than any crew I know about, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t on borrowed time. We can’t afford to screw up. I can’t even begin to think about what it would do to my mom and Maria if we got caught. What it would do to all the people we love. I couldn’t keep doing this if I thought about that too much, so no slipups.
The traffic light in front of us goes red, and I slow to a stop. We’re at the heart of the financial district, near our next target. The bank’s blinds are drawn this time of night, the windows dark. I stare anyway, waiting to see if the same rightness fizzes across my skin, like it did with the car. Nothing. I can’t tell if this is a bad sign or nerves. I’m banking on nerves. Ha! Banking. I laugh even though it isn’t all that funny.
Thonk!
Something’s landed on the car.
I startle so bad that I accidentally step on the gas and the car jerks forward. A pair of boots attached to a long, thin pair of legs appear as a person scrambles across the front hood, tries to keep his balance, fails, then goes down to one knee, his hands darting out to steady him.
“What the—?” I manage to sputter before those boots are launching themselves off the edge of the hood. The dude’s pant leg rides up on one side, and I get an up-close look at the tattoo on his moon-pale calf—a goldfish that looks as if it’s preparing to dive straight into one boot. There’s a little thud as first that boot and then the other connect with the blacktop. The person is smaller than I thought he was. Wait. Not a he. A girl? She has a black helmet on—is dressed head to toe in black, the outfit so tight that there’s no question anymore that she’s definitely female. There are cords attached to a pack on her back and a length of fabric trailing after her, blown sideways so that it landed on the road and not the car. It takes me a second to realize that it’s a parachute.
“Ho-ly crap!” Benny laughs out loud, and the girl must hear him, because she half turns. I get a flash of pale white skin; full, slightly parted lips; and wisps of blond hair escaping the front of her helmet, glinting gold under the streetlights. She blinks, black lashes against a flushed cheek, before she’s off and running, the chute swishing over the ground behind her like some kind of wedding dress train. I can’t stop staring. My heart thuds hard in my chest. It’s like watching some black-ops Cinderella make her getaway. She leaps onto the sidewalk across the street without looking back once. I watch the chute trail after, lifting into the wind a bit almost like it’s waving at us, and then the girl and the chute disappear behind a building.
We’re the only car at the intersection, so I put it in park and get out. Benny follows, both of us looking first at the building she went around and then up at the sky. I want to run after her, to catch her and turn her around so I can see her face. I need to know who she is. But I can’t seem to make myself move.
“That was insane, bro!” Benny shakes his head and trots a little ways past the intersection, obviously trying to see where she went, and when he can’t find her, he looks back up at the sky. “You see anyone else up there?” he calls.
I look up at the skyscrapers surrounding us, looming large and seeming to sway. There’s no sign of anyone else, no shadowy silhouettes of other jumpers or whatever. It’s like she just appeared 007-style. I half expect a guy with a scar running down one cheek and an Uzi in his hand to show up next, but instead there is the unmistakable whine of a police siren, faint, but getting louder quickly.
“Time to go,” I say. Benny’s already slipping back into the car. We might not be the only ones breaking the law tonight, but if we stick around, we’ll be the only ones who get caught.
I pull out into the intersection and head south, toward home, the girl still imprinted on my brain. I’m not superstit
ious, but I can’t help thinking that her landing on the car just as we were by our target bank is some kind of omen. Of what? I’m not sure yet.
Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.
I count down the seconds, wind rushing at me from all directions and a blur of lights and buildings speeding past, my whole body sinking like a lead weight, my stomach clenched tight against the pull of gravity, my eyes tearing up because I’ve forgotten to blink.
I deploy my parachute when I run out of seconds to spare, and the canopy spreads out behind me like a giant shadow, lifting me before I begin to float balloon-like toward the ground. I work my lines, maneuvering myself between the buildings to my right and left, trying to keep my wits about me. There’s a car on the road, coming up fast. It’s a minivan, idling at the traffic light. My last thought as I try to avoid it is I hope this van doesn’t contain sleeping babies.
My legs buckle a bit when I hit the hood, and I go down hard on one knee. I put my hands out in front of me to keep from catapulting off the van and onto the asphalt headfirst. Picturing what I must look like and the shock on the face of whoever is driving is enough to get me laughing hysterically, especially when the guy in the passenger seat starts hollering.
I turn enough to peer into the car. Two guys around my age are in the front seat, staring openmouthed at me. The driver leans forward like he wants to get a better look at me, his scruffy jawline getting closer to the steering wheel, his dark eyes coming into view.
Time to bolt.
I leap off the car and literally hit the ground running, my chute trailing behind me across the street, swishing on the asphalt. I can hear the van’s car doors open and I turn. Yep, both guys are standing beside the car. I pick up speed and duck out of sight. I don’t think they’ll follow me, but you never know.
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