Heist Page 9

to normal. Get over it."

  My fist feels red hot. Energy pulses through it like a bolt of electricity needing an outlet. I throw a perfect right hook and catch Stick in the eye. He stumbles back and bumps into a table. Students gasp as pottery vessels shake and threaten to fall.

  Tucking my throbbing fist under my armpit, I storm away, but not before catching a glimpse of Stick's face. The shock and the hurt of being hit by his best friend. His dad? Sure. But not me.

  My eyes burn. I feel like crap but I can't stop walking, can't stop moving away.

  10:11 p.m.

  Late that night, after Mom has gone to bed, I trudge outside and sit on the front steps. The cement digs through the back of my pants but I don't care. My hand still throbs from punching my best friend and the look on Stick's face haunts me.

  Any warmth from the spring sun has evaporated, leaving behind a chill that smells of winter, even though it's March. My pinky toes are numb. I stare at the stars barely shining through the Boston smog.

  On clear winter nights, we used to hunt for the Big Dipper. We'd sit and point out the constellations, while Dad told stories from his rabble-rousing days. Those nights are imprinted in my mind, never to be forgotten. But tonight, these memories hurt.

  My whole life teeters on a sharp edge. In one afternoon, everything I held to be true shattered. Maybe Dad wasn't right about everything? Maybe not everyone looked up to him? Maybe the men hung out with gifts flowing from their pockets because they feared my dad, and not because they wanted to soak in his presence like he was some fucking king.

  Maybe I'm wrong about everything.

  A shadow flickers off to the side and moments later Stick plunks down next to me. I look away from the large bruise forming on his face in the moonlight. We stare up at the night sky.

  Memories weave between us. One night before Dad's arrest we camped out on these steps. Dad built a small fire then freaked us out with ghost stories that would raise the dead. That night, I had a hard time sleeping as the stories created fear that prickled down the back of my neck into early morning.

  Another time, Dad melted s'mores in the microwave but wouldn't hand them out until we pointed out three constellations. Now I wonder what those nights were really about. Were they about Dad feeling guilty over staying out late and not spending enough time with his family? Were they after nights that Stick's dad had lost it and it was more about Stick? Were those nights ever about me? Memories flicker through my mind like a movie on repeat. Each gesture, joke and laugh holding a double meaning. Were they all a lie?

  Eventually, Stick stands up, and I stand too. Yellow surrounds Stick's eye and by morning will be a real shiner with streaks of purple. I need to apologize but the words stall, refusing to be spoken. The same memories hang over us. The questions, the doubts, linger in our minds.

  Stick pierces me with his gaze. Before I can react, Stick pulls his arm back and punches me in the gut. Pain explodes in my stomach and I double over, gasping for breath.

  Stick leaves for home.

  I hunch over, hands on my knees. My breathing slowly heads back to normal and the pain in my stomach subsides. But I don't want it to. I need that reminder, the pain, to jab into my conscious and force me to see the truths I don't want to see.

  I failed my dad.

  I failed Jetta.

  And I failed Stick.

  10:47 p.m.

 

  I shuffle inside, exhausted, but not ready for bed.

  The darkness inside the coffee shop is familiar, the streetlight barely slanting across the wood floor, the hint of cinnamon from this morning's scones. And the quiet that comes with late night.

  Mom sits in the corner and sips on a glass of wine. The shadows hide her face, so I can't tell her mood. She's slowly withdrawn the past four years; and everyday she loses a bit of her sparkle and love for life.

  I crave some kind of reassurance even if it's her typical snarky response or the grunt that indicates she doesn't want to talk. I slide into the chair across from her. My pinky toes tingle back to life. I'd love a mug of hot chocolate but realize that it's not in the cards.

  "Dateline boring?" I ask.

  "No." She sighs. "I prefer the quiet. Sitting with these pictures is the closest thing I have to your dad." Her fingers grip onto the glass of wine like it's a life jacket and she's drowning.

  I'm sixteen, almost a man. Dad joked about how spoiled today's kids are. How a hundred or so years ago in Boston, kids my age were scrapping it out on the streets for a crust of bread. I suck in a breath, daring to ask.

  "Will Dad have another chance for parole?"

  "I don't know, Jack." Her words hiss out in an unhappy sigh and I don't push the issue.

  The picture of the ocean trip stares at me from the wall. I can't see the smiles and happy eyes, the carefree life that used to be my family. And I like it that way.

  The familiar rage appears like a friend that hangs out with me all the time. The feeling grows as I remember Mom back when Dad was around. She always smiled, always had a cheery note of encouragement, always asked about school and my grades, and always hinted around at any girls in my life. I found it a bit intrusive at the time but now I appreciate every question, even if she just wants to know if I took out the trash. I wouldn't even mind if she yelled about my failing P.E. grades.

  "It's been a long day." She tips her head back and drains the glass. Her voice changes and a bit of emotion cracks through the monotone. "I came down to give you this."

  In the dark, I hadn't noticed the lump on the table next to her.

  "It's your dad's. You can wear it now. He'd want you to." Her voice takes on a note of sadness. "I loved him in this jacket."

  The rage breaks, and a hollow feeling fills my chest. Dad's jacket? That must mean he isn't getting out anytime soon. "Are you sure? This is his favorite."

  "He can't much appreciate it in prison now, can he?" she says sharply, her words jabbing into me. She drops the jacket in my lap and then heads for the stairs.

  I bury my face in the coat and breath in the smell of old leather and cigarette smoke. Dad wore it when riding his motorcycle. He loved it.

  I flash back to the days of riding behind him on the cycle. Dad loved speed and I hugged him in a death grip as we dipped low around the corners. We rode through the streets of town and I felt like a prince, proud to be the son of the King of Southie. I run my finger over and over the label where Dad's name is written. The letters are faded but still readable.

  Joseph Brodie.

  I'll just wear it until he comes home. Keep the leather supple.

  I slide the large coat on and hug it to my body where no one can see me revert back to the boy cowering on the stairs the night of Dad's arrest. It isn't often I go there; normally the streams of anger keep me strong. Even so, I refuse the tears.

  I stopped crying a long time ago.

  11:15 p.m.

  The stillness of night surrounds me, balancing the chaos of the day: the rush, the crowds, the confusion. I finally have time to think back on Frank. Really think back on his words and familiar way as if he truly knows my dad and me.

  In about five seconds that man had stripped away all the truths in my life, or he'd tried to, because there was no way Dad stole those diamonds or anything else. Yeah, in the past four years, I figured out he wasn't perfect, but he didn't yell or hit like Stick's dad. And he sure as hell wasn't a thief.

  Frank is a total jerk and belongs in the loony bin. He said I'd go on a journey. I'd help my dad. My "journey" was supposed to have already happened. What a joke.

  My thoughts drift to Jetta and my heart thumps quietly, beating at the memory of her smile. Her grandmother's haughty words linger in my mind and the pain in her dad's eyes haunts me. He would do anything for her.

  I think about my dad. How could he be in the shop one night and in the courtroom the next day? It was like he was two completely different people.

  Light from the streetlamps h
ighlight the wall and a rather large painting of a field with a swirling river rushing through it. Large tree branches droop over the water. It's the perfect scene for an afternoon picnic. With family.

  Dad stood in front of this same painting the night before.

  My eyes rove over the details and I lose myself in the scene. I hear the sound of the gurgling water flowing over rocks. Smell the sweet scent of wildflowers. Feel the sunshine streaming through the branches of the tree. A picnic of roast beef sandwiches with dill pickles. And Dad, Mom, and I. Happy.

  The painting blurs. The room pitches forward. Nausea cramps my stomach. I close my eyes but the feeling grows. I sway. My body pulls forward and the smell of rain washes over me. A light mist brushes my cheeks. Cool air moves past, sending goosebumps down my arms. I quickly open my eyes and shake it off.

  I stare at the painting again. Dad told me I'd know. Frank said I'd go on a journey. I didn't find clues at school or at the art festival. And I certainly didn't help Dad at his trial. Maybe it's right now, right here, with this painting. It's crazy. But maybe?

  What if wishes have a chance to come true? What if it was just up to me to make them happen?

  I suck in a deep breath and stare into and past the painting. The nausea returns and I close my eyes and let go. The mist wets my cheeks. A slight breeze moves the hair above my ears. Rock music pulses louder and louder.

  Seconds later, I'm sitting in a side street, outside a brick building.

  MARCH 18, 1990

  12:15 a.m.

 

  The small hairs on my arm rise, from the chill or the fear I'm not sure. I dig my back into the wall, but I don't feel the gritty bricks through my dad's leather. My jeans are stained from a recent rain. Moisture paints the pavement black and small pools reflect the moon in silvery ripples. A drop of water clings to a clump of hair against my forehead, then drops to my nose.

  Slowly, I focus. Parked cars line the narrow side street. Rain beads on the windshields and drips down the doors. I dig my fingers into the rough bricks behind me, the needle-like points jabbing my skin. Guns-n-Roses blares from a nearby apartment building, and shouts and laughter from a party drift outside.

  I'm back at the Gardner Museum.

  The horror from the past day sends a shudder through me. I hug Dad's coat to my slim frame, thankful for the warmth, and for the comfort. I sit for a long time, frozen with shock, trying to comprehend what has happened, until the party in the apartment building spills out into the street.

  I swallow what spit I can muster down my dry throat. This is impossible. But if someone told me four years ago Dad would be in jail, I would've said "impossible" too. I press harder against the wall. Maybe the buzz will wear off and I'll return home.

  Three older kids, two boys and a girl, stumble across the street from the direction of the college campus, heading toward me. They stop and one of the boys makes a call from a payphone. A payphone? I didn't know they still existed.

  The girl whines, her voice slurring. "It's cooold out here."

  "Toughen up," one boy says. Big block letters splay across the front of his sweatshirt. Class of '90.

  I blink and stare, focusing on the big black numbers. My stomach churns. Class of '90? That was years ago and the sweatshirt looks new with bright colors and no rips or stains.

  "Hey," the girl pokes the boy in the shoulder, "aren't you s'posed to give the girl the shirt off your back when she's cold?"

  The boys laugh.

  "Go read some more romance novels," the second boy says. "You'll find your hero there." His curly hair falls over his eyes. The two boys burst out in loud drunken guffaws again.

  The boy wearing the sweatshirt takes charge. "Let's pick up another case of beer and head to my house."

  "What about a bar? The bouncers should be easy on us. It's St. Patty's Day."

  "I'm cooold. Let's go back to the party." The girl jumps on one of the boy's back, and they stumble closer, weaving back and forth in the street.

  I pitch forward. Maybe whatever art-induced vision is ending. It has to be a vision. I pray it's a vision.

  "What about that kid over there?" the girl asks, jumping to the ground and stumbling. "Maybe he'll lend me his jacket."

  I stiffen and clutch my arms over my chest, hoping to disappear. On wobbly legs, the trio makes their way over. The girl eyes my jacket greedily.

  The boy with curly hair speaks first. "Hey, kid. You willing to shed your leather for a girl in trouble?"

  I raise the side of my lip in a mocking gesture. "Nope. I'm not your hero either."

  The boys glance at each other, and one of them nods. Lightning fast, they leap and yank me to my feet. "Whether you like it or not, the girl is in need of a coat. And you're going to share. Just like your mommy taught you."

  I strike out with my hand, trying to channel Jetta's awesome kung fu moves, but all I hit is air. Cold prickles rush against my arms as the older boys rip off my coat. If it were any other coat, I'd give it up. I grab the bottom of the jacket, my fingers gripping the leather, and take part in a tug-of-war, which I'd lose, except the boys are fumbling about and laughing. They reek of beer.

  "Hey, guys," the girl hisses. "Are those cops?"

  The tension lets up and I slam to the ground. The coat is still in my grip.

  "Let's get out of here," the boy with the sweatshirt says. "My dad'll kill me."

  I scramble to my feet and stare at a small gray hatchback about twenty yards away. I see the pointed cop hats and the gleam on a pair of glasses. Then nausea strikes, clamping onto my gut. I fall to the ground and curl into a ball, grabbing my stomach.

  The cold brick building. The buzzing college party. The pounding music. The undercover cop's hatchback. The Gardner. It all fades.

  And then I'm gone too.

  MARCH 17, 2013

  DAY TWO

  12:05 a.m.

  I awake to a piece of cloth being jammed into my mouth. The knot tightens against the back of my head, keeping the gag in place. I struggle. My legs are caught in the vice grip of someone's arms.

  Two dark shapes lift me off the bed and out of the room. I buck my body but the assailants tighten their grip.

  They move silently down the hall, and I continue to struggle against their hold.

  They bang my head against the wall on their way downstairs. If I didn't have the gag, I'd let the curses fly, regardless of Mom upstairs, who probably isn't sleeping. She often turns a blind eye.

  They carry me through the coffee shop and into the small kitchen in the back. The grip on my body loosens, and I land on the floor a second later.

  Stick yanks the gag out. The last of my spit dribbles from the corner of my mouth. I croak out a not-so-nice word.

  Stick lightly slaps my cheek a couple of times. "You didn't feel comfortable robbing the Gas-n-Go without a third party, so I found us one." He nods at Turbo. "He lives near us."

  Turbo digs around in the pantry. "I found some green chocolate chips."

  "My mom will need those for the morning." I stop arguing. "Wait. What did you just say?"

  Turbo roots around in another cupboard. "I found some green chocolate-"

  "Not you." I nod at Stick. "What did you say?"

  "I found us a third party, loser."

  "No. Before that, about robbing the Gas-n-Go?" Sure, I slugged Stick yesterday but that was no reason to keep me out of the loop.

  Stick squats in front of me. His red hair is greased back and the familiar friendly glint has disappeared from his eyes. I'm not surprised about that. Not after yesterday.

  "I'm going to spell it out nice and slow for you. I ran into Turbo today. He just moved in above me. I initiated him into our gang." Stick leans closer and nods toward Turbo. "Look at the size of him. When Big D gets out of the psych ward, he won't stand a chance if we've got a goon too. It's our lucky day."

  I blink, hoping I'll find myself back in bed instead of a strange re-run of the Twilight Zone or Dr.
Who. "When did Turbo move in?"

  "The day after we ran poor Madame Psychic out of the upstairs apartment." Stick hit the side of my head. "News flash. We've been playing pranks on her for weeks."

  My skin breaks out in goosebumps and sweat at the same time. Turbo has lived next door for years not days and the fortuneteller moved out of the bottom apartment a long time ago.

  "Why are we robbing a store?"

  "Did we knock your noggin too hard?" Stick stares, the shadows playing off the hard angular lines of his jaw. "It was your idea."

  "What the hell?" The words spit out in an angry burst.

  I want to roll back into bed and hit rewind. Just thinking about it causes my stomach to knot up. Maybe I said something, hinted at a possible robbery for Stick to misinterpret? Or maybe this is a cruel joke to get back at me.

  Stick gets right in my face. The blacks of his pupils gleam. The shiner I gave him is gone. That was fast. "Don't you dare chicken out now, bad boy. We've been waiting a long time for a chance to pull a job bigger than stealing candy bars or spray painting graffiti on the police station. Don't-"

  "What?" The word explodes from my mouth. I jump to my feet. My chest tightens and my breathing is short and fast.

  "Don't you know? Big D goes free today." Stick winks. "Thanks to your artful masterminding of placing the spray paint cans in his locker, we've been free of Big D for a couple weeks."

  "What about our little smoke bomb prank?" Surely, my friends will remember that.

  Stick snorts. "Kid stuff. Why would we do something so stupid?"

  Turbo grins from ear to ear, a smile usually reserved for when he's nervous or talking to people he just met.

  I stumble against the wall. My fingers dig at the wallpaper. Panic sparks in my chest and rises up into my throat. My world, my friends are totally crazy. Something has gone terribly wrong.

  Stick looks different, rougher around the edges and a hard glint in his eye. Like he'll be in jail before graduating from high school. I recognize the look but only see it during Stick's darkest moments. Usually after a bad episode with his dad when nothing can calm his raging demons.

  Maybe they're playing a terrible joke.

  But I know there's one thing my friends would never joke about.

  I cough and splutter a bit before saying, "Yesterday, at the courthouse, I met this weird guy whose nose falls off his face." I expect a couple of laughs, maybe some excitement, over this strange story.

  Stick narrows his eyes. "Why were you at the courthouse?"

  "My dad's parole hearing?" I never talk about the hope that Dad leaving jail would fix everything wrong in my life, but I need my friends to acknowledge something we all know to be fact.

  Stick puckers his lips, his eyes widen, and slowly, his face turns red. When he can't hold it back anymore, he bursts out laughing. "Whatever."

  The pit of nerves grows in my stomach. I won't find answers. Not right now. I play along with my friends, joking, pretending. When they slip out into the night, I cop a headache and go back to bed, praying in the morning that this nightmare will end.

  Because these are not my friends.

  7:33 a.m.

  I linger on the bottom step, not