Fall from Grace (10 page)

HE SHOULD HAVE
called her as soon as the test was over.

It would have taken two seconds—
Hey, thanks a lot, I owe ya
—that sort of thing. But it was a B day and on B days there was only four minutes between classes and if he was late there was a chance he'd be sent to the VP's office for a pass. It had happened once already this year and he doubted it would happen then, but he didn't want to risk it, not with those glasses in his backpack. With his luck Ms. Owens would somehow find out about them, and nothing good would come from that. So he didn't call between classes.

He could have called during lunch, plenty of time
then, but he had to get his economics homework done, ten short-answer questions about a reading he hadn't read. After that it was more classes, then meeting up with Zoë by her locker and that fun ride to her house. Driving home from Zoë's he had the music up so loud he couldn't think about anything, and by the time he pulled into his driveway the events of the morning were pushed so far back into his head they might as well have happened weeks ago. But when his phone started buzzing at eleven that night, he remembered it all.

“Tell me, Mr. Bond, anything interesting happen at school today?”

“Hey, sorry, I meant to call you but—”

“You wouldn't have gotten me anyway. My phone was confiscated.”

“What?”

“Tell me about it. The guy that runs detention has a real Napoleon complex. He sees your phone, it's gone.”

“Oh. I thought you meant the police.”

“That would be better. At least I'd get due process. With this guy I may never see it again.”

Sawyer thought for a second. “If they took your phone, how are you—”

“They took
a
phone. You think I let them get the real one? Please.”

“Can they do that, just take your phone and not give it back?”

“It's Westside, Mr. Bond. Things are done differently over here.”

“What did you get detention for?”

“This crazy rule they have. You can't stroll into school several hours late without a valid reason. Hanging out at Starbucks
is
a reason, but apparently not a valid one.”

Damn.

He should have known that.

If he had school, she would have had it too, but he didn't even think to ask, didn't think about the risk on her end at all, only worried about himself. He thought about it now though, and didn't like how it felt.

“Anyway,” she said, “what'd you think of the test?”

“I don't know, I didn't take it. What did
you
think of it?”

“Tough. Borderline unfair. The average grade's going to be a C-minus.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know math teachers. The test results will bell-curve out, nice and neat. But there'll be more Fs
than As. Especially with those last six questions. Those were cruel.”

He had to ask. “How do you think we did?”

“
We?
Cute.”

“You know what I meant.”

“We did excellent. As long as you wrote it right.”

“How'd you get so good at this stuff, anyway? Are you like a math genius or something?”

“No, no genius. They used to call me a child prodigy but then they downgraded me to advanced. I'm a long way from genius.”

“Closer than me.”

“True. But only in math. And it's probably best if you don't challenge me in chess. Or poker.”

“Well, I think you're a genius. You made those glasses.”

“All I did was kit-bash some parts together, but thank you for noticing. The best part, though, was the plan.
That
was genius.”

“You mapped it all out?”

“Of course.”

“What was the code name?”

“Operation Newton Leibniz.”

“Who was that?”

“It's who were
they
. Isaac Newton and Gottfried
Leibniz. The fathers of calculus. Who are probably spinning in their graves right now.”

“Was it fun?”

“If it wasn't fun—”

“You wouldn't do it,” he said, and when he said it she laughed, and hearing her laugh made him smile. The first time all day. “Seriously, Grace. I owe you big-time.”

“Glad to hear you say that. Because I need some help with my career project.”

Oh crap. He'd forgotten all about it and it was due in what, two weeks, maybe less? He had the damn notes—the notes his father had to look over and correct, plus the notes his mother brought home from her office—but he hadn't started writing it yet, and he knew both his parents would want to see it before he handed it in, and, bet on it, they'd have “revisions” he'd have to make. Still, it was only Thursday. Plenty of time to get it done.

“Hello, Mr. Bond? You there?”

“Sorry. I was thinking about my career project.”

“I would have thought you'd have it done by now. I mean, given the risks involved…”

“Funny.”

“I gotta get mine done too,” Grace said. “And I need your help.”

“
My
help? Wow, you are desperate.”

“No, not desperate. Determined.”

“I'm your man. What do you want to be? A professional snake charmer? Cosmonaut? Or are you still thinking underwater welder?”

“The research is all done and I can do the writing no problem. It's another kind of favor.”

He hesitated half a second, then said, “Sure. What do you need?”

“Just a ride to the library.”

FRIDAY WAS A
good day.

It was a C day, which meant they were back to forty-five-minute classes, the so-called “short day” in the rotating, flip-flopping, ass-backward schedule that existed only to complicate their lives. Every fourth C day he had study hall first period, and that meant he could sleep an extra hour, signing himself in just before the next bell. It had taken him until October to convince his parents that missing an occasional study hall wouldn't lead to him flunking out. His mother still called from her job to make sure he was awake and getting ready for school, that he packed a snack and had a few dollars in his wallet. That morning he decided to
be up and out before the call came.

It was also the Friday before the start of the Thanksgiving week. Half the school would be out Monday and Tuesday, and nobody—including teachers—felt like doing anything that was going to be graded. He watched an episode of
Más Sabe El Diablo
in Spanish, the last forty minutes of
Saving Private Ryan
in history, and nodded off during a documentary on the International Monetary Fund in economics.

In precalc Mr. Young showed
Graphville
.

Again.

The first time he saw it, Sawyer liked the movie. That was in eighth grade. And he still liked it the two times he saw it freshman year. It was back again in tenth grade, in both art and computer science, but by then it had crossed over from tolerable to painful. Last year his English teacher had them watch it because it was a good example of “metanarrative.” Sawyer felt it was also a good example of metatorture. Mr. Young showed it the first week of class. Sawyer didn't mind since he assumed that, as a senior, it would be the last time he'd have to endure it, but on that Friday before Thanksgiving week, when he saw the plastic case in
Mr. Young's hand, Sawyer knew he'd never get out of
Graphville
.

Mr. Young called himself an “early adapter,” which was code for geek. He synced the DVD player through the THX surround-sound stereo, showing the movie on the SMART board, providing the class with a “true theater experience,” as if somehow that would make it enjoyable. Mr. Young said the setup was “über-tech” and “seamless,” and explained to the class how the “dual USB port served as a multicomponent interface.” Sawyer was not impressed. He'd seen Grace do better with an old pair of glasses, some hacked electronic parts, and a roll of black tape.

He had expected to feel guilty about cheating and was surprised when he didn't. Grace was right, precalculus was just a hoop he was expected to jump, and once through the hoop, he'd never need it again. Getting
around
the hoop was even better. If he kept the grade up for the rest of the quarter—Grace would have a plan for that—he'd have a decent semester average, and that'd be all he'd need to apply to other schools. Thinking about those glasses and that test and how he pulled it off and how he'd do it again had him smiling through
Graphville.

The cafeteria had pizza for lunch. It was about as good as a day at school was going to get.

Zoë had a good day too, everything back to normal, his Starbucks misadventure forgiven or forgotten or tucked away to be pulled out the next time he did something she thought was stupid. They even fooled around a little before he drove her to work. He spent the night online in the basement rec room, playing
Black Ops
against strangers. Zoë called for a ride home at eleven, and by midnight he was back online for another game. It was close to one when his phone rang.

“You busy?”

“Grace, it's one o'clock in the morning.”

“Nope, not quite. You're six minutes fast.”

“Whatever.”

“So you busy?”

“No. Yes. It's late and—”

“I get it. You've got company.”

“
What?
No.”

“Oh? Too bad for you. So listen, about that favor you owe me—”

“Can't we talk about this later?”

“Okay. I'll call you back in an hour.”

“No, I mean like tomorrow. Afternoon.”

“That won't work.”

“How come?”

“Because I'm asking now.”

“Okay, okay. What is it?”

“I need a lift to the library.”

“Grace, you asked me that yesterday, remember? I said I would.”

“Good. I want to go to the one we went to before. The one in the house. Okay?”

“You had to call at one o'clock to ask me that?”

“I did. What do you say?”

“Fine, I'll give you a ride. I gotta work at noon so I can pick you up before that or—”

“No.”

“No? You just said—”

“I need to go now.”

It took a few seconds to sink in.

“You're not stealing that painting.”

“Please. Did I say anything about a painting? All I asked for was a ride to the library.”

“Yeah, right. Why else would you want to go there now?”

“Maybe I have a book I want to return.”

“I'm not driving you.”

The line went quiet and he thought that she had hung up, but then she sighed and said what he hoped she wouldn't say.

“I helped you out. You said you owed me one. This is the one I want.”

“It's not the same.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because it's not. The test, that was just school stuff. It wasn't breaking the law.”

“Actually, I think it was.”

“Well, I'm not doing it, so it really doesn't matter what it is.”

“I don't
want
you there. I just want a ride, that's all. And if you don't drive me, I'll get there on my own.”

“How? You don't have a car.”

“I'll hitch. I'm halfway there anyway.”

“Are you crazy? You can't be hitchhiking. You'll get picked up by some psycho.”

“Don't worry about it. I hitch all the time and I've only been killed twice. I'll stop by the ice cream place tomorrow and tell you how it went.”

“Wait a second, will you?” He set the phone down and rubbed his face with both his hands, drawing in a
long, deep breath that he let out slowly. She'd do it, she'd hitchhike all the way out there. Or at least she'd try. And he'd spend the night worrying about her, imagining every sick thing that could happen—that
would
happen—if he didn't do something. She had to be kidding about the rest, the breaking in and all that, but hitchhiking in the middle of the night, that was something he could see her doing, if only to say she'd done it. He looked at the digital clock on the cable box. 12:57. Damn. This was stupid.

“Where are you now?”

EVERYBODY KNEW SINGH'S
Diner. It was downtown, across from the bus station, with a neon sign that said
GREAT FO D!
, an ancient lunch counter, and wobbly, vinyl-topped stools that were bolted to the floor. He'd been there once, after the junior prom, the limo pulling up out front. Hot dogs and fries at sunrise in tie-less tuxes and wrinkled gowns, a slumming adventure they had talked about for months.

Getting out of the house was easier than he thought it would be. He probably could have done it without his parents ever finding out, cutting through the garage and letting the car roll into the street before starting it up, but there was always the chance that on a late night bathroom visit, one of them would notice his car was missing
and then the phone calls would start and they would be waiting for him when he got home and that would be it for months. Instead, he knocked on their bedroom door and asked permission. Technically it was permission to go to St. Mary's to help unload a truck of surplus food that had arrived six hours early, a story that rolled off his tongue with surprising ease, but the way Sawyer saw it, St. Mary's was a small detail that was open to last-second change. He knew he should feel bad about lying to his parents—they had always trusted him and he had never given them any reason not to—but as he drove by Singh's, looking for a place to park, it just felt good to be out of the house.

It was a cold night, dark even with the streetlights. At the intersection a black guy in a winter parka nodded from the sidewalk and another motioned for him to roll down his window. Sawyer pretended he didn't see them, staring at the red light and willing it green. He could hear them saying something, laughing as they said it, and when the passenger door flew open he jumped.

“Geez, you went right by me,” Grace said, tossing her backpack on the floor and sliding in. “My friends tried to tell you, but you ignored them.” She smiled and waved toward the sidewalk, and Sawyer turned and gave
a wave too, the guy in the parka laughing louder as he waved back.

“Damn. I should have asked if you wanted me to grab you anything from Singh's. Sorry. We can go back if you want.”

“No, it's good,” Sawyer said. “I wanna get this over with.”

“Tell me about it. This is
so
exciting.” She clapped her hands and rubbed them together.

“No gloves?”

“In the bag. Check out my outfit.” She took off her purple jacket and flicked on the dome light so he could see her black turtleneck sweater, tight black jeans, and black Doc Martens. She tugged down the front of her black beret and struck a pose. “How do I look?”

“Guilty.”

“My ears are freezing but I love this hat so it's worth it.” She pulled a SpongeBob folder from her backpack. “I'm calling it Operation Camel Ride. Wanna see the plans?”

“Not really,” he said.

“Oh, don't be like that. You're just dropping me off, that's all.”

“Won't you need a ride back?”

“You're right. Thanks.”

“It wasn't an offer.”

“Too late. Besides, I'm only going to be five minutes, tops. Check it out.” She unfolded a hand-drawn map and laid it across her lap. “The parking lot, the Dumpster, the main entrance, the handicap ramp, there's a door here and here and a fire door over here. These are all windows. And this is the room with the painting. You can drop me off down the road, right about here. It'll be really dark since there are no streetlights.”

“How do you know?”

“Google Maps. Street view. Saved me a lot of time.”

“I'm sure they'd be happy to know that.”

“This is a church next door. Lots of bushes in front. There's a sign with a light on it, but it's way over here. Shouldn't be a problem. I go like this,” she traced a dotted line with her finger around the side of the church to the back of the library, “go in here, up the back stairs, down the hall, into the room, grab the painting, check to make sure the coast is clear, then out the front door, across the street to the park, past the swings and the basketball court to this side street here where you'll be waiting. Easy.”

“How you gonna get in, pick the lock?”

She took a wire coat hanger from her bag, twisted the hook, and it sprung free, then straightened out the bends. “They have a crash bar on the back door, you know the type? It's the same as the one at my aunt's apartment building, and they're the old style so there's a nice size gap between the doors. You push the hook end in, wiggle it around so you catch the bar, then give it a yank. It took me months to learn how to do it, but now it's no problem.”

“What do you do when the alarm goes off?”

She held up a paper from the folder. “Found this online. Minutes of the Friends of the Wood Library meeting in October. The highlighted part.”

“I'm driving. Just read it to me.”

“Okay…‘The finance committee's report included a request for additional funds to repair the crown cornice that was damaged by the August fourth lightning strike.' And then a little bit further on it says ‘…funds would also be allocated to update the library's alarm system that was rendered inoperative.' There
is
no alarm.”

“And if there is?”

“I run. I'm not stupid.”

He thought about arguing the point, but that would just make her mad. Instead he said, “You know you can't do this, right?”

She looked at her map. “Which part?”

“The whole thing. You can't go stealing things you want. It's wrong.”

“I'm not stealing it, remember? I'm borrowing it for a few days. I'm bringing it back.”

“Is that what you'll tell them if you get caught: you were only borrowing it?”

“I've got a plan. I'm not getting caught.”

“But what if you do? Then what happens?”

She paused, then smiled. “I get it. You think that I'd tell them about you.”

That's what he was thinking, but he said, “No, I wasn't thinking that.”

“Yes, you were. But don't worry, I would never rat you out. That's not my style. Besides, I wouldn't want to share the credit.”

That was the truth. And somehow he knew it. She'd never tell.

“What if they stop us while we're driving away?”

“You had no idea what I was doing. You were just giving me a ride.”

“They wouldn't believe that I'd drive you all the way out here for nothing.”

“Sure they would. I'll say that I promised to have
sex with you if you did. That's the kind of thing they'll believe. But don't
you
go getting any ideas.”

He laughed at that. She was right, it was the kind of thing a guy would do. She refolded her map, put the map in the folder, put the folder in the bag, and pulled the zippers tight. She checked her mini flashlight, then worked on the coat hanger. He glanced over to see her face.

“You nervous?”

She smiled. “Excited. And a little nervous, I guess. But it's a good nervous. You?”

He was about to say he was scared shitless, but then he realized that that wasn't true. He should've been nervous—no,
terrified
—but he wasn't.

He felt something, yeah, but what?

He had felt this way before, but it had never been so intense, so electrifying.

Stop.

It was wrong. And illegal. And he should turn around, drop her off somewhere, and never think about Grace again. Let her go get famous on her own, let him get on with his life.

And that's when it first came to him. Not the whole thing, just a hint of it, a whisper.

This wasn't about Grace.

It wasn't about giving her a ride so she wouldn't hitchhike, and it wasn't about keeping her safe, although he did like the way that sounded.

And it wasn't about paying back a debt, either. He owed a bigger one to his parents and was willing to let that go.

This was about something else, something he felt when he was making that bet with his father. He felt it wearing those glasses for the test and when he was balancing the painting on his knees. There was a word for it, there had to be, but it wouldn't come to him, not yet, anyway. But he knew it wasn't about Grace.

It was about him.

He cracked open the window and took a deep breath of ice-cold air. His heart pounded in his chest—strong, steady, a little faster but not much.

“I'm probably not as nervous as you. You've got the hard part, I'm just driving.”

“Sorry. Can't change the plan now. This is a one-woman job.”

“That's fine by me,” he said. Then he asked something he'd been wondering about since she called.
“How'd you get out of the house?”

“I walked out, what do you think?”

“I mean what did you tell your parents? Won't they wonder where you were all night?”

Even in the dim light he could see her expression change. “What are you getting at?”

“I'm not getting at anything. I only asked what you told your parents.”

“Do
I
ask
you
questions like that?”

“I don't know, maybe.”

“Well, I don't.”

“It's just that you know a lot about me and all I know about you is—”

“What difference does it make?”

“It doesn't make
any
difference.”

“Then stop prying and leave it that way.”

“I'm not prying. I'm being friendly.”

She looked over at him. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are, but—”

“Friends aren't
friendly
, they're just friends. Friendly's what you are with people who
aren't
your friends. And if you're my friend, you'll drop it,” she said, and then in a softer voice, “okay?”

Sawyer nodded but didn't say anything, and it got quiet for a few miles.

Grace said, “It's a good plan.”

“It is.”

“How'd you like the map?”

“Very detailed.”

“How about that research on the alarm?”

“That was impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“I like that coat-hanger trick.”

“I'll show you how to do it next time you come over to my aunt's place. You never know when it'll come in handy.”

“Got a movie picked out?”

“
The Asphalt Jungle
. 1950. Directed by John Huston.”

“Black-and-white?”

“Of course,” she said, and it got quiet again. Five minutes later she said, “Now, you ready for this?”

He clicked on the directional for the off ramp.