Hit and Run (8 page)

I felt like saying maybe they should tell their drivers to lock up when they left the truck, but didn't think the cops would appreciate the suggestion. I wanted to tell them that I had thrown the stuff away, that I hadn't eaten it. But what difference would that make? I had run with the box. Whoever had seen and identified me had probably seen me with the box. I had even choked down one of the pies Vin had taken.

“Maybe you shouldn't say anything,” Billy said. “Maybe we should get some advice.”

Constable Carlson looked at me. “You can call a lawyer, Mike. You can have a lawyer present when we talk to you. You and your uncle want to talk about it?”

Billy nodded and the two cops left the room.

“I just want to get this over with,” I told Billy. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah, but if we can get you off—”

“Billy, someone saw me. They gave the cops my name. How am I going to get off?”

“You can say it was mistaken identity.”

“But it wasn't.”

“Jeez, Mikey!”

When the two cops came back, Billy said we'd decided against a lawyer. They asked me if I agreed with what Billy said. I said I did. Then Constable Carlson asked me again what I had done last night.

“I did my homework.” I said. “Then I went out for a walk.”

“Where did you walk?”

I shrugged and stared down at the floor. “Just around. Around the neighborhood.”

“What about that bakery delivery truck?” Constable Carlson said. “You want to tell me about that?”

There was no point in denying the theft. From what Constable Carlson had said, I had been nailed pretty good.

“We saw this truck,” I said. “The back of it was wide open and, I dunno …” I really didn't know. Jeez, what had we been thinking? Why had I let Vin go in there? Once he was in, why hadn't I yanked him right back out again? When he threw that box of cakes at me, why hadn't I just thrown it right back into the truck instead of taking off with it?

“You dunno?” Constable Carlson said. He didn't sound mad or anything. Mostly he just sounded curious. “What happened when you saw the truck, Mike?”

“It had all these cakes and pies inside,” I said. “We didn't think they'd miss a couple of boxes.”

“What did you do, Mike?”

“We took a few things. That's all. We just took a couple of boxes.”

“You and your friends?”

I nodded. I still couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at Billy, either. How could I have thought we wouldn't be seen? Vin hadn't even bothered to drop his voice.

“What exactly did you take?” Constable Carlson said.

“A box of cupcakes. A box of brownies and one of apple pies. But that's it.”

“Three boxes?”

I nodded.

“You understand that by telling us this, you're admitting that you stole those cakes?”

“I understand,” I said.

“Where can we find your friends?” Constable Carlson said.

I opened my mouth, ready to say, Vin should be in math class right about now, and Sal should be cruising into Spanish class—the one class he aced. Then it hit me. They wouldn't be asking me that question if they knew who had been with me. Whoever had identified me knew me, but either didn't know Vin and Sal or hadn't got a good look at them. So if I didn't say anything, the cops couldn't do anything.

“I don't know,” I said.

Constable Carlson shook his head. He still didn't look mad. “I guess they're pretty good friends, huh, Mike? You don't want to rat them out, right?”

I stared at my feet.

“Look, Mike, if you didn't do this by yourself, why take all the blame by yourself?”

I kept my mouth shut. Constable Carlson sighed.

“It's your call, Mike,” he said. “You don't want to tell us anything, it's up to you.”

“I don't want to answer any more questions,” I said.

I had to sit around some more with Billy, who was fidgeting by then. Finally Constable Carlson gave me a piece of paper and explained that I could go, but that I
had to promise to show up at court on the date written on the paper. If I didn't show up, he said, I'd be in even more trouble. Then he gave me his card.

“If you change your mind about anything, you can call me,” he said.

I tucked the card into my pocket and followed Billy out into the parking lot. He had a beat-up old Toyota that needed serious bodywork. When I got close to it I saw that Dan was already in the passenger seat. Lew was in back.

“You brought
them
with you?” I said. It was bad enough that I got hauled out of school by the cops. Did the whole world have to know about it?

“I told Gus I was too shook up to drive,” Billy said, grinning. Gus was his boss. “Lew offered to help out. We ran into Dan. Besides, they're my best friends, and they're practically second uncles to you,” Billy said. That was true. “And they're supporting me during this stressful time.”

He opened the door and got in. I waited until the passenger door finally opened and Dan got out. He was shaking his head.

“Jeez, Mike,” he said. “Busted? You actually got busted?” He slid into the backseat while I got in front with Billy. As I was buckling my seatbelt, Billy cuffed the back of my head. Hard.

“Hey!” I said.

“Stealing from a bakery truck!” Billy said. “What's the matter with you?”

“Yeah, Mikey, you're gonna get pinched, make it for something important at least,” Dan said.

“I mean, going down for
cupcakes
!” Lew said.

He and Dan laughed. I was glad they found it so funny. Billy didn't, though.

“Nancy'd freak out if she knew,” he said. He batted me on the back of the head again. “And if you don't want to give up your friends, don't say ‘we' to the cops.” He shook his head. “We did this, we did that,” he said, mimicking me. “You got any brains in there at all, Mikey?”

He was still shaking his head as he turned the key in the ignition.

“What's going to happen now, Billy?” I asked as we drove home.

“You'll have to go to court,” he said. “We should probably talk to a lawyer before you do. You should be okay, though. You've never been in trouble before. Well, except for that bike thing.”

Jen's dad's bike. Jen thinks he pushed so hard on that because he's a lawyer. “It's the way he is,” she said.

Jen's dad said he was in a coffee shop on the other side of Danforth at the time. He said he saw me remove the lock. He claimed I must have swiped the duplicate key from his house, which was the big reason I wasn't allowed to go there anymore. But he couldn't prove anything. And I hadn't done anything. Okay, so that included not trying to stop the guys from taking the bike. Maybe I should have chased them. Maybe I would have, too, if Jen's dad didn't always look at me the way most
people look at garbage men in July—with their noses all wrinkled in disgust.

“Worst case, you'll probably get community service,” Bill said. “But that's this time, Mikey. You do something stupid like this again and nobody's going give you a break. You understand?”

I nodded.

“What about V— ”

Billy smacked me on the back of the head a third time. It didn't hurt, though. He was just trying to make a point. “Don't tell me anything more about it, okay, Mike?” he said. “If you don't tell me anything, I don't have to lie to anyone. As far as I know, you and
maybe
a friend of yours snatched some cakes from a truck—a stupid prank—and you're sorry and you've promised me you're never going to do anything like that again. Right?”

“Right,” I said.

“Remember, you want to get along in the world, Mikey,” Dan said, “you got to keep your nose clean.”

“You listen to him,” Billy said. “He makes sense.”

I was supposed to report for work at Mr. Scorza's store that afternoon at four o'clock, but I didn't feel like going. So I hung out a couple of blocks from the place and waited until I saw another guy who worked there. Steve didn't go to the same school as me, but we talked
sometimes at work and he was okay. I called him over and asked him to tell Mr. Scorza that I was sick.

“You don't look sick,” Steve said.

“Just tell him, okay?” I said. “You ever need anything from me, just ask.”

He nodded, but he had this look in his eyes, like, what kind of coward would ask someone else to lie for him? The perfect end to a perfect day.

I always feel like the only white guy in Harlem when I head north behind the Carrot Common. The houses are a lot bigger there than they are where I live. Most of them have been restored or renovated, and all of them are well maintained. No paint peeling around the windows. No iffy patches of shingles on the roof. No moss growing in the gutters. No weeds sprouting in the lawns. No lawns at all in front of some of those places, just gardens full of flowers and shrubs and miniature trees trimmed into perfect little balls. The cars are as upscale as the houses—Jeeps and Beemers and Lexuses. It's not just that, though, that makes me feel like I don't belong. It's also the way the people look. The women's hair is always neatly trimmed. Everyone's jeans—kids' and adults'—are freshly washed and pressed. Their sneakers are always the latest styles and the best brands—Adidas, Nikes, Reeboks. Sure, they all talk a line about how a
lot of stuff was made by ten-year-olds in Bangladesh or India. I bet half their kids had even done projects on the evils of child labor. But drop a bundle on shoes some poor kid had slaved to make? No problem.

The day after I got busted, I walked along the tree-canopied streets, conscious of the nicks in the sneakers I had bought at Payless. My jeans were frayed at the cuffs and the denim was thin in places. Any day now the fabric would rip and my knees would show through. Nobody stopped and stared at me, though. Nobody seemed to be wondering, What's
he
doing here? But I sure felt it. Around me—money. In the pockets of my worn-out jeans—no money.

A couple of blocks north of Danforth, I hung a left. A block later, a right. I slowed my pace and hung back at the corner of a hedge, just out of sight of the biggest house on the street. I could have looked at that house forever. It was five times the size of our place and was built of gray stone. It had a tower in one corner, and I knew from all the time that I had stared through the windows that the tower room—the library, Jen called it—was filled with bookshelves and books. The house also had a games room—they really called it that—with a regulation-sized pool table, a pinball machine, a Ping-Pong table, and an oak card table with special chairs. Her mom played bridge. Her dad had monthly poker nights with a bunch of other lawyers. A satellite dish sat on the tile roof. Two BMWs sat in the driveway, keeping an SUV company.

I watched the house while doing my best not to be spotted. I knew guys who came up here sometimes to swipe bikes—expensive bikes—that kids sometimes left unguarded and unlocked on porches or in open garages. I knew other guys who talked about getting into the houses themselves, but that's all it was, talk, because most of the places were on security systems. I sure would have liked to get inside some of those places, though, just to see what they kept in there. Check out the big-screen TVs and the bathrooms that were as big as most of the living rooms on my street. Check out the real live Martha Stewart décor, too, just for laughs. Maybe even see a nanny or a cleaning lady at work.

I saw a flash—sunlight reflected off glass so clean that it looked like it wasn't even there. The front door opened, and a man stepped out. He was wearing a gray business suit and clutching a briefcase. He stood on his stone stoop, surveying the neighborhood. I ducked to avoid being spotted. Why didn't he just climb into his black Beemer and go? What was he waiting for? Then a woman came out and handed him a package. He planted a kiss on her cheek—it didn't look very loving, if you ask me. The woman went back inside. I checked my watch.

I pressed a little closer to the hedge, turned my back to the street and ducked down—the old tie-the-shoelace trick—when I heard the Beemer's engine purr.

“You there!” said a sharp voice behind me. “What do you think you're doing?”

If I closed my eyes, I could imagine Jen's mother. But it wasn't Jen's mother who had said that. It was Jen, kidding around. That meant she wasn't mad at me, which put me in a better mood.

“Ha, ha!” I said. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her on the mouth. She giggled halfway through the kiss, which most guys wouldn't have appreciated, but I took it as another good sign. Then she pulled away and glanced nervously back at the house.

“Mom's home,” she said. “She's heard the whole story.”

I wanted to ask how she had heard, but figured the message had probably been passed through the mom network and not through Jen. Jen never mentioned me to her parents—out of sight, out of mind.