Moxie and the Art of Rule Breaking (14 page)

“So let’s find a better hiding spot,” I said. “That’s your department.”

Eyes wide behind his glasses, Ollie nodded. The package easily fit in his messenger bag. To keep it safe, he wedged it between a book and leftover history folder. Not how priceless art is usually moved, I bet.

While Ollie shuffled the contents of his bag, I kept an eye on the clock. It was late and my anxiety level climbed as high as the Prudential tower.

“Hey.” He gestured to the box of time sheets he’d moved. “Let’s put this back.” We each grabbed a side, and on three, heaved.

Moving paperwork is harder—and heavier—than you’d think. It took us a minute to get the box to its old home, and the stifling air didn’t help our speed. Ollie also insisted that we drag our feet over the floor, to cover our tracks. I pointed out that our literal tracks—footprints—were visible in the dust.

“We’ve walked all over this room,” he said. He sneezed, then wiped his nose (for the snot) and forehead (for the sweat). “No one will be able to tell where we went to do what, but we don’t want this area to look suspicious. Let’s cover the dresser with this.” We tugged a sheet covering a nearby table over the dresser. It didn’t hide the whole thing, but helped set the scene of “ancient stuff that’s never been touched.”

So, to review: Priceless artwork—check. Coming out of attic—check. Escape plan? Not so much.

It was nearly nine thirty, and I had to be home in one hour.

“How are we going to get out of here?” Ollie asked. He handed me the bag holding the art.

“No pressure—just carrying around millions of dollars of stolen property,” I joked. Lamely. “I do it every day.”

“How are we going to get out of here?” he repeated.

“Carefully,” I answered. On our way in, it was easy—we could claim to be lost kids, searching for our parents/camp tour group/whatever, and security would probably have brought us to the front of the building without thinking about it. But now? Hours after closing to the public, when—I glanced at my dirt-smeared skirt and hands, and Ollie’s dusty T-shirt and shorts—we were filthy and covered in suspicion, if security found us we’d be headed straight for a lot of questions.

“I figured as much. We should’ve planned this part better,” he added.

There wasn’t much we could do about that now. Ollie
retrieved his flashlight at the door. I clicked the overhead light off and we switched the flashlights back on.

“Quiet,” Ollie whispered. He eased the storeroom door open wide enough for us to slip through and we crossed onto the staircase. The door closed behind us with a click.

Eyes growing used to the gloom again, we moved in complete silence. It should’ve been easier now that we knew where we were going, but it wasn’t. I held my breath with every step, afraid we’d be caught. We crept down those stairs slower than Big Papi rounding the bases at Fenway.

Finally, we reached the bottom door. As nerve-racking as this flight of stairs was, that was the easy part. Once we opened this door, we’d be back in the main part of the state house—and avoiding people and cameras.

“Ready?” Ollie’s whisper was so low, at first I thought he was just breathing heavy. He stifled a sneeze.

I nodded. We shut off the flashlights; I reached out with a hand that may or may not have been shaking, and grasped the knob, gently twisting it while pushing my shoulder into the door. It opened smoothly. I stepped out.

I should’ve thought to check the hall first.

The gray-suited man had passed the door and entered a room at the far end of the hall. It didn’t matter. Needles peppered my whole body with fear. I gasped and jumped back into the stairwell, crashing into Ollie, bag bumping around my middle. Luckily, Ollie didn’t fall over—just let out a big “oof!” I grabbed his shoulder to keep myself standing. I could feel his heart hammering too.

“What is the matter with you?” he whisper-snapped. The stairwell was pitch-black without our flashlights on.

“There was a
guy
out there.” I took my hand back. I was pretty sure it was shaking. I was pretty sure that I had never been this terrified in my life.
Deep breaths
, Moxie, I told myself.
Calm down.

“We have to peek first.” Ollie squeezed around me and opened the door a crack. “I think he’s gone. Quick!”

He darted out onto the hallway’s cushy rug. I was still trying to calm my crazy nerves. He tugged me out anyway.

The door closed, and we were standing, exposed, in the plush hall.
That
brought me to my senses. We raced to the far end, back to the main staircase, keeping close to the wall, and
hid in an alcove. There was no conversation at this point—it was just get out and get out
fast.
Hopefully we’d be just a blur on the security cameras. It was too late to worry about that now.

The stairs were clear. We rattled down them, into the main foyer of the building. The statues’ and paintings’ eyes bored into me.

Without stopping, we ran across the tile floor, sneakers squeaking, the bag around my body flapping. I’m faster than Ollie, and I reached the front door first, arms outstretched. Then, I heard it:

“Hey! Kids! Wait!”

I didn’t even turn my head, just burst through the door and into the night air. Ollie puffed. I launched off the top step, feet only touching the ground twice more down the stairs, and didn’t stop until I crossed Beacon Street and landed in the Common. Ollie pounded the pavement behind me. I turned around once I hit grass.

Red-faced and still puffing, Ollie was moving as fast as his asthma would let him. I couldn’t see anyone else coming down the state house steps, so I figured we were in the clear.

Ollie passed me and didn’t stop until he was closer to Park Street Station, where he collapsed on a bench and fished around in his pockets for his inhaler. He took a couple of sucks off it while I checked the contents of the bag. Everything was fine.

“You okay?”

He nodded, head hanging down between his knees, sweat dripping onto the sidewalk.

I sat, waiting, replaying the whole incident in my mind: creeping into the building, finding the right door and the storeroom, then our escape. Running across the floor and my leap off the top of the state house steps? Not classy. Or smooth. Or disco.

I couldn’t help it, the image struck me as funny. A giggle escaped, and once I started, I just couldn’t stop. Ollie, breathing better, turned to me. His black spiky hair was tinged gray at the tips from dust, and there was a cobweb stuck to his shoulder.
“You
okay?”

I was laughing so hard, I could only nod.

“It’s not funny!” he cried. “We could’ve gotten caught…” His voice trickled off, and the corners of his mouth twitched…which only made me laugh harder.

He started too. Soon, we were both wiping away tears from laughing so hard.

“Reaction to stress,” Ollie gasped, which sent me howling again.

“Stupid kids,” some college punk muttered to his friend as they walked by.

“Use your self-defense moves on ’em, Mox,” Ollie said between bouts of laughing. “Protect me!” Grumps taught me self-defense starting in second grade. He said since I went to school in the city, I needed to know how to take care of myself.

For some reason, this made us laugh even harder. My stomach hurt.

Finally, our hilarity slowed into hiccups and the occasional giggle.

“Oh my god,” I said, wiping my eyes, “oh my god.”

“I know,” said Ollie. He took a hit off his inhaler and checked the time. “Oh my god! We have to get home!”

I had twenty minutes to make my curfew, which would take a miracle of public transportation. We booked it into the station and raced through the Orange Line tunnel—more sweating, more puffing, no more laughing.

Something was on our side tonight, though, because a train was waiting when we got there. We didn’t say anything as it shot through the dark, but I was pretty sure Ollie was thinking the same thing I was: What were we going to do about the pieces? Had The Redhead been watching us? Did she know we were in the state house? What would she do if she knew we had the art?

Even though I was supposed to be finding the art for Sully and The Redhead, handing it over seemed so wrong. I couldn’t figure out what else to do, though—if I gave them what they wanted, they weren’t going to return it. And now that I had it—some of the pieces, anyway—I wanted to protect them, crazy as that sounded. Maybe that’s why Grumps hid them from Sully Cupcakes in the first place?

The train arrived at our stop, and Ollie and I got off. I had four minutes to get home.

And, I realized, there would be lots of questions about how my clothes got so dirty at the movies.

As we came down the stairs leading to the parking area
and bus stop, I took a deep breath and handed Ollie his messenger bag. He was going to hide the sketches, so he should carry them the rest of the way home. With two stairs to go, I pitched forward, scrabbled for the banister, and missed. I slid onto the asphalt, pain scorching my knees and hands.

“What?! Moxie? You okay?” Ollie helped me up and I blinked tears from my eyes. The heels of my hands were shredded and pocked with pebbles, and my knees trickled blood. A couple of other people stopped to ask if I was okay, and I brushed them off.

“I’m good.” I limped to a low wall next to the station and winced when I saw the damage—nothing serious, just ugly. Exactly what I wanted.

“I couldn’t go home looking all grimy after a movie, Ollie,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “Had to have a reason.”

“Jeez, Mox,” Ollie said. He handed me a (hopefully clean) tissue and I blotted my bloody knees. “I get you, but that was…dramatic. I don’t think I can do that.”

“You can tell your parents you climbed some dirty wall to get a cache,” I pointed out. I balled up the tissue and stuck it in my pocket. My knees and hands were still hot prickles of pain, but I’d be convincing.

“Let’s go home.”

I was right. Mom took one look at my injuries and didn’t ask any questions about the movie we were supposed to see or why I was so filthy. I did have to suffer some punishment, though—she sprayed my hands and knees with that stingy antiseptic spray for what felt like thirty minutes.

Freshly bandaged and back in my room, I put on the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and pulled out my proof and Grumps’s album. Of course Ollie was right—the paintings wouldn’t have fit in that dresser. But were the rest of them in that room, and we missed them? We hadn’t checked the place thoroughly—he could’ve stuck the bigger pieces in some box or something—and we’d never find them. Besides, we’d never be able to go in there again. We’d gotten lucky, getting in and out the way we had.

It couldn’t hurt to look at the album some more. There was nothing else I could do from my house anyway. I texted Ollie. His parents had totally bought his caching story.

Chking in2 other options
, I sent.
Back 2 album.

Good idea
, he wrote back.
Chking somethng on my end 2. g2g.

What could that mean?

I had every intention of going through the album that night…I really did. I climbed onto my bed with it to stretch out and page through its secrets, but the second my body hit the mattress, I had no chance. Exhaustion crept over me like a cozy blanket, and I was out.