Stealing the Game (14 page)

“Trevor, are you sure?” Brooke said, acting shocked. She was a much better actor than I was. Her eyes went wide with surprise and there was a tremble of fear in her voice.

“Yes, Brooke,” he said soothingly. “I’m sorry. I know he’s a friend and all, but we can’t let thieves get away with it.”

“He’s not a thief, Trevor,” she said with an edge in her voice that could have sliced through the mall floor beneath us. She nodded to me. “Go ahead, Chris, turn out your
pockets. When he sees there’s nothing there, we can go.”

Do
what
now? I looked at her with shock. Whose side was she on?

Brooke wagged a finger in Trevor’s face. “And I’m going to make sure Daddy hears how you treat my friends!”

“I’m just doing my job, Brooke,” Trevor said. But I could see just the slightest smile on his face. I knew just what that smile meant.

Trevor and Brooke both stared at me expectantly. Trevor still had his ape grip on my numb arm.

“Fine,” I said. I was wearing my basketball shorts, so no pockets there. I reached into the right pocket of my hoodie and pulled out my wallet and house keys. I handed them to
Brooke. Then I turned that pocket inside out.

“Satisfied?” she said.

“Other pocket, dude,” Trevor said, pointing.

I reached into my left pocket and turned it inside out. Also empty.

Trevor’s face contorted weirdly, like someone had just poked his butt with a pitchfork and he was mystified about how a pitchfork got into his cologne-ad life.

Brooke looked surprised, but quickly recovered. Like I said, she was a good actor. “There, you see, Trevor?” she said. “Nothing. Just like he said. Can we go now?”

“B-b-but…” He grabbed the pockets of my hoodie and crushed them, hoping to find the earrings. Then he started to pat me down, like we were in an airport or something.

“Easy, man,” I said. I took off my hoodie and handed it to him. “Go to town.”

He actually did. He dug into the pockets for a third time, searched for hidden pockets inside, and finally wrung it like a sponge. I almost felt sorry for him when he handed back my crumpled
hoodie with a look of defeat on his face. Then he grabbed my backpack again and dug through it like a Doberman after a bone.

When he came up empty, he handed the backpack to me. “I don’t…I thought…” he stammered.

“We don’t care what you thought,” Brooke said. “You’ve embarrassed a friend of mine. And that won’t be forgotten.”

“No big deal,” I said casually. “Mistakes happen. We’re only human, right, Trevor?” I smiled with such forgiveness and charity I could have started my own cult.

Trevor looked as if he’d like to do to me what he’d done to my hoodie. Apparently, he would not be joining my cult.

“Just go,” he whispered hoarsely.

Brooke started to leave. Trevor turned to go back into Accessories Depot to lick his wounds.

“Wait,” I said.

They both spun around and said at the same time, “What?”

“Just to be thorough, Trevor, you should search Brooke, too.”

Brooke’s glare at me said,
What the heck are you doing?

Trevor shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” He started to turn away again.

“But I insist,” I said. “In the name of fairness. Otherwise, it looks like you targeted me because I’m Native American. You don’t have anything against Native
Americans, do you, Trevor? Does this store practice racial profiling?”

I said this last part loud enough to attract attention from the shoppers.

“You’re not Indian,” Brooke said. “That’s the preferred term, by the way, which you would know if you were really Native American.”

“Actually, my great-grandfather was Cahuilla. Or Iviatim, in their language. Means ‘master.’ Like ‘masters of their own fate’ kind of thing. They’re nearly
extinct now.” I know this all sounds made up, but it’s really the truth. “And ‘Indian’ is what we call each other. We prefer outsiders to use the more respectful
‘Native American.’”

Brooke couldn’t conjure an appropriate glare, so she settled for a scowl and handed Trevor her comic book bag. “Here,” she told him. “We don’t want to start an
Indian war.”

“That’s offensive,” I said. “I think.”

Trevor sighed and rolled his eyes. He reached into Brooke’s bag while keeping his eyes nailed to mine. I had the feeling that he was planning to bring out his empty hand in a fist, which
he would then deliver to my face. My sore nose clenched in anticipation.

Only his hand didn’t come out empty.

We saw it in his eyes first. The shock. The confusion. His sweet cologne-ad life morphing into the sweaty life of working the grill at McDonald’s.

When his hand emerged from the bag, it was clutching three plastic squares of earrings.

Brooke looked at them, but she didn’t look surprised. Or angry. Or homicidal.

Instead, she smiled, gave me a golf clap, and said, “Well played, sir.”

I wasn’t sure what was making my heart pound more: my successful theft or Brooke’s appreciation.

“
HOW
did you know I set you up?” Brooke asked as we sipped strawberry lemonades from Hot Dog on a Stick.

She’d paid.

I let her.

I wanted to give her a cool explanation, something James Bond–ish about how I noticed a telltale drop of sweat on her forehead or a conspiratorial expression exchanged between her and
Trevor. But it was nothing like that.

“It just felt wrong,” I finally said.

She snorted and mimicked me.
“It just felt wrong.”
Actually, if you took away the acidic sarcasm, she did a pretty good impression of me. “Come on, Richards. The
truth.”

I said, “When we first went into the store, I was pretty scared. I mean, I could hardly breathe, let alone think about stealing. All I could think about was getting caught and sent to jail
and the disappointed look on my parents’ faces when they had to bail me out.” I sipped some more lemonade.

“I hope you’re not as slow on the basketball court as you are telling a story,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Okay, maybe I was dragging the story out a little. Maybe because I wanted her to stay longer. Maybe because this was the first time I’d ever been alone with a girl since I’d realized
they didn’t have cooties. Just chillin’ and having a conversation that wasn’t about homework or a lame assembly on bullying or how unfair some teacher was.

In some ways, talking with Brooke was more nerve-racking than shoplifting. It felt like being on a roller coaster. Not the part where you’re plunging straight down and hoping not to vomit
into your own face. It was more like the part where you’re slowly climbing up a steep, steep incline and you can hear each gear ratchet into place. Your stomach expands and contracts as you
anticipate the sheer drop that awaits. Maybe that’s what kids meant when they came up with the idea of cooties: that girls had this ability to make you feel like ill, like you’ve got a
bad flu.

She snapped her fingers to prod me. “Earth to Chris.”

“Right, sorry. Anyway, then I started to think like Master Thief. You know, stop worrying about getting caught and start thinking about how to get away with it. That turned out to be the
easy part.” I explained about the cameras, the blind spot, and waiting for Goody and Trevor to be busy with customers.

“But how did you know I’d ratted you out to Trevor?” she said impatiently. She had the same stern look as when she got an answer wrong in Mr. Laubaugh’s class and
demanded three independent sources of proof that she was really wrong.

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I knew that you picked the store. I knew you had a long conversation with Trevor while you were supposedly distracting him. Mostly, I knew that
you like to win and that if I got caught, you’d consider that a win somehow.”

She laughed so hard she almost seemed girlish. “Nice to know someone gets me.”

I shrugged. This was the longest nonrequired conversation I’d ever had. Maybe I should quit while I was ahead. If I
was
ahead.

“I told Trevor it was just a prank, but to act all tough and menacing,” she said.

I rubbed my arm, still sore from where he’d grabbed me. “Tough and menacing accomplished. Give him a raise.”

“So you dumped the earrings in my bag, figuring that if I betrayed you, I’d have a surprise coming.”

“And if you didn’t betray me, you wouldn’t mind that I’d used your bag.”

She looked me in the eyes as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re a lot more devious than I would have expected, Chris Richards.”

I laughed. “Is that a good thing?”

“It can be. Means you can keep a secret.” Her face got a little sad and I had the feeling she wanted to tell me something.

Oh no. Please don’t let her go all dark and emo on me. I wouldn’t know what to say to make her feel better, so I’d have to leave. And I wasn’t quite ready to say
good-bye. I sipped my lemonade to drown any stupid words that might want to come out.

And, just like that, the darkness on her face lifted and she smiled and said, “You’re a major jock, right?”

“I don’t know if I like being called
a major jock
.”

“You play sports, so you’re a major jock.”

“Don’t you play any sports?”

“My mom wanted me to play lacrosse like she did. Turns out I’m lacrosse intolerant.”

I laughed.

“I’ve always wondered,” she said, “what you guys talk about in the locker room. I’ve always wanted to hide a microphone in there just to hear what you boys say to
each other in your little guy cave.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “’Cuz if you asked a guy about a girls’ locker room, they’d hide a camera so they could
see
the girls. And you’d
plant a microphone to
hear
.”

“A camera, huh? That’s a little pervy, don’t you think?”

“What’s more pervy, to see naked bodies, or to listen to private thoughts?”

Brooke gave me that confused look again, like I’d just peeled off a
Mission: Impossible
mask to reveal I was really an elderly black woman. “Wow, Richards. You can be deep
when you want to be. Not just a jock.”

“Thing is, I never know when I’m being deep, so maybe it doesn’t count.”

“Are you really this modest, or is it just an act?”

I shrugged. “Let’s go with an act.”

She smiled. “Tell me what you guys talk about in the locker room.”

“Burping, spitting, farting. Guy stuff. What do girls talk about?”

“The same.”

I laughed. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t believe you either.” She started to get up.

“Okay, well, today we talked about kissing.” I looked down, embarrassed. I don’t know why I told her that, except I didn’t want her to leave. Also, I didn’t want
her to think that just because a guy likes sports he’s a dumb animal not capable of talking about anything else.

“Kissing?” She laughed, and sat back down. “Really? You mean like bragging about the hot chicks you all kissed?”

My nose was starting to throb as if it had just gotten smacked again. Was she able to do this just by talking?

“I can’t talk about kissing with you,” I said.

She snorted. “Why not? Kissing is innocent. It’s PG-thirteen, and we’re thirteen.” Her laser eyes studied my every nervous shift like a scientist analyzing a new species
of bug.

Silence stretched out in front of us as endless as the Pacific Ocean. You could surf for hours on our silence.

Brooke just smiled and sipped her drink, waiting for me to say something.

I knew this was her way of winning after I had defeated her evil plan at Accessories Depot. She’d found my weakness and was exploiting it. In her mind, every second that passed when I
didn’t say anything added points to her score. I’d never met anyone so ruthlessly and obsessively competitive. I liked that about her.

But I was competitive, too.

“Basically, I have Five Kissing Questions,” I said, lifting my eyes so I was staring directly at her.

“Really? This should be fun.”

I counted on my fingers as I named them. “One, when is the best time to kiss for the first time? Two, who starts the kiss? Three, how hard is the kiss? I’ve received conflicting
reports. Four, how long is the kiss supposed to last? And five, then what happens? I mean, afterward. Do you keep doing it? Do you wait to see if she slaps you? What?”

Somewhere in the middle of saying all that, I forgot to be embarrassed. These are questions I would ordinarily discuss with guys. (Not really, but if I were to discuss it with anyone, it would
be guys.) But here I was bringing them up with a girl. Not just any girl. Brooke. Brooke, who knew a thousand ways to insult you without even thinking about it.

But she didn’t say anything for a minute. Then, “Are these questions you ask each girl before you kiss her, or are they general questions about kissing, like you’re doing
research on Wikipedia or something?”

“General.”

“Have you ever kissed a girl? And I don’t mean peck on the cheek, but lips mashing lips.”

I shook my head. “You?”

“Nope, never kissed a girl.”

I smiled. “You know what I mean.”

She shook her head. “No again.”

I said, “I guess talking about kissing when you’re thirteen is kinda like the way a Little Leaguer thinks about playing for the Yankees: someday, if I just really want it.”

“Or like discussing a book you’ve never read.”

“I call that science class.”

She laughed. “If you paid more attention in science, you’d know that the reason we kiss is to pass along genetic information. It tells the kissers if they’re genetically
compatible so they can have babies with the greatest chance for survival.”

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on a kiss.”

Brooke shrugged. “My dad says that kids don’t start kissing for real until they’re like, sixteen, so I guess we have time to get the answers.”

“Do you think he’s right?” I asked.

She started to say something that I knew from her expression was going to be sarcastic, but then she stopped and her face went serious. “I don’t know. I mean, how are you supposed to
know? I guess at some point you just do it and it feels right or wrong.”