Wanted (31 page)

“Hey. I thought you could use these. Stopped by the Seven-Eleven, and they were the only ones left. They’re, well, kinda dying.”

“They’re beautiful,” I say, and resist hugging them to my chest. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“Shall we?” Josh asks, opening my door, holding my hand in his, leaning down to kiss it.

“We shall,” I say. “After you.”

We make our way through the sagebrush, working our way to the homes that border the Bureau of Land Management property.

“You know, most burglaries are committed during the day,” Josh says.

“Which show did you get that from?” I ask, zipping up the dark blue Pet Scoop uniform, pulling the gloves on tighter.

“The internet, actually,” Josh says. “Ready?”

Always.

“Ready?” he repeats.

“Ready,” I say. This one’s for Josh. This one has to be for him because—I swallow down the bile that’s worked its way up my esophagus.

Josh hands me a shovel and we walk down the street, black garbage bags slung over our shoulders. The driveway is clear. We scan the windows while we shovel up dried dog crap. It doesn’t look like Nim or his dad have shoveled the lawn . . . ever. “Got a fresh pile over here!” Josh hollers, scooping.

“Fly-infested foul feces . . . Can’t think of anything else.”

“Fly-infested foul feces. Open sesame! Enter.”

I look up and see the living room window is wide open—no screen. Just a wide-open window.

“Nice,” I say.

“Double nice,” Josh says.

“If they leave the window open like that, then . . .” I walk to the front door and twist the handle. “This is just too easy.”

Josh and I lock eyes. “How many minutes have we got?” he asks.

“Nim will be done pumping iron and shooting up his weekly Equipoise dose in about twenty minutes. I don’t know where his parents are.”

This is big-time risky. Too risky.

“Plenty of time.”

“Plenty.”

“Mask on.”

“Mask on.”

“After you.” Josh opens the door and waits for me to enter, closing it gently behind us.

It smells more like dog crap inside than out. We both check our feet. Nothing. We steal, yeah. We kind of trash the house, trying not to break things, but it’s inevitable, really, during a robbery.

I listen. Wind chimes tinkle outside. Somewhere there’s the sound of music, but it’s so faint, I can’t tell if it’s inside or out. I listen harder—lullabies. Definitely has to be outside. This is a mute house—the kind I hate the most. There are no moans or creaks, no sighs. It’s a house that doesn’t talk, doesn’t respond to the seduction of the wind or the pounding of the sun. It’s the kind of silence that keeps the world outside. It’s a lonely soundless place.

Josh taps my shoulder. He holds up ten fingers twice.

The downstairs is clean. We don’t even find a change pile.

Josh points upstairs, and I follow behind. The third stair creaks. The banister is loose. The music is like that garbage you have to hear when you’re on hold, but it feels kind of nice to have sounds to accompany us. Maybe there’s hope for this place to become a home after all. Maybe it will come alive.

Maybe there’s hope for the entire family to become humans.

Maybe.

In the walk-in closet there’s a jewelry box filled with all sorts of jewels that would, no doubt, bring in loads of money. But we don’t do jewelry. We can’t risk selling on the market, getting recognized, getting caught.

Will Lillian turn me in?

I don’t suppose she’d suspect something weird if I cut a gaping hole out of her day-old newspaper.

I push past strands of pearls and delicate gold chains with diamond pendants. Taped to the back of the jewelry box is a key. We look for drawers and find, behind the now turned-over box, a tiny music box. We open the box up—a fuzzy cranking sound the background to the shrill belllike chime of “It’s a Small World” in an amped-up, 120-decibel music box.

The ballerina twirls—her plastic face and red-painted lips in a perma-smile. Her once-white tulle tutu has a tear. The motor cranks her around and around. I scoop up the money and slam the box shut. My hands are trembling when I pass the cash to Josh. “I hate music boxes,” I say.

“Creepy shit.”

It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears
.

I shiver.

Josh holds up ten fingers. We have one room left to search. Nim’s room looks like a trophy case. Shelves are covered with gold trophies for football, baseball, wrestling, and every other sport he was ever in. Plaques, medals, and ribbons paper the walls. The air freshener plug-ins do little to mask the stench—testosterone, musty gym socks, and a clove after-scent. I practically gag.

We search through drawers and under Nim’s mattress, and I’m so glad we wear gloves. If a CSI unit were to come in here with a purple light, they’d see that the whole room is probably covered in semen. We find almost six hundred dollars tucked in the most obvious hiding places. Josh points to the dirty laundry basket and I shake my head. I’ll only go so far.

He laughs, points to the bedside table drawer and to the hallway. He holds up five fingers and goes to the door while I rummage through the drawer.

At the bottom I find a carefully bubble-wrapped photo.

It’s from that day camp where Lilian sent me the first spring I came to Carson City. In it, we’re all staring at the camera with goofy, missing-teeth grins. We must be facing the sun because everybody’s squinting except for Nim.

He’s staring at me. There’s a crooked, faded red heart around my picture. He had a crush on me. He was the meanest person I’d ever met. But he
liked
me.

If I had known, would that have made a difference? Made me happy? Felt like I belonged?

My head hurts, temples throb.

Breathe
.

I swallow back regret. “Thank you,” I whisper, pulling the picture out of the frame, folding it up, putting it in my pocket next to Saint Jude.

Josh raps on the door. He holds up a zero sign with his fingers.

I nod and I follow him out the front door.

We get back to our cars and climb on Little Car’s hood, leaning back against the windshield. Wispy clouds drift in the cobalt sky. The afternoon heat has waned, leaving us with the first taste of the desert-chill evening; the sweet smell of blooming lilacs perfumes the air.

I chose today. Sure, I erased yesterday and lost tomorrow. I’ve blown it with U-Dub since they don’t, not that I remember, have a little box on the application form to check if you’re a convicted felon.

But I chose today.

I
choose
today.

If it weren’t for Mrs. Brady, everything would be perfect. We’d still be Babylonia—the name people whisper because we are
doing
something. We stepped off the sidelines and became the game.

Don’t look back.

The only proof they have is my bracelet,
my
bracelet. That and the note I’ll leave, placing my last bet with Seth. I’m counting on him to make this right.

“This isn’t going to end well,” I finally say.

“Why does it have to end?” Josh asks.

Josh is still living the fairy tale. His eyes are closed, a spray of thick chestnut lashes on his cheeks. A smile curling up the edge of his lips. I slip my hand in his and squeeze, deciding to live the fairy tale, too. Just for him. Because all I’ve got is today.

Don’t look back. Make it right.

Chapter 50

I LISTEN TO THE SOUNDS

of our house—our home. Funny I’ve never done that before. The front screen rattles when a gust of wind comes up. The floorboard outside my bedroom door creaks just a little. The east windows moan in protest to the darkness—the sunless night. Lillian’s breathing is raspy when she sleeps—like every breath is a struggle.

I like the sound of my home.

The phone vibrates. Seth’s name flashes.

“Hello,” I say.

“Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“For real?”

“For real. But there’s a catch, okay?”

He’s quiet, then says, “I’m not sure about this.”

“I need to count on you, Seth. You always do the right thing. You have to be the anonymous tip. Five thousand dollars. You could use the cash next year at college.”

“So it was really you?”

“What?”

“Babylonia?”

“Yep,” I say. “That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“And
only
you.” He emphasizes
only
because he knows that I’m editing the truth—something we’ve all become masters at. It’s like the crib-note version of the past two months.

“Yes.”

He’s silent. My throat is dry. I stare at the wilted-looking flowers on the cactus and splash them with water, then drink down a glass. How is it possible to kill a cactus?

“What’s the catch?” he finally asks.

“You’ve got to make the call”—I look at my watch—“tomorrow morning. Early. Before anybody else gets a shot.”

“I’m in. What’s the catch?”

“You need to place a bet with this guy I know. The bet I’m about to give you.” I give him my bet, then hesitate. “I’ve left something else for you. It’s in your bushes. In a plastic bag. You can take it to the police.”

Seth’s quiet. “What is it?” he finally asks.

“A bat,” I whisper. “It should have evidence on it or something. There’s a note explaining everything.”

“Are you coming back?” Seth asks.

“Yes. I just need to see one thing before I’m locked up for all of eternity. Really.”

Seth forces a laugh. “You won’t be locked up for all of eternity.”

“Hope not. So?”

“Deal,” he says.

“Deal,” I say.

He doesn’t hang up.

“Mike?” he says, then gets quiet again. “Ahh, never mind.” He hangs up the phone.

I leave Lillian a note on the coffee table and look around the shelves for a better place to put the second note—the one with all the truths, my confessions, my memoirs. The bank book. The one only for her. I owe her at least that much.

I go to her gardening area—a little shed she got at Home Depot. She’s bought more geraniums to fill in some patchy spots. You’d think she’d get tired of planting the same thing all the time. I push them aside, the little plastic name stick dropping out.

Geranium “Salome.”

There’s a laminated page from an old Martha Stewart catalog.

A perennial geranium, “Salome” produces large, bright-lavender flowers streaked with magenta in summer and showy, chartreuse foliage that remains bright all season. It makes a charming trailer for borders or pots. Perennial geraniums, or cranesbills, are long-lived, easy-to-grow plants whose foliage often changes colors in fall.

They’re for me. They’ve always been for me. She’s taken care of me for seventeen years—put all her energy into pruning and weeding and making sure I flourish.

Maybe I was who she wanted all along.

I write one more memoir:
I love you, too. I’m sorry.

I go to Lillian’s room and kiss the door, repeating the words I just wrote. “I love you. Please take care of yourself.” My voice catches.

I need to hang out for a few hours—just lie low. I tap in Moch’s number, calling in all my last favors. “Hey.”

“Mike, you’re fucked.”

“You noticed?”

“The bracelet. Yeah.”

“I need a few hours this morning—just to crash.” Funny how I’ve been betting away my days—now it’s all about time.

“Meet me at American Flats.”

“Thanks, Moch.”

“Then what?”

“Then it’s the morning, sun rising, and all that eternal march of time stuff,” I say, hanging up the phone.

I’ve got to get to Leonard, to tell him about Seth. By the time I’m there, though, my name will be all over the news—his leverage gone.

Josh will be safe.

Lillian will be taken care of.

It’s all in Seth’s hands now—Seth and Gutzman.

Championship game. One bet. Last chapter.

Chapter 51

MOCH SPENDS THE NIGHT

with me. We play cards. We calculate how many aluminum cans we would need to live off recycling.

We talk about Mrs. Mendez, Babylonia, Josh. About Luis. We talk about Gary in Indiana and hope. What hope he’s found—what I’ve lost. And it’s all okay because losing hope is pretty cool in its own way. Losing hope means I actually had some to begin with—something
now
and not a few months from now.

We talk about guilt and shame and six-word memoirs. I fall asleep listening to him talk about mango sunrises and his mom’s chili-pepper temper. Then the sun rises, as expected. Moch gives me a giant hug, pulling me close to him. “
Te quiero, hermana
.”

My heart soars.

“You’re a popular girl,” Leonard says. The TV is on behind him—my senior picture being flashed everywhere in Nevada, California, Utah, and Arizona, like a felony Amber Alert. There’s news about Mrs. Brady’s recovery. She’s out of her coma.

She doesn’t remember anything.

The images of me, Mrs. Brady, the hospital, Caleb, all flash like some 1970s cinema-intermission subliminal messages.

You messed up.

You messed up.

“Today’s a big day. Your friend can cover the bet?”

I nod.

“I’ve heard that before.”

“It’s covered.”

He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes the sweat off his forehead. Fans are on full blast but only serve to blow around hot air.

“You could invest in some air conditioning,” I say.

“Bad for the environment.”

“We’ll win.”

“A bookie-turned-gambler who doesn’t even know it. You’re so sure about it, aren’t you?”

I nod. “Because I can’t lose this one,” I say.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Where they’ll find me,” I say. “Running from the law just isn’t my thing.”

“It’s a shame—wasted talent.”

“Nah. I’ll have something to keep me busy in prison.”

Leonard salutes me as I leave, the early-afternoon sun glinting off the clumpy asphalt. It’s got to be at least eighty-five, and it’s not even April. I push damp bangs off my face.