The Boy Who Steals Houses

by C. G. Drews

  ‘I’m sorry, kids, but this is the summer.’

  Jeremy and Jack are already getting antsy, glancing back at their friends.

  ‘Right, so we’re sorted?’ Jack says. ‘No fun for us to prepare for the shitty world that is adulthood. Gotcha.’

  Their father’s lips thin. In that moment, he looks like Moxie – barely masked displeasure. ‘Language, Jack. And we talked about this. You need work experience and I took on that house project that’s a lot larger than I anticipated. And there are …’ His voice thickens. ‘There are those hospital bills.’

  It’s like a magic phrase that suddenly has all four De Lainey teenagers looking anywhere but at their father. Grady immediately gathers plates and mumbles something about loving building. Jack slinks back to the sofa and only Jeremy pauses for a moment to rest his head briefly on his dad’s shoulder.

  ‘You can knock off at three,’ his dad says. ‘You know I hate putting this on you kids and ruining your holidays, but—’

  ‘It’s OK, Dad,’ Jeremy says. ‘We’re just whining.’

  His dad brushes affectionate knuckles over Jeremy’s head and then Jeremy slips back off to his friends. ‘Don’t make tonight too late.’

  Moxie is still face down on the table.

  ‘Moxie.’ Their father gently nudges her shoulder.

  ‘Murmph.’

  ‘Look, it’s just the babies. Dash will be next door most of the summer, I assume.’

  Dash, who’s obviously winning the elven board game and raking in piles of fake dragon coins while the others look peevish, waves a hand. ‘We’re going to make a film! Esther has a camera!’

  Their father smiles but Moxie finally peels off the table with a ferocious look in her eyes. ‘And I was going to work on my design portfolio. You realise I don’t even have Kirby to come over and make it more tolerable, right? I’m alone and broken.’

  Her father starts clearing up plates. ‘You can still sew. I’ll take over as soon as I get home. And when school starts, we’ll get the babies in daycare. Please, sweetie? This deadline is a beast.’

  ‘Fine. Fine. Just. Argh.’ She snatches her plate and stomps off to the kitchen.

  Their father sinks down in the vacated spot and looks wryly at Sam. ‘I’m sure your folks aren’t spoiling your summer plans, eh? I feel like the worst dad.’

  Sam’s mouth opens and closes because he can’t think of anything past ‘you’re basically the best father in the world compared to mine who I haven’t even seen in eight years after he beat my brother unconscious’ or ‘my folks would love to spoil my summer plans with a ride in the back of a police car after what I did at my old school, so you’re doing fine.’ But he doesn’t. And the De Lainey father doesn’t seem put out by Sam’s silence. He just gathers dishes while telling the girls to finish up their game, and then he disappears to put babies to bed.

  Moxie reappears with a bowl of microwaved popcorn and instructs Sam to take it into the lounge. He does, unthinking, because Moxie is a force to be obeyed, and he finds himself swallowed by a sofa and a movie as everyone settles down for the evening. Younger guests disappear back next door and Dash is forced off to bed, while the teens are told to keep the sound low and have every non-De-Lainey out by eleven. The lights flick off. As soon as their dad leaves, Jack changes the film to a horror.

  Moxie flops on the sofa next to Sam. It was the only available seat, he tells himself. That’s why she sat next to him.

  He’s forgotten. And accepted. All at once.

  And he’s so hungry for it, so wildly and madly hungry, that he stays.

  Even though the movie seriously freaks him out.

  He’s not a big fan of bodies going through wood chippers and blood splattering, but then one character gets possessed by a demon and attacks the others. With fists. And the more Sam watches, the tighter his muscles wind and the harder he finds it is to breathe.

  Ridiculous. There’s plenty of air.

  But his lungs don’t

  quite work

  any more.

  He feels Moxie watching him out of the corner of her eye so he focuses on the screen, focuses on being still. Stop twitching your fingers. One character crushes the other to the floor with a boot and then punches them with a fist. Again. Again – againagainagain—

  Then the walls in the creepy asylum explode with monsters so fast, so violently, that Sam’s flimsy grip on calm shatters. He gives a strangled cry and jumps so high that he falls backwards off the sofa.

  He hits the ground on his back, legs in the air like a dead bug.

  Several heads peer over the back of the sofa at him. Like they’re seeing him, really seeing him.

  Oh no.

  Behind them, the TV blazes red and black as blood sprays.

  Sam opens his mouth – to defend himself? Explain? Say watching this movie is like shoving a knife beneath his ribs because of all the things he’s done?

  Then the weird silence is broken by Jack’s bark of laughter. ‘Did you see his face? Holy shit, kid, have you not seen this movie before?’

  Footsteps pad upstairs and the De Lainey father’s voice trails down, softly warning. ‘Jack. If I have to pull up your language one more time tonight, you’re losing your phone.’

  ‘Child abuse,’ Jack mutters. ‘How is his hearing so good?’

  Jeremy pats his shoulder. ‘Only for you and your swearing, buddy. If we’re asking to use the car, he can’t hear a thing.’

  Sam picks himself up, wondering if he should bolt for the door to get away from this suffocating humiliation. His face is so hot, his clothes so tight.

  Moxie’s shoulders shake softly and it takes Sam a long, blurred moment to realise she’s laughing.

  ‘This one,’ she says, gasping, ‘is precious.’

  ‘I think he’s actually scared, guys.’ Jeremy half rises off the chair, like he’s going to – what? Pat Sam’s back and tell him it’s just all fake, Sammy boy. Fake blood! Fake demons! You’re OK!

  Sam wants to bury himself. He avoids everyone’s eyes as he slowly climbs back over the sofa and sits.

  ‘I’m not … scared.’ Sam picks up a pillow and tries to dissolve behind it.

  ‘You nearly pissed yourself,’ Jack says.

  Jeremy hits him.

  Moxie is still laughing silently, a hand over her mouth.

  The room hushes again as they watch the last minutes of the film where everyone predictably dies or turns into a monster and it’s so depressing that Sam keeps his face in the pillow.

  Suddenly Moxie’s mouth is very close to Sam’s ear and he stops breathing.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice is soft as sand and sea. ‘I shouldn’t have laughed. Are you OK?’

  The question beats against his ribs and he wants to hold it for ever. Pathetic, pathetic Sam.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Is his voice really that high or is he just hyper aware of his body right now?

  He pretends to watch again, but Moxie is still looking at him as credits roll and guests peel themselves up and look for car keys and shoes.

  ‘There’s still part two,’ Jack says.

  Sam might be sick.

  ‘It’s past eleven.’ Moxie licks popcorn salt off her thumb. ‘So you guys better get out of my house.’

  ‘Hey, I live here,’ Jack says.

  Moxie sighs. ‘To my permanent annoyance.’

  Boys head for the door, fake tackling and joking about the movie as they leave. This is the part where Sam slips away. Which means this day, this perfect and unprecedented day, is over. He’ll never have this again.

  He has to leave.

  No one notices as he slips from the darkened room, nimbly circuiting toys and highchairs, while his fingers catch up his backpack straps.

  The front door hangs open, night air and stars and long empty streets a
t his fingertips. The twins hang off the veranda rails, waving goodbye to friends. Friends that Sam’s supposed to be leaving with.

  Sam looks at the stairs.

  He wouldn’t dare.

  The De Lainey father appears then, scrubbing a hand through his shock of dark hair. Most of his attention is on counting the bodies still downstairs. His eyes rest on Sam.

  Sam hates being looked at – not hard, not closely, not by adults. Adults either don’t see him or use slaps to get answers.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Sam,’ says Mr De Lainey.

  He remembers Sam’s name?

  ‘Hope you had a good camping trip with the boys.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam says. ‘I m-mean, it was great.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The smile is warm. It’s real. Mr De Lainey looks tired, but soft happiness rests behind his eyes. ‘See you again soon, son. Have a safe trip home.’

  ‘I will – I mean, yes sir.’ Sam’s eyes flick to the stairs.

  You wouldn’t dare—

  Sam’s throat is tight. ‘I just have to get something from upstairs?’

  Mr De Lainey smiles and waves for him to go. He reaches for the kettle and a mug.

  Sam bolts for the stairs.

  He takes them two at a time, his backpack jingling with a hundred stolen sins.

  No one will notice if he doesn’t come back downstairs.

  No one will go into that office this late.

  No one will see a homeless boy curled in an overstuffed chair under the window.

  Sam closes the office door behind him and lowers himself into the armchair, his heavy backpack pressed tight to his chest. The room still smells of summer days and toast crumbs and … safety. He’ll leave tomorrow. First chance. This is stupid, reckless, but it’s just one night and then he’s gone for ever.

  One last night that feels strangely like … home.

  Sammy is eight and it’s war at the kitchen table.

  Dinner was technically two hours ago, but they still sit there, listening to Aunt Karen in the next room yelling on the phone. Sammy swings his legs, loose shoelaces clacking against the plastic chair as he alternates between his and Avery’s homework. Avery’s is harder, being a year ahead at school, and he works fine in class – but at home? He gets overwhelmed and cries. He gets that way about a lot of things.

  Like the broccoli and bean casserole on his plate right now.

  Avery’s face is damp and red, his hair plastered to his face with sweat. He had a meltdown for the first hour, while Aunt Karen shouted that he was too old for this and kept shoving him back in the chair. Then he changed to screaming, then to high-pitched keening, and now he’s quiet – exhausted and slowly beating his forearms against the table till they bruise purple.

  He’s ten. He’s getting too much for Aunt Karen to pin down.

  That’s why she’s on the phone.

  ‘—complete rubbish, Clay. They’re not my kids!’

  Avery flicks his fingers in front of his eyes between beating his arms.

  flick

  thump

  flick

  thump

  Sammy scrawls answers into homework he doesn’t understand. The phone call, however, he understands just fine.

  ‘—foster home. I do not want these goddamn boys. I warn you—’

  Sammy glances at Avery, who’s now blinking slowly like he might fall asleep in his plate. It’s been a year since their dad beat the hell out of him, but there’s a small scar in the left corner of his mouth. A forever scar.

  To remind Sammy he has to always, always protect his brother.

  Their aunt gives a frustrated shout and then goes silent. Call over. She strides into the kitchen, all hard edges and splinters. She wears bright chunky jewellery and her cheeks are sunken and her lips know only frowns.

  ‘Well, the police finally caught up with your father,’ she says. ‘Theft, drugs, assault – he’s in prison for a while.’

  Sammy thought she’d be smug about it. But the dark circles under her eyes and the twitchy way she reaches for another cigarette says it doesn’t cancel out the fact she has two nephews at her table that she couldn’t want less.

  ‘Which means you’re still staying with me, because who knows where your mother is.’ Her eyes cut to Avery and the cold plate before him. Untouched except for the bit Sammy tried to eat to cover for him when Aunt Karen’s back was turned. His ear still smarts from being caught and slapped too. ‘But if I don’t see some attitude adjustments …’ She breaks off, taking a savage drag of the cigarette.

  Sammy’s legs freeze, mid-swing, shoelaces making a final clack. ‘You’ll send us to a foster home?’

  ‘Avery, for certain.’ Her lips twist, angry and bitter. ‘Someone can look after him who specialises in naughty little boys with special needs.’

  She says that like it’s fake. Like Avery is trying to be difficult.

  Frantic fluttering crawls up Sammy’s throat. Leaving Aunt Karen doesn’t worry him, but they’d separate him and Avery, wouldn’t they? That can’t happen. He’s Avery’s protector, his everything. He looks wildly at Avery, but Avery’s popped his hands in his pockets – where he keeps his toy car, secret so no one can take it. He’s not listening.

  Sammy’s words come choked. ‘But, please, you c-can’t. We have to be together—’

  Aunt Karen slaps a hand in front of Avery’s plate and he jumps. ‘Then eat your dinner, right now.’

  ‘He can’t—’ Sammy starts, but Aunt Karen cuts him off with an impatient gesture.

  ‘He can and will do as he’s told.’

  Avery growls at her.

  ‘Fine.’ She stomps to the kitchen. ‘You’re getting the wooden spoon and some consequences.’

  Sammy’s out of his chair, blood flooding his face in hot waves. He trips on his shoelaces while the world presses granite fists against his chest, a suffocating weight that whispers save him save him that’s your job.

  Why can’t she just let him eat fish fingers every day? He loves those. Avery doesn’t like how casserole tastes or how it feels in his mouth or how it’s mixed together or how his plate is so full it scares him to start. It hurts him. Sammy could tell her this if she listened.

  If anyone listened.

  But he is the invisible boy and no one cares.

  Aunt Karen marches back, a wooden spoon in hand, but Sammy snatches the plate full of sticky, congealed casserole and flies across the room with it. He throws it in the bin – plate, bean sludge, fork and all.

  Avery’s eyes widen.

  Aunt Karen spins on Sammy. ‘How dare you—’

  And then Sammy grabs Avery’s hand, pulling him from the table and the tear stains and the oncoming smacks from an aunt who doesn’t want these goddamn boys.

  They’re out the front door while Aunt Karen is still yelling. ‘Stay out there like animals then!’

  The door slams. The lock clicks.

  Night air kisses Avery’s wet cheeks and frolics fingers through Sammy’s curls. They’re used to this, but it’s cold tonight.

  Avery’s hands flutter. ‘I c-c-can’t—’

  ‘I know.’ Sammy pets his arm. ‘Just let me think. I could …’ He glances across the street at Mr Shepherd’s garage, which is always open, showing his pack rat collection of boxes and junk and rusted-out machines. ‘I could steal some tools.’ Excitement flickers in his voice. ‘I could undo the window locks and we can go to bed.’

  Avery pulls his car out of his pocket and runs it over his face.

  ‘I could steal some biscuits too. You like biscuits.’ He strokes Avery’s arm, anxious again, because Avery’s so thin, and even though he’s playing with his car, there’s no flood of babyish calm in his eyes like there used to be.

  His eyes are just sad.

  ‘If Aunt Karen doesn�
�t want us, we can find our own house.’ Sammy takes Avery’s hand to cross the road.

  ‘Can you do that?’ Avery whispers. ‘Steal houses?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sammy says. ‘Yeah, of course I can.’

  Sam goes through the desk drawers in the De Lainey office, listening to the family stomp through a Monday morning. It sounds very traumatic. The two little kids are tag-team crying. Jack and Moxie lock in a shouting match. No one can find car keys. They’re out of groceries and their dad confesses there’s no money today, but tomorrow he’ll fix it. Dash says she’s leaving home. For ever.

  ‘You’ll be fine with the kids, Moxie!’ Mr De Lainey says, but he has to shout because the kids are, well, screaming and Moxie answers with a wail.

  Goodbyes are hollered. The front door slams. Engines fade down the road.

  Sam finds an envelope of cash crammed in the back of a drawer with ‘for emergencies’ scribbled over it. He picks up. Puts it back. How can he take it when their dad was just saying they had no money for groceries? He’s obviously saving this for worst-case scenarios.

  But Sam is a thief. This is what he does, isn’t it?

  He stuffs the wad of notes into his pocket, guilt wrapped around his throat.

  He pokes his head out the door.

  The house is suddenly quiet.

  Sam slips across the hall and peeks through the stairwell. A De Lainey-flavoured explosion has hit. Someone’s pyjamas have been threaded through the railings and a bowl of half-eaten cereal sits on the second step. A sea of blocks covers the floors and the TV flashes a muted kiddie show.

  Then Moxie storms into view, looking like a goddess of vengeance and war. Jam handprints stain her neck like blood and her eyes are fire. She wears Wonder Woman pyjama pants and a once-white singlet and she drags a struggling preschooler towards the bathroom.

  ‘Quit it, Toby,’ she orders. ‘You’re having a bath. Another bath. Because that’s what happens when you put cornflakes down your shirt!’

  The bathroom door squeaks. Water turns on. Toby howls like he’s being murdered. The baby toddles after them, cradling a pot of jam.

  Sam’s getaway path is clear.