The Boy Who Steals Houses

by C. G. Drews

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ Avery snaps.

  ‘You really can’t.’ Heat flares in Sam’s chest. ‘You just fall apart. You just screw up and have a meltdown and then I have to pick you—’ Suddenly he hates that he said any of that. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Screw you, Sammy.’

  ‘Just please stop … leaving.’

  Avery presses knuckles to his eyes and for a second Sam thinks he might lose it again and hit himself. But instead he tugs his phone out of his back pocket and taps it against Sam’s arm until he takes it. ‘Fix all your problems.’ He tries to smile but it falls apart before it begins. He looks wretched, tired and hollowed out.

  Sam’s throat closes.

  ‘I like your hands better this way,’ Avery says.

  Sam looks down in confusion. His knuckles are smooth. No bruises. No cuts. Instead there are callouses from sewing and streaks of glitter pen from where Toby drew on him.

  ‘If you tell them what you did at school …’ Avery licks the corner of his lips, tongue on the scar from their dad’s fists. ‘They’ll turn you in and hate you and they’ll … break your heart.’ His fingers dance on the gate. ‘Vin says you’re soft. You’ll get hurt.’

  ‘I’m already hurt.’

  ‘OK, so come with me.’

  Sam would rather bleed. He twists his fingers in his shirt and then forces himself to stop.

  ‘You don’t belong in a house,’ Avery says. ‘We’re the kings of nowhere, remember? You. And me. We.’ He tips his head, like Sam’s a puzzle he can’t figure out.

  No one can solve the puzzle that is Sammy Lou.

  They shouldn’t even try.

  Avery kicks the gate one more time and then pulls free, fingers fluttering like they hold invisible puppet strings. ‘You can call Vin if you need me. But I’m leaving now.’

  If he needs Avery? More like when Avery needs him.

  But he thinks Avery means it. He thinks Avery’s trying to be a big brother.

  Sam could laugh. Or maybe just cry.

  He’s still trying to find an answer when Avery’s shoes skim the street and he vanishes back to his world of shiny things to pocket between here and nowhere.

  Sam holds on to the fence for a long, long time.

  Finally Moxie crosses the grass, still damp with early-morning dew, and rests her chin on Sam’s shoulder. He wants so desperately to scoop her into his arms and just hold her. But he doesn’t.

  ‘Can I tell you everything later?’ His voice is made of weary bones.

  ‘After the beach party,’ Moxie says. ‘Then we’re officially talking to my dad. About everything.’

  He just nods.

  ‘Is he going to be OK?’ Moxie looks down the street, but Avery’s gone.

  No, he’s not. Avery’s just going to crack again and again if he keeps this up. Sammy’s lived with him for fifteen years and he knows Avery better than anyone.

  Sam looks down at his fingers wrapped around Avery’s phone. ‘I’ll catch him if he falls.’

  ‘Who catches you?’ Moxie says.

  Sam stitches on a pretend smile. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Sam fits his hands into his pockets and walks self-consciously downstairs. He hates plenty of things: seeing Avery hurt, a lock outwitting him, his skin stinging from a beating, the thought of losing Moxie. But having dozens of eyes look at him?

  He loathes that.

  This is why he fits so well in the invisible boy’s bones.

  But when going to a party with the De Laineys, there’s no escape from the volunteered honest appraisal.

  Mr De Lainey is in the kitchen making gingerbread men with Toby, and Jack sits on the bench, legs swinging, on his phone. He tends to be glued to it when he actually has it. Six pairs of eyes immediately lock on Sam.

  ‘Whoa,’ Jack says, ‘the eighteenth-century circus just arrived.’

  Mr De Lainey wipes his floury hands on a towel. ‘Sam! You look incredible. Moxie and you made this?’

  Sam nods and looks down at himself to avoid their eyes.

  The waistcoat is marvellous. It’s burgundy and rust and charcoal and gold. Hundreds of thin strips of material are sewn so the colours merge in a rich ombre. It folds over his chest, six mismatched buttons on either side. And it’s slim fitting. Sam didn’t even argue about the tightness, mostly because he isn’t painfully thin with protruding bones any more.

  But the secret of his outfit is a key strung around his neck and tucked deep behind his shirt. No one will know. He needs it. More than ever, with the image of Avery walking away replaying every time he closes his eyes.

  ‘You look like a particularly fine gentleman,’ Mr De Lainey says.

  No one has ever called Sam a gentleman before.

  He wonders if Avery would laugh at that and then he feels sick – knowing that after tonight he tells Moxie everything and this summer ends. Aching, because he could face it if Avery was beside him. And there’s that constant whisper deep in his bones that says maybe Sam and his hitting and unattainable dreams is the reason Avery is always leaving.

  He can’t think about it right now.

  Moxie flies down the stairs in a rain of hair ties and buttons and an explosion of hair. Her eyes are wild and there’s a comb clamped between her teeth. She frantically dumps herself on the bottom of the staircase and skewers bobby pins covered in white flowers into her braid.

  ‘We’re going to be late.’ She rips open another packet of bobby pins and they scatter over the stairs.

  Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. ‘The sun’s not fully down yet. Chill, sis.’

  Sam hides his smile and folds himself behind Moxie on the stairs. The first time they sat like this, positions were reversed and Sam was about to be scalped. Now they’re always somewhat sandwiched together, her tucked against him while she whispers a joke, or him resting his chin on her shoulder while she tells him her wishes and fears.

  He will never get tired of leaning on her while she leans on him.

  Jeremy catapults down the stairs and vaults Sam and Moxie at the bottom. He skids into the kitchen wearing boxers and a collared shirt patterned with pineapples.

  ‘Does it look OK?’ His eyes are possibly more wild than Moxie’s.

  ‘No,’ says Jack.

  ‘What have you been doing all this time?’ Moxie says. ‘You don’t even have hair to fuss over.’

  Jeremy is too flustered to react. He fixes a few buttons and looks anxiously at his father.

  Mr De Lainey pops raisins in his mouth. ‘Well.’ He pauses. ‘Well … you need pants.’

  Jeremy looks down. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘And a different shirt,’ Jack adds, stealing gingerbread. ‘Because we’re identical and I’m not letting my face walk around a pivotal social event with that shirt on.’

  Jeremy casts a desperate look at Moxie.

  ‘Don’t you also have that really nice salmon shirt?’ Moxie stabs bobby pins in her hair.

  Jeremy nods several times and bolts back upstairs. ‘OK. Salmon. I need to wear a salmon. OK.’

  Moxie glances at Jack. ‘Does he have a new crush? Is that why he’s flapping?’

  Jack shrugs. ‘Why are you asking me about his f— um, frick fracking crushes?’

  ‘Did you just say frick fracking?’ Mr De Lainey says.

  ‘No.’ Jack puts his phone behind his back. ‘I’m not speaking again unless I’m talking about the Lord Jesus Christ, can I get an amen?’

  ‘Amen,’ says Moxie.

  Their father sighs and looks very old.

  Sam nudges Moxie with his knee. ‘Are you going to show them?’

  A proud spark flashes behind Moxie’s eyes and she pops off the steps. ‘Dad? Watching?’

  She stalks to the centre of the room and raises her arms above he
r head. Her dress is yellow cotton, the bodice embroidered with half a million flowers. It looks like any other nice dress – knee length with a flared skirt and tulle peeking below the hem to give it ‘body’ as Moxie informed him. Whatever that means.

  But the dress has a secret.

  Moxie glances at Sam and he knows his smile is stupidly happy, but he can’t help it.

  She spins.

  The skirt flares out to a perfect circle. The soft yellow panels peel open to reveal an explosion of colours. Rainbow stripes spin around her, each of the hidden folds laced with sequins and buttons to catch the light.

  She is the sun and her eyes burn stars.

  She stops spinning and her skirts twist and still around her, yellow cloth falling back to hide the hidden rainbow panels. Her smile is glory and pride and infectious delight.

  Mr De Lainey looks like he’s about to cry. ‘Moxie, darling, you’re beautiful. I’m taking a picture. Everyone on the stairs! And someone get Dash and the babies so I can have a family photo for once.’

  Sam slips quietly out of the way.

  The De Lainey kids assemble with fake groans – all chocolate-brown hair and summer-kissed skin and cheeks flushed with golden smiles. They shuffle and poke each other. Jeremy leans on Grady. Dash picks up Toby. A stray curl falls over Moxie’s eyes.

  Mr De Lainey has a phone in hand for the photo but then pauses, looks over his shoulder and finds Sam. They share a smile.

  And in that moment Sam’s heart is so full it hurts.

  It really, really hurts.

  He can’t lose this.

  The beach is a fairyland of lights like broken stars.

  As Grady’s jeep curves down the road along the bluffs, everyone’s eyes fill with twilight and bonfires and rows of fairy lights. Cars are parked on the sand and an entire universe of people mills around. They’re on the edge of town to hide the fact bonfires on the beach aren’t strictly legal.

  ‘It’s mostly kids from school,’ Grady says. ‘And their friends and friends of friends. The rich ones started it. Rich kids get away with a lot.’

  Sam won’t argue.

  They pull into an overcrowded car park and strike out for the sand together. Sam ignores his tightening lungs. He normally only enters crowds to lift wallets, and after weeks sprawled in the butter-yellow house, he’s not used to the crush.

  As they move into the mess of people, the sound hits – the roar and crackle of the bonfire, yells and shrieked laughs, people scraping coolers full of ice and drinks across the sand, a revving engine, music booming from one of the cars with speakers set up in the back.

  Everything clashes together. Loud. Fast. Overwhelmingly excited.

  Don’t freak out. Just don’t.

  No one knows you. There is no way anyone here will recognise you.

  Jack and Jeremy head for the cars, talking very seriously about drinking versus how much they like life.

  ‘If we have one beer now,’ Jack says, ‘and then drink fifty buckets of water, Dad won’t know.’

  ‘He’ll look into our eyes and know,’ Jeremy says. ‘Anyway, why are you saying “we”? I’m not your sheep.’

  ‘Like you don’t do everything I do.’ Jack slings an arm around Jeremy’s neck. ‘Loser.’

  The crowd swallows them.

  Grady lays a hand on Sam and Moxie’s shoulders. ‘Time to be the boring older brother for a second.’

  Moxie rolls her eyes. ‘You’re too old to be here anyway.’

  Grady gives her a playful shove. ‘I’m nineteen, not ninety. And all my old school friends still come. Also Isla’s here.’ He clears his throat. He’s wearing contacts and he’s not holding a book, which seems wild for him. ‘So no drinking.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Moxie folds her arms.

  ‘Don’t wander off someplace dark.’ Grady shudders. ‘Because I’m not explaining that to Dad.’

  ‘Now you’re just being embarrassing.’

  ‘And probably hold Sam’s hand because I think he’s about to faint.’

  Moxie whips around to Sam who manages a thin and unamused smile. ‘Ha,’ he says.

  Moxie slips her hand into his. ‘This rule I can do. But seriously, are you OK, Sam? You do look peaky.’

  Oh, totally fine. He’s just avoided people for a solid year and now he’s voluntarily catapulted himself into the middle of them.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He is not fine. He is at a freaking party when he should be hiding. His brother is falling off the edge of the world because Sam’s not there for him. He’s about to lose everything. And there’s a lump the size of the universe caught in his throat.

  He is not fine.

  Grady pats Sam’s head and then his eyes light up at something behind them. ‘Must run. Don’t do anything illegal.’ He speeds off in the direction of a girl with an airy pink dress.

  ‘That’s his girlfriend, Isla,’ Moxie says. ‘Don’t worry, every time he mentions he has a girlfriend I get shocked all over again. She’s super gorgeous too. Obviously has no standards. Anyway.’ She nudges Sam with her hip. ‘C’mon. I want you to meet someone.’

  She tugs him into the crowd.

  They circuit a large group of people by the bonfire and get away from the cars and the music that’s set to level: ‘make your ears bleed’. People shout Moxie’s name and compliment her dress. She gives small waves and shouts a pleased ‘Thank you!’ now and then. Everyone else wears jeans and halter-necked dresses and collared shirts, everything in expensive cuts and glittering. Quite a few are barefoot. Quite a few are drunk.

  Absolutely no one is dressed like Moxie and Sam.

  Absolutely everyone keeps looking at them.

  Then Moxie’s hand tightens on his and she raises her free arm in the air. ‘Kirby!’

  There’s a squeal from a group ahead of them and a girl breaks free and pelts across the sand. Sam has to – reluctantly – release Moxie so she can collide with this incoming comet of excitement. They exchange frenzied cries: ‘I missed you!’ and ‘You look so beautiful!’

  He stands back awkwardly.

  Moxie twines her arms around her friend and spins her to face Sam. ‘This is he.’ She has the smugness of someone who’s discussed Sam often. Behind his back.

  Oh, great.

  ‘Hi,’ says Sam.

  Kirby is frighteningly tall, with dozens of braids woven with rainbow ribbons and brown skin and the most delighted smile. Her wrists are covered in bangles that jingle every time she wildly throws her arms around – which is a lot – and Sam’s so focused on their gleaming shine that he’s not prepared for the moment when Kirby decides it’s a great idea to hug him too.

  He gets crushed and hopes he only whimpered in his head.

  ‘It’s confirmed,’ Kirby says. ‘He’s adorable.’

  Moxie looks pleased and reaches over to tug Sam’s waistcoat. ‘And he helped me sew. He did quite a lot actually.’

  ‘Keep him,’ Kirby says. ‘Keep him for ever, Moxie.’

  Moxie leans her head on Sam’s shoulder for a second. ‘I will.’

  The circle Kirby was with now expands to devour Moxie. Girls from her class hug her and comment on the dress and she performs a small twirl on request. Her cheeks flush and she talks fifty miles a minute. This happy-Moxie is a sparkling explosion of life.

  Sam steps back a little. It’s all this: people, the noise, the close crush of bodies that smell of lilac perfume and coconut shampoo, the popping soft drink cans, the crash of the sea, and their loudly happy laughs. It scares him.

  They’re not marks and he’s not stealing.

  He doesn’t fit here.

  His fingers stray to his neck, to the key on a string, pressed warm against his chest. He imagines if he gets lost all he needs to do is pull out the key and say, Proof I belong to the De Lain
eys. Take me home.

  A warm hand slips into his and he flinches before he sees Moxie peering up at him. Firelight dances in her eyes.

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  Sam glances over at the cars where Jeremy and Jack are snatches of spiky hair and a salmon shirt. They definitely don’t look ready to go.

  ‘I’m fine.’ He tries to smile. He fails.

  Kirby glides past with her eyes set on the boys in the cars. ‘Is it all right if I use your incredible costumes as a conversation opener with anyone who’s cute since you have Mister Sad-Eyed Gorgeous now and I’m alone in the world? Good, thanks, Moxie.’

  ‘Hey!’ Moxie sticks her tongue out at Kirby’s fast disappearing back.

  ‘Sad-eyed?’ Sam says.

  ‘In a sweet and adorable way.’ Moxie turns and her fingers find his jaw, so light on his skin, and he shivers. Just a little. She smiles at that. ‘Dance with me. Then we’ll tell my brothers we need to go get ice cream, because I know you’re an anxious wreck here.’

  ‘I said I’m fine—’

  ‘A considerate but very obvious lie.’ She takes Sam’s hand and drags him to the dancers.

  The ocean whispers of seaweed and salt in the background while everyone dances. Music punches out of the speakers. Sand churns. Arms wave in the air as sweaty hair clings to foreheads.

  Firelight heats Sam’s back and the sea breeze strokes his face.

  They dance.

  Moxie is all twirling arms and spinning rainbow skirt. Most of her hair falls from the braid and little white flowers cling to the damp strands. She catches Sam’s hands and he whirls her around. He can’t dance. He’s all elbows and knees.

  He doesn’t care.

  Let him embarrass himself. Just so long as he’s with Moxie.

  The song ends and Moxie collapses against him. He puts his arms around her waist and they breathe raggedly together.

  ‘Your hair is glittering.’ Moxie runs her fingers across his scalp and shows him her speckled hand.

  ‘Permanently,’ he says. ‘Thanks for that, by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome. At least this way I’ll always be able to find you.’

  His smile is sad. It’s like the entire night sings goodbye.