Pretty Bad Things

by C. J. Skuse

  “That’s okay. I kinda spent a little.” I pulled him aside to the balcony so I could keep an eye on what was happening down below at Scatt’s.

  “You look cute, Pais. Real cool.”

  I patted his hair at the front. It was rock solid. Then I paused and wrinkled my nose.

  Beau sighed and put his bags down. “Go on, get it over with,” he said with a smile.

  I loved how well he knew me. I rolled up his shirt sleeves and loosened his tie a little. Then I tried to mess up his hair a bit in the front.

  “Hey!”

  “It’s okay, it’s just a little too Jersey with the gel. It needs to be less rigid, more just-got-out-of-bed. There, now you’re übercool.”

  “How übercool?” he pressed.

  “Sub-zero,” I said, which he seemed happy with. He turned to check his reflection again in the window.

  “Hey, what do you think of this cologne?” I asked him, opening the box I got from Scatt’s and spraying a little into the air before him.

  Beau sniffed. “It’s okay.”

  “Remind you of anything? Of anyone?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s good, though. Can I?”

  I handed it to him, a little bummed that it didn’t remind him, too. A security guard ahead was speaking into his walkie-talkie and looking around.

  “You’ve been busy,” I said, slipping off my green jacket and folding it into one of my bags.

  “Yeah.” He smiled, picking up his bags. “I got these cheap canvas totes from Hot Topic. They’ve got rock band names on ’em, but it doesn’t matter….”

  “You don’t like rock bands. What do you want those for?” I rooted blindly in my purse for an elastic and tied up my hair.

  He stared at me like some alien had landed on my face. “For the swag. To put what we steal in.”

  “Oh yeah!” I laughed. “I didn’t think of that, Beau. Good lookin’ out.” I put on his brand-new suit jacket over my white dress.

  “Nah, that doesn’t look right,” he said. “Take it off.”

  A security guard ran past me at that moment. He had his two-way held up to his ear and I heard this scratchy but distinct voice say, “… long blonde hair, green jacket …” He headed for the escalator.

  I guessed he was on his way to Scatt’s House. I made a beeline for the exit, and Beau followed my lead.

  “So you’re finally on board?” I asked. “No more questions and freak-outs and giving me shit over doing this?” I said, glancing behind me as we walked.

  “I’m not on board, no. It’s still harebrained. I just figure that if we’re going to do this, we should be prepared.”

  “Good. See, your old Boy Scout days are paying off at last.” I could see the automatic doors of the entrance up ahead, the white marble walkway, the sunlight from outside blinding, like it was the gateway to heaven.

  “The lady said I looked sexy.”

  “What?” I said.

  “In Dude Wearhouse. She said I looked sexy.”

  I looked at him and snickered. He blushed.

  I picked up the pace, glancing over my shoulder again. “Where are your sunglasses?”

  “Right here,” he said, putting all his bags in one grip and grabbing his shades out of his front pocket with the other. Totally black. Totally cool. “Why are we going so fast, Pais?”

  “Put them on,” I told him, pushing down my own white frames from the top of my head.

  “Why?” he said, a little out of breath now. “Are we going to hit up another store? Now?”

  Another security guard ran straight past us, followed by a third. I glanced over the balcony to see the first one heading into Scatt’s House below. The exit was in sight, and the light from outside was dazzling.

  “Yeah. But not here. We’ll try someplace off the Strip.”

  “I thought you wanted to do M&M’s? Or that candy store on …”

  “Beau, we gotta get out of here. ASAFP. I did something.”

  Beau’s face darkened like a little cloud had appeared above his head.

  “Paisley? What did you do?”

  And then I grabbed his arm and we started running.

  BEAU

  SIXTEEN

  NORTH STRIP,

  TOWARD CIRCUS CIRCUS AND THE STRATOSPHERE,

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  I wasn’t listening. I was too preoccupied with running as though my life depended on it. Sweat streamed off me, and my new white shirt was soaked on the back and under the armpits. My side ached. I thought I was gonna cough up blood.

  “I saw it on YouTube,” Paisley panted as we ran. “The fathers who hung … this banner at the Lincoln Memorial.” We were clear of the mall and heading toward the very far end of the Strip, our shoes pumping on the sidewalk, dodging tourists, looking behind us, running faster.

  “What?” I heaved, a biting pain in my side. I had to stop and bend over. Little droplets fell from my forehead onto the sizzling hot sidewalk.

  Paisley stopped, too, but stayed upright, her hands on her hips. “No sign of them. We’re okay. But … do you see what I’m saying? ‘We are the Wonder Twins, tell Buddy we love him’ is too long for a slogan. I’ll forget half of it.”

  “So … we need to shorten … our slogan. Is that … what you’re saying?”

  There was a line of stores behind us and a bus stop with an old dude in a coat huddled up in the corner. A tacky souvenir shop, a tattoo parlor, and a wig-maker’s.

  “We could make a banner,” she suggested. Pant pant. “Something written down. Spray paint?”

  “We can’t spray paint people. I draw the line at vandalism.”

  “Oh, you draw the line?” she mocked, wiping her forehead.

  “Yes. We’re not causing any more … damage than we have to.”

  She muttered under her breath, and then did a double take at one of the shops. “There’s a Kinko’s.”

  “Huh?” I grimaced.

  “A copy place.”

  “You wanna print flyers or something?”

  “Why not?”

  She started walking toward it, and I pulled her arm back. She tugged it away, frowning at me. I let go. “People will just think it’s a publicity stunt.”

  “Well, it is!” she said, and walked on.

  As it turned out, though, we didn’t get flyers. Paisley had a better idea. We got stickers. About the size of a credit card. White with black writing, saying WE ARE THE WONDER TWINS. Two hundred of them.

  “We’ll just slap these on the counter each time,” she said, peeling one off its backing and attempting to stick it to my forehead. With all the moisture it just dropped off. “So all we have to say is …”

  “… tell Buddy we love him.” I nodded. I got it. It was either a genius idea or the longest shot in history. We’d hold up these small stores, unsuspecting little places selling stuff no armed robbers would ever wanna rob. Yet all of these places would have security cameras, potentially scaring off kids and anyone else trying to pull off sly little five-finger discounts. Paisley would do her thing, and we’d run off without paying, leave the sticker and the message about Dad, and then go into hiding and wait for the heist to hit the news. The ice-cream place was just around the corner from the copy shop.

  “So, take two?” I said.

  “Yeah.” She pushed her shades up onto her head, hiking her tote bag up to her shoulder.

  Inside General Custard’s it was hustly and bustly, and there was an explosion of color from the walls, floors, and tables. It smelled of burned sugar and body odor, and the song playing was scratchy with a hint of maracas. I wondered if the woman behind the counter would even hear us telling her to “Stick ’em up” over all the noise.

  An endless line of people stood waiting to order. I joined it behind Paisley, who didn’t seem in the least perplexed by the people or the noise. She waited her turn, hands clasped before her, studying the overhead menus. They had every flavor in the world: butter pecan, strawberry, cookies ‘n cream, p
each, cherry, chocolate brownie, rocky road. There was a choice of hot fudge, chocolate sprinkles, whipped cream, nuts, and marshmallows, whatever you wanted on the top. Two little boys at one of the tables were inhaling foot-high shakes.

  There were some girls sitting at the counter by the window, scooping out ice cream from little blue cups and huge waffle cones. I thought one of them was checking me out, but I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe she was waiting for someone. She had red hair. I saw her glance over at me.

  I asked Paisley, “You see those girls over there by the window? No, at the counter. Don’t look. Are any of them looking my way?”

  She peered over my shoulder. “No,” she said nonchalantly, going back to looking at the menus. “Why? You got a chubby for any of ’em?”

  “No,” I said, feeling my cheeks glow. “One of them looked over when we walked in.”

  “Probably waiting for her boyfriend.”

  Zzrak! The electric fly killer claimed another victim.

  “That one on the end, with the red hair. She looked at me. Twice.” I looked slowly behind again. We caught each other’s gaze, and she turned away.

  Paisley saw it, too. “You’re right. She is checking you out. Why don’t you go and put the moves on her?”

  “You think I should?”

  “Sure. Now that you’ve had your makeover, your junk’s bringing all the girls to the yard.”

  We were next in line to be served, behind a woman who must have had fifty kids out waiting in the car. She spent, like, sixty bucks. I had a wedgie but I didn’t dare try and pluck it out with the redhead watching. I looked back at her. We locked eyes again. She smiled. I smiled. Wow! I couldn’t believe it. I’d always imagined having a girlfriend and doing stuff that couples do together. Not gross stuff. Stupid stuff, really, things couples take for granted or don’t even think about. Holding hands. Sharing a milk shake. Giving birthday presents. I’d never had that. But I could see it all happening with this girl. I could see our future like a rainbow-colored bubble in the air. I’d be such a good boyfriend, I thought. I prepared myself to go over to her, checking my hair, straightening my clothes.

  Paisley spoke to me through gritted teeth. “Stop fidgeting. You gotta be cool now. We need to make a good impression for the news.”

  “She’s cute. I should go over,” I said. “I’m gonna go over and just say hi.”

  Paisley elbowed me in the stomach. I oomphed and bent forward to relieve the pain. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “We got work to do.”

  “What the hell, Pais?” I groaned, guarding myself in case she did it again. I looked back. The redhead was still there, smiling into her ice cream. She’d seen me oomph. She was laughing at me. “I can’t go over now. She thinks I’m stupid.”

  Paisley turned and brought her face up close to mine. We were exactly the same height. She said it slowly and quietly. “We’re about to commit armed robbery, and all you can think about is picking up chicks. What’s wrong with this picture, Beau?”

  Zzrak! Another one bit the dust.

  Our grandmother would say exactly the same thing to me all the time. What’s wrong with this picture, Beau?

  “That really hurt, Paisley. Totally embarrassing …”

  “Can you please just shut your pie-hole and keep focused?” she said. “We can see about getting you laid afterward. You’ve waited sixteen years, what’s another hour?”

  I gave her my filthiest look. “Paisley …” She paid no attention.

  Waiters rushed out from kitchen doors with double triple quadruple chocolate sundaes and Belgian waffles dabbed with melting balls of ice cream. The guys all kinda looked the same, and the way the woman behind the counter was ordering them around gave me the impression they were her sons.

  “It’s getting busy in here,” Paisley noted. I didn’t say anything.

  The waiters ran around the tables, filling coffee cups, clearing dishes, flinging themselves in and out of the swinging doors, taking orders, while others banged and shouted in Spanish in the kitchen beyond. One dude hurried through wheeling a large refrigerated box, ushering the line of customers out of his way.

  “Jeez,” Paisley whispered, leaning back toward me. “Now they gotta do a heart transplant as well.”

  I didn’t laugh. She always did that, pissed me off then tried to act like nothing had happened and make me laugh. She could say some pretty hurtful stuff, and I never deserved it. Like just then. She knew how much I hated even mentioning that I was a virgin. I wore my inexperience like an albatross around my neck. I hated even saying the word virgin.

  “You ready?” she whispered back to me.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Beau?”

  “Yes,” I spat back. My chest had begun to throb. The woman in front paid and moved away with her eight gallons of ice cream. I knew what was gonna happen next. I looked behind for the redhead. She was gone.

  “Next, please!” barked the short, sweaty server lady.

  My sister stepped up. “Yeah, can I get four buckets: one chocolate brownie, one pistachio, one French vanilla, and one mint.”

  “Any toppings? Marshmallows? Chocolate chips? Jimmies? Nuts?”

  “No, but can I get rainbow sprinkles on all of them, please?”

  The woman was on it before Paisley had finished speaking, sliding back metal doors on freezer cabinets, clattering plastic buckets, hollering into the back for help. A short man with pit stains and two large moles on his face appeared and started shoveling out the ice cream with the strength of a construction worker. The four buckets were placed on the counter. The ice crystals sparkled like daylight stars before the woman flung some rainbow sprinkles on and snapped the lids down shut.

  “Forty ninety-five,” she barked.

  Paisley reached into one of her front pockets, muttering that she could never find her wallet when she needed it. The woman shifted around on her feet, her palm flat out for the money.

  Paisley pulled out the Eclipse. “Ta-da!”

  The woman froze.

  “Beau, take the buckets.”

  I’d frozen, too. I couldn’t get used to seeing her with that gun. It was pointed directly at the woman’s chest.

  “Nobody move!” Paisley ordered, sweeping the Eclipse around the whole place, back and forth like she was scattering sugar. “Nobody say anything or do anything.”

  A girl screamed at the window counter. A baby hollered. An old man gasped. One waiter sank to his knees. Some kids our age in a booth were recording it on cell phones. Another waiter approached us, and it looked for a second like he was gonna be the big hero and wrestle my sister to the ground. Paisley zoned in, and he stopped in his tracks.

  “TAKE THE BUCKETS!” Paisley yelled. I grabbed hold of the plastic handles and fumbled around for the canvas totes I’d bought. The buckets just fit inside them, two apiece, but they were heavy. Seriously heavy.

  “Done,” I said, and backed out of there, pulling the door open and standing with my back to it to wait for Paisley.

  She was doing her talk-to-the-camera bit and had a sticker at the ready. She ordered the woman to put her hand on the counter, and stuck it on top. Then she backed away, stopping to blow a kiss to the kids with the cell phones. They smiled in stunned awe.

  “ANGELO!” the woman screamed.

  “Okay, go, GO!” Paisley shouted, pushing me out and stuffing the sheet of stickers, minus one, inside her dress pocket. Outside and along the street we ran. I looked back. The short man with the moles was running after us, shouting, calling us names in Spanish and cursing. I heard “Policia,” and I picked up my pace, encumbered somewhat by all the bags.

  Paisley stalled to take one of the totes from me, shoving the gun inside, and we started running again.

  “Jeez, they’re heavy.”

  “What did you expect?” I said, looking back for signs of Angelo. He was distant, but he was still in hot pursuit. “What the hell do we want with four gallons of ice cream? It’s all gon
na melt before we eat it.”

  “It’s not about the ice cream, Einstein!” she yelled, overtaking me. The lid had come off one of the tubs in my tote, and ice cream was leaking through the fabric, streaming behind me in vanilla ribbons. We were headed back down the Strip toward our motel, crossing roads without warning, paying no heed to the cars that had to brake hard and honk at us, nor to the tourists we had to shove past, wetting their legs with our leaking bags. My chest heaved, my feet hammered the steaming concrete, my head ran with sweat, my mouth poured with sorrys and excuse mes.

  Boomph!

  I didn’t see it until I was on the ground. Well, we were on the ground.

  “Oh my God, Beau!” my sister laughed breathlessly as she U-turned and grabbed my arm to help me up. The giant red M&M lay there on the ground, its legs floundering. “Get up,” she said, still laughing as she pulled on my arm. My legs were in shock; I couldn’t stand up. People had gathered around. A blonde woman in a yellow M&M shirt came running out of the store to see what was happening. She bent down and put her hand on me, asking if I was okay.

  “He’s fine,” Paisley chuckled as I finally got to my feet. “Come on.”

  “I’m sorry!” I yelled back, still grasping my bags of melted ice cream.

  We had to get off the Strip. We were too conspicuous. Paisley found us a nice dirty side street to run down, which she swore would lead to the back of our motel if we followed it all the way to the end. We dragged our sorry asses down this street that the flashy Vegas hotels don’t want the tourists to see. Broken glass, concrete blocks, cardboard boxes, and the odd mumbling drunk lined our route.

  Paisley slowed to a walk. We had just about reached the back of our motel, and I stopped to bend over and relieve yet another stitch in my side. I wanted to throw up. I gagged a little, but there was nothing. So I just spat.

  “That was a little close for comfort, sheesh!” she puffed, coming to a halt. “Reminded me of that part in Indiana Jones when he’s got to grab his hat before the stone block comes down on his hand. If that Angelo had gotten his hands on you, you’d be toast, bro.”

  She threw her totes down by some trash cans and stepped up onto a pile of empty cardboard boxes to climb the wire fence.