by Ann Angel
No trip to the mall. No more advice. Instead he turns toward the house, fighting not to show me how upset he is, and thereby giving it all away.
I take a deep breath to rein in my urge to explain just how unbelievably delusional he’s become, and let a little truth through. “If you want out, fine.” He jerks the steering wheel and then overcorrects. “But you better get real about what that means. And fast.” Like ripping off a Band-Aid. “You can’t just go off to college.” Not without risking all of us. “At least not right away. Not until you’ve been clear for a while, established a plausible identity with sufficient depth to survive the scrutiny of an application process.” He used to know this, and the fact that I have to remind him makes him all the more dangerous.
As soon as we get to the house, he stomps up to his new room, slams his door, and cranks his music. Settling in for a long, hard sulk. At least the music is always the same.
Dinner isn’t much better. When I come downstairs, Mom and Kit are both radiating I’ve-got-it-worst-of-all vibes. I can’t wait for Daddy to get back. At least then we’ll know where we stand, and at least he’ll make sure there’s decent dinner, instead of mac and cheese, again, and not even the good kind.
“You can both save the looks,” Mom says. I raise my hands in surrender and grab the milk from the refrigerator. “Here’s a crazy idea: maybe one of you could make dinner once in a while.”
“Mac and cheese is fine with me,” I say, grabbing a plate.
“Whatever,” Kit snipes.
“I don’t know what’s crawled up your butt,” Mom says, “but I’m tired of the sulks. We all have to —”
“What is my name?”
“What?” Mom asks, irritated. I can’t feel the plate in my hand. I can’t feel my hands.
“My real name,” he adds. “Or better yet, where’s my Social Security card?” Kit asks. “My real one.”
“What do you need with —?”
“I have a right to know where it is, just in case.”
“Just in case what?” Mom’s look makes me shiver, and it’s not even aimed at me. “In case what, Kit?”
“You two can cage-match without an audience. I’ve got homework to pretend to do.”
I escape the kitchen and run up the stairs, but I can hear him say, “Is that even my name? On my Social Security card or my birth certificate? I don’t even know if that’s really my name!”
Upstairs I can’t even touch the gooey mess on my plate. I’ve eaten through more fights and fiascos than I can remember, but it feels like the world is unraveling, fast, right now, beneath my feet. This has been coming for a while. But I can’t watch it happen. And I’m not ready yet. I need more time.
I take a long hot shower, washing away the rest of Hannah, and then climb into my comfy penguin pants and my favorite hoodie.
Before opening the vent cover, I crack the door to the hallway and listen. They’re still in the kitchen, talking, not yelling, but it doesn’t sound happy. I close the door and lock it. Mom might come looking for some comfort from the kid who isn’t giving her an ulcer, the kid she thinks she can trust.
It doesn’t take long to spread out my take. With today’s additions: $987. Skimmed and grifted in ones and fives and twenties since Oregon. I just need a little more for a cushion.
Daddy loves the high, the rush, the take.
Mom likes living well, and the long periods of pseudo-vacation in between, even if the con stresses her out every single time.
Kit’s never been more than the shill, but he used to be a damn good one. I learned most of what I know about creating social comfort and blending in from watching Kit. When we were kids, we’d practice our roles on those long stretches between jobs, for fun, for sport, trying to push each other out of character. Orphans looking for a family at one rest stop, cousins on vacation at another. Strangers fighting over the ugliest or most obscene T-shirt we could find in a gift shop. Sometimes Mom would enroll Kit in a new school, and I’d arrive a month later with Daddy, and we’d never even speak while working our respective parts of the con. Occasionally even boyfriend-girlfriend, if needed, of the purely hand-holding kind because even we have limits. Once, I played his victim. The payout was good, but not good enough to put him through that ever again. Maybe that was the beginning of the end. After that, he started slipping. First in little ways, then in bigger ones. Daddy doesn’t know about most of them, because I learned to cover for him fast.
I know the exact moment Kit completely lost his edge. Oregon. In between Daddy’s ranting at Sienna and me about our little freelance fiddle game, Kit got all high and mighty. Tried to scare Sienna by saying I’m jailbait. She laughed, said go ahead, like anyone in our family would call the police, ever, for anything. Then she shut him up good by explaining that he doesn’t get it, the high, the buzz, because he’ll never be more than a shill. A shill who, at seventeen, is now old enough to be prosecuted as an adult in most places. Definitely to the Feds. He thought at seventeen he had another year of cover as a juvenile. I could have kicked her, even if she was right, that he had a right to know.
On the long meandering drive down the coast once the deed was done — sans Sienna, who had tired of Daddy’s attitude — I realized that this can only hold so long. And that I needed to be ready. In San Francisco, I left word for Sienna and started putting my ducks in order. A little grift here, a please-mister-I-need-the-money-bad-please-buy-my-gilded-junk there. Sometimes just a plain old-fashioned girlfriend-in-need-of-cash while playing my role in Daddy’s deal. Cash accumulated and stashed. Once the final bits are in place, I’ll be ready. As Daddy says, it’s all in the timing.
Oregon left Kit scared, but it left Mom and Daddy angry, mostly at each other. Daddy’s little bit on the side wasn’t some extra cash this time.
Sometime very soon, it might well be every Morgan for themself. When we were kids, I thought someday Kit and I would be a team, on our own. When things were tense between Mom and Daddy — when money was tight, or after a job went bad, or their assumed personalities clashed with their real-life marriage — I knew that someday Kit and I might have to run. I just assumed that when we hit escape velocity, he and I’d be escaping together. I never thought that I’d have to worry about Kit breaking or selling me out.
Since Oregon he’s vacillated between terror and guilt. The long, painful silences are about shame. He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since Oregon. Not for one minute in Denver or Dallas. Not for a second in San Francisco. In Toledo he never settled into the job, and we paid the price. When things went bad in Toledo, Kit thought about what would happen if we got caught. If he got caught. In Toledo, Kit at least thought about saving himself, and he hates himself for it.
He’s done. Fear rolls off him like BO. Like a beacon drawing attention even when he’s sitting still.
I didn’t blow it in Toledo. I tanked my cover on purpose. It was a preemptive burn. Daddy was working the mark so hard, but I could see that fish wasn’t biting. We didn’t have the cash to salt the mine a second time. When Kit’s cover started smoking like kindling, I knew he couldn’t keep it up. I burned my part to keep Kit from torching us all, and in the ensuing chaos had a shield to move my last piece into place.
Daddy thinks I was here. Mom and Kit think I was with Daddy. Whenever they figure out I wasn’t with the other, I’ll tell them I snuck off with sweet Anna from Toledo for one final good-bye. They’ll be pissed and lecture, but they’ll believe one betrayal and never suspect the other.
I roll the money and slide it into the emptied tampon applicators, put them back into their wrappers, and then tuck them back into the very obvious period case in my backpack. I’ll need to bank this stash soon.
When I’m done, I unscrew the vent cover and pull out the cigar box.
I didn’t lie to Kit. I didn’t take any of the money. But this stuff: Each piece is a perfect memory. Each lift still clear in my head.
My fingers tingle as I reach for my first piece of treasur
e.
The ring hardly counts. It’s pretty, and probably worth something, but it’s hardly a lift, since I found it on the ledge near the paper towel dispenser in the girls’ bathroom. I had it on when the girl came in, wore it out while she was willing me to leave, and then slipped it into my makeup bag on my way to Mr. Sweifert. Still, it’s a good take. High traffic, good value, and no witnesses. No inscription. Can’t be linked back to me. Opportunity realized, like Daddy always says. I drop it into the box.
Next I pick up the pad of hall passes lifted from Mr. Sweifert’s desk. It took everything in me to continue Hannah’s stupid blank face while he wrote out my pass longhand, the pad of preprinted passes tucked into my waistband at the small of my back. I tuck a couple into the gap in the lining of my backpack for future use. I’ll have to collect a few signed ones first, for the signatures.
The last take from today is the best. The small framed photo. I held it between my thighs, hidden by the folds of my skirt, until I was sure Bertolucci didn’t see, that Kit didn’t see. Then I let it slide into the open front pocket of my bag when I reached for the note that got me out of gym.
It’s a nice frame. Old, heavy. The picture’s newer than the frame. A slightly younger Vice Principal Bertolucci, with a woman and two kids neither of them could have possibly conceived. A family, alternative and mismatched and not at all what I would have guessed from Ms. B.’s very church-lady sweater. She surprised me. Bet they’re having a nice home-cooked family dinner right now, with all the food groups.
I lean back on the bed and stare at the picture — their faces, their clothes. If I were cold-reading her for a mark, would she be more susceptible to empathy or flattery? Would it be enough to exhibit a little queer pride and ask for a favor? Or maybe I’d be adopted, too, and looking for my “real” mother. Sometimes it’s the cruel distraction that covers best, but usually it’s the trust, the belief in goodness, that wins them over. Ms. B.’s bias is probably to the good-of-humanity side, and working her to confirm that bias would be easy.
The thrill’s still there, having this, taking this right out from under her nose, without even Kit noticing. But there’s something else mixed in. I didn’t know when I took it what it was. And now that I know, it seems like a sign or karma or something.
I add the picture to the box and take out the envelope. After Kit’s daydreams in Guidance, these are the most precious of all.
I slide out Kit’s birth certificate and Social Security card. Christopher Michael Mancusi. And another set for me. And passports in the same names. The long drives all over Texas to put in place the setup and to mail phony claims to the marks in the oil scheme left plenty of time to lull Daddy into tripping down memory lane. Nothing big. Not much true, even. But just enough to give me what I needed to commit a little mail fraud and get the duplicate birth certificates. From there, the bogus cards and passport were an easy barter with Big Al, especially because he thought Daddy asked for them, getting me the family discount. Al might not even mention them the next time Daddy puts in a request, assuming it was business as usual. But even if he does, as long as it’s after I’m gone, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I have what I need. And that for now Daddy doesn’t know that I have them. Or that Sienna is waiting.
There probably won’t be another chance like Toledo. The next time we implode, I’ll be ready. And so will Kit. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.
Ever since my dad split, Mom has been crazed. Don’t do this, Stacy. Don’t do that, Stacy. She acts like she’s the total boss of me. I’m not a kid. I’m thirteen. I’m smart, and I’m popular. So when she says I can’t have a boyfriend, I say, “Fine. Whatever.” But really I have a boyfriend. Many boyfriends, actually.
I just texted Shawn. We talk about the usual stuff: who likes who. Who said what. Afterward I curl up on my bed and, like, semi-dream.
Shawn is a swimmer with a long swimmer’s body. Broad shoulders, tiny waist. So yummy. We meet at the Y, where Mom thinks I have a yoga class. We never do anything, though. He has too much respect for me. And I have respect for his respect. Sometimes our respective respects compliment each other on their restraint. On their mutual esteem. Their veneration, almost. Sometimes I think our esteems have the hots for each other. I want them to shut up. When he stands there with the water pouring off him in rivulets, I wish we weren’t so freaking respectful, especially if we have been playing “Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
He is the piscine amphibious humanoid; I am the beautiful Kay. He swims beneath me, like a shadow. I know the water in the pool doesn’t get hotter, but it seems like it sometimes when his hand grazes my ankle. Then I swim as fast as my green arm floaties will let me. He follows, churning the tiny chlorinated lake. I scramble out just in time. He surfaces and makes this mournful monster sound. Oohhauggghhaw. He is so cute!
Our favorite game is “Stacy in Peril,” where I frolic in the shallow end in my Faster Than Lightning Bikini (with side ties), the one I bought with my own money and keep in my locker so Mom won’t know. I pretend to be totally unaware that a Death Adder has found its way into the YMCA. If I am bitten, it’s paralysis and then death.
Shawn and I love the paralysis part. If I’m temporarily paralyzed, my respect for his respect would be paralyzed, too, right? So he could, like, kiss me and it wouldn’t count. And it would be totally on him. Just before he speeds away on his mountain bike to Antivenoms R Us to totally save my life, he could plant one on me because I am so gorgeous and desirable lying there paralyzed but not in a gross way, and when I’m okay again I forgive him and might even say that since I couldn’t feel anything, do you think maybe he should do it again now that my lips aren’t totally numb.
If the pool is semi-deserted we make out a little even though he’s a piscine amphibious humanoid and I’m a popular Homo sapiens girl. He promises to call me, and I tell him he’d better! I’m kidding, but I’m not.
Shawn probably knows I’m Alan’s tutor, but he doesn’t know that Alan is another boyfriend. Alan is super skinny and his hair right out of the shower probably weighs more than he does and when it’s dry it looks like it could have an ecosystem of its own. When he comes over for tutoring, I show him the American Mathematical Monthly and he looks disappointed when there’s no centerfold.
Mom is totally paranoid because she and Dad had to get married when she was just seventeen, so Alan and I have to keep my bedroom door open. And she checks like every fifteen minutes.
I tell him about logarithmic expressions, line segments, and trigonometric ratios. He sighs. His breath is sweet from Pop-Tarts. The other day I asked him, “Do you remember what I told you about Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle?” And he said, “I’m not totally sure.” That was so witty, I liked him the best of all my BFs. For a minute, anyway.
I said, “Observing quanta affects behavior. Now do you remember?” So he said, “Like when I look into your eyes?” His eyes, BTW, are some kind of not-quite-done gray, like whoever it was painting them just put down the brush. But the whites are the whitest white of any white ever, including the T-shirts on TV ads. I teased him and said, “Will you come to the next Time Travelers’ Convention with me?” And he said, “Okay, if we can get back the day before we leave.” He might not be a whiz at math, but he makes me laugh.
Eventually I leave him alone so he can get his homework done and I can catch up on my missed calls. They’re always from Rory or Alberto or one of the other BFs, which is fine and I love that, but my dad promised he’d call again and how long am I supposed to wait? Like, forever?
I text the BFs back while Alan puts both hands in his hair and tugs, like the solution to multiplying two binomials is attached to his follicles. I don’t do anything until he’s finished all the problems and I’ve checked his answers. If everything is copacetic and if Mom is vacuuming or something so I know where she is and I’m a little disappointed and semi-lonely, I whisper, “Let’s play ‘The Seven Bridges of Königsberg.’”
&
nbsp; Alan lies on the bed. I unbutton his shirt and draw Königsberg and its bridges on his tummy. My task is to visit every part of Königsberg and cross every bridge only once. I trace the paths with my index finger. He starts to breathe faster. “Dead end,” he whispers. “You’d better start over.” So if Mom is still busy, I do.
I love playing “The Seven Bridges of Königsberg”! I hate for the game to end. I don’t like to be alone. If I’m alone, I take out the picture — the one Mom doesn’t know I have — and look at it. And if I take out the picture . . . Well, let’s just say I text somebody as fast as I can and tell him to call me.
Don’t get me wrong. Shawn and Alan are great. But sometimes I want to get on my skateboard, careen down a street where rich people live, and have them call me names. Wolfie (aka Edward Lee) does more radical stuff than that. He meets me at school and tells me about it. Shows me on his phone some insane trick he pulled off.
For the record, Edward is called Wolfie because he’s a lone wolf for sure. But the name is super-apt because he’s also feral. As in wild and untamed. I’m like the only girl he ever took home. (I told my mom I had to stay after school because I was on the spring dance committee, and she said, “What spring dance? Who said you could go to a dance?” And I said, “Relax. We’re just trying to decide between Awesome Eighties and Tropical Para-Dance.”)
When we got to Wolfie’s place that day (not to meet his parents or anything lame like that), he just said, “Wanna see my room?” So I said, “Maybe.” We didn’t go inside, just around the side of the house. There were these slanty doors that open out like wings and a few crumbly concrete steps and then two or three of his brothers all curled up together. So not a room. A den. I said, “Wow.” He said, “I knew you’d like that.” Wolfie has the driest sense of humor in the world. He kicked a gnawed-on bone out of the way and said, “Looks like we’ll have to settle for fast food.” Which we did. Compared to my other boyfriends, Wolfie is über-laconic. We sat at Burger King. Sk8r grrls looked through the glass enviously. I knew they were thinking, “WTF?” He glanced at me, gave this cool little smirk, and took one of my french fries. How did we ever hook up?
