by Jeff Garvin
“I’ve heard of it. It sounds awful.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Probably is.” I felt like an idiot for bringing it up, as if I knew more about this stuff than he did. “What are you going to do?”
“I think I’m going to leave.”
“Like leave?”
“For a while, anyway. I hate to abandon Jude, but if I stay, I’m afraid I might . . . I don’t know. Melt down or something.”
A siren squealed, and I looked up. An ambulance was blowing through the intersection at Camelback Road.
“Is that a siren? Where are you?”
“Across from some mall.”
“You’re sleeping outside?”
“No, at a motel.”
“You guys splurged on a motel? Must be doing okay.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. You didn’t call to hear me complain. What about you? Where are you going to go?”
“My aunt’s, maybe. I’ll figure something out. But seriously, enough about my cliché family drama. Distract me with your woes.”
It was a relief to hear him say that, but I felt guilty anyway, filling him in on everything: The broken axle. The smashed props. Our dwindling cash supply.
Dad’s fury on discovering I’d agreed to do Flynn & Kellar’s show.
“Oh my God,” he said. His sniffles were gone; my misery really had distracted him. If that was my superpower, it was a shitty one. “If I had any money, I’d Venmo you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re sure he won’t do the show?”
“Completely.”
I walked to the corner, then crossed the street toward the mall’s main entrance.
Ripley asked, “What’s your plan?”
“I don’t have one,” I said, mounting the steps to Neiman Marcus. “The RV is dead. Our gear is gone. Even if I could book us a close-up gig, how would we get there? And we can’t afford to keep sleeping in motels. We’ll have to find a hostel, or a shelter, or . . .” My throat closed up.
“You’re crashing,” Ripley said.
I stopped on the top step. “How do you know?” Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh . . .
“Because Ellie Dante doesn’t give up. You’re relentless. This isn’t you talking. This is your illness. Did you get your meds?”
I felt tears welling up in my eyes and glanced around, as if anyone would be watching me on the steps of a closed mall at twelve thirty in the morning.
“Our insurance ran out.”
“And you’re out of pills? Totally out?”
“Yeah.”
“Since when?”
“A week? I don’t know.”
“How much are they without insurance?”
“Two hundred bucks.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.”
“Hey, wait. You said you’re at a mall in Phoenix? Which one?”
I looked up at the sign. “Fashion Square. Why?”
I heard rustling and clicking—Ripley was looking something up on his phone. When he spoke again, I could tell I was on speaker. “Okay, technically that’s in Scottsdale, which is part of the Phoenix metropolitan area but is in fact its own city.”
I squeezed my eyes shut; Ripley could be like this sometimes. “And this is important why?”
“Because that part of Phoenix is rich.”
I turned to glance through the glass doors. Ripley was right; it was a rich mall. I saw signs for Tiffany & Co. Burberry. Prada.
“So?” I said.
“So? You’ve swiped Rolexes in front of a live audience. You can’t think of any practical applications for that skill?”
CHAPTER 15
THE NEXT MORNING, DAD WAS still asleep as I dug through my duffel for the items I would need and stuffed them into a knockoff Louis Vuitton bag I’d picked up at a thrift store on impulse. It would help me get into character. I jotted a note on the motel stationery—if Dad woke to find me gone without a trace, he would either have a heart attack or call the cops—and then I slipped out the door.
I killed an hour wandering the aisles of a Sprouts, which were exploding with Halloween candy and orange and black streamers. I bought a Rockstar and two 5-hour Energies, then walked to a diner, ordered a coffee, and settled in to wait. At ten, my cell rang. The number had a Phoenix area code; probably Dad calling from the motel. My shoulders tensed. If I didn’t answer, he would give me hell when I got back. But if I did, he’d demand to know where I was and what I was doing, and I might lose my nerve. Before I could decide, the call went to voice mail. I stuffed the phone back into my bag, knocked back the dregs of my coffee, and paid the bill.
By ten thirty, the mall parking lot was filling up, so I crossed the street and went in the front entrance. I made my way to the restrooms near the food court, locked myself in a stall, and rummaged through my bag. I’d barely been up two hours, but already I could feel the lack of sleep in the dryness of my eyes and the heaviness of my limbs. I cracked open the Rockstar and pounded it right there in the stall. Then I put on my little black dress. It was wrong for the time of day, but I couldn’t walk into Neiman Marcus looking like I lived in a trailer. I stuffed my jeans into my bag, left the stall, and stood in front of the mirror.
I barely recognized the girl I saw. She was hollow eyed, frizzy-haired, and thin. She looked like the poster child for a teen rehab clinic. The chorus of “Umbrella” started to creep into my mind, but I shut it out; I couldn’t afford to lose focus. I needed to hold on for a few more hours. If I could just get my hands on enough money for another two nights in a motel, maybe Dad could figure out the rest.
I drank my last 5-hour Energy, then brushed out my hair and tamed the frizz with motel conditioner. After applying some makeup, I inspected myself. My marks would mostly be men, and they would see a teen girl from the wrong side of town trying to blend in with the rich girls—which could work to my advantage. I shouldered my bag and left the restroom.
I spent ten minutes wandering the mall, lifting wallets from gawky teenage boys before retreating to a restroom to count my take. I’d collected forty-five dollars in cash and a pile of credit cards I couldn’t use. I closed my eyes and tugged at a lock of hair in frustration. If I kept doing clunky bump-and-grabs, I would get caught. I needed fewer marks and bigger payoffs. After checking my makeup in the mirror, I headed for Neiman Marcus.
When you select a volunteer from an audience, you look for someone who’s not too shy, but not too charismatic, either. Someone approachable but easily influenced. A follower, not a leader. The same principle applies to grifts: you choose marks you can control.
I wandered into the men’s department and stopped at a table covered with neckties. While pretending to look through them, I scoped out the store.
There was a good-looking blond guy in his late twenties shopping for a belt, but I dismissed him out of hand; he was too self-confident. Next I considered an older balding guy who was standing at the watch counter. He might have been a good choice, but he was already engaged with a salesperson in a highly visible part of the store.
I moved toward the sportswear section and promptly spotted my first mark. He was short, maybe five five, and his hair was just starting to go gray at the temples. He wore an expensive watch and no wedding ring; he was rich, and probably divorced. More than once I saw him eye the petite blonde behind the counter as he scraped through a rack of overpriced golf shirts.
I approached the adjacent rack and pretended to browse for a few minutes. Twice I felt his eyes on me, so I looked up and met his gaze. He turned red and became suddenly fascinated by a neon-green polo. When he started to move away, I stepped back and bumped into him, dropping my bag.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, looking scandalized.
“No, it was totally my fault.”
He stooped to pick up my bag.
“Thanks,” I said, giving him a shy smile.
Five minutes later in another restroom stall, I
opened his wallet: there were five crisp hundred-dollar bills inside. I let out a sigh of relief, stuffed the cash and his driver’s license into my bag, then dropped his wallet and credit cards into the trash on my way out.
It had been less than an hour, and I was already up more than five hundred dollars. It was more than I could have hoped for. I should have left right then. But the caffeine and the adrenaline had me feeling better than I had in days. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the motel. Not yet.
Tiffany tempted me, but there were cameras everywhere and a security guard at the door. I considered casing Burberry or Prada, but both were full of women, who were mostly immune to my best tactics. Then I spotted the Apple Store. Perfect.
I’d hit six marks in this outfit; it was time for a change. Besides, my instincts told me that the MacBook set would respond better to a low-key girl. So I revisited the restroom by the food court and changed back into my jeans and V-neck.
I entered the already crowded Apple Store and found my next mark standing at a laptop display. I sidled up next to him: a chubby, bearded guy in his late teens or early twenties wearing an outdated jean jacket. After I played with a demo computer for a few minutes, I put on my best confused frown and started looking around as if I were trying to attract the attention of a salesperson.
Right on cue, Beard Boy said, “Can I help you with something?”
I made an effort to look relieved. “You’re going to think I’m stupid,” I said.
“I promise to hide it if I do.” He smiled. He was actually kind of cute. Not in a college-athlete kind of way; more like a lovable geek. It was refreshing.
“I can’t find the start menu.”
“Yeah, well. That’s a Windows thing. This is a Mac.”
“Ugh. I told you.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re leaving the Dark Side, that’s what’s important.”
I laughed, and his smile widened.
“I want to try out the speakers,” I said. “The ones on my laptop suck.”
“No problem. Here.”
As he approached, I scooted over—but not by much. He clicked an icon and started typing. I leaned in, brushing my arm against his. He moved over a few inches, as if the contact had been his fault. Was it possible I was about to rob an actual real-life gentleman? I felt an anticipatory pang of guilt.
“What do you want to hear?” he asked, scrolling through a page of playlists.
I noted the Seven Seize logo on his T-shirt. “Something heavy?”
“My kind of girl.”
While he searched for the perfect song, I checked him out more closely. He wore an Apple Watch, designer jeans, and custom-colored Doc Martens; the guy had money. I leaned back slightly and located his wallet. It was tethered to one belt loop with a long chain—that would be a speed bump, but not a roadblock.
“Here,” he said. “Check these guys out.”
He clicked on a track by a band called DragonForce, and my ears were assaulted by dueling guitars and a machine-gun double-kick drum. Beard Boy nodded his head to the music, glancing over to see if I was into it. I pretended I was.
“Do they have videos?”
“Hell yeah, they have videos.”
When he started searching YouTube, I saw my chance. I leaned into him, pointing at the screen.
“Play that one,” I said, pressing myself against his arm as I undid the snap on his wallet chain. He didn’t notice, and he didn’t move away.
By the time the video started, the guy’s wallet was in my bag. I pulled out my phone and pretended an important text had just come in.
“Crap,” I said. “I have to go.” I stuffed my phone back into my purse and gave the guy a more or less genuine smile. “Thanks for your help.”
“Hey,” he said, reaching out as if to grab my wrist, then withdrawing it suddenly as though he’d touched something hot.
“Sorry,” he said. “Do you . . . I’m Mike.”
“Purcilla.” It was the first name that came to mind.
“Purcilla.” He frowned slightly but was too polite to crack a joke. “Do you maybe want to get a coffee?”
“Sure,” I said, glancing at the door. “Bu later, okay? I kind of have to go.”
“Let me give you my card,” he said.
And then he reached for his wallet.
I hesitated only a moment—then broke for the exit. The door was only paces away when I heard him yell:
“Hey! Come back!”
I took off, running as fast as I could for the food court. I would lose him in the crowd.
“Wait!”
His voice trailed off as I slalomed between lines of people queued up at Wolfgang Puck and Panda Express. The restroom was dead ahead. I could go in and change clothes. Put up my hair. Do some dramatic makeup. But when I glanced over my shoulder, he was only twenty yards away and looking right at me. If he saw me going into the restroom, no disguise would help. I bolted back into the dining area and headed for the exit.
Once I made it outside, I paused to get my bearings. The entrance to Neiman Marcus was only a hundred yards away. I took off again—but just as I reached the doors, I heard him yell.
“Purcilla!”
Something in his voice tugged at me. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded concerned. Against my better judgment, I looked back. He was bent over, panting, hands on his thighs. When he saw me turn, he straightened up.
“You dropped this,” he said, and held up a small black object.
I thrust my hand into my bag. My phone wasn’t there. It must have bounced out of my bag while I was I running.
He started toward me, smiling as if finding it had been a lucky break. Was he trying to trick me? Or had he really not realized I’d stolen his wallet?
He stopped in front of me, held out my phone.
“Thanks,” I said, cautiously taking it and dropping it back into my bag.
“Why did you run?” he asked, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
I scrambled for a response. “I got a text from my dad. He needs me.”
Beard boy nodded, looking slightly crestfallen. “Okay. I won’t keep you, then.”
Trying to hide my relief, I turned to go, but he reached out and took my upper arm in his hand. Shit, I thought. This was it.
“Can I give you my number? I don’t want to be weird. It’s just I never meet beautiful girls. And when I do, I can’t talk to them. Only this time I did. And I’ll kick myself later if I don’t ask.”
I smiled, but inside, a hot sludge of guilt and self-loathing swelled in my gut.
“You don’t have to give me yours,” he said. “Just . . . here.” He held out his hand, and I reluctantly handed him my phone. He typed his number, looking up at me once, maybe to check that I was still there, then gave it back. “There,” he said, clapping his hands and holding them up like a blackjack dealer ending his shift. “I did it.” He smiled again, and a row of straight, white teeth peeked out from his beard. “I hope you call.”
As I put my phone back into my bag, I felt his wallet poking up from between my rolled-up little black dress and my dwindling make-up bag. I felt an almost irresistible urge to take it out and hand it back.
Instead, I turned and headed out across the parking lot.
CHAPTER 16
WHEN I OPENED THE DOOR to the motel room, I found Dad sitting at the desk, writing in his battered leather journal. He didn’t look up as I entered.
“Did you get my note?” I asked in my most contrite voice.
He set down his pen with a sharp clack. “You didn’t answer the phone.”
“I must have missed your call.”
“Where were you?”
I considered lying—but he was going to find out about the money sooner or later.
“I was at the mall.” I crossed to the bed, opened my bag, and pulled out Beard Boy’s wallet. It contained a twenty and three ones. After all that—what a waste. With Dad looking on in surprise, I counted out the rest of my
take: five hundreds from the polo-shirt guy and forty-five bucks from everybody else.
Dad let out an angry breath and got to his feet. “Where did you get all that?”
There was an edge of contempt in his voice, and I felt my face heat up. This was our only option, and he knew it.
“Where do you think?”
“You—at the shopping mall?” Dad’s eyes burned.
“Is there some other kind of mall I should know about?”
“That was a stupid risk,” he spat. “You could’ve been caught.”
“Somebody had to do something.”
“Not this way.”
“What way, then?” I said, my voice rising. “I booked a fifteen-thousand-dollar show—fifteen thousand dollars!—but you won’t do it. What way, then?” My chest rose and fell, my breath shallow and furious. I grabbed a fistful of cash and hurled it at him. The bills fanned out like dead leaves, dropping pointlessly to the bedspread. Dad watched them fall, and his face fell with them.
“I . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, just closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. He seemed to shrink as I watched, shoulders sagging, hand on the desk to steady himself.
Guilt dissolved my anger like acid. I had done this to him, reduced him to a powerless old man. After all, I had led us here, not him. I was the one who had wasted time going on dates, and squandered our money on cell minutes instead of food. I had crashed the RV and destroyed our livelihood.
This was my fault. All of it.
I sank onto the bed. For lack of something meaningful to do, I gathered the bills into a stack and put them back in my bag. I retrieved the drivers’ licenses and began to write the date and the amounts on each. I wanted to apologize to Dad, to tell him I knew this was all on me, but I couldn’t seem to make my voice work.
Dad moved, and at first, I thought he was headed for the door. Instead, he sat down at the desk and opened his journal.
“Did you know the Truck Drop was your mother’s idea?”
I sat up. Dad never brought up the Truck Drop on his own—and I could count on my fingers the number of times he had mentioned my mother. I was the one who carried her memory; he seemed capable only of enduring it.
