The Classy Crooks Club

by Alison Cherry

  Maddie and I don’t get to talk at all during practice. Coach Adrian’s drills are tougher than usual today, and he makes us run suicides, back and forth and back and forth across the field until we’re too winded to say anything. He finally lets us scrimmage at the end of the day, and he names Amy one of the team captains. I’m relieved when she picks me first and Maddie second, and as soon as my best friend jogs over to our side of the field, I approach her and touch her shoulder. “Hey,” I whisper. “You know I wasn’t serious about any of that stuff I said earlier, right?”

  Maddie glances up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no gala or ice sculptures or new phone or anything—I made it all up. I would never wear sapphires or go dress shopping with my grandmother. I mean, can you even imagine? I was just trying to make Brianna jealous, like you told me to.”

  “Oh,” Maddie says. She looks as relieved as she did that time she got a B on a geography test she thought she’d failed, and something in my chest releases. “I thought . . . I mean . . . wow. Okay. You were really convincing.”

  “I think she totally bought it. Did you see her face when I was talking about Stanley? She flat-out said she was jealous of me.”

  “I didn’t hear that part,” Maddie says. “So, if there’s no gala, does that mean you can sleep over on Friday? We can think up more good lies to tell Brianna.”

  “No, I really can’t,” I say. “I’m still grounded from the other day.”

  “Oh. Maybe I could come over there, then? I could sneak Lindsay’s diary out of her room after she leaves for youth group.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work. I’m not even allowed to have friends over when I’m not grounded.”

  Maddie rolls her eyes. “Ugh, your grandma’s so annoying. If I invite Amy over on Friday, maybe you could Skype with us?”

  “I don’t have a computer, remember?”

  “Right. Jeez, it’s like you’re in prison or something.”

  “It feels like that sometimes,” I say, though my grandmother’s house is infinitely weirder than any prison.

  “Okay. Well, next time, I guess. She can’t ground you forever, right?”

  I want more than anything to tell Maddie what’s really going on, but I remember Grandma Jo saying she’d make me sorry if I let her secrets slip. It seems like it would be safe to talk about it in this open field; how could she possibly find out about it? But for all I know, she’s bugged my cleats or something. I have no idea how that kind of thing works. So I just say, “Right. Next time.”

  Talking to my best friend has always been the easiest thing in the world. But right now, for the first time, it feels a lot like running around in my grandmother’s attic in the pitch dark, never knowing when I’m going to slam into a unsteady pile of boxes and send them crashing to the ground.

  9

  Now that she sees I can be useful to her, Grandma Jo finally seems to be warming up to me a little. She stops being quite so strict about my bedtime, speaks more gently when she reminds me which one is the salad fork, and even lets me have seconds on dessert sometimes. On Wednesday morning, she actually does take me shopping, though it’s certainly not for a gala dress. Instead, she buys me a black stocking cap and some skintight black clothing that doesn’t make even a whisper of noise when I move around. When the saleslady tells me I look adorable and asks what it’s for, Grandma Jo tells her I’m playing a ninja in a community theater production. I’m impressed by the way the lie rolls off her tongue; I could probably learn a thing or two from her for the next time I have to talk to Brianna.

  The night of the heist, Betty, Cookie, and Edna arrive early, and we pass the time playing Hearts until a quarter to twelve, when Grandma Jo sends me upstairs to get dressed. I pull on my new black turtleneck, pants, gloves, and soft-soled shoes, then put on my black knit hat. I’m way too hot, but I guess it’s more important to be stealthy than comfortable tonight. I clip the utility belt Grandma Jo got me around my waist and make sure all the objects are in place: a flashlight, a tiny can of  WD-40 in case the attic door creaks, some peanuts for Picasso, and my library card, in case I have to swipe open any dead bolts. When I look in the mirror and see myself all decked out in serious gear, it makes this heist seem real, and my heart starts hammering.

  “Annemarie,” Grandma Jo calls up the stairs, “are you ready?”

  “Almost,” I call back. At the last minute, I grab my broken friendship bracelet from my night table and shove the remains into my utility belt for luck.

  When I come downstairs, I see that Edna’s dressed in a skintight black bodysuit, to help her blend into the shadows while she picks the lock on the front door. Her tall, willowy frame looks even skinnier when it’s not draped in all its usual scarves, and I feel like she might disappear if she turned sideways. Cookie and Betty are wearing regular clothes, since they have to look like normal pedestrians while they act as our lookouts. I was really hoping Grandma Jo would be wearing a ninja suit too, but she’s in her usual black dress.

  Cookie’s holding a large wrapped present with a big red bow on top, and she holds it out to me. “For you,” she says. “Your very first heist! We’re so proud.” She says it in the same teary way most parents talk about their kid’s first day of kindergarten.

  “Thank you so much, Cookie,” I say. I take the present, which is lighter than it looks. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “It’s from all of us,” she says, and I start feeling a little less excited. If Grandma Jo had anything to do with this present, it’ll probably be a dress or a device to monitor my posture or something. I try to keep an enthusiastic smile on my face as I rip open the wrapping paper and lift the lid off the box inside.

  There, sitting in a nest of tissue paper, is . . . actually, I have no idea what this is. It’s certainly not a dress. I lift out the object, which looks kind of like a camera with a long lens and two big, soft eyepieces. Attached to one side is a plastic ring and a bunch of crisscrossed straps. “Wow,” I say. “I . . . um . . . what is this?”

  “They’re night vision goggles, dear,” Betty says. “You didn’t think we were going to send you into a dark, unfamiliar attic completely blind, did you?”

  “Whoa.” This is by far the best thing Grandma Jo has ever gotten me. “Thank you so much! I did all those drills in the dark, so I assumed . . .”

  “It’s always good to be prepared to do the job without equipment, in case something malfunctions,” Cookie says. “But if you have tools to help you, it would be stupid not to use them. Go ahead—try them on!”

  The goggles look expensive, and I’m suddenly terrified I’m going to drop them. I carefully slip them over my head, and Cookie’s bracelets clink and jangle and clatter next to my ears as she helps me tighten the straps. When the goggles fit snugly against my face, Edna kills the lights, and Cookie shows me where the power button is. The room springs back into focus before me, crisp and clear as if it were the middle of the day, except everything is bright green.

  “Oh man,” I whisper. “This is awesome! I can see everything!” Then I realize that these goggles will protect my eyes from Picasso’s claws and beak, and I love them even more.

  A neon green Cookie moves to stand in front of me. “Aren’t they wonderful?” she crows. “I knew you would love them!” She does a ridiculous little dance that only I can see, shimmying her shoulders and hips, and I start giggling.

  “What’s so funny?” Betty asks.

  “Oh, nothing,” green Cookie says, turning around and shaking her butt at me.

  Edna flips the lights back on, and I push the goggles up onto the top of my head while Grandma Jo distributes little black earpieces to everyone. “I’ll be listening from the van the whole time,” she says. “Even if you whisper, I’ll be able to hear you. If you’re in trouble, say ‘Mayday,’ and I’ll find a way to bail you out.”

  “Your grandmother’s an amazing getaway car driver when her foot isn’t all Velcroed up
in a boot,” Cookie says. “You should’ve seen the way she drove in ’79 when we were being chased by—”

  “Earpieces in,” Grandma Jo orders, and to my extreme disappointment, Cookie takes the hint and stops talking. I watch what the other ladies do with their earpieces, then put mine in the same way.

  “This is Agent Condor,” my grandmother says when it’s all secure, and it’s so weird to hear her voice directly in my ear that I jump. “Agents, do you copy?”

  “Agent Cardinal copies,” says Cookie.

  “Agent Sparrow copies,” says Betty.

  “Agent Heron copies,” says Edna.

  Grandma Jo looks at me. “What would you like your code name to be, Annemarie?”

  I wish I’d known before now that we got to choose code names so I could’ve thought up something really cool. But everyone else has a bird name, so I guess I should stick to the theme. I try to think of a bird that’s calm and graceful and bold and fierce all at once, all the qualities I’ll need while I’m doing this heist.

  And then it comes to me, and I smile to myself.

  “Agent Swan copies,” I say.

  • • •

  Fran Tupperman’s house is twenty minutes from my grandmother’s, and Cookie drives us over in Grandma Jo’s black van with tinted windows—of course, this is what it’s for. There’s a giant dog carrier fitted with a bunch of perches strapped into the trunk so that Picasso will be comfortable on the ride home. Sitting in the backseat in my ninja clothes, I feel like a legitimate spy, and I’m starting to understand why the grannies like doing this so much. I love the feeling of being part of a team, and even though the heist hasn’t even started yet, I can already feel the adrenaline rushing all the way to the tips of my fingers.

  We park across the street and a couple houses down, close enough that Grandma Jo will have a good visual on us. Fran’s house is almost as big as my grandmother’s, and I realize for the first time how long those hallways I have to sneak down are going to be. But when I pull my night vision goggles back down over my eyes and turn them on, I feel a little calmer. You can do this, I tell myself. You’re way braver than you think, remember?

  “It’s showtime,” Grandma Jo says. “Everyone ready?” She sticks her hand out between the seats, and it’s such an uncharacteristic move that it takes me a minute to realize she’s doing a “Go team!” thing like Coach Adrian always has us do before our games.

  “Ready,” says Cookie. She puts her hand on top of Grandma Jo’s.

  “Ready,” says Betty, adding her hand to the pile.

  “Ready,” says Edna dreamily. Her hand drifts down onto the pile like a floating leaf.

  All of a sudden I really have to pee, which always happens when I’m nervous. I try to concentrate on willing the feeling away.

  “Agent Swan?” Cookie says. “Everything okay?”

  I swallow hard, then rest my hand on top of theirs, praying I can get through tonight without letting anyone down. I want so badly to see that impressed expression on my grandmother’s face again.

  “Ready,” I say.

  “ ‘Heist’ on three,” Grandma Jo says. “One . . . two . . . three. . . .”

  “Heist!” I shout, and as everyone’s hands spring to their earpieces, I realize I should have whispered. “Oh God, sorry, sorry.”

  Grandma Jo sighs. “Well, now that Annemarie’s woken the entire neighborhood, I suppose it’s time to begin,” she says. “Operation Freebird, commence. The faster we get this over with, the better.”

  Everyone but Grandma Jo gets out of the van, and the doors automatically slide closed behind us. Betty and Cookie blow me kisses as they head for opposite ends of the sidewalk, and I blow some back. It reminds me of how my parents always blow me kisses from the sidelines at my soccer games. I’m so glad they have no idea what I’m up to right now.

  Fran’s porch light is off, and Edna and I slip up the front steps in the darkness, quiet as shadows. Edna gently caresses the lock on the front door with one finger, then bends down and whispers into it, almost like she’s asking it to open for her. Then she pulls out her lock picks and gets to work.

  It doesn’t seem like it would be exciting to watch someone pick a lock, but watching Edna is weirdly fascinating. She sticks a bent piece of metal into the bottom of the keyhole, then uses a sharp tool that looks like it belongs in a dentist’s office to fiddle around in the top part. In my night vision goggles, her green, willowy form sways back and forth, like she’s dancing with the lock, and she hums a soft, tuneless song that sends shivers up my spine. I’ve never seen Edna focus so intently on anything before. I’ve barely even seen her make eye contact.

  “Stop humming, Heron,” says my grandmother’s voice, and the song comes to an abrupt halt.

  I’ve heard that lock picking is really difficult, but it takes Edna less than a minute to open the door. When the lock turns, I feel a spark of wanting ignite deep inside me, like the first time I saw professional soccer players on TV when I was a little kid. Suddenly, more than anything, I want to learn how to do that.

  “First barrier has been breached,” Edna whispers. “Heron going in.”

  “Roger that,” says my grandmother. I really hope I’ll get to say that later. It sounds so cool and professional.

  Edna swings the front door open, and a faint beeping sound starts up inside the house—the security system. “Wait for my signal, Swan,” Edna whispers, and then she pulls a pair of small wire cutters out of her utility belt and disappears inside.

  Cookie did some recon work at Fran’s last dinner party and determined that the alarm would beep for forty-five seconds before notifying the security company of a break-in. My grandmother counts down the seconds over the earpiece so Edna knows how long she has left, and everything feels like it’s moving too quickly and too slowly all at once. If I were Edna, there’s no way my fingers would work under this kind of pressure.

  “Fourteen . . . thirteen . . . twelve . . . ,” counts Grandma Jo, and I wonder if Edna’s heart is beating as quickly as mine. Maybe all her meditating makes her immune to nerves.

  “Eleven . . . ten . . . nine . . .”

  I lower myself into a sprinter’s crouch, ready to bolt back toward the van if the alarm goes off.

  And then the beeping stops.

  Everything is silent, but I barely have time for a sigh of relief before I hear Edna click her tongue twice, then three times, then twice more. That’s my signal to come inside.

  I try to move toward the door, but I suddenly start thinking about how breaking and entering is a crime. I haven’t even started seventh grade yet, and in a second I’m going to be a legitimate criminal. I take a deep breath and think about what Ben said about mind over matter, but my muscles refuse to move. What if can’t do this after all and I end up frozen on the doorstep all night? Will my grandmother kick me out of the house? Will Edna be able to climb all those stairs to get Picasso? What if she hurts herself and it’s all my fault?

  “You are a hollow reed, Swan,” I hear Edna’s voice whisper, as if she knows my body has turned into one giant knot of anxiety. “You are pliable and strong, swaying whichever way the wind shifts, always bending, never breaking.”

  I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, but her tone is soothing, and weirdly enough, it calms me down. Before I know it, I’m moving over the threshold.

  Edna points me toward the staircase, and I start to climb, testing each step to see if it creaks before I put my full weight on it. Cookie determined from her snooping that Fran’s bedroom is the first one on the right, and I’m horrified to see that the door is halfway open—what if the beeping of the alarm has already awakened her? But as I creep closer, I’m comforted by the noise of soft, heavy breathing tinged with the slightest hint of a snore.

  I cross my fingers, hold my breath, and tiptoe past the room. A floorboard creaks under my feet, and I freeze, but the rhythm of Fran’s breathing doesn’t change. The attic door is directly in front of
me at the end of the hall, and I make my way toward it, step by stealthy step, wishing Fran had rugs on her ancient hardwood floors. The attic door is closed, and for a second I panic that it might be locked. But the knob turns smoothly, and I slip through and close it just enough that it’ll open with a gentle push when I come back down.

  The attic stairs are a lot creakier than the ones in the main house, but I do the best I can with them, creeping up on all fours to distribute my weight. Finally, after what feels like years, I reach the top. And directly across from me, in a cage not much bigger than the dog carrier in the back of the van, is the bird.

  “Swan, what’s your 20?” says Grandma Jo’s voice in my ear.

  I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean. “What?” I whisper.

  “She wants to know where you are,” explains Cookie.

  “Do you have eyes on the target?” Grandma Jo asks.

  “Yup,” I say. “He’s right here.”

  Picasso rustles a little as I approach; he’s probably not used to company at this time of night. I can see him clearly with my goggles on, but he probably can’t see me at all, so I turn on my flashlight and set it on the floor next to his cage, pointed up at the ceiling. I push up my goggles up onto the top of my head so I won’t look like an alien, and whisper, “Hi, Picasso.”

  “Hello,” he replies, louder than I would’ve liked. His voice is higher than Fireball’s, and I wonder if he’s imitating Fran.

  “My name is AJ,” I say, even though I know he can’t understand me.

  “Hello, hello,” Picasso says again, very loudly.

  “Shhh, we have to be very quiet, okay? I’m going to get you out of here.”

  I approach the cage, careful not to make any sudden movements, but Picasso doesn’t seem the least bit agitated. When I grab a peanut from my utility belt and hold it out to him, he goes right for it, and I snatch my fingers back as he chomps down on it.