“Good boy,” I say, fiddling with the latch on his cage. “You’re a very good bird.”
“Stupid bird,” he replies.
I stop. “What did you say?”
Picasso ducks his head under his wing, ruffles up some feathers, and smoothes them back down into place. When he’s done, he squawks, “Stupid bird! Shut up, stupid bird!”
Grandma Jo makes a tsk sound over my earpiece, and I remember how she told me that birds repeat sounds they’ve heard over and over. I suddenly feel incredibly bad for Picasso, and I’m more convinced than ever that liberating him is the right thing to do.
“You’re a nice bird,” I tell him as I swing the cage door open. “You’re a very sweet bird. And once we’re out of here, nobody’s ever going to call you stupid again.” My heart is pounding, but I grit my teeth and reach my hand into his cage.
“Stupid bird,” Picasso says. He hops onto my wrist with no hesitation at all.
I pull him out slowly, and he immediately starts picking at my glove, the edge of my sleeve, the seam down the center of my shirt. I know he’s not trying to hurt me, but I still don’t like his beak so close to me, so I hold him as far away from my body as I can. “Hang on a couple more minutes, buddy, and you’ll have plenty of stuff to play with,” I say.
“Have you acquired the target, Swan?” asks Grandma Jo’s voice.
“Yes,” I whisper back. “Everything’s going fine.” Carefully, I gather up my flashlight, push my goggles back into place, and head for the door.
And that’s when Picasso bursts into song.
“I’m dreaming of a whiiiiiiiite Christmaaaaaaas . . . ,” he belts at the top of his lungs. “Just like the ones I used to knoowwwww. . . .”
“Shhhh!” I hiss at him, but it doesn’t make any difference. Picasso is in full-on performance mode now, and he continues to sing about sleigh bells in the snow.
“Mayday!” I hiss into my earpiece. “How do I get him to shut up?”
“That idiotic woman,” grumbles my grandmother. “She only takes him out when she wants him to perform. He associates being out of his cage with singing.”
“Whiiiiiiite Christmaaaaas . . . ,” Picasso warbles.
“But what do I do?” I’m frantic now—what if Fran Tupperman comes upstairs to see what the racket is and finds me here? What if this stupid Christmas song sends me to jail?
“Keep him busy with something else!” Grandma Jo says.
I pull another peanut out of my pouch and hold it near Picasso’s beak. To my great relief, he pauses for a second and gulps it down. Then he leans over and starts biting at the Velcro on my glove, which I don’t exactly appreciate, but at least he’s being quiet.
I start creeping down the stairs as quietly as I can, but even with the night vision goggles, it’s really hard to see with a three-foot bird on my arm. I try to hold him down lower so he’s not directly in my line of vision, but he doesn’t seem to like that, and he starts climbing my arm. “Picasso, down!” I hiss as he inches up my forearm and into the crook of my elbow. Before I know it, he’s halfway up my biceps. I shake my arm a little, but that only makes him grip me more tightly, and I can feel his claws biting into the fabric of my skintight shirt.
“Step up,” he insists. “Stupid bird.”
I try to grab his feet with my other hand so I can make him switch arms, but he doesn’t like that either, and he pecks at my hand. I yank it away, barely managing not to cry out, and Picasso seizes the opportunity. In two more quick hops, he’s up on my shoulder, very, very close to my face, and he starts biting at the straps on my goggles. When I crane my neck and twist my face away from him, I lose my footing, crash down a couple of steps, and land on my butt. My whole body is sweating inside my suit.
“Everything okay in there, Swan?” says Grandma Jo’s voice in my ear.
“Roger,” I whisper, wishing I could’ve said it under better circumstances.
I stay as still as I can for a minute and listen, trying to determine whether my clumsiness has woken Fran, but I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heart and the rustling of Picasso’s feathers. I take my earpiece out for a second so I can hear better, but even that doesn’t help, since Picasso chooses that moment to belt, “May alllll youuuur Chriiiiiistmasses be whiiiiite. . . .”
“Oh my God, shut up,” I whisper frantically, and Picasso agrees, “Shut up, shut up!” He’s inching around to the back of my neck now, and his long tail feathers brush my spine, like I’m wearing a bird backpack. I’m completely freaking out now that I can’t see him—he could do anything back there—but I can’t seem to get him to move no matter how I contort. It looks like I’m going to have to run all the way out to the car like this.
I start creeping toward the bottom of the attic stairs again, and Picasso stays quiet for a minute, occupied with picking at the back of my goggles. But when we reach the bottom and I pause to open the door, he starts up again. “I’m dreeeeeaming of a whiiiite Christmaaaas. . . .”
I hear the unmistakable sound of rustling from the bedroom. “Shut up, stupid bird,” a voice says sleepily.
I freeze in my tracks, not sure which direction to flee. Should I bolt for the front door? Or would it be better to go back up to the attic and wait for Fran to go back to sleep? How will I know when it’s safe to come down? How long is it going to take for Picasso to get bored of my back and climb up onto my head? The need to get him off me is visceral, like the need to smash a mosquito when you notice it sucking your blood. It probably won’t be long before I panic, and then I’ll be completely useless.
Forward it is.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember how much Grandma Jo’s birds seem to enjoy ripping stuff up. In a last desperate attempt to keep Picasso occupied and quiet, I pull off one of my gloves and dangle it behind my head, approximately where I think his beak might be. “Here you go, boy,” I whisper. “Go ahead and destroy it.” I feel terrible offering Edna’s hard work to a bird, but I don’t really have another choice. To my relief, he takes it, and I bolt through the attic door and down the hallway while he’s busy figuring out what to do with it. The hallway floor squeaks under my feet a lot more than it did on my way in, but speed is more important than stealth right now. Picasso absolutely cannot launch into another musical number outside Fran’s bedroom door.
The only sound I hear as we dash down the stairs is the quiet ripping noise of my glove coming apart at the seams. I try not to think about how quickly Picasso is shredding it and what that implies about the things he could do to the back of my head.
Edna is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and she whispers, “Swan incoming,” into her earpiece.
“Copy that,” says my grandmother’s voice, followed by a quiet, “Thank the Lord.”
Out onto the front steps I go, and Edna slips out behind me and closes the door. I sprint across the street, adrenaline pumping through my blood, praying Picasso doesn’t decide to make a break for it—I can only imagine how my grandmother would react if I managed to get him out of the house only to accidentally release him into the wild. But he doesn’t let go of me as I make my mad dash; maybe riding on my shoulders is fun for him. I used to love it when my dad ran around with me on his shoulders. Soon I’m at the van, and my grandmother whispers, “Swan is in the nest.” She opens the van’s back doors, and then I feel the sweet sensation of Picasso being lifted off my neck. My hand flies back to feel for broken skin and brush all the bird molecules off me.
“Hello, beautiful boy,” my grandmother croons to Picasso as she snaps open the latches on the dog carrier. “You’re safe now. You’re going to be so happy here with me.”
I did it. I actually did it. Grandma Jo didn’t believe I could handle this heist, but I managed it, even though there were problems I never could’ve foreseen. We couldn’t have liberated Picasso if it weren’t for me, and now he’s safe, headed for a life of treats and cuddles and never being forced to sing on command. I watch as he dro
ps the shredded remains of my glove and hops up onto his new perch to investigate.
“Say thank you to Annemarie for rescuing you,” Grandma Jo says to Picasso, and when she glances at me out of the corner of her eye, I realize that’s her way of thanking me for participating in the heist.
“You’re very welcome, Picasso,” I say. “It was my pleasure.”
“Shut up, stupid,” Picasso says.
It’s so quick and quiet that it’s possible I’m imagining things, but before she turns away, I swear I catch my grandmother laughing.
10
My heist adrenaline keeps me up most of the night, and by the time I leave for soccer the next morning, I’m completely exhausted. We’re playing the Falcons—seriously, why is my entire life filled with birds?—and it would be hard to beat them even under normal circumstances. But today I have more to worry about than sloppy playing. As far as the rest of my team knows, I spent last night at a gala in sapphires and heels, and I know they’re going to pepper me with questions the second I arrive. This whole “make Brianna jealous” thing was fun when it just involved gushing about Stanley, but I feel like I’ve taken it too far now, and I’m not sure I can keep lying convincingly.
To make matters worse, I know absolutely nothing about galas. It would be one thing if I were trying to trick a bunch of other clueless people, but Brianna has probably been to a million real galas, and I’m sure she’s going to see right through me. My brother always warned me that lies feed on themselves and get more complicated with time. Why didn’t I remember that before I got myself into this mess?
Stanley has been talking for the last five minutes, telling me a story about the time he and his roommate got locked out of their dorm and had to break in by climbing up the fire escape. It’s a good story, and ordinarily I’d be laughing my head off, but I’m having a lot of trouble paying attention today. Finally, he reaches over and raps the top of my head with his knuckles.
“Knock knock,” he says. “Anybody home in there?”
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” I babble. “I’m totally listening.”
Stanley laughs. “I don’t care if you listen to my dumb story. Are you okay? You look worried.”
It’s kind of cool that he’s tuned into my moods enough to notice when I’m distracted; according to Maddie’s sister’s diary, guys usually don’t pick up on stuff like that. I’m about to tell him everything is fine, but then I realize he might actually be able to help me. “Have you ever been to a formal event?” I ask.
“Um, I went to prom,” he says. “And I went to a superfancy Christmas party at my dad’s boss’s house once. Does that count?”
“I don’t know. I guess,” I say. It’s certainly way better than any experiences I have to work with. “Can you, like, describe them to me? With a lot of details?”
He gives me a weird look. “Is your grandmother taking you to an event? You don’t have to be nervous—I’m sure she’ll tell you what to expect.”
“No, it’s not that.” I take a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. I might’ve tried to make someone jealous by telling her I was going to a gala with my grandmother on Friday but I didn’t really think it through and now she’s going to ask me all these questions about it and I don’t know anything about galas.” It all comes out in one rushed run-on sentence.
I brace myself for Stanley’s laugh, but instead he nods, like he knows exactly how I feel. “I did the same thing once,” he says. “In fifth grade, there was this guy at school who always made fun of me, so I told him my dad got us tickets to the World Cup in Germany. I mean, I watched it on TV and everything, but I had no idea what it was like to actually be there.”
The most surprising thing about this isn’t that Stanley lied about going to the World Cup—it’s that someone used to make fun of him at school. Did he use to be dorky? I want to ask him about it, but I figure that’s probably private. “What did you do?” I ask.
“When he asked me about it, I barely talked about the games at all. I made up all these other stories that he couldn’t possibly check, about the people sitting near us and the amazing food I ate and how my dad let me watch movies in the hotel room all night. I told him I got lost on the street and one of the players gave me directions.”
“You think Brianna—um, I mean, this person—would believe stuff like that?”
“Definitely. Try to look confident and she’ll swallow it right down.”
I nod, already starting to formulate stories. “Thanks,” I say. “That’s a really good idea.”
We pull up in front of the field, and Stanley puts the car in park and gets out to open my door as usual. But when I stand up, before I even know what’s happening, he reaches out and pulls me into a one-armed hug. He’s so much taller than I am that my face is right by his armpit, and I can smell his boy deodorant, which is super embarrassing for some reason. I wish I’d had more time to prepare for being this close to him so I could actually enjoy it.
“It’s going to be fine, kiddo,” he says. “Try not to worry. Okay?”
I open my mouth to answer, but there are absolutely zero words left in my brain. Before I manage to form a sentence, he’s gone.
I’m still standing there, frozen like a statue, when Brianna rushes over to my side and links her arm with mine. “Oh. Em. Gee,” she squeals. “Is there something going on between you and the cute chauffeur?”
“I . . . um . . . ,” I stammer as the car pulls away. I put my hand to my cheek, which is burning hot. There’s definitely nothing going on between us, but the way Brianna has misinterpreted things is kind of perfect, so I force a secretive smile onto my face. “Maybe.”
“Have you kissed him yet? Isn’t kissing the best? This one time, I was at a swimming party with these supercute boys, and . . .”
Brianna launches into this whole kissing story, but I’m not even listening, because I’ve just noticed Maddie across the parking lot. She’s staring at our linked arms with this hurt, surprised look on her face. I try to pull away, but Brianna has a good, strong hold on me and is steering me toward the field. Oh no, she’s acting like we’re actual friends. This whole plan has totally backfired.
“AJ!” Brianna snaps, and I realize she’s waiting for me to respond to whatever she’s been talking about. We’re on the field now, and Sabrina, Elena, and three other girls have crowded around us, closing me in. I can’t even see Maddie anymore.
“What?” I ask. I finally manage to extract myself from her grip.
“I said, how was the gala last night? Were you bored out of your mind? Did your grandmother make you stay the whole time? My parents never leave those things until the very end. I always tell them it’s more fashionable to leave early, because it makes you look like you have somewhere even cooler to go, but they never listen.”
“What did you wear?” Sabrina asks. “Did your grandmother really let you have her sapphires?”
It’s the weirdest feeling ever, looking into their eager eyes. Not one of these girls has ever been remotely interested in what I had to say before, but now that Brianna has made it clear that I’m someone worth knowing, they look ready to hang on to my every word. I know this isn’t real friendship, but at the same time, it’s interesting to see what popularity would be like. I hate myself for even thinking that, but it’s hard not to appreciate the attention.
“I ended up getting a green dress, so the sapphires didn’t really match,” I tell Sabrina. “I wore one of my grandmother’s diamond pendants instead.”
“How many carats?” asks Brianna.
“Were there really ice sculptures?” Elena asks at the same time.
I have no idea what Brianna’s question even means, so I pretend I didn’t hear her. “There were ice sculptures for a while,” I say. “But it was kind of warm in the room, so they started melting right away, and one of them, this big swan, started dripping all over the floor. One of the waiters walked by with a huge tray of shrimp, and he slipped in the puddle and fell right
into the dessert table, which had all these little mini tart things and chocolate-covered strawberries and stuff. The table collapsed under him, and the swan smashed into a million pieces, and the guy was, like, covered with custard and fruit.” Stanley’s right—the girls seem totally rapt. I could tell them anything right now and they’d believe it.
“Man, what a waste of dessert,” says Sabrina. She seems genuinely sad about it, like I told her someone died.
“Do you have pictures?” Elena asks. “Are they on your new phone? Can I see it?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have any pictures—I’m sorry.”
“Aw, not even of your dress?”
“Nope. I tried to teach my grandmother how to work the camera, but . . .” I make a face like, You know how old people are.
“You could’ve asked Stanley,” Brianna says, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “You guys should’ve seen them hugging in the parking lot when he dropped AJ off! It was sooooo cute!”
Everyone squeals and jumps up and down, and Sabrina throws her arms around me like it’s something she does all the time. I’m so surprised that it doesn’t even occur to me to hug her back. “Oh my God, you are so lucky!” she shrieks.
“It’s really no big deal,” I say, but I know I’m turning red again, which must make it look like there’s more going on than I’m willing to spill. “He did like my dress last night, though. He told me I looked stunning. And he gave me a flower.” It occurs to me that when Stanley told me to make up detailed stories, he probably didn’t mean stories about us being all lovey-dovey with each other. In my head, I silently apologize to him.
“What kind of flower?” Sabrina asks.
“A pink rose.”
She sighs. “That’s soooo romantic.” I can’t believe how well I’m pulling this off, and a rush of pride surges through me. But then Sabrina bends over to fix her shoe, and I catch a glimpse of Maddie standing across the lawn with Amy, laughing at some joke I’ll never hear. Suddenly, everything I’m doing over here starts to feel really, really wrong.
The Classy Crooks Club Page 10
