The Classy Crooks Club

by Alison Cherry

  “Hey, I’ve gotta to talk to Maddie for a second before the game starts, okay?” I say.

  “Whatever.” Brianna turns to Elena. “Ugh, look at Becky’s hair.”

  Elena scrunches up her nose like she smells rotten eggs. “Hasn’t she ever heard of conditioner?”

  “She clearly needs us to educate her,” Brianna says. Elena giggles and takes her arm, and they set off across the grass toward our poor, unsuspecting teammate. Sabrina trails along behind them, but she doesn’t look happy about it.

  I jog over to Maddie and Amy.  Maddie’s saying something about cookie dough, and Amy’s laughing and shoving her, but they both go quiet as soon as I arrive. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” Amy answers, and Maddie echoes her, but then she suddenly pretends to be very busy redoing her ponytail. Amy’s face looks friendly, but instead of launching into some crazy story like usual, she just stands there and waits for me to say something.

  “What’re you guys talking about?” I ask. I know it sounds kind of desperate, but I feel desperate.

  “Nothing,” Maddie says at the same time Amy says, “I may have eaten a little too much cookie dough last night. But it was totally worth it.”

  “We only had enough left to bake, like, ten cookies,” Maddie says.

  “Yeah, and who ate all of those?”

  “Jordan had at least three,” Maddie says, and I realize she really did invite Amy to sleep over when I said no. I’m not sure they’ve ever had a sleepover without me before, and even though I was the one who turned them down, it makes my stomach squirm like I’ve swallowed a live goldfish.

  “I’m really sorry I couldn’t come,” I say. “Trust me, I would way rather have been with you than with my grandmother. Do you guys want to have another sleepover this week? Maybe Thursday, since we don’t have soccer on Friday?”

  Maddie looks skeptical. “You’re not grounded anymore?”

  It’s not like I’ve asked my grandmother, but I did such a good job with the Picasso heist that I feel like I can use it as leverage. “No, I’m totally free,” I say. “Grandma Jo will freak out if I bring anyone into her house, though. Do you think we could do it at one of yours?”

  Maddie and Amy look at each other, and for a second, I think neither of them is going to volunteer. But then Maddie says, “I guess we can go to mine. I’ll ask my mom.”

  “Great,” I say. I’m trying to sound perky, but I kind of come off sounding like a cartoon character, and Maddie gives me this look like, Why are you acting so weird? “Right after soccer on Thursday, then?”

  “Sure,” Maddie says.

  Amy nods. “Sounds good.” Fortunately, Coach Adrian blows his whistle, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I jog into a huddle with the rest of the team before things have a chance to get too awkward.

  I try to leave my baggage at the door, like Coach Adrian always says, and I have a better game than I expected—one goal, two assists. We end up beating the Falcons three to two. But even though my body’s moving freely, doing everything I tell it to do, I feel like my brain is all tied up in knots, tripping over its own feet at every turn.

  11

  Since the heist is over, I expect to find the grannies in the parlor when I get home, relaxing and playing cards like on the first day I met them. But the parlor is empty, and I hear voices coming from the storage room.  As I’m heading upstairs to change out of my uniform, the door opens and Cookie’s voice calls, “Is that you,  AJ?”

  “Yup. Hi, Cookie!”

  “Come join us when you’re ready. I brought pie to celebrate.”

  “Don’t worry—she didn’t bake it herself,” calls Betty’s voice.

  I smile to myself and tell them I’ll be right down. The grannies and I have never really gotten to hang out and have fun together before, and I’m excited to see what they’re like when they’re not busy planning something important. Now that we have the heist out of the way, maybe we can just chat and get to know each other. After all the awkwardness today at soccer, I’m pretty sure spending time with them will be way less weird than talking to my own friends.

  But when I get down to the storage room, they’re not relaxing—they’re huddled around the table in the center of the room, examining some blueprints. When Cookie spots me at the door, she drops the pen she’s holding, picks up a pie plate, and starts dancing it toward me. It says GO AJ! across it in big, sloppy whipped cream letters, which reminds me of something my parents would do, and it makes me miss them all over again. Once, when I won an essay contest at school, I woke up the next morning to find a snowman in the front yard holding a flag that said AJ = #1!

  “For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow . . . ,” Cookie sings.

  Edna starts doing strange interpretive dance moves, dipping her head and fluttering her hands in the air as Betty joins in on the song. When they get to the last line, all three of them stop and look at Picasso, who’s sitting on Grandma Jo’s shoulder.

  “Which nobody can deny,” he squawks, and everyone bursts into laughter and applause. Even Grandma Jo claps, though I suspect she’s clapping more for the macaw than for me.

  “My dear, you were absolutely brilliant last night,” Cookie says, handing me the pie.

  “We couldn’t have asked for a better accomplice,” Edna says.

  Betty puts her arm around me. “This girl is no accomplice. She’s the main event. Wasn’t she wonderful, Jo?”

  Grandma Jo sighs; I can tell she thinks they’re making way too much of a fuss over me. To her, accomplishment is its own reward. But she says, “You did very well, Annemarie,” and then she gestures to the tea tray. “Here, have a drink.”

  There are four cups of disgusting tea on the tray, but in the fifth spot is a tall glass of Coke with ice and a lemon slice perched on the rim. I’m so surprised that I just blink at it for a second; Grandma Jo has never taken my likes and dislikes into account before.

  “Well?” she says. “Do you want it or not?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I say. I pick up the Coke, take a long sip, and smile at her. Then I turn to Cookie. “You guys are so nice. I was happy to help with the heist; you really didn’t have to get me a pie.”

  “Well, it’s not all for you.” She snatches the pie away and starts cutting it.

  I peek at the blueprints on the table. “What’re these for?” I ask.

  “They’re for our next project, of course!” Betty says. “Take a look.”

  “Already?” I ask. “Don’t you think you guys deserve a day off?”

  Cookie looks at me like I’m crazy. “Why would we want that? This is such fun. Didn’t you have a good time last night?”

  I think back over the evening—my nervousness when I thought Edna wouldn’t be able to disarm the security system, my terror that Picasso’s singing would wake Fran, my revulsion at the feeling of bird claws on the back of my neck. But the adrenaline and the pride and the feeling of success outshine all those other things, and I realize I did have a good time. “Yeah,” I say. “It was actually really fun.”

  “Excellent.” Cookie beams, then taps the blueprint in front of her. “Now, our next project requires very specific timing. We have to do it in the next eight days if we’re going to do it at all. This house belongs to—”

  Grandma Jo cuts her off. “I don’t know if—”

  “Jo, it’s not fair to expect her to help us if she’s not part of the process right from the get-go.” Cookie turns to me. “You want to help us plan, don’t you,  AJ?”

  I concentrate on serving myself a piece of the pie so I have a second to think. I kind of expected I’d be gone already by the time they did their next heist, but if there’s time for me to be involved again, I guess I do want to. I definitely don’t want to be exiled back to the dining room with the sewing book.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’m happy to help, if it’s for a good cause. Are we stealing another bird?”

  “Bird, bird, stupid bird,�
� Picasso chimes in.

  “Oh no, dear,” Cookie says. “We only steal birds when it’s Jo’s turn. This time it’s my turn.” She rubs her hands together, thrilled as a kid who’s winning at Candy Land.

  “What did you pick to, um, liberate?” I ask.

  “We’re going to pay a little visit to my ex-husband. He got quite a few things in our divorce settlement that are rightfully mine.”

  “It’s ex-husband number three this time,” Betty clarifies.

  My mouth drops open. “You have three ex-husbands?”

  “Four, actually. Five divorces altogether—I married one of the suckers twice. I was young and stupid.” Cookie shrugs like it’s a mistake anyone could make. “Wait for the right boy,  AJ. Don’t marry the first Romeo who names his boat after you and sails you around the Caribbean.”

  I can’t imagine anyone ever doing that for me, but I nod anyway. My brain unhelpfully provides an image of Stanley in a sleek white sailboat called The Annemarie, and I push it away.

  “So, what are we taking from ex-husband number three?” I ask.

  “A stuffed bear,” Cookie says, in that same “This is totally normal” voice.

  “Really? You want to steal a stuffed animal?”

  Cookie, Betty, and Edna burst into laughter. “Not a plush toy, dear,” Cookie explains. “A taxidermy bear.”

  “Oh.”  That’s a completely different story. “How big is it?”

  “About six feet? It’s not a prizewinning specimen or anything. It’s very old, though—my father shot it back in the twenties. It was in his hunting lodge all through my childhood, and I moved it into our parlor when my father died. But when Bill and I split up, he convinced the judge he’d shot it himself. What a dunderhead—any idiot who looked closely should’ve been able to tell it hadn’t been stuffed using modern taxidermy techniques.” Cookie shakes her head. “In any case, it’s time for good ol’ Teddy Roosevelt to come home to Mama.”

  “So, what do you say, darling?” Betty asks. “Will you help?”

  It’s definitely strange, but it doesn’t seem morally wrong to steal something that technically already belongs to you. “All right, I’m in,” I say. “But I’d kind of like to learn how to do more stuff this time, if that’s okay. Maybe you could teach me how to pick locks, Edna?”

  Edna beams mistily at me. “Of course,” she says. “I’ve been hoping you’d ask. I could tell right away from your aura that you’ll be good at this. So few people understand the grand art of lock picking, and I need to pass down my knowledge before I lose my dexterity. You’ll be the perfect protégé.”

  I think of how the lock sprang open under Edna’s fingers as if by magic last night; she doesn’t seem remotely close to losing her dexterity. But I like hearing myself and the word “protégé” in the same sentence, so I don’t protest. I wonder if my grandmother will argue that I’m not ready, but instead she gives a small nod.

  “Awesome,” I say. “When can we start?”

  “No time like the present.” Edna springs up from the table, and her four green scarves billow out like tentacles. “Jo, where have you put my locks?”

  “They’re in the Sunkist box near the ocelot,” Grandma Jo says.

  “This project will be an excellent opportunity for you to learn, since we won’t be in any hurry,” Cookie says as Edna retrieves her equipment. “Bill’s on his yearly fishing trip, so it’s the perfect time for a break-in.”

  I know I shouldn’t feel excited about the prospect of breaking into someone’s house, but I can’t help it—I do. And I like the way Cookie calls what we’re doing a “project.” It makes me feel like I’m learning a skill for school, totally normal and aboveboard.

  I hope my parents and Ben never find out what a delinquent I’ve become.

  Edna rummages around in the box for a minute, then brings a ring of keys and a bunch of locks back to the table and drops them on top of the blueprints with a clatter-crash. I was expecting the kind of padlocks you use on a gym locker, but these are much bigger, and I realize they’re the kind that get embedded in doors. Then she takes a smooth, worn leather case out of her purse and snaps it open, revealing a set of silver lock picks. I extract one that has a funny squiggly end and turn it over in my hands. Just holding it makes me feel weirdly powerful.

  “This is really cool,” I say. “So, how do I start?”

  Edna explains how a lock works, which is something I’ve never really thought about before. There are a bunch of little pins inside it that are all different lengths, and they stop the plug inside the lock from turning because they don’t line up. But the jagged teeth on a key push them up so all the tops are in the same place, and then the plug can turn. Edna shows me how to insert a tiny wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and turn it slightly for tension. Then she inserts one of the picks and explains how you have to feel around until you’ve pushed each of the pins up, one by one. Sometimes you can bounce more than one of them into place at the same time by “raking” the lock, which means doing this sort of scooping motion with the pick. I recognize it from what she was doing at Fran Tupperman’s house.

  It’s finicky, intricate work, and even though she has tons of practice, it still takes Edna a couple minutes to get this lock open. While she works, she stares into the middle distance, like she’s watching a movie being projected on the air, and hums that same eerie little song from last night. Finally, the lock turns, and we all applaud.

  “Watching you do that never gets old,” Cookie says.

  Edna rewards her with a misty smile. “I’d imagine not,” she says.

  She finds the right key and turns it in the lock, and the bolt pops back out. “Go ahead and try,  AJ,” she says, sliding the lock and the picks over to me.

  I shove the wrench in like she showed me, ready to blow everyone away by how great I am at this, and the lock promptly slips out of my hands, slides across the table, and crashes to the floor. Grandma Jo winces at the sound, and one of the parrots screeches, “Walk the plank, matey! ”

  “Thanks,” I grumble at him. “I really appreciate your encouragement.”

  “Stupid bird,” Picasso agrees as Cookie hands the lock back to me.

  “You can do it, dear,” Betty says. “Edna probably didn’t get it on her first try, either.”

  “I did, actually.” Edna doesn’t sound like she’s bragging, just stating a fact.

  I try again, and this time the wrench holds, so I stick the pick in above it. “Use your third eye to see inside,” Edna suggests. “Sometimes it helps if you politely ask the lock to open for you.”

  I’m pretty sure I’d feel stupid talking to a lock, so I stay quiet and jiggle the pick around, but I’m not even really sure what I’m feeling for. A couple times, it catches on something that might be a pin, but I can’t figure out how to push it up. All four of the grannies are looking at me expectantly, like maybe I’ll be some sort of superstar at this, and I hate that I’m going to disappoint them. The pick and the wrench grow slick as my hands start to sweat.

  “I, um, I think my third eye might need glasses,” I say, and Cookie lets out a guffaw. I even catch the corner of Grandma Jo’s mouth twitching a little, the ghost of a smile.

  Edna comes around behind me and puts her hands over mine on the pick and the wrench. She smells like my mom’s spice drawer. “Relax,” she says to me, and I loosen my grip. Edna starts moving the pick in tiny, probing motions. “Listen to what the lock is telling you. Oh, there’s a pin—we’ve got it . . . feel for the little click it makes when it slips into place.” She makes the smallest motion, and she’s right, there is a tiny click. It’s barely enough to feel, but a thrill runs through me.

  “I felt it!” I tell her, and she nods against my hair.

  “Four more to go,” she says.

  Edna stays behind me, and together we manipulate three more of the pins into place. “The last one’s yours,” she says, and before I can get nervous again, she says, “Take your time. W
e have nowhere else to be. Keep breathing. You’re a hollow reed. You can do it.”

  And as it turns out, I can. It takes me half an hour to get the last pin, but I try to stay calm and quiet and breathe through my impatience, and finally, finally, I feel that telltale little click. “I did it!” I say quietly, hardly daring to move. “Edna! I got it!”

  “Very good, dear,” she says mildly, and I wonder what it would take to get her really excited. “Now turn the wrench in the same direction you’d turn a key . . . slowwwwly, now. . . .”

  I do, and I let out a cheer as the bolt retracts. “Yeah!” I scream, pumping my fist. “I did it! Did you guys see that?” Grandma Jo puts her hand to her heart at the sudden noise, but Cookie throws her arms around me and we hug-jump around in a circle. Betty whoops and does a little happy dance, pushing her walker from side to side, and I laugh and hug her, too. She reaches up to pat my cheek, her eyes shining with pride.

  “Knock it off, Tommy,” says one of the birds.

  “Well done,” Edna says. “If you do this again and again, it’ll eventually become second nature. I’ll bring you some picks to practice with tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’d love that.” When I glance over at Grandma Jo, she gives me one of those slow nods that mean I respect what you’ve done, and I smile. I’m pretty sure I’ve impressed her.

  The grannies go back to their planning, and I spend the rest of the day at the table with my plate of forgotten pie, poking and prodding at the insides of the locks. It’s funny—lock picking involves the same kinds of repetitive, small, precise motions as sewing, but this doesn’t bore me at all. It’s like a puzzle, and every time I make one of the tiny pins click into place, I feel a rush of joy. This is going to take a lot of practice, but I know I’ll put in the work. What’s the use of being a thief unless I’m the best thief I can be?

  After all, a lady strives for perfection.

  12

  Grandma Jo agrees to let me sleep over at Maddie’s house on Thursday night as long as I spend all my afternoons practicing my lock picking in preparation for Friday’s bear heist. On Thursday morning, she sits me down and gives me a talk about how I am not to mention the heists to my friends under any circumstances, no matter how tired I get, but she’s not nearly as snippy about it as usual. I can’t believe I’ve actually started to prove to Grandma Jo that I’m a responsible person, but shockingly enough, it seems like I’m on the right track.