The Classy Crooks Club

by Alison Cherry

  After about five minutes a third woman in a uniform shows up at the solarium door. “Excuse me, Miss Brianna,” she says, as if she’s a little afraid of interrupting. “The cosmetologists have arrived.”

  I’m still not sure what a cosmetologist is, but the rest of the girls squeal, so I guess it’s something good. “Thanks, Emily,” Brianna says. “You can show them in.” It seems out of character that Brianna would bother to learn the staff people’s names, but then it occurs to me that these people must work here all the time, not just for the party. I can’t even imagine what that would be like.

  Emily backs out of the room and calls for the cosmetologists to follow her, and three women carrying big plastic kits come striding into the room. They’re all dressed in black shirts and skirts, white lab coats, and high heels, though the heels are different colors—one has pink, one has red, and one has turquoise. It’s a little spooky how they all walk in unison, and I wonder for a second if they might be robots. I almost lean over and whisper that to Olivia, but I’m pretty sure she would think it was more weird than funny, and the last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself. All of a sudden I miss Maddie like crazy.

  “Which of you is the birthday girl?” asks Turquoise Lady in a clipped accent that sounds kind of like the Russian detective on this crime show my mom watches. Brianna raises her hand and smiles in that closed-mouth way she always does with adults. She must think it makes her look sophisticated, but actually it makes her look constipated.

  “Happy birthday, darling,” says Turquoise Lady. The word comes out like dar-link. “We will do your makeover and manicure first, of course.” Oh—cosmetologists are makeup people. This party is getting less fun by the second. Except on Halloween, I’ve never had the slightest desire to wear anything but a tiny bit of lip gloss.

  “Would you like to choose two of your friends to join you?” asks Pink Lady.

  Almost all the girls’ hands shoot up. I expect Brianna to pick Sabrina and Elena, since they’re her best friends, but instead she chooses Jasmine and this girl named Kelsey. “They need it the most,” Brianna tells the makeup ladies in a low voice, but it’s plenty loud enough for the rest of us to hear. Everyone else giggles a little, but it’s the half-nervous, half-relieved kind of laughter that happens when you think someone’s about to make fun of you and then they don’t at the last second. Nobody’s really ever safe around Brianna, not even her close friends.

  Kelsey’s and Jasmine’s faces go red, but they don’t argue, and they take their places next to Brianna. The cosmetologists set up small folding tables next to the girls’ loungers and unpack a bunch of hair products and makeup and nail polish. They talk as they start to paint and primp the girls, giving tips about boring things like how to blend eye shadow. Everyone else huddles around and gapes like they’re watching a cat do backflips or something. As Pink Lady uses some sort of scary-looking clamp on Jasmine’s eyelashes, I glance down at my dirty, ragged nails, then tuck my hands under my thighs so nobody else can see them. I can pretend to be a proper lady all I want, but my messy, imperfect real self is still right there under the surface.

  I wait until the robot ladies are almost done with the first group of girls, and then I get up and ask the woman who poured me punch where the bathroom is. Everyone’s so fixated on the makeup demonstration that I’m able to slip away unnoticed. Perfect. After I wash my hands, I’ll investigate more of the house.

  I peek into every room I pass—a study, a guest bedroom, and a room full of exercise equipment—but there are no abstract paintings in any of them. When I find the bathroom, I’m surprised to see that the ceiling and all four of the walls are made of mirrors. I stand in the middle of the room and spin slowly; it’s kind of fascinating to see myself from so many angles at once. I don’t know how anyone manages to pee or take a shower in here. I would be way too distracted.

  As I watch the millions of AJs scrub their nails with the tiny shell-shaped soaps, I hear voices outside in the hall. One of them is Brianna’s, and when I hear how upset she sounds, I roll my eyes at the AJs in the mirror. What can she possibly have to complain about, today of all days? Did her nail polish chip? Did her perfect hair not curl perfectly enough? I leave the water running, tiptoe to the door, and press my ear against its cold mirrored surface.

  “Do you really have to go right now?” I hear Brianna saying.

  “Darling, you know I always meet with my personal trainer on Saturdays,” says a voice I don’t recognize.

  “But couldn’t you cancel this week? Or at least reschedule?”

  “Callista’s in very high demand, and her schedule is completely full. I reserved this spot months in advance.”

  I hear Brianna sigh. “Daddy’s not here either, so I thought maybe you’d—”

  “Your father’s on an important business trip, Brianna.”

  “I know it’s important, but neither of you were here last year either, or the year before, and I hoped that—”

  “Victoria has everything under control, doesn’t she?” says the other voice. “Is there a problem? I can speak to her before I go. Didn’t she hire enough cosmetologists? Let me check—”

  “Victoria’s not the problem!” Brianna shouts. “You’re the problem! You’re supposed to be my mom, and you don’t even care about—”

  “Don’t you raise your voice at me,” snaps Mrs. Westlake in such a scary tone that I take a quick step back from the door. “You have a very privileged life and a house full of beautiful things, and you’re getting heaps of presents today. Don’t act like a spoiled brat.”

  “I’m not. I just wanted you to—”

  “We can’t have everything we want all the time,  Brianna. You’re old enough to know that.”

  It’s silent for a second, and then Brianna’s mom’s voice changes back to perky and peppy, like someone flipped a switch inside her head. “I’ll be back in time for cake. All right, darling? Victoria got you the five-layer lemon one you wanted from Schusterman’s, with the gold leaf and sugared violets on top.”

  Brianna grumbles something, but I can’t hear what it is.

  “Have a lovely party, all right? The girl did a wonderful job with your makeup. You look so grown-up.”

  “Thanks,” says Brianna, and from her flat tone, I can tell she’d gladly go right back to being a little kid if it meant her mom would come to her party. Mrs. Westlake’s footsteps start moving away, and after a minute, I hear Brianna leave too.

  As I stand in the Westlakes’ crazy bathroom, I’m struck by a feeling so weird it takes me a minute to recognize it: I actually feel sorry for Brianna. I don’t have any servants at home to pour me fizzy drinks or do my nails, and I don’t have a solarium or diamond earrings or a cake that sounds like it belongs in a bank vault. But both my parents have been at every single one of my birthdays, beaming at me and snapping pictures while I scarfed down Zappetto’s pizza, blew out my candles, and opened my presents. I’ve really missed them the last few weeks, and it occurs to me that Brianna must feel that way all the time, even when her parents are right there.

  I try to push the thought away. I have a job to do, and feeling bad for Brianna will only complicate things.

  It’s been long enough now that I’m pretty sure I won’t be spotted leaving the bathroom, so I turn off the water and slip into the hall. But instead of heading back to the solarium, I cross the foyer and hurry up one of the curved double staircases that lead to the second floor, my feet totally silent on the plush white carpeting. It feels like I’m walking on a sponge cake. I creep down the halls and glance quickly into each room—a master bedroom wallpapered in gold, four guest bedrooms, a room full of expensive-looking leather books, another bathroom, a room with a pool table and a bunch of squishy couches—but I don’t see Edna’s painting anywhere.

  The only room left on this side of the house has a silver nameplate on the door that says BRIANNA in fancy script, and I approach it nervously. The door is shut, and I know I could get
in serious trouble if Brianna caught me poking around in her bedroom. But the grannies would want me to be thorough, right? Plus, I can’t pretend I’m not a little curious. How many ball gowns and shoes and pairs of diamond earrings does she actually have? Are there love letters from eighth-grade boys sitting on her night table? Are there Barbies in her closet that she secretly plays with when nobody else is around?

  I put my hand on the knob, but as I’m about to turn it, I hear a soft sob, and I jump back. Oh no, Brianna’s in there! If I catch her crying, she’ll probably tell everyone I have a horrible contagious rash or something. Just thinking about what she could do to me makes me want to turn around and run back downstairs. But at the same time I still feel kind of bad for her about the stuff her mom said. Maybe I should get Sabrina or Elena and ask them to come up and comfort her? Then again, if Brianna wanted to talk to them, wouldn’t she have called them up here herself?

  It occurs to me for the first time that even though Brianna has a lot of followers, she might not have any actual friends. Maybe everyone’s just afraid of her. Maybe she needs someone to talk to.

  Before I can think too hard about it, I tap quietly on the door. “Brianna, it’s AJ,” I call. “Are you okay?”

  I hear a loud sniffle, and then Brianna says, “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” She’s clearly trying to make her voice sound normal, but it comes out wet and choked.

  “I was in the bathroom, and I overheard you talking to your mom. I can’t believe she’s skipping your party.”

  It’s quiet for a second, and I wonder if Brianna’s getting ready to yell at me for butting into her personal business. Maybe she’ll throw me out of her house altogether—the grannies will be furious if I have to leave before I’ve found their painting. I’m trying to think up excuses when Brianna says the absolute last thing I ever expected to hear.

  “You can come in if you want.”

  I open the door slowly, like there might be a wild animal waiting to attack me on the other side. But it’s just a normal bedroom with big windows and pink curtains and Brianna’s jeans and shirts and books strewn all over the white carpet. Hanging over the bed is a huge photo collage of the Bananas; it’s a lot like my corkboard at home, only it’s more professionally done, and the frame says WORLD’S COOLEST DIVAS across the top in pink rhinestones. Brianna’s curled up in the middle of her flowered bedspread, her curled hair falling over her face and a ratty stuffed panda hugged tightly to her chest. As I step into the room, she shoves the panda behind her. The thought of Brianna being embarrassed in front of me is so ridiculous I almost laugh, but I manage to swallow it down.

  “What’s your panda’s name?” I ask instead, to show her it’s okay. “I have this falling-apart old armadillo named Hector at home.”

  She makes a noise that’s sort of a half sniffle, half laugh. “That’s a dumb name.”

  “I know, right? I got him when I was a baby.”

  She pulls the panda back out and sits it in front of her stomach. “This is Coco,” she says. “That’s kind of stupid too, but whatever.” She dabs at her eyes carefully with her fingers. “Is my makeup all smeared?”

  I walk over and take a closer look. Her eyes are a little red, but her mascara and sparkly gold eye shadow still look almost perfect. “It’s actually fine,” I say.

  “Thank God. Olga must’ve used the waterproof stuff. My mom would kill me if I wrecked it.”

  She grabs a tissue from her nightstand and blows her nose, and when I turn around to give her privacy, that’s when I see the enormous painting hanging across from the bed. It’s blue and green and silver and purple, all swoops and swirls and splashes that look completely random but totally planned at the same time. The paint is so thick in some places that it actually sticks off the canvas in peaks, like frosting on a cake. It’s bigger than my arm span in both directions, and the lower right corner is signed with a silver E.S.

  Edna Shapiro.

  “Whoa,” I breathe. Even though Edna showed me a picture of the painting, the real thing is so much more beautiful. I kind of see why she wants it back.

  Brianna sits up and scoots closer to the edge of the bed. “I know,” she says. “Isn’t it awesome?”

  “Who made it?” I ask, even though it’s obvious.

  “I don’t know. It’s been here since I was a baby. The signature says E.S., but I don’t know what that stands for. My dad says I used to lie there and stare at it for hours when I was little. I still do that sometimes, actually. It kind of looks like different stuff on different days, depending on what mood you’re in.” She glances at me sideways. “That sounds kind of crazy, right?”

  What’s crazy is that Brianna seems like she wants my approval. “I don’t think it’s weird,” I say. “What does it look like to you right now?”

  She squints and tips her head to the side. “It looks like a woman holding a kid,” she says. “See that curvy silver part at the top? That’s her head. And that blue part is her arm, and there’s her back, and that green part is the kid’s face. Do you see it?”

  I do see it. “Totally. That’s cool. That part on the right kind of looks like a whale to me.”

  “Oh yeah, it does.” Brianna pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “Looking at it calms me down for some reason. It’s nice to know it’s always up here waiting for me, you know?” She laughs a little. “It’s kind of lame to care about a painting this much, right? You must think I’m such a freak.”

  Actually, I like Brianna better right now than I ever have before. For once she’s not acting snotty or insulting someone or trying to show off. She always talks about stuff she wants because it’s expensive and flashy and impressive, but she never seems to have actual feelings about any of it.

  “Is it worth a lot?” I ask to test my theory. “Is E. S., like, a famous artist or something?”

  Brianna shrugs. “No idea. Honestly, even if it was worth a ton, I’d never sell it. What else could I buy that’s this cool?”

  “I don’t know, new diamond earrings or something?”

  She waves her hand like she’s trying to swat away a mosquito. “Eh, whatever. Diamonds aren’t nearly as interesting.”

  This is so weird. All Brianna has ever seemed to care about are jewelry and dresses and boats and jets. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe she talks about those things to cover up the fact that all she really has is stuff. I’ve definitely been jealous of her before, but now that I know what her family’s really like, I wouldn’t want to trade places with her for a second. I have people at home who actually care about me.

  And Edna has people who care about her, too. She has her kids and grandkids and my grandmother and Cookie and Betty and me, and probably lots of other people I don’t even know about. She doesn’t need this painting. She can always make another one. But Brianna’s life seems kind of empty, and I don’t want any part in taking away the one thing I’m sure she loves.

  “I wish I could tell the artist how much I like it,” Brianna says. “It’s weird that I look at her painting every single day and she has no idea who I even am.”

  “I’m sure she’d be really happy to know it has such a good home,” I say.

  And I hope that’s true, because if I have anything to do with it, this painting is staying right here.

  Sorry, Edna, I think to myself. I’m out.

  17

  When Stanley brings me home from the party, sparkly-eyed and shiny-nailed and curly-haired and looking totally unlike myself, the grannies are waiting for me. It’s way past six, when they usually leave, so I thought I’d have until tomorrow to work out how to tell them I’m not on board with this heist anymore. But when I open the door, Cookie’s right there in the entryway, dressed in bright red shoes and a red beret covered in sequins. Before I have time to object, she grabs my elbow and steers me toward the storage room.

  “Did you find it?” she whispers. “Come in here and tell us everything.” Then she notices my makeup and s
tops dead in the middle of the hallway, and her eyes widen behind her glasses until they practically take up her entire face. “Oh, AJ,” she breathes. “Look at you! You’re absolutely divine!”

  I’m pretty sure I actually look ridiculous—Stanley didn’t comment on my makeup at all—but I say, “Thanks, Cookie.”

  She drags me through the storage room door. “Girls, look at our AJ! She could be a little muse-in-training, don’t you think?”

  Edna looks slightly to my left and makes a sort of hmm noise, but Betty beams at me, and her eyes crinkle up until they’re almost lost in their nest of wrinkles. “So beautiful,” she says, and suddenly I do feel prettier. I smile back at her with my weirdly pink lips.

  My grandmother comes over to see what all the fuss is about, a parrot on each shoulder, and she frowns at me. “Good heavens, Annemarie. You looked so lovely when you left. What is all that ridiculous goop on your face?”

  Did Grandma Jo just give me a backhanded compliment? “It was—” I start to say, but Cookie cuts me off.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Jo. Young girls are supposed to experiment with these things. It’s perfectly harmless.”

  Grandma Jo makes a harrumphing noise. “It’s an enormous waste of time, if you ask me. Did you manage to find the painting, or were you too busy gadding about?”

  “I found it,” I say.

  Cookie and Betty let out happy shouts and pull me into one of their double hugs, and Edna raises her hands above her head and does her finger-wiggling silent applause thing. “Well done, my darling,” Cookie crows.

  Betty beams at me. “I knew you’d come through for us.”

  “Walk the plank!” Scrooge chimes in.

  Everyone looks so pleased with me, even my grandmother, that I almost can’t bring myself to say the rest of the words that are crouched in the back of my throat. I feel as nervous as I did the first time Grandma Jo made me carry a bird around. I remind myself that Ben and Maddie both said I was brave, but it turns out that the kind of bravery that involves standing up for what you believe in is harder than the kind that involves psyching yourself up to be a daredevil. I’d much rather fall off my skateboard than say no to people who are counting on me.