“This heat is nothing compared to the jungle,” my dad says as he hoists a couple camping chairs and a cooler full of drinks into the trunk. “There’s a reason people wear loincloths there. I’m thinking about changing into one before the game. You wouldn’t be embarrassed by that, right?”
Mom comes out of the house with a Fenton’s Foxes flag in one hand and Snickers’s leash in the other. My dog hops into the back with me and lies down on my feet with his tongue hanging out, and even though that makes me even hotter, I let him stay. I dig my fingers into the fur around his neck and give him a good scratch, and he licks my leg to say thanks. Mom climbs into the front and starts fixing her ponytail, which is coming loose—her hair is super fine and slippery, like mine. I get a whiff of her grapefruit shampoo as she swoops it up, and I breathe it in. I hadn’t even realized how much I’d missed that smell until she got home from the airport and hugged me.
“So, you guys are playing the Lumberjacks today?” she says. There’s this lumber store a few towns over called Lumber Jack’s, and the team they sponsor is called the Lumberjacks. Lumber Jack’s Lumberjacks. So dumb.
“Yup,” I say. “We’re going to kick some Lumberjack butt.”
“You’re gonna hit them like a falling tree,” my dad says, then makes this really cheesy Timmmmm-berrrrrr! sound. Snickers starts barking, and I roll my eyes, but I also laugh.
We’re at the field in less than five minutes, and my parents settle down next to Maddie’s on the sidelines. Maddie and Amy wave at me from where they’re warming up across the field, and I wave back and grab my shin guards and cleats out of my bag. Now that things are okay between Maddie and me, it doesn’t really bother me to see her and Amy hanging out alone anymore. It’s weird how that happens.
Before I run off to join them, my dad and I do our traditional good-luck high five, which involves an elbow bump and a hip bump and sticking your tongue out and spinning around. It looks really stupid, but I don’t care at all—I’ve missed this ritual while he’s been away. I’m not even embarrassed when I see Brianna watching us from across the field. I wave at her as I jog toward my friends, and she looks around to make sure nobody’s looking before she waves back. She hasn’t exactly been my biggest fan since the whole incident with Grandma Jo.
Amy passes me the ball, and Maddie shoots me a big smile, showing off the new hot-pink rubber bands on her braces. “Nice teeth,” I say.
“I see you brought your boyfriend to watch you play,” Amy teases.
“Eww, Amy! That’s my dad!”
She rolls her eyes. “Not him. I know who your dad is!” She points to the sidelines, and there, walking toward my parents with a big smile on his face, is Stanley. When he sees me looking, he waves, and my organs start playing a really fast game of musical chairs. When they stop moving, my stomach is the one left without a place to sit.
“Why is he—” I start to say, but then I notice something much, much weirder. Grandma Jo is leaning on Stanley’s arm, holding up her skirts with her other hand and staring down the grass like it’ll be really sorry if it dares to get her dirty. She’s wearing her usual black dress with the high lace collar, and she stops every so often to pat her forehead with a lace-trimmed black handkerchief. I’ve invited her to countless soccer games since I started playing in kindergarten, but this is the first time she’s actually shown up.
“Whoa,” I say. “What is she doing here?”
Maddie turns to see what I’m looking at. “Is that your grandma? I thought she hated that you play soccer.”
“She does.”
“She looks exactly like I pictured her,” Amy says. “She must be dying in that dress.”
“I’m pretty sure that dress is actually attached to her body,” I say.
The three of us watch as Stanley gets Grandma Jo settled in a folding chair with a cushion behind her back, near my parents but not quite close enough to have a conversation. Mom and Dad wave, but I see them exchange a Look-with-a-capital-L the moment my grandmother turns away. Since I got kidnapped on her watch, neither of them has been particularly friendly toward her.
Coach Adrian blows his whistle and calls us into a huddle, and I’m forced to stop thinking about the weirdness on the sidelines and focus on my team. It’s more important than ever that I play well, now that my parents and grandmother and Stanley are all watching.
“You guys have done great work this season,” Coach Adrian says when we’re all huddled up, a mass of orange jerseys pressed shoulder to shoulder. “I want to see some fierce, smart playing out there today, okay? You deserve to go to the playoffs, and if you give this game a hundred and ten percent, I have no doubt you will. What do you say?”
“Yeah!” we all scream, and my heart speeds up like it always does when I feel like a part of something bigger than myself.
“Hands in the middle,” Coach Adrian says, and we pile up our hands and shout, “Go Foxes!” I have a quick flash of memory of my hand piled up with Edna’s and Cookie’s and Betty’s and Grandma Jo’s inside a dark van, but I push it away.
The game goes better than I ever could’ve hoped. Maddie and I play seamlessly together, always open for each other’s passes, always covering each other’s backs. She’s constantly right where I want her to be, like we’re sharing the same brain. She and Brianna score a goal each, and I score two of my own. When the clock finally runs down, we’re two points ahead, and my team smashes into a screaming, cheering, sweaty, grass-stained group hug.
Everyone’s families rush onto the field, and my dad picks me up and spins me around. “Two goals! I’m so proud of you, AJ. You’re going to the playoffs!”
The second he lets go of me, my mom swoops me up in a hug and kisses the side of my sweaty head. “You were spectacular,” she says. I’m a little embarrassed by this super public display of affection, but then I see Brianna heading off the field alone, like always, and I remember how lucky I am.
“Thanks, guys,” I say. “Hang on a second, okay? I have to do something really quick.”
My mom lets me go, and I jog after Brianna. When I call her name, she turns around, and her long hair whips out behind her. Somehow, it still doesn’t have any tangles. “Yeah?”
“You played really well today,” I say. “I just wanted to tell you that.”
Maddie comes up beside me and drapes an arm over my shoulder—a little possessively, I think—but she gives Brianna a genuine smile. “You really did,” she says. “That goal was seriously impressive.”
Brianna looks surprised; I guess she’s not used to the people she tortures turning around and being nice to her. But she smiles back, like what we said really means something. “Thanks,” she says. “Yours too. You coming for ice cream?”
“Definitely,” I say.
“AJ,” someone calls from the sidelines, and when I turn around, I see Stanley waving me over. He has one of those ridiculous foam fingers on one hand—I have no idea where that came from—and with his other hand, he’s shielding Grandma Jo from the sun with a black lace parasol.
“Better go talk to your boyfriend,” Maddie snickers.
I shove her shoulder. “Shut up. I’ll see you at Fenton’s, okay?” As I jog toward Stanley and my grandmother, I hear Maddie making loud kissy noises behind me.
Stanley holds out his hand for a high five, and I slap his palm. “Great game,” he says. “You were on fire out there.”
“Thanks! And thank you so much for coming.” I turn to my grandmother. “Hi, Grandma Jo. I’m really glad you’re here too.”
My grandmother’s sitting with her hands folded in her lap, prim and proper as always. As she looks me up and down, taking in my messy hair and dirty knees and the streaks of mud running up one entire side of my body, I start to feel nervous. We haven’t seen each other at all since my parents brought me by to pick up my luggage, and since we weren’t alone, we couldn’t discuss anything that happened the night of the kidnapping. As usual, I can’t tell from her expression whet
her she’s pleased with me or disgusted by me.
She opens her mouth to speak, and I prepare myself for a comment about how I should play a calmer, more dignified sport, like croquet. But instead she says, “You did very well, Annemarie.”
I’m so surprised that I can’t think of anything to say for a second. “Thank you,” I finally manage to choke out.
“You played with great integrity,” she says. “You’re such a discreet athlete. You never throw your teammates under the bus, no matter what happens. That’s an admirable trait in a lady.”
Her icy blue eyes bore into mine, and I suddenly realize Grandma Jo’s not talking about soccer at all. She’s thanking me for protecting her and Cookie and Edna when I gave my statement to the police. “I’m glad you were . . . pleased with my performance,” I say.
She nods. “Very much so.”
“How are your, um, bridge games going these days?”
“They’ve been suspended for the moment,” she says. “The players are in agreement that perhaps the game of bridge has run its course. We’re considering taking up another hobby.”
I want to tell her that’s wonderful, but my parents have joined us now and are listening to our conversation, and I know that would sound pretty weird. So instead I say, “Well, I guess that leaves more time for . . . umm . . . badminton, right?”
Her eyebrows slant down into that V shape I’ve come to know so well. “Badminton?”
“You know,” I say. “That game with the birdies?”
Understanding clicks into place behind her eyes, and her mouth crooks up halfway, the closest she ever gets to smiling. “Yes, absolutely,” she says. “I’ll be spending lots of time with the birdies.”
“You’ve taken up badminton, mother?” my dad says. “Did you ask the doctor if that’s okay? Your foot hasn’t even healed yet.”
“Oh, don’t fuss over me. I can’t abide it.” Grandma Jo swats his hand away and turns back to me. “In any case, I very much enjoyed . . . participating . . . in this game with you. You played your part with great aplomb. It was my pleasure to witness.”
I give a little nod so she’ll know I get it. “Thank you, Grandma Jo. That means a lot.” Then I tease, “You know, if you liked watching me play soccer, maybe you could come to the skate park with me sometime.”
She snorts. “Skateboarding is not a sport for respectable young ladies, AJ.”
I knew that’s what she would say. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the way my name just came out of her mouth.
AJ. She actually called me AJ.
And when I look into Grandma Jo’s eyes, there’s something there that tells me things are going to be a little different between us from now on.
“Do you want to come to Fenton’s and get ice cream with us?” I ask, and my parents stare at me, totally baffled.
My grandmother shakes her head. “I appreciate the invitation, but I have things to attend to.” She looks up. “Stanley! It’s time for our next engagement.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stanley says, and as he helps Grandma Jo out of her chair and tucks the cushion under his arm, he winks at me. “Don’t be a stranger, Miss AJ,” he says, and I tell him I won’t.
Fenton’s with the team is as raucous and celebratory as usual. Amy challenges Sabrina to an ice cream–eating contest, and they both end up rolling around on the sticky floor, clutching their foreheads and moaning about brain freeze. Maddie and I get one mint chocolate chip sundae and one caramel one and trade bites back and forth until the dishes are so clean they look like they’ve come straight out of the dishwasher. I’m tired and happy and sun-drenched, and I put my grandmother completely out of my mind as I celebrate with my friends.
That is, until my parents and I are back in the car, driving down the highway toward Zappetto’s Pizzeria. As I’m staring out the window and idly pulling on Snickers’s ears, I see something coming up on the side of the road that makes absolutely no sense. There’s a small crew picking up trash with those long grabby poles, overseen by a policeman—just your typical group of people who’ve been assigned community service for small crimes. But some of these people aren’t strangers. Under the orange safety vests, I spot a red pantsuit . . . a blowing tangle of scarves . . . and a long black dress with a high lace collar.
Despite how I tried to protect them, my grandmother and her friends still crashed through the Westlakes’ garage door with their car. They still trespassed on private property and tried to steal Brianna’s cell phone. And now they’re paying for it by picking up trash on the side of the highway. I think about what Grandma Jo told me the day she first confiscated my phone: If you break the rules, you have to deal with the consequences. Seems like her own rule has come back to bite her in the butt.
If this had happened a couple months ago, I would’ve laughed and screamed and made certain my parents saw that my perfect grandmother wasn’t so perfect after all. But instead I point in the opposite direction and say, “You guys, look!”
Both my parents peer out the driver’s-side window. “What?” my mom asks. “Where? I don’t see anything.”
“There was this huge bird,” I say. “I swear it looked like a parrot or something.”
“It’s possible,” my dad says. “Some people have no idea how to take care of their pets.”
“I can’t believe I missed it,” my mom says.
“Really, honey? You didn’t see enough parrots in the rain forest?”
By the time they stop looking for the mysterious bird, Grandma Jo and Edna and Cookie are far behind us, and I know my grandmother would approve of my exceedingly proper, discreet behavior.
For a second it’s super weird, knowing Grandma Jo and I would see eye to eye on something. But when you look past the surface stuff—salad forks and skateboards and sewing and soccer—we actually have lots of things in common. We both work hard until we’re the very best we can be. We’re fiercely loyal to the people we love and try our best to guard their secrets. We’re brave and resourceful, and we can think on our feet under pressure. We stand up for what we believe in, even when it’s hard. And if we fail at something, we pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, and try again.
I look out through the back window for one last glimpse of Grandma Jo in her orange vest. And I smile to myself as I realize that in my own way, I’ve become exactly what she hoped I’d be: the very definition of a respectable lady.
Acknowledgments
I’m incredibly grateful to the following people:
My editor, Amy Cloud: I’m so glad my geriatric thieves found a home with you. Thank you for sharing my bizarre sense of humor. Say the word and I’ll kidnap Christopher Guest and hold him hostage until he makes a new movie just for you.
My superhero of an agent, Holly Root, who always encourages me when I send her e-mails that begin “So, this might be a really weird idea, but . . .” For you, I would gladly seal myself inside a wine cask, roll into Cakebread Cellars, and liberate a few cases of some fabulous vintage.
Everyone at Aladdin who worked so hard to make this book beautiful, especially my copy editor, Randie Lipkin. Better clear some room in your office for the antique printing press I’m planning to steal for you.
Angela Li, who drew me the most beautiful cover in the history of covers. I’ll disable a museum security alarm and lift a painting for you any day. Da Vinci? Degas? Let me know and I’m on it.
My ingenious early readers, who make me look far cleverer than I really am: Lindsay Ribar, Michelle Schusterman, Caroline Carlson, Claire Legrand, Jennifer Malone, Kristen Kittscher, and Nicole Lisa. I’ve liberated a parrot for each of you and am currently teaching them to sing your favorite songs. I hope none of you are allergic. (I’d better liberate some Claritin too, just in case…)
Kristin Bailey, my exotic bird expert, who was always on hand to answer questions like “Can macaws imitate the sound of a creaking door?” And Joel Kocevar, who taught me the essentials of lock picking. I’m unfamiliar with your
tastes, but perhaps you’ll accept a sack of liberated gold bars? Or maybe a sack of gift cards? That would be a lot easier to carry.
Erica Kemmerling, who makes it easy to write fabulous little sisters by providing such an excellent example. I’m planning to infiltrate the pygmy puff hatchery and liberate a whole kerfluffle of puffs for you. (Yes, that’s totally the right collective noun. Just trust me.)
And my mom, Susan Cherry, who raised me to believe that creativity and humor are important virtues. Thanks for not caring if I turned out to be a proper lady. For you, I’ve liberated the deed to a small island where it’s always eighty-five degrees and sunny. Pack your bags.
Alison Cherry is the author of the YA novels Red and For Real. She is a professional photographer and spent many years working as a lighting designer for theater, dance, and opera productions. This whole “writing books” thing is just a cover for the international crime ring she runs out of her Brooklyn apartment. (Shh, don’t tell.) Visit her online at alisoncherrybooks.com.
ALADDIN
Simon & Schuster, New York
Visit us at
simonandschuster.com/kids
authors.simonandschuster.com/Alison-Cherry
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The Classy Crooks Club Page 21
