Path of Thieves

by Sunniva Dee

  “I’m glad you came with,” I say while she catches her breath.

  “You are?” Her eyes sparkle. That’s a really good look.

  “Yeah. Very.”

  A slow smile spreads over her face at that, and I return it, biting my lip. She holds the bottle up, wiggling. “The cap’s being stupid.”

  I take over and screw it off. Pour a generous amount into a plastic cup for her.

  Later, we dance to some upbeat eighties tune by one of the bonfires. Then we dance to a perfectly slow nineties tune. By the time she leans her head on my shoulder, I wonder if the future can ever beat this present.

  “You look absurd.”

  “I think it’s kinda hot,” Step-Cynth says.

  My father glares at her, and she lifts a shoulder in apology, that side of her shirt sliding off and showing a black bra strap. “Babe, he’s just a kid. It’s the hairdo that’s sorta sexy, you know what I mean?”

  Everything is wrong with that statement. I’m almost eighteen. She’s twenty-two. My dad is forty-five.

  “If I’m a kid, you are too.”

  “Cugs, enough! You better show respect for your—”

  “Stepmom? Sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry.” I bow deeply. Unfortunately, she starts to laugh, causing Dad to be mad at both of us.

  “You. Go to your room right now. And you’re dying that blue and red thing right back to blond.”

  I brush my hand over the mohawk. It feels awesome, like a soft brush against my fingers. Bear’s looks crazy good too. It’s yellow against his dark skin, and then he mixed in a checker-pattern with orange. Even Liza loves it.

  “It’s the American flag,” I tell my father.

  “Where’s the white?” Step-Cynthia asks from behind.

  I turn and point. It’s on both sides, not at the end and the very front above my forehead as I’d asked. The barber was all over the place after Bear’s checker-do.

  “Go. To your room!”

  I lock the door behind me and turn up the music so I don’t have to hear their hissed disagreement and subsequent makeup cuddles. I get on Facebook. Damn Paislee’s request. I can’t remove it. I just can’t, and it starts an avalanche of associations every time I see it.

  Edelweiss. Dad and his old-timey favorites. Does Paislee remember that song with the same dread I do? It’s what he played when we drove off, leaving her crying in Mom’s arms on our porch in Rigita.

  I wonder if her old best friend is on Facebook. Keyon Arias. It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone with that name. I look, and there are only three. One lives in Latin America. Another doesn’t have a profile picture up. But the first choice, at the top, is of some fan page for Keyon Arias, a public figure.

  I click it. Sure, I was little when I last saw Keyon, but he definitely wasn’t a buff-as-hell MMA fighter.

  Intrigued, I still scan the pictures. This guy’s got some cool shots from fights. He’s smashing in people’s faces with ease, it seems.

  Keyon from Rigita must have been twelve or thirteen when Dad and I moved. I remember him with medium dark skin like this Keyon, but with long hair. Also, he was shorter than Paislee and super-skinny, nothing like Mr. Warrior, here.

  Another memory. Me walking in on Paislee and Keyon in her room. Hunched over, Keyon’s shoulders shook, and I instantly knew that he was crying. Paislee looked up at me, a towel in her hand and tears in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “What’s wrong with Keyon?”

  “Some jerks at school beat him up. I’m going to kill them.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re going to stay out of this.” Keyon’s voice trembled, and I didn’t like that sound. “I don’t want you in trouble too.”

  “Keyon, if you don’t tell your mother, I will. They need to know this crap is still happening,” she said.

  “No!” I shouted before Keyon could answer. Surprised, he turned. Blood streaked the area between his nose and mouth, and a cut that ran down his lip oozed scarlet.

  “Really, and why not, Cugs?” Judging by Paislee’s expression, she was seconds from throwing me out.

  “Because his mom will tell the principal, and Keyon will be in trouble too.”

  “Exactly. One of these days I’ll beat the shit out of them. Just you wait.”

  He did beat up his tormentors, and it wasn’t long after.

  I examine public-figure Keyon’s pictures. His body has nothing in common with what I remember of Paislee’s friend, and his hair is shorter. But people’s eyes and smiles tend to remain the same, and I used to think that Keyon’s eyes looked like the neighbor cat’s. I find a photo where the fighter stares at the photographer. I download it and blow it up to double size. Yep, cat eyes.

  Paislee’s Keyon. Is he a mixed martial arts fighter in Tampa? Fan-page Keyon’s age is right. He trains at a gym called Alliance Cage Warriors. For a second, I play with the thought of going down there and watching him fight. Tampa is nowhere near Newbark but a hell-of-a-lot closer than Rigita. I’d be able to tell for sure if I saw him in person. I wonder if the real Keyon is still in my sister’s life.

  I stand. Stare at myself in the mirror Mary once hung up by my window, and drag my fingers through the mohawk.

  My phone rings.

  “Did you go through with it?” Nadine asks as soon as I pick up.

  “No, Bear and I were just messing around the other night.”

  “Yeah?” She has doubt and humor in her voice. “Show me your head.”

  “Uh-huh, want to meet up halfway between Newbark and South Beach?”

  Nadine’s laughter often tricks me. It’s breathy, which has me thinking she’s just exhaling—until she ends on a short giggle. Then I realize she’s been laughing the whole time. It makes me smile when she reacts that way.

  “I wish,” she says. “I’ve got school tomorrow.”

  “Right, I’m flipping off school right now. Too bad you can’t see me.”

  “Take a picture and send it to me.”

  I record a video. Start it by raising my middle finger at the concept of school in general. Then I hold the phone far away, widening my eyes as I narrow in on my face and show her the top of my mohawk. I do a jet plane sound through the swiping overview.

  Nadine opens my text and watches the video. “I love it. You look like a total rebel.”

  Funny how “rebel” can mean different things to different people. To Nadine, maybe it means seeing the guy who shoplifted her father’s mansion. To me, “rebel” would be to ditch my father and go to college.

  I accept Paislee’s friend request.

  I can’t consider the consequences.

  A few hardboiled eggs and a slice of bread later, and I’m in the wreck and heading to school. I stop at two traffic lights. It’s impossible to keep my fingers off my phone.

  Before, Paislee’s Facebook wall wasn’t accessible to me, but now that I’ve approved her, all these photos come into view. Mom is there, smiling. She looks older but so damn sweet, like I remember.

  I regret this. Why rip the bottom out of the past when it kept the present together? I fall.

  Snow, lots of snow. Houses on narrow streets. There’s a picture of Paislee with a guy. She’s smiling too. Is she happy?

  All these years.

  Paislee still looks like herself. Would she recognize me?

  I park behind the school, grab a spot at the far end of the lot. I’ve got a few minutes to lose myself, so I cover my face and let my stomach clench and heave up unmanly sounds.

  I wonder what it would have been like if I hadn’t resented them.

  “Margaret chose Paislee over you.”

  I understand now, but I didn’t until I absorbed the concept of illegitimacy. Even if she had a choice, she wouldn’t have chosen me.

  “My ex-wife raised her real good. Pa
islee and Margaret are the same. They’re two peas in one needy, nagging pod.”

  Moisture floods my eyes. I don’t remember the two of them that way. I was probably too little to see them for who they were.

  Class starts in a few minutes, so I need to get a grip. With the back of a hand, I wipe my face dry, and then I hoist my backpack up on a shoulder and stride around the corner.

  On the way in, I scroll further down on Paislee’s Facebook wall and find her with someone who looks a whole lot like public-figure Keyon Arias.

  In Trig, my phone buzzes with the first Facebook message from my sister, our first contact in eleven years. My chair screeches as I rise and stalk to the exit.

  Paislee started messaging me only days ago, but it’s already eating me up. I had to do something about it, so here we are at the MJA Center in South Beach.

  “Dude, really?” Bear elbows me in the ribs.

  “Really. I’m just here to watch his fight.”

  Music thumps from the speakers and competes with the colored lights washing over the audience. The spots still, drawing my attention to the cage at the center. Again.

  “Sure you are. Just go up there, after. You know, say, ‘Hi, I’m Paislee’s brother,’ or something. That’s all you need.”

  Bear’s harpy, and I’m antsy and jumpy. “Right, so my issue is that I don’t know how to introduce myself now?”

  “You tell me.” Bear clamps his hands on his hips, and I know that look well. He’s waiting for a reply to reject.

  “I don’t want him to know about me, and I definitely don’t want Paislee to know I’ve met Keyon.”

  Liza angles into view from the other side of Bear. She’s dwarfed by him, only visible when she leans forward. “Look at Bear’s face! He totally gets you right now,” she jokes.

  Bear rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh, because he’s worse than a chick. Talk about politics, man.”

  “Shut up, dork. We’re in a fun new city. Let’s just enjoy the show and have a blast, ’kay.” I pull Nadine’s hand into my lap, squeezing it.

  “New? Not for me it isn’t. I live in South Beach, remember?” She slides a lock behind an ear and peers up at me. Nadine holds the power to make a guy feel light. “Not that new for you either, Cugs.” Her smile is wry, and my heart jumps. How long can she keep secrets?

  “We’re getting soda and peanuts. You guys want something?” I link Nadine’s arm with mine and pull her with me a little too fast.

  “Sure, get us two Cokes, and peanuts for us too,” Bear retorts with Liza nodding her agreement.

  The benches are placed close to each other, so Nadine and I have to weave between excited spectators. Overhead, the spots dim, leaving us with my cell phone as the main source of light.

  I realize then that if Nadine is to spend any time with my friends, she needs to learn how little they know about my life. In the snack line, I lean in against her ear. “Just so you’re aware, no one knows about my father’s job. They think he’s in IT and works from home.”

  “Oh. Not even your best friends?”

  “No. It would be a liability.”

  Double life. Light side and dark side. Newbark and school and friends are the light side. Shopping is dark, so dark. And then there’s this third new side that consists of Nadine and Nadine only.

  “It’s funny. My father never told me to keep what we do a secret. I just knew that no one would approve and all hell would break loose if I talked about it.”

  “That’s got to be hard to do as a little kid. To keep quiet, I mean.”

  “You’d think, except it’s not so hard when you’re scared of your only parent being sent to jail.”

  “Ah.” She lifts her face, showing the white of her throat. I stroke the soft skin with two fingers while we wait for the concession stand to assemble our order.

  “Can’t wait to turn eighteen.” Eighteen is freedom. Eighteen is no more Newbark.

  “Are you leaving town?”

  This girl reads minds.

  “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

  Behind us, the commentator roars out unintelligible encouragements. The music starts up again, something heavy metal as the audience claps.

  “That’s our cue. Ready?” I gather our stuff in the crook of my arm and tangle our fingers together.

  As we sit down, my phone buzzes. It’s Dad. My heart sinks, because it’s Saturday, his favorite shopping day. I’m enjoying this rare night, this time I’ve got off. It’s a vacation from life, and I don’t want it ruined.

  I don’t pick up.

  Two fights in, Keyon Arias ascends the stairs to the cage. Glistening from his warm-up, he lets his stare burrow into his opponent.

  I’m iffy on the techniques, but uppercuts, all sorts of punches, really, seem to be something Keyon excels at. We applaud when the fight is over. The referee lifts Keyon’s arm in victory, and afterward, he clasps his opponent’s hand.

  “Good job,” Keyon murmurs, and the other fighter bobs out a Thanks, man. But when Keyon swings to accept the crowd’s salute, his cat eyes come right at me, and I suck in a sharp breath. There’s no doubt that public-figure Keyon is my sister’s friend from Rigita.

  “Your father is insistent, huh?” Nadine stares at my lit-up phone. I remove it from my pocket, swearing to never use these pants again. Talk about transparency.

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat and look back up. “Guess he needs me.”

  “For what?”

  “What do you think, Nadine? It sure isn’t to lay around watching movies.”

  “Sorry.” She’s contrite.

  She. Is contrite. It slams into me, implodes in my chest as I swing away to read my father’s text. I’m the one breaking into houses, stealing stuff that law-abiding people have saved up for; I’m the one who should feel guilty. I stole Nadine’s family’s stuff, and here she sits looking contrite?

  I don’t know why I’m here with her. She’s so sweet. Nadine’s only mistake is to go on an outing with me, someone Gramps in Rigita would’ve called from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Meet me on Harbor Street 15 at 10:15.

  Saints and sinners. I know who’s who.

  Can’t, I text my father back. There are several fights left to watch, and I’m delivering Nadine to her door. Then I plan to head back home.

  It’s the shopping of the year. Don’t leave me hanging. We’ll be in and out, and the fridge will be full for a month. I need my bagger.

  I’m off tonight!!! Three exclamation points aren’t enough. The screen should fill up with them. I wanted one Saturday off, just one. Told you I have a date.

  Yes, and you’re right there in South Beach. Make arrangements, or we won’t be paying for electricity this month. You want that on your conscience?

  I stand abruptly. Frustrated, I shove the phone into my back pocket. I should have left the damn thing in the wreck. “Nadine. I have to go.”

  She looks up quickly, coffee-colored strands sliding down over her shoulders. She says something I can’t hear, so I just cup her shoulder with a hand. “I can drive you home if you want, or I can ask Bear to take you after the fights are over.”

  In the wreck, she asks, “Is it always like this for you?”

  I think about that. Dad doesn’t mess with school. He never asks me to work with him on weekdays. That’s big, I guess.

  “Hey, at least we never fight.” I open my palms, chill-like.

  “As in physically?”

  “Yeah.” I forget to slow down at a traffic light and accidentally run a red light. My heart skips, instinctively worrying about cops. “Well. Except that one time.”

  “Did he beat you or something?”

  “Well, he lost it a little bit on me.” And there I go, back to my twelfth birthday. I share the highlights with Nadine, but my mind recalls every detail:
/>   I’m too old for balloons, but this year Dad goes all out and fills the prefab with them. They’re there in the morning, all over the kitchen and living room, and he playfully shoves one into my room as he wakes me up. “Peach pie for breakfast because someone just turned twelve. Congrats, son! I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thank you.” Small bubbles of happiness trickle out hope in my chest, because is today when everything changes?

  “You gave out all the party invites, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is everyone coming?” Dad sounds as eager as I allowed myself to be last night.

  “I think so?”

  “Don’t doubt it, son. Of course they’re coming.” He’s a father I haven’t seen in a while, encouraging and loving. His line of work is stressful, and it’s tough to keep a roof over our heads. I know that.

  “I want to play football,” I blurt out.

  He quiets, brow furrowing as he considers my wish. “I already have a birthday present for you.”

  I can’t help peeking behind his back. He does have a giftwrapped package there. It even has a ribbon on it. “They told us at school that Coach Summers is looking for new players.”

  “He is, is he?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What position do you want to play then?”

  “Wide receiver. I want to do all the touchdowns.”

  My answer is good, because Dad rolls out a deep, genuine laugh. He puts the present in my lap, scooting the piece of pie out of the way, and tells me to open it. “You know, football equipment is expensive.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t think about the gear. Shoulder pads, shoes, helmet. Do we buy all of that? It’s not the school’s? Dad must know though. For a second, I want to suggest robbing a house that has kids who play football. Then I swallow, ashamed.

  I tear the package open, and inside I find a pair of football cleats. They look expensive. Black. Shiny. I look up, confused.

  “Thank you,” I say fast, because I don’t have time for more. I need to rip them out of the box and push my feet into them. They fit me, a second skin. Dad helps me with the laces, and holy, they’re perfect.