Smash & Grab

by Amy Christine Parker

  I launch into an abbreviated explanation about why we were downtown in the first place, leaving out the part about our parents’ accounts being frozen, because it’s too embarrassing to confess even to my best friends. Instead, I say that I went to take some money out of my savings—which is the truth, just not all of it.

  “He sounds cute,” Whitney says.

  “How do you get that from what I just said?” I ask, laughing. “He had a zombie mask on. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “Come on, you described his eyes like you would a guy you’re looking to date. And he’s obviously dangerous. That’s hot,” she says, thoroughly convinced.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t date criminals,” I say, and then when Whitney raises a brow at me because technically we’re all criminals, too, I start to giggle. “Okay, not the dangerous kind, at least.”

  Quinn rolls his eyes and concentrates on getting something out of his backpack. I’m not sure what he’s upset about until I realize that he’s probably thinking about Dad. I’m making light of criminals and our dad’s in jail. If the motorcycle race we just had made him forget for a second, this conversation reminded him all over again. Smooth, Lexi, real smooth.

  “So how long before your dad’s trial and stuff?” Leo asks.

  “They set the start date for the end of summer. Both sides have to prepare their cases, I guess,” I say, watching Quinn throw his backpack over one shoulder and stuff his hands in his pockets.

  “Well, crap, that’s forever,” Whitney complains. “Does he have to stay in jail all that time?”

  Quinn shakes his head. “No. The lawyer’s helping us arrange bail, and then he’ll be out until the trial’s over. He only goes back to jail if he’s convicted.”

  Elena hugs me again. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you guys. How long will the trial last?”

  “It could take months. The lawyers haven’t given us a set timetable yet,” Quinn says.

  “Months? How are you supposed to deal with not knowing if he’ll do serious jail time for that long?”

  I wince. She isn’t trying to upset me, but her questions feel like daggers jabbing me in the gut. “We just will. Because we have to.” Quinn’s staring at me, his jaw clenched shut, hurt clear in his eyes. “Hey, can we just talk regular stuff?”

  “Absolutely, my sister will stop with the inquisition this minute,” Whitney says. “Whatever you want to do. We’re here for you. And besides, I could stand to hear more about this robbery.” Whitney gathers both me and Elena into another hug, so tight that my chin knocks against her collarbone and I get a noseful of her perfume, and then we’re all walking together toward the front entrance of the school building, with Quinn and the boys bringing up the rear.

  “I don’t believe it. You’re actually here?” Bianca, Harrison’s daughter, is a few cars over, leaning against her black BMW convertible, her two besties gathered around her. She sips at a cup full of her usual morning cocktail of kale and other healthy stuff. She makes a clucking sound. “How brave of you two. My dad said you seemed so desperate when you came to the bank to beg for money that I thought for sure you wouldn’t show up today. Good for you for proving me wrong.”

  “Ignore her,” Leo warns me. “Come on, let’s just get inside.”

  I want to listen to him, but I can’t. I turn toward her, wanting to say or do something that will knock that stupid grin right off her face.

  “Lexi. Don’t.” Quinn steps in front of me. “We don’t need any more drama.”

  I glare at Bianca. She smirks, and her besties huddle tighter around her, prepping for me to go ballistic. I want to—badly—but Quinn’s right. Getting in trouble will only make things worse.

  “Have a nice day,” Bianca singsongs, still baiting me. I let Quinn and the others lead me into school, but the whole time I picture running over Bianca’s smug face with my bike, leaving tire tracks right down the center of her new nose job. It helps a little, but not much.

  We don’t get ten feet inside before Principal Weaver blocks our path. All six foot two inches of her.

  “Alexandra and Quinn. Good morning.” Her face puckers as if she’s sucking on a handful of Sour Patch Kids. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon. How are you?”

  “We’re fine,” Quinn says. “Thanks for asking.” He looks her right in the eye, and she fidgets. Obviously, something’s up here.

  “That’s good, but really, you shouldn’t feel like you have to return to school this quickly. Why not take a few more days to be with your family? I’m sure you could all use some time to process what’s happened. We can have your friends bring you your assignments.” She starts to corral us back outside.

  “No, really, it’s okay. We want to be back. Doing normal stuff will help the most,” I say, walking around Weaver. She doesn’t need to worry about us making a scene. Quinn and I are tougher than that. I can see other students stopping to stare at us, at Weaver, curious about what’s going on.

  Weaver licks her lips. “Well then…come with me to my office for a few minutes. There are some things we’ll need to discuss. Please.” She looks at Leo and the rest of our friends. “Go on to your classes. You can talk to Quinn and Alexandra later on.” I hate when she uses my whole name like that. It makes me sound like I’m a hundred years old or something, but in all the years we’ve gone to Westwood, she’s never once called me Lexi.

  Quinn and I follow Weaver past the gawking kids in the hallway. I can hear them whispering as we pass by, but I don’t try to make out what they’re saying. I just hold my head up and concentrate on the Westwood Prep banner hanging overhead, mentally tracing over the white outline of the lion head on it.

  The principal’s office is large enough to have a sitting area, and that’s where we end up, each of us tucked into a shallow navy-blue upholstered chair with stainless-steel armrests. The room is a calculated mix of sleek modern furniture, Chinese jar lamps, Persian rugs, and gleaming mahogany tables meant to impress the parents of future students.

  Our school is the most prestigious one in Los Angeles, with a waiting list to get in, so the office is appropriately over the top, and Principal Weaver treats it like a museum. Nothing is out of place. She crosses her legs and tucks them under her chair before folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, and she’s wearing pearl earrings. The glasses perched on the end of her nose give her a librarian sort of vibe—very stiff and buttoned up, but sitting this close, I can easily see that she has a tattoo, a large one, its tip visible above the filmy collar of her shirt. It looks like it could be the raised ridge of a dragon. Rumor has it that on weekends she’s into cosplay and going to science-fiction and fantasy conventions. I can’t quite picture it. Her in a Black Widow costume.

  “I know you are dealing with a lot right now. I really hate to add to it.” She sighs. “I did try to call your mother several times but couldn’t get an answer. Of course, I assumed that I’d have a few more days to try to reach you before you came back….” She trails off.

  “My mother isn’t big on answering the phone right now,” Quinn says. “We’ve been getting a lot of threatening phone calls.”

  This is true. Some from credit card companies and some from anonymous callers who are really angry with my father.

  “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,” Principal Weaver says, looking as if she means it. She glances down at her hands. “I wish she had answered. It would have saved you the trip over here this morning. Given the nature of your father’s crimes—”

  “His alleged crimes,” Quinn interrupts her. “He hasn’t been convicted of anything.”

  “Yes, well, the school’s trustees have decided that you will not be able to attend the last few weeks of school. It would create an unsafe environment, given the highly public nature of your father’s crime.” She lets out a relieved breath, like having to tell us this has weighed on her. The poor thing. “We’ve already collected your things from your lockers,
so you won’t have to do that in front of your classmates.” Until now I hadn’t noticed the two cardboard boxes half hidden behind her chair. I stare at them, feeling like somehow this has to be a joke. I expected gossip and rude comments, but being thrown out of school never even occurred to me.

  “We don’t want to cause you any further trauma. I know it’s been hard.” She leans over to pat my hand but stops when she notices the expression on my face.

  “How exactly is the school in danger?” Quinn asks.

  The pitying look on her face makes me want to punch her. I have to look away, focus on something, anything, that will keep me from losing it. Above her desk are framed photos of Weaver with the various school board members. I shouldn’t be surprised, even though I am, to see Harrison.

  “Did the board make this decision, or did you?” I ask.

  She stares at me. “I’m not sure what difference that makes,” she says.

  “Mitch Harrison is the difference. Did he help make this decision?” I ask, my voice slow and deliberate.

  She avoids my gaze, and it’s all the answer I need. Suddenly I’m sure that my father isn’t lying about Harrison’s involvement in the mortgage scheme just to make himself look better in our eyes. He’s telling the truth. And now Harrison wants to distance himself from us as much as he can because he wants my dad to take the fall alone.

  “What about finals? What happens to our grades?” Quinn roars as what she’s said finally sinks in.

  “I’ve emailed your mother some names of private instructors who are willing to proctor your finals. Pass them—I have no doubt you will—and your grades will not be affected at all. But I do need to be clear: all end-of-the-year activities—the upcoming Griffith Observatory field trip and the school’s Summer Celebration Dance—neither of you will be allowed to attend.” She stands up. “Look, I know this isn’t easy. But it couldn’t have come at a better time in terms of how far along we are in the school year. Try to see it as bonus summer vacation time.”

  “What about next school year? We’ll be able to come back then, right?” Quinn asks. “For my senior year?”

  She presses her lips together and begins massaging her temple. “I can’t answer that right now, Quinn. The school’s admissions committee and, of course, our board of trustees will have to readdress your enrollment at our July meeting.” Which is as good as saying no. I think I might be sick.

  “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I say. “This isn’t fair. None of this is our fault, and yet we keep getting treated like it is. We did nothing wrong!” I’m yelling now, and I don’t care if the whole school hears me. This isn’t right. We’ve gone to this school for eight years. Every friend we have in the world goes here. Quinn’s wrestling team, my architecture and design club. Our whole lives are centered around this place. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we might not ever get to come back.

  “Alexandra, calm down. Getting hysterical won’t change things.” Weaver hands me a tissue even though I’m not crying. “Why don’t we stop by the counselor’s office on the way out? Taking a little time to chat with Mr. Soto might help.” She picks up her phone and looks relieved to have something to do. “Eugenia, ask Tom to come get the kids’ boxes for them, and have Mr. Soto clear his morning schedule. The Scotts will be coming in to meet with him. Thank you.”

  “We’re not meeting with Soto,” I say loudly. “We don’t need a counselor. What we need is some compassion, but apparently you’re incapable of it.”

  Quinn gets up from his chair, his face a total blank, the way it always is when he’s really upset. Where I blow up, he withdraws.

  “This isn’t the end. My father’s lawyers will see to that,” I say, hoping like crazy it’s true.

  That she doesn’t look at all concerned rattles me. Without another word I storm past her. Quinn stumbles after me. The ladies in the office get hyperfocused on their paperwork as we go by, but outside the office a group of students has gathered, and they are staring in through the large front window at us like we’re animals in a zoo exhibit.

  I don’t want to go out there, but then I spot Leo, Whitney, and Elena in the crowd. I take a deep breath and push the office doors open. It’s quiet. Everyone in the hall is watching us.

  “Lexi.” Derek pushes past them. “Everything okay?”

  He should be mad at me. I text-dumped him with barely an explanation. It was awful. I was awful. He’s a nice guy. I had fun dating him. But then he started looking at me as though he really liked me. It sounds mental now, thinking it. I know it does, but his look felt like…a trap.

  I couldn’t feel the same about him. I didn’t want to feel it back. I just wanted to be free. He should be furious, because he didn’t deserve what happened.

  “Lexi, are you okay?” he tries again. He goes to take my hand, but I wrench it away. I can’t have him being nice right now. All I want is to get out of here. I have to stay mad. Mad is better than crying.

  “I can’t do this right now,” I say, and then more softly, “I’m sorry. Really. But I can’t.”

  He looks wounded and maybe a little bit angry. That’s good. I deserve that. Someday I’ll try to talk to him about things. Right now, I’ll just screw it up if I try. Note to self: no more dating for a long while. I need to figure out how to not suck at relationships.

  “What’s going on?” Leo calls, running to catch up with me and Quinn as we head for the parking lot. “Lexi! Wait.”

  I shake my head. I can’t talk, not now, or I’ll cry—and I won’t do that in front of half the school. No way.

  “I’ll call you,” I say over my shoulder, and am relieved that I sound calmer than I feel. The bell rings. I turn around and paste on a smile. “Better not be late to class or maybe they’ll kick you out, too.”

  Leo’s eyes go wide.

  We don’t wait for the custodian to bring our boxes out. Stupid Weaver. Where were we supposed to put them, anyway? We drive here on motorcycles every day; has she really never noticed?

  We jump on our bikes, and I slam mine into gear and take off for the exit. I let out a scream. Harrison needs to pay for his part in all this. If my family is going down in flames, I will make it my mission to drag him down with us.

  The one bright spot in this crap storm? Having no school means I can concentrate on getting my money and going after Harrison.

  —

  The Bank of America looks completely normal. No crime-scene tape or police blocking the front door. If I hadn’t been here yesterday, it would be hard to believe a robbery happened at all.

  Stooping down, I touch the spot on the concrete where I fell and replay the moment in my mind. I try to imagine what it must’ve been like. To be him. Running out of the bank, racing against time, leaving with a whole lot of cash. There’s something sexy about stealing that much money, especially knowing that no one was hurt. Besides, banks have insurance for this sort of thing. I envy the guy a bit. Today he has money. Not sure I can say the same thing for myself, I think, glancing at the ATM at the front of the building.

  My phone vibrates against my hip. Quinn’s just texted.

  Where r u?

  Had an errand 2 run. Nothing important. C U L8R.

  I sneaked out almost as soon as we got back from school. Maybe I should’ve told him I was going, but I knew he’d want to tag along, and I needed some time alone. Also, I wanted to prove that coming here was no big deal. Get back on the horse and all that. I could’ve gone to another Bank of America—there’s practically one on every street close to our house—but it felt important to do this. I won’t let my father’s arrest or getting kicked out of school or a freak run-in with a dangerous criminal do me in. I am determined to get back some control over my life, even if it’s doing something as silly as revisiting this ATM.

  I walk to the end of the line of people waiting to use the ATM, and I dig into my bag for my card. The sidewalk is crowded with tourists and shoppers headed for the Bloc mall. I don
’t pay much attention until one of them bumps my shoulder, hard enough that I drop my bag. My wallet and half a dozen other things tumble across the sidewalk.

  “Thanks a lot,” I call after the suit who knocked into me. He turns and shrugs a halfhearted “sorry” but keeps going.

  Jerk.

  “Need some help?” A boy about my age stoops down as I scramble to retrieve my lipstick. My wallet was unzipped, and half of my cards are strewn out beside it. A quarter rolls right under the boy’s shoe. Just perfect.

  “No thanks. I have it…,” I start to say. I look up and he’s right next to me, his mouth twitching into a grin. Oh wow. I stare, taking in his short black hair and the scruff along his chin, accentuating his jawline. He has thick lashes over deep brown eyes that gleam softly every time he smiles. I suck in a breath. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, his smile less certain all of a sudden. I’m full-on gawking at him like I’ve never seen a boy before. I laugh a little, feeling embarrassed. My head’s obviously all screwed up. The past few days are starting to get to me. Here I am, going weak in the knees over some random stranger. That’s not me. Whitney maybe, but definitely not me. I concentrate on retrieving my things.

  “Yeah, I guess I could use some help.”

  He plucks up my wallet and begins to put the cards back inside it, his eyes going from it to me and back again. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  Okay, Lex, shake it off. You’ve got work to do, I tell myself.

  “Yes. I’m fine. Thanks.” I stuff my lipstick, gum, and phone back into my purse.

  He slips the last card into place and holds out my wallet. “Here you are.”

  I take it, and our fingers accidentally touch. A little fizz of energy passes from the spot where my fingers are brushing against his to the center of my stomach. His hand draws back quickly. I look up. He’s staring at me, his eyebrows knit together in surprise or maybe confusion. There’s something between us. Undeniable. This boy. Looking at him is like letting a hundred hummingbirds loose in my chest. I feel an irresistible urge to find out more about him….It’s sudden and unexpected and weird. Exciting, too. Disconcerting? Um, yes.