by Shana Silver
I walk right on past Mrs. Caldwell, past the stacks of leftover pizzas, hoping to convey that I don’t care. That I won’t be jetting straight to the first pizza parlor I can find after school. (Okay, fine. Pizza Thursdays sound amazing.)
Once everyone has voted, and the students scurry off to third period, Mrs. Caldwell takes the box back to her empty classroom to count the ballots. Natalie and I spring into action. I carry a trusty hall pass, this one obtained the legit way: by raising my hand and faking period cramps, much to the embarrassment of my teacher, Mr. Linker. I trudge through the empty hallways and pause at my locker across the way from Mrs. Caldwell’s door. That’s when the “new” substitute teacher stumbles past, winking at me in the process.
Constellations of age spots connect on her orange-tanned face, her white-blond bangs falling into her eyes. Her overly pushed-up breasts jiggle from her bouncing feet. She looks like a middle-aged woman who just got divorced and now has to work a job for the first time in her entire life. Tears stream down her face, and she lets out a hiccup.
She looks nothing like Natalie … but that’s entirely the point.
Her fist bangs against Mrs. Caldwell’s door. I keep to my locker but watch the exchange through the mirror. Mrs. Caldwell opens the door with a look that could fry ants on contact.
“Hi!” Natalie shrieks, altering her voice by an octave and speaking in a heavy Boston accent. “Oh God, this is so embarrassing. I’m a new substitute that just got called in, filling in for Western Civ?” She hiccups and then sniffles a few times. “And I can’t find the classroom. E602.” Of course not, it’s nowhere near this hallway. In fact, it’s on the clear opposite side of the school. “And I don’t want to look like an idiot to the office by asking them and, oh man, I’m already three minutes late for class!”
Mrs. Caldwell lets out a huge sigh but then steps out of her classroom and locks the door behind her. “Follow me.”
“Oh my gosh! Thank you so much! You saved my life!” Natalie hustles after her, and I roll my eyes at how thick she’s laying it on. She loves the drama.
But so do I.
Too bad when they get to the Western Civ classroom, it’ll be empty, and Natalie will clamp her hand over her mouth and apologize for completely messing up the schedule, because she has a free period now.
But this gives me approximately five minutes to pick the lock on Mrs. Caldwell’s door, slip inside, switch the ballots, and then slink away unscathed.
I unzip my black case until I’m reunited with twenty little silver tools. My best friends. Unlike Natalie, they don’t try to meddle in my love life (or lack thereof). I plunge my tiny tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and apply slight pressure until the pins inside the keyhole start to shift. I’ve done this so many times, my pulse doesn’t even dare to race. With my tension wrench in the bottom, I slide a Bogota rake into the top of the keyhole all the way to the back. Still applying pressure to the wrench, I twist the rake back and forth in the keyhole until all the pins set and I hear the magical click.
Too bad no one can see the grin on my face.
Mrs. Caldwell hadn’t gotten very far in counting ballots, only about ten so far, so I leave those where they are and simply pluck the remaining pile from the box and shove it into my waistband. I drop the forged ones inside the box and spin on my heels to leave, but before I do, I quickly pick the lock on her desk drawer and swipe a yellow permission slip from the pile. I manage to stash the real ballots in my locker before Mrs. Caldwell even returns to her room.
At lunch, Colin hovers at the entrance to the cafeteria, shaking hands (and probably flirting) with every girl who cast a vote to thank them. He even holds out his hand to me.
“I’d say good luck, but you’re going to need more than that to win today,” I say in lieu of shaking his hand. And then I drop a permission slip into his palm. It only contains one sentence, written in my best interpretation of his handwriting:
Luck is for losers.
Colin’s mouth drops open, and I bask in the glory of having him realize I beat him at his own game. But a moment later, his eyes flash and a slow grin spreads over his face. “Wow, okay. How did…? Wow.”
I do an internal victory dance. Not only did I surprise him, I knocked the most charming guy around so far off his game that he can’t even string together a coherent sentence.
CHAPTER 4
“How are the forgeries coming?” Dad hovers over my shoulder at the dining room table a week later as I slave over a crime worse than theft: algebra. “I hope you’re not letting that boy distract you? I can’t have him blabbing anything about us to his father.”
I pull my math book closer like a shield. “He’s not a distraction!”
“You sound mighty defensive right now.” Dad slides in across the table from me and lifts his brow.
I let out an aggravated sigh and rush in with details. “The amusement park skull prop is nearly complete.” It’s a painstaking sculpture modeled out of clay that took me over two months. “And the guitar just needs a little more distressing before it’s good to go.”
Dad taps his fingers against the wooden table. “And the book?”
I hesitate, twisting partially away from him. “I’ve run into a bit of an issue, but I’ll work it out. It’ll be ready in time.”
Dad’s face suddenly grows concerned. “What kind of issue? Is it too difficult to re-create?”
“No, I can do it.” This time I’m not defensive, I’m confident. “But—” I shift in my seat. I was hoping to solve this on my own instead of admitting to him that maybe I don’t have this completely under control. But we’re a team. Maybe he can help. “I can make it look perfect. Except I can’t help think about all the stuff Mom taught me. That it’s not just about appearances, it’s about texture. Feel. Smell. History. All the stuff that’s impossible to re-create without the right materials.”
When I helped her with an Artemisia Gentileschi forgery, she traveled all the way to Italy to steal canvas made in the sixteenth century.
“If anyone ever touches the pages, it’ll be obvious that I’m using modern paper instead of paper made in ye olde olden times. It’s a risk, because if they ever get suspicious and test the fibers, they’ll know. And then they’ll link it to us.”
Dad massages his jaw. “Then we need to use paper that will pass the test.”
I laugh. “Easy peasy. I’ll just go to my local art supply store and buy some sheets made in 1492.”
Dad chuckles. “Fiona, we’re thieves. We’re not going to buy anything.” His fingers fly across his phone, and a few minutes later, he shouts, “Aha!” He slides the phone across to me.
I squint at the website. “A rare-book store?” The one on display on his phone is only an hour away.
“Read the top listing.”
Guest Book kept at Tabard Manor, Southwark, the home of Sir Bartholomew Godefryd of Schleswig-Holstein and his wife Lady Elizabeth, from 1498–1501.
Price: $15,000.
“Quite a book title.” My eyes bug out at the price. The description indicates there are only four pages of signatures from noble guests, and the rest of the pages are blank. “And quite a book to steal.”
He shakes his head at me. “We’re not stealing the entire book. There are only two pages on display in the case at the Hesburgh Library because the book’s propped open, so that’s all we need in order to make a convincing forgery. Two pages plus a few for contingency.”
“And a lot of prayers,” I mumble.
* * *
Excitement rushes through my veins at the start of another con. On Saturday, Dad parks the car in front of a brick bookstore squeezed between two glossy mirrored office buildings in the heart of downtown San Fran. Big window displays showcase rare first editions of books. A little bell jangles when we walk inside, and an old man at the counter perks up. Colorful selections of hardcover spines pack the mahogany shelves that line the walls. The musty smell of literary perfume surrounds us.
An X-Acto knife waits in the pocket of my jeans, my only weapon in this con.
Dad came with his own set of weapons: trustworthy fake blue eyes, expensive tailored clothing that screams wealth, and a firm, politician handshake. Natalie traced my eyes with heavy kohl liner and doused my waist-length blond hair with temporary black hair dye. Goth chic. Dad marches right up to the desk.
“Hi, sir, I called yesterday about—”
I act annoyed and bored, crossing my arms for emphasis and sighing so loudly a lock of hair flies away from my face.
The man nods. “Right this way.” He emerges from behind the large checkout counter, where vintage posters of artwork hang behind the wall, each one depicting the original illustrations that became the covers for classic novels. “I’ve already set it out for you.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Dad says. “I’ve spent years collecting incunabula such as the De pollutione nocturna.” Rule #5: The best way to convince someone you know what the hell you’re talking about is to throw around words that a normal person wouldn’t know. Incunabula: a term coined in the seventeenth century that refers to books printed during the first fifty years of the invention of the printing press. “I’m absolutely thrilled to take a look at it today.” Man, he’s good. His eyes even light up on the last sentence, like he can’t believe his luck—even though we make our own luck by controlling the variables as much as possible.
“This gonna take long?” I poke Dad’s arm and jut my head toward the door. “I thought we were going on a tour of Alcatraz. I want to see the prison.” His feet won’t budge, of course. This is all part of the strategy.
“We will. After we finish here. I’ll just be a sec, okay, hon?” He flicks his wrist dismissively at me and turns back to the clerk. “Sorry about that. I promised her a fun family vacation, and here I am, dragging her to a bookstore. That’s like a teenager’s worst nightmare!” He chuckles and earns a reciprocal smile from the clerk.
The clerk needs to think I’m just an accessory, completely not interested in the rare books. This way he’ll focus all his attention on Dad.
And forget all about me.
“So, the De pollutione nocturna? When I saw your recent acquisition”—Dad kisses his fingers—“I knew I had to drive up here and buy it.” Dad’s asking about the De pollutione nocturna because he can’t be asking about the guest book. We need to lure the clerk’s attention away from the guest book, and the De pollutione nocturna’s rare enough that the clerk won’t want to remove his eyeballs from it. It was one of the first books ever printed by printing press, all the way back in 1466. The book’s written in Latin and deals with the subject of morals, so maybe not the best choice for an epic con, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Yes, recently acquired at auction in Cologne. I thought I’d be able to hold on to it longer than three weeks, though!” The man laughs, dollar signs popping in his eyes. His knees wobble with every step on the rickety spiral staircase, his elbow rattling as he clutches the wooden bar for support. The steps creak with each footfall.
I follow behind them, striking my combat boots against the wood loud enough so he knows I’m there. So he can keep track of me peripherally.
When we reach the top floor, the owner unearths an old key from his pocket and slides it into an unmarked, locked door. With a push, he shoves the heavy wood open into a room so filled with old leather-bound copies of books, the entire place takes on a sepia tone. Dust swirls in the air, making me cough. Wooden tables hold several rare books, but the rarest, the first editions, the manuscripts so old they can’t be exposed to the air without consequences, wait inside glass cases, face out, mocking me.
I spot my target: the guest book filled with glorious pages made from linen rags and animal glue that rests on the middle shelf in one of the big glass cases.
The owner leads Dad to a podium in the back of the room where the De pollutione nocturna waits. Dad’s fingers reach out for it, slowly, as if he’s too afraid to touch the pages. His sharp intake of breath does a great job of showcasing his intense interest.
“This one!” I exclaim. Both heads whip in my direction. “I want to see this one.” I jab one hand toward the guest book, my other cocked on my hip. “I need a new notebook for my lyrics.” I croon what sounds like a verse of an angry parents-cover-your-ears punk song. Mostly it’s just swear words.
“Miss, that guest book is an antique from the fifteenth century. One of the only bound manuscripts with most of the pages left blank.” The man turns back to the De pollutione nocturna and opens the cover for Dad to see, mumbling something about the author, Jean Gerson.
“Dad.” I cross my arms. “Are you just going to let him ignore me?” Some people say you catch more flies with honey, but sometimes you can do it with belligerence.
Dad holds up a finger to the old man, and then crosses the room to where I’m standing. He leans toward me, and we engage in a fierce whisper argument, both of us saying nonsense and trying not to laugh at the other’s acting skills. After a moment, he spins back to the clerk. “How much is the guest book exactly?”
The man rattles off the price, but the question isn’t about cost anymore. It’s about how far this clerk will have to go to keep me happy in order to snag Dad’s sale of the bigger-ticket item. After all, the De pollutione nocturna costs two hundred thousand dollars. The man’s hesitation is written plainly on his face. A choice. A sale or preserving a rare piece of history.
His keys jingle in his palm as he ambles over to us, limping and clutching the tables in the middle for support. Dad stays by my side to prove he’s trustworthy by not studying the priceless first edition alone while the clerk’s back is turned.
The glass door screeches as the owner slides it open. He lugs the guest book off the shelf, and a cloud of dust puffs into the air. The manuscript sits heavy in his palms, his back bending.
The man’s chest bulges in and out as he wheezes. He ambles to another podium and sets down the diary for me. He keeps his hand tight on the book and steps aside to give me only enough space to run my finger over one of the pages.
“The oils from your fingers can ruin the paper.” He snaps the book closed, and the wrinkles around his mouth deepen. “I can’t allow any more touching without purchase. How would you like to pay for both?” he asks Dad.
“Do you like it?” The smile Dad offers me comes complete with a little twinkle in his eye. It’s the kind of smile any whipped parent would make to buy their child’s love.
I shrug. Gotta play up the part.
“We’ll take this for sure,” Dad says. “But I have a few more questions about the De pollutione nocturna if you don’t mind.”
The man beams. “I don’t mind at all.”
Now that he’s got a hefty sale locked, he turns his back on me and leads Dad over to the other book. “I need to make sure this edition is authentic. I came across a seller a few years ago in Mississippi who tried to pass a twentieth-century edition as a first printing.”
The man laughs at the absurdity of that idea, and I know Dad has him under his spell.
While they bend over the book, I slip the silver X-Acto knife out of my pocket and hum fake punk lyrics to cover the sound of me flipping through the pages of the diary to the very center of the book. There’re no cameras to worry about, not when Johnny already hacked in and disabled them. I slide the knife along the inner seam of the linen pages until the top ten blank pages lift from the book as easy as peeling a sticker. I only need two, but a good criminal steals enough in case of mistakes. Given the total price on the manuscript, each blank page in my palm could pay for a semester of college. Quick as a fox, I shove the pages under my blouse and drop the knife back into my pocket.
“On second thought,” I say in my most uninterested voice. “This is rather heavy.” I bounce the book up and down until the men turn back to me. “I changed my mind.” I pinch the corner between my thumb and index finger as if I’m carrying a smelly diaper to the
trash can. I shove the book back into the man’s waiting palms.
The man gasps and flips through the book with urgency, clearly checking for damage. But I’m good at what I do. He won’t find any evidence of the missing pages unless he deliberately counts them. After his quick comb-through, he gingerly sets the book down on the shelf.
“Are you sure you don’t want this anymore?” Dad asks loud enough for the clerk to overhear.
I nod. I’m very sure. And I’m also positive that Dad is about to lose interest in his book as well.
CHAPTER 5
The following Wednesday, I grab a plastic tray and set it on the metal counter in the cafeteria kitchen, dreaming of Double-Doubles from In-N-Out and not the glob of mashed potatoes the lunch aide slops onto my plate. It’s been almost two weeks since Amelia Thomas won the election, and people are still griping about the loss of those burgers and Colin’s promise to free everyone from cafeteria sloppy joes, none louder than Vance Whitford, who’s been mourning like he lost a dear loved one. As the lunch aide drops steaming carrots beside the potatoes, someone shoves their tray above mine and commandeers the last carrot.
“Hey!” I turn to the thief and groan. Colin. “I wasn’t actually going to eat something that nutritious, but that carrot belongs to me.”
He grins at me. “Mine now. Along with another one of your clients.”
My eyes widen, and I stomp on his foot to get him to shut the hell up in front of the lunch aides (who probably don’t care) and fellow students ahead of me (who definitely do).
“Any chance my girl Fiona here can have another carrot?” He sets his megawatt smile on the lunch aide and winks. “Please?” I watch in horror as the lunch aide’s sourpuss face melts into a smile of her own, and she drops not one but three carrots onto my tray.
“I’m not your girl.” I scrape my tray along the metal counter toward the next station while Colin bullshits his way into an extra helping of meatloaf. When I exit the line, I veer left to get as far away from him as I can manage, but he keeps step with me.
