Heist by Laura Pauling
his nose back up against his face. This time it sticks. "I'm still getting used to my prosthetic. Sorry about that."
Then Frank continues to talk as if a nose falling off is as common as a boy puking into a trashcan in the hallway of a courthouse. He finishes off another joke, laughs, and then falls silent.
I can't think of any jokes and I refuse to fake chuckle.
"I suggest art," Frank says.
Art?
"Why are you talking to me?"
Frank smiles and chuckles, like he knows secrets and I'm just a silly little boy instead of a teenager. He pushes on his nose again as if to make sure it isn't falling off a second time. "You'll understand a lot more later. I knew you'd need a friend today. Right here. Right now."
"Did you escape from the loony bin or something?" I search for men in white lab coats swarming the hallway with a straight jacket or cuffs.
"No. I've still got a few marbles rolling around." He taps his head. "I know all about your daddy. And you."
I jump to my feet and point down the hall. "Go help my dad then. Tell the judge the truth, so they'll let him go."
Frank shakes his head with a sad, sympathetic smile.
"Go help him!" My voice is low and gravelly.
The muscles tense in my arm. I will drag this guy down the hall and throw him in front of the judge and then wipe the scowl and sympathetic look off her face.
Frank raises his hands, palms out. "Whoa, there, son. The judge won't believe one word of my testimony. I'd march down their myself if I felt it would do any good." His voice drops and his words shoot out. "Only you can help your daddy."
The frustration revving through me putters and stalls. My voice cracks as my truth spills. "I tried."
Frank narrows his eyes.
I feel naked under his scrutiny. His words balance on a hard edge. "The sooner you accept the truth about him the better."
I dig my back against the wall. I know the truth. Dad might not be perfect but he loves his family. Not many people see that side to him. "I know all about my dad."
"Hmm." Frank nods like he doesn't quite believe me. He uncrosses his legs. "It's a funny thing about friends."
I blow air through my lips.
"Sometimes friends have to tell the truth even when it hurts."
"Whatever."
"And Jack Brodie, as your friend, I'm telling you your dad is lying."
Within seconds, blood rushes through my veins, crying for a fight. I can take down the old man in a heartbeat. Two moves. And boom. Frank will be on the floor.
He points a finger toward the courtroom. His face grows animated and a vein pulses between his eyebrows. "Your dad stole the diamonds. And he stole more than that too."
"Shut up!" I step forward. My body shakes, the rage raw and palpable.
"Fine, fine." Frank puts his hands in the air. "I can see you're not ready. But you can't help your dad until you accept the truth."
"My dad would never lie to me. He's not like that."
A fire lights behind Frank's eyes. "Why wouldn't he tell his wife about his 'real' work? Why wouldn't he let you share the truth in the courtroom?"
I shudder. The old man has turned from wacko into creepy. "Why would I believe you over my dad?"
Frank nods. "Point taken. I apologize. A time will come, Jack, when you'll have to accept the truth. You'll have a choice to make." He steps close and brings his face close to mine. "Your journey to help your dad starts today. Look to the artwork. Be ready. Be prepared." And with that last word and a tip of his hat, Frank strides down the hall.
"Asshole!" I mutter. I don't move, only a muscle along my cheekbone twitches as I clench my teeth. I stay in that spot, unwavering, until Mom's voice echoes, calling for me. Slowly, like a robot, I force my feet down the hall.
12:01 p.m.
I hesitate outside the school. My image reflects off the glass doors: my face paler than usual and my hair sticking out. My friends will recognize me, but somehow I feel different, older, a bit warped, like I've been stretched in two different directions.
I let out a puff of air and yank the door open. Principal Nelson's voice booms from an assembly in the auditorium. I've missed half the day. My friends appear out of nowhere.
Turbo follows on my heels like a giant St. Bernard, and Stick walks by my side, stride for stride, not saying a word. Finally, he speaks, still without looking, his voice tight and a bit strained. "So?"
I could mention the cold and snobby glare of the judge who didn't care about my family, the mountain of evidence, or Frank and the story of his nose falling off. But the words die before they leave my mouth. Different versions of the same story twist in my mind, creating multiple paths, all leading in different directions. What if the old man is right and I can help my dad? Today. But artwork? Really?
I don't mention any of those things.
I say, "I gotta pee."
"Big D's still charging for use of the bathrooms," Turbo grunts in frustration.
"Scum bucket, bottom-feeder, douche bag," Stick mutters.
I nod. I dream about showing up with Dad on visitor's night. He would swagger in and talk my teachers into forgiving tardiness or absences. Dad would sweet talk the principal into erasing my record. Then, he'd hold up Big D by the throat, slam him against the wall, and demand all the money back he'd stolen from his classmates. I like that part the best, envisioning Big D quivering in fear, a wet patch appearing at his crotch and pee dribbling to the floor.
"Big D ambushed me this morning."
Stick slams his fist into his palm. "What?"
"He knows we pranked him." My head throbs, remembering the threats and the feel of his fist against my jaw. For a brief second, my heart lightens at the thought of Jetta. Her fingers brushing my forehead. And the softness of her voice.
"What were you doing on the streets alone?" Turbo asks. "That was dumb."
"Nothing." I don't want to tell them about Jetta. Not yet. She's a gift, one I want to tuck away and pull out when life gets too crazy.
Stick shrugs. "Your fault, loser." He stops outside the auditorium where everyone is listening to the principal ramble on. He grips my arms. "Tell me. Just get it over quick."
I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. "Nothing good."
"Spill it. Now." The words come from between Stick's clenched teeth. His face turns various shades of white and he hunches over, his body swaying. His breathing is slow and steady as if he's barely holding on.
When Stick moved in next door, he was all rough and tough, a scrappy little kid. We'd wrestle on the sidewalk until my dad picked us up by the collars like we were puppies fighting over a bone. The first time I found Stick crying in the space between our houses, a bruise was spreading across his cheek. I fetched Dad. Over the years, Dad talked often with Stick in a hushed voice on the porch or in the kitchen.
Stick chews off a fingernail. "Come on, man. Did the judge go easy on him?"
Hard benches, an unfriendly judge, and unfair evidence-that's what I remember. "No. She didn't."
Silence falls between us. Air thick with grief. Our feelings unable to break the surface of conversation. Pressure builds behind my eyes. Man, I'm such a wuss. "I'll see you guys later."
Then I run. I tear down the halls. Lockers whiz by. The red and green streaks of graffiti blur. I don't stop. I take the stairs two at a time. I sprint down more hallways.
My side cramps.
I stumble and slam against the lockers, then slide to the floor. Saying the words felt real. Dad was gone. Never coming back. Not any time soon. I rest my arms on my knees and hide my head. Darkness consumes me. I let it.
Footsteps tap quietly. Almost as if someone's sneaking around. Like me. Some place they aren't supposed to be. I jerk my head up.
The hall is empty.
Quietly, I stand and creep down the tiled floors. My heart thumps.
I turn down one hall. I hear the footsteps again. Leading me away. Like cookie crumbs into
the forest in that stupid fairy tale.
I follow. A part of me hopes that the spooks from last night, the doors opening, the person running in the courthouse-that it's my dad. Who else would be following me around? Watching over me?
My stride picks up. Sweat pricks. I explore the halls, find nothing, and grow desperate.
I run.
The footsteps echo just around the corner.
His name is on my lips as I head into another hallway and SLAM!
12:25 p.m.
I fall back. Sliding across the hard floor. My ears ring and my head pounds.
Someone jerks me to my feet. It's not Dad.
"What're you doing wandering about?" A man sticks his face into mine, his eyes wide and wild. A bucket is overturned, dirty water pooling on the floor.
The janitor. Must be. He has curly graying hair, and whiskers that need shaving. The blue uniform clings to his body like he's been wearing it all his life. Even on weekends. I've never seen him before, and I'm suddenly envious of the life of a janitor. Nothing to worry about except spilled lunches and overflowing trashcans.
He lets go of my shirt and points a crooked finger at me. His eyes flash with the knowledge that no one pulls a fast one on him. "I asked you a question."
I shiver at his threatening tone. "Bathroom."
He grips his mop. "What's your name?"
"Fiasco."
"Full name," the man grunts.
"Jack Brodie."
"Well, Jack Brodie," the man warns. "You better get on out of here before I report you. Don't want to be getting into trouble now, do you?"
"No, sir."
He sniffs the air as if he can smell lies and then gives one last threatening look before turning away. "I'll be keeping an eye on you."
I
Then Frank continues to talk as if a nose falling off is as common as a boy puking into a trashcan in the hallway of a courthouse. He finishes off another joke, laughs, and then falls silent.
I can't think of any jokes and I refuse to fake chuckle.
"I suggest art," Frank says.
Art?
"Why are you talking to me?"
Frank smiles and chuckles, like he knows secrets and I'm just a silly little boy instead of a teenager. He pushes on his nose again as if to make sure it isn't falling off a second time. "You'll understand a lot more later. I knew you'd need a friend today. Right here. Right now."
"Did you escape from the loony bin or something?" I search for men in white lab coats swarming the hallway with a straight jacket or cuffs.
"No. I've still got a few marbles rolling around." He taps his head. "I know all about your daddy. And you."
I jump to my feet and point down the hall. "Go help my dad then. Tell the judge the truth, so they'll let him go."
Frank shakes his head with a sad, sympathetic smile.
"Go help him!" My voice is low and gravelly.
The muscles tense in my arm. I will drag this guy down the hall and throw him in front of the judge and then wipe the scowl and sympathetic look off her face.
Frank raises his hands, palms out. "Whoa, there, son. The judge won't believe one word of my testimony. I'd march down their myself if I felt it would do any good." His voice drops and his words shoot out. "Only you can help your daddy."
The frustration revving through me putters and stalls. My voice cracks as my truth spills. "I tried."
Frank narrows his eyes.
I feel naked under his scrutiny. His words balance on a hard edge. "The sooner you accept the truth about him the better."
I dig my back against the wall. I know the truth. Dad might not be perfect but he loves his family. Not many people see that side to him. "I know all about my dad."
"Hmm." Frank nods like he doesn't quite believe me. He uncrosses his legs. "It's a funny thing about friends."
I blow air through my lips.
"Sometimes friends have to tell the truth even when it hurts."
"Whatever."
"And Jack Brodie, as your friend, I'm telling you your dad is lying."
Within seconds, blood rushes through my veins, crying for a fight. I can take down the old man in a heartbeat. Two moves. And boom. Frank will be on the floor.
He points a finger toward the courtroom. His face grows animated and a vein pulses between his eyebrows. "Your dad stole the diamonds. And he stole more than that too."
"Shut up!" I step forward. My body shakes, the rage raw and palpable.
"Fine, fine." Frank puts his hands in the air. "I can see you're not ready. But you can't help your dad until you accept the truth."
"My dad would never lie to me. He's not like that."
A fire lights behind Frank's eyes. "Why wouldn't he tell his wife about his 'real' work? Why wouldn't he let you share the truth in the courtroom?"
I shudder. The old man has turned from wacko into creepy. "Why would I believe you over my dad?"
Frank nods. "Point taken. I apologize. A time will come, Jack, when you'll have to accept the truth. You'll have a choice to make." He steps close and brings his face close to mine. "Your journey to help your dad starts today. Look to the artwork. Be ready. Be prepared." And with that last word and a tip of his hat, Frank strides down the hall.
"Asshole!" I mutter. I don't move, only a muscle along my cheekbone twitches as I clench my teeth. I stay in that spot, unwavering, until Mom's voice echoes, calling for me. Slowly, like a robot, I force my feet down the hall.
12:01 p.m.
I hesitate outside the school. My image reflects off the glass doors: my face paler than usual and my hair sticking out. My friends will recognize me, but somehow I feel different, older, a bit warped, like I've been stretched in two different directions.
I let out a puff of air and yank the door open. Principal Nelson's voice booms from an assembly in the auditorium. I've missed half the day. My friends appear out of nowhere.
Turbo follows on my heels like a giant St. Bernard, and Stick walks by my side, stride for stride, not saying a word. Finally, he speaks, still without looking, his voice tight and a bit strained. "So?"
I could mention the cold and snobby glare of the judge who didn't care about my family, the mountain of evidence, or Frank and the story of his nose falling off. But the words die before they leave my mouth. Different versions of the same story twist in my mind, creating multiple paths, all leading in different directions. What if the old man is right and I can help my dad? Today. But artwork? Really?
I don't mention any of those things.
I say, "I gotta pee."
"Big D's still charging for use of the bathrooms," Turbo grunts in frustration.
"Scum bucket, bottom-feeder, douche bag," Stick mutters.
I nod. I dream about showing up with Dad on visitor's night. He would swagger in and talk my teachers into forgiving tardiness or absences. Dad would sweet talk the principal into erasing my record. Then, he'd hold up Big D by the throat, slam him against the wall, and demand all the money back he'd stolen from his classmates. I like that part the best, envisioning Big D quivering in fear, a wet patch appearing at his crotch and pee dribbling to the floor.
"Big D ambushed me this morning."
Stick slams his fist into his palm. "What?"
"He knows we pranked him." My head throbs, remembering the threats and the feel of his fist against my jaw. For a brief second, my heart lightens at the thought of Jetta. Her fingers brushing my forehead. And the softness of her voice.
"What were you doing on the streets alone?" Turbo asks. "That was dumb."
"Nothing." I don't want to tell them about Jetta. Not yet. She's a gift, one I want to tuck away and pull out when life gets too crazy.
Stick shrugs. "Your fault, loser." He stops outside the auditorium where everyone is listening to the principal ramble on. He grips my arms. "Tell me. Just get it over quick."
I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. "Nothing good."
"Spill it. Now." The words come from between Stick's clenched teeth. His face turns various shades of white and he hunches over, his body swaying. His breathing is slow and steady as if he's barely holding on.
When Stick moved in next door, he was all rough and tough, a scrappy little kid. We'd wrestle on the sidewalk until my dad picked us up by the collars like we were puppies fighting over a bone. The first time I found Stick crying in the space between our houses, a bruise was spreading across his cheek. I fetched Dad. Over the years, Dad talked often with Stick in a hushed voice on the porch or in the kitchen.
Stick chews off a fingernail. "Come on, man. Did the judge go easy on him?"
Hard benches, an unfriendly judge, and unfair evidence-that's what I remember. "No. She didn't."
Silence falls between us. Air thick with grief. Our feelings unable to break the surface of conversation. Pressure builds behind my eyes. Man, I'm such a wuss. "I'll see you guys later."
Then I run. I tear down the halls. Lockers whiz by. The red and green streaks of graffiti blur. I don't stop. I take the stairs two at a time. I sprint down more hallways.
My side cramps.
I stumble and slam against the lockers, then slide to the floor. Saying the words felt real. Dad was gone. Never coming back. Not any time soon. I rest my arms on my knees and hide my head. Darkness consumes me. I let it.
Footsteps tap quietly. Almost as if someone's sneaking around. Like me. Some place they aren't supposed to be. I jerk my head up.
The hall is empty.
Quietly, I stand and creep down the tiled floors. My heart thumps.
I turn down one hall. I hear the footsteps again. Leading me away. Like cookie crumbs into
I follow. A part of me hopes that the spooks from last night, the doors opening, the person running in the courthouse-that it's my dad. Who else would be following me around? Watching over me?
My stride picks up. Sweat pricks. I explore the halls, find nothing, and grow desperate.
I run.
The footsteps echo just around the corner.
His name is on my lips as I head into another hallway and SLAM!
12:25 p.m.
I fall back. Sliding across the hard floor. My ears ring and my head pounds.
Someone jerks me to my feet. It's not Dad.
"What're you doing wandering about?" A man sticks his face into mine, his eyes wide and wild. A bucket is overturned, dirty water pooling on the floor.
The janitor. Must be. He has curly graying hair, and whiskers that need shaving. The blue uniform clings to his body like he's been wearing it all his life. Even on weekends. I've never seen him before, and I'm suddenly envious of the life of a janitor. Nothing to worry about except spilled lunches and overflowing trashcans.
He lets go of my shirt and points a crooked finger at me. His eyes flash with the knowledge that no one pulls a fast one on him. "I asked you a question."
I shiver at his threatening tone. "Bathroom."
He grips his mop. "What's your name?"
"Fiasco."
"Full name," the man grunts.
"Jack Brodie."
"Well, Jack Brodie," the man warns. "You better get on out of here before I report you. Don't want to be getting into trouble now, do you?"
"No, sir."
He sniffs the air as if he can smell lies and then gives one last threatening look before turning away. "I'll be keeping an eye on you."
I