Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
The sky’s crying. Blanketed in sadness.
I LOOK AT THE TIME. SIX THIRTY-TWO.
My teepee smells like dryer sheets and pine. Like Josh. My iPod is still playing. I don’t remember falling asleep and don’t want to move. I wish I could be here, in this spot, forever. Josh’s arm is draped over me, his long fingers resting on my hip. He’s lying on his side, and my head is resting in the crook of his other arm. Outside the light is violet. No sign of day.
I stare at the clock until it turns to 6:33. Okay. Time didn’t stop. Josh has to get out of here, because if Lillian were to catch us like this, she’d make us sit through her eight-hour sex-ed video series followed up by thorough examinations, obligatory oral contraception prescriptions, and a shower of condoms. She’s always ranting about the fact that schools dedicate only one semester to sex ed. It doesn’t help to point out that most of us graduate without even knowing how to balance a checkbook. I look at the time again.
Just one more minute.
6:34.
Okay. Two.
6:35.
The furnace clicks on. I exhale. “Hey. Josh. You have to go. Lillian will be here soon.”
Josh mumbles. His lip is a purple-bluish color, but at least the swelling on his nose has gone down.
I’m not really sure how to move now, how to wake him up. I finally decide to tap him on the shoulder. Tap. Tap. Semipoke. “Hey. Josh. You really have to go. Really.”
“Five more minutes,” he mumbles.
“NOW,” I say, slipping out from under his arm into the cold morning air.
He groans, pulling himself up to a sitting position, shoving his feet into his shoes. He shrugs on his coat, practically sleepwalking to the door. His hair sticks out all over the place, unruly curls flopping into his eyes. I follow him out onto the porch and flick on the dim yellow light. The quilt hangs over my shoulders. I dance on the aluminum floor in thin socks, wishing I’d pulled on a pair of boots. White puffs of breath hang in the air. I shiver and squint at the thermometer but can’t see the numbers too well without my glasses.
Josh rubs his eyes. We stand under the faded light. I keep expecting Lillian’s car to come up the drive. Josh leans down and kisses me on the cheek, leaving a burning imprint there. He crunches across frosted blades of grass to his car. He looks back at me over his shoulder when he gets to it, pulling the collar of his black coat high around his neck. I can’t tell where he ends and the car begins—just shapeless shadows.
I go inside, the screen door clicking behind me, and stand there until the first rays of sunlight drip into the yard, melting away Josh’s footprints in the frost.
Carson Tahoe Hospital Reports Rising Incidence of Injuries Caused by Violence
Carson Athletes to Keep Your Eye On This Spring
“H
ř
íšná t
ě
la, k
ř
ídla motýlí”
: What Does This Mean?
Seth’s editorial is titled: “Remember Babylonia? Yeah. Me Neither.” He investigates the one-hit-wonder phenomenon, comparing Babylonia’s splash to musical groups like a-ha and Dexy’s Midnight Runners.
My head is too busy to pay attention to class. Teachers are prepping us for advanced-placement tests this spring.
Let the monotony begin
. Josh has sent me a thousand text messages, back to his overdrive pace after he probably drank a gallon of espresso. It’s an A-block day. No classes with him or Moch or Mrs. Brooks.
After school, Josh texts me:
Breakfast for dinner? 6:00? IHOP?
OK.
He’s waiting for me in the entry, dressed in gray pinstriped pants, a green sweater that looks like it was made to match his eyes, and a soft black leather jacket. “Hey,” he says. “I’m starving.”
“You look—”
“Like I’m on my way to Sunday school. My mom’s governor’s mansion tea-party deal.”
“No. Good.” I’m the female version of Tarzan grunting at Josh.
Me Michal. You Josh. Good.
“Like, really,” I say, then blush. I feel frumpy in my jeans, boots, and faded T-shirt, and make an extra effort to stand straight.
“Hey. That’s the first time you’ve ever complimented me. Thanks.” His face lights up, and he smiles a crooked smile, absentmindedly rubbing his bruised lip.
We follow the waitress to a booth that faces Carson Street. She places a pot of coffee on the table, filling our thick cups first, and takes our order. I watch the stream of cars headed south. The headlights blur together like a glowing string of yellow yarn. “So,” I say, tearing my eyes from the street, turning to Josh. “Do you know where to start?”
Josh has written a name on a piece of paper and passes it to me. I nod. It’s not a big surprise.
“Are you ready for this?” Josh asks. “Because there’s no going back.”
I think about Mrs. Mendez and the communities of people who are treated like trash. I think about Garbage Disposal and la Cordillera and how they only hurt and steal and kill. No purpose. No poetry.
“Yes,” I say.
“What else do we need? What are we missing?” Josh asks.
“To leave no doubt. So that people won’t wonder why they were targeted. They have to
know
.” I push gummy pieces of waffle around my plate, then settle on drinking the coffee.
Josh talks about his family, his clothes, the trips they’ve taken. “Look at this,” he says pointing to his shoes. “Look at all of this.”
“It’s not like you have to feel guilty because you have stuff. That’s not a crime.”
“How I got it, though, is.”
I take out the manifesto I wrote the night before. It’s short. Simple. It leaves no room for interpretation.
People ask what is the nature of the struggle—who are Babylonia’s targets and why?
The migrant family is an invisible force. Invisibility has kept them marginalized, living in subhuman conditions. Your employees cannot afford food, shelter, or health—basic human rights. The systematic denial of said rights creates a culture of racism, classism, and fear. It creates a culture of violence and shame, oppression and elitism. The masses remain silent.
We will not be silent. Babylonia is their voice, their movement.
Congratulations and welcome to the twenty-first century. Your enlightened stance on modern-day slavery has made you target number one.
Josh reads it. “This is good.” He takes the last syrupy bite of his pancakes, shoving his plate away.
I laugh. Nervous. Forced. “Are we really doing this?” I’m getting that same feeling—like when we broke into Mrs. Martinez’s office and Ellison Industries; when we bet on Cuccaro running an insane number of yards; when Josh was going to kiss me. My chest tightens, tummy flutters, the prickly inside feeling like every nerve ending is on fire.
“We’ll do all the jobs when the people are gone. People have routines. We just need to know the routines and get in and out—twenty minutes. Easy.”
“And if one of us wants to back out—for whatever reason—we back out. No questions asked.”
“No questions asked. Whaddya say, Bonnie?” Josh says in the cheesiest Texas accent possible. We’re sitting across from each other in the cramped booth, knees brushing. His hand rests on my arm.
All feeling in my body has washed away except for where our knees touch and Josh’s hand rests on my arm. Every cheesy love song crashes through my mind.
“Well? Bonnie?”
I snap back to reality. “You do realize B and C were ambushed in their hideout and shot to death by cops from Texas and Louisiana. Super romantic.” I blush. “I didn’t mean romantic. Ah, hell.”
Josh kisses the inside of my wrist.
Melting melting melting.
“Ready to embark on a life of crime?”
“Haven’t we already?”
A step ahead of dragon’s fire.
We pay the bill and drive to the house, our first target. We park down the street. Josh has done his homework. He describes the family’s routines, the doggie door, the access from the garage to the main house. The house is at the end of a cul-de-sac. It feels trapped in. No escape. I count two sliding-door entrances on the ground floor, another sliding door on the balcony on the second floor. The windows next to the balcony have shades drawn.
Josh drops me off just before midnight. “Tomorrow morning? She leaves for work a quarter to seven. We’d have twenty minutes to get in and out and to school on time.”
Tomorrow morning.
Josh tucks my hair behind my ear. I turn to him. “Tomorrow morning. Okay.”
We both look at my house. There’s a light on in the living room—like a little yellow square has been pasted on our blackened neighborhood. “Will you get in trouble?” he asks. “For being so late?”
I shake my head. “To get in trouble, you have to matter,” I say.
Josh brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. He plays with the silver dice on my bracelet. “I can’t wait until you can see you with my eyes.”
I blush, the warmth filling me, relieved that with Josh I don’t feel like a leftover. I feel like now is everything, like I’m ready to toss the dice to determine my fate. Not worried about the odds.
I clear my throat. “See you in the morning.”
Holding infinity impossible. It slips away.
IT’S 6:45. I PARK A FEW BLOCKS
away. Josh meets me at the corner, and now we’re here.
My glasses fog. I take them off, wipe them, put them back on. The rumble of the garage door jerks me back to the moment. I fumble with my glasses, push them on. Maybe I should get contact lenses.
Josh and I pull on the masks. “Babylonia,” he whispers.
“Babylonia.”
When the car reaches the bottom of the curved driveway, we roll under the door just before it’s about to close. The door stops midway down, hovers, then begins to go up. Josh quickly pushes a trash-can lid in the way, and we rush to the back of the garage behind a pile of bicycles and ski equipment, crouching under a heavy wooden table with a buzz saw on top.
The car returns. I listen to the click of heels. She mutters to herself, rolls the lid inside, standing for a moment before pushing a code and shutting the door all the way. We go into the house. Josh is ready with a box of dog treats. The professionally groomed shih tzu attack dog comes running at us, its piercing bark enough to shatter glass, tiny claws pattering across stone floors, long hair like a boutique mop. “Hello, Bijoux,” Josh whispers. He holds out a handful of gourmet dog biscuits. Bijoux’s tail goes into overtime happy mode and forgets we’re not supposed to be there. We work our way through the rooms, the first light of day seeping in the windows. My black outfit feels too black in the purple predawn light.
There’s better nighttime thief attire.
But at night, people are at home. During the day, people work.
Our rules: No one gets hurt. No one gets caught.
I’m pretty sure we can handle the first one. The second one, however, is the one that kept me awake all night.
Josh points to his watch, holds up ten fingers, then five.
Fifteen minutes before the maid arrives. Fifteen minutes.
Josh leads the way to the office. Every footstep we take sounds thunderous. Even my breathing feels loud, invasive. The house is creepy quiet. Lifeless. Just as I’m sure I’ve registered all the sounds, I notice the soft sound of music coming from a room down the hall. I point to my ear and shrug.
Josh nods.
We creep down the hallway, following the sounds of music until we’re outside the room that has the music. I press my ear to the door, listening for anything other than the sound of music when I hear a click and a soft moan. The music is turned off.
“Snooze alarm,” I mouth. “Who?” I point to the door.
Josh shakes his head and I follow him down the hall, back into the study. “Let’s move. Fast.” He pulls out a key from the desk drawer and motions to the closet. I close the office door with a soft click and sit against it, ear pressed to the door.
But all I can hear is the thrumming of my blood pumping through my body—a crashlike sounding in my ears.
Just calm down
.
Josh finds the safe.
No keyhole.
He stares at the key, squinting. He shrugs, takes out his backpack, and says, “Stand back.” He lights his blowtorch and melts the safe around the lock, popping the melted piece of metal inside the safe. It makes a heavy
thud-clang
sound.
He turns off the blowtorch. We listen to the house, the sound of metal cooling, Bijoux’s paws scratching at the door. Stupid dog.
I wait for someone to come running down the hallway. It’s silent.
The house doesn’t even breathe.
“A blowtorch?” I ask.
“I read it on eHow.”
“Where’d you
get
it?”
“The school shop. From Auto Body class.”
I stare at him and shake my head. “Unbelievable.”
Josh opens the cooled-down metal door. “What are the odds?” Josh asks, pulling out a wad of cash. He leaves the jewelry.
“What are the odds?” I echo. I could probably tell him, given the time to work them out, but I don’t work them out because of the niggling feeling everything we’re doing is like shooting for a Hail Mary.
We take all of it—almost four thousand dollars.
He shoves the money into his pocket. We listen at the door before opening it. We creep down the hallway. I stand behind a door and keep watch while Josh spray-paints
BABYLONIA
in big letters on the back of the door, underneath
AND HER NAME MOTHER OF EXILES
.
We tape the manifesto to the door.