Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
Josh looks at his watch and holds up three fingers. “We’re fast. We’re good.”
We are.
We find Bijoux’s doggie door. Josh points to it. “You first,” he says.
I stare at the door, mentally measure my hips and butt, and shake my head. Josh’s escape plan didn’t factor in the size of my ass.
He nods toward the door and holds up his watch.
All I can do is picture the police showing up with me half in, half out. I can just imagine the calls across their radios, the stifled laughs, the
“remember that time?
” If I’m going to get caught, it’ll be with a little dignity.
Josh squeezes my arm. “Go,” he urges.
The muffled sound of clock-radio music reaches us through the door. I stare at the doggie door, shrug, and open the back door, stepping outside. I listen for the blare of sirens, some obnoxious house alarm. Nothing.
Josh pushes me forward, turns the lock from the inside, and pulls the door shut, the pitter-patter of Bijoux’s claws close behind us.
We work our way to the side of the house, peel off our masks and the black clothes that cover our school clothes. I undo the plastic bags that I’ve tied around my feet, stuff my clothes into the bags, and remove everything but my gloves. Josh does the same. He holds his hand up, jumps the fence, and stands on the other side. “Clear,” he whispers.
I toss our bags over, take a quick look around to make sure we don’t leave anything behind, and scramble over the fence.
We take off the surgical gloves and shove them into the bags, too, working our way to the sidewalk toward our cars. The neighborhood is waking up: People are jogging; a man drinks coffee on the porch in his bathrobe, holding the newspaper in his hands.
They’re going to know. They’ll know we were there
.
I feel like my fear will bubble up and spill out, like I’ll be the missing piece when the police question witnesses, canvass the area, the blotch on their custom-designed American perfection.
Nobody sees us.
We’re invisible.
My entire body tingles on a total epi high, like I’ve taken a bottle of adrenergics. This is walking on water, the calming of the sea, the blind man healed.
This. Is. Power.
“Hallelujah,” I mutter.
Josh winks at me, his hair curling at the back from sweat, cheeks flushed. He feels the thrill, too. “Amen,” he says, and pats the money he’s shoved into his pocket.
We walk to our separate cars and drive to school, making it just in time for first bell. Kids are hollering, laughing, fighting. Some girl’s crying. Two guys from band are playing “My Wish” by Rascal Flatts on their clarinets, passing around a baseball hat to collect some cash. I put in a dollar.
Everything sounds muffled. It’s hard to hear anything over the boom of my heart. I wonder if I’ll go blind and deaf from the adrenaline.
Josh catches up to me in the hallway, on the way to Mrs. B’s. “Good morning,” he says, handing me an ice-cold Starbucks latte. “Drink it,” he says, “as if it’s the hottest, freshest coffee you’ve ever tasted.”
I nod, taking a sip of the bitter sludge and choke down a few sips. I suck on a mint because there’s no way I’ll make it through the morning without some kind of intestinal rebellion. My whole body is on overdrive.
Then I see Moch—walking down the hall—sunglasses hardly disguising a bruised face and swollen cheek. It’s like watching a digital picture—the dots of color of who he is form on my retina. He’s wearing a crooked smile, one I know doesn’t reach his eyes.
I search for his chain, relieved to see the saint hanging from it.
“Moch!” I wave.
He brushes by me. The morning high is gone. All I feel is her absence.
I swallow back the anxiety and hold my cup up to Josh. “Babylonia,” I say, trying to hold on to the buzz from the morning, trying to make my life mean something.
“Babylonia.”
The tardy bell rings just as we slip in the door. Mrs. Brooks gives Moch one of those oh-so-sorry smiles. And the day proceeds as normal.
Time stops only for the dead.
Babylonia Manifesto Leaves No Room for Interpretation
NCAA Finals Around the Corner: Who Are You “Betting” On?
Czech Line Dancing: The New Craze at Carson High
Sanctuary 7:15 courtyard
“I’VE MISSED SANCTUARY
,
Mike,” Javier says, shoulder bumping me. “What’s to bet on this week?”
A few more come in. Curiosity, mostly. By the time it’s seven fifteen, there are about ten bettors. Small crowd. But reliable. I’ve missed them. This is my comfort zone, what I know.
“This is unprecedented, gentlemen. Well, unprecedented, no. It’s only happened three times since 1955, and none have been repeat offenders. The Tech is just one game away from having its second winless season. Let’s keep it basic. It’s just for fun.”
“Fun with money, though,” Javier says.
“Always with money,” I say.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Justin flashes
The Gambler
.
It’s the routine, the way things have to be. I randomly open a page and read:
I find myself taking no thought for the future, but living under the influence of passing moods, and of my recollections of the tempest which recently drew me into its vortex, and then cast me out again.
The words settle in. The guys laugh. I feel better, like I’m in control after taking the bets, writing them down in my notebook. The day feels
normal
.
I stop by Moch’s after school. Just to be there, to try to keep some of Mrs. Mendez with me.
Babylonia is for her. For them.
The house feels different, shabby. It looks like the house Moch is used to seeing—rundown. Ugly.
Lifeless.
My phone beeps.
Josh:
Homework. Your place.
I look at the time. It’s almost three thirty. I text Josh back:
4:00
.
I sit on the porch, crooked aluminum steps. Winter slush has melted and now there’s a patchwork of ugly brown clumps. I close my eyes and try to find that place where things were easier. My phone beeps again.
Josh:
@?
I look at my watch. 4:10. Oops.
Me:
10 minutes. Sorry.
Josh never asks where I go. Never wants me to explain why there are days I just don’t want to talk. After Mrs. Mendez’s funeral, Lillian went into Clinica Olé overdrive. She’s brought out the Virgen de Guadalupe, lighting the candle in the mornings, mumbling a quiet prayer in Spanish. I wish she’d talk to me instead of a statue. The only thing she says to me lately is “Let go, let God.”
God hasn’t really stepped up to the plate in my life, so I think I’ll just do my own batting from now on.
When I get home, Josh is waiting with a pizza in hand. “Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
“Did you make the deposit?” I ask.
“Yesterday.” He shows me the slip. A twenty-eight-hundred-dollar donation right into the account of Clinica Olé. It was easy to get the account information from Lillian’s desk. I don’t know what that will buy the clinic, but it’s something.
Lillian won’t be home this afternoon, so we go into my room and shut the door. I’m supposed to whittle back the twenty-six amendments to ten for Government. “Did you know that involuntary servitude is unconstitutional?”
“Define involuntary,” Josh says.
I shrug.
Josh lays his head in my lap. “Hey,” he says.
“We’re supposed to be doing homework,” I say.
“I didn’t mean
school
homework. I meant Babylonia homework.” He pulls out a list of names from his pocket and hands it to me. “Did you do yours?”
I nod and hand him my list.
Josh points to one of the names on my list. “No way. It’s like proving the existence of, I dunno, a Ziz . . . unreal.”
“Ziz?” I ask.
“Some biblical creature.”
Josh is always surprising me. “You’ve read the Bible?”
“I am a product of Saint Luke’s Christian Academy, Saint Theresa’s, Saint Michael’s, Saint Sebastian’s, ending with Saint Barnaby’s. After fourteen years of mind-numbing martyrdom and intellectual flogging, my parents decided it was best to unleash me on public schools; three years, five schools later, here I am.”
I stare at him. “Wow.”
“You?”
“Seven years of being immersed in the way of the Bible and its teachings sometimes creeps into my psyche. I lived with a church group in Nevada City until . . . until I moved in with Lillian.”
“What happened to your mom?”
“Oh,” I say. I forget that he’s not part of my entire history in Carson City—that it’s possible
somebody
doesn’t know my mom was a religious freak teenager who was buried in an avalanche in Great Basin National Park on a religious retreat. Even though it feels like I’ve known him forever, I realize he doesn’t know me at all.
And that’s okay. Because nothing from yesterday has defined how he sees me today—like when he started new at Carson High School, I got a chance to start fresh, too.
I could tell him
anything
. Mom could be
anyone.
But I just want her to be here. Alive. A mom. “She died when I was little. So I’ve lived with Lillian since I was eight.”
“Sorry.” This is when most people would stop talking and we’d slip into awkward silence mode. But Josh is like one of those windup toys that chatter until their cord runs out.
“What about your dad?”
“Dead.”
“Geez. You’re like a Disney movie.”
“Without the wardrobe and fairy godmother.” I poke him. “Are you a fairy godmother?”
He laughs. When he does, it’s hard not to smile, like he has a way of making everything feel okay. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh about it. That’s rotten.”
“It is what it is,” I say. “It was a long time ago.”
“So do you miss them? Your parents?”
Every day. Missing never ends.
“I never knew my dad. And my mom—it was a long time ago. It’s okay,” I finally say.
“And Mrs. Mendez?” Josh says, looking away.
“She was as close as I’ve had.”
Josh nods. “So”—he points to the Ziz name—“are you sure?”
I nod. “Positive.”
“Sources?”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’ve grown up with a lot of these guys. I know I’m right. What about yours?”
His list is short. It has two names on it. Big ones. Like mega-ultra-big ones. “Her?” I point to the name. “I mean, she’s like eighty, right?”
“I’ve got my sources, too. And pretty close to home.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You ready for the next one?”
“We need to be more prepared,” I say.
“As in?”
“No more shih tzu doggie doors, for instance.”
He cracks up.
“Yeah. Real funny.”
“I’ve been studying. Watching—” Josh clears his throat. “
Crmnl mds
,” Josh mumbles.
“Who?”
“
Criminal Minds
.”
“As in the TV show?”
He nods.
“So basically you’re doing our home-invasion tactical research based on eHow and a TV show?”
“Well, I kind of figure they have more researchers working on it. I’ve watched all the seasons to date. It’s like a blueprint on how to commit a perfect crime.”
“Apparently you’ve missed the end, when
they catch the bad guys
. Or didn’t you pay attention to that part of each show?”
“But we’re
not
bad guys.”
“So there’ll be some kind of karmic
CSI
slipup because, hey, we’ve got a purpose? We’re doing this to benefit the community, to make death mean something, to get back at the bullies?”
“Do you have any better ideas?” Josh’s cheeks get flushed when he talks about this. I get it. He thinks his dad killed Mrs. Mendez.
I scan the
Nevada Appeal
Josh brought over.
Has Carson City Become the Land of Vigilante Justice?
Anonymous Donation to Clinica Olé Covers Costs of Lost Vaccinations
“Hey. That’s nice.” I point to the Clinica Olé article and skim the rest of the paper. “Do you think somebody saw us?” I show it to Josh.
“We’ve done three robberies and used Babylonia each time, right? How come the
Nevada Appeal
doesn’t write about the manifesto?” Josh asks, raising his eyebrow.
I shrug. “I dunno.”
Josh smiles. “Think about it. Because the people know
why
they were robbed, those aristocratic assholes. They
know
. They’re not going to report all the details. It’s the perfect crime, Michal.”
“How so?”
“They’re cleaning up
after
us. But how did Seth know we left a manifesto?” He taps
PB & J
.
“I, um, sent it to him.”
“You sent it to him?”
I nod.
“Don’t you think we should talk about this stuff?” Josh asks.
“I know. I just got all excited about it when I couldn’t sleep at three in the morning or something and wanted to make sure
somebody
read it, so that there wouldn’t be any doubt.”
“We can’t stop now.” Josh taps the list. “All these people are total hypocrites. This guy”—Josh points to our next target—“is easy. He does work for half the homes around here—cash jobs. He’s the type to have his cash strewn all over the house before his Friday payday.”
“And if there’s no cash all over the house?”
“There’s always gonna be cash—something worth our time.” He pulls himself up from my lap and faces me. “Look at what we’re doing. We’re becoming something big. Magnificent.”
I feel blood rushing through my veins, feeling the prickle of immortality. Forever. It scares me because what comes after is emptiness and doubt. “I need to work out the odds. It’s what I do. I need to know that we won’t get caught.”
“The payoff is worth the risk,” Josh says. “Calculated risks. Like placing bets. We’ve studied the targets. We won’t lose.”