Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
More rich guilt. Scoop it on.
You still left me.
“I went to Leonard’s. I was going to give him the title to my car,” he says. “But he said the debt had been paid. What did you do?”
The ice starts to melt. A tear trickles down my cheek. I hate that I’m crying, hate that he matters. Even when he shouldn’t. Not anymore. “Turns out I had a trust fund,” I will myself to say. “I need to pay it back somehow.” The cold bites into my fingers and nose. “I’ve lived with Lillian for years and I don’t know anything about her. That’s pretty sad.”
Josh moves and sits down on the grass in front of me. He pushes my bangs out of my eyes. I can feel his breath. Cinnamon Trident. “I didn’t mean that stuff I said to you. I was freaking out and—”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. And mean it.
“We’ll get the money. One last job—one last bet. And we’re done.”
“Done,” I echo.
“Yeah. Maybe we’ll have to start going to pizza and the movies like normal teens.”
“High cholesterol is sounding like a pretty good option right about now,” I say, finally opening my eyes to look at him.
He kisses a tear from my cheek. “We’re going to be fine.” He has that perfect smile again—making me feel like everything’s under control. Like he really has a solution to all this. It’s like he’s back in that world where Babylonia is untouchable, where Babylonia is right.
“I can’t find my bracelet,” I say. “I don’t know where it is. The last time I remember having it was showing Jeanne at the dance.”
Maybe we were wrong.
But I can’t bring myself to tell him. Not now. I have to believe this last hit will be right. I look up to the sky, the first spray of stars coming out.
Josh is quiet. “It could’ve fallen off anywhere—at school, at the dance . . . anywhere.” He scratches behind his left ear. The corners of his mouth fight to smile, then win out. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Anywhere,” he says in a flat voice.
“Anywhere,” I echo, and lay my head back down again.
Wanted: lost bracelet, message from God.
SETH INVITED US OVER FOR
the games. His parents have a massive basement that smells a little funky but is private enough to give us our space. They pump us with ginger ale and snack foods. His brothers and sisters watch, too.
I called Leonard and bet a little over two thousand on U-Dub, money-lining it the whole way—the money I have left over from Lillian’s bank account. I’ll need to pay off my clients—the winners. I don’t have any extra cash to do that. So we’d better win. We
have
to win.
Bet what you can lose.
What if I can’t lose anything? I’m feeling a whole lot of sympathy for Nim these days.
The VCU Rams and Huskies tip off, the Huskies in a sludge start. By the end of the second quarter, they’re behind by twelve. God, their tongues are practically dragging on the floor. The party goes on. Seth is pacing back and forth, his fifty-dollar bet looking like money thrown down the toilet.
And I’d swear to God his brothers and sisters have multiplied. More blond-headed, clean-cut kids come in, wrestling for space on the remaining bean bags.
The teams are back with their coaches—slick, gelled hair and thin ties in Armani suits. They pace the sidelines, shouting, screaming. The Huskies’ coach has a red vein that bulges on his forehead.
I’m trying to visualize the two worst conversations on earth I’m going to have to have. One: telling Lillian that I emptied the savings account; two: telling Police Chief Dominguez that it’s all my fault.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” I’m kneeling before the TV.
Somebody throws a jujube at me and says, “Move out of the way.”
“Sorry.” I blush.
Josh, for the first time I’ve ever met him, is still. Frozen to the couch cushion with a half-eaten pretzel in his hands. His eyes narrow. “C’mon, U-Dub Huskies. Win. This. Fucking. Game.”
The basement gets quiet.
Josh looks at the wide-eyed faces of Seth’s sisters and says, “So sorry. Excuse me. Sorry.”
The Rams have the ball and are practically playing with the Huskies, tossing it around the three-point line, all too confident. Then something happens. Something magic. You can see it in Gutzman’s face. He’s in the zone—totally in command of the court, his silver high-tops a shiny blur on the screen. Gutzman rushes the point guard—who pauses, just at the wrong time—steals the ball, and tosses it to Grisemer, ready for the cherry pick.
Fire.
The Huskies work the court, pulling in from behind, pressuring the Rams’ offensive—moving from zone to man-to-man defense, pretty much camping on the Rams’ butts.
Rams call time-out. Twenty seconds on the clock. The Rams are in possession of the ball and up by one. They come back, make a quick two pointer, then do a full-court press, pushing the Huskies’ offensive.
Gutzman takes the ball and there’s this moment, this pause; I think everybody sitting in the stadium sees it. He stops, the time racing to zero. But he stops, takes the extra second, fakes right, then dribbles, gliding by the Rams’ defense—as if the Rams were doing the boulder-in-the-hallway test. They can’t touch him.
Gutzman tosses it to Grisemer, who sinks the ball, getting fouled in the meantime.
Two seconds on the clock.
Grisemer stands on the free-throw line and swishes the first.
Tied.
The stadium has gone mad—electrified. We can practically feel the pounding of feet, the thunderous stomping.
“One more. One more,” I whisper.
My eyes go blurry when he sinks the second shot. We’re all jumping and screaming—my voice feels foreign, hollering so loud. This is a sign.
Everything’s going to be okay.
Everything.
One more bet. One more hit.
Investigators Get First Big Clue Leading to Identities of Babylonia Burglars
“DID YOU READ THE PAPER?”
Josh asks.
I stare at the glow of lights from the alarm clock: 6:14 a.m. I’ve been awake since three a.m. “In case you didn’t remember, we’re always a day behind, so I
do
know what the weather forecast for yesterday is.”
“Well then. That gives us a day before Lillian finds out.”
“Finds out what?”
“They found your bracelet.”
I look down at my naked wrist and feel like I’ve been impaled on Satan’s pitchfork.
“At Mrs. Brady’s house.”
“Oh.” Now all the air has been sucked out of my world.
“Okay,” he says. “Who saw you wearing it?”
I rub my eyes.
I’ve been wearing it for a month. Everybody and nobody.
“Has anybody ever
noticed
it, though?” Josh asks.
Jeanne
.
“We’ve got to talk to Seth before—”
“Need a ride?”
“I can meet you there.”
“Need coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Get dressed. I’m outside waiting—double shot of espresso, three pumps of cinnamon dolce.”
“Okay.”
We get to Seth’s just after seven o’clock. The sun has risen over eastern Nevada—bright orange rays like fire creeping through the valley.
His family is piling into the van—ready for church. I don’t see Seth. Maybe he’s gotten out of going to church with everyone. We wait until they leave.
Who’ll be the first to call in the tip for five grand?
Probably Nim. But he doesn’t read the newspaper. I have my doubts he even reads. And he’d never pay attention to anything I’m wearing. At all. It’s been a lifetime since Nim was my greatest nemesis. It’s like that old life was swallowed up by something much bigger than me—something better.
Something worse.
We knock on the door. Seth says, “I’m
not
going. I’ve
told you a thousand times
.” He throws open the door. “Oh. Hi. Come in.” He rubs bloodshot eyes. “I was just thinking about you.” Today’s
Appeal
is lying next to him on the table.
“Imagine that,” I say.
“Imagine that.”
I try to keep my eyes from the front-page article. The description of my bracelet. The reward.
“So. Babylonia, huh? Have you come to spray-paint my house?”
I’d laugh if I didn’t feel like I was choking on air. I inhale and exhale, leaning over, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath. Maybe I should be a fish—grow gills, slip into dark murky waters where I can drift around unnoticed in algae swamps.
“What have you done?” Seth asks.
“I don’t know anymore. It just seemed—”
“We need a chance to make this right,” Josh says.
“How are you going to do that?” Seth asks.
Nobody had to know about us. Babylonia would’ve become a Carson High legend, something future generations would’ve tried to repeat. Now we’ll be voted “most likely to be on Interpol.” All because of a lost bracelet and Mrs. Brady. She wasn’t supposed to be home.
Josh is pacing like a caged tiger.
Nobody has to know about him.
Will Seth keep quiet? About Josh?
We won a chunk in the Final Four. We have just
one more game
. The NCAA final. But how can I explain it to Seth? How could he understand? If we can just do one more hit—one more house—to pay back Lillian and leave a little extra for Luis and Moch. Counting the cash we had for our bet and win, we’ve now got almost four thousand dollars. I need $3,700 more. Then we can cut our losses. It’s all about knowing when it’s time to stop. Just one more hit, one more bet, and we’re done.
“Look at this,” Seth says, and turns on the TV—the local news. We’re everywhere. WANTED: Babylonia. WANTED: Fugitives of the law. WANTED: Near-assassins. Seth shows us all the articles he’s saved on Babylonia, bookmarked blogs.
We skim through articles. Three casinos have been fined thousands of dollars for doctoring employee files. There are shots of dozens of men and women standing in the lot near Leonard’s—blurred faces—waiting for day work. “What did you expect would happen? Did you even think this through?”
How can you think through infinity?
“We just need one more day,” Josh says.
Seth looks at us. “Why?”
Because . . .
I don’t have a real answer why, why I think tomorrow will be any different from today. But tomorrow feels like it’s millions of miles away. Tomorrow is a lifetime away. Today is our last chance.
Today is Josh’s only chance. Mine’s already been blown.
I stare at the
Appeal.
Seth looks at me. I can’t read his expression. I say, “Have you ever, I don’t know, been given a chance to do something, really
do
something? For the first time in my life,
now
mattered. It was all about now. Hope. Purpose.”
“High school isn’t forever,” he says.
“Tell that to me four years ago,” I say. “We need today. Just one more day. Please.” My mind races to give Seth a reason. “I have to make things right. Set things straight. Please.”
Josh and I go to the Cracker Box, but I can’t stomach the smell of the greasy potatoes, so we end up getting a coffee and sitting outside. Josh tosses me a “last chance to buy” yearbook flyer.
We’re on borrowed time. Who knows who else saw my bracelet?
I think about the yearbook. A stupid thing to think about, really. It’s a collection of moments, memories: edited experiences. It won’t include the time Mick Hill put Bengay on some new kid’s jock strap before baseball tryouts sophomore year. Or the time the wrestlers threw a bucket of spit on Sarah Jennings after she broke up with
the
152-pound state champ.
I stare at the yearbook flyer. The cover has a picture of the Berlin Wall being torn down. No Borders, No Boundaries. Open up the cover to see pages filled with a generic high school experience, one without Garbage Disposal, la Cordillera, and Babylonia
. No borders, no boundaries.
Where will I be in the yearbook? Where was
my
experience?
Our lives edited, erasing the truth.
WHAT DO I WANT FROM
now, this very moment in time?
I told Seth I’d lived now. Each second counted. Every time we entered a house, my whole nervous system caught fire. Like winning the money, watching the games—it was like being there, being part of something so much bigger than me. What was now for? Mrs. Mendez’s memory? Charity groups? Acceptance? Admiration? Power? The chance to be kissed? Yep. I want a whopping, standing-in-the-rain, sweep-me-off-my-feet-and-make-me-sing-hallelujah kiss.
World peace.
Nah. I’m not Miss USA.
Right now, I’d take five thousand dollars over world peace, which says a lot about the kind of person I am.
What do I hope for?
U-Dub seems so far away—like a mirage, a lie, something I made up. I’m aware that, odds are, tomorrow is gone. I’ve traded all my tomorrows for today.
Think like a bookie; find a way to make the spread.
I don’t know what bet to place—how to make it so things can at least even out, so that we all don’t lose.
Somebody has to win.
I turn my phone off. Leonard’s really pissing me off.
And every kid in high school wants to bet on tomorrow night’s game. I’ve turned my betting phone off, too. Tomorrow’s just for me, just to make things right.
I head to Josh’s and my meeting place, turn off the car, and lean my head on the steering wheel.
It feels different. Not enlightened or political or righteous. Desperate. We’ve become what Police Chief Dominguez said we were. “A couple of punks on a joyride.” But I can’t help feeling the rapture—a prickling sensation pumps through my body.
I practically self-eject when Josh taps on the window. Josh’s face, gap-toothed smile, crinkled hazel eyes, flushed cheeks, is on the driver’s side. He’s holding up some wilty-looking white daisies wrapped in bright purple cellophane. I roll down the window. “Hey,” I say.