Reason Number One: He didn’t expect the girl behind the counter to be so ballsy. She pulled a freaking gun on me. Who does that? Isn’t it in the employee manual to be submissive to gun-wielding robbers and be done with it? But no. This girl—what is her name, Carla or Carol or something—this girl pulled out a shotgun and gave him ultimatums. Maybe he should have watched her more closely in class before planning something like this. But everything she’d shown him screamed shy, insecure, unambitious. She wore a plain T-shirt and jeans every day. Never raised her hand in class, never spoke to anyone. No makeup, as far as Arden could tell. Shifted quietly between classes in a please-don’t-notice-me sort of way. If he hadn’t actually been scoping her out for this specific plan, he wouldn’t have known she existed. Heck, she had three classes with him and he never even knew it before last Tuesday.
At best, he expected her to duck behind the front counter and let him rob his own uncle in peace. Maybe call the cops too, but he’d made sure Deputy Glass—the more competent deputy on duty—was busy with an anonymous intruder call at an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. That way, with a little efficiency, he could scare the bejesus out of Uncle Cletus without getting caught.
Not that Arden cared much about getting caught. His dad wouldn’t allow the charges to stick anyway. Especially given the reasons behind it. Or maybe he would. Maybe this would be the last straw for his old man. Maybe this would be the one thing that his father wouldn’t tolerate.
Reason Number Two: Arden’s pretty sure he’s stolen Carla/Carol’s bicycle. It’s a girl’s mountain bike, nothing fancy, and it was parked near the entrance to the Breeze Mart. He would have made a run for it, but he was afraid she’d actually attempt to shoot at him as he made his way back to his truck parked about half a mile down the road. The bike was necessary for his mobility. For life and limb, even, because who knows what that crazy girl would do next? It didn’t seem like she knew, either. Watching her thought process was fascinating. And frustrating, when he realized she didn’t have any intention of backing down. He’d spent—wasted—all that time contriving a plan that ultimately failed.
With a scowl on his face, Arden skids to a halt in front of his red Ford truck. Gently, he lifts the girl’s bike into the back of it, carefully laying it down so as not to scratch it. It’s bad enough that he took it. It’s probably her ride home for the night. He’s hoping her parents will pick her up. And if not, Glass works Monday night patrol. He’ll be the first of the two deputies to respond to the robbery—even with his counterfeit intruder call. That is, if that girl has the sense to call the cops. If she does, Glass will give her a ride home if she needs it.
Arden puts his truck into gear, steering off the dirt shoulder and onto the road. For once in his life, he buckles up and drives under the speed limit. He doesn’t need to get pulled over tonight. Not when he’s still wearing the robber’s outfit and has the clerk’s bike in his truck bed. Not when his curiosity has been piqued by this Carla chick. She has balls, that’s for sure. But she doesn’t seem to wear them when she’s at school. Why is that?
Reason Number Three: Why did Uncle Cletus act like a dead body as soon as a gun was pulled? What happened to the sturdy old guy who used to tell him and his older sister, Amber, all those horrific war stories? About how he was a Vietnam prisoner of war and lived on one cup of rice a day, took regular beatings, and then ran this county as sheriff as soon as he returned from overseas. Seems like the toughest sheriff in the county’s history would have reacted differently. Arden had been ready for an entertaining scuffle, but his uncle just dropped the bottle of vodka and retreated against the truck. Might have even pissed himself.
So much for alcohol being liquid courage.
Arden runs a nervous hand through his hair. Maybe his mom is right. Maybe Uncle Cletus has drunk himself into near death. Which is troubling. His uncle is the closest thing to a real father he’s ever had. The only person he could ever really talk to.
Of course, if he was that close to me, I would have checked on him a lot sooner than this. Have I become so consumed with making Dad miserable that I’ve let Uncle Cletus suffer on his own?
Yes, he has. He knows it. Giving the new sheriff in town hell—the esteemed Sheriff Dwayne Moss—has been Arden’s only objective for the past year. He was willing to give up the football team, the baseball team, his potential scholarship opportunities. All the things he knew his dad would want for him to continue after Amber’s death. But the one thing he’d wanted to keep was his relationship with Uncle Cletus.
Arden tries to remember the last time he visited the old man and can’t. And now he’s just given him a heart attack with his botched-up convenience store prank. Shaved years off his uncle’s life in a matter of seconds. If he even has years left.
From the looks of him, Uncle Cletus has been knocking on death’s door and patiently waiting for it to answer. I’ve got to go visit that old guy, Arden thinks to himself as he pulls into his driveway.
And somehow I’ve got to get this bike back to its owner.
Three
I don’t actually breathe until Deputy Glass pulls out of our sandy driveway. The fact that he insisted on giving me a ride home at all almost gives me an ulcer—at least he doesn’t have his blue lights flashing when we pull in. My only saving grace is that no one in our trailer park is usually up at this time of night. Not even Señora Perez, who enjoys a late-night cigarette every now and then on the front steps of her trailer. That’s the benefit of living in a community of close-knit, hardworking immigrants—everyone is so tired that they actually sleep at night. Which is a good thing, since this bundle of nationalities is tightly secured by a rampant grapevine of unreliable gossip. Even the Russians get in on it. Gossip, as it turns out, has no language barrier. If anyone was awake to witness me being escorted home in a cop car … The scandal would permeate the very air in various, frenzied dialects.
I’m surprised to see a faint light shining through the living room window. Surely, surely, Julio is not awake. I make my way quietly up the stairs and use my key to unlock the door, giving the handle a jerk. The chain catches; Julio has officially locked me out.
Does he know what happened tonight?
“Julio,” I whisper between the crack in the door. “Let me in?”
I hear footsteps fall on the hollow floor of our living room, then the door is yanked shut from the inside. I bite my lip. I hear the chain being released and step back so the opening door doesn’t knock me off the steps.
Julio greets me at the threshold with a tired smile. “Carlotta, why are you home so late? Did you have inventory tonight?” But he’s already walking back into the house, toward the four-by-six area our landlord calls a kitchen. I bounce up the steps and shut and lock the door behind me. A fragile but definite sense of relief swirls through me as I realize I may be off the hook; if Julio had seen the cop car, he would have already been in ballistic phase. That’s the one good thing about Julio—you always know where you stand with him.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, but I can’t help but feel a little hurt. If he was awake and knew I was late coming home—I glance at the clock that dares to flash 4:37 a.m. back at me—why didn’t he bother to check up on me? What if I didn’t have inventory? I could be dead on the side of the road somewhere, and he wouldn’t know because he’s too busy … What is he busy doing, exactly? And do I really want to press the issue, given the circumstances?
Then I see a pair of worn-jeaned legs stretching across the kitchen floor, the booted toes pointed toward the ceiling. Oh. “Hi, Artemio,” I call, setting my backpack on the counter.
Julio had told me he’d be having Artemio, one of my father’s old friends, over before work to see if he could fix the kitchen sink. Julio could hang drywall like a pro, but plumbing was entirely beyond his scope of construction skills. And our sink had been leaking for about three weeks now.
“Hola, Carlotta,” Artemio says, his voice muffled under the cabinet. “You are very
late. You sure she doesn’t have a boyfriend, Julio?” He motions for Julio to hand him his wrench.
Julio looks at me. “She knows better than to have a boyfriend, don’t you, Carlotta? My sister is smart, Artemio.” The pride in his voice makes me perk up a little. “She knows boys are a waste of time. We stick together, don’t we, Carly?”
It’s nice to hear him say we stick together, instead of that he’s stuck with me—which is how I feel. “Always,” I say around a yawn. This situation does not require me, I know, but I’m hesitant to leave the room; Julio is not home often. Even now, he’s already dressed for the day; he and Artemio carpool in the morning with some friends at work and will be leaving in about forty-five minutes. I might as well get a shower and change clothes too. But we have a guest. Guests come first, I can hear Mama say. “Can I make you some coffee, Artemio? Julio?” I flick my brother on his arm. “Did you make your lunch yet?”
Julio smiles. “We’re fine, bonita. Go to bed.”
Closing my eyes at this point would be stupid. Especially since I have to allot extra time to walk to school.
“You could skip school today,” Julio says, seeing me yawn for a third time. “Get rested up for your next shift tonight. It’s good that you stayed late. We could use the extra money.”
Julio has always been on the school-is-not-important bandwagon, right alongside Mama. It’s hard to disagree at this moment, with my eyelids sagging as if weighted down with iron. But someday my perseverance will make him proud. Someday I’ll show him that it all wasn’t a waste of time. Someday I’ll hand him an upper-class paycheck that could only be earned with a degree.
And so I head to the bathroom for a cold shower.
* * *
I feel like slightly microwaved death.
Plopping down in the chair for fourth-period social studies, I set my books on the desk with the enthusiasm of a sloth. I offer a small wave to Josefina, who’s already tucked neatly into her seat across the room. She’s one of the girls who lives in my neighborhood, but we barely ever see each other except at school. She works too, cleaning houses on the weekend, so it’s not like we’d ever have time to hang out—even if we did have more in common. She has four brothers, so she’s into motorcycles and fixing cars and other things I couldn’t care less about. The extent of our conversation is usually “Hi.”
For which I’m grateful today. The few hours I normally sleep in the mornings between my shift at the Breeze and my first class at school were consumed by filling out police reports—and making sure Mr. Shackleford was truly going to be okay. Oh, and the joy of walking to school instead of riding my bike, thanks to the gunman I’m now convinced was high or psycho or both.
That dick. What, did he think I was going to pedal him down and shoot him? That a short stack like me would actually pursue a guy twice her size on a bicycle? Or did he just feel the need to take something, even if it wasn’t cash? Klepto enloquecido.
What’s worse, that was our last bike. Julio’s got stolen a few weeks ago and we’ve been trading the one back and forth between us. And now mine got jacked—a fact that I haven’t made Julio aware of yet. Thankfully, when Deputy Glass brought me home last night, Artemio had Julio distracted. Because Deputy Glass was a talker; he would have spilled the beans about what I did. And my brother would have nodded politely, thanked the cop, then made me call Mama to tell her how I had jeopardized the entire family by being a hero. By drawing attention to myself.
Earlier this morning, I didn’t appreciate how lucky I’d been. Now, after my soda-induced stamina has kicked in, my brain can review the facts with clarity. And this is what I decide: I could have been so screwed. If Deputy Glass had walked me to the door. If Julio hadn’t had Artemio there.
I push the thought aside and try not to dwell on things that could have happened but didn’t. Taking out my school planner, I scribble in a note for Saturday: Go yard-saling. I’ve got at least ten dollars in quarters saved in my peanut butter jar. I was going to use the quarters for the Laundromat, but maybe Señora Perez in the trailer next door will let me trade some housework to use her washing machine. She keeps her place spotless, but sometimes she has odds and ends for me to do, like rearranging pictures or cutting the grass on her lot. I just have to catch her in the right mood, since she’s already being generous in giving me the password to her Wi-Fi to use for schoolwork. But if everything turns out as planned, I’ll find a cheap bike at a yard sale—if they’re willing to negotiate.
I open my social studies book where my homework is tucked. Thank God I got that done before calculus last night at work. The other kids in my row pass their papers up, and just as I’m about to tap the shoulder of the guy sitting in front of me, he turns around. His gaze lingers at the top of the paper I’m trying to hand him.
“Hi,” he says. “Carly, right?”
Somehow I keep my mouth from falling open. Arden Moss actually knows my name? And how disgusting is it that I even care? “Hi. Yeah.” I hand him the stack of papers, which he accepts without taking his eyes off me.
“Heard you had a rough night.” This throws me at first and not just because his eyes are ridiculously green. I hadn’t told anyone about the robbery. Then I remember that Arden is the sheriff’s son. Apparently confidentiality is not included in the sheriff’s policy. Did the subject come up at breakfast or something? Did they casually discuss the most horrific moment of my life over their Wheaties?
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m not sure why Arden would care or why he’s acknowledging my existence. He might not be the school’s star quarterback anymore, but he’s definitely still on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Now I know why. His green eyes, his honey-colored hair, the way his biceps bulge without flexing. He’s mesmerizing, really.
And I don’t have time for mesmerizing. “It was … interesting,” I tell him. Maybe if I downplay it, he’ll stop talking to me. “Not as bad as it sounds though.” Which is a lie. I pointed a gun at a stranger who was pointing a gun at me. It doesn’t get much more terrifying than that. Ask Mr. Shackleford. He actually messed his pants.
Arden’s eyes seem to light up. “I heard you were brave. Talked the robber down.”
I’m not sure what to say to this; I did in fact back-talk the robber like the idiota that I am. If I tell Arden that, he’ll press for more information, I’m certain. It’s too juicy to pass up. But the thing is, I’m not a good liar either. Señora Perez told me once that I’m “honest to a fault.” And the way she said it, extreme honesty wasn’t a good thing in her eyes. Of course, I’d just got done telling her that I didn’t think her anti-wrinkle cream was working. But she asked.
Mr. Tucker saves me. Standing in front of Arden’s desk, he clears his throat in a look-at-me sort of way. Arden whirls in his seat and hands the homework over to him. I notice that he doesn’t have any homework of his own to turn in, but mostly I’m glad he didn’t press the issue or infringe on Mr. Tucker’s patience. After all, Arden isn’t known for his adherence to the rules.
During class I can’t help but stare at Arden’s wide back. I’m a bit starstruck by our insubstantial conversation and I hate it. It was easy to ignore him before; he was Arden Moss, The Untouchable. I knew my place on the social ladder—crap, I’m not even on the social ladder—and I knew his. But now that he’s spoken to me, I have to acknowledge that he’s a real person—and I have to consider all the reasons why girls drool at the sound of his name.
So that’s why I concentrate on his flaws. He’s the sheriff’s son. That’s a flaw because the sheriff’s entire platform this past election was getting rid of undocumented immigrants. Normally I don’t care about politics and whatnot, but Julio wouldn’t shut up about it, and since we’re saving up to smuggle our parents back across the border, that’s one cavernous rift between me and Arden.
Another blemish is that Arden Moss is prettier than me. So I’d spend my time being jealous of his flawless skin or something, and that’s not healthy for anyone.
And who names their son Arden? It’s an awfully girly name for a guy, I think. Maybe because it’s so similar to “garden” and that reminds me of pink flowers and such.
So by the time the bell rings, I’ve magnified all his faults to the point where I’m actually disgusted with him. Which is way more convenient than being starstruck.
Four
Carly Vega.
Carly Vega.
Fearless Carly Vega.
Arden can’t get her out of his mind. God, she would make the perfect partner in crime for so many reasons. She’d tried to convince him that the robbery was nothing to her, but her face told a different story; she’s a terrible liar, at best. But the most important takeaway from the conversation in social studies is that she was afraid during his prank—and she took matters into her own hands anyway.
Which means that, one: She’s fond of Uncle Cletus, and that wins her likeability points, and two: She handles scary situations with finesse, which wins her respect points.
He leans against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee. Now he reckons all he has to do is convince her that she’s perfect for the position of accomplice. That she has what it takes. More than that, he has to convince her of why she should cross over to the dark side with him. Right now she seems a bit uptight—proper, even. But he can tell her manners are false. They have to be. Her mouth says one thing and her eyes say another. Her lips spew boring politeness. But her eyes? The first thing he noticed about them is that they’re the color of his favorite kind of coffee in the winter. But it wasn’t long before he realized they’re full of sarcasm. Mischief. And a little bit of pride.
She probably doesn’t even appreciate what she’s capable of. And Arden aims to change that.
“Good morning, sweetie,” his mother says, startling him. The mug of hot coffee in his hand spills out, burning him. She stops then, the rustling of her silk robe hushing seconds later. Only a tinge of remorse glints in her hollow eyes. “Sorry,” she says. She helps herself to a cup of coffee and sits on a barstool at the kitchen island, staring blankly at the refrigerator.