Heist

wanting to enter the coffee shop. Mom is sure to be in a pissy mood after yesterday. She's been a perpetual crab ever since Dad's arrest. I'm nervous about interacting with anyone. The look in Stick's eye during our midnight talk still gives me the creeps. My world has turned into a horror movie.

  The shop has changed. Instead of the tables from the bar down the street, there are cute tables with glass tops and black iron legs that end like curly Q fries. A pink vase with a fresh yellow tulip sits on each one.

  I desperately hope that after the trial yesterday Mom went on a shopping spree. Or maybe another caf? closed and she bought the tables for a steal. Or maybe a mysterious great aunt whisked through town, saw the state of the coffee shop, and left Mom a million bucks.

  I survey the room, and then my eyes widen.

  All the paintings Dad bought at the yard sale.

  Gone.

  The photo of us at the beach.

  Gone.

  In their place, are simple framed photographs of flowers.

  Mom never would've gotten rid of those paintings, or that photo. I slump down on the bottom step. Nothing makes sense. I stick my head into the crook of my arm, shutting out the world, shutting out the changes.

  "You must be, Fiasco," someone babbles in a chipper tone. "Your mom told me all about your nickname and how you hate to be called Jack. I'm not really comfortable calling someone by their nickname when I don't know them, but I'm willing to make an exception, because I liked you before I met you. Because wanting to be called Fiasco shows signs of creativity."

  I peek over my arm at a girl with black army boots, purple leggings, a shorter than short skirt, a green-striped shirt, an ugly orange scarf and a red bow in her black hair.

  My heart beats louder, stronger. I drink her in and want to touch her to believe this miracle. I burst across the room unable to contain my excitement and the thrill running through my chest.

  "You're okay? You're here." I grab her hands, her skin soft and warm, and waltz her around the room. For just a moment, I can pretend. A bit breathless, I flop into a chair not trying to hide my goofy grin. "What happened?"

  Jetta steps back and raises one eyebrow in an exaggerated quizzical look. "Hmm." She taps her chin, deep in thought. "I stopped by this morning and talked with your mom."

  "Don't you remember yesterday?" I stare at her staring at me, and the blank look of someone who doesn't have a clue. My heart is crushed and the last bits of sanity reach out, praying she'll remember.

  She purses her lips to the side as if pondering a deep philosophical question. "I totally remember yesterday."

  "Phew." I let out a breath of air. I'm not crazy. My friends were just feeling the effect of school cafeteria food, and Mom went on a shopping spree.

  "I was in the car all day." Her words pierce the soft shell of my fantasy. "My dad and I move around a lot, so it's hard not to forget the packing up, the goodbyes, and the long car drives."

  Shock reels through me. "Wait here. Just wait one second. I'll be right back."

  "Whatev," she says casually and yawns.

  I push back my chair and sprint up to my bedroom. I throw clothes around from my drawer and from the laundry basket, the panic sending me into a full-blown attack, until I find the ripped jeans from yesterday. I shove my hand into the pocket, hoping to find the silky material of a bow. The only proof I have that yesterday happened.

  Nothing.

  I sink to my knees, the truth pressing me down into a hellish reality.

  "I don't bite. Promise!" Jetta yells up the stairs.

  Minutes later, I thump down the steps. For all my conspiracy theories about the french-fry tables and missing paintings, I have a stirring in my gut, a sixth sense, that something in my universe has changed drastically. And it has to do with my little trip to the Gardner. My so-called journey.

  "What's the date?" I hold my breath, praying I'm wrong.

  "The 17th. St. Patty's Day. Duh." She swings the door into the kitchen. "How can you live in this city and not know that?"

  My knees almost give way as the words sink in. How could it be St. Patty's again? Yesterday can't just be erased. Impossible. This has to be the journey, but I can see absolutely no connection between this and getting Dad out of jail.

  Jetta calls, "Your mom left you breakfast."

  Sure enough. Back against the wall, in my usual spot, rests a plate of eggs, steam still rising in the air. I sit but don't move to pick up the fork.

  Jetta sits across from me. "Better eat up, because you have to walk me to school."

  I chew on rubbery eggs, not tasting a thing. Jetta pulls out a small compact and applies shiny pink lip-gloss. I want to push the table aside and pull her into my arms, dig my fingers into her hair and touch her cheek. Something to convince me this is real and she's safe.

  She peeks at me. "What?"

  A flood of emotion wells up. I don't care that today is on repeat and that I quite possibly should sign into a mental hospital. Jetta is safe. I have a second chance to save her. Mom seems happy and just maybe Dad is a free man.

  "I almost forgot to tell you." A frown creases her forehead.

  "What?" The hairs on my neck rise.

  "Some creepy guy stopped and left a message." She shuddered. "He was like some mobster with a dark jacket and his hat pulled low. Wouldn't even let me get a look at his face."

  I swallow and force my voice to sound casual. "What did he want?"

  She pushes a note across the table.

  The paper crinkles under my touch. After a quick breath, I open it.

  make the right choice

  8:10 a.m.

  "What time do classes start?" Jetta glances at her watch every few seconds. And I know exactly what kind of look she's flashing, the one that questions my sanity. Especially after I crumpled up the note and threw it in the trash.

  "8:30." I stride through the neighborhood streets, forcing her to jog to keep up. If what Stick told me last night is true, that Big D's in some kind of psych ward, then we won't be ambushed today. I won't hit my head. And I won't be going to court. I try to remember my room this morning. No suit. I'm sure of it. "Did my mom say anything about my dad this morning?"

  "Nah. We just talked about the coffee shop, and," a grin stretches across her face, causing her green eyes to light up, "my ideas for the neighborhood."

  "Oh, yeah." She loves art. "Are you going to hang your paintings in the shop?"

  Jetta stops. The March breeze blows strands of hair across her face, partially masking her eyes. People walking to work flow around us. "How would you know about that?"

  I stammer. How did I let that slip? The answer comes immediately and I blurt, "A psychic used to live in the coffee shop."

  Jetta crosses her arms, and her eyes narrow in on me with a dangerous look. "And you picked up some tricks?"

  "Just a few here and there." The doubt in her eyes forces me to scramble for a way out. A distraction. "Do you want me to read your palm?"

  She pulls me out of the flow of pedestrians and holds out her hand, disbelief in her eyes. "Leave out the bad crap, 'kay?"

  I wipe my sweaty palms off on my jeans then grab hold of her wrist. The contact sends tiny bolts through me. My gaze travels up to her face, her creamy skin, the lips that seem so kissable. I gulp. "No prob."

  "Why is your hand trembling?" Jetta asks.

  I puff out my chest and make my voice as serious as possible. "It's the psychic power getting ready to be unleashed."

  "Should I be scared?" Jetta whispers mockingly, her voice breathless.

  I wink. "You're in the hands of a professional."

  "What a cheesy line." She rolls her eyes. "Hope you can do better than that."

  "Don't disturb the master while he's at work." I raise my voice and manipulate my voice to sound like a gruff old man. An elderly lady flashes me a strange look.

  Jetta giggles, light radiating across her face. Her eyes sparkle.

  Slowly, I trace my
finger down a line that stretches across her palm. My fingers tingle. The overwhelming smell of peaches comes to me. "You like peaches."

  "That's my body spray."

  I clear my throat and try not to look at her soft pink lips. I trace a line that runs diagonal opposite her thumb. "Creativity flows through you like a mountain spring."

  "You already know I like art. Doesn't count."

  I throw her a stern look, which produces another round of giggles. "Fine." I search for the right words to save Jetta from her grandmother. I'm the only one who can warn her. I wish I had that kind of power in Dad's life. In Stick's life. "Stay away from art festivals today."

  "Why would I go to an art festival? I just moved into town. And that doesn't count because that's like saying, 'Don't climb Mt. Everest during lunch break.'"

  "You're testing the powers of the Great Fiasco." I think hard about what to say next. This might be my only chance. What simple fortune will protect her?

  "Does my hand say anything about being late to school on my first day?" she demands.

  "Zippo. But wait," I pull her hand closer, "I see a silver Mercedes."

  Jetta's breath catches in her throat. "And?"

  "Stay close to your friends so trouble won't find you."

  She yanks her hand back as if I shocked her. She smoothes her hair and fiddles with the bow. Her face pales as if she has secrets in her life-reasons to be in trouble.

  "This is silly," she states and forges a path down the sidewalk, ending the conversation. "Let's go. I need time to pass in my transfer records."

  I follow, trying to not watch her hips sway with every step, and suppressing the curious feelings beating with my heart.

  8:35