Heist

her art, if she still dabbles in those areas in this alternate reality.

  "No, I don't. Explain." She puts a hand on her hip.

  "That stranglehold makes it kinda obvious you know how to kick butt." I fight the burn on my cheeks. It spreads as she studies me.

  "Oh, right." Her face relaxes, and her pink lips turn up at the corners. "You're coming with me, right?"

  I glance around as if the answer might be written in graffiti on a locker. Stick and Turbo are around somewhere. For the first time, I feel afraid to hang with them. They're different. Stick's a criminal with a mean streak, and Turbo just moved into town. They'll probably want to rob a bank just for fun. Or beat me up and leave me in an alley.

  "Um, yeah. Sure." I have no clue where she wants to go. "Where we going?"

  "After school. The art festival." She juts her chin out as if in defiance.

  Alarms go off in my head. I joke. "What about my fortune this morning?"

  She waves it off. "I don't believe in that stuff."

  I might not be able to save my dad or my friends or fix anything in my life, but I can try and save Jetta. She needs a distraction. Time away with me, away from school, away from any memory of art.

  "Want to have some fun first?"

  "Depends on what you mean by fun. I don't quite trust you yet, Jack Brodie."

  "Stay here. I'll be right back."

  "But-"

  I walk and then once I'm around the corner, I make sure no one's looking. If I have a bad reputation in this reality I might as well live up to it.

  I rest my hand on the fire alarm but think of all the complications. Fire department arriving. Teachers taking a full count of students. I head back and pull Jetta against the lockers. "Wanna get out of here? See Boston?"

  She pulls back. "Well?"

  "How about the Public Garden?"

  Something sparks in her eyes. "Sure. How do we get out of here?"

  I nod down the hallway. "The side exit."

  We head downstairs and walk toward the end of the hall. "Just act normal."

  "I am." A giggle escapes.

  "What's so funny?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the door. The bell rings and students rush into their classrooms.

  "Nothing. I giggle when I'm nervous."

  I push open the door and we're free. But it's not until we're away from the school that she grabs my hand.

  Tiny bolts spread like fire through my skin. We practically skip down the road. I wish I knew she was going to hold my hand, so I could've wiped the sweat off that had built up during our conversation. My ears feel hot. My image will be shattered if anyone sees me skipping like a schoolgirl. I try desperately not to trip over my feet.

  Jetta giggles, the sound like a bubbly stream. "Have fun, will you? You only live once."

  She drags me toward the T station, and I think about how much has changed since yesterday. My life has only worsened, and if that's truly the case, then why not skip like a girl? Why not skip school? If everyone thinks I'm so bad, maybe a little girly fun will improve my image.

  I grip Jetta's hand and join her enthusiasm. I let go of my worries and skip, my knees rising in front of me one at a time. My heart lightens. For the moment, I leave behind the stress about my changed friends and life. I don't think about where Dad might be in this alternate reality. We enter the station, hand in hand, not caring about who might be watching.

  The afterglow of the experience stays with me. Even on the subway, I feel light as if my body will just float away. Almost happy. I don't want to say anything and break the moment. I don't want to think about anything.

  The T rumbles through the underground tunnels. With each turn and screech of the brakes, the walls close in. I flash back to the previous day: the silver Mercedes, the haughty grandmother and her stuffy strut, and Jetta's dad, heartbroken on the sidewalk as his daughter is whisked away.

  I'm keenly aware of Jetta. My nerve endings tingle at every accidental brush of our arms. My heart pounds and I sway closer to her every time the subway turns a corner. I decide, for the next few hours I'll focus on Jetta.

  And keeping her safe.

  2:30 p.m.

  "There's something I've always wanted to see."

  Jetta takes the lead over the suspension bridge. Water flows slowly underneath and mirrors the clouds and sky in faded colors of blue and silver.

  "I hate to break it to you but you've seen one park, you've seen them all." I peer ahead to the large willow trees and the lake and the swan boats. More emotions rush. Dad brought me here before he went to jail. It's a strong memory.

  Jetta picks up her pace, taking longer steps down the wide-paved path threading through the garden. "The Public Garden is not like every other park. Just as no two paintings are the same, even if painted in the same style."

  I match her stride, remembering her painting. At this time yesterday, we were almost at the art show. I glare suspiciously at every person probably just enjoying the unusual warm spring day. The lady walking her pooch. The older kids shouting while they toss a Frisbee. The mom trying to calm her screaming baby as she pushes a stroller. Will the kidnapping still happen? Somehow through this lazy walk in the park, I have to warn Jetta. I have to save her. "So, um, do you have a lot of family close by?"

  "Nope. Just me and my dad."

  "Any grandparents?"

  "No. Just me and my dad," she says with a touch of annoyance.

  "What brought you to the area?" I swing my arms, hoping to give off a carefree attitude, so she won't suspect anything.

  She might've only given short sentences to my previous questions, but this one she plain doesn't answer. "My mom always read Make Way for the Ducklings to me at night. Before she died. Or that's what my dad told me."

  "Oh. I'm sorry." I miss my dad. A lump rises in my throat just thinking about what it would be like if Dad were to die. Jetta's face shows no emotion as if she's pushed and compressed her grief into a small box and tucked it away under lock and key.

  We walk in silence, veering off the paved paths and through the grass. Elderly folks putter by, out for their daily walk. I can't remember the last time I was alone with a girl and enjoyed it. This is different. I want to be here and I'm terrified.

  "I found them!" Jetta darts ahead under an oak tree and across the path.

  "You could have told me that's what you were looking for."

  She runs her hand over the statue of the mama duck from Make Way for the Ducklings. She zigzags between the baby duckling statues lined up behind their mother then flops into the grass behind them. I follow, soaking in the details of the perfectly formed statues for the first time. Their heads are smooth under my fingers, worn down by years of curious hands touching and feeling. I've always taken them for granted.

  "I could look at them all day," she says after I sit next to her.

  "Do you miss your mom?" I ask, but cringe, afraid of a karate chop to the jaw. I take a chance. "I miss mine. She's alive but her spirit withered a long time ago. She's a ghost, floating through our apartment; and every once in a while, if I'm lucky, I see wisps of who she used to be."

  Jetta doesn't answer. I'm drawn to her pink lips and her face that somehow in the course of a few minutes can show ten different emotions. Her green eyes are troubled. My palms grow sweaty again and I rub them against the grass without her noticing.

  "Do you miss your dad?" she asks.

  I don't answer either, the words choking in my throat. It isn't too far from here that Dad and I played catch. The August sun beat down on us all afternoon, so he bought me a Creamsicle from the ice cream truck. The whole day is a favorite memory, imprinted in my heart. It's these memories I struggle to hold onto as each year passes and he's not around.

  Slowly, I inch my hand across the grass closer to her hand. I want to hold it but can't quite muster up the courage. Instead, I stop, so my pinky gently touches hers. My throat tightens, and my heart completes soft pitter-patters like the gentle rhythm of baby duc
k feet across the ground.

  We sit like that for quite a while, though it only seems like minutes. I want to lean over and brush my lips against hers. No tongue. Not a make-out session like the couples under the stairwell at school. Just a kiss. A first kiss. She turns her head just enough so she can catch my eyes without staring outright. I lose my breath at her green eyes, at the slight upturn of her lips, teasing me closer.

  I sway forward, drawn by a force I can't fight. In seconds, we're inches from each other, close enough that I can see the brown flecks in her eyes that I didn't know were there. The smell of peaches intoxicates me. My lips tremble at the thought of touching hers with mine. The wall around my heart crumbles a bit more. All I see is her.

  She leans even closer so our lips are almost touching. "I knew you liked me, Jack Brodie," she whispers.

  Her words shock me and I jerk away. It was as if she read my mind. I feel like I should say something poetic but I fall back on a favorite of Stick and mine. "Wanna have a thumb war?"

  She smiles, and to me, it seems as if her teeth sparkle in the sun.

  "I have a better idea," she says. "There's an art festival near Simmons College. I arrived too late to get an entry in, but I'd love to get a look at the local artists."

  My heart races. Panic shoots through every limb and every particle of my being. The relaxing atmosphere is charged with tension and I can barely think through the thick cloud of fear.

  "No!" I shout and jump to my feet.

  "What do you mean, no?" Jetta pinches her lips together, her eyes flashing. The trusting look she wore all afternoon