Heist

fades and the brown flecks in her eyes darken. A shudder travels through her body.

  I catch a glimpse of the kung fu warrior but know that a few karate moves won't save her from the big thugs, and her grandmother. It didn't yesterday. I scramble for a plausible reason but the fear affects my ability to think clearly. "You know?art thieves!" I blurt.

  She narrows her eyes. "Art thieves?"

  "There's going to be some famous art there too. You never know. It is right next to the Gardner."

  Jetta smiles, but her eyes remain narrowed and her body tense. "I highly doubt that art thieves will plan a heist at a local art show. You're joking, right?"

  "The Gardner Heist is very inspiring to amateur thieves." I should know. My best friend joked about it.

  Jetta dazes off. "Someday, I want to go the Gardner. It's mysterious, with all the empty frames on the wall. Or so I've heard."

  I see my window and jump through it. If I keep her talking about the Gardner then maybe she'll forget about going to the art show. "Empty frames?"

  "The thieves ripped the paintings out of the frames and walked right out the side door." Jetta makes hand motions along with her story, heartbreak written on her face. "The empty frames are left on the wall because Isabella Gardner stated in her will that the museum has to remain exactly the same."

  "How do you know so much?" I wink and joke. "Planning a heist of your own?"

  "At my last school, I completed a research project on the stolen paintings for art class. It's fascinating. And tragic."

  I search for something to say. Anything to keep her going. "Isabella sounds like one messed up chick. What if they need to change a light bulb?"

  She ignores my comment. "She knew what she wanted and let nothing stand in her way. She didn't let others tell her what to do." Jetta stares at me but with different eyes than I've seen before. These are dark and stormy. She walks her fingers up my chest and ends with a sharp jab. "Just like I'm not going to let you keep me from the art festival."

  I flash a cheesy smile and try again. "She must not've been that smart. Sounds like a toddler could have walked in and stolen the paintings."

  "Sadly, it was too easy." She grabs my arm. "Now, let's go."

  I pull my arm free. "You need to stay here."

  "What's your problem?" she asks, her voice sharp, knifing into me.

  "I'm, uh, allergic to a plant on that side of town."

  "Tell me the truth." She steps closer.

  I want to tell her the truth, but it's impossible. How can I explain about her grandmother? How can I possibly explain about waking up and it being March 17th? Again?

  "Wait a second. This morning. When you read my palm." She pokes me in the chest, harder this time. "You told me to stay away from the art festival. And now. Again. You don't want me to go."

  "You agreed with me this morning," I say.

  "That was before Mr. Kronin told me about it." She steps back and stands with her feet spread apart, hands up. Her words shoot out, steel knives ripping apart our afternoon. "My dad talked to you, didn't he?"

  "What? No."

  "Even this morning, with your whole palm reading act, you were trying to convince me not to go, and stay near friends." Her cheeks flush, and she raises her voice. "How much is my dad paying you?" She takes a swipe at me but I duck just in time.

  "He's not!"

  "Don't lie to me, Jack Brodie." Her voice cracks. "I thought you were my friend. I liked you. This whole time, it's been an act. Traitor!"

  "No! Just please, don't go."

  She grips my neck and squeezes. The pressure forces me to my knees. "You have ten seconds."

  "I doubt Isabella would approve of your methods," I squeak.

  She squeezes harder, sending ripples of pain down my spine.

  "Okay, okay." I feel bad for not telling the truth. She has a right to know. The words tumble out. "Your grandmother kidnapped you yesterday, but I mean it wasn't yesterday, it was today. Your dad-"

  Jetta pinches a part of my neck. "Liar! My grandmother died. Years ago."

  The trees spin. The last thing I see is her blurry face.

  3:51 p.m.

  I groan. My face is mashed against the dry spring grass and a blade sticks up my nose. An ache in the back of my neck spreads to my shoulders. My head is fuzzy, and I can only remember a few details. I roll over and lose myself in the clouds racing across the sky.

  "Jetta," I whisper.

  Yesterday sucked. But today's worse. The coffee shop is completely different and not in a good way. My friends are complete assholes. My only bright spot, the one part in the day that makes me smile and forget about the other stuff is Jetta. Her words echo in my head. Her grandmother died? How? When? And what is the connection to me?

  Slowly, I push up to my feet. I roll my neck, which will be sore for days then trudge back through the park. The dead leaves from last fall are mush under my feet, ready to decompose or get chopped up with the mower. My head's down and I watch my feet walk along the path. She'll never forgive me. She's right. She doesn't need a watchdog for a friend, not if her grandmother's dead. So much for being the hero. More like loser friend.

  I ride the T back to my neighborhood and form a new plan. I don't switch over to the orange line to go home. When the T rumbles to a stop near the Gardner, I step off. An ominous feeling weighs on me, playing with my confidence, so I doubt about ever finding answers.

  The gray brick building with its towers and fancy windows do not fascinate me. Not anymore. I search along the brick wall where I wrestled with the college kids. Nothing. On my knees, I stick my head down near the street drain. The water gurgles down in the darkness and the dank smell makes it impossible for me to stay in that position. The coat's lost. Forever. I walk around the back of the building to the other side and plunk down on the curb.

  Green streamers wind around the lampposts in the small park and sparkly balloons float from a lot of the tables. One is just a dot in the sky and I'm sure some kid is crying. I almost laugh out loud thinking of the time when Dad brought home one hundred balloons for Mom's birthday. She hunted through all of them to find the one with the card attached. I helped. We had fun. Together.

  Silver flashes by and I snap, my head jerking up, ripping me from memories. A sleek silver car passes down the one-way street, turns left and circles around the back of the festival. It gleams in the afternoon sun like the back of a shark searching for prey.

  I forget about leather coats and balloons and sprint down the narrow road between the festival and the Gardner. I swerve left, arms pumping, following the car. Jetta's grandmother isn't dead. Those words pound in my head as my feet slap the pavement. I focus on the clumps of tables and the crowd of people naively looking at the paintings and sculptures.

  It's happening all over again.

  A loud angry beep swallows me and then I feel the thud against my body. I hear the screech of brakes and smell the burning rubber. I'm on my back, aware of the small things. The warm pavement. The sun on my face. I'm mumbling, the words tumbling out.

  Someone casts a shadow over me. I open my eyes but all I see is the glare of the sun.

  The guy says nothing. Then his car screeches away.

  Holy shit. Someone hit me. Someone tried to kill me. My mind blanks and I go through the motions as a banker type guy helps me to the side of the road and hands me a pack of gum.

  The crease between his eyes is deep and he frowns. His words are hitting me but not making it through the thin veil of my awareness. I'm a bit numb and still wiggling my toes and limbs to make sure nothing's broken.

  I don't care about me. Jetta.

  I push the pack of gum back at him and take off. But he grabs my arms and pulls me back. He's holding two fingers in front of my face. "Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

  "I swear I'm okay."

  "I'm a doctor." His voice turns to that hypnotic tone doctors use with scared kids and grumpy old men to soothe and brainwash. "I c
an't let you go without knowing you're okay. Sometimes injuries come on suddenly after an accident."

  The lies come easily. "I gotta pick up my baby sister at the sitters. If I'm late she'll freak out because she has this disorder where everything has to be done right. If I'm not there on time her whole night will be thrown off?"

  He pats down my arms then shines a light in my eyes. "Well, okay, but here's my card if you need anything."

  I shove it in my pocket and then sprint off, a little wobbly, a little sore. I picture Jetta wandering from painting to painting until a big guy dressed in black knocks her out and carries her away.

  I push harder. My breath comes in gasps, more from the fear gripping my chest. The ominous feeling is heavier, changing my world to black and white. No shades of gray or in between. I feel it deep in my bones, an ache, just like my Aunt Fiona always could. Something's wrong. I'm too late.

  The chatter of the crowd reminds me of red squirrels, high in their trees, warning other squirrels of danger. I want to yell at everyone to shut up. My chest heaves. I skim the crowds searching for any bit of red or black. My ears strain for any sounds of a high-pitched giggle.

  "Young man, are you feeling all right?" an older woman asks. She sits behind a table littered with small ceramic vessels that look like outdated ashtrays. A flowery dress hangs off her body and her bluish hair is in tight curls. "You look quite a wreck."

  "No, I'm fine. Really." But my voice shakes and I stumble.

  The lady grabs my arm in a surprisingly strong grip and leads me aside. "You need sustenance. I