‘I can do whatever I want.’ Sammy trots back to the house. ‘I’ll catch the moon and steal it. Are you coming?’
Avery is coming.
Sammy thinks he’ll have to boost him up, but Avery’s surprisingly agile at scaling the drainpipe and then balancing on the tin roof. Note to self: stop babying him already. Avery runs and Sammy’s heart skips into his mouth and crashes against his teeth, because he thinks Avery’s overshot.
But it’s fine.
Avery lets out a whoop and his hair fans out in a corn silk halo. His eyes light up and he flaps wildly as he bounces – forgetting that he’s supposed to be acting normal now.
He’s just happy.
Sammy can breathe again.
Sammy turns his next jump into a backflip and nearly hits the trampoline on his face. But his world is a rush of air and power, static in his hair, and grass stains on his knees. And it’s good. Everything is good. He jumps again and again. He backflips. He shouts. He throws his arms around the moon before his heels hit the mat and in those moments the world belongs to Sammy Lou.
And he can take what he wants.
Then Aunt Karen’s battered blue station wagon rolls into the driveway. Both brothers are on the roof this time, sweaty and bright-eyed and drunk on night air and when she starts shouting, they just laugh.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Aunt Karen grips her thin handbag and raises a bony finger. ‘Get down right now. Right now! Sammy!’
Get down and get your ears slapped, she means.
Not tonight.
Sammy nudges Avery with his elbow. ‘Together?’
‘You,’ Avery whispers, ‘and me. We.’
They burst across the roof in a howling run and spring off the edge, their mouths full of the moon and eyes full of stars.
Aunt Karen hollers at them.
They hit the trampoline and bounce high and the poor abused mat gives a wailing r-iiiiii-p
and they go straight through and hit the grass.
Idiots.
They smack together as they tumble through the split. Lightning shots of agony jolt up Sammy’s legs and he rolls, grabbing Avery’s head before it slams into the ground. They tangle for a second in the uncut lawn. Chests heave. The trampoline waves torn threads in apology.
‘Anything broken?’ Sammy says. ‘Because we kind of have to run right now.’
Avery moans and touches his cheek where he collided with Sammy’s head. ‘Your stupid skull broke me.’
‘But worth it?’
Avery’s lips are a fractured smile.
Aunt Karen storms over, shouting about inappropriate behaviour and ruining her house. Sammy rolls out from under the broken trampoline, making sure Avery is on his heels, and then they bolt into the street and leave Aunt Karen raging behind them. She’ll lock them out. But so what?
His fingers tease lock picks out of his pockets, relieved they’re not broken.
‘Where are we going?’ Avery’s panting, but his face is flushed with the thrill.
Sammy slows and they limp, out of breath and bruised, on the footpath. He throws his arm over Avery’s shoulder. They’re height for height right now. ‘We’re stealing a house, because you know what we need?’
Avery shakes his head.
‘We are the kings of nowhere,’ Sammy says. ‘We only need us.’
He’s a very good liar.
The wallet is hot and heavy in Sam’s sweat-slick hands.
Sickness twirls fists in his stomach as he digs out fives and twenties and shoves them in his pocket. He can practically hear Aunt Karen clicking tongue against teeth and saying, You despicable little boy.
He tosses the wallet in a nearby bin, not even checking to see who’s watching, and leaves the crowded shopfronts to go wander the Esplanade. Alone.
It’s the hottest kind of summer day, where everyone smells of coconut sunscreen and carries cups of pink and green gelato. Sam has a headache. From sun beating on his bare head? From sleeping on the ground? From replaying every horrible encounter he’s had this week with every person he knows?
He massages the knot in his neck and scuffs down the boardwalk. Gulls shriek and tourists jostle past in floppy hats with fat wallets he could be taking. Except he doesn’t want to. He just doesn’t care any more.
Ahead there’s an old woman sitting on a tarp, handmade wares spread before her for the tourists. Seaglass necklaces and hand-painted bowls and boxes of postcards. Sam slinks past but then sees fat squares of fabric sitting in a box.
He thinks of Moxie and her sewing needles and thimbles and her lemony frown.
He stops and picks through while the woman haggles with other shoppers over sunglasses and handwoven hats. His fingers brush soft cloth patterned with superheroes and sunflowers and peacock feathers.
‘That’s ten for two, boy,’ the old woman says.
Sam picks rolls out and shoves them in his jean pockets. He drops the notes he just stole into the woman’s lap. Three times what she asked for. But they’re making him sick.
‘This OK?’ he says.
She smiles.
The first person to smile at him in days.
Because Sam is stupid, he ends up in front of the De Lainey house again.
His heart gallops double time and his throat is full of thorns. When is he going to understand that it’s over? She slammed the door in his face. Does he need someone to pound the message home with fists? What’s it going to take for him to stop? The police to show up? They’ll nail him for theft, house burglary, stalking, trespassing, assault—
The sun bakes these pleasant thoughts into his skull, burning his fair skin beetroot red.
It’s been a few days since he left the spool of thread. He should turn a few days into for ever days. Do everyone a favour.
Come on, cut the self-loathing. If he’s going to be here, he might as well knock.
The scrolls of material fit nicely in two hands. Pity he’s soaking them with sweat.
He takes the steps like an old man in need of leg surgery. How can he dread this front door and yet long for it so much? He needs to get himself together. He’s an embarrassment.
His knuckles tremble at the door,
fingers made of glass
ready to shatter when he meets her furious gaze.
He knocks.
Feet patter inside.
The doorhandles twist and then pauses. She knows it’s him, doesn’t she? Finally it cracks open and there’s a sliver of Moxie – one brown eye and white shorts and a top of indigo lace.