Home > The Boy Who Steals Houses

The Boy Who Steals Houses
Author: C. G. Drews

If lost, please return to the De Laineys.

 

 

   If it hadn’t been so dark and if his fingers hadn’t been so stiff with dried blood, he could’ve picked the lock in thirty-eight seconds.

   Sammy Lou takes pride in that record. It’s one of the few things he can take pride in, considering his life consists of charming locks, pockets full of stolen coins, broken shoelaces, and an ache in his stomach that could be hunger or loneliness.

   Probably hunger.

   He should be used to being alone by now.

   He just needs to crack this freaking lock before someone sees and calls the cops. The house has been empty for days – so says the mouldering newspaper on the driveway, the closed curtains, the lack of lights at night. He knows. He’s watched.

   And now he’s been at this lock for over two minutes. His palms go slick with sweat and the dried blood dampens and slips between his knuckles. His lock picks, a gift from his brother and usually an extension of Sam’s thin and nimble fingers, feel too thick. Too slow.

   He can’t get caught.

   He’s been breaking into houses for a year now.

   He can’t get caught.

   One of his lock picks gets jammed and he whispers a curse. He wriggles it free, but his heart thunders and seconds tick by too fast, so he abandons the lock and melts back into the shadows. There’s always another way.

   He slips around the house, undone shoelaces slapping his ankles. The house is old bricks, the windows cloistered with drawn blinds. It’s harder to see back here, with a tall fence blocking the moonlight. But a woodpile sits under a small window and it whispers welcome.

   Sam dumps his backpack on the grass and scales the woodpile, placing each foot and hand gingerly so he doesn’t end up underneath an avalanche of split logs. He’s sore enough as is, thanks. His hands trace the small bathroom window, and for once he’s pleased he skipped out on the growth spurts regular fifteen-year-old boys encounter. He’s a year off for his age. Maybe two. Looking small and pathetic usually works to his advantage, plus it turns tight windows and poky corners into opportunities.

   Half balancing, half hugging the wall, Sam fiddles with the lock while the woodpile gives an ominous groan and shifts beneath him.

   Things this family is good at: locking their house.

   Things they suck at: stacking wood into a sturdy pile.

   If this doesn’t work, he’ll have to—

   ‘You could always break it.’

   Sam’s heart leaps about fifteen metres in the air – and unfortunately his feet follow. For a second he scrabbles to grip the wall, bricks ripping fingertips, and then he loses balance and tumbles backwards. The lock picks go flying into the darkness.

   At least there’s not far to fall.

   At least the woodpile doesn’t tip over too.

   At least, Sam thinks, still on his back and staring up at a silhouette smudged against the stars, it’s only his brother.

   For a second Sam just lies there while the dewy grass soaks his shirt and his heart migrates back down his throat.

   ‘Dammit, Avery,’ Sam says.

   ‘I didn’t bring a hammer.’ Avery pulls his phone out of his pocket, flips on the torch app and shines it straight in Sam’s eyes. ‘But we could use a rock or, like, your head since it’s hard and ugly enough.’ He gives the tiniest breath of a laugh, but follows quickly with, ‘That was a joke. I was joking. You can tell it’s a joke, right?’

   Sam wasn’t prepared for this tonight. Interruptions and complications and—

   Avery.

   And Avery wouldn’t show up unless—

   ‘Is something wrong?’ Sam shields his eyes from the glare. ‘Are you hurt or in trouble or …’ His pulse quickens. ‘You’re OK?’

   ‘What?’ Avery blinks, confused. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

   Sam didn’t realise, until the I’m fine comes, how tight his chest is. How shaky his hands suddenly are. He has to close his eyes a minute and fumble for a thin grip on calm. It’s fine. Avery’s fine.

   Sam scrambles up and snaps, ‘Turn that light off.’

   He doesn’t mean to snap. It’s just that rush of panic for nothing.

   ‘You’re mad?’ Avery tucks the phone to his chest, as if that could stop Sam taking it off him if Sam really wanted to. Avery’s all elbows and sharp jawlines, with a scar at the corner of his mouth, and a pointy elfish face that says he skipped the effort of growing too.

   ‘I’m about to be mad.’ Sam’s teeth clench. ‘Turn it off or I’ll smack you into the middle of next week.’

   Avery frowns but turns the light off.

   Sam’s lost his night vision now. His ears strain, but he doesn’t catch any movement or whispers. Or sirens. He’s not caught.

   ‘I could get you a phone.’ Avery rocks on his heels. ‘That would fix everything.’

   Of course it would, Avery. A phone would fix the fact that Sam is a house thief in clothes he stole from a second-hand store, who needed a haircut months ago, with skin tight against his ribs like a tally of all the meals he’s missed.

   His fingers curl into fists. Sticky with blood. It’s all bluff anyway, because he’d never hit Avery. In fact, it’s the opposite. Sam spends his life hitting the world and smoothing over the rusty corners so Avery won’t fall and hurt himself.

   ‘I wouldn’t need you to fix stuff,’ Sam says, the barest frustrated tremble in his voice, ‘if you’d stop ruining everything.’

   The result is instant.

   Avery wilts, shoulders hunched to make himself a smaller target. Sam is stupid, stupid. He shouldn’t have said that.

   ‘I didn’t mean it.’ He shuffles his hands in the grass in vain hopes he’ll find the lock picks. Maybe he’ll find a hundred dollars and a five-course meal down here too. But Avery’s already started flapping, hands moving anxiously against his thighs in one of his endless tics. His thin lips have folded into their signature downturned pout, all poor waif and damp eyes that remind you that you’re a complete asshole for being angry with him.

   ‘Why didn’t you hear me coming?’ Avery says. ‘You’re supposed to be a burglar.’ He glances around, hand-flapping escalating to a fist beating his own leg. ‘We need to break in before we get caught and—’

   ‘OK, OK, calm down.’ Sam rubs his temples. ‘What do you mean we?’

   Avery touches the tips of his fingers to Sam’s chest. ‘You. And me. We.’

   Sam opens his mouth to argue, but why bother? Avery isn’t supposed to be here, even if Sam did off-handedly tell him what house he was breaking into tonight. But if Avery decides he’s coming in – he’s coming in. Sam’s never said no to him in his life. Plus he’s not wrong about how loud they’re being. Sam’s truly lost it this evening. Two failed break-in attempts and now he’s arguing in a stranger’s backyard with his brother who can ruin everything and then tear up and make Sam feel like the monster.

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