‘I’m thirty per cent sure Jeremy has a Twice Burgundy shirt like that.’
For a second, Sam hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about. But – oh wait. He stole a shirt. Sam glances down and realises with horror that it’s some band shirt. It’s probably unique. It’s probably special.
In his defence though, he didn’t mean for these people to see him in it.
He didn’t mean to be here.
‘Jeremy’s friend?’ The boy sighs. ‘He has so many I can’t keep up.’
‘Yeah.’ At least words, and not an unholy sob, come out of Sam’s mouth.
‘I swear,’ the boy says, rubbing his eyes, ‘he’s building an army. Did he even tell you how Sundays work? You grab a plate and a chair straight away or you end up on the floor with the kids.’
Apparently being ‘on the floor with the kids’ is synonymous with ‘hell’ and Sam can see why. There’s a picnic blanket spread on the polished floorboards and piles of children are face-painting with tomato sauce and stepping in each other’s potatoes.
‘You look shell-shocked. Here.’
And before Sam can protest, he’s suddenly taken by the shoulder and pulled the rest of the way downstairs and towards the table. Towards people.
Run.
Hit him and run.
He nearly does.
But then he trips on a pile of Lego and his kidnapper keeps him upright as he propels them towards the enormous table, laden with more food than Sam’s seen in his life. A small space on the bench suddenly opens up and his backpack is jerked from his shoulders and tossed against the wall with a muttered ‘What are you carrying? Rocks?’ Then Sam is squeezed between arms and shoulders and a plate appears in his hands.
‘Just stab someone with a fork if you can’t get what you need,’ the boy says. Then he’s gone.
Sam might be having a panic attack.
He tries to get up but the person next to him thinks he’s reaching for the potato salad. So now he has a bowl of salad in his hands.
Then his plate grows a hot buttered bun and two people are asking if he needs onions? Sauce? Oh, you must be one of Jeremy’s friends, right?
And he’s nodding.
What is he supposed to do?
Sit down?
Eat?
Sam sits there for a moment, heart sped up so fast he can scarcely see straight. But as the noise washes over him and no one’s eyes catch his and no one shouts how he’s an impostor – he relaxes. Just a little. Most of the teens are as dishevelled and crumpled as he is too, probably from their camping trip, so he doesn’t stick out.
Well, what the hell, right?
Sam eats.
He’s officially taken house burglary to the next level. Forget stealing a bed, a key, a home for the night. He’s stealing families and their Sunday lunches.
Sam attempts to eat his body weight in potatoes and bloody beetroot sandwiches while rowdy conversations wash over him. Faces blur together. No one pays him any attention except to pass food, and you know what? He’s totally fine with that.
But he won’t press his luck.
As plates empty and dishes disappear and conversation turns to coffee and trying to pry sticky children off the floor for naps, Sam slips from the table. He sneaks towards his backpack only to have his way blocked by the girl in the purple dress. Her hair sticks up in an unapologetic frizz and her lips flatten at the sight of Sam.
His pulse stutters.
Well, he knew he’d get caught, didn’t he? This is the stupidest and most insane thing he’s ever done – inviting himself to a stranger’s lunch. He deserves the shriek of intruder.
Except it doesn’t come.
Sam finds his arms piled with dishes and the girl points to the kitchen with a vicious jab.
‘I was just leaving—’ Sam says.
‘To walk to the kitchen and become an honorary dishwasher,’ the girl finishes. ‘And don’t give me any lines about being Jeremy’s guest because as soon as I find him, I’m stuffing his ugly face into the dishwater too. You can’t invite a million people over and –’ her voice rises ‘– NOT HELP WITH THE DISHES, JEREMY.’
Sam stares.
‘Kitchen.’ She claps her hands together briskly. ‘Sink. Scrub. Dishwasher is already full. Move it.’
Considering she’s made of sharp corners and fierce eyes, and Sam doesn’t want to get on the bad side of any of that, he goes. After all, he did eat their food. And you wouldn’t call the cops on someone washing your dishes, right?
Right?
This entire day is doing his head in.
He gets lost behind a mountain of dishes and empty bowls and abused blackened frying pans and soapsuds in a house he fully intended to rob a few hours ago.
Plates keep coming.
This is some cruel sort of karma for his thieving ways.
He’s just trying to balance a pot on top of a precarious stack of cups, when a man enters with a toddler on one hip and a plate of brownies perched on his fingertips. He swings the plate towards Sam, who really feels like he deserves this. He wipes his sodden hands on his shirt. He takes one.
‘Take two,’ says the man. ‘Caramel brownies. Did they leave you with the dishes? You must be new here, son, I don’t even recognise you. Although that’s pretty normal with how many friends Jeremy has.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘So the trick is to disappear before dessert comes out.’
Sure enough, the calamity of bodies has thinned out drastically. They’re now playing cricket on the street.
‘Although it means more cake for the dishwashers,’ the man adds. ‘I’ll leave the plate here. But don’t advertise it or you’ll have Moxie all over you. I swear she has a sixth sense just for caramel.’
‘I heard that.’
Sam spins to see the girl reappearing in a swirl of purple and scowls. ‘I will not be all over anyone, thank you very much, Dad.’ She peers at Sam. ‘You’re still here?’
‘Yeah?’ The word pulls from Sam’s lips, cautious, because any second now one of them is going to notice he doesn’t fit.
‘Feel free to stay for ever if you do the dishes,’ the father of this overcrowded house says, moving off while the toddler fusses in his arms.
Obviously he didn’t mean that, but still – the words stick to Sam’s ribs as his heart speeds up. People don’t usually toss words his way that aren’t punctured with anger. He’s so pathetic, right? That he’d lap this up.