The Classy Crooks Club (10 page)

When a sliver of morning light starts to creep through my curtains, I finally give up on trying to sleep. It's a good thing there's no soccer on Fridays, because there's no way I'd be able to concentrate today. My grandmother is already at the table when I come downstairs, and I kind of expect her to shoot me a conspiratorial smile now that we're planning to do something illegal together. But she doesn't even look up from her paper.

“Good morning, Annemarie. How did you sleep?” she asks, like last night wasn't the weirdest ever.

“Not very well, honestly,” I say. “I couldn't stop thinking about—”

“I'll have the cook make you some warm milk before bed tonight,” she says, cutting me off. “It'll help you sleep.”

Wow, I guess I'm not even allowed to talk about this stuff when nobody else is around. So I shut up and nibble on an English muffin, trying not to think about how gross warm milk sounds.

When Grandma Jo finishes her breakfast, she dabs her mouth with her napkin and pushes her chair back. “I have things to attend to. I trust you can entertain yourself in a ladylike manner until the bridge club arrives?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

“Good.” She gives me a stern look. “Don't disappoint me, Annemarie.”

I end up taking a stack of comic books, a blanket, and a glass of lemonade out into the backyard and sprawling on the grass in the sun all morning. I'm probably not lying in a super ladylike way, but there are tall hedges around the entire yard, so it's not like any nosy neighbors can report me to Grandma Jo. I'm almost starting to feel relaxed when my phone rings and Maddie's picture pops up on the screen. I consider not answering—I don't want to lie to her about what happened last night—but I'm going to have to get it over with sooner or later. It's probably easier to do it on the phone than in person, anyway. I can always tell when Maddie's lying to my face because she scrunches up her chin in a certain way.

“Hey,” I say, hoping my voice sounds breezy and casual.

“Hey!” Maddie says. “What's going on over there? Tell me everything!”

“About what?” I say.

“About what?!
Seriously? About the
storage room full of exotic birds
, you weirdo! Did you break in again? What did you find? Are the birds really stolen? Did you tell your brother? Is he going to let you move in?”

I want to tell her everything so badly, but my grandmother's face pops into my head:
If you speak of this to anyone else, I will know, and I will make you very sorry
. “Oh, right.” I sigh. “You can't laugh at me, okay? 'Cause I feel really stupid about this whole thing.”

“Are the birds not stolen after all?”

I swallow hard and pull out the explanation I thought up while I was trying (and failing) to sleep. “Turns out my grandmother's animal rescue league is renovating the building where they usually keep the rescued animals, so she volunteered to keep them in her storage room in the meantime.”

“Really? That's so boring!”

“I know,” I say, relieved that she's buying it. “You can't tell anyone, though, okay? Grandma Jo's house isn't up to code for this kind of thing, and she could get in really big trouble.”

“Okay. I know this is weird, but I'm kind of disappointed. I mean, it's obviously good that your grandmother's not a criminal, but it was sort of exciting that there was something freaky and mysterious going on, you know?”

Of course, my grandmother is a criminal, and there are all kinds of freaky things going on. But I just say, “Yeah, I know. Anyway, thanks for helping me investigate, but I guess it's back to everything being boring.”

“Do you want to come over?” Maddie asks. “We could play
Mega Ninja Explosion
. Jordan said I could borrow it.”

“I really want to, but I'm grounded because I snuck out yesterday. I'm not allowed to go anywhere but soccer.”

“Seriously? For how long?”

“I don't know, but I'm working on it.”

I hear the glass door of the house slide open, and a voice calls, “Yoo-hoo, AJ!” When I look up, Cookie's standing in the doorway. She's wearing a red dress and red tights and motioning for me to come inside.

“I have to go,” I tell Maddie. “Grandma Jo's making me do chores.”

“Ugh. Good luck. Text me later.”

“I will,” I say. My stomach twists with guilt as I hang up the phone. Then again, it's hard to feel too bad for Maddie when she gets to play
Mega Ninja Explosion
all day.

“Hello, my darling,” Cookie says when I get to the door. “How are you this beautiful morning?”

“Um, pretty good,” I say. “A little sleepy.  You guys must be tired too.”

“Oh, I feel fresh as a daisy,” Cookie says. “Follow me!”

I assume we're going to the storage room, but Cookie heads for the stairs instead. “We've made you a surprise!” she says, and even though I have no idea what's about to happen, her excitement is contagious.

I follow her up to the attic, where the rest of the ladies are waiting. They've been busy while I was lounging in the yard; there are a whole bunch of storage boxes and old furniture shoved into various shapes in the center of the floor, sort of like a maze. Some of the boxes are stacked up tall and look like they might topple over any second, and some are pushed together in rows. Clouds of stirred-up dust swirl around in the overhead lights like swarms of tiny bugs, and for a second I worry my grandmother's about to put me to work cleaning. But the ladies are beaming at me, so I'm guessing they have other ideas.

“Do you like it, dear?” Betty asks.

“I . . . umm . . .” I look around, hoping there's a clue I've missed. “Of course I do—this looks like a lot of hard work. But . . . what is it, exactly?”

“It's your training obstacle course,” Cookie explains. “During the heist, your job will be to navigate quickly and quietly through unfamiliar territory. So we've made you a place to practice.”

“These are for you,” Edna says, holding out a pair of black gloves. “We always wear them for heists so we don't leave fingerprints behind. They'll help you get into the right psychic space if you wear them now.”

“Thank you,” I say. I don't know what a psychic space is, but when I pull the gloves on, I do feel a little more professional. They're a perfect fit, lightweight and sturdy, and my initials are embroidered along the wrist cuffs in silver thread. “Wait, did you
make
these, Edna?”

She shrugs modestly. “I whipped them up last night.”

“But you were here last night. When did you sleep?”

“I don't really sleep,” Edna says, like this is totally normal. “I get all the rest I need when I meditate.”

“Let's get started,” Grandma Jo orders, pulling a stopwatch out of her pocket. “Start here, Annemarie, and let's see if you can make it to the other side in less than two minutes without any of us hearing you.”

Cookie switches the lights off, and I start creeping forward through the box maze, arms stretched out in front of me like a zombie. I don't do so well at first—an entire box wall comes tumbling down on me when I turn a corner too quickly—but I soon learn that smooth, controlled movements are the key. I concentrate on shifting my weight carefully from heel to toe as I walk, sweeping my arms in slow, graceful arcs so I can find the walls without knocking anything over. Whenever a floorboard creaks or I brush against a box corner, the ladies hiss, “Freeze!” and I have to freeze in place, barely daring to breathe, for as long as I can. As soon as I get used to one configuration of boxes and furniture, they make me close my eyes while they rearrange everything. Sometimes I have to crawl or limbo through small spaces, and though I doubt I'll actually have to do that in Fran Tupperman's house, the fact that I
can
is pretty cool. Every time I make it through the maze without giving myself away, Betty and Cookie and Edna whoop and cheer and high-five me, and it makes me feel like a celebrity.

“You're a natural,” Cookie tells me after a couple of hours, when I'm covered in dust and sore from creeping around. “I'm so impressed, AJ.”

“Such a competent aura,” Edna muses.

Betty gives me a huge, warm smile. “You're a marvel, dear,” she says. “I wish we could keep you forever.”

I glance at my grandmother, and she gives me a slow nod. It's not exactly praise;
she
clearly doesn't wish she could keep me forever. But at least she's being respectful, and that's a big step in the right direction.

“Thanks for this, you guys,” I say, trying not to sound too cheery and excited. Grandma Jo doesn't approve of fun. “That was really helpful. Are we practicing again tomorrow?”

My grandmother frowns. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Annemarie. Hydrate yourself and then come downstairs so we can practice with the birds.”

I take the bottle of water she hands me, but there's suddenly a lump in my throat, and I'm not sure I'll be able to swallow any of it. “Wait,” I say. “Practice how? All I have to do is grab the cage in that woman's attic and carry it downstairs, right?”

“Annemarie, we're liberating a green-winged macaw.”

I don't understand why it matters if the bird has green wings or red wings or hot-pink wings with polka dots. “So?” I say.

“Green-winged macaws are three feet tall from head to tail. The cage Picasso lives in is about as big as you are. Can you carry that down two flights of stairs in the dark?”

My heart is suddenly doing Olympics-level gymnastics. “I have to carry the bird? In my
hands
?”

Grandma Jo sighs and looks at the other ladies like,
I told you she couldn't handle this
. “Is that going to be a problem? If so, I need to know now so we can make alternate arrangements for next Friday.”

I know Grandma Jo didn't want to let me be part of this heist in the first place, and if I back down now, she's going to think she was right about me all along. Plus, then I'll have to go back to embroidering things and learning to set a table properly. “I never said I couldn't do it,” I say.

“Fine. Then come with me.”

The four of us follow Grandma Jo down the stairs and into the storage room, and I quickly count the birds and take stock of where each one is—I don't want any of them hiding and surprising me. But they're all there in plain sight, grooming themselves or eating or shredding their toys. None of them pays us the slightest bit of attention. Grandma Jo fetches a massive red, green, and blue bird from across the room and returns with it perched on her arm. When it reaches up and starts biting the lace around her collar, she doesn't even flinch. It better not try that with me, or I'm definitely going to scream.

“This is Fireball,” Grandma Jo tells me. “He's a green-winged macaw like Picasso. When you hold him, you must keep your arm level, like this, and refrain from making any sudden movements. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say. The bird looks perfectly calm and relaxed, but I can't stop staring at his razor-sharp beak and eye-gouging claws. If I make him remotely angry, I'll be in trouble. I take a small step backward.

“Hold out your left arm, please, Annemarie,” Grandma Jo instructs. “You'll want to keep your right hand free for opening doors and such.”

Betty gives me an encouraging little nod and reaches out to hold my other hand for moral support. Thank goodness there's
someone
here who cares how I feel. I grip her hand tightly, squinch my eyes shut like I do when I have to get a shot, and offer Grandma Jo my arm. Fireball's weight transfers onto me, but his claws don't hurt like I thought they would, and he's not quite as heavy as I expect, either. For a second I feel a little more confident—something that only weighs a couple of pounds couldn't do that much damage, right? I open my eyes and sneak a peek at him, and he stares right back, tilting his head this way and that.

“I think he likes you,” Cookie says.

“Good job, AJ,” says Betty in a soothing voice. “You're doing great.”

“This isn't as bad as I thought it would be,” I admit.

The minute I say it, Fireball leans over and starts pecking at the bracelet Maddie made me. I shout “No!” in the same stern voice I'd use to reprimand Snickers, but the bird doesn't listen, and tiny glass beads fly everywhere as the string snaps. I jerk my arm up involuntarily, and Fireball screams and unfurls his wings, which are—oh no—really, really big. My mind flashes back to those giant white swan wings looming over me when I was a kid. I scream, drop to the floor, and curl up to protect my stomach, and Fireball launches off me like a feathery torpedo. His nails leave thin scratch marks where they scrape across my forearm. Our shrieks have set off some of the other birds, and I lock my arms over my head as the air fills with grating, high-pitched screams. It's like when all the car alarms on my street go off at the same time after an especially loud clap of thunder.

I hear my grandmother soothing Fireball—of course she'd go to him first, before she makes sure her human granddaughter is okay. But the other ladies are right next to me in a moment, and I feel several gentle hands on my back. “Are you hurt, dear?” asks Betty.

I'm trembling, but technically I'm more humiliated than hurt.
Why
can't I get over this stupid bird phobia? “It's just a couple of scratches,” I say. “And he totally wrecked my bracelet.”

“It's only jewelry, dear,” Cookie says. “We can get you a new bracelet.”

“No, my best friend made—” I start to say,   but Grandma Jo cuts me off.

“Annemarie, what did I say?
No sudden movements
.”

“I know, okay?” I snap. Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I realize I've probably just undone all the progress I made with Grandma Jo this morning. This was all her stupid bird's fault, not mine.