Smash & Grab (8 page)

Before I can think better of it, I blurt out, “We didn't agree to do it.”

“What's there to think about? You do this job and it goes well? You'll be rich.” Soldado leans back in his chair and looks at us, smiling. “We'll take a break. Even if we wanted to do more jobs, the heat'll be too much.” He's basically repeating what Gabriel told us yesterday. “Imagine that.” He smiles again, wide enough that I can see all his teeth. “You got my word.”

I look over at Benny, Carlos, and Eddie, all of them extra anxious to leave, like me. And then there's Gabriel, cracking jokes with Twitch, acting like the gun sticking out of the waistband of Twitch's jeans isn't even there. Like he belongs or something.

“We can't do it,” I say, and before Soldado can argue, I turn and walk out, eyes half shut as I push through the crowd outside the door, hoping like mad that Benny, Carlos, and Eddie are behind me and that Twitch's gun is still holstered in his jeans.

My alarm goes off,
jarring me out of a nightmare about the bank robbery from yesterday morning. This time when the guy runs into me, he lifts his mask and it's Harrison. He points his gun at my chest and it goes off. I have this phantom ache right under my ribs, just below my heart, and also a very real, very large lump on the back of my head.
What is going on?
I feel like I somehow dropped out of regular life and landed in the middle of some alternate universe where I'm surrounded by criminals.

It's Tuesday morning and I get out of bed, shower, and start dressing for battle. Even if Leo, Elena, and Whitney hadn't been texting me constantly all day yesterday to give me the school gossip blow by blow, I'd be expecting the onslaught of whispering, pointing, and laughing that will rain down on Quinn and me. Scandal like the one our family is involved in doesn't get ignored, even if up until now we've both been pretty popular—maybe especially because of that.

I've got on my skinniest skinny jeans—the ones that are guaranteed to make guys stare at my legs and forget about what my father's done—stacked-heel boots, and a shirt that adheres to the dress code and flatters in all the right places. I look sexy and confident. Good. I'm going to need all the confidence I can muster.

It's our first day back at Westwood Prep since Dad's arrest. We missed yesterday to go with my mother to the bank and the lawyer's office, but neither of us can afford to miss any more time, and besides, home is the last place I want to be right now. I have to keep moving. Stop and I risk thinking about everything too much.

“You're going all in,” Quinn says when he sees me, one eyebrow raised. He's got on his usual jeans, T-shirt, and Converse combination. Guys don't need the armor girls do.

The day is nice—hot, but clear and a little breezy. We slip into the garage and stare at our bikes. The minute I got my license, the first thing I did was beg our parents for a motorcycle. That they gave it to me without a fight shows how much they like to spoil us. And that the following month Quinn got one just goes to show how committed my brother is to not letting me do risky stuff without him. My bike looks like bright blue-and-black death, a rocket with wheels, which is exactly what made me want it. What makes me love it even more is that it can go five miles per hour faster than Quinn's bike.

We strap our book bags to the backs of our bikes and roll them to the garage door.

“You look to see if the press people arrived yet?” I ask Quinn.

“There's a couple, but it looked pretty quiet.” When Dad was arrested and the reporters started to show up, I pictured them camping out in front of our house 24/7, but it turns out most of them take off sometime after eight o'clock at night and don't return until morning.

“Should we mess with them a little?” I grab my helmet and slip it over my head.

“Why not?” Quinn laughs as he does the same. It makes me feel good that I can always manage to cheer him up, even at the worst of times.

We let the garage door rumble to life before we start the bikes. I can't see or hear the people out on our sidewalk, but I can sense them scurrying into action, grabbing cameras so they can tape some footage of what they hope is my mother leaving the house looking disheveled and emotionally overwrought. A thrill goes through me. We'll give them a show, but not that kind. I rev my bike and lean forward. The door is halfway up. When it's at three-quarters, I glance over at Quinn and he nods and we both shoot from underneath it, bursting out of the garage like we're being shot from a cannon, tires squealing. I spin sideways to the left, leaving a smear of black on the driveway, and feint like I'm headed straight for the cameras. Laughing into my helmet as a reporter dives out of the way and face-plants into a patch of flowers, I correct my course and hurtle onto the street.

There's an unspoken dare in the way Quinn looks over at me and tilts his head once we leave the confines of our neighborhood. He wants to race—something we do often enough to earn us a ticket or two. Or four.

I lay on the throttle in reply, and we weave our way into traffic. School is a fifteen-minute drive, but we'll make it in ten. I'm laughing the whole way, mostly because I picture Quinn cracking up, too. We're competitive, but half the fun is in the race, not the finish. It's the feel of the wind on my face, the growl of my bike, and having Quinn right there next to me. Who needs coffee in the morning when you can have this to wake you up?

We pull into the parking lot with Quinn just a hairbreadth ahead of me. He guns his bike so it goes triumphantly up on one wheel, and even though he can't see it, I roll my eyes.
Show-off.
I might have lost, but I feel good as we cruise toward our designated parking spaces. My heart's pumping and my gut is a cage of butterflies after all the close calls we made to get ahead of the traffic. Which means there's no more room for nerves about what might happen at school.

Our friends are milling around our parking spots, waiting for us.

“I'm so glad you're back!” Elena says once I'm off the bike. She throws her arms around me and squeezes hard, as if we haven't seen each other in weeks. “So what happened yesterday? Quinn said you got mowed down by bank robbers or something. Is that true? 'Cause that robbery was on the news last night. They said the guys who did it have hit a bunch of banks. They're like pros or something.”

“Yeah,” I say, half embarrassed, though I don't know why. “I was standing in front of the bank, and one of them basically tackled me.” I hesitate a second, remembering. “He was wearing a mask, but I did see his eyes.” The exact shade is still crystal clear in my memory. Thinking about it now, it seems like we stared at each other for a long time, but it was maybe seconds. “They were really dark brown. Nearly black, actually. And maybe it was just the sun on his face, but they sort of glittered. You know how some people's eyes are like that? All lit up?” This sounds weird. I'm weird.
Stop obsessing about his eyes.

I launch into an abbreviated explanation about why we were downtown in the first place, leaving out the part about our parents' accounts being frozen, because it's too embarrassing to confess even to my best friends. Instead, I say that I went to take some money out of my savings—which is the truth, just not all of it.

“He sounds cute,” Whitney says.

“How do you get that from what I just said?” I ask, laughing. “He had a zombie mask on. I don't even know what he looks like.”

“Come on, you described his eyes like you would a guy you're looking to date. And he's obviously dangerous. That's hot,” she says, thoroughly convinced.

“Yeah, well, I don't date criminals,” I say, and then when Whitney raises a brow at me because technically we're all criminals, too, I start to giggle. “Okay, not the dangerous kind, at least.”

Quinn rolls his eyes and concentrates on getting something out of his backpack. I'm not sure what he's upset about until I realize that he's probably thinking about Dad. I'm making light of criminals and our dad's in jail. If the motorcycle race we just had made him forget for a second, this conversation reminded him all over again.
Smooth, Lexi, real smooth.

“So how long before your dad's trial and stuff?” Leo asks.

“They set the start date for the end of summer. Both sides have to prepare their cases, I guess,” I say, watching Quinn throw his backpack over one shoulder and stuff his hands in his pockets.

“Well, crap, that's forever,” Whitney complains. “Does he have to stay in jail all that time?”

Quinn shakes his head. “No. The lawyer's helping us arrange bail, and then he'll be out until the trial's over. He only goes back to jail if he's convicted.”

Elena hugs me again. “I'm so sorry this is happening to you guys. How long will the trial last?”

“It could take months. The lawyers haven't given us a set timetable yet,” Quinn says.

“Months? How are you supposed to deal with not knowing if he'll do serious jail time for that long?”

I wince. She isn't trying to upset me, but her questions feel like daggers jabbing me in the gut. “We just will. Because we have to.” Quinn's staring at me, his jaw clenched shut, hurt clear in his eyes. “Hey, can we just talk regular stuff?”

“Absolutely, my sister will stop with the inquisition this minute,” Whitney says. “Whatever you want to do. We're here for you. And besides, I could stand to hear more about this robbery.” Whitney gathers both me and Elena into another hug, so tight that my chin knocks against her collarbone and I get a noseful of her perfume, and then we're all walking together toward the front entrance of the school building, with Quinn and the boys bringing up the rear.

“I don't believe it. You're actually here?” Bianca, Harrison's daughter, is a few cars over, leaning against her black BMW convertible, her two besties gathered around her. She sips at a cup full of her usual morning cocktail of kale and other healthy stuff. She makes a clucking sound. “How brave of you two. My dad said you seemed so desperate when you came to the bank to beg for money that I thought for sure you wouldn't show up today. Good for you for proving me wrong.”

“Ignore her,” Leo warns me. “Come on, let's just get inside.”

I want to listen to him, but I can't. I turn toward her, wanting to say or do something that will knock that stupid grin right off her face.

“Lexi. Don't.” Quinn steps in front of me. “We don't need any more drama.”

I glare at Bianca. She smirks, and her besties huddle tighter around her, prepping for me to go ballistic. I want to—badly—but Quinn's right. Getting in trouble will only make things worse.

“Have a nice day,” Bianca singsongs, still baiting me. I let Quinn and the others lead me into school, but the whole time I picture running over Bianca's smug face with my bike, leaving tire tracks right down the center of her new nose job. It helps a little, but not much.

We don't get ten feet inside before Principal Weaver blocks our path. All six foot two inches of her.

“Alexandra and Quinn. Good morning.” Her face puckers as if she's sucking on a handful of Sour Patch Kids. “We weren't expecting you back so soon. How are you?”

“We're fine,” Quinn says. “Thanks for asking.” He looks her right in the eye, and she fidgets. Obviously, something's up here.

“That's good, but really, you shouldn't feel like you have to return to school this quickly. Why not take a few more days to be with your family? I'm sure you could all use some time to process what's happened. We can have your friends bring you your assignments.” She starts to corral us back outside.

“No, really, it's okay. We want to be back. Doing normal stuff will help the most,” I say, walking around Weaver. She doesn't need to worry about us making a scene. Quinn and I are tougher than that. I can see other students stopping to stare at us, at Weaver, curious about what's going on.

Weaver licks her lips. “Well then…come with me to my office for a few minutes. There are some things we'll need to discuss. Please.” She looks at Leo and the rest of our friends. “Go on to your classes. You can talk to Quinn and Alexandra later on.” I hate when she uses my whole name like that. It makes me sound like I'm a hundred years old or something, but in all the years we've gone to Westwood, she's never once called me Lexi.

Quinn and I follow Weaver past the gawking kids in the hallway. I can hear them whispering as we pass by, but I don't try to make out what they're saying. I just hold my head up and concentrate on the Westwood Prep banner hanging overhead, mentally tracing over the white outline of the lion head on it.

The principal's office is large enough to have a sitting area, and that's where we end up, each of us tucked into a shallow navy-blue upholstered chair with stainless-steel armrests. The room is a calculated mix of sleek modern furniture, Chinese jar lamps, Persian rugs, and gleaming mahogany tables meant to impress the parents of future students.