The Classy Crooks Club (13 page)

We park across the street and a couple houses down, close enough that Grandma Jo will have a good visual on us. Fran's house is almost as big as my grandmother's, and I realize for the first time how long those hallways I have to sneak down are going to be. But when I pull my night vision goggles back down over my eyes and turn them on, I feel a little calmer.
You can do this
, I tell myself.
You're way braver than you think, remember?

“It's showtime,” Grandma Jo says. “Everyone ready?” She sticks her hand out between the seats, and it's such an uncharacteristic move that it takes me a minute to realize she's doing a “Go team!” thing like Coach Adrian always has us do before our games.

“Ready,” says Cookie. She puts her hand on top of Grandma Jo's.

“Ready,” says Betty, adding her hand to the pile.

“Ready,” says Edna dreamily. Her hand drifts down onto the pile like a floating leaf.

All of a sudden I really have to pee, which always happens when I'm nervous. I try to concentrate on willing the feeling away.

“Agent Swan?” Cookie says. “Everything okay?”

I swallow hard, then rest my hand on top of theirs, praying I can get through tonight without letting anyone down. I want so badly to see that impressed expression on my grandmother's face again.

“Ready,” I say.

“ ‘Heist' on three,” Grandma Jo says. “One . . . two . . . three. . . .”

“Heist!” I shout, and as everyone's hands spring to their earpieces, I realize I should have whispered. “Oh God, sorry, sorry.”

Grandma Jo sighs. “Well, now that Annemarie's woken the entire neighborhood, I suppose it's time to begin,” she says. “Operation Freebird, commence. The faster we get this over with, the better.”

Everyone but Grandma Jo gets out of the van, and the doors automatically slide closed behind us. Betty and Cookie blow me kisses as they head for opposite ends of the sidewalk, and I blow some back. It reminds me of how my parents always blow me kisses from the sidelines at my soccer games. I'm so glad they have no idea what I'm up to right now.

Fran's porch light is off, and Edna and I slip up the front steps in the darkness, quiet as shadows. Edna gently caresses the lock on the front door with one finger, then bends down and whispers into it, almost like she's asking it to open for her. Then she pulls out her lock picks and gets to work.

It doesn't seem like it would be exciting to watch someone pick a lock, but watching Edna is weirdly fascinating. She sticks a bent piece of metal into the bottom of the keyhole, then uses a sharp tool that looks like it belongs in a dentist's office to fiddle around in the top part. In my night vision goggles, her green, willowy form sways back and forth, like she's dancing with the lock, and she hums a soft, tuneless song that sends shivers up my spine. I've never seen Edna focus so intently on anything before. I've barely even seen her make eye contact.

“Stop humming, Heron,” says my grandmother's voice, and the song comes to an abrupt halt.

I've heard that lock picking is really difficult, but it takes Edna less than a minute to open the door. When the lock turns, I feel a spark of
wanting
ignite deep inside me, like the first time I saw professional soccer players on TV when I was a little kid. Suddenly, more than anything, I want to learn how to do that.

“First barrier has been breached,” Edna whispers. “Heron going in.”

“Roger that,” says my grandmother. I really hope I'll get to say that later. It sounds so cool and professional.

Edna swings the front door open, and a faint beeping sound starts up inside the house—the security system. “Wait for my signal, Swan,” Edna whispers, and then she pulls a pair of small wire cutters out of her utility belt and disappears inside.

Cookie did some recon work at Fran's last dinner party and determined that the alarm would beep for forty-five seconds before notifying the security company of a break-in. My grandmother counts down the seconds over the earpiece so Edna knows how long she has left, and everything feels like it's moving too quickly and too slowly all at once. If I were Edna, there's no way my fingers would work under this kind of pressure.

“Fourteen . . . thirteen . . . twelve . . . ,” counts Grandma Jo, and I wonder if Edna's heart is beating as quickly as mine. Maybe all her meditating makes her immune to nerves.

“Eleven . . . ten . . . nine . . .”

I lower myself into a sprinter's crouch, ready to bolt back toward the van if the alarm goes off.

And then the beeping stops.

Everything is silent, but I barely have time for a sigh of relief before I hear Edna click her tongue twice, then three times, then twice more. That's my signal to come inside.

I try to move toward the door, but I suddenly start thinking about how breaking and entering is a crime. I haven't even started seventh grade yet, and in a second I'm going to be a legitimate
criminal
. I take a deep breath and think about what Ben said about mind over matter, but my muscles refuse to move. What if can't do this after all and I end up frozen on the doorstep all night? Will my grandmother kick me out of the house? Will Edna be able to climb all those stairs to get Picasso? What if she hurts herself and it's all my fault?

“You are a hollow reed, Swan,” I hear Edna's voice whisper, as if she knows my body has turned into one giant knot of anxiety. “You are pliable and strong, swaying whichever way the wind shifts, always bending, never breaking.”

I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about, but her tone is soothing, and weirdly enough, it calms me down. Before I know it, I'm moving over the threshold.

Edna points me toward the staircase, and I start to climb, testing each step to see if it creaks before I put my full weight on it. Cookie determined from her snooping that Fran's bedroom is the first one on the right, and I'm horrified to see that the door is halfway open—what if the beeping of the alarm has already awakened her? But as I creep closer, I'm comforted by the noise of soft, heavy breathing tinged with the slightest hint of a snore.

I cross my fingers, hold my breath, and tiptoe past the room. A floorboard creaks under my feet, and I freeze, but the rhythm of Fran's breathing doesn't change. The attic door is directly in front of me at the end of the hall, and I make my way toward it, step by stealthy step, wishing Fran had rugs on her ancient hardwood floors. The attic door is closed, and for a second I panic that it might be locked. But the knob turns smoothly, and I slip through and close it just enough that it'll open with a gentle push when I come back down.

The attic stairs are a lot creakier than the ones in the main house, but I do the best I can with them, creeping up on all fours to distribute my weight. Finally, after what feels like years, I reach the top. And directly across from me, in a cage not much bigger than the dog carrier in the back of the van, is the bird.

“Swan, what's your 20?” says Grandma Jo's voice in my ear.

I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. “What?” I whisper.

“She wants to know where you are,” explains Cookie.

“Do you have eyes on the target?” Grandma Jo asks.

“Yup,” I say. “He's right here.”

Picasso rustles a little as I approach; he's probably not used to company at this time of night. I can see him clearly with my goggles on, but he probably can't see me at all, so I turn on my flashlight and set it on the floor next to his cage, pointed up at the ceiling. I push up my goggles up onto the top of my head so I won't look like an alien, and whisper, “Hi, Picasso.”

“Hello,” he replies, louder than I would've liked. His voice is higher than Fireball's, and I wonder if he's imitating Fran.

“My name is AJ,” I say, even though I know he can't understand me.

“Hello, hello,” Picasso says again, very loudly.

“Shhh, we have to be very quiet, okay? I'm going to get you out of here.”

I approach the cage, careful not to make any sudden movements, but Picasso doesn't seem the least bit agitated. When I grab a peanut from my utility belt and hold it out to him, he goes right for it, and I snatch my fingers back as he chomps down on it.

“Good boy,” I say, fiddling with the latch on his cage. “You're a very good bird.”

“Stupid bird,” he replies.

I stop. “What did you say?”

Picasso ducks his head under his wing, ruffles up some feathers, and smoothes them back down into place. When he's done, he squawks, “Stupid bird! Shut up, stupid bird!”

Grandma Jo makes a
tsk
sound over my earpiece, and I remember how she told me that birds repeat sounds they've heard over and over. I suddenly feel incredibly bad for Picasso, and I'm more convinced than ever that liberating him is the right thing to do.

“You're a
nice
bird,” I tell him as I swing the cage door open. “You're a
very
sweet bird. And once we're out of here, nobody's ever going to call you stupid again.” My heart is pounding, but I grit my teeth and reach my hand into his cage.

“Stupid bird,” Picasso says. He hops onto my wrist with no hesitation at all.

I pull him out slowly, and he immediately starts picking at my glove, the edge of my sleeve, the seam down the center of my shirt. I know he's not trying to hurt me, but I still don't like his beak so close to me, so I hold him as far away from my body as I can. “Hang on a couple more minutes, buddy, and you'll have plenty of stuff to play with,” I say.

“Have you acquired the target, Swan?” asks Grandma Jo's voice.

“Yes,” I whisper back. “Everything's going fine.” Carefully, I gather up my flashlight, push my goggles back into place, and head for the door.

And that's when Picasso bursts into song.

“
I'm dreaming of a whiiiiiiiite Christmaaaaaaas
 . . . ,” he belts at the top of his lungs. “
Just like the ones I used to knoowwwww.
 . . .”

“Shhhh!” I hiss at him, but it doesn't make any difference. Picasso is in full-on performance mode now, and he continues to sing about sleigh bells in the snow.

“Mayday!” I hiss into my earpiece. “How do I get him to shut up?”

“That idiotic woman,” grumbles my grandmother. “She only takes him out when she wants him to perform. He associates being out of his cage with singing.”

“
Whiiiiiiite Christmaaaaas
 . . . ,” Picasso warbles.

“But what do I
do
?” I'm frantic now—what if Fran Tupperman comes upstairs to see what the racket is and finds me here? What if this stupid Christmas song sends me to jail?

“Keep him busy with something else!” Grandma Jo says.

I pull another peanut out of my pouch and hold it near Picasso's beak. To my great relief, he pauses for a second and gulps it down. Then he leans over and starts biting at the Velcro on my glove, which I don't exactly appreciate, but at least he's being quiet.

I start creeping down the stairs as quietly as I can, but even with the night vision goggles, it's really hard to see with a three-foot bird on my arm. I try to hold him down lower so he's not directly in my line of vision, but he doesn't seem to like that, and he starts climbing my arm. “Picasso, down!” I hiss as he inches up my forearm and into the crook of my elbow. Before I know it, he's halfway up my biceps. I shake my arm a little, but that only makes him grip me more tightly, and I can feel his claws biting into the fabric of my skintight shirt.

“Step up,” he insists. “Stupid bird.”

I try to grab his feet with my other hand so I can make him switch arms, but he doesn't like that either, and he pecks at my hand. I yank it away, barely managing not to cry out, and Picasso seizes the opportunity. In two more quick hops, he's up on my shoulder, very,
very
close to my face, and he starts biting at the straps on my goggles. When I crane my neck and twist my face away from him, I lose my footing, crash down a couple of steps, and land on my butt. My whole body is sweating inside my suit.

“Everything okay in there, Swan?” says Grandma Jo's voice in my ear.

“Roger,” I whisper, wishing I could've said it under better circumstances.

I stay as still as I can for a minute and listen, trying to determine whether my clumsiness has woken Fran, but I can't hear anything over the pounding of my heart and the rustling of Picasso's feathers. I take my earpiece out for a second so I can hear better, but even that doesn't help, since Picasso chooses that moment to belt, “
May alllll youuuur Chriiiiiistmasses be whiiiiite.
 . . .”

“Oh my God, shut
up
,” I whisper frantically, and Picasso agrees, “Shut up, shut up!” He's inching around to the back of my neck now, and his long tail feathers brush my spine, like I'm wearing a bird backpack. I'm completely freaking out now that I can't see him—he could do
anything
back there—but I can't seem to get him to move no matter how I contort. It looks like I'm going to have to run all the way out to the car like this.

I start creeping toward the bottom of the attic stairs again, and Picasso stays quiet for a minute, occupied with picking at the back of my goggles. But when we reach the bottom and I pause to open the door, he starts up again. “
I'm dreeeeeaming of a whiiiite Christmaaaas.
 . . .”

I hear the unmistakable sound of rustling from the bedroom. “Shut
up
, stupid bird,” a voice says sleepily.

I freeze in my tracks, not sure which direction to flee. Should I bolt for the front door? Or would it be better to go back up to the attic and wait for Fran to go back to sleep? How will I know when it's safe to come down? How long is it going to take for Picasso to get bored of my back and climb up onto my head? The need to get him off me is visceral, like the need to smash a mosquito when you notice it sucking your blood. It probably won't be long before I panic, and then I'll be completely useless.