The Classy Crooks Club (24 page)

I stomp up the stairs and try to slam the door, but it's too heavy and only makes an unsatisfying, muffled thump. The second I throw myself down on my bed, my phone starts ringing on my night table, and I lunge for it. Maddie's picture is on the screen, and for a second, all I feel is relief. If she's reaching out to me, maybe that means she's over all the stuff she said to Amy at our sleepover about our friendship falling apart. Right now I could really use a friend who loves me no matter what.

“Hey,” I say. “You wouldn't
believe
how annoying my grandmother is being. She's such a—”

“I like your new dress,” Maddie says, cutting me off. “Did
Brianna
help you pick it out?” Her voice sounds poisonous. I've never heard her use that tone before, not even when Brianna tried to give her the used gowns at soccer.

“My . . . what?” I hold the phone away from my ear and check to see if I pressed the video chat button by mistake, but it's a normal call. She can't possibly see me.

“I saw the pictures, AJ,” Maddie spits. “Did you seriously think I wouldn't?”

“What pictures? What are you talking about?”

“The ones on Instagram? Of Brianna's party? For someone who made such a big fuss about not wanting to go, you look like you had a pretty great time.”

Oh
no
. I am
so stupid
. Of course all the girls posted pictures of the party the second we left—how did I not think of that before now? Why did I idiotically assume I could keep this from Maddie? “It's not what it looks like at all,” I say.

“Oh, it's not? Because what it looks like is that you lied to me and went to that party behind my back, even though Brianna's a raging jerk who makes fun of your best friends right in front of you. I thought you were on
my
side, so I'm not sure exactly what I'm supposed to think when I see you getting makeovers and eating cake with them.”

“Maddie, I
am
on your side. I really didn't want to go. It was—”

“If you didn't want to go, you shouldn't have gone! Can't you see what a monster she is, AJ? Or did she brainwash you with all her sparkly, expensive
stuff 
?”

“I don't care about her stuff! Listen to me, okay? It wasn't—”

“You don't get to tell me what to do!” Maddie yells. “If you want to eat lobster rolls and get your nails done with the freaking Bananas, fine, I can't stop you. But if you choose them, don't even bother pretending we're friends anymore. Go call your new BFF Brianna if you want someone to listen to you. I am
so
done with this.”

“No, Maddie, wait—” I start, but I hear a click, and she's gone.

I call her back right away, but the phone just rings and rings until it goes to voice mail. I leave a long message, and then I send her a bunch of texts, apologizing like crazy for going behind her back and assuring her that I didn't really have fun at the party. But she doesn't answer. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and part of me wants to hurl the phone across the room and watch it smash into pieces against my grandmother's stupid mission chifforobe. But instead I pull up Instagram and scroll through Brianna's photos.

There I am, front and center, standing with some of the other girls by a pot of boiling lobsters, my arm linked with Sabrina's. My fake-curly hair is blowing in the breeze, and I'm smiling broadly with my glossy pink mouth. I look exactly like the Bananas, like I belong there with the rich, popular girls. I look like I'm having a great time. But I know how I was feeling as Victoria snapped that picture: awkward, gawky, totally out of my depth. Three seconds after that photo was taken, I'd sneakily checked my phone so I'd know how many more minutes of the party I'd have to endure.

And now, because of this stupid, lying photo, I've lost my best friend.

I wipe my eyes, expecting my hands to come away black with melted mascara. But I guess they used the waterproof stuff on me, too, because even as my tears drip all over the bedspread, my painted-on face stays right in place, sparkly and perfect and totally fake.

T
he next few days at my grandmother's house are absolutely miserable. As if to punish me for standing up for my beliefs, Grandma Jo takes my phone away again and puts me to work learning how to set a proper table. (She actually makes me measure the distance between the forks with a
ruler
.) To make matters worse, Coach Adrian has some sort of family emergency and has to go out of town, so we don't have soccer for an entire week. I could call Maddie from the wall phone in the kitchen—I know her number by heart—but I'm positive she doesn't want to talk to me, so I don't even try.

As if losing my best friend isn't bad enough, Grandma Jo keeps me completely isolated from Cookie, Edna, and Betty. I've gotten used to seeing them every day, and I miss Cookie's jokes, Edna's weird, nonsensical advice, and Betty's warm unconditional love. I'm pretty sure they've forgiven me for backing out of the art heist—when we pass each other in the halls, they always smile and ask me how I'm doing in lowered voices. But they never linger or try to make conversation, and I have a feeling Grandma Jo has forbidden them to communicate with me.

Even though we eat dinner across from each other every night, my grandmother doesn't talk to me either, unless you count her repeated warnings that if I do anything to alert the Westlakes to the heist, I'll be very, very sorry. She doesn't even bother to correct me when I use the wrong fork anymore, which shows how much she's given up on me. I know it's a waste to gulp down Debbie's delicious food without even tasting it, but I always eat as fast as I can and head straight up to my room to get away from Grandma Jo. I spend the hours before bed rereading all Ben's old comic books for the millionth time. I'd kind of like something new to read, but I won't stoop to asking Grandma Jo to lend me something from her library.

I can't wait to go back to my normal life and forget this stupid month ever happened.

Grandma Jo plans the heist for two days before my parents come back from Brazil, and though I'm totally against what they're doing, I can't help feeling left out as the grannies assemble in the entryway in their black clothes. I sit quietly on the top step in the dark, listening to them test their earpieces—“Agent Cardinal, do you copy? Agent Heron, do you copy?”—and a pang of jealousy shoots through me. After days stuck in this house with nobody to talk to, I'm desperate for an adventure. I miss the feeling of my lock-pick pouch strapped snugly around my waist, and even though I know it's stupid, I tiptoe up to my room and clip it on under my shirt. Maybe I'll pick every lock in this house as soon as they're gone, just to prove that I can.

The moment I think that, Grandma Jo appears at the bottom of the staircase. Sometimes I think she can read my mind. “Let's go, Annemarie,” she says.

“What?” I say. “I told you I wasn't helping you this time.”

“Of course you're not
helping
,” she says. “But you don't really think we're going to leave you here alone to sabotage us, do you? You'll stay within our sight until the target is secured.”

“What makes you think I won't call the police after you have the painting?”

Grandma Jo rolls her eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, Annemarie. You'll have absolutely no proof. We're obviously not going to leave the painting out where anyone could find it. It'll be your word against ours, and no police officer is going to believe a twelve-year-old over a group of dignified, respectable ladies.”

She's probably right, and it makes me furious. I dig my fingers into the banister and try to keep my anger in check. “Fine,” I say. “But I'm not getting in that van with you. You can't make me.”

“You're coming with me, dear,” says Betty, her voice soft and sweet, the exact opposite of Grandma Jo's. “You know I can't do anything more than be the lookout with these creaky old hips. I'll be sitting in the car at the end of the Westlakes' driveway, and I was so hoping you'd keep me company. I need some quality time with my girl before you go.”

She smiles up at me, and she looks so hopeful that some of my anger melts away. Betty seems to respect my decision not to be part of this heist; she just wants to hang out with me because she genuinely likes me. It
would
be nice to have some alone time with her before I go back home, and I'd finally get to leave the house for a little while. I've set the grannies up to walk into a trap, but if Betty and I aren't anywhere near the house, we won't get in trouble when the cops come.

“Let me get my shoes,” I say.

Edna smiles at me when I come downstairs, and Cookie reaches out to pat my shoulder, but when Grandma Jo glares at her, she removes her hand. “Take route B to the house, Sparrow,” she directs Betty, already in Mission Control mode. “The trip should take approximately twenty-three minutes. If we arrive first, we'll wait until you're in place to enter the driveway.”

“Copy that,” says Betty. “Come on, Agent Swan.” It feels like a little act of defiance that she's using my code name, and I smile.

I follow Betty to her car, which is parked in front of Grandma Jo's house. For some reason I had pictured her driving a boxy sky-blue car the color of the flowered dresses she likes to wear, and I'm disappointed to see that it's a boring black one. There aren't even any bumper stickers or fun little toys dangling from the rearview mirror. “Help me get my walker into the backseat, dear,” she says.

“Should we put it in the trunk?” I ask. “There's probably more room.”

“No, no. The trunk is a little crowded at the moment. It'll be fine back there.” So I fold up the walker for her, stash it behind the driver's seat, and give her a hand as she slides behind the wheel. When I close her door for her, I feel like Stanley.

I walk around to the passenger's seat, but Betty stops me when I open the door. “Why don't you sit in back?” she says. “The statistics say it's twice as safe, and I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you.”

This seems a little overprotective—Stanley and my parents always let me ride in the front. But it's not worth it to argue over one ride, and it's kind of sweet that Betty's so concerned about my safety. I slide into the back, and the walker's tennis ball feet rest against my left leg.

“Perfect,” Betty says. “Exactly where I want you.”

Before she starts the car, she reaches into her cavernous purse, pulls out a pair of white cotton gloves, and puts them on. “What are those for?” I ask. “We're not going inside this time. You don't have to worry about leaving fingerprints.”

“This is an
occasion
, dear,” Betty says. “It seems right to get a little dressed up, don't you think?”

I look down at my outfit: a shirt with two
T. rex
es trying to high-five each other and fraying jeans that haven't been washed in weeks. “Sorry, I didn't know I was supposed to dress up,” I say.

“No, no. You're perfect the way you are.” Betty laughs, and it sounds a little high and strained, like she's nervous. She seemed totally calm during the last two heists, and I wonder why she's more worried about this one. Maybe she's intimidated by the Westlakes.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“What? Yes, of course. Oh! I almost forgot. I got you something on the way here.” Betty takes a plastic 7-Eleven cup out of the cup holder and passes it back to me, along with a red straw. “I thought maybe you'd like a Coke Slurpee as a little treat.”

I
do
love Coke Slurpees, and I haven't had one since my parents left; there's no 7-Eleven near Grandma Jo's house, and even if there was, she'd never let me go on my own. “Wow, thank you so much,” I say. “I love these.”

“You're very welcome,” Betty says. “It's my pleasure.”

I take a long sip of the Slurpee. It's kind of melted from sitting in the car, but it's mostly fine once I stir it around. I hold the cup out to her. “Do you want some?”

“Oh, no thank you, dear. I can't have that much sugar anymore; it upsets my tummy.”

“Okay. Sorry.” I take another sip and let the fizzy, sweet slush melt on my tongue. It really is delicious.

Betty starts the car and pulls away from the curb, and the radio comes on automatically, playing soft classical piano music. It sounds like something Grandma Jo might put on during a dinner party, but I find it kind of soothing. “I'm so glad I finally get some time alone with my favorite girl,” Betty says. “It's been cruel of your grandmother to keep us apart this week. She knows I love you like you're my own granddaughter.”

It's kind of surprising that Betty feels so strongly about me—she's known me only a few weeks—but I like it anyway. Grandma Jo has definitely never said she loves me. I don't even think she's said it to Ben.