The firefly slips through the cracks in the wrought iron gate leading out to the parking lot. I push through unthinkingly, continuing to follow it, but jolt to a stop when I hear a voice.
“I bet you can’t do it,” I hear a boy whisper.
No, not just a boy. My brother, Emory.
Someone else scoffs. “Sure, I can.”
I freeze at the sound of this voice, my heartbeat stuttering at the low cadence. Reynolds McAllister is many things. He’s our next-door neighbor. He’s my brother’s best friend. He’s our neighborhood's biggest troublemaker. He is, I suspect, the focus of many of those whispered bathroom discussions among the girls. But most of all, Reynolds McAllister is this:
My soul mate.
Reynolds whispers, “I just need a distraction.”
I shift a little so I can get a better view. It’s already dark out—hence the fireflies—but the moon is bright and full enough that I can see both of their profiles in a thicket of sculpted bushes. They’re crouched low, peering out at the parking lot,
and I can just barely make out the confident, loose smile curving Reynold’s lips.
“Are you down, or what?” he challenges.
I watch as Emory gnaws at a thumbnail, silent for a moment, before agreeing, “I’ll distract the attendant and you’ll snag the keys.”
Reynolds turns to him to say, “Remember what I taught you. Nothing too big. Don’t draw outside attention.”
“Yeah, yeah.” My brother flaps a dismissive hand, adding, “And you can’t just grab any key. It has to be something really nice, like a Porsche or Tesla.”
“Hey, hold the fuck up. Now there’s criteria?” Reynolds’ voice is already deep for a fourteen-year-old. He makes my brother sound like he’s still in middle school, with me—not a freshman at Preston Prep. His deep voice and penchant for curse words always makes Reynolds sound confident and a little commanding, like he’s the one in charge, older somehow. It also frequently makes my cheeks heat, but that started long before he hit puberty.
Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve always had a crush on Reynolds McAllister. It isn’t just his easy smile, nor is it the deep-set dimples on his cheeks, both of which are likely a useful distraction, as once he sets them loose, you’re rendered temporarily unable to wonder what he’s up to—though the answer is usually ‘stealing something’. It’s not his messy hair, or that he’s got the dreamiest green eyes, or the way he always slouches when he sits, with his legs spread wide, like he’s just too cool to care about anything. It’s not even that he somehow knows a lot about things that fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t.
It’s about the way he looks at me sometimes, assured and trusting, like I’m not a child—like I’m more than the neighbor’s bratty kid sister. Emory and the rest of his friends have no tolerance for me. I can’t even count the amount of times Emory has wanted to do something and our parents have asked him to take me along. I can’t ignore the way my brother and his friends react with deep groans and barely-veiled glowers.
But not him.
Reynolds will just give me one of those easy smiles, gesture with a nod at the door, and wait for me to follow.
“Bro, look,” Emory explains, “If we’re going to jack one of these cars, it may as well be worth it. We’re both already on strike two.”
I gape at their shadowy forms, knowing that one of the biggest reasons my parents are so overprotective is that my idiot brother can’t seem to stay out of trouble. It’s like a moth to a flame. Which is why, despite the fact I’m not the least bit surprised the guys are talking about stealing a car, I am surprised they’re stupid enough to actually do it.
Again.
This has been going on for a year now already, and they’re both close to getting into real trouble—the serious kind of trouble that can’t just be wiped away with a phone call from our dad and a donation to whatever institution has fallen victim to their next antic. It comes at no surprise that Reynolds is orchestrating it, though. There are a finite amount of certainties in life; the grass is green, the sky is blue, and Reynolds McAllister will steal anything that isn’t bolted down.
Not that bolts would stop him from trying.
It’d started as a running joke in the community—little Sticky Fingers McAllister—but Reynolds isn’t little anymore, and no one is laughing now. It’s grown obvious that this is more than good natured pranks, more than material desire. Reynolds just keeps taking things, no matter the punishment. Whether it’s for the fun of it, the challenge of it, or some weird compulsion, this is what it’s escalated to, and he’s dragging my brother along.
But Emory isn’t stupid, and unlike many of our other friends’ parents, ours would follow through on a serious punishment if he got busted one more time.
But I don’t need to wonder why they’re taking the risk. They’ve both been vying for a chance to be part of the exclusive group of Devils at the high school. The Devils are a bunch of popular jocks, which is something Emory and Reynolds already are, so it doesn’t even make sense to me. They’ve already made the football team. They’ve dated the prettiest girls, have worn the matching letterman jackets, and have driven the expensive cars. They’re already legendary, even by middle school standards. But, from what I understand, trivial schoolyard shenanigans are far below the cruel caliber of the Devils’ usual fare.
A prank like this would look great on their resume.
The second I decide to step in and do something, my heart starts pounding, palms growing sweaty, but I have to stop them before this goes too far. I don’t want either of them to get a third strike—whatever that means, it doesn’t sound good.
I take a deep breath and march down the sidewalk, having to cut around the shrubbery to meet them. But when I reach the bush, the only person I see is Reynolds, peering over at the valet attendant’s stand.
“Where’s Emory?” I whisper.