The Child Thief

lights, the dogs—the Gestapo. When nothing happened, he climbed to his feet.

The basement smelled of mildew, dust, and old cardboard. Where’s Peter? Nick noticed a weak light coming from the top of a narrow staircase. Hands out, he made his way—adrenaline pumping through his every fiber, heart beating louder with each step. “I hear it, Peter,” he whispered and grinned. “The sound of being alive.”

The streetlights poured in through the display window, dousing the jerseys, bats, balls, and bikes in a soft, bluish glow. No sign of Peter. He crept by the Little League plaques and trophies, going right past the cash register. Nick knew stores didn’t keep money in their registers at night, and even if they had, this wasn’t about money. He wasn’t here to steal, at least not like that. This was different somehow. It was about taking back, about control maybe, the need to be steering his own fate for once—for better or worse.

Nick peered over the racks of jerseys and warm-up suits, searching for Peter’s nest of wild hair. He didn’t find the golden-eyed boy, but found shoes—a whole wall of them. He passed up the court shoes with their springs, gels, pumps, glitter, and glitz—what the boys at his school liked to refer to as dunkadelic—until he zeroed in on a certain green-and-black checked pattern. “Bingo,” he said, just like Peter had.

He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight, then scanned the boxes for a size nine. He found a ten, several thirteens, a seven, a six, but no nines. His brow tightened. “Oh, be here. Be here, be here, be here.” A grin lit his face. There. “Yes!” He snatched up the box but didn’t open it, not right away. He just held it, cherishing the moment like a Christmas present you were finally allowed to open. Nick slowly lifted the lid, enjoyed the pungent smell of rubber and glue, then slid the shoes out, holding them up into the light. “S—weeet!” he exhaled, chucking the box and dropping down onto a bench.

He tugged off his bargain-bin specials, stared at the cracked, peeling rubber and frayed stitching. They reminded him of his mother—his cheap-ass mother. He slung them against the wall. He had the Vans laced and on his feet in no time and was up bouncing on his toes, checking himself out in the mirror. Nick froze. There, behind him in the mirror, a pale, haunted face watched him from the shadows, watched him like a cat watches a mouse.

SO MUCH JOY over a pair of shoes, Peter thought and felt the sting of jealousy as Nick’s simple joy made him aware of all he’d lost. He had to remind himself that soon shoes would be the last thing on Nick’s mind.

Nick started and jerked around. “Shit, man. You scared the piss out of me!”

“Killer shoes,” Peter said, putting on his best smile.

Nick studied Peter for a moment, then glanced down at his shoes. He licked his finger and touched the laces, making a sizzling noise. “Watch out, man,” Nick said, grinning. “I’m lethal in these babies.”

Peter laughed.

“Hey, man. Check this out.” Nick stepped over to a rack of skateboards, snatched one up, and dropped it on top of his shoe, flipping it onto its wheels with a flick of his foot. “Slick, huh?”

Peter nodded.

“Out of the way,” Nick said, hopping on the board, kicking hard, and shooting down the long center aisle. He kicked the tail of the board, catching some air, but when the board landed, the back end slid out on the slick linoleum, sending Nick into a rack of men’s sweats, taking the entire rack down right on top of him.

Nick’s head popped up between the hangers and sweats, looking disoriented and embarrassed.

Peter let loose a howl of laughter. “Impressive!”

Nick frowned. “Oh, yeah? Let’s see what you got.”

“Oh, you want me to show you how it’s done? Is that it? Why, I’m the skateboard king.” Peter snatched up one of the boards. He’d never ridden a skateboard before, but if this kid could do it, he most certainly could. He dropped the board on the floor and set his foot on the deck, shoving off with his other foot, kicking hard like he’d seen Nick do. The board wobbled and he wheeled his arms for balance as he careened straight toward Nick. “GANG WAY!” Peter cried, fighting for control.

Nick’s face changed from mirth to panic as he scrambled out of the way. Peter tried to swerve, lost control, and landed hard on his butt. The board shot out from under him like a missile, slamming into the leg of a nearby mannequin. The mannequin toppled and the head bounced down the aisle and landed right in Nick’s lap, its charming face smiling blissfully at Nick. Nick stared back in astonishment, then up at Peter, and both cracked up.

“Oh, my God,” Nick wheezed. “Oh man. That’s the craziest thing ever.” He got to his feet, holding the head, took aim at a row of basketball hoops, and shot. The head bounced off the backboard, but completely missed the rim and net. Nick raised both fists in the air. “He shoots! He sucks! The crowd pisses their pants!” He did a little foot dance, kicked his skateboard back out into the aisle, hopped on, and raced away. Up and down the aisle he went, doing spins and hops, sliding, skidding, and carving his way around the displays.

Peter got up, rubbing his butt. He gave his skateboard a disdainful look. “That one’s defective.”

“Yeah, right.”

Peter frowned, grabbed another skateboard from the rack, scrutinizing it before setting it on the floor. Nick zipped past, laughing hysterically, almost knocking him over. Peter hopped on his board and raced after him, wobbling and fighting to keep the board from flipping out from under him. Nick cut sharp, wheeled the board around in front of the entrance. Too late to stop, Peter crashed right into Nick, slamming the boy into the door. The impact shook the entire storefront and an alarm began to blare.

“OH, SHIT!” Nick shouted over the noise. “WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!” Nick tried to open the door; it was locked. He slapped the door in frustration and tried to yank it open. No luck. “WE HAVE TO GO BACK THROUGH THE BASEMENT. QUICK!”

“NO WE DON’T.”

Nick looked at Peter, confused. Peter pointed at a swirly pink bowling ball sitting in the display window.

It took Nick a moment to get it. “OH, NO,” he called, shaking his head. “WE CAN’T DO THAT.” Then a spark lit in his eyes. Peter knew the look well. They all got it, once they truly realized they were free.

Nick hefted the ball, locked his eyes on the big display window, his mouth tightened into a hard line. Peter saw the anger, the hostility, and knew this was about more than getting out of the store, more than an act of vandalism, or simple mischief, this went far deeper. Nick needed to strike out—to break out. Nick was like so many of the runaways he’d encountered, too many years of being bullied and mistreated, of being stifled and ignored. They just needed someone to show them how to let it out. And once it was out, once he’d taken them that far, the rest was easy. After that, they’d follow him anywhere.

“GIVE IT TO ’EM, NICK,” Peter cried. “GIVE ’EM THE BIG FUCK- YOU!”

Nick gritted his teeth, snarled, and hurled the ball like a shot-put. “FUCK YOU,” he screamed. “FUCK ALL OF YOU!” The ball smashed through the plate glass, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards.

“YEE-HAW!” Nick screamed over the warbling alarm.

The ball bounced onto the sidewalk and rolled into the street, picking up speed as it headed down the sloping avenue.

“AFTER IT!” Nick cried, snatching up his skateboard and leaping heedlessly across the broken glass.

Peter couldn’t have grinned any wider. He’s mine. He snatched up his own board and caught up with Nick in the middle of the street. A host of men and women had come out from the bar to see about all the commotion, some so drunk they could barely stand.

Nick grinned at them savagely, raised both hands in the air, and gave them the double bird. “FUCK THE WORLD!” he screamed. “FUCK THE WORLD!”

The crowd raised their bottles and returned the salute. “FUCK THE WORLD!”

Peter turned his head to the sky and howled, basking in the spreading madness, aware that sometimes even these dull-eyed adults could let loose, could remember.

“The ball went that way,” Nick cried, slapping his foot atop his board and kicking off down the hill.