 
HEIST

Sixteen-year-old Jack Brodie time travels back to the world-famous Gardner Heist. When he returns his life has changed for the worst. He keeps returning to the crime to fix his mistakes until he has to make the ultimate choice: his family and his own happiness, or the girl he loves.

But someone has been watching him and wants him dead.

****** _A Royal Heist_ **, book 2, is live! ****

### CONTENTS

March 18, 1990

DAY ONE

March 18, 1990

DAY TWO

March 18, 1990

DAY THREE

March 18, 1990

DAY FOUR

March 18, 1990

DAY FIVE

March 18, 1990

DAY SIX

Author's Note

A Royal Heist Sneak Peek

Also by Laura

_A butterfly flaps its wings..._

MARCH 18, 1990

A MOMENT IN TIME

Footsteps echo behind me. Prickles shoot up and down my spine.

I whip around and see nothing but shadows. Everything in me screams to run, to leave right now, back to my world, but I can't. I'm frozen. Terrified. Curious.

A dark shadow rushes me, his body, a hulking mass. I try and move but he rams into me; my body is thrown against the car. The air shoots from my chest. I stumble forward, and his rough hands find me. Again, a violent shove. I fall to the ground; the pavement jars my body. My teeth rattle, and my ribs feel crushed.

He moves, but all I see are darting shadows and hollow, haunted eyes gleaming from underneath the hat pulled low. Familiar and disarming.

His arm lifts high in the air. Fast. Purposeful.

I see the glint. The shine. The blade of a knife.

Shit.

He brings the knife down. I roll but I'm too late. Pain sears my side. Immediately, my skin feels wet. The blood soaks my clothes, the metallic smell rising between us. I want to fight. To follow my instinct. To survive. But I can't.

The ache grips my heart and shatters it to pieces. "Dad?"

Laughter, mocking and deep, chills me.

MARCH 17, 2013

DAY ONE

Midnight

I don't feel safe. I haven't in weeks.

It's like someone is always hovering close by, watching, eyes focused on me.

Even with my best friend next to me at St. Auggies, crouched between the graves and beneath the oak trees, I feel it. The back of my neck prickles. My heart thumps extra loud.

"You ready for tomorrow?" Stick asks, distracting me. His bright red hair looks almost brown this time of night. His face appears paler than usual.

"Hell no."

"Neither am I." He pauses, then asks, "What time is the hearing?"

"Ten." But he already knows this. Stick's like family. My dad's up for parole tomorrow, and we've spent the last month in denial, hoping for the best, pretending that the worst won't happen.

The flesh on my arms rises; goosebumps spread. I hold my breath, trying to appear casual, listening. The headstones reflect a ghostly gray and the smell of last fall's dead leaves wafts in the air.

I strain my eyes, peering into the layers of darkness. At the black shadows and the silver patches of moonlight that shift with the clouds. They play tricks on me.

"What's wrong?" Stick pounds his fist into his hand. "If it's Big D and his gang, I'm ready."

My hand snakes out and silences Stick's fist pounding. "Shh," I whisper.

I feel it stronger than ever. A presence.

Stick straightens and sucks in a breath.

Branches scrape against one another. A bat swoops by. I tense. Ready to run.

"Sit still," Stick orders. "Let them make the first move."

A shadow emerges from the darkness but settles in one place. I blink and stare. Is it a shadow? Or a person?

A twig cracks behind us. The ground vibrates beneath my hand. In two seconds, I scramble to my feet and attack. My weight pushes the guy down and we land together. His body is soft.

An arm wraps around my neck. My attacker rolls me over. I'm trapped underneath. My survival instinct kicks in and I fight back, fists flying.

I make contact. He groans and rolls off me. I'm on my feet, searching for a branch.

Stick laughs in big obnoxious snorts. Why's he laughing?

"Nice one," my attacker says. "Glad we're friends."

Turbo pushes off his knees and stands. He's half in shadow, half in light but I can't miss his large lumpy body and shaggy black hair. He lives with his mom, near Stick, in the building next to mine.

"Asshole," I mutter.

Stick punches my arm. "Come on. Admit it. We gotcha."

"Yep, you did."

Turbo drops a bag on the ground. Muffins, scones and donuts spill out. "Hope you don't mind. I raided your mom's day-old bin."

"It's not me you have to worry about. It's my mom." With the tip of my sneaker, I kick a chocolate donut away. I don't want anything to eat. I haven't been hungry all week.

Stick and Turbo move on easily from their prank, and joke about school and the new wig the reading specialist is wearing this week.

I stare into the darkness. If Turbo was the one watching as he crept up from behind, what lurked in the darkness in front of us? It balanced on the edge of a shadow just out of sight.

I lie back on the ground, ignoring the fear, ignoring the presence, and try not to think about anything. I stare up at the moon sliced into pieces by the scrawny branches of the oak. My breath rises like a spirit escaping from its underground prison. I crunch a dead leaf between my fingers.

Flashing blue lights kill the conversation as a cop car passes. A large spotlight scans the spaces between the trees and the graves.

"Let's get out of here."

We run from the cemetery.

And I feel it.

Staring at me as I run.

The whole way home.

1:45 a.m.

I push the covers away, listening, aware of my chest falling and rising faster than usual.

I swing my legs onto the floor, the worn wood soft against the bottom of my feet. I stand and suck in a breath at the loud creak my weight makes.

I hear it again.

A faint scratching.

It's the sound of a chair sliding against the floor below us in Mom's coffee shop. As if someone accidentally bumped into it.

In the hallway, I grab the first thing I find—Dad's baseball bat—and creep down the stairs.

I know these steps inside and out. The second one to the top creaks something terrible, the fourth one down has a deep penetrating scar—I won't disclose how it got there—and the second one from the bottom is near rotten.

Halfway down, I stop and close my eyes. My fingernails, what's left of them, dig into the grimy wood of the bat.

My foot crunches on a discarded chocolate bar wrapper. It must've fallen out of my pocket yesterday.

At the bottom step, I hesitate. Moonlight reflects off a metal napkin holder and a half-finished puzzle left out for customers. It's a small shop, and the faded smell of cinnamon clings to everything. Even our upstairs apartment.

I breathe in the scent, drawing courage from all that is familiar. Times like this I wish for Dad. He'd know what to do.

The floor creaks from the other side of the room.

My heart crawls into my throat, choking me. My knees weaken and my sweaty hands slip on the handle of the bat.

_Step up and be a man_. Those were Dad's words, spoken into a telephone on the other side of the glass partition.

I think back to that day, the visit Mom knows nothing about. The smeared glass, the stubble on Dad's chin and the fierce look in his eye that said he'd be outta there next week. But the next week turned into months and then years.

As my eyes adjust, the vague outline of a man appears in front of a painting on the wall. He reaches out and traces his finger down the gilded frame.

My pulse pounds so loud against the inside of my head, I can't think. I stumble forward and raise the bat above my head. "Who's there?" My voice shakes.

With his back to me, the intruder hesitates, his finger at the bottom of the frame. He doesn't turn or flinch or seem to care who's behind him. His black suit is tailored to fit his body and much too fancy for this time of night.

Sweat beads on my forehead and it feels like hours before the man clears his throat to speak. My arms shake. I debate whether to whack the guy in the legs with the bat and then take him out with one good punch.

"You been behaving yourself, kid?"

I freeze. The bat drops with a thud.

The words, the tone of voice, remind me of lazy spring afternoons when Stick and I would find my dad and uncle under the hood of their latest piece-of-shit car. I can taste the cold iced-tea and homemade cookies. I can feel the warm air against my face and smell the gasoline and grease. That was when I was thirteen and thought my dad was perfect. At sixteen, I know better.

Dad turns and steps forward, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his tuxedo. All suave and elegant, he looks like a star from the old black and white movies Aunt Fiona watches. His parole is tomorrow. Did they let him out early? Or did he break out?

I grab the back of a chair as memories rush. Once again, the flashing blue and red lights splatter the room with color. The sharp rap at the door echoes. It was three times. Three loud knocks.

"I need to explain." Dad glances toward the front door as if he wants to run. But even though he says the words, the explanation doesn't come.

I stumble back. This man isn't acting like my dad. The dad who could growl like a bear one minute, and the next, playfully punch me in the shoulder over a lame joke. Someone or something had zapped the Boston fire straight from my dad's veins, leaving this odd shell of a man.

"I see your mom decorated for St. Patty's Day." His words are forced.

"Yeah." I bat at the tissue paper shamrocks hanging from the ceiling. This is impossible unless my dad has eyes like a superhero's that can shoot lasers and burn through prison walls.

"Confetti's a nice touch," Dad says even though he hasn't glanced at the tables.

My mouth is dry. "We all helped. Me, Stick, and Turbo."

"You been working hard at school?"

"Yeah." I try to jam my hands into my pockets but my sweatpants don't have any, so my arms dangle by my sides. I try to think of a witty remark. Something funny. A joke. A story. Nothing comes to mind.

More memories whoosh through my mind of that night. My mom's gasp. A dish crashing to the floor, the pieces scattering. The smell of burnt apple pie and smoke pouring out the sides of the oven. Even the honey dripping off my dad's tongue didn't keep the cuffs from snapping around his wrists.

Years ago, I wished for this night, to see my dad again. But now, four years later, I just feel cold and empty.

Dad chuckles, even though nothing's funny. He fiddles with the buttons on his coat. Finally, he nods to a table. "Why don't you sit down?"

I sit and chip at the paint on the mini statue of a leprechaun holding a pot of gold.

"It's about my real work," he says.

Sweat pricks the back of my neck.

"You deserve the truth. It looks bad, and it's going to look worse tomorrow at court." For the first time, he looks straight into my eyes. "For years, I've been working undercover."

"What?" The rage I've been managing for the past couple years pushes against my chest.

Dad clasps and unclasps his hands. "I'm an art detective, but you can't tell anyone."

I squeeze the leprechaun so hard the pot of gold snaps off. What the hell does that mean?

Sirens scream outside. My heartbeat spikes from a steady thump to a wallop.

Question burn in my mind, and finally I spit one out. "How'd you get out of jail?"

Dad runs his fingers up and down the smooth silk edges of his coat. He stays silent as if figuring out an answer. "That gets complicated."

I choke down a laugh. "Right."

Dad presses his lips together in a grim line. I see a bit of Dad in the steely gaze, his eyes alight with determination. "This is nothing to joke about, Jack."

"Yeah, no shit, Dad." The words, coated with sarcasm, slip out before I can stop them. I never would've spoken to my dad like this before.

He's mad. I can tell by the way his body stiffens, his fists clench, and the right side of his upper lip twitches. Then it drains. He deflates back into a shell of the man he used to be. That man never would've taken lip from anyone. Especially me.

The familiar prickle starts on the back of my neck. But this time travels down my spine. I search the corners of the shop. Something's off.

Dad backs into the shadows. "You're the only one who can help me."

"It's a little late for that, don't ya think?" I thought about helping Dad the night of his arrest by jumping out and threatening the cops. Instead, I cowered in the shadows of the stairs. What could I do now?

The door blows open and a cold draft whips through the room.

The tissue paper shamrocks sway and the confetti stirs on the nearest table. Goosebumps travel along my arms.

"You'll know what to do." Dad's hand covers his stomach. His face pales.

Those are his last words. Because then, just like a leprechaun, he disappears.

As in poof. Melts into the night. Was it all a trick of the mind? A midnight hallucination?

The sirens sound again and I tense, ready for the cops to storm the house, their spotlight searing the room in search of my dad, the escaped convict.

7:32 a.m.

I feel like the walking dead. Dark circles under my eyes. Stiff legs. My tongue feels swollen and thick. The collar of my cousin Tommy's suit is scratchy around my neck. I shuffle across the wooden plank floor and throw a bunch of sugars and creamers into my coffee.

Last night, I formed a plan. Escape and wander the streets of Southie until court.

The bell jingles as the door whooshes open and bangs against the inside wall.

Instinctively, my head snaps toward the entrance. The door hangs open. Creaking back and forth. No one enters.

I shiver, remembering last night.

On the opposite side of the room, Mom swings open the kitchen door, a tray of scones in her hand. A wisp of graying hair slips out of the hairnet and falls across her face. She glances up. "Shut the door. Will ya?"

"Yes, Mom."

She loads the scones into the glass case, then places a hand on her hip. "I met a new girl in the neighborhood yesterday. Said you'd walk her to school today. No arguments." And with that, she went back to the kitchen.

I shut the front door with a firm click. I let my head drop against the glass and peer outside. A girl? Terrific. Way to start my day. I wasn't even going to school. And my dad broke out of jail and then disappeared. My breath fogs up the glass. I write a word in the cloud.

_Help_.

Then I return to my coffee.

Ever since Dad went to jail, Mom slowly turned from a freshly baked cinnamon bun into a stale day-old bagel. Gone are outings and walks to the ice cream shop. Gone are the hugs and smiles, the carefree love. Mom is simply gone and in her place is the skeleton of who she used to be.

We both miss Dad.

The bell jingles and another draft of air blows through the shop. A girl about my age enters and twirls in the space between the tables and chairs, her arms out, her hair flying and the colors of her clothes blurring.

I feel dizzy.

She scans the room, her eyes wide. She prances from painting to painting jammed on the wall, her fingers tracing the frames. Small gasps of joy escaping her lips. At one point, she even laughs, a high musical sound.

The warm coffee catches in my throat and I spit it back into my cup instead of spewing it all over the floor. This must be the girl. Terrific. I can always spot a newbie to the city.

"Wow, what a spot," she exclaims.

She wears black army boots, purple leggings, a shorter than short skirt, and a green-striped shirt. A puke-orange scarf is draped around her neck, the dirty ends dangling down by her feet and picking up dust from the floor. The red glittery headband tied in a bow in her black hair reminds me of a clown.

The girl casts a sideways glance at me.

Then she plunks down in the chair across from mine. "This place has so much potential. The paintings are great, but imagine if copies of the Old Masters were on the wall. Or better yet, the work of budding young artists from the neighborhood."

A flush paints her cheeks the color of ripe peaches. Her lips are a soft pink. I can't help but look at them. A tiny clump of gloss needs to be smoothed over in the corner of her top lip.

I look away and study a tiny leprechaun next to the napkin holder. The small man holds a few pieces of shiny gold in his hands and stares back with a mocking grin. I turn him the other way.

She sticks out her hand. "I'm Jetta Black."

My hands stay where they are.

"Hmm." She drums her fingers on the table. "You're supposed to say I'm Jack Brodie."

"My friends call me Fiasco." I notice her eyes, a bright green, and the strands of her shiny hair, and her smile, which hasn't left her face since she walked through the door.

"My dad and I move around a lot," she continues. "We rented a place on Athens Street. I'm offering my services to shops in the area. My goal is to educate the common people on the master painters."

"Good luck with that."

She rests her chin on her hand and her fingers drum her cheek as she studies the wall of paintings. Her eyes light up. "Is that your dad in the picture behind you?"

"Yep." I haven't looked at the black and white picture of my family since Dad went to jail but the image is imprinted in my mind.

The picture was taken at the ocean. Dad has his arm flopped around Mom's shoulder, his other hand on mine. But it's the smile on his face that creates the ache in my gut, the smile that lit up our family, gave us hope, carried us through the tough times.

So many times I asked the man in the photo to whisper his secrets. Why? Why had he betrayed his family? I've asked so many times and studied the picture for answers I never found until finally I stopped looking and asking.

If I close my eyes and concentrate I can still smell the salt air and hear the gulls crying overhead. But in my memory, the crying gulls always turn into a screeching siren.

8:03 a.m.

Every St. Patty's Day West Broadway Street transforms into a Lucky Charms commercial. But I can't let the Luck of the Irish banners hanging from storefronts and huge shamrocks painted in the windows distract me or make me feel safe. Dressed in this too short, too tight, and too scratchy suit, I already feel vulnerable.

Luck won't get Jetta to school in one piece and it won't get Dad out of jail or wherever he is right now. I kick a plastic cup off the sidewalk and try to ignore Jetta at my side. She bounces along with the energy of a cartoon character. Her mouth goes non-stop and I want to take an eraser to her.

She nudges me with her elbow. "I guess the people here take St. Patrick's Day pretty seriously."

"Yeah." I pull Jetta down the sidewalk toward E Street. "Keep walking. Look straight ahead. School's six blocks from here."

Jetta straightens and yanks her arm free. "What's got you so spooked?" When I don't answer she plunges into her psychoanalysis. "I've been watching you. I've studied this sort of thing, you know. Your steps are altered, at times slow and then after you glance around you speed up like you've seen a spook. Your eyes are shifty, darting right and left like you expect the cops to be breathing down your neck." She gasps and halts. "Jack Brodie, I can't be walking with you if you're running from the cops. I have a reputation to uphold."

For the first time since we left the coffee shop, I look her way. She manages to annoy the hell out of me and interest me at the same time. She stands with one hip out, her foot tapping, and she swings her scarf around like it's some kind of windmill. I tear my gaze away.

"That's none of your business," I mumble.

Sweat forms at my neck and creeps down my back despite the morning breeze. By noon it will be sweltering, which is a miracle for March. But that's not why I'm sweating. Last fall, a small war broke out between Big D and Stick. Since then, I always look behind my shoulder when on the streets. No one messes with Big D.

"You could really use some art therapy." Then as if she senses the ache that gnaws at my gut, she touches my arm. A touch so light it feels like a butterfly kiss. Her fingers are soft and match her voice. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

I can't ignore the past or her fingers lingering on my shirtsleeve. To make the bad situation worse, last week we pulled an innocent prank on Big D and his boys. Nothing big. Just a smoke bomb in his garage while they worked on his car.

"If we're going to be friends then you have to answer my questions," Jetta states as if she's my babysitter and I need to be put in a timeout.

"What if I don't behave?" I hint with deeper meaning. "You going to punish me?"

Her eyes widen then narrow. A sly smile appears and her green eyes flash emerald. "You couldn't handle someone like me, Jack Brodie."

I shrug and give another truth. "Some things are just between the guys and me. Privileged info."

"Fine then." She pulls her hand away. "Are you always this stubborn?"

"Yep."

We walk side by side in silence. My fingers twitch with the urge to grab her hand. I keep my eyes on the shadows and with every footstep glance behind us. Was that Big D? Did he just duck out of the way? I bump into an old lady taking her dachshund for a walk. I sidestep a mailbox at the last second. And I miss the shortcut down Bowen Street. Nerves, I tell myself, and head toward West 7th.

"You got a crush on me?"

I slow my hurried walk. Jetta's cat-like eyes tease me and her dimples wink. The breeze ruffles the ends of her hair. I snort, then keep walking, trying to keep my eyes off her.

Jetta keeps pace. She rubs her chin like she's an old man about to hand out wisdom. "Everybody needs a friend. And Jack, I think you need a friend."

"It's Fiasco. And I've got friends."

Jetta might have convinced me to leave the neighborhood without my usual posse of friends, which I knew was a dumb idea even before I swiped the scones for us to munch on the way, but I don't need any more friends. I like the ones I got.

Someone pushes me into the nearest alley. Pain explodes in my stomach.

A brick wall slams against my back.

A skinny arm presses against my throat. "Sneaking some alone time with the girly?"

Big D puckers up, and he makes kissing sounds. Black hairs line his upper lip. Even back when we were friends in second grade, he was a scrawny little kid with a bad haircut. So bad, he wore a scally cap, even to Mass on Saturday nights.

"At least I'm gettin' some," I spit out, my words a hiss.

His arm jabs into my throat forcing a cough.

Big D lets up on the pressure. "Me and my boys aren't in any hurry to get to school. Not after the stunt you pulled on us last week. Are we boys?"

The trash compactors grunt out a nope.

My eyes leave Big D's face. The compactors grip Jetta's arms. Her face holds no expression, and she focuses dead ahead, her body taut. No fear. No trembling. She might be enough of a freak to not understand trouble. Or new enough to not understand this neighborhood. And Big D.

Big D follows my gaze and for the first time he fully appreciates Jetta. Lust gleams in his eyes before he slides over and grazes her cheek with the back of his hand. "You do owe me, Fiasco. Maybe I should collect with your girl here."

He rubs his hips up against her, grinding like a farmyard animal. His hands move around her back and runs down to her butt. His lips fondle her ear and he whispers so only she can hear.

Jetta barely twitches when Big D's other hand moves to her ass, but when I look closer I see the tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.

"Ooo, baby, what you do to me." Big D's words are like an oil spill, oozing out, coating Jetta with slime. He groans with pleasure.

Adrenaline rushes through my arms and legs, sending blood pumping through my heart at a dangerous rate. "Hey, Big D, the local zoo is open if you need to express any animal urges."

The insult bounces off Big D like it's nothing but a spit wad.

He waves his hand and nuzzles his face into Jetta's neck. "Leave us alone, Fiasco. I'll make sure the girl gets to school safe. You're relieved of your duties."

I blame the morning traffic fumes or the lack of air after being jabbed in the throat for attacking Big D. I rip him away then rush toward Jetta.

"What the—" Big D lets out a string of select words.

I leap at the first compactor. My fist connects with his face. Trying to knock him off balance. The giant shrugs, then gives me a push, and I fly through the air. Like Superman.

They close in on me, their fists landing on my stomach, my face, the side of my head. Big D is back near Jetta. He croons and coos. His words hiss out like exhaust fumes in a closed garage.

"I heard from my dad that your mama was pretty sweet," I shout, carelessly, while swinging at air, my body thrown off kilter.

The crooning stops and Big D calls off his goons, who grab Jetta's arms. Big D sticks his face in mine, his eyes narrow.

"Dude, your breath!" I gag. "Peppermint works well."

"You're a jackass and a fool. You don't know when to quit." Big D slugs me in the gut and shoves me.

Everything might have been okay if I landed on the street, but the back of my legs wham into a trashcan and my body flips. My head slams into the wall, my back scrapes against the bricks as I slump to the ground. Blood squirts from my nose.

I grab a napkin drifting by from a tavern. I press the printing of the famous green shamrock to my nose. I think about Jetta. Her name pulses with the pain radiating through my body in waves.

In the blur, a high-pitched scream rips through the air. But it isn't a girly scared scream. It's a trained yell of attack. I watch, pain forgotten, my mouth hanging open.

Jetta kicks her leg to the side and catches one of the boys in the kneecap.

He doubles over, groaning. Her arm shoots out and hits the other boy in the neck. Maybe I was delirious from hitting my head on the wall, but it feels like I dropped into one of the late night Kung-Fu movies Dad used to watch. I wouldn't have been surprised at all if she flipped through the air and landed on the roof.

She twirls and her foot lands below Big D's belt with so much force he flies back.

"Let's go, boys," Big D mutters, coughing. "You just wait, Fiasco. We're not done." Their footsteps echo down the street, mingling with grunts of pain.

I let my head roll back, thankful we made it out alive.

The alleyway is quiet with just the echoes from the fight. Fingers touch my forehead and gently sweep my hair behind my ears, then linger for just a moment.

A sweet voice rushes over me. "Good thing I moved here when I did. You need a friend, Jack Brodie."

10:00 a.m.

The bench is hard.

The unforgiving wood digs into my back. I trace the slivers at the side of my right leg. The small room seems too familiar, a stale smell penetrating the air. Every window is clamped shut, offering no draft or scent of fresh air.

Nothing that can be translated into hope.

A fresh coat of paint can't hide the cracks in the dry wall. The judge's bench looms at the front. Four years ago, I sat here, foolishly proud of my dad, believing the court would proclaim his innocence, and outraged when they couldn't see the truth. Did they even study the evidence?

The room is cold. I fight back a shiver. Mom straightens her skirt for the tenth time and grips her cracked leather purse. Four years has passed. Will the evidence look any better?

Does the judge know about Dad's undercover work? Is this all a part of it? Maybe jotted in the lower corner of her papers is a scribbled note about my dad's work.

Either way, why does Dad need my help? What could I possibly do? Will he even show up? Will the guards arrive at his cell to find it empty?

I'm the only one who can help him.

Today.

10:04 a.m.

The door opens in the back, a quiet click that sounds like a slam in the quiet room. Mom and I turn like an invisible string is attached to our heads. Two stuffy suits stride in with their briefcases. Neither of them appear to be big-time lawyers that I see on crime shows. Instead, silver highlights their temples and boredom lines their faces.

10:05 a.m.

The man assigned to Dad's case slides into his seat, a pinched look on his brow causing lines to branch and deepen across his forehead. His mountainous nose seems glued onto his face, and several wiry hairs grow out the end.

He nods to us like we're distant acquaintances and we only bump into each other here and there, when in fact we've never met. The wrinkles and worn look of the back of his suit don't do anything to build my confidence in him.

The prosecuting lawyer mirrors Dad's, the suit a dark grey, but the same pressed look, like these guys are hung up in a closet every night on hangers and pulled out every morning, factory made.

My fingers twitch. Should I tap the lawyer on the shoulder and whisper the truth about Dad working undercover? I'm about to when Mom clutches my hand, her fingers icy cold. She presses into my skin, gripping hard, as if begging that if we stand together, then Dad will be released. I can't bear to pull my hand away.

The judge enters, her black robes swishing around her ankles. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose, and her mouth settles into a permanent scowl. Another factory-made professional.

Maybe if Mom passed around her famous chocolate chip scones, everyone would smile. I remember the day Mom opened the coffee shop. Dad said no to the idea at first, but Mom's like a stubborn tulip in April. She kept prodding and poking around for a chance in the way of cheap rent. And she found it, right under our apartment when the fortune telling/tattoo shop closed.

Back then, Mom started every day with a smile. She fretted over what to put on the walls and where to find tables. They found the tables when the bar down the road made room for billiards. And the day the shop opened, Mom and I found the framed paintings covering the walls. Dad scarfed them up from a yard sale on the other side of town. Mom had never been happier.

The sharp echo of the gavel brings me back to the cold room and the hard bench.

10:07 a.m.

The door opens again.

My stomach tightens up like Big D's fist. Mom squeezes my hand like I'm a toddler on the subway. It hurts. I bite on the side of my mouth and ignore the pain.

Soft footsteps fall. I swivel in my seat.

Dad definitely looks different than the guy from last night. A tweed coat hangs on him that appears to be from cousin Tommy too. Apart from the suit and the pale face, he smiles like he just strolled off a cruise ship. As he whisks by, he winks. In that one wink are a thousand words, except I can't make the translation. Does it mean I should speak up? Or not?

What happened to my dad from last night? Did he sneak back into jail? Or did I truly hallucinate?

Joseph Brodie always fills a room like royalty. His swagger and smile draw people toward him like a magnet. At family gatherings, he tells the most jokes. He shares the funniest stories. And people love him. Even Great Aunt Fiona, who doesn't like anyone.

Hopefully, the judge will see this man doesn't deserve to be in the slammer, but in his home, with his family.

Or, maybe, I need to make her see.

10:10 a.m.

The judge calls the room to order.

The words, the questions, the statements all become one big buzz.

My foot taps. I grip the bench in front of me. My heart pounds out the truth. Only I can help Dad. A decision. I'll know when. It has to be today. Soon.

The judge with her stone cold voice calls forth the evidence.

Like one of Big D's punches, I shoot up from the bench. My heart hammers, and my mouth is dry so my voice squeaks out. "No!"

The judge turns the icy glare of the judicial system on me.

Mom yanks on my arm.

"You have to know the truth!" My voice sounds small and insignificant.

Dad turns in his seat and places a finger to his lips.

I doubt. I teeter on the edge.

Maybe I'm wrong, and this isn't the right time. No one else in the courtroom is looking at Joseph Brodie. All eyes are riveted on his son. But I stare at Dad, searching, hoping for an answer.

Dad shakes his head back and forth.

No. This isn't the right time. This slight motion from Dad is a needle. The balloon bursts in my chest, and my breath whooshes out. I sink onto the bench. My face burns. Mom squeezes my shoulder.

After casting me a warning look, the judge calls forth the evidence again, this time with a touch of annoyance in her voice.

Pictures of diamonds.

Testimonies of the guards.

The security guard uniform worn by the thief.

The video camera tape.

Mom clutches her purse to her chest. Pins and needles sting my cheeks and my mouth fills with saliva. I sway, not sure if I'm dizzy from hitting my head or from the truth that chills the room. My stomach churns. I need to throw up. The same pictures, the same evidence, but somehow, four years later, the clues pile up and scream guilty.

The judge scowls as her gaze flicks back and forth between the evidence and Dad, whose shoulders are a bit more hunched.

Mom pinches my arm. "Go, Jack. Now. Wait in the hallway." She shoves crumpled dollar bills into my hand. "Get a snack at the vending machines."

I can usually wheedle my way into extra allowance, or more television time, or having the guys over. This time is different. I stumble out of the room without so much as a second glance at Dad.

10:25 a.m.

Mom's words pound in my head. Get a snack. Get a snack.

But the very thought causes my stomach to churn. I sprint down one hallway and then another, the walls seem to narrow every turn. The air brushes my face and ripples my hair, whispering.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

Memories flash in my mind. Of the beach. The smell of the salt air and cry of the seagulls. Dad and I playing catch with old gloves and a tennis ball. Peeling Mom away from her trashy romance novel for a game. She put up a fuss but ended up hitting homers. Body surfing in the crashing waves. Over and over again, the frothy water closing over our heads and washing us ashore. We popped up, shrieking, and headed back for more. The water was freezing and turned our legs and arms pink. We laughed.

As quick as the memory comes, it fades, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

My neck prickles. It's back.

I press against the wall, looking left and right. Someone's here. Someone's watching me. I feel it.

Black flashes down the hallway. Looks like a black jacket. Maybe a tuxedo jacket.

Maybe it's Dad. The dad from last night. Not the one in the courtroom. Or have I gone completely crazy? One person can't be in two places at the same time. And the last I knew, prison didn't have revolving doors. I have to find out the truth.

I sprint, arms pumping. I turn down hallways. But he's always one step ahead.

I turn a corner and he's dashing down a different one. Why won't he stop?

"Dad!" My voice bounces off the walls.

It's like I'm chasing a ghost. He flits in and out of my sight. I sprint down a third hall, then finally slow. My chest heaves.

He's gone.

The evidence stacked against my dad flashes through my mind. I can't stop them. Over and over. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

I press my hand over my mouth. A trashcan. The pressure builds in my stomach. I grip the black plastic, stick my head into the darkness, and puke. When my stomach stops convulsing, I lean against the concrete wall and slide to the floor. I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of Tommy's suit.

I drop my head to my knees and rub the lump on my head. More memories come, but not of sunshine and laughter.

Memories I never bothered with until now. Late night meetings. Dad and his buddies. Low voices. The clink of bottles.

Other nights, Mom's soft crying drifted over, through the laughter on the television. Raised voices. But I never heard words. Maybe Mom tried to convince Joseph Brodie to take a nine-to-five job at Waldo's Gas and Go.

If she did, he never listened.

Was my dad a thief or the respected self-employed businessman everyone loved?

10:35 a.m.

"Need help?"

I stare at the man and immediately dismiss him. My mind is back in the courtroom. The disapproving scowl and lowered eyebrows on Dad's face, the slight shake of his head when I tried to help. Of course I couldn't announce to the world my dad works undercover, but what else could I do? What the hell did Dad mean that I'm the only one who can help?

The man nods. "Name's Frank."

I focus. Another old man. Another wrinkled suit.

He leans comfortable and casual-like against the opposite wall, his lips forming a smirk, and his hat cocked forward like some gangster from the twenties. The smirk breaks into a smile that reflects happy times and a happy family. I already hate him.

Dad used to look and act confident and suave. A tiny spring of bitterness opens.

Frank puckers his lips and blows across his coffee. Steam curls into the air creating a misty cloud in front of his nose and eyes. "Nothing like a cup of hot coffee to start the day."

The urge to fling the man's cup across the room makes my fingers twitch and slowly curl into a fist.

"Appreciate your youth, son. And your keen mind, while you still got it."

"I'm not your son." I speak through clenched teeth.

"Oh, right." Frank's smirk turns into a sympathetic grin. "Sorry about that."

Mom is probably tapping her toes against the cold tiled floor, glancing at her watch, and searching the halls for me. "I gotta go—"

I stop. I blink. Everything else temporarily forgotten. Frank's in the middle of some lame joke, and his nose is sliding off his face.

I watch in fascination. I've seen many strange things at high school. The volunteer on Thursdays, who helps struggling readers wears a different wig each week, and one of the lunchroom ladies is completely bald. No one knows her story. But a story of a man with a sliding nose will beat them all.

"What do you think?" Frank asks.

"Um..."

Frank senses that a part of his face is falling off. "Damn steam." He dumps his coffee in the trash, then pushes his nose back up against his face. This time it sticks. "I'm still getting used to my prosthetic. Sorry about that."

Then Frank continues to talk as if a nose falling off is as common as a boy puking into a trashcan in the hallway of a courthouse. He finishes off another joke, laughs, and then falls silent.

I can't think of any jokes and I refuse to fake chuckle.

"I suggest art," Frank says.

Art?

"Why are you talking to me?"

Frank smiles and chuckles, like he knows secrets and I'm just a silly little boy instead of a teenager. He pushes on his nose again as if to make sure it isn't falling off a second time. "You'll understand a lot more later. I knew you'd need a friend today. Right here. Right now."

"Did you escape from the loony bin or something?" I search for men in white lab coats swarming the hallway with a straight jacket or cuffs.

"No. I've still got a few marbles rolling around." He taps his head. "I know all about your daddy. And you."

I jump to my feet and point down the hall. "Go help my dad then. Tell the judge the truth, so they'll let him go."

Frank shakes his head with a sad, sympathetic smile.

"Go help him!" My voice is low and gravelly.

The muscles tense in my arm. I will drag this guy down the hall and throw him in front of the judge and then wipe the scowl and sympathetic look off her face.

Frank raises his hands, palms out. "Whoa, there, son. The judge won't believe one word of my testimony. I'd march down their myself if I felt it would do any good." His voice drops and his words shoot out. "Only you can help your daddy."

The frustration revving through me putters and stalls. My voice cracks as my truth spills. "I tried."

Frank narrows his eyes.

I feel naked under his scrutiny. His words balance on a hard edge. "The sooner you accept the truth about him the better."

I dig my back against the wall. I know the truth. Dad might not be perfect but he loves his family. Not many people see that side to him. "I know all about my dad."

"Hmm." Frank nods like he doesn't quite believe me. He uncrosses his legs. "It's a funny thing about friends."

I blow air through my lips.

"Sometimes friends have to tell the truth even when it hurts."

"Whatever."

"And Jack Brodie, as your friend, I'm telling you your dad is lying."

Within seconds, blood rushes through my veins, crying for a fight. I can take down the old man in a heartbeat. Two moves. And boom. Frank will be on the floor.

He points a finger toward the courtroom. His face grows animated and a vein pulses between his eyebrows. "Your dad stole the diamonds. And he stole more than that too."

"Shut up!" I step forward. My body shakes, the rage raw and palpable.

"Fine, fine." Frank puts his hands in the air. "I can see you're not ready. But you can't help your dad until you accept the truth."

"My dad would never lie to me. He's not like that."

A fire lights behind Frank's eyes. "Why wouldn't he tell his wife about his 'real' work? Why wouldn't he let you share the truth in the courtroom?"

I shudder. The old man has turned from wacko into creepy. "Why would I believe you over my dad?"

Frank nods. "Point taken. I apologize. A time will come, Jack, when you'll have to accept the truth. You'll have a choice to make." He steps close and brings his face close to mine. "Your journey to help your dad starts today. Look to the artwork. Be ready. Be prepared." And with that last word and a tip of his hat, Frank strides down the hall.

"Asshole!" I mutter. I don't move, only a muscle along my cheekbone twitches as I clench my teeth. I stay in that spot, unwavering, until Mom's voice echoes, calling for me. Slowly, like a robot, I force my feet down the hall.

12:01 p.m.

I hesitate outside the school. My image reflects off the glass doors: my face paler than usual and my hair sticking out. My friends will recognize me, but somehow I feel different, older, a bit warped, like I've been stretched in two different directions.

I let out a puff of air and yank the door open. Principal Nelson's voice booms from an assembly in the auditorium. I've missed half the day. My friends appear out of nowhere.

Turbo follows on my heels like a giant St. Bernard, and Stick walks by my side, stride for stride, not saying a word. Finally, he speaks, still without looking, his voice tight and a bit strained. "So?"

I could mention the cold and snobby glare of the judge who didn't care about my family, the mountain of evidence, or Frank and the story of his nose falling off. But the words die before they leave my mouth. Different versions of the same story twist in my mind, creating multiple paths, all leading in different directions. What if the old man is right and I can help my dad? Today. But artwork? Really?

I don't mention any of those things.

I say, "I gotta pee."

"Big D's still charging for use of the bathrooms," Turbo grunts in frustration.

"Scum bucket, bottom-feeder, douche bag," Stick mutters.

I nod. I dream about showing up with Dad on visitor's night. He would swagger in and talk my teachers into forgiving tardiness or absences. Dad would sweet talk the principal into erasing my record. Then, he'd hold up Big D by the throat, slam him against the wall, and demand all the money back he'd stolen from his classmates. I like that part the best, envisioning Big D quivering in fear, a wet patch appearing at his crotch and pee dribbling to the floor.

"Big D ambushed me this morning."

Stick slams his fist into his palm. "What?"

"He knows we pranked him." My head throbs, remembering the threats and the feel of his fist against my jaw. For a brief second, my heart lightens at the thought of Jetta. Her fingers brushing my forehead. And the softness of her voice.

"What were you doing on the streets alone?" Turbo asks. "That was dumb."

"Nothing." I don't want to tell them about Jetta. Not yet. She's a gift, one I want to tuck away and pull out when life gets too crazy.

Stick shrugs. "Your fault, loser." He stops outside the auditorium where everyone is listening to the principal ramble on. He grips my arms. "Tell me. Just get it over quick."

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. "Nothing good."

"Spill it. Now." The words come from between Stick's clenched teeth. His face turns various shades of white and he hunches over, his body swaying. His breathing is slow and steady as if he's barely holding on.

When Stick moved in next door, he was all rough and tough, a scrappy little kid. We'd wrestle on the sidewalk until my dad picked us up by the collars like we were puppies fighting over a bone. The first time I found Stick crying in the space between our houses, a bruise was spreading across his cheek. I fetched Dad. Over the years, Dad talked often with Stick in a hushed voice on the porch or in the kitchen.

Stick chews off a fingernail. "Come on, man. Did the judge go easy on him?"

Hard benches, an unfriendly judge, and unfair evidence—that's what I remember. "No. She didn't."

Silence falls between us. Air thick with grief. Our feelings unable to break the surface of conversation. Pressure builds behind my eyes. Man, I'm such a wuss. "I'll see you guys later."

Then I run. I tear down the halls. Lockers whiz by. The red and green streaks of graffiti blur. I don't stop. I take the stairs two at a time. I sprint down more hallways.

My side cramps.

I stumble and slam against the lockers, then slide to the floor. Saying the words felt real. Dad was gone. Never coming back. Not any time soon. I rest my arms on my knees and hide my head. Darkness consumes me. I let it.

Footsteps tap quietly. Almost as if someone's sneaking around. Like me. Some place they aren't supposed to be. I jerk my head up.

The hall is empty.

Quietly, I stand and creep down the tiled floors. My heart thumps.

I turn down one hall. I hear the footsteps again. Leading me away. Like cookie crumbs into the forest in that stupid fairy tale.

I follow. A part of me hopes that the spooks from last night, the doors opening, the person running in the courthouse—that it's my dad. Who else would be following me around? Watching over me?

My stride picks up. Sweat pricks. I explore the halls, find nothing, and grow desperate.

I run.

The footsteps echo just around the corner.

His name is on my lips as I head into another hallway and SLAM!

12:25 p.m.

I fall back. Sliding across the hard floor. My ears ring and my head pounds.

Someone jerks me to my feet. It's not Dad.

"What're you doing wandering about?" A man sticks his face into mine, his eyes wide and wild. A bucket is overturned, dirty water pooling on the floor.

The janitor. Must be. He has curly graying hair, and whiskers that need shaving. The blue uniform clings to his body like he's been wearing it all his life. Even on weekends. I've never seen him before, and I'm suddenly envious of the life of a janitor. Nothing to worry about except spilled lunches and overflowing trashcans.

He lets go of my shirt and points a crooked finger at me. His eyes flash with the knowledge that no one pulls a fast one on him. "I asked you a question."

I shiver at his threatening tone. "Bathroom."

He grips his mop. "What's your name?"

"Fiasco."

"Full name," the man grunts.

"Jack Brodie."

"Well, Jack Brodie," the man warns. "You better get on out of here before I report you. Don't want to be getting into trouble now, do you?"

"No, sir."

He sniffs the air as if he can smell lies and then gives one last threatening look before turning away. "I'll be keeping an eye on you."

I walk in the opposite direction and don't look back. I go downstairs and duck into the first room. Maybe I can hide for the rest of the day.

"Mr. Brodie," a pleasant voice calls.

The art teacher sashays across the room, carrying a big black leather case. I rub my hand along the side of my pants. I wish for Stick. As we're always together, Stick sweet talks our way out of sticky situations. Like this one. I stammer out a few words but finally shrug, hoping to appeal to Ms. Charpetto's good nature.

She slides the case next to a cabinet and then jumps up onto her desk. Her legs swing like a schoolgirl's.

I stare at the amateur art pasted on the walls and then back to Ms. Charpetto. Frank's words echo in my mind. I have a choice. The journey starts today. I have no desire to listen to an old man who stalks kids in courthouses, but what if he's right? What if Ms. Charpetto, as an art teacher, for some crazy reason, has answers?

"Do you know anything about my dad?" I blurt, the words tripping out my mouth like a drunken old man. Immediately, I burn with embarrassment. Saying the words out loud make me realize how stupid they sound.

She smiles, her whole face lighting up and then creasing in concern. "I'm sorry I don't, but I can tell he means a lot to you." She taps her finger against her chin. "You're not in any of my classes this year are you, Mr. Brodie?"

"Nope."

"You should sign up for my creative art class next term." She laughs in such a small delicate way that I swoon. Or maybe it's the bump on my head. I can't be sure.

"Um, yeah. Maybe." As much as I lust after Ms. Charpetto, I suck at art.

"Don't worry. No painting fruit bowls or copying the Masters. We use raw materials to create three-dimensional sculptures. You might enjoy it. Grading is completely on effort and attendance. It's an easy A."

She walks over to the wall, her heels clicking, and traces her finger down the matting of a large painting. Oranges, reds, yellows, and browns swirl in what looks like a tornado on a fall day. No pictures or meaning behind the splatters of paint. "Take this example from a new student."

I'm not impressed. "Looks like a two year old puked on it."

Ms. Charpetto cocks her head to the side. "That's the way it is with art. Highly subjective. It's a wonderful example of putting your mood into your work. Self expression at its best."

"That new student must be pretty messed up." I shuffle toward the door. Ms. Charpetto is the third person today to suggest I take up art.

"Mr. Brodie."

I turn at the door.

"You might consider attending the St. Patrick's Day art festival this afternoon at the park next to the Gardner Museum. Not only will students' work be shown, but you'd get a feel for what the class might be like. Famous artwork will be on display. You never know who you might bump into there."

I perk up. Art festival?

Maybe Dad will be there on the job, lurking in the shadows, waiting for me.

In the crowds, he can pull me aside and talk without anyone knowing. This has to be it.

I nod, mumbling "I'll be there," and leave, feeling hope for the first time. I float down the hall, my feet skimming the tiles, my head in the bright fluffy clouds with unicorns frolicking about and rainbows shooting out their asses.

2:45 p.m.

The bell finally rings. I crawl out from under the stairwell. Kids cram into the hallways. Lockers slam and laughter floats by.

I maneuver the crowds as fast as I can. I have to find Stick and Turbo. I break into a run every few steps.

"Hey!"

I keep walking, ignoring the high-pitched voice. The voice is aimed at me, I can tell, or maybe I just feel guilty for skipping most of my classes.

"Jack!"

My heart rate increases and a slow flush spreads across my cheeks. This morning with Jetta feels like days ago. Yet, the vision of her face comes to me crystal clear, and I forget all about the art festival. I slow.

Jetta flounces toward me, the red bow lopsided in her hair, but her lips still a soft pink in a big grin. She bumps her hip into mine like we've known each other for months. "How ya doing?"

I press down my annoyance at this girl. Despite what I feel, my eyes linger on her lips. She clears her throat, and my blush deepens. I force my face into the neutral expression I wear for everyone lately. The dull look in my eyes that make teachers look past me and the slouch in my shoulders that tell others to leave me alone. I recover. "So do you apply lipstick every five minutes or what?"

She jabs my shoulder. Her touch, even though playful, sends a thrill through my chest. "It's lip-gloss, silly."

"Ooo, sorry." I wiggle my fingers. "I'm not up on my make-up terminology."

"That's okay. I'll forgive you. After all, you did stand up for my honor this morning on the way to school."

I grit my teeth and shuffle toward the exit. She catches up with a couple skips. Her presence creates a response in me I'm not used to. My pulse races yet she has a calming effect too.

She nudges me and her voice comes out a whisper. "Seriously, are you okay?" She points to my head. "This morning? Slamming your head into a brick wall?"

"Oh, yeah, that. I'm fine. I guess."

She steps closer. I feel dizzy at the intoxicating smell of peaches. Her presence washes over me. Her hand accidentally bumps against mine. My lips refuse to work and my brain can't think of one thing to say to piss her off so she'll run. I squirm. Thing is, I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to see her face fall and the light fade. Not this time. No female has stood this close for a while, except for Ms. Kale, the school secretary. She doesn't smell like peaches.

She tilts her head. "You're kinda cute when you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous." I blow air through my lips, then moments later, stumble. I scowl, hoping she'll get the hint and leave me alone. Yet a part of me wants to reach out and meet her halfway.

"Just admit it. You like me."

Her smile radiates outward. Her joy floats in the air, wisps of happiness, and I want to grasp onto it. I fight the urge to tuck her stray hairs behind her ear. I imagine leaning in, her face tilting up and a blush spreading across her creamy skin. My lips brushing hers. I sway forward then jerk back like I'm electrified. Terror grips me. I back away, closer to the school exit.

She lifts her hands. "Hey, I promise. I don't have any diseases, and I don't kiss until after at least a three month commitment."

"Phew, you had me worried there," I say in an attempt to save my dignity. I might be a bumbling fool around this girl, but every once in a while I'm able to sneak in a good one liner.

She hugs her books to her chest as if blocking her heart from me, withdrawing to protect herself. And she should. Her eyes, full of compassion, pierce mine, but then she smiles again and says casually, "Well, Jack, I'm on my way to an art festival with Ms. Charpetto, but I wanted to make sure you were okay."

The art festival. My heart rate pulses at the thought of meeting Dad and finding out what I'm supposed to do. "I'll be there too."

"Great. Maybe I'll see you. Make sure you go with your friends," she teases, her green eyes zoning in on me.

My breath hitches once more. I remember her awesome karate moves. "Yeah, um, thanks for this morning." Turbo and Stick would be laughing their butts off if they ever find out what happened. Or if they heard me kissing up to a girl.

She flashes another brilliant smile and turns to go.

"Um, you can walk with us to school tomorrow if you want." I know my friends will never put up with this, but right now I don't care. I'll give them some lame excuse and walk with Jetta.

"Who's us?" she asks.

"Me and my friends."

"That's okay. I know the way. See you around." She winks and then waltzes down the hall with a little sway of her hips.

I groan and bang my head against the wall. I mocked myself. "Hey, why don't you walk to school with us tomorrow because three boys can't protect themselves and we could use an awesome kung-fu ninja to be our friend."

I walk toward the exit, muttering curses for sounding like such an idiot.

3:00 p.m.

I take the outside stairs two at a time, my hand sliding down the rail.

I focus on the present, but the smell of peaches still hovers and my thoughts are back in the hallway. With her. Her sweet smile that makes my heart skip a beat. Her enthusiasm that lights up her face like a Christmas tree and makes me want to smile. I shake it off and gently slap my cheek. "Knock it off, Fiasco."

Girls bring trouble. Dad's right about that. For the past two years I managed to stay free of them and my life has been fairly free of drama.

Until today.

Big D is hanging near a side entrance. He and his goons are itching for a fight, especially after the morning's events. They can't stand still, punching each other playfully in the arm, until they can take it out on someone for real. Their bruised egos, knees and stomachs need pampering and a dose of revenge. I duck to avoid them and head toward my friends.

Stick leans against the iron fence surrounding the school. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his pale face with a smattering of freckles is marked with anger. His eyebrows lower, his glance darting right and left every few seconds. "There you are, loser!"

Crap. He has something planned. I need to find my dad from last night. Figure out if my talk with him last night was real. But I can't explain or they'll think I've lost it.

"Where the hell have you been?" Stick asks. "Last period math was hell."

I shrug.

Turbo straddles a bike loaded with about four locks. He tries to balance on the seat without his feet touching. It doesn't work very well and every few seconds he grabs the next bike before he falls.

Stick punches my shoulder. "Big D and his gang are leaving. Let's follow."

"What?" I panic. I can't tail Big D. I barely have time to get to the art festival.

"They jumped you this morning. We need to find some dirt on them."

I nod and follow, waiting for a chance to lie and break away.

After standing in the crowded T for half an hour and walking what felt like a mile, I lean against the black iron fence in front of a brick building. "I need a breather. In fact, I don't feel very well. Think I'm going to head home."

They act like I didn't say anything.

"Who would put fake sheep in front of their house in the city? That's stupid," Turbo mocks.

I tilt my head back in front of the tall brick building. I glance at the fake sheep and then my gaze travels up the side of the building. It doesn't quite seem like a lived-in house. Kind of cold and unfriendly. I shiver.

Stick smacks Turbo in the arm. "It's an art museum, dummy. And those aren't sheep. They're lions."

"Art museum? Where's Big D?" I ask.

Dad's words repeat. _Only you can help me_. _Only you can help me_.

I think of Ms. Charpetto encouraging me to attend the art festival.

"Chill, loser. They crossed the side street into the park."

Turbo brightens as he glances from the park to the museum. "Maybe they're planning on robbing the museum. Ya know, like a big art heist." He rubs his hands together.

"Dummy. The Gardner was already robbed years ago by the best of the best." Stick's eyes glaze over as he stares at the gray brick walls of the museum. "They never got caught." He shakes off any daydreams. "Big D isn't that smart."

"The Gardner?" My heart rate picks up. I'm at the festival. My dad could be within a hundred feet. Waiting.

Stick nods toward the park. "Let's see why they're stalking a community art show."

The cold truth causes sweat to break out on my forehead as I think about Dad. If I find him, what will I say? Will he remember our meeting? Or will he just hand off more vague advice about what I'm supposed to do?

Stick jabs me with his elbow and rocks his hips back and forth in a grinding motion. "Maybe you'll get a chance to talk to your lover girl, Ms. Charpetto."

I laugh and play off the joke but my thoughts are elsewhere. My arms and legs tremble. Dad could be over there right now among the Rembrandt copies and other amateur artistic attempts. My friends can't be with me. We have to separate.

"Let's split up, cover the park to find Big D, and meet back here."

3:45 p.m.

The park outside of the art museum isn't really a park. More like a bit of grass sprinkled with a few oak trees and benches. But for the city, it might as well as be as large as a football field.

Laughter trickles through the crowd from proud parents and art enthusiasts.

Somewhere in the crowd is Dad.

Maybe he's lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to walk by or maybe he's striding through, hiding behind the program with a hat pulled low on his head.

I lean against a table. My heart pounds and I feel weak all over. My stomach churns and I stifle the urge to vomit.

After several deep breaths, I shuffle down rows and rows of tables lined up on the side of the park closest to the museum. I barely notice the paintings and sculptures, wanting to steer clear of Jetta and Big D.

The sound of popcorn popping rattles my nerves. The smell of fries, hot and crisp, just pulled from the grease turns my stomach. I want to grab the next whiny kid begging for food and shake him. So many people dress in green velvet coats and green wigs. Overkill. All the sounds and smells blend together into a buzz.

Every aisle, a little of the hope drains, leaving behind the familiar bitterness that eats away at the faith I had in Dad.

I search face after face. Nothing. What could Frank have meant? A journey? It's beginning to sound like bullshit.

The artwork blurs and I have no clue which paintings are copies or which ones are famous. Most of them are like the puke painting in Ms. Charpetto's room. The sculptures and the paintings are not of an object, but each artist's interpretation of a feeling, or some shit like that. This must be what Ms. Charpetto will have us do in that art class. Not sure I'm ready for that.

I weave through parents pushing strollers, old ladies jabbering with their cronies, and reporters snapping pictures.

No sign of Dad.

After I walk past another piece of clay twisted into a weird shape, I peer between a pottery bowl and a painting of what looks like the ocean and spot one of Big D's goons. Just ahead.

He walks through the crowds and glances nervously behind him every few seconds. He looks suspicious but I don't care.

"Excuse me, young man." An ancient woman with bluish hair scolds. "Only participants are allowed behind the tables."

"Uh, sorry. Won't happen again." I pass her and squeeze through tables on the other side. The lady complains about today's youth, but I shrug it off. Nothing I haven't heard before.

A high-pitched giggle pierces the air and blood rushes through my veins.

I stop.

I walk the other way, following the sound of the familiar laugh and voice. It leads me through the people like the Pied Piper's song. The crowd pushes back, but I slip through and hide behind another large painting of rainbow-colored swirls.

I peek around the corner.

Jetta stands next to the puke painting from Ms. Charpetto's room. It's hers. The painting I mocked this morning. She chats with an older student. Her red bow has been straightened and her hair brushed.

I watch, entranced. Hope sparkles in her eyes. She twists her hands in excitement. Her pink lips twitch nervously. She flashes a shy smile at compliments. Jetta is her own art form. Except I can't frame her and put her on the wall of the coffee shop. Someone like Jetta can't be contained.

I plug my nose at the first smell of expensive perfume. An older woman with a bushy fur around her neck and a chest like a bulldozer pushes past with the air of a billionaire, or at least a millionaire. She strides across the aisle between the tables, the crowds miraculously parting for her.

Jetta's about ten feet away when my neck prickles.

The woman reminds me of a shark, nosing its way through the murky waters in search of a kill, sniffing for blood.

One man with a Red Sox cap steps boldly out from the crowds. He stops in front of the shark.

"Good afternoon, Alfred." The woman speaks with a sharp, in-charge voice. "Out of my way."

The man has guts. His voice is gentle but firm, more like a minnow compared to a shark. "I will not let you do this."

"You have no say in the matter. I've been looking for far too long." She tries to elbow past him, but he stands his ground.

The woman puts her hand behind her back and waves as if motioning to someone. She continues to talk in a quiet voice I can't hear. I search the crowd of green top hats and curly green wigs as two men in crisp black suits stride behind the man and close in on Jetta.

In that instant I know they're there for her. She's in trouble.

My gut commands me to act. The man with the Red Sox cap is oblivious to the whole thing. Usually, my gut is reliable. I know when to stop teasing Stick. I know when to leave Mom alone in her room and not bug her for money. And when walking the streets, I know when Big D is lurking. Except for this morning when I was too distracted by Jetta's smile and fluttering eyes to listen to my gut.

I flash back to her pink lips and the spark that sets my blood on fire. The fierce loyalty in her eyes as she protected me, her first friend in Southie. Her intoxicating smell that makes me want to stack the wall around my heart higher but at the same time inspires me to kiss her.

I rush toward her, but a flock of older women cross my path like a gaggle of geese. They preen their hair and flap their arms. They snap pictures of almost every piece of art and painting; and laugh and talk loud enough for the whole park to hear.

"Jetta!" The buzz of the crowd swallows my cry. I might be mistaken. The men in black might've been closing in on a priceless painting, and the rich lady is just a stupid art collector. I dodge a toddler and dart around the old cronies.

On the other side, the men in black are nowhere to be seen.

And Jetta is gone.

4:30 p.m.

Jetta just laughed and smiled without a care in the world. Now the space is empty.

The other art students are caught up in talking with their parents and posing for pictures. Their smiles proving they didn't witness a thing. Her painting stands alone, the swirl of colors representing the panic that fills my throat.

On rubber legs, I stumble into the scene. The scent of peaches tickles the air with her presence. I whirl in all directions but can't see anyone suspicious.

Doubt niggles in the back of my thoughts, trying to shame me. That I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Because I fell for a girl during the time it takes to walk to school, because I felt things I hadn't felt in months, because I allowed myself to care, I must be punished somehow. I'm not allowed to be happy. So now I'm concocting the worst-case scenario. Jetta has probably gone to the bathroom and she'll return any moment and we'll laugh over my stupidity.

Seconds pass. Each moment a long extended pause in my life.

I fall to my knees and run my fingers across the ripped up grass. I trace the fresh impressions of a man's shoe. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of red. Intricate designs made with gold thread are woven through the red bow that had been in her hair. I pick it up, my fingers closing around it as I scan the crowds.

Two men in black forcing a girl away should be easy to spot. But nothing. It was like she disappeared with a snap of a street magician's fingers. Maybe rich people can do that.

I shoot to my feet and aim for the street that runs along the back of the park. A street rarely used. The stream of people presses closer. I elbow a woman and then dart past. Her angry words can't penetrate the thick cloud of horror enveloping me.

I dodge paintings, crawl under tables, and duck adults trying to grab my collar and give me a good lecture. My mind races, my thoughts following the mindset of a criminal. Slave labor. Child abuse. Mom watches too much Dateline for me not to know psychos exist, but the men in black didn't give off the psycho feel. The lady with the furs and cloying perfume put off a stinky rich odor but didn't scream psycho serial killer.

I know one thing. Jetta pulled some majorly awesome kung fu moves to save my butt that morning. It's my turn to save her. At least I'll save someone today.

After the last group of tables, I exit at the back of the art show where the park meets a narrow side street that coils around the perimeter of the park. Down the street, beyond the park, a silver Mercedes gleams in the afternoon sun. One man in black shuts the back door.

I open my mouth to yell at the guy to stop but someone beats me to it.

The man with the Red Sox cap sprints down the street, yelling.

The wind whips off his hat and carries it through the air. I stop mid-stride. The man has a curly mop of graying hair. I recognize him. The janitor.

The men in black, who are actually quite large, block the front of the car. The janitor literally bounces off them. The rich lady probably hired them from a professional wrestling arena.

The janitor doesn't have a chance.

A whiff of perfume makes me grimace. Two seconds later, the woman strides past and picks her way through the grass toward the street as if she doesn't want to step in any dog crap. I wish she would.

I jog across the street and then inch closer while hiding behind parked cars. My chest wheezes. I ease close enough, so I can hear and see. Leaning against the warm metal of a car door, I try to control my breathing.

"How long did you think you could keep this up?" The woman's voice is cold and penetrating. Her words shock the air with ice, and prickles travel down my spine.

The janitor steps closer to the lady. His face is a hard mask of determination. "As long as I needed to. Doris, you're making the wrong decision. This is not what she'd want."

"How dare you tell me what she'd want? I know my own daughter. I know what she'd want. I raised her and made her into a smart, savvy woman until you came along with your little song and dance of true love." The janitor tries to speak but Doris won't give him the chance. "Now that Sheila is dead, I won't let you do the same to my granddaughter. Good day, Alfred." With a haughty shrug, the woman turns her back on the janitor, dismissing him with one move.

I flinch. Again, she reminds me of a shark, swimming away after the kill, full and satisfied and leaving behind a trail of disaster.

"You can't just take my daughter away," the janitor shouts. "It's illegal!"

The pieces fall together. My feet itch to run over and help. My arms tremble. I wish I knew kung fu so I could leap into the middle of the scene after somersaulting over the parked cars. I'd fly through the air and then in a split worthy of an Olympic gold medal, I'd kick each of the men in black in the jaw. Then I'd put the lady into the clutch of death until she begged for mercy and let Jetta go.

Instead, I cower behind a rusty tan Chevy.

The woman straightens her back, adding another inch or two to her stance. She glares at Jetta's dad, hatred and disgust shooting from her eyes. "If you even dare take me to court, you will never see your daughter again."

I shiver as her icy tone saps any spring warmth from the air.

"Good day, Alfred." She climbs into the front seat and slams the door. The engine bursts to life and the silver Mercedes snakes down the street.

Jetta's dad runs at the car and pounds his fists against the blackened windows. His legs stumble but he keeps at it until the car zooms off. Then he falls to the ground, his shoulders hunched over and shaking.

The crowds milling around at the art show don't notice a thing. And if they did, they mind their own business. I should walk away. Give the man privacy.

Instead, I creep along the street, curious at the sight before me. My eyes are riveted on him. I've never seen a man so broken, so hurt, so lost without his daughter that he breaks down in public.

Dad never allowed cracks in his polished image. Not even at court. Or the night he was arrested. This man before me loves his daughter like she's the moon, the stars, and the sun. His world revolves around Jetta and her safety. And mine is starting to also.

He slumps to the ground as the last traces of exhaust fumes wrap around him. His voice cracks and words spill out. "I'm sorry, Sheila. I tried and I failed you."

I trudge back to the art show. I've never seen a janitor do anything other than mop floors and change toilet paper in the bathrooms. It dawns on me that they are real people with families and a life outside of a mop and a bucket.

I walk with a little less swagger, a little less confidence, to the outer edge of the park, letting the sounds swirl around me. Thoughts of Turbo and Stick and Big D disappear. Dad's plea for help is still present but deep down I know he isn't at the art festival. Anxious for answers, I'd read into Ms. Charpetto's words too quickly.

I jam my hand into my pocket and feel the silky red sash, my fingers running along the golden threads. That's all that's left of a girl I met this morning, but who, somehow, in only a couple brief encounters captivated me. The only girl I've contemplated kissing in months.

5:05 p.m.

I wander from painting to painting. My feet blindly lead me through the rows of tables. Kids run through with lollipops sticking out their mouths and bump into my legs. I barely notice. The colors blur and I move as if in a fog. The chatter of the crowd meshes into a dull hum in the background. And for a moment, I'm back in the coffee shop.

At midnight.

Talking to Dad.

I'm the only one who can save him.

Maybe I should've fought harder in court, or convinced Frank to help. Maybe I should've fought as hard as Jetta's dad did for her.

Flashes of the past hour, slivers of the event stick out. The red of a candy apple in a child's grubby fist. A silver car parked on the road. The laughter of girls showing off their artwork. A Boston Red Sox hat twirling in the wind.

A red hair bow on the ground.

Like litter.

Forgotten.

I feel a light slap on my cheek that pulls me from my wandering and pops the bubble of shock surrounding me.

"Wake up, loser."

"Wha—" I shake my head and stare at Stick for the first time in a new light.

He still has the same shock of red hair, same scrawny arms, and same chicken legs. I see deeper. Heartache shadows his face. Not the kind of heartache that comes from losing a first crush, but the kind that runs deep and leaves a scar. I have memories. The walls are thin. I've heard the horrible words Stick's dad yells.

A grin lights Stick's face and he rubs his hands together. "We found him and boy oh boy just wait 'till you see."

"Found who?" My heart leaps. For a second, I hope it's my dad.

Turbo nods his head. "It's a biggie. Better than anything they got on us."

My shoulders sag. Stick found Big D or one of his gang. He pushes me along. We stop behind the same rainbow puke painting that I hid behind earlier. The whole event flashes back.

"Just look," Stick whispers.

For a moment, my eyes linger on Jetta's painting and the empty space next to it like a giant tear on a finished canvas.

After a nudge from Stick, I search the tables. One of Big D's goons sits three tables down from Jetta's, and propped next to him is the only painting of a fruit bowl in the whole show. Instead of fruit, this painting has weird grotesque shapes. I look away. My heart pricks with understanding. Life can be messed up sometimes.

Stick laughs and then talks in a baby voice. "De baby likes to dabble in finger painting. Aw, shucks."

I don't laugh. I can't.

Stick doesn't quit with the jokes. Each word, each mocking laugh grinds against my nerves until they're raw, until I can't take it. I never told my friends the complete truth. But after seeing the janitor, who turned out to be a regular guy, a dad, who loves his daughter, it makes me wonder about Big D and his gang. What lies behind their intimidating struts and grunts?

"Goo goo, ga ga. I wonder where he takes art lessons?"

"Shut up, Stick." The words scrape out from between my teeth.

Laughter dies. Turbo stops shuffling. I keep my eyes trained on the grotesque, ugly, misshapen fruit.

Stick jerks his head to the side, his mouth open in shock. He speaks in a low voice. "Hey, asshole. I know you've had a tough day. But face it. Not only is your dad in the slammer, but he's not getting out any time soon."

I stiffen. A pulse radiates through my body, causing my arms and legs to jerk. I can't believe it. Not after all the times Stick took refuge in our home and talked with Dad.

"I'm sick of tiptoeing around you," Stick said, his words pounding against me. "The faster you get that through your thick skull, the faster things will get back to normal. Get over it."

My fist feels red hot. Energy pulses through it like a bolt of electricity needing an outlet. I throw a perfect right hook and catch Stick in the eye. He stumbles back and bumps into a table. Students gasp as pottery vessels shake and threaten to fall.

Tucking my throbbing fist under my armpit, I storm away, but not before catching a glimpse of Stick's face. The shock and the hurt of being hit by his best friend. His dad? Sure. But not me.

My eyes burn. I feel like crap but I can't stop walking, can't stop moving away.

10:11 p.m.

Late that night, after Mom has gone to bed, I trudge outside and sit on the front steps. The cement digs through the back of my pants but I don't care. My hand still throbs from punching my best friend and the look on Stick's face haunts me.

Any warmth from the spring sun has evaporated, leaving behind a chill that smells of winter, even though it's March. My pinky toes are numb. I stare at the stars barely shining through the Boston smog.

On clear winter nights, we used to hunt for the Big Dipper. We'd sit and point out the constellations, while Dad told stories from his rabble-rousing days. Those nights are imprinted in my mind, never to be forgotten. But tonight, these memories hurt.

My whole life teeters on a sharp edge. In one afternoon, everything I held to be true shattered. Maybe Dad wasn't right about everything? Maybe not everyone looked up to him? Maybe the men hung out with gifts flowing from their pockets because they feared my dad, and not because they wanted to soak in his presence like he was some fucking king.

Maybe I'm wrong about everything.

A shadow flickers off to the side and moments later Stick plunks down next to me. I look away from the large bruise forming on his face in the moonlight. We stare up at the night sky.

Memories weave between us. One night before Dad's arrest we camped out on these steps. Dad built a small fire then freaked us out with ghost stories that would raise the dead. That night, I had a hard time sleeping as the stories created fear that prickled down the back of my neck into early morning.

Another time, Dad melted s'mores in the microwave but wouldn't hand them out until we pointed out three constellations. Now I wonder what those nights were really about. Were they about Dad feeling guilty over staying out late and not spending enough time with his family? Were they after nights that Stick's dad had lost it and it was more about Stick? Were those nights ever about me? Memories flicker through my mind like a movie on repeat. Each gesture, joke and laugh holding a double meaning. Were they all a lie?

Eventually, Stick stands up, and I stand too. Yellow surrounds Stick's eye and by morning will be a real shiner with streaks of purple. I need to apologize but the words stall, refusing to be spoken. The same memories hang over us. The questions, the doubts, linger in our minds.

Stick pierces me with his gaze. Before I can react, Stick pulls his arm back and punches me in the gut. Pain explodes in my stomach and I double over, gasping for breath.

Stick leaves for home.

I hunch over, hands on my knees. My breathing slowly heads back to normal and the pain in my stomach subsides. But I don't want it to. I need that reminder, the pain, to jab into my conscious and force me to see the truths I don't want to see.

I failed my dad.

I failed Jetta.

And I failed Stick.

10:47 p.m.

I shuffle inside, exhausted, but not ready for bed.

The darkness inside the coffee shop is familiar, the streetlight barely slanting across the wood floor, the hint of cinnamon from this morning's scones. And the quiet that comes with late night.

Mom sits in the corner and sips on a glass of wine. The shadows hide her face, so I can't tell her mood. She's slowly withdrawn the past four years; and everyday she loses a bit of her sparkle and love for life.

I crave some kind of reassurance even if it's her typical snarky response or the grunt that indicates she doesn't want to talk. I slide into the chair across from her. My pinky toes tingle back to life. I'd love a mug of hot chocolate but realize that it's not in the cards.

"Dateline boring?" I ask.

"No." She sighs. "I prefer the quiet. Sitting with these pictures is the closest thing I have to your dad." Her fingers grip onto the glass of wine like it's a life jacket and she's drowning.

I'm sixteen, almost a man. Dad joked about how spoiled today's kids are. How a hundred or so years ago in Boston, kids my age were scrapping it out on the streets for a crust of bread. I suck in a breath, daring to ask.

"Will Dad have another chance for parole?"

"I don't know, Jack." Her words hiss out in an unhappy sigh and I don't push the issue.

The picture of the ocean trip stares at me from the wall. I can't see the smiles and happy eyes, the carefree life that used to be my family. And I like it that way.

The familiar rage appears like a friend that hangs out with me all the time. The feeling grows as I remember Mom back when Dad was around. She always smiled, always had a cheery note of encouragement, always asked about school and my grades, and always hinted around at any girls in my life. I found it a bit intrusive at the time but now I appreciate every question, even if she just wants to know if I took out the trash. I wouldn't even mind if she yelled about my failing P.E. grades.

"It's been a long day." She tips her head back and drains the glass. Her voice changes and a bit of emotion cracks through the monotone. "I came down to give you this."

In the dark, I hadn't noticed the lump on the table next to her.

"It's your dad's. You can wear it now. He'd want you to." Her voice takes on a note of sadness. "I loved him in this jacket."

The rage breaks, and a hollow feeling fills my chest. Dad's jacket? That must mean he isn't getting out anytime soon. "Are you sure? This is his favorite."

"He can't much appreciate it in prison now, can he?" she says sharply, her words jabbing into me. She drops the jacket in my lap and then heads for the stairs.

I bury my face in the coat and breath in the smell of old leather and cigarette smoke. Dad wore it when riding his motorcycle. He loved it.

I flash back to the days of riding behind him on the cycle. Dad loved speed and I hugged him in a death grip as we dipped low around the corners. We rode through the streets of town and I felt like a prince, proud to be the son of the King of Southie. I run my finger over and over the label where Dad's name is written. The letters are faded but still readable.

Joseph Brodie.

I'll just wear it until he comes home. Keep the leather supple.

I slide the large coat on and hug it to my body where no one can see me revert back to the boy cowering on the stairs the night of Dad's arrest. It isn't often I go there; normally the streams of anger keep me strong. Even so, I refuse the tears.

I stopped crying a long time ago.

11:15 p.m.

The stillness of night surrounds me, balancing the chaos of the day: the rush, the crowds, the confusion. I finally have time to think back on Frank. Really think back on his words and familiar way as if he truly knows my dad and me.

In about five seconds that man had stripped away all the truths in my life, or he'd tried to, because there was no way Dad stole those diamonds or anything else. Yeah, in the past four years, I figured out he wasn't perfect, but he didn't yell or hit like Stick's dad. And he sure as hell wasn't a thief.

Frank is a total jerk and belongs in the loony bin. He said I'd go on a journey. I'd help my dad. My "journey" was supposed to have already happened. What a joke.

My thoughts drift to Jetta and my heart thumps quietly, beating at the memory of her smile. Her grandmother's haughty words linger in my mind and the pain in her dad's eyes haunts me. He would do anything for her.

I think about my dad. How could he be in the shop one night and in the courtroom the next day? It was like he was two completely different people.

Light from the streetlamps highlight the wall and a rather large painting of a field with a swirling river rushing through it. Large tree branches droop over the water. It's the perfect scene for an afternoon picnic. With family.

Dad stood in front of this same painting the night before.

My eyes rove over the details and I lose myself in the scene. I hear the sound of the gurgling water flowing over rocks. Smell the sweet scent of wildflowers. Feel the sunshine streaming through the branches of the tree. A picnic of roast beef sandwiches with dill pickles. And Dad, Mom, and I. Happy.

The painting blurs. The room pitches forward. Nausea cramps my stomach. I close my eyes but the feeling grows. I sway. My body pulls forward and the smell of rain washes over me. A light mist brushes my cheeks. Cool air moves past, sending goosebumps down my arms. I quickly open my eyes and shake it off.

I stare at the painting again. Dad told me I'd know. Frank said I'd go on a journey. I didn't find clues at school or at the art festival. And I certainly didn't help Dad at his trial. Maybe it's right now, right here, with this painting. It's crazy. But maybe...

What if wishes have a chance to come true? What if it was just up to me to make them happen?

I suck in a deep breath and stare into and past the painting. The nausea returns and I close my eyes and let go. The mist wets my cheeks. A slight breeze moves the hair above my ears. Rock music pulses louder and louder.

Seconds later, I'm sitting in a side street, outside a brick building.
MARCH 18, 1990

12:15 a.m.

The small hairs on my arm rise, from the chill or the fear I'm not sure. I dig my back into the wall, but I don't feel the gritty bricks through my dad's leather. My jeans are stained from a recent rain. Moisture paints the pavement black and small pools reflect the moon in silvery ripples. A drop of water clings to a clump of hair against my forehead, then drops to my nose.

Slowly, I focus. Parked cars line the narrow side street. Rain beads on the windshields and drips down the doors. I dig my fingers into the rough bricks behind me, the needle-like points jabbing my skin. Guns-n-Roses blares from a nearby apartment building, and shouts and laughter from a party drift outside.

I'm back at the Gardner Museum.

The horror from the past day sends a shudder through me. I hug Dad's coat to my slim frame, thankful for the warmth, and for the comfort. I sit for a long time, frozen with shock, trying to comprehend what has happened, until the party in the apartment building spills out into the street.

I swallow what spit I can muster down my dry throat. This is impossible. But if someone told me four years ago Dad would be in jail, I would've said "impossible" too. I press harder against the wall. Maybe the buzz will wear off and I'll return home.

Three older kids, two boys and a girl, stumble across the street from the direction of the college campus, heading toward me. They stop and one of the boys makes a call from a payphone. A payphone? I didn't know they still existed.

The girl whines, her voice slurring. "It's cooold out here."

"Toughen up," one boy says. Big block letters splay across the front of his sweatshirt. Class of '90.

I blink and stare, focusing on the big black numbers. My stomach churns. Class of '90? That was years ago and the sweatshirt looks new with bright colors and no rips or stains.

"Hey," the girl pokes the boy in the shoulder, "aren't you s'posed to give the girl the shirt off your back when she's cold?"

The boys laugh.

"Go read some more romance novels," the second boy says. "You'll find your hero there." His curly hair falls over his eyes. The two boys burst out in loud drunken guffaws again.

The boy wearing the sweatshirt takes charge. "Let's pick up another case of beer and head to my house."

"What about a bar? The bouncers should be easy on us. It's St. Patty's Day."

"I'm cooold. Let's go back to the party." The girl jumps on one of the boy's back, and they stumble closer, weaving back and forth in the street.

I pitch forward. Maybe whatever art-induced vision is ending. It has to be a vision. I pray it's a vision.

"What about that kid over there?" the girl asks, jumping to the ground and stumbling. "Maybe he'll lend me his jacket."

I stiffen and clutch my arms over my chest, hoping to disappear. On wobbly legs, the trio makes their way over. The girl eyes my jacket greedily.

The boy with curly hair speaks first. "Hey, kid. You willing to shed your leather for a girl in trouble?"

I raise the side of my lip in a mocking gesture. "Nope. I'm not your hero either."

The boys glance at each other, and one of them nods. Lightning fast, they leap and yank me to my feet. "Whether you like it or not, the girl is in need of a coat. And you're going to share. Just like your mommy taught you."

I strike out with my hand, trying to channel Jetta's awesome kung fu moves, but all I hit is air. Cold prickles rush against my arms as the older boys rip off my coat. If it were any other coat, I'd give it up. I grab the bottom of the jacket, my fingers gripping the leather, and take part in a tug-of-war, which I'd lose, except the boys are fumbling about and laughing. They reek of beer.

"Hey, guys," the girl hisses. "Are those cops?"

The tension lets up and I slam to the ground. The coat is still in my grip.

"Let's get out of here," the boy with the sweatshirt says. "My dad'll kill me."

I scramble to my feet and stare at a small gray hatchback about twenty yards away. I see the pointed cop hats and the gleam on a pair of glasses. Then nausea strikes, clamping onto my gut. I fall to the ground and curl into a ball, grabbing my stomach.

The cold brick building. The buzzing college party. The pounding music. The undercover cop's hatchback. The Gardner. It all fades.

And then I'm gone too.
MARCH 17, 2013

DAY TWO

12:05 a.m.

I awake to a piece of cloth being jammed into my mouth. The knot tightens against the back of my head, keeping the gag in place. I struggle. My legs are caught in the vice grip of someone's arms.

Two dark shapes lift me off the bed and out of the room. I buck my body but the assailants tighten their grip.

They move silently down the hall, and I continue to struggle against their hold.

They bang my head against the wall on their way downstairs. If I didn't have the gag, I'd let the curses fly, regardless of Mom upstairs, who probably isn't sleeping. She often turns a blind eye.

They carry me through the coffee shop and into the small kitchen in the back. The grip on my body loosens, and I land on the floor a second later.

Stick yanks the gag out. The last of my spit dribbles from the corner of my mouth. I croak out a not-so-nice word.

Stick lightly slaps my cheek a couple of times. "You didn't feel comfortable robbing the Gas-n-Go without a third party, so I found us one." He nods at Turbo. "He lives near us."

Turbo digs around in the pantry. "I found some green chocolate chips."

"My mom will need those for the morning." I stop arguing. "Wait. What did you just say?"

Turbo roots around in another cupboard. "I found some green chocolate—"

"Not you." I nod at Stick. "What did you say?"

"I found us a third party, loser."

"No. Before that, about robbing the Gas-n-Go?" Sure, I slugged Stick yesterday but that was no reason to keep me out of the loop.

Stick squats in front of me. His red hair is greased back and the familiar friendly glint has disappeared from his eyes. I'm not surprised about that. Not after yesterday.

"I'm going to spell it out nice and slow for you. I ran into Turbo today. He just moved in above me. I initiated him into our gang." Stick leans closer and nods toward Turbo. "Look at the size of him. When Big D gets out of the psych ward, he won't stand a chance if we've got a goon too. It's our lucky day."

I blink, hoping I'll find myself back in bed instead of a strange re-run of the Twilight Zone or Dr. Who. "When did Turbo move in?"

"The day after we ran poor Madame Psychic out of the upstairs apartment." Stick hit the side of my head. "News flash. We've been playing pranks on her for weeks."

My skin breaks out in goosebumps and sweat at the same time. Turbo has lived next door for years not days and the fortuneteller moved out of the bottom apartment a long time ago.

"Why are we robbing a store?"

"Did we knock your noggin too hard?" Stick stares, the shadows playing off the hard angular lines of his jaw. "It was your idea."

"What the hell?" The words spit out in an angry burst.

I want to roll back into bed and hit rewind. Just thinking about it causes my stomach to knot up. Maybe I said something, hinted at a possible robbery for Stick to misinterpret? Or maybe this is a cruel joke to get back at me.

Stick gets right in my face. The blacks of his pupils gleam. The shiner I gave him is gone. That was fast. "Don't you dare chicken out now, bad boy. We've been waiting a long time for a chance to pull a job bigger than stealing candy bars or spray painting graffiti on the police station. Don't—"

"What?" The word explodes from my mouth. I jump to my feet. My chest tightens and my breathing is short and fast.

"Don't you know? Big D goes free today." Stick winks. "Thanks to your artful masterminding of placing the spray paint cans in his locker, we've been free of Big D for a couple weeks."

"What about our little smoke bomb prank?" Surely, my friends will remember that.

Stick snorts. "Kid stuff. Why would we do something so stupid?"

Turbo grins from ear to ear, a smile usually reserved for when he's nervous or talking to people he just met.

I stumble against the wall. My fingers dig at the wallpaper. Panic sparks in my chest and rises up into my throat. My world, my friends are totally crazy. Something has gone terribly wrong.

Stick looks different, rougher around the edges and a hard glint in his eye. Like he'll be in jail before graduating from high school. I recognize the look but only see it during Stick's darkest moments. Usually after a bad episode with his dad when nothing can calm his raging demons.

Maybe they're playing a terrible joke.

But I know there's one thing my friends would never joke about.

I cough and splutter a bit before saying, "Yesterday, at the courthouse, I met this weird guy whose nose falls off his face." I expect a couple of laughs, maybe some excitement, over this strange story.

Stick narrows his eyes. "Why were you at the courthouse?"

"My dad's parole hearing?" I never talk about the hope that Dad leaving jail would fix everything wrong in my life, but I need my friends to acknowledge something we all know to be fact.

Stick puckers his lips, his eyes widen, and slowly, his face turns red. When he can't hold it back anymore, he bursts out laughing. "Whatever."

The pit of nerves grows in my stomach. I won't find answers. Not right now. I play along with my friends, joking, pretending. When they slip out into the night, I cop a headache and go back to bed, praying in the morning that this nightmare will end.

Because these are not my friends.

7:33 a.m.

I linger on the bottom step, not wanting to enter the coffee shop. Mom is sure to be in a pissy mood after yesterday. She's been a perpetual crab ever since Dad's arrest. I'm nervous about interacting with anyone. The look in Stick's eye during our midnight talk still gives me the creeps. My world has turned into a horror movie.

The shop has changed. Instead of the tables from the bar down the street, there are cute tables with glass tops and black iron legs that end like curly Q fries. A pink vase with a fresh yellow tulip sits on each one.

I desperately hope that after the trial yesterday Mom went on a shopping spree. Or maybe another café closed and she bought the tables for a steal. Or maybe a mysterious great aunt whisked through town, saw the state of the coffee shop, and left Mom a million bucks.

I survey the room, and then my eyes widen.

All the paintings Dad bought at the yard sale.

Gone.

The photo of us at the beach.

Gone.

In their place, are simple framed photographs of flowers.

Mom never would've gotten rid of those paintings, or that photo. I slump down on the bottom step. Nothing makes sense. I stick my head into the crook of my arm, shutting out the world, shutting out the changes.

"You must be, Fiasco," someone babbles in a chipper tone. "Your mom told me all about your nickname and how you hate to be called Jack. I'm not really comfortable calling someone by their nickname when I don't know them, but I'm willing to make an exception, because I liked you before I met you. Because wanting to be called Fiasco shows signs of creativity."

I peek over my arm at a girl with black army boots, purple leggings, a shorter than short skirt, a green-striped shirt, an ugly orange scarf and a red bow in her black hair.

My heart beats louder, stronger. I drink her in and want to touch her to believe this miracle. I burst across the room unable to contain my excitement and the thrill running through my chest.

"You're okay? You're here." I grab her hands, her skin soft and warm, and waltz her around the room. For just a moment, I can pretend. A bit breathless, I flop into a chair not trying to hide my goofy grin. "What happened?"

Jetta steps back and raises one eyebrow in an exaggerated quizzical look. "Hmm." She taps her chin, deep in thought. "I stopped by this morning and talked with your mom."

"Don't you remember yesterday?" I stare at her staring at me, and the blank look of someone who doesn't have a clue. My heart is crushed and the last bits of sanity reach out, praying she'll remember.

She purses her lips to the side as if pondering a deep philosophical question. "I totally remember yesterday."

"Phew." I let out a breath of air. I'm not crazy. My friends were just feeling the effect of school cafeteria food, and Mom went on a shopping spree.

"I was in the car all day." Her words pierce the soft shell of my fantasy. "My dad and I move around a lot, so it's hard not to forget the packing up, the goodbyes, and the long car drives."

Shock reels through me. "Wait here. Just wait one second. I'll be right back."

"Whatev," she says casually and yawns.

I push back my chair and sprint up to my bedroom. I throw clothes around from my drawer and from the laundry basket, the panic sending me into a full-blown attack, until I find the ripped jeans from yesterday. I shove my hand into the pocket, hoping to find the silky material of a bow. The only proof I have that yesterday happened.

Nothing.

I sink to my knees, the truth pressing me down into a hellish reality.

"I don't bite. Promise!" Jetta yells up the stairs.

Minutes later, I thump down the steps. For all my conspiracy theories about the french-fry tables and missing paintings, I have a stirring in my gut, a sixth sense, that something in my universe has changed drastically. And it has to do with my little trip to the Gardner. My so-called journey.

"What's the date?" I hold my breath, praying I'm wrong.

"The 17th. St. Patty's Day. Duh." She swings the door into the kitchen. "How can you live in this city and not know that?"

My knees almost give way as the words sink in. How could it be St. Patty's again? Yesterday can't just be erased. Impossible. This has to be the journey, but I can see absolutely no connection between this and getting Dad out of jail.

Jetta calls, "Your mom left you breakfast."

Sure enough. Back against the wall, in my usual spot, rests a plate of eggs, steam still rising in the air. I sit but don't move to pick up the fork.

Jetta sits across from me. "Better eat up, because you have to walk me to school."

I chew on rubbery eggs, not tasting a thing. Jetta pulls out a small compact and applies shiny pink lip-gloss. I want to push the table aside and pull her into my arms, dig my fingers into her hair and touch her cheek. Something to convince me this is real and she's safe.

She peeks at me. "What?"

A flood of emotion wells up. I don't care that today is on repeat and that I quite possibly should sign into a mental hospital. Jetta is safe. I have a second chance to save her. Mom seems happy and just maybe Dad is a free man.

"I almost forgot to tell you." A frown creases her forehead.

"What?" The hairs on my neck rise.

"Some creepy guy stopped and left a message." She shuddered. "He was like some mobster with a dark jacket and his hat pulled low. Wouldn't even let me get a look at his face."

I swallow and force my voice to sound casual. "What did he want?"

She pushes a note across the table.

The paper crinkles under my touch. After a quick breath, I open it.

make the right choice

8:10 a.m.

"What time do classes start?" Jetta glances at her watch every few seconds. And I know exactly what kind of look she's flashing, the one that questions my sanity. Especially after I crumpled up the note and threw it in the trash.

"8:30." I stride through the neighborhood streets, forcing her to jog to keep up. If what Stick told me last night is true, that Big D's in some kind of psych ward, then we won't be ambushed today. I won't hit my head. And I won't be going to court. I try to remember my room this morning. No suit. I'm sure of it. "Did my mom say anything about my dad this morning?"

"Nah. We just talked about the coffee shop, and," a grin stretches across her face, causing her green eyes to light up, "my ideas for the neighborhood."

"Oh, yeah." She loves art. "Are you going to hang your paintings in the shop?"

Jetta stops. The March breeze blows strands of hair across her face, partially masking her eyes. People walking to work flow around us. "How would you know about that?"

I stammer. How did I let that slip? The answer comes immediately and I blurt, "A psychic used to live in the coffee shop."

Jetta crosses her arms, and her eyes narrow in on me with a dangerous look. "And you picked up some tricks?"

"Just a few here and there." The doubt in her eyes forces me to scramble for a way out. A distraction. "Do you want me to read your palm?"

She pulls me out of the flow of pedestrians and holds out her hand, disbelief in her eyes. "Leave out the bad crap, 'kay?"

I wipe my sweaty palms off on my jeans then grab hold of her wrist. The contact sends tiny bolts through me. My gaze travels up to her face, her creamy skin, the lips that seem so kissable. I gulp. "No prob."

"Why is your hand trembling?" Jetta asks.

I puff out my chest and make my voice as serious as possible. "It's the psychic power getting ready to be unleashed."

"Should I be scared?" Jetta whispers mockingly, her voice breathless.

I wink. "You're in the hands of a professional."

"What a cheesy line." She rolls her eyes. "Hope you can do better than that."

"Don't disturb the master while he's at work." I raise my voice and manipulate my voice to sound like a gruff old man. An elderly lady flashes me a strange look.

Jetta giggles, light radiating across her face. Her eyes sparkle.

Slowly, I trace my finger down a line that stretches across her palm. My fingers tingle. The overwhelming smell of peaches comes to me. "You like peaches."

"That's my body spray."

I clear my throat and try not to look at her soft pink lips. I trace a line that runs diagonal opposite her thumb. "Creativity flows through you like a mountain spring."

"You already know I like art. Doesn't count."

I throw her a stern look, which produces another round of giggles. "Fine." I search for the right words to save Jetta from her grandmother. I'm the only one who can warn her. I wish I had that kind of power in Dad's life. In Stick's life. "Stay away from art festivals today."

"Why would I go to an art festival? I just moved into town. And that doesn't count because that's like saying, 'Don't climb Mt. Everest during lunch break.'"

"You're testing the powers of the Great Fiasco." I think hard about what to say next. This might be my only chance. What simple fortune will protect her?

"Does my hand say anything about being late to school on my first day?" she demands.

"Zippo. But wait," I pull her hand closer, "I see a silver Mercedes."

Jetta's breath catches in her throat. "And?"

"Stay close to your friends so trouble won't find you."

She yanks her hand back as if I shocked her. She smoothes her hair and fiddles with the bow. Her face pales as if she has secrets in her life—reasons to be in trouble.

"This is silly," she states and forges a path down the sidewalk, ending the conversation. "Let's go. I need time to pass in my transfer records."

I follow, trying to not watch her hips sway with every step, and suppressing the curious feelings beating with my heart.

8:35 a.m.

I slink into the office in Jetta's wake, trying to avoid Ms. Kale's radar. Jetta flounces inside with the confidence of a superstar. A smile brightens her face.

Ms. Kale glares, her lips puckering like she bit into a lemon. The message blasts through loud and clear before she speaks. "Get on to class, Jack Brodie."

I scurry out before Jetta can see the flush burning my cheeks. I take the long route to my locker. The familiar colors, the stale smell of the old school, and the constant chatter all blurring together. I need to lay low and figure out what curve ball has knocked my life into the outfield. What happened at the Gardner to change my friends?

I hurry to calculus. I already sound like a babbling idiot in front of all the math geeks so rushing into class after the bell would make it worse. Slumped down in my seat, I try and pay attention.

"Mr. Brodie?" Mrs. Watley reprimands.

I straighten up. The tips of my ears are hot. "Sorry, Ma'am."

"Are you lost?" Her voice could cut glass.

Quite often I feel lost in calculus, but Mrs. Watley's reviewing a subject I understand, which doesn't happen all too often. "No."

"Then what, pray tell, are you doing in my class?"

Kids turn in their seats and smirk. One kid with an Afro the size of a basketball mouths the word, "loser." A couple girls with their hair back in ponytails pass knowing smirks.

I don't often stutter nor have a loss for words. I'm usually able to shoot out some smart remark but nothing comes to mind. "I'm always here this hour."

Mrs. Watley straightens and pulls in her stomach, so only one roll shows through her blouse, instead of two. "I will not have you mocking me or my class. Now leave. If you pull a stunt like this again, I will make an example of you in front of the entire school."

"But—" I have no smart remark.

"Go!" Mrs. Watley roars.

I grab my books and try not to trip over my feet as I leave. I'm not in advanced math? What else has changed?

By the time the assembly rolls around, I stumble into the auditorium. My class schedule has changed drastically. Instead of any of the advanced classes, I'm in classes like accounting and low-level reading. The words "in-school suspension" hover on the teachers' lips. The lunchroom monitors keep an eye on me as if any second I'll start playing baseball with the mozzarella sticks. Everyone's treating me differently, like they expect me to do something wrong. Like cheat. Or steal.

I drop into the seat next to Stick and Turbo. I pray my friends are back to normal, even though the chances of that are equal to catching a home run ball at Fenway with my bare hands.

"Hey."

Stick doesn't say a word but stares at the stage, like someone has carved his face into Mt. Rushmore. Usually, he'd be running off at the mouth, complaining about his classes and teachers. I can barely deal with the Jekyll-Hyde transformation of how teachers treat me, but I can't handle Stick. No matter what, Stick has always been there for me. And now I've lost that too.

I shift in my seat. Even though I never wander the halls during an assembly without Stick and Turbo, I leave. My friends are strangers. Eventually, I make my way to Ms. Charpetto's room.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I whip around. Stick strides into the room like a Doberman Pinscher trained to attack. "It's like we don't even know you."

"I'm just having an off day." The worst part is I can't explain any of it. Especially not the crazy trip to the Gardner because I stared at a painting too long. Stick would beat me up.

"Are you getting spooked?" Stick accuses and moves into my personal space.

I'm more than spooked. "A little." It feels good to tell the truth.

Stick shoves me. "It's too late for that. I already have plans for my share of the money."

Then it clicks. Stick's worried about the robbery. "I'm not backing out if that's what's got your panties messed up."

Stick slams his fist into my eye and pain explodes through my skull. I fall and my head whacks into the cement wall. My stomach pitches and I can taste Jetta's scrambled eggs in the back of my throat. I automatically lift a finger to my nose. No blood.

The old Stick never would've punched that hard. Or been so focused on a robbery and money.

Stick leans over, his face inches from me. His breath reeks.

"Man, what's your problem?" I grunt in pain and kick at Stick's leg.

He jams his arm into my throat. "You want to know why I'm so pissed? We saw you this morning, walking to school with the freak girl." He backs away, hurt in his eyes. He's gone from a Doberman to a pouting poodle. "We were supposed to case the joint. You ditched our plans. For a girl."

Stick storms out of the room. I groan and lean my head against the wall. My eye throbs, and pain shoots throughout my stomach. But worse is the fact that my best friend punched me. Like really punched me. Hard.

"Jack?" a man asks, his voice gentle and concerned.

I wipe my eyes and scramble back against the wall. I don't recognize the bushy eyebrows, large nose, and dorky glasses. Obviously, the man knows me.

"Hey." I fake it. The last thing I want to do is chat with a teacher.

"What happened?" He reaches out to touch my eye.

I jerk away, doubling the pain. "Nothing."

He lifts me up by the arm. "Something happened. Let me get you an ice pack. I keep one stored in my desk."

The man shuffles through a drawer. The student paintings on the wall have been replaced with paintings of the Old Masters, as Jetta calls them. Above the door, written in paint, is the name, Mr. Kronin. I groan. Ms. Charpetto's gone too?

The man lowers his eyebrows. "Are you feeling okay? Maybe I should bring you to the doctors over my lunch break."

"No. I'll be fine." I cringe. That would be too weird.

He cracks the ice pack. "Here, put this over your eye. It'll be cold soon."

I rest it gently against my face. The cold hurts but feels good. I choke up while the numbness spreads to my cheek. I want it to spread to my life and freeze my memories too. I flash back to the day I missed a pop fly and the baseball hit me in the head. Dad grabbed ice from the cooler and wrapped it in the shirt off his back and held it to my face. Dad's arms were strong and made me feel safe. All the pain in the world didn't matter once he took charge.

"You don't look so good," the man says.

"It's been a shitty day."

"You know how your mother feels about your language." The man shakes his head and point to my swelling eye. "And you know what my older brother always says, 'Better to be a mole hiding in the ground, then a squirrel sticking his nose where he shouldn't.' In other words, mind your own business and you won't get hurt."

I close my eyes to block out this man, who's acting like a parent. I don't want kind words from a stranger. If Mom communicated with my teachers about my language, I must be a pretty bad kid. The kind who robs stores for petty cash.

"Keep the ice over your eye. I'll go find you a bottled water and then we can talk about this."

Talk? Yeah, right. No way was I sticking around for more lectures from a guy who seems to know me way too well and is probably some creepy stalker.

I stumble from the room.

1:00 p.m.

I lean the side of my face against a locker, the cool metal easing the pain. Life's too confusing, too different. I want to get lost on the streets of Southie and the car fumes, peddlers selling hotdogs or coffee, and the rumble of the T. Everything that's familiar.

The chatter from the hallway pulls my attention away. Students smile and laugh, like life is a bowl of fucking cherries. I look away from the girls shooting evil glares at me like I just threw a bag of kittens into a rushing river. What kind of reputation do I have at school? Am I the bully?

Miserable, I slink off toward the janitor's closet. I kick a metal bucket overturned next to a mop. The over-packed shelves of the janitor's closet and the noise of kids running and teachers yelling at kids to walk muffle the clang.

I welcome the darkness, letting it surround me. I lean my head against the wall, wanting to drift away and forget. In the closet, I don't exist and time stands still, unable to touch me. In here, I'm still the Fiasco I remember. Dad didn't make parole and my friends are true friends who support me through the worst of life.

Time passes. A whole class period slips by.

I move to the door and peek through the slight crack.

When the coast is clear, I slip out of the janitor's closet. An arm wraps around my neck and tightens against my jugular.

Breath squeezes out in gasps. I struggle. This is it. I'll die of strangulation in a school hallway. I'll become nothing more than a paragraph in the Boston news. Boy murdered in school hallway. The subtitle will read: But what else would we expect? His father is in jail.

"Help!" I say in a raspy voice, then the sweet scent of peaches flows over me, sending goosebumps across my arms. I relax. Jetta lets go and I rub my throat. "Just a word of advice. Don't pretend to strangle someone as a joke. You might get seriously hurt."

"Oh, I can take care of myself," she says, with a gleam in her eye.

Her silky black hair falls to her shoulders, contrasting with the red sash. A rebellious strand of hair has broken free and is stuck in her lip-gloss. I fight the urge to touch her hair and feel it fall through my fingers.

"No doubt." I think about her kung fu moves. "Maybe you can give me some lessons."

She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. "Lessons for what?"

"Um, you know..." I struggle with what to say. Jetta has no idea I know about her kung fu or her art, if she still dabbles in those areas in this alternate reality.

"No, I don't. Explain." She puts a hand on her hip.

"That stranglehold makes it kinda obvious you know how to kick butt." I fight the burn on my cheeks. It spreads as she studies me.

"Oh, right." Her face relaxes, and her pink lips turn up at the corners. "You're coming with me, right?"

I glance around as if the answer might be written in graffiti on a locker. Stick and Turbo are around somewhere. For the first time, I feel afraid to hang with them. They're different. Stick's a criminal with a mean streak, and Turbo just moved into town. They'll probably want to rob a bank just for fun. Or beat me up and leave me in an alley.

"Um, yeah. Sure." I have no clue where she wants to go. "Where we going?"

"After school. The art festival." She juts her chin out as if in defiance.

Alarms go off in my head. I joke. "What about my fortune this morning?"

She waves it off. "I don't believe in that stuff."

I might not be able to save my dad or my friends or fix anything in my life, but I can try and save Jetta. She needs a distraction. Time away with me, away from school, away from any memory of art.

"Want to have some fun first?"

"Depends on what you mean by fun. I don't quite trust you yet, Jack Brodie."

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

"But—"

I walk and then once I'm around the corner, I make sure no one's looking. If I have a bad reputation in this reality I might as well live up to it.

I rest my hand on the fire alarm but think of all the complications. Fire department arriving. Teachers taking a full count of students. I head back and pull Jetta against the lockers. "Wanna get out of here? See Boston?"

She pulls back. "Well..."

"How about the Public Garden?"

Something sparks in her eyes. "Sure. How do we get out of here?"

I nod down the hallway. "The side exit."

We head downstairs and walk toward the end of the hall. "Just act normal."

"I am." A giggle escapes.

"What's so funny?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the door. The bell rings and students rush into their classrooms.

"Nothing. I giggle when I'm nervous."

I push open the door and we're free. But it's not until we're away from the school that she grabs my hand.

Tiny bolts spread like fire through my skin. We practically skip down the road. I wish I knew she was going to hold my hand, so I could've wiped the sweat off that had built up during our conversation. My ears feel hot. My image will be shattered if anyone sees me skipping like a schoolgirl. I try desperately not to trip over my feet.

Jetta giggles, the sound like a bubbly stream. "Have fun, will you? You only live once."

She drags me toward the T station, and I think about how much has changed since yesterday. My life has only worsened, and if that's truly the case, then why not skip like a girl? Why not skip school? If everyone thinks I'm so bad, maybe a little girly fun will improve my image.

I grip Jetta's hand and join her enthusiasm. I let go of my worries and skip, my knees rising in front of me one at a time. My heart lightens. For the moment, I leave behind the stress about my changed friends and life. I don't think about where Dad might be in this alternate reality. We enter the station, hand in hand, not caring about who might be watching.

The afterglow of the experience stays with me. Even on the subway, I feel light as if my body will just float away. Almost happy. I don't want to say anything and break the moment. I don't want to think about anything.

The T rumbles through the underground tunnels. With each turn and screech of the brakes, the walls close in. I flash back to the previous day: the silver Mercedes, the haughty grandmother and her stuffy strut, and Jetta's dad, heartbroken on the sidewalk as his daughter is whisked away.

I'm keenly aware of Jetta. My nerve endings tingle at every accidental brush of our arms. My heart pounds and I sway closer to her every time the subway turns a corner. I decide, for the next few hours I'll focus on Jetta.

And keeping her safe.

2:30 p.m.

"There's something I've always wanted to see."

Jetta takes the lead over the suspension bridge. Water flows slowly underneath and mirrors the clouds and sky in faded colors of blue and silver.

"I hate to break it to you but you've seen one park, you've seen them all." I peer ahead to the large willow trees and the lake and the swan boats. More emotions rush. Dad brought me here before he went to jail. It's a strong memory.

Jetta picks up her pace, taking longer steps down the wide-paved path threading through the garden. "The Public Garden is not like every other park. Just as no two paintings are the same, even if painted in the same style."

I match her stride, remembering her painting. At this time yesterday, we were almost at the art show. I glare suspiciously at every person probably just enjoying the unusual warm spring day. The lady walking her pooch. The older kids shouting while they toss a Frisbee. The mom trying to calm her screaming baby as she pushes a stroller. Will the kidnapping still happen? Somehow through this lazy walk in the park, I have to warn Jetta. I have to save her. "So, um, do you have a lot of family close by?"

"Nope. Just me and my dad."

"Any grandparents?"

"No. Just me and my dad," she says with a touch of annoyance.

"What brought you to the area?" I swing my arms, hoping to give off a carefree attitude, so she won't suspect anything.

She might've only given short sentences to my previous questions, but this one she plain doesn't answer. "My mom always read _Make Way for the Ducklings_ to me at night. Before she died. Or that's what my dad told me."

"Oh. I'm sorry." I miss my dad. A lump rises in my throat just thinking about what it would be like if Dad were to die. Jetta's face shows no emotion as if she's pushed and compressed her grief into a small box and tucked it away under lock and key.

We walk in silence, veering off the paved paths and through the grass. Elderly folks putter by, out for their daily walk. I can't remember the last time I was alone with a girl and enjoyed it. This is different. I want to be here and I'm terrified.

"I found them!" Jetta darts ahead under an oak tree and across the path.

"You could have told me that's what you were looking for."

She runs her hand over the statue of the mama duck from _Make Way for the Ducklings_. She zigzags between the baby duckling statues lined up behind their mother then flops into the grass behind them. I follow, soaking in the details of the perfectly formed statues for the first time. Their heads are smooth under my fingers, worn down by years of curious hands touching and feeling. I've always taken them for granted.

"I could look at them all day," she says after I sit next to her.

"Do you miss your mom?" I ask, but cringe, afraid of a karate chop to the jaw. I take a chance. "I miss mine. She's alive but her spirit withered a long time ago. She's a ghost, floating through our apartment; and every once in a while, if I'm lucky, I see wisps of who she used to be."

Jetta doesn't answer. I'm drawn to her pink lips and her face that somehow in the course of a few minutes can show ten different emotions. Her green eyes are troubled. My palms grow sweaty again and I rub them against the grass without her noticing.

"Do you miss your dad?" she asks.

I don't answer either, the words choking in my throat. It isn't too far from here that Dad and I played catch. The August sun beat down on us all afternoon, so he bought me a Creamsicle from the ice cream truck. The whole day is a favorite memory, imprinted in my heart. It's these memories I struggle to hold onto as each year passes and he's not around.

Slowly, I inch my hand across the grass closer to her hand. I want to hold it but can't quite muster up the courage. Instead, I stop, so my pinky gently touches hers. My throat tightens, and my heart completes soft pitter-patters like the gentle rhythm of baby duck feet across the ground.

We sit like that for quite a while, though it only seems like minutes. I want to lean over and brush my lips against hers. No tongue. Not a make-out session like the couples under the stairwell at school. Just a kiss. A first kiss. She turns her head just enough so she can catch my eyes without staring outright. I lose my breath at her green eyes, at the slight upturn of her lips, teasing me closer.

I sway forward, drawn by a force I can't fight. In seconds, we're inches from each other, close enough that I can see the brown flecks in her eyes that I didn't know were there. The smell of peaches intoxicates me. My lips tremble at the thought of touching hers with mine. The wall around my heart crumbles a bit more. All I see is her.

She leans even closer so our lips are almost touching. "I knew you liked me, Jack Brodie," she whispers.

Her words shock me and I jerk away. It was as if she read my mind. I feel like I should say something poetic but I fall back on a favorite of Stick and mine. "Wanna have a thumb war?"

She smiles, and to me, it seems as if her teeth sparkle in the sun.

"I have a better idea," she says. "There's an art festival near Simmons College. I arrived too late to get an entry in, but I'd love to get a look at the local artists."

My heart races. Panic shoots through every limb and every particle of my being. The relaxing atmosphere is charged with tension and I can barely think through the thick cloud of fear.

"No!" I shout and jump to my feet.

"What do you mean, no?" Jetta pinches her lips together, her eyes flashing. The trusting look she wore all afternoon fades and the brown flecks in her eyes darken. A shudder travels through her body.

I catch a glimpse of the kung fu warrior but know that a few karate moves won't save her from the big thugs, and her grandmother. It didn't yesterday. I scramble for a plausible reason but the fear affects my ability to think clearly. "You know...art thieves!" I blurt.

She narrows her eyes. "Art thieves?"

"There's going to be some famous art there too. You never know. It is right next to the Gardner."

Jetta smiles, but her eyes remain narrowed and her body tense. "I highly doubt that art thieves will plan a heist at a local art show. You're joking, right?"

"The Gardner Heist is very inspiring to amateur thieves." I should know. My best friend joked about it.

Jetta dazes off. "Someday, I want to go the Gardner. It's mysterious, with all the empty frames on the wall. Or so I've heard."

I see my window and jump through it. If I keep her talking about the Gardner then maybe she'll forget about going to the art show. "Empty frames?"

"The thieves ripped the paintings out of the frames and walked right out the side door." Jetta makes hand motions along with her story, heartbreak written on her face. "The empty frames are left on the wall because Isabella Gardner stated in her will that the museum has to remain exactly the same."

"How do you know so much?" I wink and joke. "Planning a heist of your own?"

"At my last school, I completed a research project on the stolen paintings for art class. It's fascinating. And tragic."

I search for something to say. Anything to keep her going. "Isabella sounds like one messed up chick. What if they need to change a light bulb?"

She ignores my comment. "She knew what she wanted and let nothing stand in her way. She didn't let others tell her what to do." Jetta stares at me but with different eyes than I've seen before. These are dark and stormy. She walks her fingers up my chest and ends with a sharp jab. "Just like I'm not going to let you keep me from the art festival."

I flash a cheesy smile and try again. "She must not've been that smart. Sounds like a toddler could have walked in and stolen the paintings."

"Sadly, it was too easy." She grabs my arm. "Now, let's go."

I pull my arm free. "You need to stay here."

"What's your problem?" she asks, her voice sharp, knifing into me.

"I'm, uh, allergic to a plant on that side of town."

"Tell me the truth." She steps closer.

I want to tell her the truth, but it's impossible. How can I explain about her grandmother? How can I possibly explain about waking up and it being March 17th? Again?

"Wait a second. This morning. When you read my palm." She pokes me in the chest, harder this time. "You told me to stay away from the art festival. And now. Again. You don't want me to go."

"You agreed with me this morning," I say.

"That was before Mr. Kronin told me about it." She steps back and stands with her feet spread apart, hands up. Her words shoot out, steel knives ripping apart our afternoon. "My dad talked to you, didn't he?"

"What? No."

"Even this morning, with your whole palm reading act, you were trying to convince me not to go, and stay near friends." Her cheeks flush, and she raises her voice. "How much is my dad paying you?" She takes a swipe at me but I duck just in time.

"He's not!"

"Don't lie to me, Jack Brodie." Her voice cracks. "I thought you were my friend. I liked you. This whole time, it's been an act. Traitor!"

"No! Just please, don't go."

She grips my neck and squeezes. The pressure forces me to my knees. "You have ten seconds."

"I doubt Isabella would approve of your methods," I squeak.

She squeezes harder, sending ripples of pain down my spine.

"Okay, okay." I feel bad for not telling the truth. She has a right to know. The words tumble out. "Your grandmother kidnapped you yesterday, but I mean it wasn't yesterday, it was today. Your dad—"

Jetta pinches a part of my neck. "Liar! My grandmother died. Years ago."

The trees spin. The last thing I see is her blurry face.

3:51 p.m.

I groan. My face is mashed against the dry spring grass and a blade sticks up my nose. An ache in the back of my neck spreads to my shoulders. My head is fuzzy, and I can only remember a few details. I roll over and lose myself in the clouds racing across the sky.

"Jetta," I whisper.

Yesterday sucked. But today's worse. The coffee shop is completely different and not in a good way. My friends are complete assholes. My only bright spot, the one part in the day that makes me smile and forget about the other stuff is Jetta. Her words echo in my head. Her grandmother died? How? When? And what is the connection to me?

Slowly, I push up to my feet. I roll my neck, which will be sore for days then trudge back through the park. The dead leaves from last fall are mush under my feet, ready to decompose or get chopped up with the mower. My head's down and I watch my feet walk along the path. She'll never forgive me. She's right. She doesn't need a watchdog for a friend, not if her grandmother's dead. So much for being the hero. More like loser friend.

I ride the T back to my neighborhood and form a new plan. I don't switch over to the orange line to go home. When the T rumbles to a stop near the Gardner, I step off. An ominous feeling weighs on me, playing with my confidence, so I doubt about ever finding answers.

The gray brick building with its towers and fancy windows do not fascinate me. Not anymore. I search along the brick wall where I wrestled with the college kids. Nothing. On my knees, I stick my head down near the street drain. The water gurgles down in the darkness and the dank smell makes it impossible for me to stay in that position. The coat's lost. Forever. I walk around the back of the building to the other side and plunk down on the curb.

Green streamers wind around the lampposts in the small park and sparkly balloons float from a lot of the tables. One is just a dot in the sky and I'm sure some kid is crying. I almost laugh out loud thinking of the time when Dad brought home one hundred balloons for Mom's birthday. She hunted through all of them to find the one with the card attached. I helped. We had fun. Together.

Silver flashes by and I snap, my head jerking up, ripping me from memories. A sleek silver car passes down the one-way street, turns left and circles around the back of the festival. It gleams in the afternoon sun like the back of a shark searching for prey.

I forget about leather coats and balloons and sprint down the narrow road between the festival and the Gardner. I swerve left, arms pumping, following the car. Jetta's grandmother isn't dead. Those words pound in my head as my feet slap the pavement. I focus on the clumps of tables and the crowd of people naively looking at the paintings and sculptures.

It's happening all over again.

A loud angry beep swallows me and then I feel the thud against my body. I hear the screech of brakes and smell the burning rubber. I'm on my back, aware of the small things. The warm pavement. The sun on my face. I'm mumbling, the words tumbling out.

Someone casts a shadow over me. I open my eyes but all I see is the glare of the sun.

The guy says nothing. Then his car screeches away.

Holy shit. Someone hit me. Someone tried to kill me. My mind blanks and I go through the motions as a banker type guy helps me to the side of the road and hands me a pack of gum.

The crease between his eyes is deep and he frowns. His words are hitting me but not making it through the thin veil of my awareness. I'm a bit numb and still wiggling my toes and limbs to make sure nothing's broken.

I don't care about me. Jetta.

I push the pack of gum back at him and take off. But he grabs my arms and pulls me back. He's holding two fingers in front of my face. "Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"I swear I'm okay."

"I'm a doctor." His voice turns to that hypnotic tone doctors use with scared kids and grumpy old men to soothe and brainwash. "I can't let you go without knowing you're okay. Sometimes injuries come on suddenly after an accident."

The lies come easily. "I gotta pick up my baby sister at the sitters. If I'm late she'll freak out because she has this disorder where everything has to be done right. If I'm not there on time her whole night will be thrown off..."

He pats down my arms then shines a light in my eyes. "Well, okay, but here's my card if you need anything."

I shove it in my pocket and then sprint off, a little wobbly, a little sore. I picture Jetta wandering from painting to painting until a big guy dressed in black knocks her out and carries her away.

I push harder. My breath comes in gasps, more from the fear gripping my chest. The ominous feeling is heavier, changing my world to black and white. No shades of gray or in between. I feel it deep in my bones, an ache, just like my Aunt Fiona always could. Something's wrong. I'm too late.

The chatter of the crowd reminds me of red squirrels, high in their trees, warning other squirrels of danger. I want to yell at everyone to shut up. My chest heaves. I skim the crowds searching for any bit of red or black. My ears strain for any sounds of a high-pitched giggle.

"Young man, are you feeling all right?" an older woman asks. She sits behind a table littered with small ceramic vessels that look like outdated ashtrays. A flowery dress hangs off her body and her bluish hair is in tight curls. "You look quite a wreck."

"No, I'm fine. Really." But my voice shakes and I stumble.

The lady grabs my arm in a surprisingly strong grip and leads me aside. "You need sustenance. I recognize the yellowish pallor in your skin tone." She pinches my cheeks. "My grandson has anemia. When's the last time you ate?"

"Um." I think back on my day. "Breakfast?"

"Shame on you." The old lady scolds. "Kids today don't eat enough healthy food. Too many video games. Too much junk food."

I inch away. Hopefully, Jetta still wears her red bow. I scan the tops of heads but see nothing but a couple St. Patty's Day faux glitter top hats and balloon animals.

A strong grip yanks me back. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners, young man?"

I babble out a few words. Man, this lady is like the Incredible Hulk. I'll have bruises on my arm.

She shoves a bar into my hand. "Eat this. It's my own concoction. It will give you enough energy for the rest of the day."

It looks like a cross between a burnt cookie and a dog turd. "Thanks. I'll eat it later."

"No." She stares at me as if controlling my brain, and maybe, she is.

I lift the bar to my mouth and nibble on the side, desperate to get away. The old lady rambles on about today's youth and the food pyramid. Then, through the crowds, I see a red bow and black hair. I shove the bar into his mouth and mumble thanks. I pull away and rub my arm as I half-walk half-run through the people. "Jetta!"

She doesn't hear me with my mouth stuffed full. I run through the tables.

My throat seizes and I gag. The sharp edges of the health bar jab into the insides of my throat and I can't get it to go up or down. It tastes like a dried-up, year-old turd. I crash into a table lined with glass blowing sculptures. They rattle and one falls over. It knocks into the next and so on and so on until most of the sculptures are shattered. I fall to the ground.

Grass tickles my ears. On my back, I stare up at blurry faces. I panic as my chest hiccups and I can't breathe. An older man pounces and jams his elbow into my stomach. The crowds don't see a rebellious boy shattering art. They see a boy choking and staggering into the table. Instead of outrage, they feel compassion.

I cough and spit out the health bar. I roll onto my knees and suck in air, gasping. Finally, I stand, wavering a bit. "I'm okay, thanks," I whisper.

They pat my back, and then I stumble away, looking for Jetta. I find her almost right away and take off sprinting. Two hulk-like men are pushing her into the back seat of the car. The door slams. The engine bursts to life and the tires screech. I almost collapse, my hands on my knees. My insides are screaming, the sound echoing in my head. For the second time in a row, I fail.

"Jack!"

I whirl around. Mom. At least, I think it's her. I stand shocked into paralysis.

4:25 p.m.

Mom rushes to my side. "Kyle and I saw what happened from a distance. Are you okay?"

She runs her fingers through my hair like she hasn't done since I was a kid. Then she pulls me in for a quick hug. My body tenses, awkward with the unexpected show of affection.

Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes have a brightness I haven't seen in months, more like years. A light lilac perfume lingers in the air around her. But even more, she has compassion in her voice. She asked if I'm okay. She cares.

Tears prick my eyes and my throat swells. I don't know what to do with the sudden rush of emotion.

She laughs, a beautiful sound, like bells from the choir at church. "What happened?"

"Mom." I fall into her arms, allowing her to hold me close.

"My, oh my. You really must not feel well to let me hug you in public. Aren't you afraid your friends might learn you have a mother?"

"I don't care," I say into her shoulder. I want to enjoy this happier, more caring mom.

Then a man asks if I need anything. It's a familiar voice that I can't place right away. I pull away from Mom.

Mr. Kronin?

He rubs Mom's back in a way that doesn't suggest friendship. She smiles at him with a twinkle in her eye.

"What are you doing here?" The words shoot out.

I glare at Mr. Kronin. His warm smile and presence smothers me. Just yesterday, Dad was denied parole. Today, Mom is out with another man? Except, okay, my world has changed, but Dad hasn't been in jail that long. A separate thought cripples me. Dad must still be in prison. Mom's happy for all the wrong reasons.

Mr. Kronin chuckles, an awful sound that reminds me of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings.

"What sand bank did you crawl out from?" I ask. I've found solid ground but struggle to keep the venom from my voice.

"Jack Brodie," Mom scolds, her cheeks turning pink. "What's wrong with you?"

I point at Mr. Kronin. "He's what wrong with me." I turn my ferocious glare on her. "How could you betray Dad like this?"

I have plenty more to say but the reality of my life and what I've caused catches up to me. A sob fills my throat, so I run. I'm sixteen but I feel like I'm eight, running away from my problems instead of dealing with them like a man. Good thing Dad isn't here to see me.

Mom calls but I ignore the hurt in her voice and focus on my breath entering in and out, my feet hitting the pavement, and the string of curses running through me, blaming me for everything. Tears blind my vision and I let the crowds fold in around me, hiding me. Finally, I stop and lean against a lamppost, tearing the strips of streamers but not caring.

The Gardner, with its castle-like turrets stabbing the sky and eye-like windows, mock me. The joke's on me.

10:18 p.m.

Bright streams of moonlight leave me exposed. I slump against the front step. Anyone walking by would look at me and know to stay away, muttering, "trouble maker."

I need the storm clouds to roll in, smothering the light and the calm evening. I want the air to be charged and lightning to flash to match the storm raging inside me that has been building all day.

Stick won't be coming out to talk, and there probably aren't any midnight walks through Southie. For once, I'm glad to not see my friends. Too much has changed. And that makes me more than sad.

I can't bear to think about Mom. I close my eyes and remember her smile, the love in her eyes, and the warmth of her hug. It's been months since she cared about anything, never mind me. And now that I have her back, Kronin has somehow wormed his way into our lives.

Jetta lingers in my thoughts but I press those down. The guilt builds, and I don't know how to fix my life, her life.

My neck prickles. I stare into the darkness.

The feeling is back. Someone's watching.

Someone left me a note this morning. Warning me to make the right choice. And now. They're back.

I can tell. Shadows shift and move. Eyes gleam. Again, whoever it is stands on the edge of truth. On the edge of being seen. I stare, challenging this ghost who haunts me like a coward. Daring him to show his face.

"I know you're there." I shout. "Coward!"

He doesn't respond. The wind blows through, a smattering of rain hitting me. The air smells like a storm. Thunder rolls in the distance. It's coming.

I stand, my hand on the front door. One last look back. I like puzzles. I can put them together, piece by piece. Sometimes, it takes longer to find pieces, but I know they're there. My life, on the other hand, has pieces missing, and I don't know where to look for them.

I can't help Jetta. I can't finish that puzzle, but I can make things right with Mom. The idea of facing her, after yelling at her, kept me on the streets after I left the art festival. I slip inside.

A candle flickers on a side table. A roast beef sandwich waits for me. She waits for me. My eyes burn. Everything else about this day sucks, but having Mom back, whole and healthy, is a layer of salve on the raw wounds. Some of the pain and heartache fades.

"Thought you might be hungry."

I sit across from her. Still not used to the curly Q tables. "Nice tables."

She gives me a funny look, then asks, "How was school today?"

"Fine." I poke at my sandwich.

"Kyle said you got in a fight with your friends."

I shrug. "Yeah. Stick and I had a fight. No big deal."

"It's not a big deal to you, but I don't like the path you're heading down." She holds up her hand so I can't argue. "I don't care for the company you keep. I know you're smarter than your grades show. And you've been getting into trouble."

I drink in Mom's words. They aren't words of praise, but they're proof she cares. She purses her lips and taps the table with her fingernails.

"What?" I ask. "You're not saying something."

"First, eat. Then I'll talk."

I wolf down the roast beef sandwich with lettuce and tomato. I haven't eaten much all day, so it tastes incredible. As I pop the last bite into my mouth and then drain a glass of milk, Mom smiles.

"You must've been hungry. It's like I don't feed you."

"Nah. It's just been a long day."

I study the wall. There's a new painting.

"You like it? We bought it today at the festival. I love Jetta's idea of sprucing up the neighborhood with quality art. She's quite a gem. Lucky I met her."

"Yeah." I play with crumbs on my plate to fill the awkward silence. Jetta won't be back the next morning. "I'm sorry about today. I didn't mean to yell at you. I was just surprised. I mean, it hasn't been that long."

Her brow furrows, deepening the lines on her forehead. "Was it hard to be near the Gardner Museum today? I know you don't often go to that part of town."

I freeze. I don't want to admit I lost Dad's leather jacket, and there's no way to track down the kids who probably have it from years ago. I force the words. "I'm sorry. I lost Dad's jacket outside of the museum. I promise. I'll find it."

A small gasp escapes her lips. In the glow of the candlelight her face pales.

"I know. It was stupid. These college kids stole it from me, but I'm gonna get it back."

Her eyes glisten.

"I know. I know. You never should have given it to me."

"Jack?"

"What?"

"That jacket has been gone for years."

I clench my teeth. Sudden nausea rises in my stomach. Like I need a trashcan to puke in. "What's happened to Dad?"

"Nothing." She stands up and rubs my shoulders. "I think you need more sleep. No more midnight meetings with your friends."

I jerk to my feet and face her. The truth is hidden in the pools of sadness in her eyes since we started talking about Dad. "Tell me. Why don't I go near the Gardner anymore?"

"Honey." Her voice softens. "Your dad's been in jail for years."

I stumble back. "You mean more than just the past four years?"

Mom nods.

The puzzle pieces click. The tables are different because Dad wasn't around to find them. The paintings are gone because Dad never bought them at a yard sale. And the picture of us at the ocean is gone because we never went. Those memories are now a figment of an alternate reality.

"How long?" I ask.

"Maybe you should stay home and rest tomorrow." She tilts her head.

"Tell me," I demand through my teeth. "How long has Dad been in jail?"

"About eleven years. You were only five."

My knees wobble. "What did he do?" My voice is strangled.

"Have you really been denying it for this long?" A tear slips down her cheek.

"What for?" I yell, the storm raging and rushing through me, the wind stirring up my guilt.

"The college kids came forward years ago. They told everything to the art detective. And..." She stops.

My hands tremble and my throat is sandpaper. I know. Deep in my gut, I know what happened. "Go on."

"He handed over your dad's leather jacket. Somehow, he found it outside the Gardner, the night of the crime. Your dad's name was written on the inside. It was enough proof for an investigation, and he was arrested a week later."

I want to puke. I'm the one who sent my dad to jail.

11:30 p.m.

Later that night, the devil visits. The heat and the chills of being in hell descend and invade my nightmares. Jetta is there, her lips moving but her pleas and silent screams go unheard. I reach out my arms and stretch my fingers but I can't touch her. The darkness swirls and she's sucked away in a vortex of black and gray, leaving me behind.

I wake tormented. My hair is drenched and my cheeks are wet. A sadness hovers over me and all I can do is curl up and wait for it to pass. It always does, but tonight, it seems worse.

Finally, I unwrap my legs from the tangled sheets and sit up in bed. I breathe deep, struggling to control the anxiety and the darkness.

I slip out of bed. Mom's light is off and she's asleep. And happy. It's a bit harder to sneak down the stairs because the TV isn't blaring. I place more of my weight on the banisters so my feet make less noise on the stairs.

Downstairs, sitting in the dark, I stare at the new painting. I'm relieved to know why my life and my friends' lives have changed so drastically. If Dad wasn't around for eleven years, then he never had his talks with Stick.

It's time to man up for Dad and my friends. I have to go back and find the coat. When I return, I'll have another chance to save Jetta.

I flick on my flashlight and shine it on the painting of the ocean scene. I welcome the dizziness and the smell of the ocean that filters through. I concentrate on the swirl of the waves and the crashing foam. I imagine the spray of the water and the cry of the seagull.

Finally, I let the wind and the waves suck me in.
MARCH 18, 1990

12:15 a.m.

I'm in the same spot, huddled against the Gardner Museum. The air is damp on my skin from a recent rain. The moisture drifts by on a slight breeze. Music blares from the college party down the street and I go to clutch Dad's leather to me but it isn't there.

Not this time.

I hoped to find the jacket still on the street, caught in the time warp, but one glance tells me it's long gone. In another dimension. Or maybe, someone stole it.

I stand on wobbly legs, fighting the churning in my stomach, which is all too familiar. The small hatchback car is parked down the street, but I try not to look at it. I have no answers for cops and would probably get thrown into the local asylum if I told the truth.

The college kids will soon be coming out from the party, so I stroll across the street, trying to act as if I'm out for a midnight walk. And not a troublemaker. After about a block, I duck behind the row of cars and creep back toward the Gardner. If the leather jacket is missing, then my job's done, my dad protected.

The drunken kids leave the house right on time. They laugh. The girl's cold. They talk about where to go next and the girl jumps on the boy's back for an extremely wobbly piggyback ride. As predicted, the girl notices the cops, and they jump in their car and speed off.

No leather coat anywhere.

I wait for the dizzy feeling to come, welcoming it, so I can return to the coffee shop and back to my normal life. My heart twinges at giving up the mom I haven't seen in years but I can't leave my dad in jail either.

My legs cramp and my stomach rumbles, and the fear grows that I'm stuck here. The cops open their doors with a clicking noise as if they've been in a couple car chases that didn't end well.

Their dark knee-length coats and pointy hats make my heart beat faster. I know cops protect people, but I always feel like they're after me. That a memo went around after Dad's arrest to watch out for his kid because he's bad too.

Maybe I'm scared because sometimes I'm guilty.

The taller cop from the driver's side turns and scans the street. Moonlight lands on familiar steely eyes. He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and swaggers away from the car, but underneath all that his eyes pierce the night, noticing everything.

I shrink down, my breaths coming hard and heavy, overwhelming me to the point that I need to gasp in air. My head spins and I press my cheek to the cool door of the Chevy next to me. After I calm down, I look again. Just to make sure.

It's him. It has to be.

I stumble back from the cars and swipe the hair from my eyes over and over again. Hedges prick my back but I push into them, trying to hide. The driver's a much younger version of my dad. My reasoning power kicks in. Dad admitted to working as a detective, so it makes sense that a cop would eventually work undercover.

The cops approach the side door to the museum and press the white buzzer.

The intercom static squeaks and then a voice answers.

Dad says, "Police. We heard about some trouble in the courtyard."

The heavy door swings wide open, welcoming the presence of the cops. A moment passes where the door remains open, small talk passing back and forth between the security guards and the police. The door closes, leaving a sliver of opportunity to find out more about Dad, to see him in action. I sprint across the street and stick my foot in the side door before it closes all the way.

I listen, hiding, shivering in the damp air.

"Are there any other guards in the building?" Dad commands attention with his magical voice. Even I'm drawn to it.

The guard answers, but his voice cracks, showing his nerves. "Yeah, just one."

"Get him down here," Dad orders, and I picture him flashing his badge again and strolling across the room as if he owns the place.

The walkie-talkie buzzes with static as the guard calls his coworker to the desk. I dare to poke my head a tiny bit through the doorway. A young man with shaggy hair stands behind the desk. He must be a security guard, but he doesn't seem to take his job very seriously. Security guards should have that stern, dried-up look to scare away the bad guys. This guys looks like a young rocker who should be strumming his guitar in a nightclub.

Dad leans closer to the guard. "There's something familiar about you." The guard visibly shakes. "Step out and show us some identification."

I feel bad for the guy but proud of Dad. Maybe he really is an undercover detective. The guard pales and stumbles out from behind his desk while pulling his wallet from his pocket.

At the same time, a tall, thin man with a pale, haunting face enters the lobby. His feet shuffle across the tiled floor as if he's already asleep on the job. The police man working with Dad strides over and slaps handcuffs on the guy.

This wakes him up. He jerks back and fights against the metal clamped on his wrists. "What's going on? Why are you arresting me?"

Dad pushes the other security guard with the shaggy hair against the wall and forces his arms behind his back. I barely breathe. Sweat forms on the back of my neck and a lone drop trickles down between my shoulder blades.

I involuntarily shiver. Police don't arrest people without reading them their rights. I've watched too many reruns of Law and Order with Mom.

"Play it cool and you won't be harmed." Dad acts rough and mean, any of the compassion I know of him disappears. Sure, he can be gruff at times but he's never cruel, his words are never laced with venom like they are now.

I cringe and watch in horror and fascination as Dad rips strips of duct tape. Working with the other cop, they wrap duct tape around the mouths, eyes, and face of the security guards. They fight but all it takes is a knock to the head and they're subdued. Minutes later, they look like something from a duct tape horror movie.

The cops lead the bound security guards to a set of stairs and disappear.

I step into the museum and let the door close behind me.

The room is deathly quiet, no trace of the takeover or sign of a struggle. Words echo in my mind as I replay the scene. This was definitely not police procedure. It makes no sense. Undercover cops probably don't follow the same rules, but who's the bad guy here?

Shadows drape the walls and corners of the museum. Dad will be back soon. I glance at the door that exits into the side street. My feet itch to run away from what lies before me. Truth is just ahead. I sense it. I can either stay and face it or run and hide behind my walls, believing childhood myths.

Footsteps clunk on the stairs and I make the decision in a heartbeat. I dart across the small entrance room and hide behind the counter at the guard's station. A wave of nausea falls, threatening to pull me away. I fight it.

I want truth. No matter how much it hurts.

1:48 a.m.

The cops return. Their fake swagger and cop routine is gone. Now they move and talk quickly, with purpose, with no one to impress or fool. They leave the lobby and take the stairs two at a time. I follow them on silent feet up a wide and smooth marble staircase into a small alcove on the second floor. I hover in the hall and peek around the corner, afraid of what I'll find.

Light from fake candles cast a ghostly shadow on the mix of large and small paintings hanging on the walls. The room drips with elegance, like two old ladies should be sitting on the velvet love seat, sipping Earl Gray Tea and nibbling on rye crackers.

The cops survey the room like they're kids in a toy store. Dad's partner moves close to a painting and a screeching alarm sounds. The blaring noise echoes through the entire museum. They mutter curses, and I jump back and clap my hands over my ears, the sound drilling into my head.

Seconds later, it stops. My heart pulses in my throat, and I dare to peek into the room again. Dad has kicked in a motion sensor on the wall. The plastic is shattered and wires hang out. He stands on one of the three chairs, not caring about the street grit on his black shiny shoes, and pulls a large painting of a boat on the ocean from the wall.

Together, they smash the painting from the frame. A knife glitters. Dad pierces the painting and cuts it like he's slicing an apple for his kid's snack. Flakes of paint drift to the floor.

I lean against the wall in the hallway, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My legs shake. I cringe at the sound of another painting being smashed from its frame. I want to go home. I want to party with my friends, eat a roast beef sandwich with Mom. I want to laugh with Jetta. I want to hold her hand and trace my thumb across her smooth skin. I want to pull her to me and feel her heartbeat against mine.

A strong hand grips my arm and jerks me into the room. "Looks like we have a little friend."

I stare into Dad's gleaming eyes. Eyes I don't recognize. There's no hint of a smile of recognition. Of course not.

The Gardner Heist happened in 1990. I wasn't even born yet.

"Put him with the others," he orders.

The second cop grabs me by the scruff of the neck and forces me down the marble staircase. I feel numb, my body just going through the motions. I'd fall if he weren't holding me up. I don't put up a fight as he pushes me down another set of stairs and a long, dark hallway in the basement.

I can't fight as the truth spins around me. Duct tape tears but I don't register the sound until strips of it are plastered across my mouth and head. A small crack is left around my eyes and under my nose. Sweat fights against the sticky tape on my skin and I lower my head, struggling to keep it together as my heart thunders.

The cop leans into me. His voice lowers and he says, "I'll pass on to you a bit of wisdom my family follows with great success. It's better to be a mole hiding in the ground, then a squirrel sticking his nose where he shouldn't." He claps me on the shoulder.

Then he leaves, and I fight off the darkness threatening to consume me.

10:00 a.m.

The cold plastic chair in the private room at the police station sends goosebumps across my skin. Everyone from nurses to cops to FBI agents have asked me questions. I haven't said much. If the judge at Dad's sentencing didn't know about Dad's undercover work, these street cops definitely won't.

I know last night looks bad, but sitting in the dark of the basement, taped to an old furnace pipe, I arrived at a conclusion. Once I realized this truth, the sweats stopped, and the pressure against my head and chest lightened. Dad was on an undercover job, playing the role of a criminal so he could gather evidence against his "partner."

I have a plan worked out. Before I left the coat at the Gardner, no one had connected my dad to the stolen paintings. So if I can leave without mentioning any names, then it should be that way again. And the short spells of dizziness make me think I don't have much time left.

The door opens and cold air brushes against the back of my neck. I don't swivel to acknowledge the next interrogator.

"Would you like some hot chocolate?" asks a familiar voice. "These rooms can be a bit chilly."

I turn and my jaw drops slightly.

"I keep telling them to bring in some comfy chairs, and maybe a small fridge, but they don't listen to me." The man drapes his suit coat over a chair and sits down as if he's at home in front of his television. Or this is a meeting with an old friend.

"Frank?" I ask.

Frank chuckles, a nice, easy laugh. "I didn't realize I was so famous with the kids. What's your name?"

"Jack. We've met before." Hope springs in my heart. Just maybe.

"I remember every man, woman, cop, criminal, dog, and parakeet I meet." He taps the side of his nose. "Part of my job as an insurance investigator. And we've never met."

"You're wrong." Clearly, Frank doesn't remember me. Should I tell him about everything? Dad? And the time travel? Or is this a different Frank from a different reality who doesn't know about these things yet?

Frank crosses his legs. "Where exactly have we met?"

I recall his words from the hallway at the courthouse. He said only I could help my daddy. He said I would have to make a choice someday. Well, that time's now. "From the future."

"The future, eh?" Frank stops swinging his leg. He points a finger at me. "Now that's one I haven't heard before."

"I met you in the courthouse at my dad's trial. You were drinking coffee, and your nose fell off."

Frank opens his eyes wide, the disbelief written there in the way his mouth crooks and an eyebrow rises.

"You had a different nose. And your face looked different. You were a lot older. You had traveled into the future to talk to me." Some of the puzzle pieces come together. "You must have used a painting. That's how I keep coming back to the Gardner Heist. Through a painting."

Frank leans forward. "Now son, I like an active imagination, but let's not carry this too far."

"I'm telling the truth. I don't lie when it comes to my dad. You told me I was the only one who could help my dad. That I'd be going on a journey."

"Okay, okay." He waves his hands. "Why don't you tell me about our meeting."

My voice cracks. "My dad had been denied parole. The judge didn't know he was really an undercover agent."

"How long had your daddy been in jail, son?"

"Four years."

"What was he in for?" Frank asks.

"A diamond heist."

His eyebrows immediately shoot up toward the ceiling. "Maybe I can help you. This is right up my alley."

"The robbers dressed as security guards and that's how they stole the..." I let my voice drop off. A wave of dizziness hits and I put my head in my hands. Security guards. Policemen.

"Thieves often use the same method of entry to a robbery over and over again. Like a trademark."

Blood rushes to my face and neck. I return to the words that pull me out of the darkness. I raise my voice. "My dad's an undercover agent."

Frank stands and paces in the small room.

I sit in the chair, my arms and legs trembling. I wait, hoping Frank believes me. He has to believe me.

He stops pacing and turns to me. His eyes are slits and his mouth pencil thin. "Son, I don't lie. I've been around the business for a little while, and I know one thing for sure. Undercover agents don't steal a million dollars worth of diamonds."

A surge of anger floods my body and jumpstarts it into action. I spring from the chair and leap at Frank. I grab his arms and shake, emotion coursing through my limbs as if I have no control. "My dad is not a criminal!" But even to me, the words sound hollow. I collapse to the ground at his feet.

"I can't say if your daddy is or isn't a criminal, son." He rubs my shoulder. "I just want to hear a little bit more about what you saw in the Gardner last night. A description of the men. Did they say anything in particular?"

I sway. The dizziness returns full force along with a bout of nausea. The room blurs. I'm leaving. Scenes from last night flash. I can't give my dad's name. But the other cop. There was something familiar. Another piece clicks. "I can give you a name."

Frank drops to his knees and grabs my collar. "Tell me, son."

I stare into the whites of Frank's eyes and see a man desperate for the truth. Even if Dad wasn't undercover, families don't rat on each other. But the other man, his partner. Talking about a mole and a squirrel. And the guy's bushy hair. And his somewhat large nose. The name comes easily and without regret.

"Kronin," I whisper.

Then I disappear.
MARCH 17, 2013

DAY THREE

7:34 a.m.

A groan rumbles deep in my chest. My head is heavy against a hard surface beneath me. I vaguely remember arriving back in the coffee shop, too tired to crawl up to bed.

A light tune filters through my consciousness; the happy melody goes up and down. I shoot straight up, knocking a leprechaun statue to the floor.

I'm back. Life should be normal. I fixed everything.

"About time you woke up, Jack Brodie!"

"Jetta!" I whip around. There she is. Same hair, shirt, and leggings. Everything. I did it. My heart leaps, and I'm aware of a deep aching need I haven't felt before. The need to protect her, to hold her close. I have another chance to save her, to warn her. And this time, no playing dodge ball with the truth.

She flashes me a creepo stare and then leans over and picks up the leprechaun. "What are you, psychic?"

I don't have time for chatty intros. First I take in my surroundings. The tulips in the vases are gone. The fancy french fry tables are gone. The paintings are back on the wall where they belong. And the photograph of me with my parents at the beach smiles back at me. I must've fixed my mistakes last night. Maybe in that dimension Dad was a criminal, but I'm back in real time, and he's been around to buy the paintings and find the tables. That's what matters.

"How did you know my name?" This time she asks the question with a bit more force. "I just met your mom this morning."

A grin spreads. I've been smiling so much since I awoke that my cheeks hurt. I know how to tell Jetta the truth. "There used to be a fortune teller renting this space. Sometimes I pick up her vibes."

"Okay, Mr. Know-it-all. What else do you know about me?" She pouts in her cute way I'm getting used to.

"Can you handle the truth?" I ask.

She laughs. "Sounds like a bad line from a movie."

My heart pounds. I grab her hand and pull her over to the table. Her skin feels warm. This isn't about me pulling her into a kiss, which if I did, she'd totally freak. This isn't about me. It's about her.

She sits. "Okay, you're scaring me. I hope this won't take too long. You're supposed to walk me to school."

Normally, I'd joke and find a way to make fun of everything. But I need her to take me seriously. "I know you're an artist."

She scoffs. "Look at the way I'm dressed. Isn't it obvious?"

"True. I know you'd like to encourage shop owners to hang paintings of Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Da Vinci on their walls."

She stops smirking.

"Your dad is the new janitor at our school. I know he loves you and would do anything for you." I lower my voice so it's almost a whisper. "Your mom died when you were real young."

Tears shine in her eyes and her tough exterior melts. Her voice is strangled. "How do you know all this?"

"Please don't ask. I just know." I run my finger across a small crack in the table over and over. I have no desire to tell Jetta the truth, but it might be the only way to save her. Even if it hurts.

She glances around the coffee shop as if she expects a ghost to pop out of one of the paintings. Doubt flickers in her expression, then she says, "Go ahead. What else? I can handle it."

I almost choke on the words because the truth about my dad hovers over me like a cloud of exhaust fumes. I know the truth can hurt. "Your dad's been lying to you."

She jumps up, causing her chair to crash backward onto the floor. Her eyes flash. "Never!"

"Your grandmother isn't dead." I wait for her to yell or pull some kung fu moves, but she doesn't move. "He's protecting you from her." I think back to the scene after she was kidnapped the first time. "Your dad made a promise to your mom to protect you from your grandmother. That's why he enrolled you in karate."

She taps her fingers on the table and I can almost hear her brain whirring, puzzling out an argument. "Even if she were alive, why would my grandmother want to hurt me?"

"I'm not totally sure. She wants to raise you. I think. I don't know everything."

She whirls around, her face a mask of confusion. "How do you know any of this?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." She plunks down in the chair again, her face weary.

"Another time. There's one more thing you have to know, and you have to trust me." I reach across and grab her hand even though she tenses.

"I don't think I want to know."

"You can't enter the art show today."

Jetta purses her lips, silent. The tips of her ears turn red and she yanks her hand from mine and grabs the front of my shirt. I cringe, waiting for a deadly chop to the throat or a kick to the kneecaps.

"Some nerve. Telling me about my dad. My mother. My grandmother. Art is my escape. You can't take that from me!" Her voice shakes and she drops her arms and heads toward the door.

"Wait!" The rest tumbles out in a rush. "It's through your art that your grandmother tracks you. She finds you and kidnaps you..." My voice trails off.

Jetta slams the door.

I slump over. I told her everything for nothing. The one thing she needs to believe, she doesn't.

The bell above the door jangles, and Jetta pokes her head in the doorway. My hopes lift. Maybe...

"And your mom says not to forget to wear Tommy's suit!"

Slam. Again.

8:01 a.m.

Minutes later, I sit in the coffee shop in Tommy's old suit. The collar scratches my neck in a familiar but annoying way. The pants are about to pop, and my ankles ripple with goosebumps because the pants are still too short.

I smile, thinking ahead to the trial. I'll see Dad one more time. This time, my eyes are opened, even if I can't fully believe Dad's wink and smile that says everything will be fine, even if Dad is denied parole.

I open the glass case and pull out an apple Danish.

The bell jangles.

"Jetta!" I whip around.

"No punk. Who's Jetta?" Stick asks.

Turbo lumbers in behind him. I study my friends. Are they back to normal? Or is Stick here to beat me up.

"Just a girl," I say cautiously.

"Why didn't you tell us about her, loser?" In one suave jump, Stick lands on one of the tables. The raw edge to his eyes and face are a little softer.

"I just met her." I sidle closer to my friends, keeping an eye on Stick's fist.

"Is she pretty? Did ya slip her some tongue yet?" Turbo's mouth hangs open and he waggles his tongue around in a crude gesture. But he looks more like a dog waiting for bacon bits.

"No, dork. It isn't like that." Warmth spreads throughout my chest and brings a flush to my face.

It's not just about kissing.

Stick pulls out a chair and sits on it backwards. "We gotta talk about today."

I swallow a bit of apple Danish. "Guys, I'm just not up for it today. I don't want there to be a big fuss."

Stick and Turbo exchange worried glances.

Stick says, "You have to go. You'll regret it if you don't."

I can see the well meaning in his eyes and realize he's talking about the hearing. I breathe out my relief in one big whoosh. "We're not planning to rob the Gas-n-Go?"

Turbo laughs, a skittish, nervous laugh. Stick slugs me in the arm. "Are you crazy? We want to get outta here someday."

A fifty-ton weight lifts off my chest. My friends are back and I fight the urge to grab Stick's hands and dance around like little girls during the St. Patty's Day parade.

"Wipe the grin off your face. Seriously dude, you have to go today."

"Guys, don't worry about me. I'm going. I'm okay." My friends aren't on their way to becoming hardened criminals. "I'm more than okay."

"Do you want us to walk over with you?" Turbo asks.

"I can handle it. As long as I know you two have my back, I'm good. Is Big D still charging use for the bathrooms?"

"Nothing's changed since yesterday." Stick eyes me.

Turbo nods. "He must be making a killing."

Not everything's perfect in my life. Mom's probably back to her regular old cranky self. But Kronin's out of our lives. My confidence soars and I feel the world melding to my control. I can't lose, and I want the right to pee in the bathrooms. I slam my fist into the palm of my hand. "I'm going to stand up to him. Today."

Stick gently leads me over to a chair. "Seriously, dude. Not today. You have enough to deal with. We'll talk about Big D and his boys later."

"You can go to school." I push him away. "I'm not a little girl."

Stick backs away, his hands up. "Got it." He nods to Turbo and they head for the door.

"Thanks, guys." Another smile breaks out on my face.

Stick waves without looking back. "See you at the cemetery."

8:20 a.m.

I stand in front of the beach picture and trace my finger over Mom and then Dad. Their faces are a bit more worn as if I've gone through this motion numerous times before.

Dad and I walked out along the rocks that day, stepping easily over the ones that met seamlessly and crouching to work our way across the jagged cracks between others. This was one of the few times Dad went out of his way to make me the focus of his attention. The waves crashed against the rocks with the incoming tide. Our sandy feet made for good traction. Between rocks, his warm hand landed on my shoulder, a reminder he cared, an effort to make sure I didn't slip.

Dad called it a man-to-man talk. I was ten. And that meant I was getting older. Time for me to step up and help Mom in the coffee shop. His words found their way to my core, firing up my inspiration. I was going to make him proud. Looking back, I wonder if Dad knew his time was short, that soon he'd be cut out of our lives and put in the slammer.

The cinnamon smell of the shop invades the memories of salt air and private talks, bringing them to a crashing halt.

I let the words slip out. "Sorry, Dad. I failed you. Mom's not happy." I square my shoulders. "But I can make a difference. Make Mom's life easier. I can help her out with the shop. Clean up. Take out the trash. I can do it. And I will." My fingers slide down the photo and I set my jaw in determination.

I lock the door to the shop and head down the street. Sometimes Stick, Turbo and I skip school and meet at the old cemetery, but the party will have to go on without me. Instead, I wander the streets of my neighborhood in Tommy's suit. Time to face Big D. He'll show eventually. It's in the cards. I pass the mom and pop stores: Waldo's Gas-n-Go, The Olde Town Pharmacy, Tony's Tavern. I cross the street and follow the path of a napkin drifting down an alleyway.

"Walking the streets alone isn't very safe. Didn't your mommy ever tell you that?" Big D leans against the wall, a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth.

I'm tired of cowering around him. "Didn't your mommy ever tell you how ugly you are?"

Big D jams the cigarette against the side of the building and lets it drop. A bit of smoke trails from the dying end.

I mimic Vice Principal Sneed. "Smoking is not good for your health. A pack a day increases the risk of lung cancer. You're digging yourself an early grave."

Big D laughs. "Early grave. Real funny."

I stare at him. I haven't heard Big D laugh in years. He sounds almost human. I think back to when Big D and I fooled around in the coatroom at church while our parents were in the confessionals. We used to be friends. Somehow, life sent us different ways. Now he's stealing money from kids at school in order to buy his smokes. I glance around but the trash compactors aren't anywhere to be found. I take a chance.

"Remember when we put shaving cream in the coat pockets at church during mass?"

The corners of Big D's lips turn up in a sad smile that spreads to the rest of his face. The past lurks in his eyes. He doesn't answer, but I know he remembers. I push the memory on him.

"We had to scrub the toilets for weeks." I'll never forget because Dad made me scrub the toilets at home too.

"Stop trying to butter me up, pancake. I haven't forgotten your little smoke bomb prank. Just because my buds aren't here, doesn't mean I can't squash you like an old car at the junkyard."

I step closer. I never thought about his transformation before but with all that has happened, I want to know. "I'm not trying to butter you up. I'm trying to understand how the boy I played with during mass turned out to be the same boy who rips other kids off. Kids from the neighborhood. Kids with as little money as you."

Big D stands taller. "Don't dabble in something you know nothing about. I'd hate for your pretty suit to get blood on it."

I am uncomfortably aware of Tommy's too-small suit. I can't stop my mouth. "And I'd hate for your nose to end up by your ear." I want to bang my head against the wall. Why can't I just let things go?

"Is that a challenge?" He doesn't give me time to answer. A perfect right hook lands on the corner of my mouth.

I stumble back, the taste of blood in my mouth.

"You think you're the only one with problems?" he says. "Wake up."

I forget about Tommy's suit and any ideas to help. Instead, I barrel into Big D and we topple over into metal trashcans. After wrestling for several minutes, Big D ends up on top, his forearm jammed against my throat. I have the sudden feeling of déjà vu as I gasp for air.

He spits in my face. "I don't care about your little pranks. I don't care if you have no money. And I don't care about your pops." He rolls off onto his back. "So get your ass outta here before you get hurt."

Footsteps sound in the alleyway.

A cold, sharp voice echoes between the brick walls of the businesses. "Still trying to scrape up what you owe by beating up little kids?"

Big D scrambles to his feet. "No." He sounds like a pouty toddler.

"Who's your friend?"

I get to my feet. Three older boys cast long shadows. To call them older boys doesn't give them enough credit. The one in front appears to be the leader. His wavy black hair is parted on the left and slicked to the side. A preppy rich boy. His eyes are dark gleaming pits of hatred apparent in the way he stands and talks. They look like college kids, but I doubt they go to school.

The leader steps closer. "We don't care about your little friend." He pulls a knife from his back pocket and waves it in Big D's face.

Big D shoves me. I stumble out of the darkened alleyway into the blinding morning sun. In a matter of seconds, Big D and I went from enemies to friends, once again, huddled under the pews at church, hoping we won't get caught.

I can't leave. In my mind, I know to run away as fast as I can, to not get involved. Everyone knows to stay away from gangs and not form enemies. But I'm glued to the wall, unable to move. I peek around the corner. I watch and listen.

The boy with the knife shoves Big D against the wall. "I want my money. I gave you the good stuff, and now you owe double for being late." The older boy's friends laugh.

"Here." His voice shakes, and he digs deep into his pockets and pulls dollars and change from his pockets. It slips through his fingers and spills to the cracked pavement, like gumballs in a candy shop.

Drug money. From kids needing to take a leak.

"That doesn't nearly cover what you owe." The boy punches Big D in the stomach. But his fists don't stop. Again and again, they land on Big D. His face. His head. His chest.

I turn away and breathe in the smell of city air. I close my eyes and listen to Big D cough, splutter, and moan. The muted thumps turn my stomach. I want to run and grab a cop, but I know the rules of the street. You snitch. You're dead. Or your family's dead.

I step back into the doorway of the closest shop and watch the three older boys stroll down the street, cocky, kings of Southie. I pad into the alleyway on silent feet. Big D lies between the trashcans. His foot twitches. His mouth hangs open, broken trails of red smeared on his cheek. His eye puffs out already turning colors.

Thoughts of revenge slip away. I pull details from my head, puzzle pieces I should've put together a long time ago. Big D's mom died when he was young and his dad is a drunk. That leaves Big D to care for his younger brother and sister. Why didn't I see this before? I lean over and put Big D's cap back on his head. I know what I have to do.

I carry Big D home, his arm slung over my shoulder, my arm around his waist. His small apartment reeks of mold and piss. I cringe but lead him back to what must be his bedroom and lay him on the bed. I try my best to wipe the dried blood from his face but just smear it worse.

He grunts and his eyes slit open, the one I can barely see.

"Why?" he asks.

I shrug and don't have an answer. "Take care of yourself."

8:45 a.m.

I roam the streets, avoiding the courthouse until it's time. My stomach aches, this relentless, gnawing pain. It tells me I'm missing something, some piece of this that will give answers. The first time around, there was no trip to the cemetery before the hearing. Not in the morning. What has changed? I decide to find Jetta. She completed a report on the Gardner Heist and will know the details.

I arrive at school and hide behind a bush. A police car is parked out front. Not a good sign. The fear that Stick and Turbo have done something stupid crosses my mind. Maybe they skipped the cemetery and came to school.

I crawl past the office window to avoid Ms. Kale. Then I take the first set of stairs down to the art room. Students' artwork plaster the hallway, their swirls of color that mean nothing and everything at the same time. Ms. Charpetto must be back. Kronin's gone and hopefully in jail. When I whispered Kronin's name to Frank, I hoped that Kronin would be arrested and my dad never connected to the Gardner.

"Jack!"

I whip around. Jetta. Her body trembles with rage and her eyes are on fire.

"How dare you," she demands.

I scramble to think of anything I might've done. My heart pounds and a part of me doesn't want to ask. I force out the words. "What do you mean?"

"I can't believe you!" She jabs her finger into the hollow beneath my shoulder. "I know you didn't want me going to the art show but this was plain mean. If you know so much about me, you'd know how much I care about my paintings."

My legs weaken and dread fills me. Sweat pricks my armpits and I lean against the wall. "I don't understand."

"Don't play dumb with me, and don't you dare play the sympathy card. I don't care about the funeral. I barely know you."

"What?" I croak out. I slide to the floor, my back scraping against the cement wall. The paintings spin in front of me. My eyes burn. A funeral?

"Get up." Jetta kicks the side of my leg. "You're not getting out of this that easy. I want answers."

The words scrape out of my dry throat. I ask even though the heavy despair wrenching at my heart tells me the truth. "Who died?"

Voices sound from the nearby art room. Ms. Charpetto.

Jetta jerks me to my feet and puts a hold on my arms that I couldn't break free from even with a crowbar. She shoves me into the large art supply closet and I bang into giant rolls of colored paper. The dust makes me sneeze.

"Don't pull that on me." She gently shuts the door, blocking out all light except a tiny sliver. "Tell me the truth."

I embrace the dark. No one can see the guilt written on my face while inside I scream. My body trembles, threatening to burst at the seams. The unspoken accusation whirls above my head. It speaks to me, whispering through the dark, and the demons find me. I shake.

Jetta's dark form threatens me. Her grief and her pain match mine. I can feel this too.

"Start talking, and keep your voice down," she says.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why would you do this to me?" she asks, the rage fading in the way her voice softens.

The pain pulses through me. "I would never hurt you."

"Then why? Tell me that."

"Why what? I don't understand."

Jetta moves closer. "I saw the spray paint cans in a white trash bag by your curb this morning when I left. I didn't think much of it at the time."

I pause and breathe in her peachy smell. "What happened?"

Jetta's voice drops low and wavers. "Someone destroyed all the student artwork with spray paint. Including mine."

"I'm sorry." But inside, I feel relieved. Without her painting, she can't enter the art show.

She grabs my suit coat and pulls me close. "You're not making any sense. How do you know so much about me? And don't give me any crap about being psychic." She loosens her hold but doesn't pull away.

If I sway forward our lips will touch but I can barely look in her eyes. "I've been given a chance to make things right."

Jetta leans back.

I fight the urge to close the gap. "The first time was an accident. I went to my dad's trial, and I met Frank. You were kidnapped by two of your grandmother's goons at the art festival. She drives a silver car. Your dad was heartbroken." I pause, hoping I don't sound crazy.

"Keep going."

"That night I was given a chance to make things right. To help my dad. To help you. But each time I tried to make things better, they got worse. My dad went from being in jail for four years to being an inmate for eleven years to..." I can't say the words. My cheeks burn and my throat constricts so I can barely get the words out. "I can't save you. Each time, your grandmother finds a way."

"What do you mean by having a chance to make things right?" Jetta asks.

I can't see her eyes in the dark but I know she's suspicious. I blow out a soft breath. The truth pushes up, regardless. "Don't think I'm crazy. But the day I met you, that night, which would be tonight, a painting in my mom's shop transported me back to 1990 and the Gardner Heist. When I returned, it was March 17th. Again." I whisper, "I'm sorry."

Her fingers dig into my arm. "I can't believe you would use personal information to mock me. And lie to me. I hate you. I wished we'd never met." Her fist connects with my gut. "I hope your dad rots in hell. Just like you."

9:11 a.m.

I fall to my knees on the cement floor and lean over. I cry. The raw pain fills me, rising up into my throat and chokes me. I'll suffocate. Right here. And the only witnesses will be the endless supply of glue, paintbrushes, and tissue paper. After a few minutes, I lay my cheek on the cold dusty floor. I can't help anyone. Never could. I destroyed a friend and killed my dad.

I tried. I shouldn't have said anything to her. I should've lied. At the beach Dad told me to act more like a man. Being a man is about more than helping out in the coffee shop or cleaning my room. It should mean telling the truth to everyone you care about. I don't know what it means to be a man and now I wonder if Dad did either.

Light floods the closet. I push up off the floor, blinded. My head throbs and my eyes feel the size of the lumps of clay on the shelves.

Jetta's voice, filled with hatred, breaks through the haze. "He did it."

"Jack Brodie?" Vice Principal Sneed gently takes me by the arm and leads me out of the closet. A policeman pats me down.

"Do you have any proof of this, Jetta?"

"Yes." Her voice cracks. "I saw the cans of spray paint at his house this morning."

I don't argue. If Jetta doesn't believe me, no one will. Maybe this is some sort of cosmic payback. I failed Dad. At some point, I made the wrong choice and this is my punishment.

The policeman cocks his hat. "I'll go check it out. I wouldn't go anywhere, young man. Destruction of property is a serious crime."

I have nowhere I want to go.

When Sneed motions me to follow him, I go willingly. I can't look at Jetta or at the walls with the neon colors slashed through the artwork. Jetta puts all her heart into her paintings. No wonder she hates me.

In his office, Sneed steeples his fingers and peers down at me. "I won't keep you long. I know you have places to be." He pauses as if questioning how to proceed. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

I stare at a potted fern on Sneed's desk and let it go in and out of focus. "Yeah, I have places to be," I mumble.

Sneed stands and splays his hands on his desk. "We take vandalism very seriously here."

"Yes, Sir." The need for answers sparks. I need to see the truth, laid out in the ground, and there's only one place to find them. At the cemetery. Coming to the school. Finding Jetta. It was all an excuse. And it would be easier to make Big D sing a show tune than get Jetta to share what she knows about the Gardner Heist.

"Until your name is cleared, you are on a temporary school suspension. If and when we learn of your innocence, you are welcome back. If the verdict returns that you are guilty, we will dole out consequences at that time."

I hear the words but don't respond.

"You are dismissed."

10:00 a.m.

The sun pulses, and sweat drips down the back of my neck.

Dirt sounds like muffled gunshots against the wood coffin.

A butterfly rises from the six foot hole in the ground, the colorful wings fluttering as it hovers and dances above Mom's head then flies up into the branches of a nearby oak tree. I lose sight of it among the budding leaves. Mom loves butterflies. Or she used to. She called it new life, a fresh start.

The bushes lining the outside of the cemetery rustle, and then a squirrel shoots out and scampers up the oak. I wave a fly away from my face.

Signs of life. Everywhere.

All the times we hung out in the cemetery, I never saw so much life. We just noticed the moonlit gravestones and made jokes about dead people's names. That seems so shallow now, a lifetime away when the only cares we had were avoiding Big D on the streets.

The gravedigger throws the last of the dirt on the grave sight and pats it down with the back of the shovel. I stare at the patterns in the layers of dirt, the depths of dark and light. I close my eyes and sway with the onslaught of memories.

The crack of the bat from the Red Sox slamming a home run into the grandstand. The ketchup from Dad's hotdog dripping onto my leg as he cheered. The crash of the waves against the shore, washing away the sand from my feet when the foamy water withdrew back into the ocean. The simple touch of his hand on my arm as he told stories on the porch.

All these memories taunt me. The weight of guilt is heavy in the air, pushing against me.

An arm around my shoulder jolts me back to the present. The service is over and I feel like I missed it. Uncles hug me. Aunts kiss my cheek with their painted red lips. They murmur, "So sorry." Some say nothing at all. My cousin, Tommy, home from college, slaps me on the back. "Nice suit."

People shuffle in between the graves, back to their cars to head to my Aunt Rosemary's house for beef stew, but I'm not hungry. No one talks about what happened and I don't know how Dad died. I need answers, and they all assume I know.

Mom loops her arm around my shoulders. "Are you coming?"

I shake my head. My legs are planted to the ground, roots sprouting from the bottom of my feet and digging deep into the earth. I can't move.

"Your friends are here. Take as long as you like." Mom's voice wavers, her emotions on the brink of breaking. "I'll see you back at home."

I look at her for the first time. Her eyes are dull and lifeless. Yesterday they sparkled with love. She was happy. I tried to save my dad and only made things worse for everyone. Including Mom. Everything that was so clear is muddled.

Mom slips her fingers into my hand before turning to leave. She offers me a window, a chance to be close. I wrap my arms around her and hang on, refusing to let go. Her shoulders shake and her tears wet my neck and seep into Tommy's suit. We stand like that for a few minutes.

Finally she pulls away. "Your dad would be so proud of you." Then she walks away.

That's when I see Frank standing at the edge of the cemetery.

10:45 a.m.

His presence startles me out of the daydream existence this day has been. I've been traveling through a nightmare, disasters exploding at my right and my left. But this man's voice, his words pull at me. From the very first time we talked, he tore holes in everything I knew to be true.

He challenged me to go on this journey and now my life lies in pieces around me. Dad's in the grave, because of me.

I failed him.

I'm drawn back to the fresh gravesite. The stone is clean with only the natural patterns of dark and light veins running through it. Joseph Brodie. That's all it says. Other gravestones in the cemetery say things like, devoted father, cherished church member. If asked, I wouldn't know what to carve into his stone. I had no words for people to remember him by.

Stick and Turbo move to my side and stand patiently. It's time. Everyone's gone. My friends can tell me the truth. But I can't say the words; instead I stare at the dark pile of soil.

"Are we going to stand here all day, because I'd love to miss a Spanish test," Stick says.

"I got suspended." This truth is safe. My friends can relate to this part of my life.

"Why?" Turbo asks.

"For vandalism."

"You're stepping up in the world," Stick says with a laugh.

"Someone framed me." This separate truth slips and I know my friends will believe me.

Stick pounds his fist into the palm of his hand. "Big D. We'll get him tomorrow."

"No!" I turn, my feet uprooting from their spot. "Leave him alone." Images of Big D's face, beaten and bruised, and his body lying in the alleyway, haunt me. The truth of his life weighs on me and I know he's not all that different from Stick or me. "We're going to leave him alone from now on."

"Whatever." Stick shrugs. "You've got to lighten up. Just think. Your dad's up with the big guy in the sky, probably robbing the heavenly treasure stores and having the time of his life."

I rub my hands down the sides of Tommy's pants. "How'd he die?"

Stick and Turbo are silent. I can't look at them because I know what I'll see: the question in their eyes and the frown that express their doubts in my sanity.

Stick reaches out for me but then drops his arm back to his side. "What do you mean? How'd he die?"

"I mean I can't remember. I blocked it out." This excuse is more rational and more believable than the truth. "I'm not crazy. Just tell me."

"Someone slipped him the knife in his cell in the middle of the night. No one found him 'till morning," Stick says in a low voice. "Sorry, dude."

"Wait! Prison?" I ask.

Stick punches me lightly in the arm. "The diamond heist?"

"Right." I gulp. I forgot about that. "Who did it?"

"Some guy named Kronin paid off a guard."

The name paralyzes me. I don't move. The gears in my mind grind slowly. Kronin? But he should've been caught. I left his name with Frank. I feel his presence, hovering at the edge of the cemetery. Something went terribly wrong. I groan. It's my fault.

I fall to the ground. The dirt flies. My hands dig into the soil, throwing it left and right. Words tumble out but I can't hear them. My focus is on my dad. He's trapped and I need to save him. If I can just get to him then I can explain. In this time warp he could still be alive, waiting for me to save him. It's all a mistake. I shovel away the dirt by the scoopfuls.

I feel the grip on my body and around my waist. My back slams into the hardened spring ground. Stick's face is in mine, his heartbreak leaking out his eyes and splattering my cheeks. His breathing is heavy and there are no words that can breech this divide.

Grit is under my fingernails and roots sticks into my back. I close my eyes and my chest heaves as I grasp my truth. Stick rolls off me but then thinking twice he wraps his arms around me in the first hug he's ever given. His arms feel awkward but he pushes past that.

"Man, I'd trade my dad for your dad in a second." His voice breaks. "My old man should be under this dirt, not yours. Not yours. Life's shit." He loses it and cries into my shoulder.

"Uh, guys? You okay?" Turbo asks.

Stick pulls away and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. I reach out and grab a handful of dirt. The rich soil is cool and I grind it between my fingers as if somehow I can change what has happened. I make a promise to myself, the words like a whisper in my mind. I'll fix it. Somehow. I'll fix it.

I always keep my promises.

I stand and shake off the grief. This isn't real. It's a time lapse that can be fixed. I want to explain to Stick that this won't last, this gravestone won't be here in the morning, and he won't remember any of it.

"Excuse me, boys. Don't mean to interrupt."

I don't have to look. I know the voice and I know it's time for me to say goodbye to my friends. Stick and Turbo jump to their feet. They brush off crushed leaves from last fall to regain their cool and tough exterior, which is what most of the world sees. Stick's the first to go on the attack.

"So, old man, you must have taken a wrong turn." Stick presses his lips together and narrows his eyes.

Frank cocks an eyebrow at me.

"Do you know this guy?" Turbo rubs his hands together.

"Meet my Uncle Frank."

Stick turns his ferocious glare from Frank to me as if he doesn't believe that for a second.

"You know how it is with weddings and funerals. Relatives show up you don't even know exist."

No one says a word. My grief morphs into anger brimming under the surface, ready to explode. "I'm okay, guys. Why don't you go on to school? I'll catch you later."

Stick and I pass knowing looks and finally he nods and leaves, Turbo following close behind.

11:35 a.m.

Frank sits on a stump, his old man knobby knees sticking out through the material of his pants. His face is worn and lined with worry, back to the older Frank I first met. And again, he seems as at ease in the cemetery as he did in the interrogation room or at the courthouse.

I move away from Dad's grave and lean against the oak tree. Even under the hot sun, shivers rattle my teeth, so I clamp my mouth shut.

"Are you ready to accept the truth?" Frank asks.

Truth, I have learned, isn't dependable, but that's not the answer Frank wants. Maybe he knows other truths. "How come you let Kronin go free?"

Frank blinks and stumbles over his words. "Go free?" He's aggravated and it shows in the way his body tenses. "Why that thieving scoundrel is still behind bars and will be for years to come."

It's my turn to blink and take a step back. "Then how the hell did he pay a guard to off my dad?" I cringe at the invading images, of Dad, pulling the knife from his gut, in his cell, blood seeping through his fingers and pooling on the floor. The knife slipping from his cold fingers.

He died alone.

"Jack," Frank leans forward, his eyes, sincere, "you've got the wrong Kronin."

I remember Kyle Kronin talking about his older brother and that stupid saying about moles and squirrels. The truth slips out with a sigh. "It wasn't Kyle."

"We're assuming it was Kyle who killed your dad. It's Kyle's older brother, Ian, who robbed the Gardner with your dad and is now in jail. And I don't think he meant to have your dad killed. The wound wasn't deadly, but the blood loss...."

"Didya lock Kyle up yet?"

"We're still making our case. We haven't found him yet."

I pace. "What the hell did he have against my dad?"

"The paintings, Jack. After Ian Kronin, his older brother, was arrested, your dad hid the paintings. Kyle wanted what he believed to be his share. When he didn't get it...."

A blue jay swoops down, pecks at the ground, and then flies away. "I get it." I sent Ian Kronin to jail, thinking that was the end of the Kronins, and Dad would be free. So my dad, buried six feet under, in a cold, wooden coffin, his lips formed into a smile, no blood pumping through his body—is truly my fault.

Frank stands and coughs into his cupped hand, then straightens, all business. "About those paintings."

"What about them?" I catch on fast when the greedy gleam appears in his eyes. "Are you serious? You're here to find the paintings? You're not even going to say, 'hey, sorry about your dad, kid.' Just 'where are the paintings'? Forget it. I don't know and I don't care."

Frank leans against a tree and closes his eyes, his hand over his stomach.

I forget about Frank's lack of empathy. "Wait! You can't leave yet. I need answers."

Frank's eyes pop open and stare with intensity. "Just like I need the paintings."

"Fine. If I find them, you can have them. But what do I do now? How can I save my dad?"

"You have a choice to make."

"That's what my dad told me, but I keep making the wrong choices!"

"No, son. You refuse to see the truth. Once you see the truth and accept it, then you'll have a choice to make." Frank pales. "No matter how many times you go back, you can't change what happened."

I close the gap between us and grab Frank by the collar. "My dad might be an art thief here and now, but that's because of me. You'll see—"

My hands slam into the nearby birch tree. Frank has disappeared. Gone back to wherever he came from. I slam my fist against the trunk again.

"You'll see."

3:05 a.m.

I climb the fire escape to our apartment. The metal stairs creak and the paint flecks off with my every step. This way in is only for emergencies, but if I enter through the shop, Mom will know. I can't face her right now. There's nothing left to talk about, just empty memories from last year and the guilt.

I reach the window and it's open a crack. The warm air escapes. I pull it up all the way and climb through unable to shake the dread. I stand, numb at what I see.

The apartment is completely trashed. The kitchen cupboards are emptied and hang open. Tupperware and knives and forks litter the floor. I fall against the wall, my heart constricting.

Memories lie broken all over the apartment.

An ugly gash in the recliner stretches from top to bottom and the stuffing flows out like intestines. Dad loved that chair.

The bookshelves Mom painted lie on their sides in splinters.

Mom's nice dishes, passed down from her great grandmother, sprinkle the kitchen floor like breadcrumbs on top of a casserole.

Furniture is upended, their legs in the air. Curtains hang by threads, ripped up the middle. Mom's desk is emptied, the papers scattered, the history of her life and finances in fragmented piles.

Any paintings or pictures on the wall are gone and all that's left are the clean squares of wall where they hung.

This is personal. A common day thief wouldn't want our photographs.

Kronin. The paintings.

I stumble through the rest of the small apartment to find more of the same. I hear muffled cries from the bathroom and stand outside of it. I can't bear to tell Mom I've been suspended.

"I can't stand it." Her voice is shattered glass.

Guilt slashes through me like the thief slashed through our apartment. My fault. Everything. I've made it so much worse.

Mom mumbles too quiet for me to hear. I press my ear against the door.

"The photos. The memories. The money." Her voice rises in pitch. "How could you?"

I lean my head against the door, my eyes closed.

"You promised. You told me everything would be all right." She sneers. "You told me, 'Just a few small jobs to get us through the hard times.'"

I slump to the floor, and cradle my head in my hands, my chest tight. A suffocating weight presses down on me.

"You lied!" Something smashes on the floor. "You lied to me. You lied to yourself. And you lied to your son. You risked everything for the thrill. What were you thinking?"

The same question echoes in my thoughts.

"Well, it's too late now, isn't it, Joseph?"

Sobbing.

And more sobbing.

I push up on shaky legs. I can't listen anymore. But before I walk away, I hear Mom's words.

"But I still loved you."

A lump fills my throat. Love. Did Dad love her back? Did he love me? Love means sacrifice. Love means telling the truth. Love means not going to jail.

I start in the living room and put the furniture back together pillow by pillow. I find places in Mom's desk for the remaining papers and slide the drawers quietly shut. Then I walk into the kitchen. My motions are steady and sure, like a robot, as I sweep up the broken dishes into the trash and put the rest in the cupboards. My heart teeters on the edge, ready to fall with just a puff of the wind.

Cleaning is the least I can do.

After wiping every last trace of the break-in from the apartment, I creep down to the coffee shop. An ache in my lower back spreads to the rest of my body. My head hurts and the cuts on my hand sting from picking up the glass on the floor.

I flip the closed sign on the outside of the door. And then, without a care, I whip open the glass case that shows off Mom's best cookies, muffins, and pastries. I pull out a whole tray and carry it over to a table. At least the coffee shop's still intact. I eat one sweet dessert after another. I can't stop. Chocolate chip muffins, raspberry tarts, jelly-filled croissants, and chocolate donuts.

Halfway through a cinnamon stick, I stare at the wall. And the empty frames. Every yard sale painting had been ripped out and stolen. Flecks of paint lay on the counter and the floor.

6:00 p.m.

Streetlights cast a dim shine throughout the bakery. The tray of sweets sits in front of me, nothing left but crumbs. After sitting for hours, with one swipe, I knock it from the table, a yell erupting from deep inside me. My hands shake.

The door clicks open and the bell jingles. I want to crush the damn bell in my hands and feel the metal bend and twist.

Light steps fall behind me and around me and she picks up the tray, which had skittered across the floor and slammed into the wall. I know it's her by the faint scent of peaches. She sits next to me. I am dumbfounded and can't find the words to breech the gap from our fight earlier. It doesn't matter. Tomorrow, she won't remember anything.

"It was Kronin," I say, my gaze not leaving the wall. I can't bear to look at her and see the hate simmering in the backs of her eyes.

"What do you mean?" Her voice is soft and caring and washes over me. The lump returns to my throat.

"My mom loved those paintings," I croak.

"They were nice paintings. I liked them."

The pulsing hatred behind the words she screamed at me earlier return. She thinks I destroyed her painting. "Why are you here?" The words carry a bitterness I didn't intend.

She sighs and her truth whispers out. "A silver Mercedes followed me home from school today."

"I'm sorry." I dare to look.

The streetlight from behind throws a halo around her face. The soft light caresses her skin and I long to touch her. Her eyes catch mine and there is no hatred. She peers at me from under her long eyelashes. My stomach flip-flops.

She is still here. She hated me all day but in the end it saved her.

"Your hands are bleeding."

She reaches out and lightly runs a finger over the tiny cuts on my skin. Her soft touch sends goosebumps up my arms. She grabs a napkin and disappears into the kitchen. I don't move, soaking in the fact that she's here with me, a gift I never expected. Seconds later, she returns. She dabs my fingertips and hand with a wet napkin then lifts it to my face and wipes the tears filling my eyes and the jelly from the corners of my mouth.

"What happened?" she asks softly.

"Kronin trashed our apartment. He stole all our money." I break and my voice catches. "He stole the paintings."

She runs her fingertips over the little cuts on my hand and then up and down my fingers. Ripples of pain and pleasure spread across my arms and my heart thumps.

"Kronin stole the paintings from the Gardner Museum," Jetta says. "He was arrested years ago."

"That was Ian. His younger brother, Kyle, did this." I look into her eyes, willing to reveal the truth, willing to accept the truth bearing down on me. I'm ready. Finally, after all this time defending him and reasoning away his actions, I can accept his truth, which is now mine. I'm tired of lies. "My dad's the other thief. He was just never caught."

Dad has always been the other thief. I think back to the courtroom during Dad's parole hearing when I struggled to know how to help him. The evidence. The fake security guards. It's too similar to the fake policemen who robbed the Gardner. The whole undercover story was just for me, so I wouldn't think my old man's a crook.

"Kronin wanted revenge?" Jetta asks.

"He wanted the stolen paintings but my dad hid them, so Kronin took these."

"Wait a second." She jumps up from her chair and reaches the wall with the empty frames in two steps. She traces the empty gilded frames with her fingertips. "There are twelve frames here. Some large. Some small."

"So?"

"Don't you get it? The Gardner thieves stole twelve priceless paintings and sketches from the museum, valued at millions of dollars. Three Rembrandts. A Vermeer. A Manet." She shook her head. "I can't remember them all."

"And my dad stole them."

"Where did he get the paintings on these walls?" Jetta asks, her eyes bright with excitement.

"He bought them at a yard sale to help my mom decorate when the coffee shop opened."

This fact I've known for years. Her words resonate with me, and the pieces, the rest of the puzzles pieces appear and they move and form the answer, the part of this I never understood.

She returns to the table and whispers, "Or maybe, he needed a better hiding place for the loot worth 500,000 million dollars."

"Trust me. The pictures on the wall were not Rembrandt and Vermeer."

"The real art could have been underneath."

I stare at the frames, the final pieces fitting together. I should've known. "That's why Kronin's brother killed my dad. He wanted revenge. And he wanted the paintings." The truth strikes hard. When I whispered Kronin's name to Frank, I set the whole thing in motion. Kyle must've thought Dad ratted on his older brother.

Jetta pulls her chair closer, the legs scraping the floor. The fringes of her hair brush my cheek and I breathe in the scent of her, of all things beautiful and sunny. My heart opens and even though a part of me is terrified, I know she's safe.

"I'm sorry about this morning at school," she whispers.

I waver in my seat, dizzy at her closeness. "I'm sorry about your artwork. I would never hurt you." My throat closes up and I barely finish my thought.

"You were serious, weren't you?"

"About what?" I turn my head ever so slightly so we're face to face. Our lips almost brush against each other. So close.

"The art work brings you back in time. To the Gardner."

"Yeah," I whisper back, breathless.

"If people stare at paintings too long, they can get sick. It's a real illness. They can't look at paintings again for a long time, but I've never heard of actual transportation."

"I don't know how it happens. But each time I return, it's March 17th again." I lift my trembling hand and touch her cheek. "I watched you get kidnapped two times."

"Thanks for saving me. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"By staying safe and away from art shows."

"I'll try." She moves ever so slightly forward.

Her breath is on my face. My lips tremble in anticipation.

"Do you have a crush on me, Jack Brodie?"

I can't answer. I've been through too much with her for it to be a crush. But I'm not sure I even know how to love. I thought Dad loved me, but can a man love his family and be a thief at the same time?

I spent the last couple years boarding up my heart, not allowing any feeling in that might cause hurt later. But somehow she's slipped in, her presence brightening my life. I'll do anything to protect her. "I know almost everything about you, even if you barely know me."

"I feel like I know you, though that's impossible," she says. "I want to know you."

I close the gap, our lips meeting ever so softly at first then pulling away. Then we meet again, a bit awkwardly, and then I forget that I haven't kissed a girl in a couple years and think of who she is and what she does to me. Our kiss deepens as I show her what I can't say in words. I reach out and grasp her side, my hand moving to the small of her back. Our breaths catch and the sweet attraction pulses between us. She hesitates and I pull her back, my hand moving up her arms. Her hair is silk under my fingers. The soft part of the palms of her hands touches my cheeks and slide into my hair.

A part of me inside dies knowing that she won't remember this moment.

She pulls back and puts her fingers to her lips. "I barely know you."

I smile. "And you have a three month no kissing rule."

She gasps then nods. "Obviously, you know me."

I lower my head, unable to avoid the task before me even though I long to stretch this moment into eternity. "I have to go back tonight."

"Why?" Her face is flushed.

"My mom. I ruined her life, and I'm responsible for my dad. I have to fix everything."

"Good thing we became friends. What's your plan?" she asks.

"I need to go back and just let the robbery happen. They both have to go to jail. Or they both have to go free. That's the only way to save my dad, and I don't want him in jail."

"What happened the last time you were there?"

"I followed them into the building. They caught me spying and wrapped me up in duct tape like I was a Christmas present." I rub my cheek. "Duct tape hurts coming off."

"How exactly did they get Kronin's name?"

"Right before I left I gave it to the art detective."

Jetta paces back and forth in the coffee shop. "You need to do more than just go back and save your dad."

"What am I supposed to do? Talk my dad out of robbing the museum? Right. I don't think that will go over well."

"You need to stop the robbery from happening. You need to save those priceless paintings. And let both men walk away free."

"But..." I struggle with wanting to impress Jetta. But if I can't save my dad, how will I save paintings?

She sits back down. "After your dad and Kronin enter, sneak in like you did before. Hide behind the entrance desk and threaten to push the panic button unless they leave the museum."

"No problem." I have serious doubts but don't have the heart to tell her.

She fishes around in her pocket. "Just in case. Take this."

I study the small green capsule-like tube. "Lipstick? Sure," I say like she's the crazy one.

"A taser."

"You've had this all along?"

Jetta nods. "I only started carrying it with me today. After I saw the silver car and believed your story. I just thought my dad was paranoid before."

"And, um, why would I need a taser if this plan is so perfect?"

Jetta smiles. "It's like a safety net, just in case you need a quick escape."

"But wait. The paintings are gone from the wall." I jump to my feet. "I have no way of getting there." I panic. All these plans. For nothing.

She taps her fingers on the table, and then pulls a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. She unfolds it and smoothes out the worn creases. "You transport back to the Gardner because every painting you've looked at belongs in the Gardner. So this will have to do.

"What is it?"

"It's a copy of The Concert. Vermeer. It's one of the stolen paintings."

"Why do you have that in your pocket?"

"I always carry a painting by one of the Old Masters. It seems you don't know everything about me, Jack Brodie. Now, stop procrastinating."

I think of the kiss and my cheeks grow warm. "You won't remember me when I come back."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to remind me." She leans over and kisses me again.

"I won't let you forget. That's a promise."

She smiles with a confidence I don't feel. "I'm counting on you, Jack Brodie."

11:06 p.m.

I run my fingers over the lipstick-sized taser. The last two times at the Gardner, I made a mess of things, but life can't get much worse. Jetta made it sound so simple. Hide behind the desk. Threaten to push the panic button. My dad and Kronin will leave and I'll return. Maybe if I keep the paintings safe, Frank will stay away from my family.

I straighten up in my seat and pull the copy of the Vermeer closer. A woman sits at the grand piano, her hair pulled back. A man listens, his back to the viewer. A second woman stands next to the man. I can't tell if she's singing or doing needlepoint. Paintings hang on the wall, behind the piano, and the floor is white and black checkered. Most of the painting hides in shadows, with the natural light spotlighting the woman playing. It's a casual afternoon. Just three friends having fun. I wish for that more than anything. To be free of all of this.
MARCH 18, 1990

12:15 a.m.

I sit on the wet pavement, leaning against the walls of the Gardner. Everything is the same and I feel like the past day was both a blink in time and a never-ending hell. The copy of the painting is clutched in my hand. I stick it in my back pocket.

The college party rocks on, the music blaring from the windows, but I don't give it much thought. The small hatchback is parked down the street and I know who's sitting in the front seats. Ian Kronin and my dad. Probably sitting there all cocky, cracking their knuckles, ready to pull off what will become one of the most famous art thefts in history.

And I'm about to stop them.

I must be nuts.

I stroll down the street once again, then duck behind a parked car near the side entrance. Water slides down the side of the car door and soaks my sleeve. I step back and try to fade into the shadows.

I brace myself for the party kids waltzing out the door and down the street, and their drunken chatter. But this time, without my jacket, they leave me alone. As they laugh and stumble about, I feel a twinge of jealousy at their carefree laughter. They'll be going home to kiss their girlfriends goodnight and sleep knowing their world will be the same when they wake up. The girl notices the cop; and soon, the three of them race away in their car. I'm alone again.

As predicted, Dad and Kronin step out of the car. Dad swaggers a bit with his thumbs in his pocket. When he sees the street is empty, he nods, and they approach the side door. The buzzer is loud enough that I can hear it.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. Adrenaline shoots through me and makes me jumpy. This is crazier than launching a smoke bomb in Big D's garage. This is big time.

As the cops enter, I dart toward the door and stick my foot in it just before it closes. I listen to the initial arguing of the guards, my dad's rough words, and the ripping of duct tape. When all falls silent and Dad and Kronin are tying up the guards in the basement, I enter.

Jetta's instructions jumble in my head and I have to focus. I duck behind the counter but all I see are typical behind-the-desk things like drawers, a trashcan, and stray papers on the floor. It doesn't take long and I'm drawn to the red panic button staring at me all innocent like. This button will keep Dad from a life of crime and make Mom happy. Who said that our problem couldn't go away with the click of a button?

Who am I kidding? Jetta's plan seems way too easy and I realize the loophole. What if Dad robs the museum another time? What if he flies to Paris and robs the Louvre? What if he steals a bunch of diamonds and goes to jail? My face and body heat up. Dad told me to man-up and do my part. I'm pretty sure he didn't mean this, but I have to protect Dad. Permanently.

I listen but there are no sounds on the stairs yet. Dad and Kronin are still in the basement, but they'll return any second. I rip open drawers but find nothing except museum brochures. On the back of the brochure I scribble Frank a note. This plan has to work.

Footsteps echo, and their laughter travels up the stairs and into the room. My hand is shaking as I finish the note and sign my name. The handwriting loops and slants as if I were high when I wrote it. I jam the note into my back pocket for later, then sprint across the small lobby and up the marble staircase to the second floor. My feet slap the floor and sound way too loud. I enter the room where Dad and Kronin are headed.

I have to catch Kronin. Alone.

The large painting with the ship on the water pops out at me. I pad across the tiled floor and stand in front of it. If all goes as planned, the famous Rembrandt will never leave the building.

The foamy spray of the ocean draws me close. The rain batters the sails as a wave crashes against it and floods the boat. The men look afraid, possibly moments before their death. Jesus is in the boat and I know it's him sitting calmly without a care in the world. Years of Sunday school taught me that Jesus always wore white with a blue sash. The guy worked miracles in his time. Too bad he can't work a miracle now.

An ear-splitting sound screeches, penetrating the air. I jump back.

The motion sensors were triggered.

1:48 a.m.

I slap my forehead. How could I forget about the sensors? So much for the element of surprise. The large room is filled with a long table and chairs lining the walls. The room drips with decorations, and the soft colors on the walls create a cozy atmosphere. I feel nothing but terror.

I dart back and forth like a trapped mouse until I see that a part of the room opens up to a stone stairway that leads down to the courtyard. I dash down the narrow steps, my legs barely keeping up with me.

I sprint and the moss is spongy under my feet and the sweet smell of flowers is overwhelming. The alarm hides the sound of my footsteps and the wild beating of my heart.

I stumble through flowering bushes and ferns of the courtyard and hide behind a large bust. The statue whispers to me. _Failure_. I know it isn't real, but it keeps repeating in my head. I push back into the potted plants and ferns.

The screeching noise stops and my breath rattles in my throat. Anyone can hear me.

Water drips in the fountain.

My plan has been ripped apart, like a painting from its frame. The whole museum breathes. The leaves, the paintings, the walls, and the statues whisper. _Failure_.

Footsteps. I hold my breath as voices grow louder. A figure crosses the courtyard. Ian Kronin.

I need to attract his attention for my plan to work. I close my eyes and whisper an apology to the bust before I place my hands against her backside and push. It falls with a crash, echoing throughout the courtyard.

"Hey! I've got him!" Kronin yells.

Dad appears on the balcony. "Take him down with the others."

I streak across the patio in the middle of the courtyard. Hoping to get caught.

"Gotcha!" Kronin grabs my arm and jerks me back. "You're the kid from the street. I knew we should've nabbed you then, troublemaker."

Kronin pushes me along, a painfully tight grip on my upper arm. "Escaped from the party, eh? Out to play pranks on cops just doing their duty. I could have you locked up for this."

I clench my teeth to hold back the many sharp retorts I want to spit out. But I can't screw this up. He leads me back to the entrance, down the stairs to the basement level, and down the hallway. With one last push from Kronin, I stumble into the room where the one guard is duct taped to a furnace pipe.

My knees slam into the floor and pain shoots up my leg. Quickly, I stick my hand in my pocket for the taser. The guard peeks out at me through the duct tape, his eyes wild with terror. He looks like a mummy.

I hear the rip of duct tape and that's all it takes. I whirl around, lunge, and stick the taser into Kronin's thigh.

He shudders and falls to the floor, twitching and jerking. I finish ripping off the duct tape and wrap strips of it around Kronin's face and head to look exactly like the guard. Grunts and groans escape his mouth, along with drool, but I don't feel any compassion, only a slight bit of satisfaction. I drag him over to another pipe and tape him to it.

The brochure with Frank's name on it burns a hole in my pocket and I tape it to the pipe. If Frank agrees to my plan then Kronin will go straight to jail; his brother, Kyle, will go to jail; and Dad will go free in exchange for the stolen paintings.

I race down the hallway and up the stairs to the lobby. Part two of the plan. It just took a little detour for me to get there. Dad hurries down the marble stairs, rolled-up paintings tucked under his arm. His face is grim, his mouth a thin line of determination.

I dive behind the service desk and the red panic button stares at me again.

Ready to be pushed.

2:30 a.m.

I wait for Dad to take another trip out to the car and come back into the lobby. He seems to take forever, the quiet in the museum playing tricks on me. What if he doesn't return? Will my plan really work? I planned on letting him go free, but what if I can talk to him and stop him from stealing the paintings; and then, what if he turns away from a life of crime? Inspired by a teenage boy.

I stand and lean casually against the counter, my legs trembling, waiting. He enters, heading straight for the stairs.

"If you're looking for your partner, you won't find him."

Dad whips around. At first he's surprised, with fear in his eyes, but he masks it and takes on the swagger of a cop. "You pesky little kid. How did you get in here?"

"I have my ways." I struggle to keep my voice from cracking.

"Now, now." He heads toward me. "We're here for a routine investigation. Why don't you come with me, and I'll show you out."

I place my fingers on the button. Nausea churns in my stomach and I sway, a bit dizzy. I'll be leaving soon. "Don't come any closer! Or the real cops will be here in seconds."

His eyes flicker down to my hand below the reception desk. Knowledge is there but he's the master and stays in the role. "Son, we are the cops. We got called in for a disturbance in the courtyard."

A pulse pounds behind my eyes, rocking my head. My fingers clench into a fist. Dad's words slid out like butter on a hot pan for pancakes. I think about his stories, his charm, his laughter. I think about the morning when Dad, dressed in a tux, shared about working undercover. I blindly believed him.

Slick as butter.

Angry tears spring to my eyes and my hands shake. Rage that has always been a part of me pushes to the surface. I yell, the words flying out. "Stop lying to me!"

Dad says nothing, his face pale, like he's been in prison for three years.

"You never tell the truth. I know you're not a cop. You're Joseph Brodie. The biggest con artist to ever live!"

At that moment, I want to press the button and see Dad rot in jail. If I don't save him though, what else will go wrong? What about Mom? And Jetta? I have promises to keep. I breathe deep and get under control. I speak calm and confident. "Leave now and I won't push the button until you're gone."

Dad steps closer.

"Stop! If you take one step closer, I'll press it. Your partner is down in the basement with the guards." I want to order him to return the paintings but I don't have time. If I disappear before Dad leaves then he and Kronin will go free. Nothing will be solved.

Dad stops and holds out his hands. Any fake charm disappears and the swagger is gone. He lowers his voice. "Why are you letting me go?"

"Let's just say this isn't about you." I swallow a hiccup. "Not anymore. Leave."

Dad stares for a long moment. "You've got spunk, kid." Then he turns and walks out.

As soon as the door closes, I slump to the floor. An engine starts outside and roars away down the street.

Seconds later, I disappear.
MARCH 17, 2013

DAY FOUR

6:03 a.m.

The smell of lavender floats in the air. It's a nice scent but one I don't smell often. I'm supposed to return right to the coffee shop and the smell of cinnamon. I dig my fingers through the soft material and into the hard surface beneath me.

I shift and groan. My body feels wrecked.

"Now, now," a cheery voice says, "don't move too quickly. You've had a tough journey. Why don't I make you a hot cup of green tea? It's known to calm the nerves."

The strange voice jolts through me, and I open my eyes to a bright yellow ceiling. An ache spreads across my back. I move to my side to get up but roll off a table and hit the floor with a thump.

The woman laughs, a nice sound that warms me. "I told you not to move too quickly."

I stand and stare at the angel-like vision. Long silver hair flows down her back. Kindness reflects in her eyes and when she smiles her whole face lights up. She looks familiar but I can't place her.

My stomach sinks as I take in what used to be Mom's coffee shop. Panic pricks my heart and spreads fast. A lone table covered with the red velvet cloth is in the middle of the room. Shelves hang on the wall, filled with candles, jars of dried herbs, and health food. Big comfy velvet pillows line the other wall; and an espresso machine sits in the back.

"Nice of you to drop in," she says. "I'm Izzy."

"Where am I?" The closest thing to a coffee shop is the espresso machine.

"You're in my shop, Be Healthy Be Whole."

I breathe deep. Mom never had the coffee shop. I'm not sure what that means to me, or how I screwed up my world with my last trip back. The side of my head throbs and the pieces of my life are scattered everywhere, far enough that I can't find them.

The teakettle whistles. "I'll be right back."

I walk over to the wall where the paintings used to hang. I run my fingers in between the shelves, searching for the tiny nail holes, proof that at one point they were there. The wall is perfectly smooth. I walk to the door and check on Waldo's Gas-n-Go. Some things are the same.

I stare at the door, willing a girl to walk through wearing a green-striped shirt with soft pink lips and a dazzling smile. This is when she's supposed to appear in my life. Right now. First thing in the morning. But the longer I stare at the door, the truth sinks in that it might not happen.

"Here you go. You might want to let that steep for a bit. It's hot." Izzy places the teacup on the table. Steam rises in small curls and then vanishes. "Come take a seat."

I shuffle over and sit. I wrap my hands around the teacup, the heat my only grasp on reality, on this world that is so different from all the others. I touch my lips, remembering the kiss that happened within the past couple hours.

"Cheer up. What's on your mind?" Izzy asks.

"Is there a coffee shop around here?"

"You have to travel uptown to find those shops. The closest coffee here is at Waldo's, and their coffee is terrible, which is why I offer some to my customers."

"Oh." My mind is a blank screen when it comes to what kinds of questions to ask this lady. I probably should go to school and figure out where I live, but a part of me doesn't want to know. Once I walk out this door, the disaster called life will smack me in the face. I want to curl up on my bed and never leave my room. Wherever that is.

Izzy chuckles.

"What's so funny?" My guard goes up.

"I'm sorry, Jack. You really don't remember me, do you?"

I study her face. Her bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks are like something from a storybook. "No."

"We've been having breakfast together every morning for years. Ever since your mom opened one of those fancy shmancy shops uptown. She leaves early in the morning, and you come down and eat with me before school."

Shock ripples through my system and it takes a few seconds before I can form words. "I still live upstairs?"

"Sure do. Frank told me that on this day, you'd arrive here and wouldn't remember a thing. I didn't believe him."

"Frank?" My insides twist knowing he had a hand in anything. He's poison, infiltrating and flooding my life.

"Oh, gosh. You don't know anything. Let's just say in a previous life I was a psychic, so Frank and I had a connection."

Psychic? I slap my forehead. _The_ psychic? The one who closed down her shop due to an angry customer, and Mom then opened the coffee shop? The one my friends and I pranked until she moved out of the building? I gulp. Did she remember anything else about the alternate realities?

"I'm only allowed to tell you so much. Something about overloading the senses. Time travelers can be pretty sensitive."

My eyes widen. "Time travelers?"

"I'll let Frank fill you in on that later."

A question burns and I have to ask. "What about my dad?"

"Your dad?" Her eyebrows shoot up as if she doesn't know him.

A metal hand reaches in through my chest and clamps down on my heart. What horrible life have I inflicted on Dad this time? "He hasn't been around?" I whisper.

"I've never met your dad, and your mum keeps pretty quiet about those things. So do you for that matter." Her eyes are inquisitive but I can tell she won't push the issue and be nosy. Not that I can answer her questions anyway.

I flop down on one of the big cushions and let the air out of my chest in one big breath. Dad's alive, but he still isn't around. Probably in jail. I gave him a second chance, and he failed. Maybe I should've forced him to listen back at the Gardner. Maybe I should've done more.

"Did Frank tell you anything?" I ask, desperate for any kind of information.

"Something about confidentiality. I was told you'd need a friend today, and a little push in the right direction."

My throat is dry but I have to ask. "What about—"

Izzy points to the teacup. "Take a sip. You need it. I also have breakfast waiting for you. Mind you, I'm not as good a cook as your mum, but you've seemed happy enough. I have it warming in the oven. Hold on." She heads back into the kitchen.

I hold my head between my hands. I want to go back. To the first day. Before I time traveled. Dad might've been in jail but that was looking like cheesecake compared to this. Everything has changed...again.

Izzy returns with scrambled eggs and bacon. I lift the teacup to my mouth and sip the hot liquid. It warms my throat and stomach. I think of another morning with Jetta and scrambled eggs and bacon.

"What about Jetta?" I ask, my fingers gripping the teacup. Somehow I get the words out.

Izzy tilts her head, her eyes tender. "I know you have questions. I can tell this Jetta means a lot to you. But..."

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then open them. "You've never heard of her, have you?"

Izzy shakes her head sadly. "Sorry."

I shovel down the rest of my breakfast barely taking the time to chew. "Thanks."

"I'd do anything for you. You know that." I can see in her eyes that she speaks the truth. In this reality, she's happy. "You're like a son to me. The only family I have."

"Where do I go from here?"

"I thought you'd never ask. You need to head to your mum's shop before school. Special anniversary today to celebrate the arts. You have permission to miss the first part of school."

This doesn't sound like Mom at all. In fact, my spirits rise because if she's celebrating the arts then maybe Jetta had a hand in it. "Where's the shop?"

"Just head to the Garden. I promise, you won't miss it."

"Thanks for breakfast. Thanks for everything."

Izzy wraps me in a warm hug. I stiffen. This lady might know me, but she's a stranger. She lets go and I head for the door.

"Don't forget to wear your suit."

Her words sink in and I dread finding out why I have to wear a suit. I can't handle another funeral. Up in my room, I slip my arms into crisp white sleeves. They reach down to my wrists. No buttons are missing. I pull on the smooth black pants and zip them. They hang at my waist, not too tight and not too loose, and don't stop at my ankles. Even though the black jacket and the tie fit perfectly, they feel awkward and wrong.

This is not my cousin Tommy's suit. I hunt around for black shiny shoes but find an almost new pair of white Nikes. I put them on and leave.

8:30 a.m.

I walk into school to gawking faces and gaping mouths. It must not be often that anyone enters dressed for a wedding. Or a funeral.

I walk past the office and Ms. Kale.

I walk past the auditorium where later Principal Nelson will be talking about behavior on visitor's night. The buzz of students and teachers in the hallways feels normal. But I don't care about any of that. I don't care about Mom's coffee shop. That can wait.

I need to find Jetta. The need to find her and see her in flesh and blood, alive and well, is stronger than the desire to find out about my own welfare. Her heart beats with mine and I want to hold her close and tell her about the past three days.

Somehow, I have to convince her to carry the taser even if it means she hates me, punches me, or screams at me again. I'll even destroy her entry to the art festival if I have to, because I care that much. The crime she accused me of, I'm now willing to commit. When I make promises, I follow through. Then I'll go check out Mom's shop.

That's when it hits me.

I stop and press my forehead into the cool cement of the hallway wall, the truth rising inside me. The destroyed paintings prevented Jetta from entering the art festival.

It was to protect Jetta.

Jetta's dad not only gave her kung-fu lessons but a taser. For self-defense. Her dad knew the grandmother was after Jetta. He spent his life running, moving them from place to place, all for Jetta. He cared enough to protect her, even if it meant taking a job as a janitor at her school and asking a boy who seemed like a troublemaker for his name and then framing him.

All of a sudden, I don't feel so alone. Someone else cares enough or more than I do about Jetta. With a racing heart, I continue down the hall, past the janitor's closet to the art room. I hold my breath and poke my head around the corner.

"Oh, you poor thing," a gentle voice croons. Ms. Charpetto crosses the room to a cactus plant with her watering can. "I keep forgetting to water you."

I step into the room and clear my throat.

Ms. Charpetto jumps. The water spills from the can and splashes to the floor. "Sorry about that. Students usually don't sneak up on me this time of day. They're rushing off to homeroom." She narrows her eyes. "Isn't that where you should be? Jack, right?"

I nod. "I'm on my way. I wanted to stop by."

She mops up the water with a paper towel. "Come into my office." She throws away the soaking paper towels and sits on a long black desk.

"Do you have any new students today?" I ask.

She purses her lips.

I add, "Students really good at art and you've signed them up for the art festival this afternoon?" My heart thuds loudly.

"Why Jack, did you enter some artwork?"

I shake my head. "No, I didn't enter. But, I'd like to sign up for that creative art sculpture thing class."

She smiles. "You mean the one graded on effort and attendance."

"Yeah, that one."

"I'll sign you up. Maybe you can convince your friends too."

"I'll try." I stumble over the next words. "Did... I mean, do you...has a girl named Jetta talked to you yet?"

"Oh, I get it, now. Taking art to impress a girl? I guess it's not the first time." She walks over to her desk and looks at her attendance and notes. "No new students named Jetta."

8:45 a.m.

On the way to the office, kids wave and say hello. I receive a couple of high fives and a few girls smile shyly at me, their eyelashes lowered. Girls never smile at me like that. I would've died and gone to girl heaven if they smiled at me like that a couple years ago.

I stumble through the halls, no longer invisible.

Other students know I'm here and my presence is welcome, not spurned like the day before. For some reason I don't like it. I find myself randomly smiling at other kids as we pass in the hall but it feels forced, like it's not me. I want to be invisible again with just my besties.

The first bell rings. Kids scatter into first period classrooms. Doors shut with stragglers sliding in at the last second to avoid detention. I'm one of the only ones still shuffling through the hall.

I stop in front of the office. Ms. Kale must be inside and the door is cracked open. Files lay open on her desk next to a paperweight that reads, "I'm the boss!"

I sneak in and peer over her desk at the papers, looking for Jetta's name and homeroom number on records, on a transfer slip or a class schedule. Something.

"Excuse me!"

I shoot up, knocking over a picture frame on her desk. I cringe, waiting for the barrage of words heading my way. And possibly a couple detentions.

"Why, it's you." She waggles her finger with a smile on her face. "You coming around for a late pass again? I don't know how many more I can give you and your friends."

My jaw drops. Ever since I woke I haven't been able to make sense of this world. I've never seen her smile at a student. Clearly, in this dimension I'm in her good graces. It feels a bit creepy.

"Trying to catch all the flies in my office?" She winks.

I snap my jaw shut and smile. "No."

She waves her hand. "Oh, you remind me so much of your dad."

Those words sink like they're attached to a brick. Just like my dad? At one point I would've given anything to hear those words, but now I'm not sure. Did I want to be just like him? He charmed everyone with his swagger and sweet words, but on the inside, he had a heart of stone. He only cared about one person. Himself.

"What do you need? A pass?" She whipped out a pad of paper.

"No thanks." I hesitate. This is my last chance. If Jetta's not at school then I have no idea where she is. She has to be here. She just hasn't talked to Ms. Charpetto yet. Maybe her and her dad got in late last night and she slept in, so she couldn't stop in at the coffee shop.

I take a deep breath. "Have any new students registered yesterday or today?"

"In March? It's almost the end of the year. No new students. Why?"

I back out of the room, my feet tripping over each other, my stomach sinking. "Just curious."

Ms. Kale says something but I'm already in the hall, running. My new Nike sneakers flap against the tile floor. No new students. No Jetta. Maybe she hasn't registered yet. Maybe she got lost on the way to school.

Desperate to prove I'm wrong and that all the evidence is just coincidences, I sprint back down the stairs to the janitor's closet. I whip open the door.

"Whoa!" A man holds up a mop as if to defend to himself. Cleaning solution splatters all over my suit and face.

"Sorry about that." It's not Jetta's dad. No mop of gray curly hair. No Red Sox cap lying around.

"Looking for a place to lock lips with your girlfriend?" the janitor asks, advancing, armed with a mop and bucket.

"No." I back up. This is the same closet that Jetta pulled me into yesterday and there was no lip-locking happening.

"I'm tired of you kids thinking my supply closet is a motel. One of these days—"

I turn and run. I have to find my friends. They'll answer my questions. I was wrong in coming to school first. Very wrong. I race up the stairs to the first period reading room. Turbo isn't there. I run a few doors down and peek into the social studies class. No wild red hair in sight. My friends aren't at school.

I slump to the floor. This new world feels wrong. The suit doesn't feel right. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to find some control. Only one place left to go.

The coffee shop.

9:13 a.m.

The muggy air weighs on me the moment I step out of school. The wind stirs up the trees, the branches waving. No one notices I've left. Not many people will question a student dressed to kill.

I feel lost. I don't belong anywhere. Not at home. Not eating breakfast with Izzy. And definitely not at school.

I lurk by the iron fence outside school. My friends aren't here, which isn't unusual, but the fact that they didn't let me know is strange. Whenever we skip school, we plan for days so we know how to take advantage of the seven hours, from where we're going to eat breakfast to where we're going to hang so no one can see us.

I push down the feeling that something has gone very, very wrong.

I should zip over to the Public Garden and follow Izzie's instruction but a part of me dreads it.

I take a right out of school and head toward the T station. I truly feel like a time traveler. Alone in the world. No one to understand. If I could take it all back, I would. So what if Dad's in jail? He might have made it out in a few years for good behavior. I've only made life worse for everyone.

The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air. That's a sure sign of trouble by the name of Big D. I press against the metal bars of a fence and look to my right and left. Nothing.

Something hard digs into my back. "Got any smokes?"

I wouldn't put it past Big D to hold a gun to my back for a pack of smokes, but it wasn't Big D. It was a girl's voice, hoarse and raspy.

"I don't smoke." I sound nervous, my voice wavering.

"Whatever." The pressure on my back is removed.

I whirl around.

A girl squats in the shadows of a lilac bush behind the fence. Her greasy blonde hair with black roots hangs in clumps. Smoke puffs out of her mouth and hovers in the air in perfect rings. She flicks her lighter, watching the flame for a second before she lets it die out. She does it again and again.

"You look like a pisser. Life can't be that bad," she says with a sneer.

"Yeah, it can." I grip the metal bars of the fence separating us.

She steps from the shadows and looks me up and down. "What? You lost your daddy's credit card? Life can be tough."

I bite my lip to hold back a bitter laugh. "Yeah, right."

She flicks ashes from her cigarette and steps real close to the bars so her face is inches from mine. A small ring pierces her nose. I can barely make out her eyes under the heavy black make-up. Black lipstick is smeared across her lips.

I step back.

Her hand shoots through the fence and grabs my starched white shirt. On her wrist she wears a spiked black leather band. She pulls me close so I can see the creases in her make-up and the spot on her upper lip where her lipstick went out of the lines.

"Scared?" Her breath reeks.

"Not really."

For just a moment, we look at each other and I see reflected in her eyes, the storm raging inside of me. She loosens her grip and lets her arms fall to her side. Her eyes are no longer suspicious.

"Tell me what's wrong." Her voice is softer.

"Why do you care?" I ask, surprised at her turn around.

She nods back toward the brick colonial behind her. "Because I'm stuck in here with nowhere to go and no one to talk to."

I study the building for the first time. Iron bars run across the windows and the heavy black front door is a mouth ready to swallow kids whole. Even the landscaping in the yard is depressed with the branches hanging low to the ground. This is the school for kids with emotional problems that Big D had been sent to. None of the kids who end up in a place like this have had an easy life. I feel bad for the girl.

"I'm sure it's not your fault you're in here." I want to cheer her up and bring a real smile to her face.

"This isn't about me. I talk to shrinks all day. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure," I say.

"So, what's your problem? They can't be worse than mine."

"I'm a time traveler." The words slip out as if I've been waiting all day for the right person to talk to. No one will believe her even if she does tell anyone.

"And I'm the fat lady at the circus." She grinds her cigarette butt under the heel of her black boot.

"You don't have to believe me. That's not the important part."

"Fine. Go on." She grows quiet and listens.

"I keep making decisions to make life better for my dad but nothing helps. He went from minimum jail time to life in prison to death. And now he's still a jerk even though I set him free from jail."

"I haven't seen my dad in years." Her eyes grow wistful, and for the first time, I see the sadness and pain.

"Dads are crap anyway. You're better off."

"Not my dad. He's the best," she says, her voice hoarse. "I know he is."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know." She fumbles with her lighter, trying to light another cigarette, but a breeze has picked up.

I cup my hands through the bars to block the wind.

"Thanks." She takes a long drag.

"How'd you end up here?" It feels good to focus on someone else's problems. Even with her tough façade, I like her.

"My grandmother sent me here to reform me." Her eyes roll. "I didn't quite turn out like she'd planned."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault. Someday, I'll get outta here and I'll run and never look back."

I lean my head against the bar. "Sounds good. Where will you go?"

"Paris."

"Why Paris?" I ask.

"I want to learn to paint. Become an artist."

I freeze as her words echo in my heart. A chill runs through my body as I study the girl closely.

She has a grandmother.

She was taken from her dad.

It's too similar. I look beyond the smokescreen of the piercings and unwashed hair and make-up.

I stumble back. My heart seizes and I can barely breathe. "What's your name?"

"Anna. But I go by Jetta."

My breath shoots out in short gasps. My whole body trembles. It can't be true. This can't be her, looking like this, depressed, and living in this home. The horror overwhelms me.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost."

I fall toward the gate and grab the bars. "How?"

"What do you mean?"

I force the words out. "How did your grandmother find you?"

Before I can move, she thrusts her hand through the bar and jams the burning end of her cigarette into my chest. It burns through the shirt and into my flesh.

"How the hell do you know about that?" she snarls.

I clench my teeth but don't push her hand away. I deserve it. The pain feels good, stinging, cutting. My eyes burn.

She drops the cigarette. "Who are you?"

My legs twitch. I want to run and never look back, but I have to know. "Just answer the question."

A mask of hatred falls over her face. "My grandmother hired some guy to find me. I was six. But I'll never forget his name."

I swallow the dread building in my throat. "What's his name? Tell me."

"Joseph Brodie."

I run and don't look back. The skin burning on my chest doesn't touch the pain that tears at my heart. My feet slap the pavement. With each step, the truth pounds into my head and body. _Your fault_. _Your fault_ , it says.

Images of Jetta twirling in Mom's coffee shop flash in front of my eyes. Her smile. Her pink lips and sparkly eyes. Her love for life and art. Her gentle touch as she wiped my cuts and her sweet kiss.

I end up on a side street. When I can't run anymore, I stop, my chest heaving. I wish a lightning bolt would strike me dead. I deserve it. A surge of anger rushes through me and I punch the air with my fists and cry out. "No!"

A sob rips past my closed throat. I've been so selfish. All along I've been messing with the Gardner Heist, trying to protect my dad. I wanted a better life, and I seem to have it, but it means crap.

The heist is on me. My life has been stolen. And Jetta's has been decimated.

10:36 a.m.

Across from the Public Garden, I trudge up to the storefront. Each step is harder to take than the last. A large sign hangs above the door. In bold black and pink lettering it reads:

Make Way for the Artists

There's a mama duck at the front and the letters of the sign rest on the backs of the baby ducklings. Next to the sign is a painting of a coffee cup with swirls of steam rising in the air. I choke up. This shop makes Mom's dreams come true. The pot of gold at the end of her rainbow.

_Jetta would've loved it_.

The door opens and the smell of cinnamon and coffee rush out. Just like the old shop.

"Are you going to stand around all day?" It's Stick. Except his wild red hair is slick with gel and parted at the side. He's wearing a sharp-looking suit.

I enter and stand in shock, unable to move even if I wanted to.

I'm in Oz. The shop is spacious with large windows. Black iron curly Q tables fill the room, with chatty, happy customers sitting at them. Along the back, a shiny counter showcases Mom's good cooking. Everyone wanders through the shop, studying paintings while sipping coffee.

_Jetta would've loved it_.

Stick waits tables. He smiles. He laughs. He charms the customers. His rough and tough edge and the dark shadows that were permanently under his eyes are gone, like all the abuse he suffered from his dad never happened.

A door in the back swings open. A tall, hulking teen lumbers through, carrying a tray of chocolate chip muffins. He also wears a black suit but has a white apron around his waist. It's Turbo. His black and shaggy hair is gone, not slicked back, but cut in a short movie star fashion. He whistles as he loads the glass case with the goods.

I inch forward. The friends I know are gone. I liked my friends the way they were. They might not have been perfect, but who is?

A boy I don't recognize works behind the counter. I look closer and my heart clenches. It's Big D. Mom offered Big D a job too. My eyes sting and I blink furiously.

I take the nearest chair, feeling sick. The room bustles with happiness and energy. Even though my life seems full, I feel hollow inside. Wasn't this everything I hoped for? Everything I fought for? But where's Dad?

Stick serves me a coffee. "Dude, you look bad. Drink some coffee then get to work. This is our busiest day."

"Why are you working for my mom?" I ask.

Stick narrows his eyes. "Dude, we've been working for your mom a couple years."

"Why?"

He slaps me across the head in a friendly way. "It's all part of your mom's plan to save us from drugs and the street. I've gotta get back to work. Slop that down and then help out." Stick leaves to clear and wipe down tables.

The cream swirls in my coffee, the color turning from black to tan. Mom must be happy if in this lifetime she whipped all our lives into shape. That's good. I wanted to fix my mistakes, but why did it have to be at Jetta's expense?

I have to get out. The happiness in this place weighs on me, suffocates my ability to breathe or think. With coffee in hand, I escape outside to one of the tables lining the sidewalk. People walk by holding onto their hats. Quite a few enter the shop, seeking solace from the wind. Each time the door opens a little bell tinkles.

I pull my coat together, gritting my teeth against the searing pain of the cigarette burn.

"You look lonely out here." Mom lets the door to the shop close, blocking out all the sounds and smells of the present. She sits in the chair across from me. The gray is gone from her hair, replaced with blonde highlights. The sparkle is back in her eyes, and she looks younger, or maybe it's the smile.

For a brief moment, I worry that Kronin is back in her life. "Do you know anyone named Kronin?"

She laughs. "What a silly question. Of course."

I let out a breath of air and slump lower in my seat.

"Why bring him up after all these years?"

"All these years?"

"He's your dad's friend, but he and his brother Kyle have been in prison ever since the Gardner Heist. I hope they never get out. All that precious art. Gone forever."

The burden of protecting Mom and Dad disappear. The Kronins are both in jail. Mom doesn't seem to have a clue that her husband was involved in all that stolen precious art. Frank honored my note and left Dad out of jail in exchange for the Gardner paintings.

"Since when did you start liking art?" I rattle off questions like a drill sergeant shouting orders.

She taps her finger against her chin. "I don't know. Your dad must've gotten me into it."

"Where is Dad?"

"Did you get enough sleep last night?" She tucks her hair behind her ears. "I wondered when you'd ask these questions. You've been quiet about him for a while."

"Well?"

"Your dad wishes he could be around more. He's always jet setting somewhere for business."

"What exactly does he do?"

"Something with art. I don't understand everything. He's not allowed to share that much. He helps recover stolen pieces, undercover work, but that's all I know."

"Where did you get the money for all this?" I nod back toward the shop.

A big smile spreads across her face. "Isn't it great? I didn't realize you were so interested in the business end of the shop. Part of it is money from your dad and part from generous donors who like to see the local artists appreciated and showcased. It's really taken off and supporting itself now."

I sip the lukewarm coffee. The wind sends tiny ripples across the surface of it. A part of my mission succeeded. No doubt. But it didn't miraculously change my dad. It just kept him out of jail. He's still chasing down art.

"You know I'd love to chat all day, but we have a busy morning. Anything else you need to know?" She moves to the edge of her chair, ready to leave.

My throat tightens. This is more attention than Mom ever showed me over the course of my entire life. She cares enough to come out and talk. She cares enough to help me and my friends stay out of trouble.

"Where are all the paintings Dad gave you for the shop?"

Mom waves her hand. "Those things? I sold them off to an old lady years ago."

I stop breathing for a moment. "You gave them away?"

"Your dad had the same reaction. His whole face went pale and he almost got sick. He tried to track them down but could never find them. I had no idea they were of such sentimental value or I would've kept them."

Inwardly, I cringe. Part of my deal with Frank, in exchange for Dad's freedom, was the paintings. But the 500 million dollar stash of art is hanging in some lady's house eventually to be sold at a yard sale or given away to grandkids.

"Anything else?" Mom stands and tightens her apron.

I want to ask another ten questions, knowing she'd stay and answer them. But no matter how good life is for Mom, my friends, and Dad—it feels wrong.

"Are you happy?" I ask.

She tilts her head and the answer comes fast and easy for her. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" She leans over and kisses my head. "Finish up and then come inside. Tuck in your shirt and straighten up first."

11:38 a.m.

I peer through the window for _Make Way for the Artists_. I breathe against the glass and then smear the cloud with my fingers. I'm a stranger...peeking in someone's window and viewing a life that isn't mine. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Stick or Turbo. Mom chats up the customers. Big D's behind the counter.

But Jetta is missing.

This was her idea. She should be here to celebrate the artists. Her paintings should be on the wall. She should be here to laugh and hold my hand and twirl between the tables, lighting up the place with her presence.

When I went to the Gardner it was to get Dad out of jail and bring him home, but that didn't happen. My life is different. My friends are different. Mom is different. But Dad is the same.

A con artist.

A thief.

I have to live with the fact that I set him free from a life in prison in exchange for Jetta's life.

"I see you took my advice."

I refocus and make out a derby hat in the reflection of the shop window. I don't turn around. "Yeah."

"Glad to see Izzy pointed you in the right direction," Frank says.

"She got paid."

"Oh, it's more than that. Her life has changed for the good all because you took a chance and made the right decision. She used to be a psychic, barely making her way in the world, and now she owns the healthy living store."

"So you remember talking to me in the courthouse? And right after the Gardner Heist?"

"Sure do. We appreciate your help."

"We?" I ask.

"Me and the boys at the office. We track down stolen art, and you brought two thieves to justice."

I hear the scrape on the cement as Frank pulls out a chair.

"But one of them was my dad." I wipe the rest of my breath cloud off the window, realizing I just made more work for Mom.

"He's been helping us for years. You're following in his footsteps. Changing lives."

Changing lives? Those words sound like a soap opera to me and that's what my life has turned into. I remember what Mom said. "What about the paintings? My mom sold them."

"I still hope to find them. Until then, your dad has been working off his debt."

I watch my friends hustle around in the shop. The smell of cigarette smoke drifts by. So maybe if Mom hadn't sold off the paintings, Dad would be home and more a part of the family.

_It's your fault_.

"Why don't you sit down, so we can talk about your future." Frank pushes a chair out.

I take one last long look at my friends and Mom and then sit down. "What do you mean? My future?"

"You have the makings of a brilliant time traveler art detective. Follow in your old man's footsteps." Frank cocks his hat and leans back in the chair.

"My dad is a thief." I struggle to mask my true emotions.

"Let's just say we've overlooked some poor decisions on his part in exchange for him tracking down lost art and preventing big heists, like you almost did with the Gardner."

"I didn't do anything." My voice cracks. "The paintings are gone. My dad is gone."

The image of a face with piercings and dark make-up flash in my mind. The twisted look on her face.

_It's your fault_.

"Maybe so," Frank says. "But the thieves were brought to justice and look at the profound effect it has had on your life. On your mom and your friends. They'll rise above the rough streets."

I remember the look of pain and sadness in Jetta's eyes.

_It's your fault_.

"What if I don't want to be like my dad?" I scrape my fingernail down the side of the black iron table. That used to be all I wanted. To be like my dad. The Brodie who could charm a room with his smile and witty jokes. The Brodie everyone looked up to and feared and admired.

Frank takes off his hat and runs his fingers along the rim. "There aren't too many people with the ability to use art to transport through the time space continuum. We'll make sure your family and friends are safe."

In my mind, I see the mask of hatred fall across Jetta's face and feel the burn of her cigarette on my flesh. It still burns.

_It's your fault_.

"All my friends?" I ask.

Frank's lips twitch. He leans forward in his chair. "Well, not all of them. You see, with every choice we make in time travel there's what we call fall out. Others call it the butterfly effect. Nothing is ever perfect. For every positive effect there's also a negative effect."

The skin on my chest still burns. Hotter than hell.

Frank says, "It doesn't matter how many times you go back, there will never be the perfect solution. Someone will pay the price."

"Are you a time traveler?"

Frank nods yes.

"Why don't you find the art thieves?"

"First, I'm dead. I traveled here from the past. Second, I'm a detective, so I can't be the inside man too. That's the role your dad plays. Someday, I'm hoping you'll take his spot."

I stop asking questions. I flash back to the middle of the night when Dad first appeared to me. He wore the fancy tuxedo to mingle at parties with people who might be thieves. No wonder he changed. Working as a slave for Frank and turning his back on his buddies and the way of life he loved had sucked the life right out of him. Dad had been right when he said I'd have a decision to make. From the very start I looked for the wrong kind of decision.

"Anymore questions?" Frank asks.

"No."

"Enjoy the wonderful new life you've made for your family. Someone from the department will contact you in the future, when you're of age." Frank stands and straightens his suit coat. He nods and strolls down the street, getting lost in the crowds.

I stand and press my hands against the shop window. Am I willing to accept the changes? Mom's happy. My friends will make it out of high school alive. Big D's safe. Dad's out of jail. Life should be perfect. But...

_It's your fault_.

Those are the only words that speak to me.

12:16 p.m.

I open the door to the coffee shop. The whirlwind of smells and laughter overwhelm me.

Stick rushes by carrying a tray of dirty dishes. He shoves a wet rag into my hands. "Here. Wash down those tables by the Rembrandt."

With the wet rag in hand, I walk between the tables to the far wall. A battle rages in my mind, going back and forth between the good and the bad of this alternate reality. And there is so much good. But one person shouldn't have to be the sacrifice for that happiness. Life shouldn't work that way.

The Rembrandt is a copy of A Lady and Gentleman in Black. A woman with a white clown collar and a pale face sits in a chair. A man with a Zorro-like cape stands in a heroic stance. I stare into the man's eyes, captivated by the look on his face.

The man looks lost, even for a hero.

Moments later the wet rag drops from my hand.
MARCH 18, 1990

12:30 a.m.

Without a glance at the gray hatchback, I cross the street. The chill in the air sends shivers down my arms. This journey is a repeating nightmare, one I hope will end soon. Further down the road, I duck behind the cars still wet from the earlier rain.

The first time I traveled back to the Gardner heist, I was clueless. I didn't even know I went back into the past. Naively, I thought the men in the hatchback were real cops. The drunken kids scared the shit out of me when we fought over Dad's leather coat.

None of that scares me. None of that matters.

My goal is to stay hidden until the heist is over or until I'm transported back.

After all this time, I finally know the choice I have to make. I know what Dad was crying out for and asking of me, even if he didn't realize it at the time.

Dad wants to be set free.

Even if that means going back to jail for stealing diamonds.

I'm about to observe one of the world's biggest art heists. And do nothing to stop it. The heist has to happen exactly the way it's supposed to happen. With the thieves escaping. The famous paintings never being found. And neither Dad's name nor Kronin's name ever becoming part of the heist history.

I pick a spot where I can see the museum between two cars and crouch down, hidden.

1:00 a.m.

In my mind, I distance myself from the museum, from Dad and Kronin, from the heist that Jetta wanted me to prevent. The college kids from the party come and go, roaring away in their car. They've nothing to fear from the cops watching them.

The street is still and silent.

Cold water drips onto my head from an oak tree towering above. A shiver races down my back as the water trails down my scalp. I try not to move.

The doors open to the hatchback. The hinges squeak. The thieves with their Boston police patches and official trench coats step out. The slam of the car door echoes in the night. They approach the side door of the Gardner with the swagger of real policemen.

I listen as the thieves convince the guards they need to check out a disturbance in the courtyard. The door buzzes and the thieves enter.

I used to be mad that Dad turned out to be such a con artist, but now, it just makes me sad. He's the one missing out on life, while chasing down the next thrill.

The door to the Gardner clicks shut. The street is still and silent once again.

1:24 a.m.

I envision the thieves asking the guard to call down any other staff. Dad'll ask him to step out from behind the desk because he looks familiar. That's the crucial moment when he moves away from the panic button. That button is the only way to contact the outside world.

The action and sounds of the heist play out in my head as if I'm there in the room.

Handcuffs click around the guard's wrists. Duct tape rips. The thieves herd the guards into the basement and reassure the hostages they won't be hurt.

My fingertips are sore because I'm digging them into the grit on the sidewalk. I shake them out, then close my eyes and picture the movements of the thieves.

1:48 a.m.

They steal up the marble steps of the staircase and into the first room. As they move too close to the painting the motion sensor sounds.

From the street, I hear it briefly before it stops when Dad smashes it in with his foot.

They move across the room to the Rembrandt of Jesus in the boat. They smash the painting out of its frame and roll it up.

"Sorry, Jetta," I whisper into the night air. But this night is for her. I'll sacrifice these paintings for her happiness.

They take down and slice out another Rembrandt. And then a Vermeer and a Finck. And for good measure, they snatch a Chinese goblet.

1:51 a.m.

My heart rate increases and my breathing is shallow. I remember setting off the smoke bomb in Big D's garage. My friends and I had been giddy with the thrill of doing something we shouldn't. My senses were on high alert that night, and afterward I couldn't suppress the laughter. But we were just children playing a prank. I envision the thieves running through the rooms filled with paintings, feeling the same way.

Maybe that's how Dad got started in his life of crime. A small prank meant just for thrills. And then he was hooked.

The thieves enter a small, narrow room. A portrait of Isabella Stewart Gardner hangs on the wall, watching over her prized possessions. They ignore the cold stare of Isabella and grab five small sketches from the wall, leaving shards of glass and wood on the floor. One thief jumps on top of a cabinet and starts unscrewing the glass case protecting Napoleon's battle flag. Instead of finishing, he rips off a small eagle from the top of the flagstaff.

I think about Jetta's dad destroying the student artwork and framing me. I doubt her dad ever felt giddy from crime. He did it to save his daughter, not for the thrill. But did that make it right?

I hug my arms tighter around my body. A wave of dizziness hits me. I won't be here much longer. I peek through the cars at the museum.

Footsteps echo behind me, and prickles shoot up and down my spine.

I whip around and see nothing but shadows. Everything in me screams to run, to leave right now, back to my world, but I can't. I'm frozen. Terrified. Curious.

A dark shadow rushes me, his body, a hulking mass. I try and move but he rams into me; my body is thrown against the car. The air shoots from my chest. I stumble forward, and his rough hands find me. Again, a violent shove. I fall to the ground; the pavement jars my body. My teeth rattle, and my ribs feel crushed.

He moves, but all I see are darting shadows and hollow, haunted eyes gleaming from underneath the hat pulled low. Familiar and disarming.

His arm lifts high in the air. Fast. Purposeful.

I see the glint. The shine. The blade of a knife.

Shit.

He brings the knife down. I roll but I'm too late. Pain sears my side. Immediately, my skin feels wet. The blood soaks my clothes, the metallic smell rising between us. I want to fight. To follow my instinct. To survive. But I can't.

The ache grips my heart and shatters it to pieces. "Dad?"

Laughter, mocking and deep, chills me.

"I ain't your dad, kid."

The spit dries in my mouth. I can't place the voice. It hits me that this guy isn't playing around. He's got me. Separated from my world. I'm not born in 1990. No one would ever miss me. No one in my reality would ever find me. I take several deep breaths. I'm tired of being scared, tired of his mind games.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask. My voice sounds braver than I feel.

He steps forward so he's half in shadow, half in light. I still can't make out his face.

"Just like your dad. Cocky. Selfish. So sure of everything but blind to the people around you."

He's on the edge of losing it. I think back to all my times dealing with Stick. Better to lay low than try and prove myself to this psycho. I can't move anyway. The pain is too great.

"If you think you and your dad are the only ones to jump through time. Think again." His voice turns hard and mean. "I worked my whole life for this job. Each time you go back and interfere, I never end up with the paintings. It's his fault. Your dad stole from me. And now I'll steal something precious from him. His son. Payback's hell."

"It's been you." He's been following me, watching me. Leaving me notes. Hitting me with his car.

"Yeah, that's right. I've been watching, waiting for years. I figured at some point, you'd end up at the heist. I was right. And Jack Brodie, you've made the wrong decisions."

I groan and grab my side. Instinct commands me to crumple to the ground, pretend the injury is worse than it is.

He laughs and steps into the light. I recognize the bushy hair and big nose.

Not Kyle. But, Ian Kronin. From some other reality. Some other time. Just like me.

"Goodbye, young Brodie." He gives me one last kick in the gut. "I'm sure no one will ever miss you."

I watch. Instead of fading into the shadows, Ian approaches the side door of the museum. He works on the door, trying to open it. I hear the metal against metal.

He's going inside.

My dad's inside.

This guy wants total revenge. He'll mess up the heist and my life. If he kills my dad, I'll never be born.

I scramble to my feet and make it across the street. Just as he slips inside, I stick my foot in the door. I wait, clutching my side as the blood seeps through my fingers. I give him time to climb the stairs or go down a hallway.

Seconds pass. A sweat breaks out. Do I enter? Or is he waiting for me? Did he hear me cross the street? Did he realize the door never clicked shut?

I lick my lips. Cautiously, I open the door. The dark envelops me and I cringe. Waiting for a blow. It never comes.

The room is quiet and still.

Somewhere in the building, footsteps echo. Instead of tracing the path of the heist, I head down a different hallway.

Blood seeps. Drops splatter the floor. Leaving a trail. Shit. Everything's messed up. In the dark, the paintings and tapestries on the walls look creepy. Pale faces stare at me, illuminated by fake candles.

I turn a corner and see Ian flash into a room. I wish for Jetta's taser. Something to protect myself. I grab a vase from a table in the hall. I hope it's not a million dollar one. I reach a wide stairwell at the opposite side of the building.

I'm the predator now.

Muffled noises sound from the rooms above. The museum has three floors that wrap around the courtyard. They could be anywhere.

Footsteps echo far enough ahead that I can't see him but close enough that I can hear him.

I suck in a breath, grip the vase, and press against the wall. My eyes dart back and forth expecting Ian to appear, a knife in his hand.

No one comes. I breathe out. My whole body shakes. I have to go on. I enter a room. The lavish decorations drape the walls and furniture like I'm in another time period. I cross through several rooms.

Then I hear movement. Close by. He's in the next room.

I stand at the doorway, waiting, ready. I'll knock him out, drag him outside, and the heist will happen as it's supposed to. They'll have no explanation for the drops of blood on the floors.

Footsteps are right on the other side. I hear his breathing. I lift the vase.

When the shadow appears in front of me, I bring the vase down against his head. The ceramic cracks and shatters. Pieces fall to the floor.

The man collapses, groaning, his hands gripping his head.

Someone claps. The voice digs through me like his knife did before. "I couldn't have done it better myself." The alternate-reality Ian struts over. "Thanks for taking care of everything. My job is almost done here." He salutes and leaves the room.

I drop to my knees and roll the man over. "No!" It's my dad. Streams of dark crimson pour down the side of his head. My chest shudders and I hear sobs. Mine.

I shake him. Yell at him. But he doesn't respond. I lay my head on his chest. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.

I stay like that. Dad groans and mumbles every so often.

I don't know how much time has passed when I hear sirens wail in the distance. It clicks. Ian pressed the panic button on his way. To make sure we're stuck here.

Shoving my arms under Dad's shoulder, I drag him across the floor. "Come on, let's go." I make it half way across the floor. "You can do it. Help me." His body is dead weight. He's groaning. Asking questions. But completely out of it.

The real Ian Kronin, Dad's friend and partner in crime, rushes out the door with the last of the paintings tucked under his arm. "Hey!" I yell, but he disappears.

Pain jabs at my side. The blood runs down my stomach. Everything will be okay if I can just get my dad outside and into the shadows. No one will see us. No one will know.

His legs thump down the wide marble stairs. I'm almost there.

The doors burst open. The uniforms flood the room. Their footsteps thud and their badges flash. The men yell. Questions pepper the air, aimed at Dad and me, but their voices are one big buzz. All I can see is the blood staining my hands, my arms. Dad's blood. All I can see is the pain in his eyes. All I can see is that I've failed.

Again.

Dad jerks into consciousness as if he has a built-in radar for cops. He reaches in the back of his pants. The barrel of a gun gleams.

Shots ring out.

I scream.

Dad lies in my arms. Bleeding. Two bullets entered his chest. The room blurs. My stomach churns. I crunch over, hanging onto my dad but I'm ripped from his arms, and I'm gone.
MARCH 17, 2013

DAY FIVE

12:10 a.m.

I wake up on the floor in my room.

Immediately, I stand. I don't even dare to think that this life is back to normal. I know it will be some twisted version. One that hurts the people I love.

I glance at the blood on my skin and clothes. I feel for the wound at my side. I push past my injuries. I can't think about them. I have to go back. Now.

I stumble across my room and fall. I groan and curl in a ball. Tears leak out. Is this what it has come to? That I won't survive? Dad's dead and I'm next?

Ian Kronin wins?

Never.

Just the thought of his bulbous nose and cocky voice motivates me. He's the one who's been following me, watching me. It was never my dad.

I push up to my feet, wobble, and then grab a baseball bat from the umbrella stand. It's not my dad's but it will do. Half way down the stairs, my legs give out on me, and I fall.

The thuds and clomps wake everyone up.

I land at the bottom. I need to get to a painting.

"Call the police!" Mom calls.

Heavy footsteps follow my path down the stairs. I know it can't be Dad. I crawl toward the other wall where I pray the paintings are hung.

A familiar voice says, "You call them, Eliza. I'll take care of this."

I stand. "No! Don't! It's me." I hold up a hand against the glare of a flashlight.

"Who the hell are you?"

"It's me. Jack!"

Mom hurries down the stairs. She screams. I realize I'm covered in blood. "We have to call an ambulance."

Kyle tries to shoo her back upstairs. "It's just some street kid. I'll take care of it."

I whirl around. The paintings are gone. The wall is practically bare.

I grab at Kyle, gripping onto the front of his shirt, and flash a look to Mom. "The paintings! Where are the paintings?"

Mom places her hands on the sides of my face. She's crying. She stumbles away. "I'll call the hospital."

"Mom," I beg. "Where are the paintings? Please tell me."

Her face pales, there's compassion in her eyes, but also a cold indifference. She doesn't know me. I've never existed. "You're just confused. I'm not your mom, but we'll help you. Don't worry."

I turn to Kyle. "You!"

Kyle grips the flashlight like a weapon. Like I'm crazy and might do anything.

"Where are they?" I demand.

Kyle pales and backs up. I see it in his eyes. He's knows which paintings I'm talking about. He just doesn't know my part in it or that my dad ever existed or his brother is a murderer.

Then I remember the copy of the painting that Jetta gave me. My back pocket. I reach around back and pull it out. I stare at the different textures, the dark and light shadows, the truths woven into the painting.

The room blurs.

Mom screams.

And I'm gone.
MARCH 18, 1990

12:30 a.m.

My back leans up against the brick wall of the Gardner. The baseball bat is still clenched in my hands.

I glance at the hatchback.

Then I stand, wavering, and walk along the side of the Gardner then cross the street. I can barely make it. Maybe they'll think I'm a drunk college student.

Moonlight shows me the path and I hide next to a car, beneath the branches of the oak tree.

Car doors open. Dad and Kronin approach the building. They talk with the guards and enter.

I wait, knowing the alternate Ian Kronin, my stalker, the time traveler from a different reality will arrive any second.

My strength is failing. I'm not sure I'll last much longer. But I'm determined to set things right. This isn't about the heist anymore.

Footsteps echo. I grip the bat with determination. No more fear. I only need to last a little bit longer. The time for talk is over. There's no reasoning it out with this guy.

I turn just as he rushes me. I swing the bat.

I hear the thud of the bat against Ian's head. His body hits the pavement. My body shakes with the adrenaline. I do my best to drag him off the sidewalk, but I can't make it. My knees give out, and I crumple on top of him.

Between the cars, I stare at the museum. At the brick wall.

Scenes from the heist, the path through the museum, run through my head. My breathing is shallow. I don't really feel the pain anymore.

2:41 a.m.

I drift in and out of sleep the whole time. Kronin is knocked out. I press my fingers to his neck. He's still alive. Eventually, he'll leave this reality. Just like I will.

Their time in the museum should be almost over.

Back on the main floor, the thieves steal one more painting. Manet's Chez Tortini. A portrait of a man sitting in a French café. They check the guards one last time. Before leaving, they steal the video recording of their entrance and the printout of their movement throughout the museum. As a joke, they leave the empty frame of the Manet on the security director's chair.

The side door opens. The thieves leave the museum with rolls of paintings tucked under their arms. Their shadowy forms are a blur. After two trips, they roar off down the street.

An ache spreads through my jaw from clenching my teeth together. Exhaustion sweeps through me. I once thought I knew all the answers. But now, I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. Right or wrong blur together. Love and hate walk the same line. Good and bad are friends.

"Goodbye, Dad," I whisper as the red taillights disappear around the corner. My head rolls to the side.

Nausea churns in my stomach. Moments later, just the branches of the oak tree quiver in the breeze.
MARCH 17, 2013

DAY SIX

12:01 a.m.

Something tickles my nose, and I swipe at it. My forehead itches. I swipe again. Snorts and stifled laughter echo in my room, and it's not from Mom's late night television. I vaguely remember stumbling upstairs last night. I stripped my clothes and found a skin wound. I washed up, bandaged it, swallowed some Tylenol and fell into bed.

My nose is cold and wet. Slowly, I wiggle my fingers. They're cold and wet. Without opening my eyes, I lick my upper lip. Whipped cream. Definitely. A tiny smile creeps over my face. Stick and Turbo are in my room, playing a silly prank.

"Was that a smile? I think he just smiled," Turbo whispers.

"Nah, he's out like my old man after a night's drinking."

I stifle another smile. Stick seems back to normal, which means he's had talks with my dad.

"Hurry up and take the picture."

I groan and move around in bed as if I'm having a bad dream. "No," I mutter.

"Crap. He must be dreaming about tomorrow. Maybe we should've just gone to the cemetery as planned."

"No way. That's why we're here. We're not letting him go through this alone."

I mumble.

"What's he saying?"

I mumble again. I wait until I feel their breath on my face. I open my eyes and jam my hands full of whipped cream into their faces and yell, "Gotcha!"

Turbo stumbles around the room like a zombie with his arms out. "I'm blind. Help. I can't see."

Stick splutters and gasps while staring in shock. A clump of whipped cream is smeared across his forehead and into his red hair.

"I've been meaning to tell you that you're in desperate need of a makeover," I say.

Stick jumps on the bed and puts me in a headlock. Pain shoots through my side. "Hey, loser, hand me the whipped cream."

"Don't do it, Turbo. Or you'll be next," I say, smothering my laughter.

Stick rubs his knuckles against my head. "Hand it over."

"I'll tell all the kids at school, you still pee the bed," I call out.

"You wouldn't dare."

The springs in the mattress groan as Turbo lands on top of us. "I'm tired of taking orders from you two. From now on, I'm in control."

With that, Turbo finishes off the can on both of us. We erupt into laughter while trying to be king of the mountain. Blood seeps through the bandage.

"Hey!" Mom yells from the doorway.

Tears immediately spring into my eyes. Mom is back to her crabby self. I stop pulling Stick's hair and we slowly stop and turn.

"Look at you boys sitting all in a row like little ducklings. Take the tomfoolery downstairs. I don't care what you do as long as you clean up." She turns back to her room and slams the door.

I break out in laughter and grab towels from the hall closet for my friends. "I'll clean it up later. Let's go downstairs. I'm starving."

Stick wipes the whip cream from his face and arms, then he picks up the suit that lies over my chair. His face turns serious even though his hair sticks straight up in the air due to the whipped cream. "Dude, you ready for tomorrow?"

I pause and think about court. This time, I know Dad isn't an undercover agent. I know he robbed a museum and stole diamonds. And I know that life could be a hell of a lot worse than Dad staying in jail.

12:45 a.m.

After I kick my friends out, I head upstairs. I turned down the romp through St. Auggies because I'm exhausted. I barely make it up the stairs. The wear and tear of time traveling has caught up to me. I head to the bathroom, take a quick shower, and put on a new bandage.

I throw all the dirty sheets in the laundry and collapse onto the mattress. But once in bed I have a hard time falling back to sleep. The darkness weighs on me but this time the sweats and the shakes don't come. The fears that have plagued me for years don't draw near.

This time I think about a girl and her silky black hair. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep and dream about our kiss. I want to relive it again and again. The night can't pass fast enough when in the morning she'll flounce through the coffee shop doors. I hope.

But a nagging thought won't let go. Will Dad arrive tonight? Will he make his appeal to me as if nothing happened? I roll back out of bed, the springs groaning. The floor feels familiar under my feet and it's the small things I cling to: Mom's late night television and her crabby moods, the creak of the floors and the smell of cinnamon. The parts of my life I once complained about now seem silly.

I pass Mom's frilly purple umbrella—the baseball bat is gone—and creep partway down the stairs. On the fourth step, I stop and take a seat. So much has changed and yet everything is the same. I pick up the chocolate bar wrapper from earlier in the week and crunch it in my hand.

Wishes for a better life, a different life, a longing that once rattled in my chest is gone. In its place is a full sort of feeling, the kind of fullness after eating Thanksgiving dinner but before having the dessert. Or when Stick, Turbo and I finish off a bag full of pastries and lie in the cemetery with the grass tickling our necks and nothing but the moon and the gravestones surrounding us. Content. Happy. I've been to the other side and back.

I know truth. No one is perfect. No life is perfect. Someone has it worse. Someone has it better. Take each day and enjoy it.

I slide down the remaining three steps and peer into the darkness, which doesn't seem quite as dark as it did before. The moon shines on the puzzle, and the glitter on the table sparkles. I fight the urge to fit in the last remaining pieces of the puzzle.

I study the outline of the paintings on the wall, wanting to see if Dad will appear. But it isn't my dad. Not really. Not the dad I grew up with. Not the dad who made s'mores and hunted for constellations. Not the dad who stuck up for my friends. And not the dad who loved the thrill of a good heist.

Dad told me I'd have a choice to make. That it was up to me.

I whisper into the darkness. "I hope this is what you wanted."

I breathe in the smell of cinnamon, knowing Dad's in the right place, the right time. Then I turn to go up to bed. Close to the top, I pause, hearing the scrape of a chair, a small scratching sound as if someone bumped into it.

With a small smile, I climb the last few steps.

7:35 a.m.

Tommy's suit is still too short and still too scratchy around the neck but it doesn't bother me. I enter the coffee shop and breathe in the sweet familiar smell of cinnamon.

This day will be hard for Mom, and I don't want to make it worse. Images of _Make Way for the Artists_ flash through my mind. My mom and my friends were happy in that alternate reality, but deep inside, I know I made the right decision.

Happiness for my mom and my friends could still happen. Some day that dream can be a reality. And I'll make sure Jetta is around to be part of it.

The paintings are on the wall, large and small. As far as anyone knows, they're just paintings Dad bought at a yard sale. I know the treasure that lies beneath will stay hidden for years to come.

"Need help, Mom?" I call out.

"Just stay outta my way."

"Sure thing." I grab a cup and pour coffee. Steam rises into the air. I'll miss Mom asking questions and showing she cares, but maybe someday that will change too. Nothing is ever written in stone. Whatever we decide today affects tomorrow.

I dump a bunch of sugar packets and creamers into my coffee, snatch a chocolate chip scone from the showcase, and head to a table. I cup my hands around my coffee. It feels like home. I try to forget I'm wearing Tommy's suit and that it's too short and too tight, but at the same time, I'm proud. Mom and her family have lived in Southie for years. They attend mass together. Celebrate holidays together. We're family. For better or worse.

The bell jangles again and my heart jumps into my throat.

A girl skips through the doorway and twirls between the tables as she views the shop. My throat closes and I blink furiously. She's back. No piercings or dark eye make-up or unwashed hair. The same happy-go-lucky girl. Back. She's wearing her crazy ensemble but I love it. The colors clash and the rusty orange scarf trails in the dust on the floor, but it's her.

She rushes over to the wall and runs her fingers across the paintings. "This art is terrific."

I clear my throat. "Wouldn't it be great to hang up some work of local artists?"

She zeroes in on me. "You must be Jack."

"Fiasco."

"Well, Fiasco. I agree with you. That's my goal for this neighborhood. Fill it with art." She leans across the table and whispers. "Did you know that staring at art could produce a high similar to drugs?"

I smile. She doesn't know the half of it. "I've heard of such a thing. Hard to believe."

"Well, it's true." She crosses her arms as if daring me to argue.

I stare into her green cat-like eyes and notice her soft pink lips. She doesn't remember anything about what we've gone through, but I feel the connection. I want to wrap her in my arms and pull her into a kiss, but then I'd lose all credibility. That will come. I'll make sure of it. My mission today is to keep her from going to the art festival.

She gasps. "You're bleeding!"

I look down. Blood has soaked through the bandage and my shirt. "I cut myself last night. It's having a hard time healing."

Her face softens and memories seem to flicker in her eyes. But I know she can't possibly remember. "Your mom said you should walk me to school. Let's stop at the walk-in clinic first. You need stitches."

I nod in agreement. "But," I say casually, hinting at a secret. "It's not worth going to school today."

She puckers her lips to the side. "Why not?"

"Because life is too short." Simple. I conveniently leave out that it's to prevent her grandmother from finding her.

"I'm supposed to drop off my records," Jetta says.

I wave my hand. "You can do that tomorrow. I've got a better idea."

"What?" Her eyes light with curiosity.

"Well," I glance at the kitchen, "I thought we could start with a tour of the Gardner Museum. Have you heard of it?"

Jetta blows air through her mouth and rolls her eyes. "I know everything there is to know about it."

"But have you walked through it?" I ask.

"Well, no," she admits.

"Then—"

"What about your dad's hearing?" She taps her fingers on the table. "That's today. Your mom told me all about it last night. You can't skip it."

"I want to go and support my mom, but it won't take long. You can come with me." I gulp down my now-cold coffee. "After the Gardner, we can go down to the Public Garden."

"This sounds an awful lot like a date."

I grin. "Not really." I study her, then say, "I've got a firm no kissing rule for at least three months."

She opens her mouth to talk but only one word comes out. "Oh."

"And I need a partner in crime."

"Don't even think about it." She holds up her hand. "I'm not that kind of girl."

"I want to pull off the biggest heist my family has ever seen. At least that my family knows of." The plan pulls together in my mind while I talk. "I'm going to need your help, and the help of my friends."

"Explain," she demands.

"My mom works hard. I thought about combining a coffee shop with an art gallery of sorts. We could find a fancy place to rent uptown. Maybe find donors willing to invest. I need help planning and scoping the city out. It might take all day."

Jetta's eyes light up. "Seriously?"

I nod. My heart is bursting and I can't help but sway closer to her.

"Where have you been all my life?"

I shrug. "The girls ask me that all the time."

She snorts. "Yeah, right."

I laugh. It sounds strange in my ears. "I'm going to need help. I don't know much about art. Do you?"

"This must be fate, Jack Brodie. You and me. I'm in." She places her hand on the table. There is a hope and love of life in her eyes that I plan on keeping there. Forever.

I hesitate, my heart pounding against my chest. I close my hand over hers and I tremble at the touch. I plan to stick with her all day. And even if that doesn't work, and today means that her grandmother will find her, I'll chase her down.

I lean forward so our lips are dangerously close.

"I agree. Fate."

The End

Thank you for reading _Heist_. I hope you liked it. _A Royal Heist_ , the companion novel to Heist—following Jetta's life in one of the alternate time lines that Fiasco created—is available now. Sign up for my newsletter to hear about this novel and all my new releases.

Visit laurapauling.com for more information and purchase links!

After the author's note, I've included the opening to _A Royal Heist_.

Reviews are a tremendous help to the author but mostly it helps other readers find books. If you enjoyed _Heist_ would you consider posting a review for it? I appreciate all honest reviews. Thank you so much!
Dear Reader,

It was a hot, sticky day in August, when I walked through the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in the summer of 2010. The cooler temperature of the building was a much-needed relief. My husband and I spent our anniversary in Boston, so I included this necessary stop all in the name of research.

At first, I was disappointed when I learned I couldn't take pictures and I couldn't use a pen to take notes. But, of course, I should've realized. The art in this museum is worth billions and they guard it carefully. I asked about the 1990 heist, and they pulled out a photo album. The lady seemed a little annoyed as if they were tired of the fame of the heist and not the art that remained on the walls.

I strolled through the museum, trying my best to follow the path of the thieves, soaking in the mystery. I sat on benches and recorded sights, smells, sounds, textures, tiled floors, the lavish decorations, grand ballrooms, and the flowering courtyard that sits in the center of the museum.

Then we toured the building. A thrill went through my chest at the sight of the empty frames, along with a little bit of sadness. What makes a heist so fascinating? Maybe it's the fact that due to Isabella's will, nothing can be changed in the museum. Hopefully, the art will be found in the near future and returned to their rightful place.

When it does, I'll be sure to visit again.

I toured the grounds outside, walked down the narrow side street that coils around the building. When I found the small park, if it can be called that, next to the museum, the writer in me grew excited, because I could use that space for the art festival that Fiasco and Jetta visit.

Most of my research was based on Ulrich's Boser's, The Gardner Heist, a fascinating in-depth look at the theft. I highly recommend it.

I altered descriptions and names of the main characters: the thieves, the guards, and the detective, while still incorporating small bits of truth. The characters and the story are purely fictional. When Jack travels back to the heist, I kept to the facts of the robbery best I could. The two thieves were dressed as cops and the guards allowed them inside. They stole the paintings and walked away from the museum way too easily. That being said, I'm sure I got some of the details wrong.

Read it for the enjoyment of a story, for Jack Brodie's story as he evolves and sees through the half-truths in his life.

Thank you,

Laura

Alternate timelines collide.

Only one will steal the jewels.

Only one will find a happy ending.

# a moment in time

In this one moment, I decide killing her is my only way out, the only way to find freedom. For any life, even wearing uniformed clothes and living in a cell, will be better.

I stand, freezing, the wind whipping about me, tearing through my state-issued nightgown. The night sky bears down, offering no mercy, surrounding me, suffocating me. The moon offers little light and zero warmth.

A metal shard lies on the ground, forgotten.

Murderous thoughts kindle from coals to a giant flame, burning through me.

In this one moment, I know my freedom will never come. For her, there will always be one more job, one more piece of art she must add to her collection. She must have a place—a room in her grand house, or a hired storage unit, possibly even an abandoned warehouse—where she stores her treasures, their worth immeasurable.

I've never seen this place, yet I know it exists.

A place where all my sins are kept, the muted colors of my crimes hidden under drop clothes; the gleaming glint of my daring missions collecting dust, slowly losing their shine. Somewhere, this place exists, if not in the hidden corners of my heart.

Yet, not for one second, did she ever forget that I am her greatest conquest, her most prized possession, one to be nurtured, taught, and cherished. At one point she did those things and more until it wasn't enough. Her evolution from kind and caring to controlling and cruel happened slowly, one decision after another. My education dwindled to nothing, humanity seeping from my life like a dripping faucet, drop by drop.

Plink.

Plink.

_Plink_.

Soon nothing will be left. Maybe nothing is left now. Maybe I'm just a shell of a human, arteries and veins crisscrossing my body, blood pumping through my heart, but inside, there is nothing.

Nothing left.

Not a shred of a person.

Shaking, I bend over and grasp the shard between my fingers.

In this one moment, I have to act on that which still makes me human, or soon I will be nothing, a vapor, a mere thought, a blink of time. I let out the demons that live in my soul. All it takes is the flicker of doubt, the dangerous idea that I can't live this way anymore. That anything—even prison—will be better than a life shackled to her whims and fancies. These unnamed demons burst through screaming and yelling, their eyes flashing red; they lust for blood and death; they take control of me. In a reversal of power, they are now in control. They stomp their feet and trample over my soul—the part that is everything kind and good. They whip their tails, like an angry cat, letting the sharp points tear and shred any lingering conviction on my part.

And I let them.

I close my eyes, welcoming the familiar dizziness, and leave this place. The art still hangs on the walls in the museum a few streets over as I head back to the home for troubled teens where she keeps me locked away, like I'm crazy or something.

I tear the threads of time and space and burst into the room, my hand lifted, my skin burning against the ice-cold metal. I rush forward, my cry shattering the stillness. She turns, the shock and surprise flitting across her features. I stare into the blackest pits of her soul and find fear. I relish it. She underestimated me. I spent so much of my life a cowering, shuddering, shivering minion she never once thought I would rebel.

That I would say no.

That I would strike back.

With a surge of hatred for every cruel word she's spoken, for every vile deed I've done for her, I plunge the rusted metal shard into her breast.

AFTER

# the gooey soft center

I stare at the blood, the river streaming from her chest, soaking into her clothes, and pooling on the floor. I can't tear my eyes away from hers. They glitter, at first, the pain possibly sparking regret, then slowly the sparkle fades, the stare turns vacant.

Her ragged breath comes in sharp, staccato bursts, then stumbles, wheezing out like an old furnace about to die. Her fingers curl, like she's trying to grasp onto something, anything that will keep her alive. Maybe she's trying to reach me, to whisper her words of regret, that she's sorry. Or maybe, in her last moments, she's regretting the day she stole me from my dad, from a life of love and happiness; or worse, she's imagining her fingers curled around my throat, tightening every few seconds.

I gasp and my fingers flutter to my neck, leaving behind the warm, wet stain of blood.

Slowly, her fingers relax, uncurl, then lay limp.

Memories flood. I remember falling off my bike, skidding out, and the ground rushing up to meet me. It happened so fast. One moment, I was experiencing the freedom of the wind on my face, riding along—humming a happy tune—when a patch of sand played with my wheel. I lost control and landed in a heap, skimming across the street, a skipping stone across a still pond.

I remember skinned knees, blood dripping down my leg, and the stinging pain. Oh, how it hurt.

I remember leaving the mangled heap of metal and trudging home, afraid I'd be in trouble, but not so afraid that I didn't want someone to soothe my pain, tell me everything would be all right. Don't we all want that? Even when we're older?

My grandmother opened the front door as if she knew trouble and pain came my way; she waited there with comforting coos and soft words; she waited with a warm, wet cloth and Band-aids; she waited with cookies and a hug. Soft, gooey cookies that melt in your mouth and leave behind a chocolate smear.

Sitting in the kitchen, blood washed away, bandage on, nibbling on cookies, I couldn't fight off the rising thoughts. There's something about pain and blood and the lingering effects of being cared for that bring on memories. Maybe not full-fledged moments, in which every exact detail can be recalled, but more like snapshots: a warm smile, the soft vibrato of a voice, the lines on a hand, whispered words that I'd be taken care of forever.

"I forget." That's how I started the conversation, my voice trembling and weak, as if somehow I knew I shouldn't ask.

"Yes, Annabelle." She drew herself up, ready to bond, to answer my questions. She smiled, warm and motherly. "What is it?"

"What happened to my dad?"

The silence was deafening, the roar of one of those military planes that fly low over the neighborhood, the kind that rattles the teacups, and rumbles the floorboards. The cozy atmosphere was sapped from the room. In its place crept a cool chill, a restless anger, an annoyance, a fury.

The tiny hairs on my arms and legs rose. It had been a mistake to mention my dad. Just the thought of him niggled at my grandmother like the scratch of a thorn from a rose bush. She hated him. I never knew why, and after that experience, I could never ask.

With brisk, bold movements, she yanked the plate of cookies away and dumped the glass of milk down the sink. She paused there, her body trembling, her back turned as if she couldn't stand to look at me. Maybe I reminded her of him. Like a statue, she stayed that way. I waited for the reprimand, the disappointment, but I don't think she could say anything. After a few minutes, I slunk away. Then, in the dark of night, the moon not even peeking out from behind the clouds—it too, scared of her wrath—I remembered more.

I remembered my dad. His mop of gray curly hair. His promises.

I remembered the afternoon I was taken, the man who sidled up next to me on my walk home from school, acting like my friend.

I remembered the first time I met my grandmother and how she introduced herself.

I never saw my dad again. Like with a snap of her fingers, he was cleaned up like spilled milk, wiped away, all traces gone. And all traces of me—gone.

She didn't think I remembered, that I was too young, but some things a girl can't forget. A girl doesn't forget her daddy. From that point on, I kept those thoughts to myself. Ever since, I've been waiting, hoping he'll return and rescue me. Instead of running away, I choose to believe he'll find me.

It was that moment, looking back, that life with my grandmother changed. I didn't recognize it, but something happened inside her. Something snapped. She branched from reality, let her own demons rear their ugly heads. I was only ten years old, two years later, when she sent me back through time to steal my first piece of art. I guess the skill runs through the family. She said we were heroes in the art world, saviors of modern culture. I would step into a crime before or after it happened and swipe the art and disappear, leaving behind shocked thieves.

As I grew older, she became less of my grandmother, and more like my boss. My payment was a place to live and food to eat and the praise and encouragement from the only parental figure I had. I craved the kind words, the love, the affection.

I rarely got it.

Every piece of culture I brought back to her, every time I returned, I left behind a piece of my soul, a piece of my humanity. Slowly, something inside me, the soft, vulnerable, little-girl part withered away, grew cold and distant. I became more like her, cunning and manipulative and greedy. Each year, memories of my father faded, my hope I'd see him again dwindling. She became my ever-present reality. As far as I knew, my life was normal.

It's these thoughts, my life on rewind, that flash through my mind as the door bursts open, and a flood of green scrubs rush into the room. I hear the gasps and screams and whimpers. I see the shock and horror and utter disbelief. I sense the control that steals over the panic as they do their jobs, what they've been trained to do in such emergencies. I can't imagine this situation was in their handbooks or in the guidelines. If they knew the truth—or maybe they do.

I figured out a long time ago that she pays them a hefty sum to keep quiet, to look the other way. If they weren't under her payroll, trying to feed their own families and make a living, they would see her death in a new light. They'd rejoice and dance on her body. They'd dip their fingers into her blood and paint streaks across their cheeks, a statement of victory. They'd lift me on their shoulders and parade me through the building and down the streets of Boston, proclaiming me a hero. That I managed to escape.

Then I feel the cold prick of a needle as it goes into my neck.

Purchase A Royal Heist to keep reading!

### Also by Laura

Circle of Spies Series

A SPY LIKE ME - Book 1

After dodging bullets on a first date, Savvy turns into the accidental spy and falls for a hot assassin in Paris.

HEART OF AN ASSASSIN - Book 2

No longer the accidental spy, Savvy strikes a dangerous deal with a family of assassins and must complete a series of deadly missions.

VANISHING POINT - a novella

Savvy's mom, Marisa, follows an assassin into the heart of trouble to protect her family and learn the secrets of her past, but one wrong move and she could lose everything.

TWIST OF FATE - Book 3

Savvy and Malcolm take on separate missions until their paths cross in Prague and their love threatens both the missions and their lives.

Prom Impossible Series

PROM IMPOSSIBLE - Book 1

1 girl + 1 prom + 3 guys = Prom Impossible!

PROMPOSSIBLE PLANS - Book 2

The guys have their say.

COVERT KISSING - Book 3

Secrets never stay hidden.

### About Laura

Laura Pauling writes about spies, murder and mystery. She's the author of the young adult Circle of Spies Series, the Prom Impossible Series, and the time travel mystery, _Heist_. She writes to entertain, experience a great story...and be able to work in her jammies and slippers. To keep up with her new releases sign up for her newsletter!

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Text copyright 2013 Laura Pauling

www.laurapauling.com

August 2013 Edition

Smashwords Edition

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. For information visit www.laurapauling.com

Cover design by Novak Illustration

Edited by Cindy Davis

ISBN: 9780985232757

