The Boy Who Steals Houses Read online

  Sure enough, the calamity of bodies has thinned out drastically. They’re now playing cricket on the street.

  ‘Although it means more cake for the dishwashers,’ the man adds. ‘I’ll leave the plate here. But don’t advertise it or you’ll have Moxie all over you. I swear she has a sixth sense just for caramel.’

  ‘I heard that.’

  Sam spins to see the girl reappearing in a swirl of purple and scowls. ‘I will not be all over anyone, thank you very much, Dad.’ She peers at Sam. ‘You’re still here?’

  ‘Yeah?’ The word pulls from Sam’s lips, cautious, because any second now one of them is going to notice he doesn’t fit.

  ‘Feel free to stay for ever if you do the dishes,’ the father of this overcrowded house says, moving off while the toddler fusses in his arms.

  Obviously he didn’t mean that, but still – the words stick to Sam’s ribs as his heart speeds up. People don’t usually toss words his way that aren’t punctured with anger. He’s so pathetic, right? That he’d lap this up.

  The girl still looks at Sam.

  Moxie.

  He stuffs the brownie in his mouth and turns back to the dishes, anxious to keep his hands busy. She pulls herself up on to the bench top and, legs swinging, sets to work on the plate.

  ‘So,’ says the girl.

  Startled, Sam drops the pot he’s scrubbing into the water with a splash. Wait. She’s going to talk to him? He hasn’t … he can’t … he hasn’t really talked to anyone except Avery in months.

  Maybe years.

  ‘You’re not whining about being lumped with the dishes.’ She holds up fingers to tick off a list. ‘You’re quiet. You’re kind of small compared to Jeremy’s usual strays. And my dad waved a plate of brownies under your nose and you didn’t eat the whole lot.’ She punctuates that by helping herself to another piece. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  Sam’s throat is dry. ‘Well, I don’t trust whoever killed this pot. Did they cook potatoes or souls of the damned?’

  ‘Ah.’ Moxie peers at the blackened base. ‘That was me.’

  Oh.

  Any minute now Sam is going to melt into the floor.

  This is why it’s better to shut up – you don’t accidentally insult the prettiest girl in the room.

  And she is pretty, in a frazzled but fierce kind of way. She swings her legs, toenails painted the same purple as her dress. He notices there’s hand-sewn embroidery all over the skirt. So she’s the seamstress.

  Sam realises he’s been staring and not answering, so he lets out the weakest laugh in the world and promptly wishes to die.

  ‘So how was your trip?’ he hears himself saying, while three-quarters of his brain shouts what are you doing! The boys seem to have been camping and the others … he’s not sure. He would like to know how his house stealing went so wrong.

  ‘Well,’ Moxie says, ‘it sucked. You try being trapped in a car for four hours with preschoolers who either scream or want to sing Jingle Bells for the forty thousandth time.’ She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. ‘The things you do to visit grandparents.’

  ‘True,’ Sam says, and hopes he doesn’t sound like someone who’s never visited grandparents in his life.

  ‘How was your trip?’ Moxie says.

  Sam must hesitate too long, because Moxie shakes a brownie at him impatiently. ‘The camping trip you boys all went on? I mean, Jeremy said it was just “a few of the guys” but I’m guessing the fifty billion people here are all casualties of eating baked beans in the scrub for two days. You all need to shower, by the way. For hours.’

  Sam can play along, right? He’s got this. ‘Oh, well … it was great. Good, um, weather.’ What do you even say about camping? He’s never been camping. Unless you count sleeping on the veranda of his aunt’s house because locking the Lou brothers out was her go-to when they pissed her off.

  Sometimes he thinks she’s the reason they both started taking apart locks.

  ‘Chatty, aren’t you?’ Moxie licks brownie off her thumb. ‘Ah, caramel,’ she says, the lemon in her voice exchanged to sugar for just a second. ‘Only the best thing in life.’

  ‘Except for honey,’ Sam says.

  Why is he still talking?

  Why, Sam.

  Why.

  ‘Excuse you,’ Moxie says. ‘You’re here to wash, not disagree.’

  He’s here to steal, actually. But somehow he’s stolen dishwater and a T-shirt soaked with soapsuds.

  ‘Speaking of being disagreeable,’ she says. ‘Why hasn’t Jeremy come to rescue you anyway? I keep forgetting you’re his since you’re in here and not out there.’

  I’m not really Jeremy’s, he wants to say. Technically now I’m yours.

  Sam opens his mouth to spin a floppy lie, but he’s saved by the stream of sweaty teenage boys tramping inside with volume set to maximum. Half of them bolt upstairs and the others rummage in cupboards for towels.

  ‘Hey, we’re going to the beach,’ a boy tells Moxie. Her brother? They share the same olive skin, although he has a buzz cut and the softest brown eyes.

  ‘I’ll go tell Dad.’ She slides off the bench and runs upstairs.

  The boy taps his fingers on the bench and notices Sam.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Are you Moxie’s friend? She doesn’t usually invite people over.’ He smiles. ‘I’m Jeremy.’

  No, I’m supposed to be your friend.

  ‘Ah, yeah, Moxie’s friend,’ Sam says. ‘I’m Sammy – um, Sam.’

  ‘And she ditched you with the dishes? Typical. Get out of there, man. We’re going to the beach. I’ll get you a towel.’

  Sam tries to protest, except exactly no one cares. He gets the impression that this family is exceptionally bad at listening.

  He’s not going to the beach with them. Come on.

  Sam finds himself sitting on the bottom step with a beach towel in his arms while watching a dozen boys slamming in and out of the downstairs bathroom and changing into swimmers and eating. Again. Because why not.

  Just don’t ask me who I am.

  Please.

  Jeremy reappears, eating leftover potato salad with a soup ladle. ‘Ready?’ he says to no one in particular. ‘Jack? Is Moxie back yet? What’s she doing up there?’ He raises his voice. ‘How long does it take to put swimmers on, Moxie! We need to go!’

  The one who possibly is Jack – and who Sam remembers as the boy from the stairs with the spiky ponytail – appears in board shorts with a towel slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Girls,’ he says. ‘You know how they are.’

  Moxie materialises behind him and executes a swift elbow jab to his ribs.

  Jack yelps and grabs his side like he’s been shot. ‘The hell, Moxie?’

  ‘If something even remotely sexist comes out of your mouth again,’ Moxie says, her eyes glinting, ‘I will take a pound of flesh per word.’

  Jack swears again and checks his ribs for damage.

  ‘And for your information,’ Moxie says, ‘I was asking Dad if any of us are supposed to be babysitting. But we’re clear.’

  ‘We’re clear!’ Jeremy raises his towel like a conqueror before battle and a cheer goes up.

  The hordes pour towards the door. Sam’s piecing together a hazy sketch of this family of the butter-yellow house – which ones are family, which ones are friends. Jack and Jeremy appear to share a face, so definitely twins. And Moxie is nearly a head shorter than everyone else. He wonders if she’s his age.

  He shouldn’t even care, even though his soul aches to go with them, to be part of this collision of fun and laughter. Instead, he has to melt back into being nothing, invisible, alone. He wants this. He absolutely can’t have it.

  She swishes around the room, collecting shoes and a towel, adjusting bikini straps peeking out from under her purple sundress.


  She catches his eye and he looks away.

  ‘Coming, dishwasher boy?’

  It’s because they don’t know him.

  He can trail behind a group of jostling boys as they throw sunscreen and jump on each other’s backs while the sun bakes their shoulders and tugs at freckles, and he can be perfectly unknowable. He’s absolutely mad, of course, to follow them. He left his backpack inside, so he can’t just vanish now. But there’s something intoxicatingly alluring about people who smile, who are caught up in salty air and jokes and everyday adventures, who don’t stop to look at him with shocked eyes that say, How could you do that, Sammy Lou? How could you?

  They don’t know him. They don’t know the reason he ran away from home a year ago. Why the police want him. Why his aunt won’t even look at him.

  And it feels good.

  He walks next to Moxie, because the others’ wildness is equal parts fascinating and terrifying. Plus Moxie moves with a grim, no-nonsense look on her face, like getting to the beach is a mission and she’ll achieve it no matter what.

  It’s comforting to be near someone who knows how to get what they want.

  The party cuts through a caravan park, which involves scaling a chain-link fence. Sam climbs it too easily, too fast, and feels Moxie watching him. Maybe try to look less like a criminal who knows how to escape, OK, Sammy Lou?

  The shortcut takes them down a sandy track and then bushes fold back to reveal the sparkling sea, blue enough to make your eyes ache.

  The boys take off towards the cliffs and tumbled rocks, throwing towels and shirts. Moxie rolls her eyes and keeps her towel rolled up and sand-free.

  She glances sideways at Sam. ‘Are you swimming in jeans? Because if you drown, guess who’s not rescuing you.’

  Sam shrugs in what he hopes is a nonchalant and convincing matter like yeah, sure, this isn’t so weird.

  Jeremy, still struggling out of his shirt, wads up the fabric and throws it at Moxie’s head. She bats it off and glares.

  ‘Eh, just swim in your boxers,’ Jeremy says lightly.

  ‘And there he goes,’ Moxie says, ‘trying to get everyone out of their pants.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Sam reaches to pull his stolen T-shirt off and then remembers the boot-print bruise. He jerks the hem down quickly. Jeremy doesn’t seem to notice, but a quick glance at Moxie shows she saw.

  She purses her lips together, like she’ll ask.

  Please don’t ask.

  ‘Just in case you haven’t been here before,’ Jeremy is saying, ‘we all jump off the rocks like brainless maniacs. It’s deep enough. We threw Jack in headfirst to test it once. No broken neck.’

  ‘Pity,’ mutters Moxie.

  ‘Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ Jeremy claps Sam on the shoulder and grins broadly and Sam doesn’t break it to him that he has no idea what Jeremy would or would not do. ‘And definitely don’t do anything Jack wouldn’t do. Actually, don’t do anything Jack would do. Just when it comes to Jack, don’t.’

  Sam opens his mouth to answer, but Moxie chooses that moment to shrug out of her sundress. Sam finds himself looking anywhere but at her indigo bikini. And then realises how conspicuous that is. And then realises he’s blushing. And then decides he needs to go drown.

  Moxie catches her frizzy hair into a knot and then storms off to the rocks where the others are jumping. Moxie never so much walks as marches with angry intensity. Sam wonders if it’s because she has to hold her own amongst so many brothers.

  Jeremy pats Sam on the shoulder. ‘You look nervous. Never fear! I’ll haul you out by your ankles if you start drowning.’ He gives Sam a cheerful shove and then jogs towards the others.

  Sam considers just sitting by the towels, but that would draw more attention, wouldn’t it? He rolls up his jean cuffs and trails down to the water.

  White foam waves break along the beach line, but this close to the cliffs, the ocean has carved out deep pools between rocks. It’s probably not the safest thing in the world to climb on them and vault off – but that’s exactly what everyone’s doing. The water seems deep. The rocks are hot. It’s impossible not to yield to their salty lure and climb from one to the other while all round him people push each other into the bright blue sea.

  He finds himself following Moxie, as she hops nimbly to one of the highest peaks. Jack is already up there, peering over the edge, wet hair plastered about his ears.

  ‘Don’t you jump from up here, you moron.’ Moxie’s tone is warning.

  Jack ignores her, eyes lighting on Sam. ‘Dude, you have five seconds to get wet or I’m throwing you in headfirst.’

  ‘Not from up here,’ Moxie says again. ‘This is a new level of dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, Grandma.’

  ‘Oh well, by all means go split your head open,’ Moxie says. ‘I’ve always wanted to see if there are brains in that skull of yours or just handfuls of stupid.’

  Jack grabs her and she shrieks and beats at him with bunched fists. She’s laughing though, and Jack shoves her around without letting her get too close to the edge. Sam’s heart still crawls into his mouth. His eyes say they’re just playing but his brain trips back to memories of Avery being slammed to the ground by their dad, getting up with a bloody mouth and terrified eyes.

  He looks away. He can’t imagine Avery enjoying this day. He tries, but he just can’t. Avery would watch with slitted eyes, fail to figure out why this is supposed to be fun, and leave.

  Jack and Moxie start to climb down, bickering about how many ‘handfuls of stupid’ a skull could hold, when Sam backs up until he’s got no room left – and then he runs.

  ‘Hey!’ someone says, a note of panic in their voice.

  Moxie? Jack? Does it matter?

  Wind batters their words away and then Sam leaps, toes pushing off the rough rock and then tucking into his chest as he curves into a somersault.

  And for a moment he’s

  f

  l g

  y n

  i

  He hits the sea.

  And the sea hits him.

  Water rushes up his nose and smashes into his ears and buries him in writhing white foam. It’s shockingly cool. His legs and arms kick out like lanky spider limbs and he surges back up. It’s so beautiful underwater, so quiet, so peaceful, he almost wants to stay down.

  Then his head splits the surface.

  He’s got so much water in his ears it takes him a moment to realise everyone is cheering.

  For him?

  Jack appears to be punching the air and yelling something about that’s how it’s done and Sam realises that no one else is backflipping off rocks. Where was the part where he stayed low profile? Seriously, Sam.

  Jack cups hands around his mouth to shout, ‘That was badass!’

  Moxie stands with her toes on the edge of a rock, her eyes traced with something like worry. Something like anger.

  But Sam’s attention is snagged from her as someone else hollers, ‘Again!’ followed by more cheers.

  ‘But show me.’ Jack is already clambering back up to the higher ledge.

  Jeremy treads water and then splashes water into Sam’s face. ‘Maniac.’ But he’s smiling. ‘Where’d you learn to do flips?’

  ‘Trampoline.’ His words taste of sand and salt. What are you supposed to do when you’re twelve and stuck bored in a backyard? He and Avery used to sketch house plans on their homework and practise flips and pretend they weren’t hungry. ‘It’s not hard.’

  ‘Oi! What’s your name again, blondie?’ Jack shouts from somewhere above them.

  ‘Sam?’ But he says it like a question.

  ‘Well, get up here. Where’d you even find this kid, Jeremy?’ Jack peers over the cliff edge, throwing pebbles at their heads.

  Jeremy dodges and gets a mouthful of ocean
. He goes under garbling.

  Sam’s heart gives a catastrophic lurch and he waits for Jeremy to come back up and say I didn’t find him, followed by Moxie saying she’s never seen him until today, followed by them all realising he has stolen their lunch, their beach, their attention.

  But Jeremy comes up with a handful of sand and strikes out for the rocks. ‘I’m about to grind this up your nose.’ His brother’s question is forgotten.

  Jack shoots him a crude gesture and then waves fiercely at Sam. ‘Get up here, kid. I’m keeping you till you teach me that.’

  Sam stops his frenetically moving arms and legs and lets himself sink under the waves for a second.

  I’m keeping you.

  Underwater, no one but the ocean sees him smile.

  Sammy is seven and maybe Avery is dead.

  Spiderweb lines of frost crinkle over their car windows, turning pink as the sun rises. They drove all night. Sammy needs to pee so badly and he wants Avery to wake up. Please please please. Avery’s chest moves in ragged little gasps in his sleep, a broken birdcage of tears.

  The car pulls into a driveway, the engine rattles off. Sammy, now with Avery’s head in his lap, goes stiff. He doesn’t recognise this place, this street, this boxy white house with pea-green curtains. His dad goes to the boot and gets out Sammy’s backpack. Then he hammers the front door.

  ‘Karen? Karen, open up.’

  A dog across the street barks.

  A slow car rumbles past.

  Avery shifts in his arms.

  Sammy’s heart bounces and he knots fingers in Avery’s shirt as a whimper escapes his brother. Avery looks up and Sammy strokes his cheek and mumbles it’s OK even though that’s a lie. There’s something wrong with Avery’s eyes.

  They’re dull and broken and

  hollow.

  There’s a whining screech as their car door is ripped open and their dad reaches in. Sammy snatches at Avery – but their dad is big and strong, bristles and wire. He drags Avery out.

  Avery doesn’t even whimper.

  Sammy scrambles after them, ready to scream and scream if he has to – but his dad is holding Avery like a baby, not like a naughty boy he’ll start hitting again. ‘Be on your best behaviour.’ His voice is raw.