The Boy Who Steals Houses Read online

  Sammy follows him up the driveway where the front door has opened and a lady as tall as a ladder stands wrapped in a dressing gown patterned with tulips. Her lips are a line. Her brow furrows.

  ‘What’s going on, Clay?’ she snaps. ‘I just told you, Jen isn’t here. Why would she be here?’

  But Sammy’s dad just shoves past her and takes Avery into the house.

  Sammy hesitates on the step, shivering and so desperate to pee he thinks he might wet himself. His aunt stares.

  ‘Are you the autistic one?’ Her voice is a rubber band snap. ‘I haven’t seen you kids in four years. No, six.’

  ‘I’m Sammy,’ he whispers. He doesn’t remember her.

  ‘God, you’re the baby?’ She puts fingertips on his shoulder and pushes him inside, voice rising. ‘You need to explain what happened, Clay.’

  The house is cold, the curtains thin; the lounge holds just a tiny TV and two wicker chairs. Avery sits in one now, hands curled over his head while he rocks.

  His dad dumps their backpack on the floor and digs fingers through his hair. ‘They need to stay for a while, Karen.’

  Aunt Karen’s jaw drops. ‘I’m not looking after your kids.’

  ‘Yeah, well I can’t— I just— I can’t deal with that.’ Their dad stabs a finger at Avery, who shrinks, like he’s being slapped again.

  Like, in his head, their dad hasn’t stopped hitting him.

  Then his dad yells. Then Aunt Karen yells. They shake fingers and point at doors and their dad hits the wall and Aunt Karen says she’s calling the police if he doesn’t calm down.

  Sammy wants to cover Avery’s ears. His eyes. His whole trembling body.

  Someone has to protect him. It’s supposed to be the big brother protecting the little brother, but for them it’s swapped, isn’t it? It crushes his ribs a little, knowing no one’s going to look out for him. But he can do this.

  He shivers and watches Aunt Karen storm out and their dad roar that she’s keeping these goddamn kids for a while. Then he turns on his boys, eyes molten pools. He pulls something out of his pocket and moves towards Avery.

  Sammy’s chest tightens. He throws himself between them, skinny arms raised to take the slap, the curse.

  But his dad just holds out the toy car.

  Sammy’s chest tightens, a fist on his lungs. Then he snatches the car. He turns icy eyes on his dad – and then as quick as a whip, he smashes the toy over his dad’s knuckles.

  His dad gives a surprised grunt and looks down at the small cut on his hand.

  Sammy knots his fingers around the car, ready ready to do it again.

  ‘You start hitting things,’ his dad says, voice low, ‘then you never stop and you end up like me.’ His laugh is cut glass. ‘Because that’s where it ends, Sammy boy. Blood and jail.’

  Sammy’s bottom lip trembles, but he lost his words. He wouldn’t give them to his dad anyway. His dad is a monster in the dark and Sammy will never be like him.

  Aunt Karen reappears and they yell some more and then his dad slams out of the house, while Aunt Karen screams down the driveway that she doesn’t want these kids.

  Sammy very slowly, very carefully, pries open Avery’s fingers and tucks the car in. There’s a smear of blood on it, but that’s OK because it’s the baddie’s blood and Sammy is the superhero.

  Aunt Karen comes back inside, rewrapping her tulip dressing gown.

  ‘Is he coming back soon?’ Sam says.

  Aunt Karen closes her eyes. ‘You’re staying with me for a while. Did your father do that to Avery?’

  Sammy nods, because in the light you can see Avery’s swollen cheek, his broken lip, the bruises blossoming on his back where his shirt is hitched up.

  Aunt Karen sighs and reaches for Avery. She tries to pull off his shirt but he gives a mangled growl and kicks wildly.

  ‘Avery,’ she snaps. ‘Let me help. God, you’re not even all there, are you?’

  He’s fine, Sammy wants to say. To shout. To stand on top of the wicker chair and scream. Avery is good and he laughs like chipped pieces of fairy magic and he knows a million facts about cars and there’s nothing wrong with him.

  Aunt Karen snatches at Avery’s wrist, the one that holds the car, and Avery freezes, his gaze flicking from the car, to his aunt, to Sammy. His eyes are burned out blue.

  ‘Don’t take his—’ Sammy says, but it’s too late.

  Avery starts screaming.

  And he just

  doesn’t

  stop.

  They arrive back at the yellow house behind the wild rose bushes at dusk. The air cools, crickets pick up their song, and the night sighs under suddenly weary eyelids.

  Sam’s salt-crusted jeans have stiffened against his legs and sand rubs every crevice of his skin. Every time he tilts his head, more sand rains down his cheeks. He’s exhausted. Too much sun and throwing himself off rocky outcrops when the flu still has fingerprints on his bones. His eyes are a little blurry and he’s starving and

  yet

  he’s not felt this happy in forever.

  He nearly forgets that he’s the thief as he trails up the short garden path to the veranda where everyone slings towels over rails and dusts sand out of hair. A few of Jeremy’s friends give backslapping farewells and leave, but the rest just topple back into the house.

  Sam hesitates on the stairs. He has to get his backpack, obviously, but then he needs to leave for—

  nowhere.

  Moxie brushes past him, her skin cool and damp against his for a single heart-pounding moment.

  ‘You might as well stay for dinner,’ she says. ‘Sunday night is waffles.’

  Sam stays.

  The house has emptied considerably. A lone preschooler rides a trike around and around the sofa. Several girls (around ten or eleven, which is the most terrifying age, in Sam’s opinion) are at the kitchen table surrounded by mounds of waffles and blueberries and maple syrup. Sam feels vulnerable without a thousand bodies packed in to cover his tracks.

  Moxie’s dad waves from the kitchen. He’s got a spatula in one hand and his apron says: LEAVE WHILE YOU STILL CAN – DAD IS COOKING. Hopefully that’s a joke.

  ‘How many are staying, Jeremy?’ he says. ‘I’ve got two waffle makers going, but do I need another batch of batter?’

  ‘Dad, what kind of question is that?’ Jack says. ‘We’re teenage boys.’

  Jeremy smacks him playfully on the head. ‘Only six of us guys left. And Moxie obviously.’

  Moxie pulls a face like an unimpressed frog. ‘Gee, Jeremy. Thanks for remembering me. Don’t forget Jack’s new adopted hatchling Sam.’

  Sam shrinks. He can’t help it. Being pointed out to adults is never good in his experience.

  ‘Nice of you to stay, Sam.’ Their father piles waffles on a plate. ‘Did you swim in your clothes? Jeremy, lend him a shirt.’

  Sam is, in fact, already wearing Jeremy’s shirt but no one seems to have registered that fact. Jack argues with the others about who’s showering first and Jeremy strides in and out of the laundry with armfuls of towels like he’s used to tackling the washing machine. Their father wisely makes more waffles.

  It’s then, with the room not so loud or overcrowded and with everyone busy with food or washing or ramming a trike into the wall, that Sam realises they’re missing someone.

  A mother?

  ‘I can get your clothes washed and dried in a few hours,’ Jeremy says. ‘You can wear my shirt, but pants are going to be a problem.’

  Sam blinks, still registering the fact that they’re now going to clean his clothes for him.

  ‘Everything of mine will end up around your ankles,’ he goes on. ‘Dude, don’t you ever eat? Please consume at least nineteen waffles tonight. For the greater good of humanity and pants.’

  Their fath
er takes a fresh plate of waffles to the table. ‘He could wear a towel?’

  Sam feels a little panicky.

  ‘Dad,’ Jeremy says, patient, ‘would you wear a towel in a house where Jack would find it super amusing to step on a corner?’

  His father shuffles around some jam pots to make room for the plate. ‘I see your point.’

  Jeremy and their father turn to look very hard at Moxie who’s wringing her hair out in the kitchen sink. She still has the frog-shaped frown on and doesn’t see the fixed looks until she flicks her hair back so it stands up like a salt-encrusted shark fin.

  Then she notices. ‘What?’ She looks at them and then at Sam. ‘Oh, haha. No.’

  ‘Come on, he’s your height,’ Jeremy says. ‘I’ll clean his clothes super fast. After all, you invit—’

  Sam’s super considerate body chooses that moment to execute an organ-rattling sneeze.

  He looks up to three concerned faces.

  ‘Look, he’s gone and caught cold,’ Jeremy says reproachfully.

  ‘I had the flu already,’ Sam says. ‘It’s fine. It’s nothing.’

  The father turns back to the griddle. ‘Wet clothes aren’t helping. Moxie …’ He casts her a meaningful look.

  Moxie throws her hands in the air. ‘Oh, fine.’ She stabs a finger at him. ‘You. Follow me.’

  She stomps up the stairs, like the whole world has offended her. Sam follows, acutely aware of the fact he just avoided being thrown out on his ear.

  Or would he be?

  He’s not exactly a stranger any more. He showed Jack how to do a backflip. Someone tipped sand down his shirt. He gave Moxie a leg up over the chain fence on the way home. He’s eaten their potato salad and worn their clothes.

  The trouble is he stole it all, every moment. And that’s the part people don’t overlook. They feel betrayed. Betrayed people have the hardest fists.

  By the time Sam’s dragged his stiff legs up the stairs, Moxie has gone into both her room and the twins’ and returned with an armful of clothes. She shoves them at him and propels him towards the bathroom. This whole family is really forceful.

  ‘But these are girls’ jeans …’ Sam starts.

  Moxie abruptly releases him and narrows her eyes. ‘And? Will they puncture your fragile masculinity for the evening?’

  ‘Um.’ He remembers her telling Jack she’ll take a pound of flesh and he can imagine it.

  ‘If they don’t fit, then we’ll discuss,’ Moxie says. ‘But they’re big on me anyway. Now go. Use soap. Towels under the sink. And throw your clothes out the door straight away so I can take them to the washerwoman.’

  Sam blinks.

  ‘Jeremy,’ she clarifies. ‘Jeremy does laundry. Jack does yard work. Grady is supposed to houseclean, but he whinges about allergies. I look after the babies way too much. And we all cook, which sucks.’

  ‘And you don’t … have a mum?’ Sam says.

  Moxie’s inconvenienced look fades for a second and sadness shadows her eyes. ‘No.’ She turns to go, but her fingers catch on the doorframe and she spins back. ‘That bruise looked pretty vicious. What happened?’

  Lies run through Sam’s head. None tumble out of his mouth.

  ‘Hmm,’ Moxie says. ‘Jeremy’s mysterious, silent adoptee.’ With that she turns and Sam is alone and can breathe again.

  He gets a real hot shower. With real soap. And puts on fresh clothes that smell of soft cotton and cupboards. Moxie’s jeans fit, which is a stab at his ego, but it’s a relief not to be carrying half the ocean in his pockets.

  He comes downstairs all self-conscious with damp hair and a shirt with a huge yellow smiley face on it which seems to go against his entire personality. He feels like Moxie chose it on purpose.

  The tone downstairs is as worn out as he feels. Everyone seems contentedly sunburnt and sleepy and the boys have video games going in the lounge room while they eat waffles and scoop ice cream straight from the tub. Sam slips on to a bench at the table and watches as Moxie artistically arranges waffles with raspberries and maple syrup. A thumbprint of berry juice stains the corner of her mouth.

  Not having had such options with waffles before and feeling overwhelmed, Sam just progresses through three types of jam in orderly succession. He’s content with this until Moxie groans, leans across the table and slides his plate away.

  ‘That is the most boring way to eat waffles I have ever seen in my life.’ She snatches a jar of chocolate spread and gets to work. ‘It’s actually hurting my soul.’ She sprinkles slices of banana on top, then a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. She tops it with chopped nuts and a twist of caramel syrup. Then she slides it back to him. ‘The De Lainey special. Eat and be educated.’

  He does and, when he’s halfway through the explosion of flavours, realises he didn’t even thank her because he’s so used to being silent. Seriously? He’s embarrassing.

  ‘So,’ he says, coming up for air and tapping his spoon in what he hopes is a casual way, ‘where did everyone else go?’

  ‘They don’t all live here, obviously.’ Moxie fixes herself a similar waffle catastrophe, going heavy on the caramel. ‘Most of them were Jeremy’s herd, plus the kids next door, and a few people stopped by from church. The rest of the little kids were my Uncle Robin’s. He’s trying to catch up to Dad, apparently.’ Her tone is flat. ‘Six hellion cousins there. Obviously there’s seven of us De Laineys.’

  Oh, that’s good to know.

  ‘Jeremy isn’t, erm, the oldest, right?’

  Moxie looks faintly curious as she licks her spoon. She’s probably registering the fact that he’s at the table again, and the rest of the guys are sprawled in front of the TV.

  Maybe she won’t think too hard about it?

  Which is a huge joke, because Moxie has furrow lines on her brow – likely from a constant state of thinking too hard.

  ‘No, Grady’s the oldest,’ Moxie says. ‘The nerd over there.’ She points with her spoon to the taller boy who first forcibly shoved Sam into the lunch fray to begin with, and is now eating blueberries with his nose deep in a book. ‘He’s nineteen. Jeremy and Jack are next. Then me.’ She swivels the spoon towards the conglomeration of smaller girls who seem to be arguing passionately over a board game while getting syrup everywhere. ‘Then Dash, who’s ten, and is obsessed with elves and trolls and her stupid homemade sword.’

  A head snaps up from the end of the table, all frizzed braids and dirt-stained cheeks.

  ‘I heard that,’ Dash says. ‘There is nothing stupid about the Thirteen Elven Kingdoms of War.’

  ‘It’s a book series,’ Moxie says to Sam.

  ‘It’s our life!’ one of the other girls says while the others nod in fierce agreement.

  Moxie rolls her eyes. ‘And lastly there are the babies.’ She tips her head towards the kitchen where her father is wiping the sticky hands of a toddler and a small boy. ‘Toby is three and … well, we just call the other the Baby. There are too many names around here as is.’

  She goes back to attacking her waffle, the family tour finished. So he’s left to slide a tentative question at her. Not that he has any right to ask. Not that he should be drawing attention to himself.

  ‘And you … sew?’

  ‘And I design.’ Her mouth is full of ice cream. ‘I’ll be a famous upcycling fashion designer someday.’ Her smile is slightly self-satisfied and more than a little beautiful. ‘And before you ask why I’m not drowned in friends too, it’s because, unlike the twins, I don’t need an audience twenty-four-seven. And,’ her lips tip down, ‘my best friend is away for the summer. Which means I’m facing the most dull holiday of my life.’

  Sam’s absently fixing himself another waffle, although he’s getting full. But he’s been too hungry too long not to stuff himself when the opportunity presents.

  ‘And you?’ Moxi
e says. ‘How’d you and Jeremy meet?’

  As Sam’s flu-numbed brain scrabbles for a lie, the De Lainey father walks in and taps his mug on the back of a chair. He clears his throat several times until one of the boys scrabbles to pause the TV and dozens of eyes peer over chairs at him.

  ‘Small announcement that concerns De Laineys.’ He indicates with his mug for the twins to come over.

  They extricate themselves from the others and flop at the table while the TV blares back on. Grady uses a spoon as a bookmark and looks up. Moxie keeps adding more and more caramel sauce to her plate.

  Sam should leave before Moxie asks more questions. Before her dad talks to him which – no, just no. Sam feels sick around adults.

  But there are still waffles left and … well, waffles.

  ‘I want Monday’s schedule organised,’ their father says, ‘so I might as well give you the summer plans as well.’

  ‘Lie about in the sun and exist on watermelon and corn chips?’ Jack says.

  ‘Wishful,’ their father says, ‘but no. I already told you boys that you’re apprenticed to me for the summer.’

  There are collective groans and one, ‘I thought you were joking.’

  ‘But then who’s looking after the babies?’ Moxie asks, but the words are barely out before horror dawns across her face. ‘Oh no. Nope. Absolutely not, Dad.’

  ‘I’ll take the weekends,’ their father says. ‘You’re wonderful with the babies and—’

  ‘I’m not their replacement mother!’ Moxie bursts out.

  Sam slides another waffle on to his plate and tries to look like he’s not listening. Except that he is. He feels a twinge of sympathy for Moxie’s rapidly reddening face.

  Her father’s voice stays unfailingly mild. ‘Sweetie, I’m not trying to make it that way. But I need the boys to build houses with me.’

  Sam’s fork pauses, half stabbed in the bowl of blueberries. Mr De Lainey builds houses? His heart beats a little faster.

  Moxie drops her head to the table, hair tumbling over her ears like a chocolate waterfall.