“Maybe they didn’t have mail yesterday,” he says. He takes off his hat and itches his thick head of hair, then begins to make a series of little jumps into the air. Now that we’ve been off the bikes for a while, the sweat we accumulated biking is making it feel even colder. I pedal my feet up and down, trying to get the feeling back in my toes, but I’m wearing a pair of ripped converse shoes, so it does no good. I may as well be wearing nothing at all.
“I checked the nearby mailboxes; everyone got the same coupons from Sendik’s yesterday. Plus, like I said: I heard someone at the party say they were in Greece.”
Tristan stops staring at the mail truck and turns to give me a look I still have to get used to seeing: one of awe. “Your brain is sexy,” he says, lifting his eyebrows. Will I ever get tired of hearing this phrase? My whole life it has felt like my brain has been a nuisance. My peers either get jealous or don’t fully understand my meaning or intentions, my parents use it as an anchor to force me into an education I don’t want. It definitely didn’t please my teachers to have their assignments questioned and analyzed.
Tristan blows into his hands then crosses his arms across his chest. “But what if the kid comes over unexpectedly?”
“Then we climb out the window,” I say, pointing at the row of windows on the first floor. In addition to the bottom windows, there are more the next flight up. “Or jump,” I add, pointing at one of the patio couches, a teal and brown one with clear plastic over it.
“All right,” Tristan shrugs. I thought it would take more convincing, but Tristan has a bad back. Sleeping on an actual bed appeals to him more than the danger of it scares him. Once I found myself asking him how he’s been managing on-and-off homelessness all these years with a bad back and turned to find him miming a needle to the arm. That put an end to the questions for a while. I didn’t like that he had the same answer to every one. His past filled me with awe but it also scared me.
“Let’s head out,” Tristan says. “I want to come back tomorrow to make sure the mailman skips the house again.”
The following day, he gets his confirmation, and around sunset, we park our bikes in a small cluster of trees behind the house and get to work finding a way into the back door. Normally, in Milwaukee, I’d be wary of neighbors, but a house in a suburb is—for once—an ideal location. The houses are spread out, and since people in the suburbs love to pretend they’re in nature, a burst of trees and wild vines or flowers extend between almost every yard. Standing next to the back door, we survey the landscape to the left and right of the raised deck, and are relieved to find you really can’t see anything but trees. Plus, it’s now dark, and there are no streetlights anywhere close by. All we have to guide us is the half-moon in the sky and a pocket flashlight attached to Tristan’s keys. There is the problem of actually getting into the house, though. Tristan starts looking under pots and rocks near the patio door.
“Most people hide a spare key somewhere,” he explains. I had assumed we would go through a window, but this is a better idea, I have to admit. Except that there are a lot of places to look. The patio is adorned with an array of knickknacks and potted plants, trees, flowers. “Try the front door. Under the mat.”
I stumble over the paved pathway in total darkness, grazing the brick of the house with my hand for balance, until I reach the front of the house. I expect a long exploration to commence but I find the key almost right away, under a turtle statue next to the welcome mat. I find my way back to the patio, where Tristan is still bent over, looking, and hand him the key. He grins at me.
“Nice job, Nancy Drew,” he says, opening the back door. I am half expecting someone to catch us as we enter the house, but the place is empty, as I had thought. I reach for the light switch and the giant chandelier in the foyer flickers on, illuminating the perfect wood floors, oriental rugs, and grand staircase. Someone must have come to clean it after the party, too, because the place is spotless; not an empty beer can to be found.
The second we put our bags down, an alarm begins beeping.
“Shit,” Tristan says, picking up his bag again. “I told you this is a bad idea.”
I hold up a finger. Without a word, I turn to look at the walls on either side of the door. I locate the alarm system pad next to the front door and type in the numbers I saw written down on the fridge: 1416. The alarm shuts off. Tristan looks at me with awe.
“Soon you’ll be better at this than I am,” he says.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I just notice things.”
“What do you think makes a good criminal?” he jokes. He puts his bag down on the floor, and lifts mine off my back and places that on the floor too. Then he carries me into a bedroom, a different one than the one we’d discovered at the party, and drops me on the bed like we’re newlyweds. This one is a huge king size with a tufted royal blue headboard and sheets so soft they feel like silk. They probably are silk, I later realize. It’s nicer than a hotel room. The bed is made military style, not a crease or unfolded edge. Tristan pulls off the comforter in one grand sweep and places me inside.
“Did I mention how sexy your brain is?”
“Only every day.” He kisses me again, and for a while, I forget about everything.
Afterward we both take showers at the same time—there are four showers on the first floor alone—and luxuriate on one of the couches watching bad TV for the rest of the day. I find a stash of wine in the basement and by the second night we’ve made quite a dent. We don’t dare venture outside, other than to smoke in the closed garage, enjoying the warmth and luxury of furniture that probably costs more than my parents’ entire home. We drink and watch TV and take tons of showers and sleep, as if we are on vacation. The following day is Friday, however—which means we will need to be out before dawn, since there is no way of knowing when the student will come by to feed the cat. I spend several hours beforehand cleaning, a sad attempt to make it look like no one has been there since the party. I don’t think I do a very good job. I’ve always been good about organizing and keeping things neat, but I almost never mop or wipe counters and keep imagining I am missing something that must be right out of sight. Margot was always getting mad at me that my room was spotless but I never remembered to wash my dishes, and didn’t know where the broom was. But Tristan tells me it looks great, so I choose to believe him.
After helping myself to coffee from the automatic espresso machine in the kitchen, I find Tristan in one of the bedrooms, counting cash. “How much money do we have?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up. “Almost five hundred dollars. Those frat boys really love to carry cash on them. I bet they were planning to score some coke or E for that party.”
I let out a little whistle. Despite spending half my life living in a middle-class home, I’ve never seen that much money at once. Between the house and Tristan and the cash, I’m feeling pretty good right now. I’m feeling better than before my life got derailed, somehow. It makes me wonder: What’s the point of following all the rules, when people still find ways to make you feel bad? Better to just do what you want and not listen to anyone. There is a freedom to making all of your own decisions, whether or not they are good or bad, that cannot be explained without real life experience. Had I known all of that, I might have made some changes far sooner. “Nice. Should we spring for a hotel?”
Tristan still doesn’t look up, just deposits the envelope into his bag.
“Not with this,” he says. He stands up, shoving the envelope into his back pocket. “You ready to go?”
I nod. “You go first, so I can set the alarm again. So as not to arouse any suspicion.” I bite my lip, looking at his back pocket, the envelope still in there. “Where are you sending that money?”