(Squishing the lid)
Deets was dead. Murdered. He was her boyfriend. A cop would knock on her door.
She hoped Deets never told anyone that he was both her boyfriend and her getaway driver.
Her eyes stayed wet through half the night. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen. And why? Why would anyone stab a sweet, beautiful boy to death? Deets!
She taught him to help her steal. This was her fault.
I got to get stuff out. Cops will be here.
Crying, ranting to herself, changed nothing. Deets promised not to talk about what they were doing, not to anybody, but what if he let something slip? What if he mentioned falling into lust with a thief?
Maybe she should go to jail for his murder. His death was her fault.
Still. She had to think up a story. Get last night straight.
She couldn’t say she was home alone after Deets dropped her off unless her father was not home then, which was something she didn’t know. Only that he was in bed when she got back. She’d have to admit to being with Deets earlier, no way around that. They made out, OK? Front seat of his car. She’d be shy about the details, stress that nothing went on below the waist. He seemed distracted. She’d mention it. Real casual-like. He wanted to get going. He let her off somewhere. Oh God, she had to find out where her father had been last night – in or out? – before she could say where she was let off. If her dad was out late, she could say she was home. Watching TV. What was on? A baseball game! She could read about it. That made sense. No. No, it didn’t. The game would’ve been over by then. People saw her with Deets after ten, right up to midnight. Maybe, if she was super lucky, her dad went to the game. Or, he had his regular bowling night but sometimes practiced by himself. Maybe he bowled or went to the ball game, then maybe he had a few drinks afterwards. If he wasn’t home, she could say she was.
She couldn’t find out about her dad until he finished work. If it turned out her dad had been home, then she needed a different story. She should think one up. One that didn’t depend on either of them being in or out of the house.
In the meantime, she had to get out of the house, and she had to get rid of the stolen loot in her closet and under her bed before any cop arrived.
Think.
She could read about the last inning of the ball game. Maybe her friends wouldn’t be sure that she stayed at Ball Park right up to midnight. Gatekeepers at the game didn’t care if you entered after the seventh inning. She could’ve hung out there, after Deets. The park was across the tracks on the east side of Park Ex. Nobody had to know that she was really across the fence on the west side.
She could read about the game riding the bus. Bring it to life in her head.
Quinn packed a suitcase that belonged to her mother. She had to sit on the lid to squish it closed. She hauled it down to the corner bus stop as if embarking on a grand voyage. She hopped on the Number 80. She remembered the boy who’d skidded behind this bus in winter and lost his legs. Her own legs felt queasy. Losable. She headed to Ezra’s pawnshop. She wanted to talk to him yet say nothing directly. Maybe indirectly, that way they could chat. They were both smart. He might have advice. She could tell him that she didn’t think she should be a thief anymore. Hear what he said to that. Maybe it would mean no more back-room visits. That would be all right as long as he got rid of her stuff. As long as he let her just cry and cry.