We spent the next morning gathering what we needed for the Heist: Ivan’s green pill bottles because they were bigger and the tops were already fixed with air holes, the glass cutter, the Hand Jive, an ice pick just in case, stocking caps from Max—“It’s what burglars wear, right?”—goggles, a paper bag to wrap the vinegaroon bottle in, and four Kotex pads Beatriz had stolen from La Senhora and fitted with rubber bands so we could keep them on, and four Hostess CupCakes—“In case we need energy”—from me. Max and I just had thick wool mittens, but Ivan had Elena’s red kid gloves, which were lined with fur and fit snugly. All of it was stashed in Max’s book bag—he was the only one who had a book bag, because it was required for Hebrew school. I’d have Brickie’s penlight in my pocket. We checked and oiled our bikes and covered the reflectors with masking tape. Our darkest clothes were selected, and we figured that long pants would be best so our legs wouldn’t stand out. Beatriz would have to wear her Visitation uniform again, because she didn’t have any dark pants, but she’d wear her longest kneesocks. Max then complained that her knees would still show, and she said, “At least my skin is brown. Your big ghost clown paleface is what’s gonna show.” To counter that, we agreed to smudge her knees and our faces with charcoal from Ivan’s grill.
Ivan said, “I think we need to take duct tape so we can cover the hole after we catch him, because we don’t want the pregnant one to get out and hurt somebody.”
“She’s going to die anyway,” said Max. “The paper said they die after they have their babies.”
“Yeah, but what if she gets out and has the babies and they all attack people at the museum?” Ivan reasoned.
“He’s right,” I said. “It might bite some little kids. That’s called ‘collatrial damage,’ and that would be bad.”
“I’ll go get some duct tape.” I knew exactly where it would be, from Brickie’s threat to tape my mouth on Bachelor Night.
Estelle was in our kitchen, finishing up dinner, which smelled delicious. “Hey, Little Mr. John,” she said. Estelle seemed to like cooking more than cleaning. Dimma was always happy to send her home with half of whatever she cooked for us. “What you up to?” she said pleasantly.
“Hi, Estelle.” I got the duct tape from the pantry drawer. “We’re fixing something.” I quickly added, “But we didn’t break anything, don’t worry. What are you making? It sure smells good.”
“Jus’ some pot roast, rolls, and things. Your granddaddy loves my pot roast.”
“I love it, too!” I said overenthusiastically. “We’re spending the night at Max’s house, but I’ll eat dinner here so I can have some.”
“That so?” Estelle said, rolling out some waxed paper to cover the yeast rolls rising on the counter. “Well, y’all have a good time.” She added nonchalantly, “And don’t be creepin’ ’round places y’all don’t belong.”
This worried me, and I hurried out of the kitchen. But realizing Estelle had done us a huge favor by not telling Dimma about the other night’s escapade, if she knew, I stuck my head around the corner and said sweetly, “I hope you’re coming to our Fiesta.”
She stopped what she was doing and turned to me, smiling. “Why, thank you, John. I ’preciate the invitation, but I need my day o’ rest. It’s a holiday, so I’m gone spend it with my own family.”
I knew she had a husband, William, who sometimes picked her up, and some older children, but I couldn’t have said how many children, or their names. This epiphany made me ashamed—why did I know so little about this woman who knew my family so intimately and did so much for us?
Estelle saw my embarrassment and said kindly, “I do plan on makin’ deviled eggs and cucumber sandwiches for your comp’ny to enjoy.”
“Oh, good! Thank you!” We smiled at each other, and I ran back to the boys with the silver tape.
Eleven o’clock was again the appointed hour.
By ten o’clock, all was quiet in Max’s house. We three boys were suited up in Max’s bedroom, nervously looking at comic books and listening to WDON on Max’s transistor. “The Battle of New Orleans” came on, which was pretty much the Shreve boys’ anthem. Ivan said, “I hate that song.” He hated it because Beau and D.L. loved to sing it, but also because the part about grabbing the alligator to use as a cannon—We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind / And when we touched the powder off the gator lost his mind—was so cruel. There wasn’t much talk, except that Max said, “If we go to reform school, I hope I can have my transistor.”
At eleven—zero hour—I looked out the bathroom window and saw Beatriz waiting below with her bike. One by one, we climbed down the maple. Beatriz whispered, “We should go single file, and stay on the sidewalks as much as we can. It’s darker, and we’ll be hidden better than in the street. I’ll go first.” She had her braids tucked inside her ski cap and looked like a pretty boy.
Max whispered back nastily, “You should go last, Little Brown Dove.”
Beatrix stuck out her tongue at him, saying, “You don’t know the way.”
“Well, then, I’ll go second because I’m oldest, and I have the book bag.”
“You’re only two weeks older than I am, Max,” Beatriz said. I offered to go last, thinking last in line might be first to escape if something went wrong. Beatriz whispered a rapid prayer, “OmiJesuperdoa-nososnossospercadoenossalvedofogodoinferno,” kissed the tiny gold saint medal that hung around her neck, and crossed herself.
“Pfft! As if he’s going to help you when you’re breaking the Eighth Commandment,” Max said.
Ivan said, “I don’t think God really cares about kids anyway.” I was more worried about Brickie than hell, if we got caught. We’d never done anything remotely as foolhardy.
Max produced the hunk of charcoal and we passed it around, helping one another rub it on our faces and Beatriz’s skinny knees.
We started off hesitantly at first, taking our school route down Raymond, then turning left onto Connecticut and speeding up. We passed the Chevy Chase Club on the right, and then Lenox Street and Kirke Street, the fancier neighborhood, where Slutcheon and Gellert lived. We passed Blessed Sacrament at Chevy Chase Circle, where the splash of the fountain played forcefully; the splash of it was loud and clear in the almost-empty night. I remembered the time some hoods put detergent in the water and foam covered everything. The Avalon Theatre still had lights on, doing away with the shadows, but the people in the handful of cars that passed seemed not to notice us. Racing along, we passed large, older houses alternating with newer apartment buildings—Sulgrave Manor, a very modern building, then Clarence House, where Dr. Spire had his Chamber of Shots, then Connecticut Hot Shoppes. Then the Yenching Palace, with its cool diamond windows, where a waiter cleaning up waved at us, and the Uptown Theater, where I’d seen The Monolith Monsters with my dad.
Everybody’s legs were churning hard, and we flew along, our pedaling synchronized and our bodies hunched over our handlebars. The night air was cool and invigorating; I wasn’t even sweating. I’d still been a little sore from my drowning, but I felt invincible now. We whizzed past groups of row houses, the old Kennedy-Warren apartments, and then we passed the zoo and the Shoreham Hotel, high on the hill, the grounds brightly lit. Beatriz stuck her arm out, signaling left, and we moved to the other side of the street. Coming to the Taft Bridge, its fancy streetlights illuminated it like daytime. Too many cars were coming across. Beatriz signaled for us to stop. We pulled into the dark weeds and shrubs just before the bridge.
Beatriz said, “Let’s rest a second.”
“I knew she’d slow us down,” Max said, although he was breathing as hard as the rest of us.
Beatriz snapped back, “The bridge is too bright! We need to wait till these cars are gone.” Waiting, trying to catch our breath, we admired the eagles on the tops of the streetlights, and the giant lions guarding the bridge. I thought I could see the minaret of the mosque on Massachusetts Avenue in the distance, its crescent a little moon in the sky.
With a lull in the traffic, we shoved off again, going through Kalorama, with its swankier houses and apartments, and then passing S Street, where Holton-Arms was, and then the Golden Parrot, where Liz and I’d had dinner with my father and I’d acted like a brat because they didn’t serve hamburgers, and R Street, where Daddy used to live.
Suddenly, a taxi waiting in front of the restaurant pulled away from the sidewalk and began driving alongside us. A man with a grouchy face rolled down the driver’s window and yelled, “Hey, you kids! What’re you doing out here so late? Pull over!” Oh, no, I thought—we’re done for. Beatriz rose from her bike seat, standing on her pedals to speed away. We followed her lead, but the taxi driver cut in front of Beatriz, who stopped short with a scrunch of her tires, bumping into the side of the cab. We boys crashed into each other, one after the other, like dominoes. The taxi driver looked us up and down. “What are you boys up to? It can’t be anything good at this time of night.”
Beatriz coolly replied, “No, sir. We were in a school play tonight. These are our costumes. We’re on our way home.”
“Oh, yeah? Where is home?”
“Right down there,” I piped up, pointing to the Circle. “We’re spending the night at my dad’s house.”
After a moment, the man said, oddly friendly now, “Do you want a ride? I can pile your bikes in the trunk.” He smiled, but it was not a good smile.
Max spoke up. “That’s okay. We’re almost there.”
“Well, get on down there before the cops pick you up.” He rolled up his window and pulled away. We watched to be sure he was gone.
“Whew,” I said. “That was close.”
“Yeah,” Max said grimly. “Too close. That guy was creepy.”
At DuPont Circle there was a lot of seedy nightlife—people hanging out, making deals, laughing and drinking. Nobody paid us any attention. We rounded the Circle, then passed the Tiny Jewel Box—a lovely old brick house with a dome, where Brickie often bought Dimma birthday or Christmas presents, and then the Mayflower Hotel. At L Street we went by Duke Zeibert’s, one of my dad’s hangouts, and then Farragut Square, where Connecticut curved into Seventeenth Street. Passing Admiral Farragut’s statue, Max stupidly hollered out, “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” At this point I really hoped that Beatriz knew what she was doing, because I no longer did, and I knew Ivan and Max didn’t, either. Passing the Renwick Gallery, Beatriz gave a thumbs-up. I felt even better when we passed a massive fortress, pompously ornate with its columns: an obvious government building and a sign that we were getting close. We zipped by the Corcoran, and the O.A.S. building, where I remembered that Elena often went to parties. There, the Mall opened before us, the Washington Monument rising up, gleaming like a giant sword. Beatriz signaled a left turn, and we cruised down Constitution, past more offices, arriving at Tenth Street, where, on our right, the National Museum loomed over us.
We pulled off into some trees, grinning at one another, chests heaving. We were silent for a moment, catching our breath. The Mall was very eerie and deserted; I’d never seen it when it wasn’t bustling with sightseers.
“It’s too quiet,” I said, a little spooked. “There aren’t even any crickets. Or lightning bugs. And no webs.”
Max said, “They’re all dead! I bet they dropped some of that Smear 62 junk to get rid of the spiders and vinegaroons.”
“It’s good that it’s quiet,” said Beatriz. “That’s what we want!”
Ivan, a hand clutching his crotch, whispered urgently, “I’ve got to pee!” He laid down his bike and peed with his back to us. Zipping up, he said, “Now we look for a back door. Walk our bikes.”
I asked Ivan, “The Zoology Hall is on the right, isn’t it?”
“It was when we came to see the new elephant with Elena,” he said.
We started around the right side of the museum. “Looks like there’s a light on back there,” I said. “Is that good or bad?” At the corner of the building was a large boxwood, and under its cover we peeked around to see light pouring out from a door propped open with a big trash can. A dark-green Ford pickup truck with a government logo on its door and an old maroon Plymouth were parked in the service drive. More trash cans stood by the truck. Max said, “There must be people inside!”
I whispered, “Duh!”
“But maybe they’re leaving,” Ivan said. Ivan and Max waited, then craned their necks around the corner to look again. Nobody.
“It’s gotta be the Hampton guy!” said Beatriz.
“Maybe,” Ivan said. “But there must be somebody else, too.”
“Should we wait and see, or try to go in now?” I whispered.
“Let’s wait a few minutes,” Ivan said.
“I say we try to get in now,” Max said. “Then we won’t have to try to pick the lock.”
“Max, if we go in now, we might run right into whoever’s in there. Let’s just see what’s happening,” Ivan responded.
Beatriz said, “I’m with Ivan—just wait a minute.”
Ivan directed us, “Leave our bikes here, behind the bush. Don’t use the kickstands, just turn them around and lean them against the wall so we can hop on fast when we go.” We did this as quietly as we could. We waited.
Nothing happened, and then nothing happened some more. All of a sudden there were crashing and scraping noises from the open door. My heart banged in my chest. Beatriz clutched my arm. A man in a suit came out, followed by a tall, dark-skinned man in a uniform dragging two trash cans. “Good night, Hampton,” the suit man said. “Hope you find some things you can use.” Setting the trash cans by the others, the uniformed man said, “ ’Night, Dr. Smith. I’m ’bout to finish up. See you tomorrow.”
“That’s him! That’s Hampton!” Beatriz squeezed my arm hard.
The suit guy got in his Plymouth, cranked it, and turned on the headlights.
“Get down!” Ivan hissed. We hit the pavement, hoping that the boxwood hid us. The car turned around in the service drive, its headlights swooping across the boxwood, and drove off.
Hampton reached into the open window of his truck and switched on the radio. Gospel music played loudly—a woman singing throatily about being on her way. “He’s gonna leave soon! Get ready!” Ivan whispered. We stood back up. But Hampton went back inside and after a few minutes returned with two more trash cans. He stopped and reached into his truck again, bringing out a paper sack and a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, sucked on it, and opened the bed of his truck. Then Hampton began sorting through the trash, bringing up glinting pieces of aluminum foil—sandwich wrappers, insides of cigarette packs, Wrigley’s gum papers—and sticking them in his sack. He stopped to draw on his smoke a couple more times, then tossed it. He began singing along to the song. Picking up one of the big cans, he shoved it in the truck bed, then leapt up after it, taking time to carefully situate it. Then he jumped down and picked up another can and did the same. There were several more trash cans.
Ivan whispered fiercely, “When he jumps up in the truck the next time, we go!” Hampton toted another can, and when he clambered up into the truck bed again, still singing along loudly to the radio, Ivan said, “Now!”
On tiptoes, we ran around the corner as fast and quietly as we could and were inside the open door in a split second. Another full can sat inside, and Ivan, leading, almost ran into it. We kept going: down a hall past an open cleaning closet, past a lot of other doors, and a bathroom, coming to a flight of stairs. “We must be in the basement—go up!” Ivan said. We scrambled up, ending up in the dark of the main rotunda, where arcades branched off, interspersed with swirly marble columns. There stood the wondrous new African elephant Elena had taken us to see. It was scary to us now, in the dark. Ivan pointed into the closest arcade and we skittered in and stopped, pressing our backs to the wall. I could hear our labored breathing. We waited silently, still able to hear the radio playing outside. Ivan said, “Keep still!” After a few minutes, we heard the loud slam of a door, and the radio stopped.
Max whispered, “You think he’s leaving?” Nobody answered him, and we stood there a few more minutes.
“Wait till we hear his truck crank up,” I said.
We waited. There were no sounds at all. Finally, we heard the engine start.
“I think he’s gone,” Ivan said. He turned to Max and Beatriz. “You two wait here and keep watch. If you hear someone coming, give a little whistle, and everybody hide.” This was a good idea; Max was too much of a loose cannon, and Beatriz could be trusted to keep him in line, and nobody needed to be alone.
“Hey!” Max protested. “I’ve got the bag!”
“We’ll signal you when we find it,” Commander Ivan said. He yanked me back into the rotunda with him. “Get out your light.”
I pulled out my little penlight and clicked it on as we began creeping around. We were pretty sure the insect exhibits were on the right, in a room off the rotunda, but we couldn’t recall which one. I flashed my penlight across the tops of the arches, looking for a sign, but the light wasn’t strong enough for us to read them. We moved closer, FOSSILS, ANTHROPOLOGY. Then ZOOLOGY.
“Yay!” I said.
Ivan and I entered the room. Then, from back where we’d left Beatriz and Max, a door slammed, followed by a short, low-pitched whistle. Ivan and I panicked and scuttled to the wall just inside the room, pressing back against it. I turned off my light, my heart galloping crazily. After nothing happened, Ivan hesitantly looked out toward where we’d left Max and Beatriz. His loud whisper expanded around the rotunda, “Max, what’s wrong?”
“Beatriz had to go to the bathroom back there, and she let the door slam! I thought it was someone coming in!”
“Sorry!” she whispered back.
Ivan answered, “We think it’s here! Come to the light!” I switched on the pen, pointing it at the floor. They tiptoed over.
“Shouldn’t one of us still stand guard?” I questioned. Simultaneously Max and Beatriz said, “Not me!” Nobody wanted to miss the Heist, or stand alone in the dark.
Ivan said, “If somebody comes, we separate, get out of here, jump on our bikes, and leave—don’t wait for anybody! There’s no point in all of us getting caught.”
The idea unnerved me, but I got the logic of it and said, “And if someone does get caught, nobody rats on anybody else, right?” We all agreed.
The four of us advanced together into the insect room, looking around as if there might be a neon sign illuminating the celebrity pirate vinegaroons. We went from case to case, following my penlight, looking for the prize. Halfway around the room, I cried, “Here it is! It’s this one!” We all crowded together. A placard on the exhibit case read PIRATE VINEGAROON; under this was its Latin name, UROPYGI PIRATA. The legend beneath told a shorter version of all the information we’d read in the papers. The words EXTREMELY POISONOUS stood out.
Peering into the case, Beatriz said, “There’s nothing in there but rocks!”
“They’re hiding,” Ivan said. “They’re reclusive.”
“Shine the light back here.” Max was looking all over, beneath and behind the exhibit case. “I don’t see any wires or plugs anywhere, so there must not be an alarm.”
“Let’s get our stuff on,” I said. Max took the book bag from around his neck, setting it on the floor. He handed Ivan Elena’s red gloves and gave each of us a mouse mattress tied with a rubber band. “Gah! I can’t believe we’re wearing these!” I said.
“Just let them hang around our necks till we need them,” Beatriz ordered.
Out came the goggles, too, and we put them on. With our burglar caps, we looked like we were operatives on a top-secret, dangerous mission. Which I guess we were.
“We actually need to be more worried about getting bitten than sprayed. The bite’s what makes you really sick,” Ivan pointed out.
“How are we going to get them to come out of the rocks?” Beatriz asked.
“Maybe if I shine my light, it’ll attract them, like bug zappers do?”
“Try it,” Max said. I did, and we waited. “Come out, you morons.”
“Do you think they could’ve killed each other?” I wondered.
Nothing stirred. “Rats!” Ivan said angrily. “Why didn’t we bring some beetles to attract them?”
“I know!” Max said. “The Hostess CupCakes!” He rummaged in the bag and drew the package out, unwrapped it, and broke off a cakey crumb. “When we break the case, I’ll toss this in. They’ll come out to investigate.”
Beatriz asked Ivan, “Where will you make the hole?”
“At the bottom-left corner, like this.” He traced his finger horizontally from the left side of the case to the right about three inches, and then down to the bottom the same length, and up the case frame. “I’ll have to cut a whole square.” He looked at his hand. “The hole needs to be small and tight so the girl can’t run up my arm while I catch the boy, and you guys have to tape it fast. Max, you should tear off a bunch of duct-tape strips and be ready with them.” Beatriz helped Max with the tape, the ripping sound echoing spookily around the room. He stuck the strips lightly to his arm.
We stood silently for a moment. Ivan drew a deep breath and said, “Okay. I’m going in. Gimme the glass cutter. You guys be ready with a pill bottle, cap, and tape.” He drew on Elena’s red gloves and Max handed him the cutter. I felt goose bumps all over. Beatriz crossed herself.
I shined the light on the spot. Ivan very slowly began rolling the blade of the cutter across the glass. It wasn’t making the white etched line Max said it was supposed to. “Put more pressure on it,” Max said. Ivan tried again, leaning in. No line. “Oh, no,” Max whispered. “I forgot! The wheel has to be lubricated. My dad puts oil on it.” Ivan drew back and spat a wad of saliva onto the wheel. He ran the cutter along the four sides of the square, and the lines appeared. He stepped back for a second, taking a deep breath. “You guys ready?” Turning the tool around, he tapped on the glass along the lines with the ball end, gently at first, then harder. The glass wouldn’t give. Frustrated, Ivan punched more forcefully, and the glass finally broke, but not cleanly. The square cutout fell back into the case, a few jagged pieces standing up from the frame like shark teeth. Ivan gingerly snapped them off. “Einstein!” Max whispered.
“Throw in the cake, Max! Close to the hole, but not too close.” Max stepped forward and tossed in the crumb, quickly backing away.
More waiting. Ivan took off his jacket, saying, “If they come running out too fast, I’ll stuff the hole with this.” Then we saw movement in the rocks. I pointed the light so it wasn’t directly on the rocks. Purple claws slowly emerged, first one set from the left, then one from the right.
“Put on the mouse mattresses!” Beatriz cried. We pulled the Kotex pads up over our noses and mouths.
“There they are!” I exclaimed. The vinegaroons crept out, raising their claws high as they came forward. They were even more frightening than they were in the photos. Beatriz shuddered against me.
Ivan said excitedly, his voice muffled by the Kotex, “That’s the girl on the right! Look—her eggs hatched! There’re tons of them!” A crowd of wriggling babies piggybacked on the mother.
“Man!” said Max. “They look like tiny white squids!”
“Oh, the poor thing!” said Beatriz.
“We only want the boy,” I said firmly, hoping Ivan wasn’t still thinking of having a supply. “And he’s closest to the hole.”
“He needs to come closer,” Ivan said, tugging at his left glove.
The creatures advanced toward the cake, the male leading. Beatriz said, “Of course the boy’s going to hog the food.”
The male reached the cake, about three inches back. He snatched it in his pincers, then chomped it with his black, venom-packed fangs. The female continued forward.
“Ivan!” I cried. “Catch him before she gets close! Quick!”
Ivan seemed paralyzed. “Hurry, Ivan!” Max urged him. “Do you want me to do it?” He gave Ivan’s arm a nudge. The female kept advancing.
“I’m okay—I’m doing it. Stand right here to hand me the pill bottle, and be ready with the cap.” He slowly began putting his gloved left hand through the hole. The male vinegaroon dropped the crumb and waved his claws menacingly, poising his tail.
I could feel Beatriz shaking, or maybe it was me.
Just as Ivan’s hand neared the male, the female rushed forward, claws raised. “Ivan!” I cried. He seized the male and tried to withdraw his hand, but the hole was too small for his clenched fist. He dropped the vinegaroon, and the creature scuttled backward toward his mate. “Mierda!” Ivan cried. All his bravado evaporated. He was on the verge of tears.
“Look! I thought we might need this!” From her sweater, Beatriz drew a small green net, its wire handle bent to fit in her sweater pocket. Her voice trembling, she said, “I use it for my fish when I clean their tank. Do you want to try it?”
But Ivan was through. “No—you do it. Maybe your hands are smaller.” He took off the red gloves and Beatriz put them on, then bent the wire so that the net was at a right angle to its handle. Max and I exchanged a glance, and I know he was as relieved as I was that he and I were spared.
“Ready with the bottle and cap?” Beatriz asked me. I nodded, wanting badly to clutch my pants.
Beatriz extended her hand, holding the little net, until it passed through the square hole. She steadily moved toward the vinegaroons. They both raised their whiptails and sprayed. Beatriz gently flicked the female away, then rapidly dropped the net over the male. Slowly, slowly, she dragged him along the gravelly bottom, then over to the edge of the hole. “Give me the bottle. Have the tape and paper bag ready.” She took the green bottle from me with her free hand and held it next to the trapped vinegaroon. With one swift move, she scooched him into the bottle, then snatched the cap from me and screwed it on. I held the paper bag open, and she dropped the pill bottle inside, then rolled the bag into a tight cigar. Max jumped over with the duct-tape strips he’d readied on his sleeve and quickly patched the hole. There was the sharp smell of vinegar.
“Get away from the case!” I said, backing off.
“Take this thing, Ivan!” Beatriz thrust the rolled-up bag at him and tore off Elena’s gloves.
We scurried to gather up our stuff, jamming everything into Max’s book bag. The Kotex pads were slipping down off our faces, and I all but shouted, “Hold your breath! Pull the caps over your faces!”
With the caps pulled over our goggles, we were blind, stumbling and bumping into each other. Someone fell heavily against me and crashed to the floor, crying “Mierda!” again. I yanked Ivan up and we slammed into a wall.
Max yanked up his cap for a second, looking around, and said, “Everybody hold hands. We’re going back the way we came. Stay against the wall.”
We followed Sergeant Max’s directions like kindergarteners. I was between Beatriz and Ivan, our hands slick with sweat. Still blind, we spilled down the steps, groping along the basement hall. At the back door, we ripped off our goggles and caps, Beatriz’s braids tumbling out. “My head is boiled!”
Ivan whimpered, “I think I might’ve smushed him when I fell!”
We looked at each other in horror. I said, “We have to check him.”
Ivan withdrew the paper sack jammed in his pocket, opening it cautiously. The vinegar smell was overpowering. “Pew!” I said, an elbow over my face. Ivan held up the intact pill bottle, and I shined my light on it. In the limited space the vinegaroon had, he moved his claws.
“Graças a Deus!” Beatriz whispered.
“Let’s get the aitch outta here,” Max said urgently. “Put him on top of the junk in my book bag, so if something happens on the way home, I can just ditch it if I have to.” We threw in our headgear, placing the vinegaroon on top. Max said, “Just leave the mouse mattresses so they’ll think some girls stole the vinegaroon.”
Beatriz said huffily, “Some girl did steal it!”
“Let’s go.” I looked at the push bar of the door for a second and went cold. “You guys—what if we’re locked in, or the door sets off an alarm?”
Max cried impatiently, “Just do it!” I cranked the bar down slowly, pushing. It didn’t open. I looked back at everybody, all their mouths agape, eyes wide. My heart thundered in my ears. Max stepped up and leaned against the door, pushing the bar harder. It didn’t give. His face was dripping, and he stopped to wipe it on his sleeve.
“We didn’t think about fingerprints,” Ivan whispered.
“The FBI doesn’t keep kids’ fingerprints,” Max said. “Do they?” Then, heaving his whole weight against the door, he cranked the bar powerfully, grunting with the effort. The door opened. We froze, waiting for an alarm, but heard only our breathing.
“I knew the angels would look out for us!” Beatriz whispered.
“Let’s go!” said Max. We burst out the door and scrabbled around the corner to our bikes by the boxwood, hearing the door slam behind us. Max said, “We’ll ride back the way we came, but remember, if someone’s after us, split up!” We hopped on our bikes, quickly pedaling to the street.
With new energy fueled by fear and adrenaline, we zipped a couple blocks along Constitution Avenue, avoiding the streetlights. Suddenly there were headlights behind us. I looked back. “It’s Hampton’s truck!” I called out. Max was leading, and we veered off onto the Mall, where we stopped in the shadows behind a tree. The truck slowed down, but we couldn’t make out whether or not Hampton was looking our way.
Max said, “If he gets out and comes for us, I’m dumping the vinegaroon!” The truck came flush with us and stopped. “Damn!” I whispered, afraid I might wet my pants. “We’re doomed!”
A match flared in the blackness inside the cab. “He’s just lighting a cigarette, Advice Lady,” Max hissed at me. The truck rolled on by. We waited until it picked up speed and turned out of sight. Then we were off again.
The return trip seemed much faster. There were practically no cars at all, not even at DuPont Circle or the Taft Bridge. I desperately longed for my bed, or at least Max’s. I was still terrified, but felt less so with every block. Whizzing up Connecticut Avenue, closing in on Chevy Chase, we were traveling so fast I felt like I was having one of those flying dreams. I was just beginning to relish our triumph when there was a shriek, a whump, and a crash as Beatriz, riding ahead of me, flew into the air and came down with her bike on top of her, its wheels spinning. “Help!” she cried as I slammed to a stop where she lay on the edge of someone’s lawn.
“Beatriz!” I shouted, too loud.
Max and Ivan, far ahead, skidded to a stop. “What happened?” Max called. I was trying to pull the bike off her and help her up.
“Ow! Ow! Don’t pull on me! I’m stuck!” she said, crying a little. “The sidewalk—I hit that big hump.” Just behind her, a huge tree root heaved up the sidewalk. Max and Ivan had jumped it, or swerved around it in time. They came running back to help. We saw that one of her long braids was tangled in her front bike wheel, wound tightly around the center of the spokes. Max tried to work it free but got nowhere. Beatriz cried, “Guys—I’ll untangle it somehow! Go on!”
“Gah! What do we do?” I panicked and couldn’t think.
“We can’t just leave her!” Max said.
Then Ivan, looking grim, pulled his pocketknife out. Opening the blade, he bent close to her. He said, very deliberately, “Beatriz. I have to. Or we’ll all get caught. I’m so sorry.”
Beatriz looked horrified.
I didn’t understand and cried, “Ivan! What…what are you doing?” I had an insane vision of Ivan slashing her throat so we could get away.
Max squawked, “What’s wrong with you, Ivan?”
When Ivan grasped the tangled braid and said, “It’s got to go,” Max and I heaved huge sighs of relief.
But Beatriz wasn’t relieved, pleading, “Not my hair! My parents will murder me!”
Ivan repeated, “I’m sorry! We’ll think of something to tell your mom!” Lights came on in the house at the back of the lawn.
Ivan sawed and hacked at the braid just below her ear. Then he yanked hard, and her head bounced as it was freed from the spokes. He handed Beatriz the dead braid as Max jerked her bike up. “Your bike’s fine! Quick! We gotta go!”
I asked her, “Can you ride okay?”
“I think so.” But she didn’t sound sure. “My knee hurts.”
I got behind Beatriz to be sure nothing else happened to her. As we pedaled off, a man’s angry voice came from the house: “Who’s out there?”
Max led us across Connecticut, and we vanished into the shadows of a side street. We circled back to the Avalon—the home stretch—and in a few minutes we were back on Connors Lane, cruising to Max’s.
Safely under the climbing maple, we were shell-shocked and shaking. The enormity of what we’d accomplished hadn’t set in.
Beatriz thought she was only a little sore. “My kneesocks kept my legs from getting too scraped.” But she did have a raw place speckled with sidewalk crud on her knee.
“Why didn’t your angels see that bump?” Max taunted.
We all looked at Beatriz, with her one braid hanging sadly. Ivan asked her, “Don’t you think I should cut off your other braid?”
She thought for a second and said miserably, “You might as well. I’ll put my cap back on to sneak back into my house, but what am I gonna tell them in the morning?” She was ready to cry.
“Why don’t you tell them that you saw a picture of a really cute Girl Scout in Seventeen with a short haircut, and that they called her the ‘New American Girl,’ and you just wanted to look more American?” I suggested, having seen that exact feature in Liz’s latest copy of Seventeen.
Beatriz said, “I don’t think my parents want me to look more American.”
Max offered, “Tell them it’s too hot and way too much trouble to have long hair, and that you’d rather spend more time on your cataclysm.”
“It’s catechism. A cataclysm is like when the Russians blow us up,” Beatriz corrected, issuing a snuffly laugh. “I know—I’ll tell them I’ll go to confession, too. I hope they don’t punish me by not letting me go to the Fiesta.”
Ivan whipped out his trusty knife and, with trembling hands, chopped off the other braid, giving it to Beatriz. “Wow,” she whispered. “My head feels so light!”
“I hope you get inside okay,” I said. “Don’t forget to wash the charcoal off.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “What an adventure!” She rode back down the lane.
“Uhh…my head feels light, too.” Ivan sat down, then lay back in the dirt. “My chest hurts.”
“Ivan!” I was afraid for him. “We have to get you into bed!” Max and I fanned him frantically with our hands. His white face practically glowed in the dark.
After a few minutes, he said, “I think I’m okay now.” We helped him up the tree, but he was pretty weak.
We tiptoed fast to the bathroom, where we all took elephantine pees, then we stripped down and quietly got in a cold shower, rinsing the charcoal off. In Max’s bedroom the clock said 1:07. Max turned on the fan to obscure any noise. I’d never been so exhausted in my life—well, maybe after I drowned. Ivan seemed rejuvenated—a little—by the shower, but sat on the floor. Max whispered joyfully, “You guys—we did it! Are we not the three coolest cats in the world?”
“Re-mark-able! We heisted the vinegaroon!” We were suddenly jubilant, and Max and I performed a silent victory dance, like naked cavemen after a kill. Ivan only watched, grinning. Then we all put on our underpants and threw ourselves onto Max’s bed.
“I want to see him one more time,” said Ivan.
Max rose back up and grabbed the paper bag from his book bag. “Gah! It still reeks!” He proffered it to Ivan. Ivan unwrapped the paper-sack cocoon and took out the green pill bottle, holding it to the streetlight. The vinegaroon moved a bit, and Ivan said, “Ta-da!”
Max spoke to the vinegaroon. “Aargh, matey! You’ll soon be making Slutcheon walk the plank!” He clacked his tongue, “Tick tock, tick tock!” like the evil crocodile that plagued Captain Hook.
“Max, do you have a Magic Marker?” Ivan asked.
“I think so. Somewhere.” He pawed through a drawer and found one.
Ivan sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over the bottle. Very meticulously he drew a small skull and crossbones on the plastic.
“Like you might forget there’s something poisonous in there?” I said.
“It’s just in case,” said Ivan. “And he’s a pirate vinegaroon. Pirates always have a skull and crossbones on their stuff, right?”
Max said, “Okay, now get that thing outta my bed.”
“Just one good-night kiss.” Ivan smooched at the bottle and replaced it on the sill sideways, shoring it up with the Magic Marker. For a moment we admired our trophy, silhouetted against the streetlight, the bottle glowing like an emerald.
I cautioned, “You better be super careful with him because of the twins and the dogs.”
Wiesie traipsed in, sniffed around, hunching her back and hissing like a Halloween cat, and ran out of the room. Max yawned, saying, “John and I thought for a second you were going to kill Beatriz, Ivan.”
“Oh, brother! Maybe your brains did get poisoned,” he said and laughed. I considered this and started to worry not only about the vinegaroon’s welfare, but about everybody else’s. And I worried about Ivan’s sinking spell. But I was overtaken by a yawn. I should have been very worried, as things turned out.
The clock said 1:26. We conked out, too battle-fatigued to laugh, scratch, or even dream.