don’t know,” Margo chanted. “I’M THE NEW
QUEEN OF VOCABULARY! I’VE USURPED YOU!”
“spell usurped ,” I told her.
“No,” she answered, laughing. “I’m not giving up my crown over usurped . You’ll have to do better.”
“Fine.” I smiled.
65/307
We drove through college Park, a neighborhood that passes for Orlando’s historic district on account of how the houses were mostly built thirty whole years ago. Margo couldn’t remember Chuck’s exact address, or what his house looked like, or even for sure what street it was on (“I’m almost like ninety-five percent positive it’s on Vassar.”).
Finally, after the Chrysler had prowled three blocks of Vassar Street, Margo pointed to her left and said, “That one.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’m like ninety-seven-point-two percent sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure his bedroom is right there,” she said, pointing. “One time he had a party, and when the cops came I shimmied out his window. I’m pretty sure it’s the same window.”
“This seems like we could get in trouble.”
“But if the window is open, there’s no breaking involved. Only entering. And we just did entering at the SunTrust, and it wasn’t that big of a deal, right?” I laughed. “It’s like you’re turning me into a badass.”
“That’s the idea. Okay, supplies: get the Veet, the spray paint, and the Vaseline.”
“Okay.” I grabbed them.
“Now don’t freak out on me, Q. The good news is that Chuck sleeps like a hibernating bear—I know because I had English with him last year and he wouldn’t wake up even when Ms. Johnston swatted him with Jane Eyre . So we’re going to go up to his bedroom window, we’re gonna open it, we’re gonna take off our shoes, and then very quietly go inside, and I’m going to screw with Chuck. Then you and I are going to fan out to opposite sides of the house, and we’re going to cover every door handle in Vaseline, so even if someone wakes up, they’ll have a 66/307
hell a hard time getting out of the house in time to catch us. Then we’ll screw with Chuck some more, paint his house a little, and we’re out of there. And no talking.” I put my hand to my jugular, but I was smiling.
We were walking away from the car together when Margo reached down for my hand, laced her fingers in mine, and squeezed. I squeezed back and then glanced at her. She nodded her head solemnly, and I nodded back, and then she let go of my hand. We scampered up to the window. I gently pushed the wooden casing up. It squeaked ever so quietly but opened in one motion. I looked in. It was dark, but I could see a body in a bed.
The window was a little high for Margo, so I put my hands together and she stepped a socked foot onto my hand and I boosted her up. Her silent entrance into the house would have made a ninja jealous. I proceeded to jump up, get my head and shoulders into the window, and then attempt, via a complicated torso undulation, to dance the caterpil ar into the house. That might have worked fine except I racked my balls against the windowsill, which hurt so bad that I groaned, which was a pretty sizable mistake.
A bedside light came on. And there, lying in bed, was some old guy—decidedly not Chuck Parson. His eyes were wide with terror; he didn’t say a thing.
“Um,” said Margo. I thought about shoving off and running back to the car, but for Margo’s sake I stayed there, the top half of me in the house, paral ell to the floor. “Um, I think we have the wrong house.” She turned around then and looked at me urgently, and only then did I realize I was blocking Margo’s exit. So I pushed myself back out the window, grabbed my shoes, and took off.
We drove to the other side of college Park to regroup.
67/307
“I think we share the blame on that one,” Margo said.
“Um, you picked the wrong house ,” I said.
“Right, but you were the one who made noise.” It was quiet for a minute, and we were just
QUEEN OF VOCABULARY! I’VE USURPED YOU!”
“spell usurped ,” I told her.
“No,” she answered, laughing. “I’m not giving up my crown over usurped . You’ll have to do better.”
“Fine.” I smiled.
65/307
We drove through college Park, a neighborhood that passes for Orlando’s historic district on account of how the houses were mostly built thirty whole years ago. Margo couldn’t remember Chuck’s exact address, or what his house looked like, or even for sure what street it was on (“I’m almost like ninety-five percent positive it’s on Vassar.”).
Finally, after the Chrysler had prowled three blocks of Vassar Street, Margo pointed to her left and said, “That one.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’m like ninety-seven-point-two percent sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure his bedroom is right there,” she said, pointing. “One time he had a party, and when the cops came I shimmied out his window. I’m pretty sure it’s the same window.”
“This seems like we could get in trouble.”
“But if the window is open, there’s no breaking involved. Only entering. And we just did entering at the SunTrust, and it wasn’t that big of a deal, right?” I laughed. “It’s like you’re turning me into a badass.”
“That’s the idea. Okay, supplies: get the Veet, the spray paint, and the Vaseline.”
“Okay.” I grabbed them.
“Now don’t freak out on me, Q. The good news is that Chuck sleeps like a hibernating bear—I know because I had English with him last year and he wouldn’t wake up even when Ms. Johnston swatted him with Jane Eyre . So we’re going to go up to his bedroom window, we’re gonna open it, we’re gonna take off our shoes, and then very quietly go inside, and I’m going to screw with Chuck. Then you and I are going to fan out to opposite sides of the house, and we’re going to cover every door handle in Vaseline, so even if someone wakes up, they’ll have a 66/307
hell a hard time getting out of the house in time to catch us. Then we’ll screw with Chuck some more, paint his house a little, and we’re out of there. And no talking.” I put my hand to my jugular, but I was smiling.
We were walking away from the car together when Margo reached down for my hand, laced her fingers in mine, and squeezed. I squeezed back and then glanced at her. She nodded her head solemnly, and I nodded back, and then she let go of my hand. We scampered up to the window. I gently pushed the wooden casing up. It squeaked ever so quietly but opened in one motion. I looked in. It was dark, but I could see a body in a bed.
The window was a little high for Margo, so I put my hands together and she stepped a socked foot onto my hand and I boosted her up. Her silent entrance into the house would have made a ninja jealous. I proceeded to jump up, get my head and shoulders into the window, and then attempt, via a complicated torso undulation, to dance the caterpil ar into the house. That might have worked fine except I racked my balls against the windowsill, which hurt so bad that I groaned, which was a pretty sizable mistake.
A bedside light came on. And there, lying in bed, was some old guy—decidedly not Chuck Parson. His eyes were wide with terror; he didn’t say a thing.
“Um,” said Margo. I thought about shoving off and running back to the car, but for Margo’s sake I stayed there, the top half of me in the house, paral ell to the floor. “Um, I think we have the wrong house.” She turned around then and looked at me urgently, and only then did I realize I was blocking Margo’s exit. So I pushed myself back out the window, grabbed my shoes, and took off.
We drove to the other side of college Park to regroup.
67/307
“I think we share the blame on that one,” Margo said.
“Um, you picked the wrong house ,” I said.
“Right, but you were the one who made noise.” It was quiet for a minute, and we were just
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