The Child Thief

WITH THE EXCEPTION of a few pubs and late-night restaurants, the
shops had all closed up. They passed a bar and Nick stole a quick peek

---

inside, caught sight of sullen, tired faces, the smell of cigarettes and beer,
the clinking of glasses and strained laughter as men and woman went about
the business of putting the long, hard workweek behind them.
Next door, in front of Antonio’s Camping and Sporting Goods, Nick
stopped suddenly and peered into the display window.
Peter came up next to him. “What is it?”
Nick stared at the green-and-black checkered Vans propped against a
skateboard.
“The shoes?” Peter asked.
“Nothing,” Nick said, but his eyes didn’t leave the shoes.
“You want those?”
Nick nodded absently.
Peter disappeared around the side of the building. Nick took a last
longing look at the shoes and followed. He turned the corner but Peter
wasn’t there. Nick glanced across the weedy lot and caught sight of a
bearded man leaning against a paunchy woman near the rear entrance of the
bar. Her blouse was undone and one of her breasts had escaped her bra,
hanging down nearly to her navel. The two of them giggled as the man
pawed it like a cat toy. “Jesus,” Nick said and watched, mesmerized, until a
sharp clank drew his attention. It came from behind the Dumpster next to
the sporting goods shop. He peered around the Dumpster—Peter had
managed to tug one steel bar from the crumbling masonry of a basement
window-well and was using that bar to pry loose a second.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Peter grunted, and the last bar popped off with a loud clang. “Bingo!”
Nick ducked down, peeked back toward the pub. The bearded man still
groped the woman, another man had stumbled outside puking, none of them
were looking their way.
Peter gave the pane a nudge with his foot and it popped open. The
basement was a well of darkness. Peter looked up at Nick. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Nick said.
“Are you going to get those shoes, or not?”
Nick took a quick step back as though from a viper. “Are you kidding
me? That’s breaking and entering.”
A look of deep disappointment crossed Peter’s face. Nick was surprised
to find this bothered him, that he cared at all what this wild kid thought.

---

“I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nick said, a bit too quickly.
“I’m no thief, that’s all. I mean that’s—”
“Nick, don’t let them win. Don’t let them beat you.”
“What?”
“Don’t let them steal your magic.”
“Magic?” What did magic have to do with breaking into someone’s
store and stealing their stuff?
“Don’t you get it?” Peter said. “You’re free now. You don’t have to live
by their rules anymore.” Peter pointed into the inky blackness of the
basement. “The darkness is calling. A little danger, a little risk. Feel your
heart race. Listen to it. That’s the sound of being alive. It’s your time, Nick.
Your one chance to have fun before it’s all stolen by them, the adults, with
their cruelty and endless rules, their can’t-do-this, and can’t-do-that’s, their
have-tos, and better-dos, their little boxes and cages all designed to break
your spirit, to kill your magic.”
Nick stared down into the dark basement.
“What are you waiting for?” Peter said, giving him a devilish grin
before disappearing through the window.
What am I waiting for? Nick wondered. What’s ahead for me? Even if I
could go home, what then? Graduate? Get some crappy job so that I can
spend every weekend trying to drink it all away, puking in a parking lot, or
playing fiddle-boobs with some skank? He shook his head. Peter was right:
if he didn’t live now—right this minute—then when? Too much of his
youth had already been stolen. Why should he let them take any more?
Maybe it was time to do a little taking of his own.
Nick took a deep breath and lowered himself through the window. He
swung his leg about in the darkness until his foot hit a box, dropped onto
the box, and promptly crashed over onto the floor. Something hit the floor
and shattered. “Crap,” Nick said, and sat there a long moment, heart in his
throat, waiting for the alarms and sirens, the lights, the dogs—the Gestapo.
When nothing happened, he climbed to his feet.
The basement smelled of mildew, dust, and old cardboard. Where’s
Peter? Nick noticed a weak light coming from the top of a narrow staircase.
Hands out, he made his way—adrenaline pumping through his every fiber,
heart beating louder with each step. “I hear it, Peter,” he whispered and
grinned. “The sound of being alive.”

---

The streetlights poured in through the display window, dousing the
jerseys, bats, balls, and bikes in a soft, bluish glow. No sign of Peter. He
crept by the Little League plaques and trophies, going right past the cash
register. Nick knew stores didn’t keep money in their registers at night, and
even if they had, this wasn’t about money. He wasn’t here to steal, at least
not like that. This was different somehow. It was about taking back, about
control maybe, the need to be steering his own fate for once—for better or
worse.
Nick peered over the racks of jerseys and warm-up suits, searching for
Peter’s nest of wild hair. He didn’t find the golden-eyed boy, but found
shoes—a whole wall of them. He passed up the court shoes with their
springs, gels, pumps, glitter, and glitz—what the boys at his school liked to
refer to as dunkadelic—until he zeroed in on a certain green-and-black
checked pattern. “Bingo,” he said, just like Peter had.
He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight, then scanned the boxes
for a size nine. He found a ten, several thirteens, a seven, a six, but no
nines. His brow tightened. “Oh, be here. Be here, be here, be here.” A grin
lit his face. There. “Yes!” He snatched up the box but didn’t open it, not
right away. He just held it, cherishing the moment like a Christmas present
you were finally allowed to open. Nick slowly lifted the lid, enjoyed the
pungent smell of rubber and glue, then slid the shoes out, holding them up
into the light. “S—weeet!” he exhaled, chucking the box and dropping
down onto a bench.
He tugged off his bargain-bin specials, stared at the cracked, peeling
rubber and frayed stitching. They reminded him of his mother—his cheap-
ass mother. He slung them against the wall. He had the Vans laced and on
his feet in no time and was up bouncing on his toes, checking himself out in
the mirror. Nick froze. There, behind him in the mirror, a pale, haunted face
watched him from the shadows, watched him like a cat watches a mouse.