Joyride (9 page)

And like a stupid person, I stay and wait. Arden has now used ten minutes of his precious (my precious) half hour. Goodwill is in a small shopping center with a nail salon and a Mexican restaurant. Goodwill's half-off sale is drawing the most business by far.

When Arden comes back out, he's got a small plastic bag in his hand. He slams the truck door shut and presents me with its contents: A small black-and-gray knockoff purse. Fuzzy around the edges and worn on the straps, but all in all, in pretty good shape.

“What's this for?”

He grins. “You'll see. We have to make one more stop before the fun begins.”

“Alriiighty then,” I say. He recognizes mockery when he hears it.

He glances at me sideways. “You're going to love this,” he says. “It's a huge stress reliever.”

It's possibly the most convincing thing he could've said to keep me hanging. I don't get many opportunities for relieving stress—I just hope my idea of stress and Arden's idea of stress is at least similar.

He takes us down a dirt road and pulls off on the grassy shoulder, next to a fenced-in field full of grazing cows. In the distance, goats wander around a long wooden bin. A big white house with black shutters looms atop a hill. “Does someone live here?”

“I'm guessing yes. There's a box of ziplock bags in the glove box. Can you hand me those?”

I do as I'm asked, more curious than ever. I don't question why he has an already-opened box of ziplock baggies in his glove box, even though it seems to be proof that this entire afternoon was highly premeditated. How did he know I would come with him today? Or does he always keep domestic treasures hidden away in his truck? Does he have a slow cooker in here too somewhere?

He pulls out a bag and turns it inside out in his hand, then tugs it on like a sloppy glove. This makes me skittish. “You're not going to hurt a cow, are you?”

He looks at me, then at his plastic-wrapped hand. “I'm not even going to ask what you think I'm about to do.” With that he's out of the truck. He's agile for being such a big guy, hopping the wooden fence in one swift motion. He doesn't make it far before he swoops down and picks something up off the ground. With deliberation, he slowly zips it up.

He brings his findings back with a satisfied smirk: A ziplock bag full of fresh cow turd. “Here, hold this, would you?”

“Seriously?” I press myself into the truck door. The handle jabs into my back.

“Don't be a baby,” he says, dangling the bag toward me. “I made sure none got on the outside. I'm holding it, aren't I?”

“Which has what to do with me?” But I take the bag, using my index and thumb to hold the corner. I maintain it a safe distance away from me like it's full of leprosy.

“Now for the fun part,” he says, starting the engine again. “Nothing like a stink pickle to up the stakes.”

“Did you really just say stink pickle?”

We drive and drive. We're leaving town, going south, heading to Highway 98, the touristy part of the county. I realize that it will take longer than the half hour he promised it would. I knew half an hour was wishful thinking. But I owe him now. I hate owing anyone anything. If I can just get through this little field trip, then we'll be even. Then we'll never have to speak again.

“So what did your parents think about the whole robbery thing? Were they proud of you?”

I frown. With a longer drive comes a higher price: conversation. This is exactly why I never try to make friends. Eventually they'll want an explanation for my home life. “I live with my brother, Julio. And I didn't tell him.”

A moment of silence. I can tell he's back and forth about asking the next question. “Where are your parents?”

“Dead.”

“Sorry.”

“What for? You didn't kill them.”

“Geez, you know what I mean.” I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “So why didn't you tell your brother?”

I shrug. “Nothing much to tell.”

He looks at me then, all serious. I can tell he's going to press for more information. I cut him off. “Look, Julio has enough on his plate without having to worry about me. He works hard for the both of us. And nothing happened so … Why worry him, you know?” I bite my tongue. What Julio has on his plate is none of Arden's business. I feel a tide of heat fill my cheeks. I need to be more careful with what I say.

Another pause. “And what about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Seems like you have enough to worry about too. Is there a night you
don't
have to work at the Breeze Mart? And obviously you care about your grades.” His voice is tight when he says this.

“I get one night off a week.” And I usually get called in for it. But telling him that would only add fuel to whatever fire Arden is building right now. “Some people have to work for their money, you know. Not everyone gets wads of twenties for their allowance.”

“I knew you were looking in my wallet. Just couldn't help yourself, huh?”

Oooh, I've hit a nerve, I can tell. “You were practically shoving it in my face!”

“I was paying for my stuff!”

“You almost disemboweled your wallet on my counter!”

He closes his eyes and scratches one eyebrow furiously. “I usually don't carry around that much cash with me.”

“So you were showing off.”

“And what if I was?”

Yep. I got nothing. Except, my mouth drops open in an unattractive way. Arden Moss just admitted he was showing off … for me? Next up, world peace.

“It's just that you're so hard to impress … And it felt like I kept screwing it up…” He grimaces at me. “Can we just get on with our fun-having?”

I nod. Although now we seemed to have bogged down our fun-having with issues.

The rest of our ride is in silence. We pull into the huge parking lot of Destin Commons, a high-end shopping center on Highway 98 in Destin. “This is the best spot,” he announces, parking us in front of a big name department store.

He retrieves his new knockoff purse, then gingerly relieves me of my bag of poo. With ease that can only be gotten from experience, he opens the purse and slides the turd pile in with perfect precision. Then he pulls out his still-engorged wallet and takes a five dollar bill from it. All the while I watch like a fascinated child. He tucks most of the bill into the purse, zipping the top almost shut, but leaves the corner of the bill sticking out, showing the denomination.

I swallow hard. A perfectly good five dollar bill, now smeared with crap. It hurts. It hurts bad. Julio would be cussing right now.

Without another word, he slips out of the driver's side and onto the sidewalk, the purse tucked securely under his arm, out of sight. He places it on one of the waiting benches with the fluidity of a pickpocket, then takes a light jog back to the truck. By this time he's grinning from ear to ear.

Shutting the door behind him, he points at a woman approaching the store who appears unaware of the purse sitting on the bench. She's enthralled with finding something in her own purse—her wallet? Her return receipt?—so she passes by the bench without looking down. I wonder if I've ever passed any purses with an easy five bucks sticking out of it. I resolve to pay more attention.

“Aw, that would have been funny,” Arden says, disappointment thick in his voice. But the downer is short-lived. He leans forward, putting his forearms on the steering wheel. “Here comes our target. See that guy right there?”

“We have a target?” I shift in my seat. Having a target sounds so … conniving. “Why do we have a target again?”

The dude approaches the bench with a fast pace, eyeing the purse. Oh, this guy. He's all macho, wearing a name-brand sporty wind suit and pristine running shoes that I'm sure have never seen a genuine sweaty mile. He's balding slightly, and what's left of his hair, he's gelled into submission. He looks cocky. Too cocky to pick up a woman's purse. So he passes it, keeping his eyes trained on the door ahead of him. I'm relieved. Arden scowls. “I was sure he'd fall for that.” He turns to me. “This guy is a complete jackass. He comes in here every Tuesday and demands a senior discount, even though he's not technically a senior yet. The store manager bows to his almighty will—moron—and lets him treat his cashiers like total garbage. One time, a lady in front of him in line dropped a twenty dollar bill from her purse when she was getting her wallet out, and this guy picks it up and pockets it without even telling her.”

“And so you've stalked him?” I mean, to time something this perfectly, Arden would have had to study this man, his habits. I remember the incident at the Breeze Mart then. Arden knew Mr. Shackleford would be there at that time.

“I like to call it recon.”

I watch as Mean Guy places a flat palm on the glass door. But he only pushes it halfway open. He pauses then, peering into the store longingly. With a self-loathing shake of his head, he turns and considers the purse again, his stature stiff with hesitation. Slowly, he lets the door close behind him. And he walks to the purse.

I have mixed feelings when he picks it up. On the one hand, I want him to get what he deserves. On the other, I so don't want to get caught doing this. I contemplate whether or not this could be a felony. Not that I know what constitutes a felony.

Arden gives me an anticipatory grin.

Mean Guy tests the weight of the bag, holding it by the strap with one finger and letting it dangle for a few seconds. I have no idea what he's hoping to discern by this. Apparently finding the purse an acceptable weight, he gingerly unzips it. And, oh my God, he opens it wide.

“Score!” Arden whispers next to me.

Mean Guy is overcome with disgust. His nostrils flare as he thrusts the purse into the bushes behind the bench. He stares at his hands as if they've become feet.

Against my will, the corners of my mouth tug up into a grin. Arden ducks behind the steering wheel and motions for me to get down. I follow his lead, my heart pounding. “He's looking around,” Arden explains.

After a few seconds, Arden peeks up, looking through the steering wheel. “He's putting the purse back on the bench!”

“What? Why would he do that?” I poke my head up over the console. Sure enough, Mean Guy is arranging the purse, setting it prettily on the seat.

“He's setting someone else up. I told you he was a jackass. Look, he's going to his car to watch.”

Sure enough, Sporty Spice gets back in his car, eyes on the bench. And we all wait. “We should go get the purse,” I tell Arden. “Our target didn't take the bait.”

He sighs. “I can't go get it. He'll recognize me, because I've said something to him before. Do you want to go get it?”

And risk Mean Guy thinking it was me who set him up? Uh, no.

Arden sees my hesitation. “Didn't think so. All we can do now is watch. Might as well enjoy the moment.”

It doesn't take long for the next victim to approach. Of all the people in the universe, it's an old lady and a kid who is probably her bratty grandson. He's about five years old with a straight-up bowl cut and he's pulling her faster than her bony legs can walk. They're about to pass the bench without noticing our little present for them. I will them with my eyes to look at the purse, and at the same time, I want them to pass by it.

Look at the purse, you little punk! No, don't!

And suddenly, he does.

We can't hear what he's telling his poor grandmother, but we can see that he's excited. He's about to pull her finger out of its socket, trying to reach the bench. Trying to reach our putrid pocketbook. I'm dying seriously dying for that kid to pick it up and get himself a big whiff of turd pie.

This is wrong
, my conscience screams.
And risky
. Even so, I keep watching.

Turbo Brat lets go of her hand then and Granny almost falls backward, which scares me a little. But she must be used to this kind of behavior because she catches herself just in time and with not a little grace. Meanwhile, Turbo Brat is picking up the purse and opening it. This kid deserves a trophy for being such a terror.

Arden snickers beside me. I giggle. But only a little.

Turbo Brat seems unconcerned with the money, and he doesn't seem to be assaulted by the smell just yet or maybe young kids are immune to that scent, so he actually sticks his entire hand inside and digs around—maybe for candy or other things that interest five-year-olds more than money—and as soon as I get done laughing, I'll die and go to hell like I should.

Arden is holding his stomach at this point. “His face,” he chokes out. “Did you see his face? Oh my God—he's smelling his fingers—I can't even!”

I can't breathe. Seriously, I need air. I'm trying to roll the window down but Arden puts a hand on my arm and shakes his head. “Too … loud…,” he says and I think what he means is that we're laughing too loud so it also means that I can't roll down the window right now.

Turbo Brat starts to cry when he realizes what's on his hands and Grandma saves the day by producing a handful of baby wipes. She rips each one ferociously from the travel-size box and begins to devour his hands with them. After she's satisfied with her cleanup job, they proceed into the store with the purse in tow, probably to report the incident. The ruined five dollar bill still lies on the concrete in front of the bench.

I feel bad for Granny, I really do. But that kid just might have learned a life lesson today, so my sympathy only stretches so far. “Should we go get it?” I ask, finally catching my breath. Not that I'm volunteering. From across the parking lot, I see Mean Guy in his seat, covering his mouth with his hand. He's still watching.

Arden clears his throat. “I don't think we'll have to.” He nods toward the storefront.