Moxie and the Art of Rule Breaking

14 Days Left

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The Last Day: July 4

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One Week After

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

You know that line about being “saved by the bell”? Well, it’s a lie.

The events that ruined not only what was supposed to be the best summer ever, but my family
and
life as I knew it, began with a bell: a ringing doorbell.

See, that summer was the last one that my best friend, Ollie, and I would be together before we split to go to different high schools—and everyone knows that even though people say they’re going to hang out and still be friends and do stuff together, that doesn’t really happen. Social gravity pulls you to your new group: He’d be hanging out with the guys at Chestnut College Prep, and I’d be halfway across town at Boston Classics. But the summer? That was ours.

Anyway, when the whole “bell ruining my life” thing happened, I was working on the final set of geometry proofs of the school year and rockin’ to The Standells’ song about Boston, “Dirty Water”—perfect for late afternoon, neighborannoying, open window blaring.

Assuming it was Mom—who forgets her keys as often as I forget my cell phone—and not a life-altering visitor, I tucked
my pencil into the textbook, banged down the stairs from my room yelling “Hold on!” and bolted through our apartment to the house’s front door. The doorbell rang again.

I didn’t bother to check the peephole or anything, just threw it open while saying “Mom, do I have to have dinner with you and—”

It wasn’t my mom. I had never seen this woman before in my life. And her being not-Mom surprised me so much that words bottlenecked in my throat, and I stared. She had:

Red hair—dark and long, it was probably dyed, but whoever did it knew what they were doing, because it was an awesome, uniform color, not like Jolie Pearson’s, this idiot girl in my grade who pretends she’s a blond when she’s clearly, streakily, not.

Black skinny jeans and leather jacket—even though it was close to eighty degrees and way too hot for any coat.

Pale skin. Dark eyes. Staring straight at me, waiting.

Ever since I was nine, as long as my grandparents were in their downstairs apartment, my mom left me home alone. I had strict instructions not to open the door to anyone I didn’t know—it was one of our sacred family rules. And I’d always been good about following it.

Well, until now.

The door was thrown wide. I couldn’t just slam it in her face and call a do-over. She didn’t look sketchy…but you could never be too careful about these things. I leaned against the frame, hoping for a “no way, that wasn’t me who
just banged down the stairs and shouted through the door calling you Mom” vibe.

“Can I help you?” I asked, brain and mouth finally in gear.

“Is Joe here?” she asked. Her glance flicked behind me to the door of my grandma’s apartment, then up to mine. I’d left it open. The Standells were yelling “Aaww-aaww, Boston you’re my home” from my third-floor bedroom.

“Joe?” I repeated, not sure who she meant. The Redhead leaned forward slightly, as if she was trying to see around me.

“Joe Burke.”

She was looking for my grandpa, Grumps.

Opening that door? Total tactical error.

Grumps was the same place he’d been for the past two years: Alton Rivers Care facility. He had Alzheimer’s and my grandma Nini, Mom, and I couldn’t care for him at home anymore.

My hands went cold. It hadn’t happened in years, but strangers used to come looking for my grandfather all the time. See, Grumps, besides being the greatest grandpa in the universe, is something else. Or
was
, before the Alzheimer’s. Some called him a “made man,” some called him “part of the crew.” He called himself “a specialist.” But any way you say it, it means one thing:

Grumps was a criminal.

I changed my mind: Redhead = beautiful, but definitely sketchy.

“No,” I answered.

“Will he be back soon?” she asked. Her voice was buttery,
but her hard eyes were focused over my head at Nini’s door, not even pretending to acknowledge me. So rude.

“Dunno,” I said, stuffing every bit of uninterested teen attitude that I could into the word. Then I waited. Her over-my-head gaze didn’t change. My heart thudded. Why had it been me who’d opened the door?

“Well,” she said, and brought her eyes to mine. They oozed…what was that word? Words are not my thing, numbers are. But we had to memorize vocab lists last year in language arts for some standardized test, and Ollie and I competed to see who could learn the most. And this one was on there…Contempt! That was it.
Contempt.
Like I was such a disgusting waste of her time, she couldn’t believe she had to speak to me. And that I probably couldn’t even understand what she was saying.

She leaned down, her face so close to mine, I could smell the cigarettes on her breath, and stuck a long, perfectly manicured, dark-polished fingernail into my chest. And she pushed me, hard. I snagged the frame to keep steady as fear streaked through me. This chick was
way
more than sketchy.

“Since you ‘dunno,’ maybe you could find out. Tell your mommy or grammy or whoever that Sully Cupcakes is looking for him. I’ll wait.” She straightened and crossed her arms.