Thieving Weasels - Billy Taylor Page 0,20

the contents of that locker would tear my family apart. I also knew that if I ran away they’d think I stole more money than I actually had. Any way I looked at it, I was screwed. I stared at the money for a long time and tried to figure out what to do. Yes, I wanted to go to Wheaton, and yes, I wanted to get away from my family, but I was only thirteen years old, and the thought of running away from everything I knew was terrifying. Then I remembered Grandpa Patsy saying he wanted to go out backing a winner and I took the money.

Unfortunately, four years of Wheaton cost more than a hundred thousand dollars. This would not have been a problem for Skip O’Rourke, but Cam Smith was determined to fund his education honestly. Therefore, instead of robbing department stores or dealing drugs, I got a job in the school cafeteria, worked two and three jobs during the summer, and applied for every scholarship I could find. And somehow, even with two tuition hikes and a twenty-five percent increase in fees, I managed to pay for school and get accepted to Princeton. It was the hardest thing I had ever done, and I was incredibly proud of it.

This was why I found myself going to Roy’s apartment instead of running away like a sane person.

“What time is it?” Roy asked, answering the door with a yawn.

“Nearly four. Talk about sleeping the day away.”

“Can it, half pint. I only got to bed a couple of hours ago.”

“Why were you up so late?”

“The job.”

“What job?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you after I take a shower.”

I followed him inside, and the first thing I noticed was an elite racing bike leaning against the wall.

“That’s one sweet-looking ride,” I said, inspecting the bicycle. “Do you take it out a lot?”

“Not as much as I’d like. Especially considering how much it’s worth.”

I hopped on the bike and squeezed the hand brakes. “How much does something like this cost?”

“Three G’s. And that’s just for the frame.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of money for just two wheels.”

“Tell me about it. The guy I stole it from must be majorly pissed. You should get one, too. We can play Crash.”

“With three-thousand-dollar bikes?”

“Why not? Life’s too short to ride a Schwinn.”

Roy disappeared into the bathroom, and I pedaled across the apartment. It took less than a second, and by the time I reached the opposite wall I wanted to steal a bike just like it for myself.

Be careful, a little voice inside me said. None of this is real.

I leaned the bike against the wall and tried to remember the last time Roy and I had played Crash. I couldn’t, and felt sad because playing Crash was one of the highlights of my childhood. Roy and I invented the game out of boredom, and the rules were easy as one, two, three:

1. Steal a couple of bicycles

2. Chase each other until one of us crashed

3. Repeat until bleeding

Yes, I know it sounds stupid, but Crash was a total blast, and the more we played it, the more fun we had. We added a scoring system to keep things interesting, and points were awarded for the amount of time played, the value of the bike stolen, and the condition of the bike at the end of the game. Points were deducted for falls, blood spilled, and broken bones. Concussions and death ended play, and double-secret bonus points were awarded for causing traffic accidents and getting chased by the cops. No one was ever seriously injured, but I lost half my front tooth and Roy broke his wrist. The absolute high point of the entire escapade was the time we forced a redneck in a Dodge Ram to drive straight into a bread truck. It was awesome. The guy went totally ballistic and chased us all over Copiague, screaming his head off and cursing like a psychopath.

Crash was idiotic for any number of reasons, but it had everything a twelve-year-old boy could ask for including thrills, spills, and the possibility of getting arrested. The next step would have been to swap our bikes for cars, but I ran away before we could graduate to the next level. This was probably a good thing, considering at least one of us would have ended up dead or in jail.

“You ever hear of Fat Nicky Gangliosi?” Roy asked, strolling out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Is