Call It What You Want(63)

He doesn’t sound happy about that. “Do you regret doing it?”

He swallows and glances at the door. “I regret her thinking I saved it.”

“Lexi won’t even know the money is gone.”

“I know.” He gives a half-hearted laugh. “I can’t imagine dropping a hundred bucks on shoes without thinking about it. Without even noticing.”

The words stick in my brain. Mrs. Tunstall isn’t even going to notice her missing earrings, and those cost a lot more than a hundred dollars.

The game loads. I press buttons on my controller to select my player, then drop beside him to sit on the edge of the bed. We play in silence for a little while.

I’m still struggling with the morality of it all. Dad stole for himself. For us, indirectly, but really, the money was for him. For his image, for his enjoyment, for whatever he wanted. I stole the money with Owen, but his mom needed the shoes. Lexi won’t miss it. If I sell the earrings and use the money to help other people, Mrs. Tunstall won’t miss them. Does that make a difference? That one person can afford it, but another one can’t? I don’t know. My father stole from people who couldn’t afford it.

That is clearly wrong.

I don’t know where the line is, though.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” I say finally as I’m watching his character leave mine in the dust.

“Sure.”

“How do you have an Xbox?”

He presses a button and the screen goes still, and he swings his head around to look at me. His eyes are dark and angry, and I wish I could suck the question back into my mouth.

Owen sighs and turns back to the television without saying anything. He presses a button. Continues playing.

“Owen—”

“Stop.” His voice is clipped. “I’m thinking.”

I wait.

Eventually, he pauses the game again and gets up. He roots through his narrow closet and fishes out two game boxes. One is for a basketball video game that was hot a few years ago. The other is something I don’t recognize. He slides them together in his hands and drops into his desk chair, blocking the television.

“When I was thirteen,” he says, his voice low, “Mom got the Xbox off Craigslist for fifty bucks.”

My throat feels tight.

“When I was fourteen,” he says, “Mom had saved up some money for Christmas. Not much, but a little. The car broke down on her way home from work, though, and all that money had to fix the car. She had to max out her credit card, too.” He hesitates. “It was fine. Like, I get it. I didn’t believe in Santa. She’s got to work if we’re going to eat, right?”

My shoulders are tense. I asked for this, but I don’t like what I got. At the same time, I feel like I deserve to hear this. I force myself to hold his gaze.

Owen’s gaze flicks to the door, and his voice drops further. “She felt bad, though. She signed up for one of those Christmas Angel things. You know, where you list a few things you want, and some nice person buys them for you. It’s all anonymous. Mom wrote two things on the list: a winter coat, and Xbox games.”

My eyes go to the games in his hands. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

He thrusts them at me. “Check them out. They were the hottest games that year. New games are like sixty bucks. Pretty generous, right?”

I take them from his hands, though I don’t want to. “Yeah.”

“Those cases were brand new when I got them. Before that, I only had two games, so I was pretty stoked.”

“Sure.”

“Open them up. Check out how awesome the games are.”

I don’t want to open them. They’re empty. I can feel they’re empty. I can see where this is going. “Owen—”

“Open them!”

I hold my breath and open them.

They’re not empty.

No game discs. Just a note inside each.

Get a job and buy your own presents.

I’m frozen, staring at the line of neatly printed text inside each box.

“You know what kills me?” says Owen. “The boxes were brand new. Even had the tape over the edge. Whoever did that actually went to the store to buy them and took out the disks to prove a point.” He snatches them out of my hand and slams them closed. “He probably had the same thought you did. ‘How’s this poor kid have an Xbox?’ ”

“No, Owen, I didn’t—”

“Come on.” The look he gives me could wither stronger men than me.

The problem is, he’s right. I remember hearing similar comments around Dad’s office when I was interning last Christmas, and the family we anonymously “adopted” asked for a Blu-ray player. Who do these people think they are?

“My mom works sixty hours a week,” says Owen. “I can’t drive, and we don’t live where I can easily get a job.”

My throat is so tight that it’s making my chest hurt. “I don’t know what to say.”

He must not either, because he sits there silently.

His mom walks by the door, carrying a basket of laundry, and she must pick up on the tension, because she hesitates in the hallway. “You boys okay?”

“We’re great.” Owen’s tone is flat and even.