Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(4)
“Where will we go?” I ask.
“New York City.”
Chapter Two
February 5th,
The life of a professional thief is glamorous.
That is, if you consider attending five high schools in three years, possessing my own personal collection of ski masks, having better knife-throwing skills than social skills, and not having a close friend since elementary school glamorous. Yep, I’m living the dream. I have arrived.
Today’s my first day at high school number six. This time is different, though. This time, I’m not moonlighting as a larcenist, planning and executing heists. My only responsibility right now is going to school. Oh yeah, and I’m back in New York. I haven’t been here since my father died nine years ago.
I’m both relieved and terrified. Give me a safe and I can crack it easy breezy. Put me outside a locked door, and I can pick my way in faster than you can say, “Locked out.” I know how to find schematics and floor plans for buildings in fifty different cities, and I can navigate air shafts like a pro.
Because I am a pro.
What I’m not good at is being a typical teenage girl. I’m not up on pop culture; I have no idea who the popular bands or hot actors are. I’m not sure my clothes are stylish, or even close.
As much as I’ve been pining for a regular life lately, I’m a little worried now that I have it. And if I’m honest, a little adrift. Like I don’t quite know what to do with myself if I’m not spending all my free time engaging in illicit pursuits.
I’m torn between feeling like I don’t know what to do with all this extra time on my hands and wanting to hide inside my room from the world because I’m not sure how to fit in. I’d prefer to just enroll in some sort of online classes. The idea of having to face a whole new school filled with kids who will be eyeballing the new girl, sizing me up, is not an appealing one. At all.
I barely slept last night, I was so nervous, and I think I must have stood in front of the mirror for an hour this morning, trying on different outfits, making sure my makeup and hair were just so. I finally decided on dressing for comfort over style—plus it’s like negative a bazillion degrees today. But even now, I’m considering changing. For the millionth time.
What if I’m the weird new girl? What if no one wants to make friends with the weird new girl? Or worse, what if I do make friends and they find out about what I do?
Yep, I’d rather be going to school online. I could totally become a hermit and have no regrets.
The only upside is that it’s the first day of the spring session, so everyone’s schedules are swapping around anyway. Maybe I can slip under the radar in all the confusion. Maybe no one will realize I’m new.
…
“Marisol, vámonos; you’re going to be late,” my mother yells from somewhere near the front door of our new Upper West Side apartment.
“I know, Mamá. I’m just finishing up getting dressed,” I lie. I do it to placate her, because if she knew I was stalling, writing in my journal, she’d probably throw the little pale-blue notebook away. Punctuality is priceless, or so she always tells me.
I slip it under my dresser, grab my coat and my backpack—empty except for a paper-filled three-ring binder and a pack of blue Bics—and take a deep breath before exiting my room. We’ve only been here a week, but we’re fully unpacked, no boxes for me to have to dodge to navigate the space. One of the benefits of living a life of crime: the need to be ready to make an escape on the fly means there’s no opportunity to become a hoarder.
My mom is so tense when I get to the living room, it’s almost like it’s her first day at a new school. She’s standing by the front door, twisting a strand of her dark hair around slender fingertips. “Do you want me to walk with you?”
Yeah, because I am so eager to commit social suicide by having my mommy walk me to school like I’m in first grade instead of eleventh. I’d rather fall into a puddle of melted snow and show up covered in gutter mud. I shake my head. “No. That’s okay. I can handle it.”
Her brows draw together, and she chews her bottom lip like she wants to say something. But all she asks is, “Do you have your phone?”
“Yep.” I pull it out of my back pocket and flash it in her direction as proof.
“Text me when you get there, and let me know you made it safely.”
“Okay.” I tuck the phone back into my pocket and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.” As I pass her, she holds an arm out to stop me and pulls me in for a hug. She nuzzles my hair and breathes deeply.
“Did you just smell my hair?” She hasn’t done that in years, not since I was a small child and we used to curl up with hot cocoa and my favorite book at night.
“And I’m not sorry, either.” She releases me and pats me on the upper back. I shake away my nostalgia and let her usher me into the hall.
At the elevator, I push the button and turn back to wave goodbye. She has one foot out the door, and one hand turns and releases the doorknob nervously, like she’s barely restraining herself from following me out.
“Mom, I’ll be fine. I promise. The school is three blocks away. Seriously.”
She steps fully inside the apartment again but still toys with the doorknob. “Okay, but…if you have any problems, call me immediately. Okay?” It’s a command and a request all rolled into one.