Our crimes were legion: theft, vandalism, arson. Simply for the thrill. Gregory served as boss, all smarts. I played moll, all fidelity. We knew the territory, which comprised the interior of his house and, two doors down, the exterior of mine. We’d worked together since we mastered crawling; by five we were accomplices.
We must have done something between jobs—dug holes, rolled down the hill, hung from the backyard bars. But it’s our crimes that linger, backlit neon green.
It started when Kaia moved in. Greg and his mom and dad huddled around the bundle on the couch. Greg told me to hang back. I didn’t smell like family; I’d make the baby cry.
We stole her food. They kept it on a rack mounted to the back of a closet door. Orderly little bottles of strained peas and mashed carrots. Our mark was the chocolate pudding.
We’d loll on the rug, waiting for the dining room to go quiet. Then we’d crack open the closet, grab a bottle—lowest rack, far right—and flee. Wedged behind the kitchen door, we panted. He’d twist the top, and we’d hold still as the dimple released with a pop—our pact made permanent.
We braved the dim must of the basement. We stared at the wooden puppet tacked to the brick; he flailed when we tugged the string between his legs. We hunched into a low, dark annex filled with sand. Though feral, we understood, and peed.
I’d like to say I drew the line at arson, at cruelty. The truth is I watched. Greg knew about the magnifying glass. He knew that if sunlight slid through the glass and onto an ant, the speck would smolder and writhe. Crouched on the porch, he rolled the handle back and forth, and though nothing caught, our cheeks glowed hot.
We got older; our spree sputtered. We met up on the inside, detained in the same kindergarten classroom. We built a car from clay. Greg knew about engines. I knew our secrets.
I saw him recently, through the screen, at his dad’s memorial. He’s an attorney. Law-abiding, no doubt, as am I. But once, we were young and wild.
