Free Fall from Grace by Charles Benoit Page A

hundreds.”
    â€œAnd you know this how?”
    â€œArt history class. Or don’t you have that over at ritzy East High?”
    They might, he didn’t know. Besides, it sounded like a fluff course and you shouldn’t have courses like that on your transcripts. At least that’s what his parents said.
    â€œWhat do you think, ten pounds?” She handed it to him, and he felt that tingle amp up.
    â€œLighter. Five, tops. The frame’s made out of pine. It only looks heavy.”
    â€œPine? How can you tell?”
    â€œYou’re not the only one who knows things.”
    â€œSo tell me, Woody, how hard would it be to take the frame off?”
    He turned it upside down and checked the corners. “This thing’s on good. You’d need a bunch of tools and you’d probably bust the frame. Or poke a hole in the painting. I’d say leave it on.”
    â€œFine, we’ll leave it on.”
    It took a second, but it sunk in.
    â€œWe?”
    â€œWhatever. Okay, here’s what you do—”
    â€œYou’re taking it now ?”
    â€œOf course not. Too easy.”
    â€œEasy? Let me guess. We need a plan.”
    She smiled up at him. “You’re catching on. First I have to check something. How we doing?”
    Holding the painting to the side, Sawyer leaned into the hall. He could hear the librarian explaining thedifference between user names and passwords and the way she was saying it, he could tell she wasn’t getting through. “We’re still good,” he said, and looked over to the table where Grace was emptying out his backpack.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” He wanted to yell but somehow kept it to a clenched-jaw whisper. “I’m not stealing that painting.”
    â€œRelax, I’m just checking for size. I don’t want to be here at three in the morning and find out I brought the wrong bag.” She stacked up his textbooks and binders and his laptop on the table, then held open the backpack.
    â€œNo, wait,” he said. “You’ve gotta unzip it more.”
    â€œI can’t. It’s stuck on some of the trim.”
    Sawyer handed Grace the painting, then turned the empty bag sideways and was feeling for the zipper tab when the librarian said, “Can I help you with that?”
    She was standing in the doorway, younger than Sawyer had assumed, and a hell of a lot quieter. Sawyer felt his hands start to shake and his throat tighten, and he felt the frame of the painting brush against his leg as Grace slid it in next to the chair.
    â€œThose can be trouble if they jam,” the librarian said, stepping toward the table.
    â€œI think I got it,” Sawyer said, yanking the zipper allthe way up, forever wedging the fabric into the plastic teeth. “Perfect.”
    The librarian kept coming.
    â€œLooks like you two are stealing a painting.”
    What the librarian really said was “working on an art project,” but with the roar in his ears, it didn’t sound that way to Sawyer. Grace, all casual, said no, it was for a history class, as he stood there, hands still on the damn backpack, his knee knocking against the pine frame, the pine frame knocking against the oak leg of the table, a telltale tap, tap, tap the librarian had to hear. Then Grace was saying something about Renaissance portraits, spinning one of the books around to show the librarian what she meant, the librarian bending over the table, looking, saying yes, of course, but there are better books on the subject, then the librarian and Grace walking over to one of the tall shelves, their backs to Sawyer, who wanted to run, who was ready to run, but who for some uncontrollable reason did the opposite, sliding the chair away from the table and sitting down, hopping the chair forward until his rumbling stomach was touching, and, without looking, swinging the now massive, impossibly huge painting up onto his lap, balancing it on his