Free Hit and Run by Norah McClintock

houses—Jeeps and Beemers and Lexuses. It’s not just that, though, that makes me feel like I don’t belong. It’s also the way the people look. The women’s hair is always neatly trimmed. Everyone’s jeans—kids’ and adults’—are freshly washed and pressed. Their sneakers are always the latest styles and the best brands—Adidas, Nikes, Reeboks. Sure, they all talk a line about how alot of stuff was made by ten-year-olds in Bangladesh or India. I bet half their kids had even done projects on the evils of child labor. But drop a bundle on shoes some poor kid had slaved to make? No problem.
    The day after I got busted, I walked along the tree-canopied streets, conscious of the nicks in the sneakers I had bought at Payless. My jeans were frayed at the cuffs and the denim was thin in places. Any day now the fabric would rip and my knees would show through. Nobody stopped and stared at me, though. Nobody seemed to be wondering, What’s
he
doing here? But I sure felt it. Around me—money. In the pockets of my worn-out jeans—no money.
    A couple of blocks north of Danforth, I hung a left. A block later, a right. I slowed my pace and hung back at the corner of a hedge, just out of sight of the biggest house on the street. I could have looked at that house forever. It was five times the size of our place and was built of gray stone. It had a tower in one corner, and I knew from all the time that I had stared through the windows that the tower room—the library, Jen called it—was filled with bookshelves and books. The house also had a games room—they really called it that—with a regulation-sized pool table, a pinball machine, a Ping-Pong table, and an oak card table with special chairs. Her mom played bridge. Her dad had monthly poker nights with a bunch of other lawyers. A satellite dish sat on the tile roof. Two BMWs sat in the driveway, keeping an SUV company.
    I watched the house while doing my best not to be spotted. I knew guys who came up here sometimes to swipe bikes—expensive bikes—that kids sometimes left unguarded and unlocked on porches or in open garages. I knew other guys who talked about getting into the houses themselves, but that’s all it was, talk, because most of the places were on security systems. I sure would have liked to get inside some of those places, though, just to see what they kept in there. Check out the big-screen TVs and the bathrooms that were as big as most of the living rooms on my street. Check out the real live Martha Stewart décor, too, just for laughs. Maybe even see a nanny or a cleaning lady at work.
    I saw a flash—sunlight reflected off glass so clean that it looked like it wasn’t even there. The front door opened, and a man stepped out. He was wearing a gray business suit and clutching a briefcase. He stood on his stone stoop, surveying the neighborhood. I ducked to avoid being spotted. Why didn’t he just climb into his black Beemer and go? What was he waiting for? Then a woman came out and handed him a package. He planted a kiss on her cheek—it didn’t look very loving, if you ask me. The woman went back inside. I checked my watch.
    I pressed a little closer to the hedge, turned my back to the street and ducked down—the old tie-the-shoelace trick—when I heard the Beemer’s engine purr.
    â€œYou there!” said a sharp voice behind me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    If I closed my eyes, I could imagine Jen’s mother. But it wasn’t Jen’s mother who had said that. It was Jen, kidding around. That meant she wasn’t mad at me, which put me in a better mood.
    â€œHa, ha!” I said. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her on the mouth. She giggled halfway through the kiss, which most guys wouldn’t have appreciated, but I took it as another good sign. Then she pulled away and glanced nervously back at the