"Who are you?" her mother asked.
"I'm your daughter, Alice."
"I know that. But I mean, who are you?" Her mother's eyes locked onto hers; she was clutching Alice's eyes. What did she mean
... [+]
The way Little Miss Perfect tells it, you'd think I was head of a gang of street thugs when I was a kid. We weren't thugs, we were twelve. All we wanted was some prize money, or at least a bit of pie.
First of all, the garden hose wasn't my idea. Yeah, it came from our yard. Kyle grabbed it and slung it over his handlebars before we headed downtown. He was a little klepto, even then: I know for a fact he had duct tape, two jackknives, and a Playboy he lifted from Drago's in his backpack that day.
It was Father's Day, 1985, and the Crust'N'Crumb Bakery was holding its first annual blueberry pie eating contest. Me and Kyle had a plan to join in. Money was tight then. The town was still recovering from the big mining strike and the kids only got enough allowance for penny candies. We had a dollar between us, not even enough to buy a pie, just enough for one entry fee in the youth category. We were going to split the winnings fifty-fifty. It was a good plan.
You know how Holy Trinity has bars on its basement windows now? Well, that's sort of my fault. But not really.
We got to the Crust'N'Crumb in time for the registrations, and who did we see? Crash Cook, the baker's son, there in the youth lineup. We called him Crash because he'd fallen off his bike so many times his mom made him wear a football helmet when he rode. Crash was thirteen but huge: he'd eat anything, and as much of it as possible.
"We can't win this," Kyle muttered, stroking the garden hose on his bike that somehow no adult had noticed. "Time for Plan B."
"Plan B?"
Kyle cocked his head toward Holy Trinity, a couple of doors up the street, and gave me a wicked grin. "Follow me."
We circled the block a couple of times before pulling into the alley behind the church, just two boys out on a Sunday ride. Kyle's bike was still moving when he jumped off and grabbed the hose.
"Freddy," he told me, "I want you to get that window open." He pointed at a basement window tucked in behind the long flower garden at the side of the church. Then he took off somewhere.
I set to it and didn't have much trouble sliding the window open. I only had to break it a little. Then Kyle came back with his duct tape and the hose running full blast and told me to stick the hose through.
I asked him if he was serious. I told him I didn't think it was a good idea. He said, "You want some pie at least? Then we need a diversion!" So, sure, I was the one who stuck the hose through, but Kyle taped it down. It was all his idea, and definitely not my fault.
By the time we got back to the Crust'N'Crumb, the adult rounds had started. Your Grandpa had finished his round and his chin was purple. That's right; there was money for his entry fee, but not for mine. It wasn't fair. He watched me pull up and said, "Where've you been, Freddy?" I told him we were just riding around. Your mom was only little and your Grandma was carrying her like a baby, but she freed one hand to ruffle my hair. "Stay out of trouble," she said. They ignored me after that. My mouth watered, watching Mr. Cook's staff bring pie after pie out their front door. I could taste the blueberries.
It was about an hour before Father Flannery came running down the street yelling, "The church is flooding!" Just like that everyone took off toward the church and left the pies unattended. Kyle and I ran to the tables.
Man, blueberries have never tasted as sweet as they did that day. Pie crust has never been so flaky. I mean, it's not like they have pastry chefs in prison, but still. That's why your mom always makes me blueberry pie when I'm out. Tastes like freedom.
It was Crash who found me facedown in my third plate of blueberries and pastry crumbs. "Freddy's eating our pies!" he screamed, pointing his helmet at me. He kept pointing until his dad rushed back from the church, holding a crumpled wad of duct tape. Two blueberries slid down my chin and plopped on the sidewalk as I stared back at them. I didn't see Kyle anywhere.
It wasn't the flood that got me grounded. Not at first. It was eating blueberry pie that wasn't mine. But after I'd been sent to my room to "think about what I'd done," I heard my dad in the back yard under my bedroom window, hollering, "Where's my garden hose?"
I spent the whole summer of 1985 working at Drago's Convenience, and every penny I earned went to pay for the damage to the church. I only saw Kyle when he stopped into the store to get smokes for his dad, something kids could still do back then.
Anyway, it wasn't that much damage. You can't flood a whole church basement in an hour with just one garden hose. We really only flooded the little storage room with all the prayer books in it. That's why now the pages are all rippled on the edges. Kyle said next time we needed a diversion we should start a fire instead.
But that's another story. Also not my fault.
Your mother wanted me to tell you all of this as a cautionary tale, because Little Miss Perfect thinks that's where my criminal lifestyle started. Like she never broke a rule in her life. So here's the cautionary part: don't you little punks ever let me catch you pulling a stunt like that.
Listen to your uncle. I said, don't let me catch you. But I'll give you a good head start.