Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“He’s perfect,” she says.

I take a peek. The cashier inside is watching a football game on a tiny TV set he’s propped up on the counter. He’s in his late twenties, chubby, balding, and pink, not unlike the pig on the sign. He’s exactly what we hope for when we do this. Teenage boys are nervous as pigeons around Bex; same with the sad forty-year-olds we sometimes come across. The mid-twenties guy is our sweet spot. He’s trapped in a dead-end job, insecure about it, and desperate for some attention from a pretty girl.

“Lyric, make me a promise,” Bex asks as she reaches for the door. “Once you do your thing with the water bottle, turn off the magic mitten.”

“Why?” I say. I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.

“You scared the guy at the last store.”

I laugh.

“When that Slushy machine blew up, I thought he was going to have a heart attack,” I say.

“It wasn’t funny.” She’s dead serious.

“Bex, he wasn’t hurt, and besides, I need the practice for when we get to Tempest.”

She scowls and shakes her head.

“Promise me you won’t use it in here, or I’m not going in,” she says, and I can tell she means it. She takes her hand off the door as if she might march right back to the car.

“Okay,” I say. I hide the glove behind my back.

She nods a thank-you, then steps into the frosty, over-air-conditioned shop. The bell tied to the door jingles a hello. I watch her approach the counter, suddenly wearing a smile she used to wear for me. She says something, bats her eyelashes, reaches out, and touches the cashier’s arm, throwing out the bait. A grin stretches across his face as wide as the Rio Grande. Reel him in, Bex.

It’s time for me to get to work. I unscrew the cap on my water bottle and pour the contents onto the sidewalk. Then I shove my hand up under my shirt and, with the slightest amount of concentration, turn on the “magic mitten.” The metal glows blue but, hidden beneath the fabric, it’s not so noticeable if someone happens to drive by right now. Above the crackling power, I hear voices fluttering in my ear.

What would you have us do?

“Make some mischief.”

I send the puddle into action, watching it seep under the crack of the door and into the store. I nudge it along so that it crawls up the wall to the ceiling, leaving a wet zigzag trail behind, until it finds its target, one of the dozen surveillance cameras mounted on the walls. The liquid invades the lens, swirls around in its electrical guts, and shorts out the entire system. A moment later it’s blind, and I direct my little wet sidekick to the next camera, then the next, then the next, until all twelve are busted. Proud of myself, I power down my glove and push open the door.

The bell on the door announces my arrival. This is the moment when everything can fall apart and it’s best to abandon the plan and look for another store. The jingle distracts the cashier, and he tears his eyes away from Bex and sends them my way. It is now that he will decide whether I’m suspicious or merely disappointing to look at. This part of the plan is hard on my ego. I don’t get to be the hot one when we shoplift. I have to be the Plain Jane, only this Plain Jane looks like she sleeps beneath an underpass—no makeup, ratty hair, and a pimple on the end of my chin that could take out Pompeii. I tell myself that I am unattractive on purpose. If I strutted into this store looking all kinds of yummy, the plan would not work. Secretly, I hope that he can see past the grime. It hurts when they don’t, but it means we’ll eat.

He gives me the once-over. Blinks. Sniffs. Then turns back to Bex. Sigh.

“I am so lost,” she coos.

“Well, maybe I can help,” he says.

The Piggly Wiggly has four aisles and refrigerator cases on three walls. There’s a soda machine and a microwave and a hot dog carousel. In my experience, the necessities are in the farthest aisle and the stuff that gives you diabetes is front and center, stocked on low shelves so little kids can grab it before their parents can say no. I hurry to the far back corner, where I find the first thing on my list—soap. You don’t know how important soap is until you don’t have it. Two bars of Ivory go into my pack, then a tube of Crest, a small bottle of green mouthwash, and—oh!—I can’t believe they have dental floss! That’s been on the list since I started making a list. A couple rolls of toilet paper are making things crowded, but after weeks of using gas-station t.p. . . . well, that’s TMI.

You’re stealing again, Lyric? I taught you better.