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Mirdza never even dreamed of pilfering money, but I’ve always been a bit more of an opportunist than she is.
The days I had money to buy a lunch were amazing. The school lunch tasted way better than the stuff Mom made at home, which was mostly boiled veggies with a tiny scrap of meat for flavor. The things I looked forward to the most were crisps. My friends like cheddar or sour cream and onion, but I loved vinegar and salt. Either way, the days of crisps and hot lunches disappeared when Markuss started stealing my money.
Until I had an idea.
He was bigger than me. He was stronger than me. He never beat me up, really. He’d just knock me over, take my money, and then wander off like he’d done nothing wrong. At first, I felt like I couldn’t do much to stop him or to complain, since he was bigger, and he hadn’t really hurt me.
But he was stealing from me, and it made me feel unsafe, too.
One morning, weeks after Markuss started stealing from me, I found a crisp twenty-euro bill in Martinš’s pants pocket that was in the laundry basket. I could almost taste the tang of the vinegar and salt crisps in my mouth. I thought about trying to hide the money in my shoe.
After all, more than half the time, I didn’t have any money to be taken. Markuss had been conditioned to that fact. But if he did find it, he’d become harder and harder to shake on the days I had nothing. It was a huge risk. I thought about stashing the money under my mattress and going for crisps later at night at the gas station half a mile down the road. But Mom was good at ferreting out extra cash too, so that was also risky.
In the end, my desperate desire for the crisps was too much. I slid the money into my shoe, and as I walked to school, I had an idea. A terrible idea. Yes, Markuss was bigger. . .but he also used nothing but his fists. What if I changed one side of the equation?
I started looking for rocks that might work: small enough to fit in my pocket, but large enough to do some damage. About a hundred yards from my house, I saw a white hunk of quartz. I crouched down and dug it out of the soft dirt. I wiped it on my pants—Mom was going to kill me—until I could see what I had. It was smooth on one side, but the bottom was pointed and sharp. It was about the size and shape of an egg, other than the jagged chunk.
“What are you doing?” Mirdza asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Be careful.” Mirdza was always worried back then. Actually, she’s been worried most of her life.
When Markuss showed up a few blocks from the school, I let him shove me down. But when he started rummaging around in my pockets, I pulled out the egg rock. I dragged my hand back as far as I could, and I flung it forward, striking him on the temple. The blow made him bleed like a stuck pig, and it got all over my white shirt. He also started shouting. Which is why I hit him again. And again and again.
His friends started running away, but Markuss stayed almost totally still, like a huge baby, crying and bleeding.
“You’re a thief, and I hate you, and you deserve it.” I kicked him, and then I finally ran.
Mirdza was crying as much as he was as she trailed after me. “He’s going to tell the teachers,” she finally sobbed.
By the time I cleaned most of the blood off my shirt, using the garden hose on the side of the school that we usually drank out of on our way home, we were both late to class.
But that twenty was still safely in my shoe.
I thought Mirdza was right, too.
All day long, I expected someone to come and get me. No one ever did. That’s when I learned a second important life lesson—when you’ve done something wrong yourself, you can’t exactly turn anyone else in for their wrongdoing, which is why there’s no honor among thieves.
There’s really just brute force.
It’s stupid, but as I trailer Alexei and slide into the seat of Kristiana’s truck that I’m borrowing without asking, I feel a little better than I did yesterday. The bully in the schoolyard’s far scarier now that I’m an adult. His threats are devastatingly real, but I’m more confident in Alexei’s ability to win than I was in that poor Minnie, and frankly, riding Alexei feels a little like having a rock in my pocket.
He may not be able to attack someone in horse form, but he can make plants and humans explode in any shape I assume, so. . .
I called Lukas and let him know that I’d found a suitable substitute, and that I had a proposal for Mr. Rimkus. I sort of thought I’d get the chance to show him to Lukas first, but when I put the truck in park, I notice another car. A familiar car. And when I lead Alexei toward the track, the devil’s already there watching.
“You said that my brother’s mare was a shoo-in,” he says. “Why am I looking at a different animal?” Rimkus is frowning, but I have no idea what he could be upset about. Quicksilver—Alexei—is stunning. He’s probably the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen. Maybe that’s his worry. Some of the best racehorses look like the equivalent of a run-down travel-trailer: janky, tired, and kinda gutted.
Very few of them look like high-end show ponies.
Alexei does, though.
“This horse is wicked fast,” I say. “And given the terms of our agreement, I’d like to ride the horse most likely to win.”
“But the agreement was based on me owning the horse,” he says. “I won’t even get paid the prize money if you ride your horse.”
“Minnie’s lame,” I say. “Or if she’s not, she’s close to it. I didn’t know that when I suggested running her, and now that I do, I’m giving you a suitable alternative. Most of the money on races is made from winning bets, as you well know, and I promise you that, as an unknown, this horse will decimate Radzivan’s, and—”
