Thats Illegal In Parts Of Utah

Bread and money. Not always the same thing.

Sirens wailing, people screaming, tires screeching. Pure chaos. My chaos. I caused this. Well, more accurately, the loaf of bread in one hand and the fistful of hundred dollar bills clenched in the other hand might have something to do with it. Anyway, I’m in DUMBO, New York City, sprinting down John street, when I start to get a little worried about the shrinking proximity between those damned cop cars and me. But I’m not really worried. Just mildly concerned.

And totally lying to myself. I’m about to shit my pants, but nobody can know that. Not even my half-brother, Toby, beside me, who also happens to be running like the devil himself is right behind us. Ironic, considering we happen to live in Hell’s Kitchen with our mom.

Well, his mom. My...something. Adopted mom maybe? Except we never signed any papers...Well, whatever she is, she’s gonna be pissed if we get arrested. Again. I glance sideways at Toby, he responds with a nod. Time to get the hell out of here.

“You still got the money?” Toby asks.

The wad of cash clutched in one hand and the loaf of bread in the other, I nod. He smiles at me and we run so hard that the air burns my lungs. I toss him the bread and pocket the cash without breaking stride. He turns down another road, while I turn down Jay street and jump the fence at the end of the road.

And then dive into the river.

The dark, murky water swallows me whole. Ten feet under the surface, I start swimming with the current toward the east. A shadow soon comes over the water. The Manhattan bridge. I surface briefly, gasping and choking from the stale air. I head toward the river bank on my left and dive back under.

A few minutes later, I'm sitting on the bank under the Brooklyn Bridge. Exhausted, but not safe yet, I check the pockets of my black skinny jeans; the money is still there.

I wait under the bridge, relaxed by the ever present roar of tires on pavement, until I can breath easier and my heart slows. Then, catching sight of something out in the water, I dive back in.

I eventually come across the landing spot of the east river ferry, pay the fee, and hop on. We stop again on the island, and I get off. 

It occurs to me then that I look rather suspicous, in my black hoodie, black skinny jeans and black and gray Vans and I'm also soaked to the bone. This revelation is mainly  due to the not-so-sideways glances directed at me.

Once I get pretty far inland, I start heading toward the place Toby and I usually meet up. The Hideout. Now, that sounds really corny, but that's what it is. It's where our gang always meet up, or hang around.

I walk through the door and relax when I see Toby. I nod to him, and he rises to his feet. We start running once we're outside, and head home.

We stop running in the alley behind our tiny apartment, which is shaded by the other buildings close by. We exchange glances and walk in the back door. Now, our apartment is anything but a penthouse. It's about as far from it as you can get. The space that's supposed to be the living room, is actually a coffee shop our mom runs. 

But it’s home. Andy Jacobs, our(his) mother, is standing on the narrow stairs to the right of the living roomwhen we walk in. Those stairs lead to Andy’s cubicle of a bedroom, a bathroom the size of a closet and our room. Which is also Harry Potter’s old cupboard. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have a roof over your head, and I’m totally grateful for that. It’s just rather small.

“Hey boys.” She comes out of her room and into the narrow hall.“What took you so long getting home?” Toby hands her the loaf of bread with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry we're late. We brought dinner, though. We didn’t steal it, promise.” He lies easily, seeing her eyes narrow.

She smiles at him, then her face changes back to looking suspicious. “Then how did you afford it?”