By Rosemarie DiCristo
After all the crap life’s dealt me, I’d developed a motto. When life gives you lemons… steal everything else.
In this city you can shoplift up to one thousand dollars and it’s just a misdemeanor.
You can also steal a heck of a lot more if you’re good at it, and by “good” I mean light-fingered and unlikely to be caught.
I was superb at it.
In my car was one last haul. Sheepskin jacket. Designer jeans. Leather boots. And bling up the wazoo, including a diamond bracelet, a gold chain thick as a rope, and a Rolex.
I’d been kicked out of my umpteenth apartment, had nowhere to go, and was driving until I found a new home.
Somewhere.
Anywhere.
Acapella-ing “Born to Be Wild” and guzzling beer from a bottle, because if I wasn’t squeamish about stealing, why would I worry about drinking and driving? It was one more stupid rule that made audacious things seem wrong.
As I finished that thought, I lost control and hit a telephone pole.
The crash had barely stopped reverberating through my palms and skull when someone tapped on the window.
A girl, twenty-something, with long dark hair and huge round glasses. “Careful. There’s downed wires everywhere.” Her bright, chipper voice didn’t match those spit-scaring words, until she added, “But seems like you’re unhurt. No bruising, no blood. I can help you out.”
“You gotta get my stuff out, too!”
I expected a sneering, “Your life’s worth more than stuff,” but she nodded. “Looks like great stuff.”
I didn’t like the way she said that and pulled the canvas bags closer. “Well, it’s mine. I can give you cash as thanks.” Not! I was practically penniless. “But don’t touch my stuff.”
Her eyes—one blue and one green—twinkled. “I won’t touch it. Promise. Aside from hauling it out. I’m Kytt, by the way.”
“Lucy.” As Kytt eased open the door and led me on a wriggly path, avoiding each downed wire, I wondered how to forestall the “thanks.”
I didn’t have to.
A siren wailed from far off.
Kytt smiled a weird, closed-mouth smile. “I called an ambulance. Everything will be fine.”
“Seriously? I got no money. My car’s wrecked, so no way out…”
“Maybe your luck’s about to change.” And then Kytt was gone.
Completely gone.
The siren had barely cut off when two EMS guys leapt out and charged toward me. The first one, who was older than my grandpa, shouted, “Is anyone hurt?”
The second EMS, who was thirty-something like me, stopped short and blurted, “Lucy Dwight?”
“Tommy Gilchrist?”
I used to live in the top-floor apartment of the duplex his Aunt Chelsea owned. She loved calling us “childhood sweethearts.” Not true. He was more like my brother from another mother, although when he gave me a live-worm “bracelet” when we were seven, I black-markered a huge heart with our names on his left hand.
Two lessons learned. Worm bracelets, even if housed in a saucer of water, die. And black permanent markers don’t wash off easy.
Aunt Chelsea helped us bury the worm with a full Christian service—I still did God then—then scrubbed Tommy’s hand for three days until the heart faded. Sort of.
She also took me in each time my folks went on their weekend benders. Until said folks moved us to the city when I was twelve.
“Been a long time.” My flippant tone meant Tommy wouldn’t get how much I’d missed him.
He started to reply but Older EMS barked, “What the heck happened?”
And flippant had become my crutch. “A freaking car accident. In case you didn’t notice.”
“I meant, who’s in the car? Are they—?”
“Me. Well, I was in the car but…”
“Impossible. No one could get out of that thing alive.”
I snorted. “Why? It’s not that banged up.”
“The downed wires,” Tommy said.
Old EMS added, “They’d fry anyone who came close.”
“Well, gentleman.” I had my hands on my hips. “Not only did I get out, some other gal also didn’t get fried as she helped me out.”
Tommy and Old EMS shared a glance, and Tommy asked, “Then where is she?”
I shrugged.
Old EMS nodded. “Third man syndrome. Again.”
“Third what?”
“You never heard of it? When you’re about to fall and someone catches you, or you’re drowning and something yanks you out of the lake…”
“Or,” Tommy said, “gets you out of a car.”
Talk about impossible. And yet…
“Third main syndrome,” Old EMS repeated, insisting, “That little girl’s saved lots of folks in this stretch of woods.”
“Woman,” Tommy said. “Be PC, Baldy.”
I gave them a look. “Baldy?”
“Ball-tee.” Old EMS made the word distinct. “Short for Baltimore. Long story.”
“Can we get back to the woman, Lucy?” Tommy huffed. “You haven’t changed a bit since you were twelve.”
“Neither have you.”
“Okay, kids, cut the squabbling,” Balti said. “That girl…”
“Saved me and my stuff.”
“What stuff?” Balti asked.
“My…” My bags, gone like Kytt. “That little thief!”
Something flashed from the woods. Kytt. Wearing my sheepskin jacket plus everything else, including bling up the wazoo. It sparkled in the sunlight while she twirled as if admiring herself in a mirror. Then she vanished. Again.
I turned to Tony and Balti. “Did you see her?”
Balti shook his head. “Our Kytt’s not a thief, though. She takes what you think you want and leaves what you need.”
“Huh?”
Tommy answered. “Come with me, Luce.”
“I’m not hurt. I don’t need a hospital.”
“People never do, thanks to Kytt. But you’re shook up and need a place to stay. Aunt Chelsea would love to see you.”
I had to ask, “Does she still make those blueberry pancakes?”
“Mmmm, yes.” Tommy added, “You can stay as long as you need.”
It was too much. Don’t go soft, Lucy-girl. No one has cared in years.
But a bright, chipper voice whispered, “Told you your luck would change.”
Yeah. Maybe it would.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Very interesting and unique angle on the Kytt character. Great job!
Thieves who get angry when their stuff gets stolen will never not be funny
I LOVE this author’s voice. Love. It. I want it to be an entire novel. Seriously.
Ahhh the first Kurt story! I love this one!
*Kytt story
Many twists and turns throughout.
Really loved this story! Great job Rosemarie!
Thanks for all who commented. I really had fun writing this!
Interesting twist.
“She takes what you think you want and leaves what you need.” Kinda like God. Even if we don’t appreciate it! Cool.