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(10) It's Not Burglary if You Have the Keys

"Would your family be..." Calico J winces. "Okay with this?"

"Nope," says Ditzy cheerily, and saunters off, leaving the rest of us looking at each other at the base of the stairs.

"Just between us," says Calico J, "I'd rather not risk getting arrested if the world actually gets back on its feet after this."

"Does she plan to take responsibility?" I say. "Because that's my main question. It is still the apocalypse, and if there's anything in here that would really help us, I'm willing to take a risk."

"I just don't want to deal with the police."

"Totally fair." I gaze up the stairs, then around the largely barren walls dotted with occasional designer paintings or photographs of very photogenic white people. Those that Ditzy hasn't already knocked off the walls, that is. "I say we leave things where they are, then. Are you cool if I check the food, though? If anything happens, I can claim that one."

Calico J hesitates for a moment, then nods. Food is usually an exception. I glance at Patrick, but he's crossed his arms tightly like he doesn't plan to touch anything, let alone take it.

"I'd rather get in and out as fast as possible," he says, almost in a whisper. "Rich people are the worst about their houses."

I realize I'm probably the most comfortable of the three of us, and given that I'm not all that comfortable, that's probably a sign the two of them are right. As usual. "Let's find Ditzy and see if she needs any help with the car, then. Once we've got that, we can get out of here."

Silence indicates they're not comfortable stealing a car, either, but at least in this case, Ditzy is directly responsible. We find the garage access door near the back of the house. It stands open, but at least not busted open like the front door was. I stick my head in. The garage is dark, but as my eyes adjust, I spot the lit controls of a car in the darkness. A shadow passes in front of them. Then something revs to life, and the head and rear lights of a car spring on.

Sleek, shiny metal lines of a vehicle no taller than my shoulder appear in the darkness. The light of glaring headlights bounces off the garage door and filters back through tinted windows. Ditzy sits in the front seat of a flashy sports car worth more than my whole degree. Its engine's growl shakes the floor as she revs it. She kills it a moment later, then flicks a switch that makes the lights of the car phase through a technicolor display as she pops a butterfly door and steps out like the heroine of a cyberpunk film.

"What do you think?" she says, looking smug.

I don't. I don't think, because I can't think, because I finally understand what so many young men are going for when they drive these things around and rev their engines at girls on the sidewalks. Ditzy leans on the hood of the car as her long, blonde hair catches the lights and shines like liquid. She locks eyes with me, and her perfect lips quirk up in a smile.

I've walked straight into a movie. This is the scene where the main characters climb into that car and race the highways as the sun sets fiery over the ocean, then end up on an overlook with drinks and plans for the evening that would make a bad boy blush. Except instead of a hunky male hero with perfect abs and a possible shirt allergy, I'm just Meg. Just a girl who never did well in school, and not because I skipped class. Who hid in my room on the night of Red Thursday, and not because I was heroically sheltering others. I'll never stand even a hope of being as smart or strong or pretty or hot as Ditzy, and she's out of my league, but oh, the sight of her beside that car makes me wish I could switch places with that hunky male hero for just one night.

"Meg?" says a voice from another planet. Someone waves a hand in front of my face, and I startle. It's Calico J. He looks amused. "What do you think?"

"Yes," I say stupidly. It's a pathetic rendition of all the things I want to say, half of which I would probably regret immediately, so maybe that's not a bad thing. As for the car, my decision-making on this matter is hopelessly compromised. But if the car can carry us from here to Plyster-Anport county without losing a wheel, I don't see a reason not to enjoy watching Ditzy at the wheel of it during that six-hour ride.