“I don’t have money,” I say. “I haven’t yet acquired a job, and Whitney says I can’t knock over ATMs anymore.”
Gabe throws a hand up over my mouth. “They have video cameras in here. Geez.” He tosses his head toward the door the man disappeared through. “If you want to get a girl like Whitney a gun, you should buy a vintage one. She has all the best rifles that she wants already, so you have to go for unique.”
“Good idea.”
“And I’ll buy it for you, but then you have to pay me back.”
“I’m not sure how long it might be before I’m able to?—”
Gabe turns toward me, flattening his hands on the counter. “Hey, I just had an idea. I hear you can shift into a horse still. Right?”
I nod, slowly. “Aren’t you worried about cameras?”
“They’d just think we were crazy if they hear us talking about that, but don’t talk about knocking over ATMs, alright?”
“What does me being able to shift have to do with?—”
“So there’s this race down at Santa Anita, and it’s in two weeks. One of my friends is going, and I’ve always wanted to enter, but I never had a good horse for it.” His eyes light up. “But now. . .”
“I’m not sure I’d be a very good racehorse,” I say. “I can run all day, but?—”
Gabe’s shaking his head. “Listen to me on this one. There are lots of horse shifters, and they’ve all won, like, every race or event under the sun. They’ve all been at my house, and I figured Whitney would use you, for like, skijoring or something, but if you could throw me just one race, I’ll pay for?—”
The attendant returns. “I knew I had this back there.” He’s grinning. “This is a Colt 1855 Revolving rifle, and?—”
Before he can explain the features, I’ve grabbed it. “I remember these. They came out during the American Civil War, and at the time, this was the top tech. When everyone else was using muzzle loaders, these could fire repeatedly.”
Gabe nods at the attendant. “Yeah, we’ll take it.”
They work out the other details, but I’m positive I have a winner with this one. So when people start coming over later for Christmas, I’m not nervous. Between the clothes I think Whitney wanted, and the old gun Gabe helped me find, I’m covered.
That doesn’t help me make small talk with a lot of people I don’t know.
“How come your hair’s so long?” The kid who asked looks like he’s about ten, but I swear, there are four kids his size, and they’re all about the same age.
“Which one are you?” I ask.
“The rude one.” Helen is Whitney’s aunt, and when she drops a hand on the boy’s head, I know it must be Fisher.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Fisher can ask me anything—and the long hair is because I never cared how I looked, so I never cut it.”
The boy scrunches up his nose. “But Aunt Whitney probably cares, right? So maybe you should cut it.”
His mother rubs his head and then shoves him toward the kitchen. “Go wash some dishes or something.” Helen smiles. “Sorry about that. Kids ask everything that comes into their brain, and it’s annoying.”
“Does my hair really look bad?”
Two other ten-year-olds, a boy and a girl, both say yes at the same time. They actually look fairly similar, too.
“Are you two twins?” I arch one eyebrow.
They shake their heads at the same time. “We’re six months apart,” the boy says.
“Yeah,” the girl says, “and I’m adopted, but it doesn’t matter. Mom and Dad love us the same.”
When they walk off, I can’t help glancing around for Whitney.
“I know that look.” Helen pats my arm. “Hang in there. It gets easier.”
