Criminal Destiny by Gordon Korman Page A

different. We chose a house, and we busted in. I understand why we did it. It was even partly my idea. But I can’t escape the sense that a corner has been turned.
    You think too much, Torific. Do what you have to do.
    I switch on my flashlight and take a quick look around. I’m in the bedroom of a girl about my age, all frills and pastel colors. It’s a stab at my heart. This could have been my room before I traded dust ruffles and stuffed animals for art supplies and a studio in the attic. When I thought my parents were my real parents, and thanked my lucky stars that I lived in the town ranked number one in the country in almost every category. It’s not that long ago, but it might as well be a different century.
    I’d never go back to that ignorance. But I don’t doubt that I was happy.
    I shake myself, and hurry down to the back slider to let the others in. Our lights play over the living room. It’s a modest house, nowhere near the luxury we were accustomed to in Serenity. But after what we’ve suffered in the past few days, it’s like coming into port in a raging storm.
    Malik follows his flashlight into the kitchen, and is soonrummaging around the fridge.
    Eli is disapproving. “Bad enough we break into their house. We shouldn’t be stealing their food.”
    â€œWho are these people?” Malik demands. “Don’t they eat?”
    â€œThey’re on vacation,” Amber supplies. “They’re not going to leave food to spoil while they’re away.”
    Malik has moved on to the freezer. “Jackpot!” he exclaims reverently. “Microwave pizza! Who’s hungry?”
    The simple answer—everybody. (Nearly getting killed gives you an appetite.)
    We stuff ourselves with pizza and a box of Fig Newtons we find in the pantry. Malik chugs an entire bottle of Dr Pepper and opens one of Coke. Eli looks like every bite is choking him.
    â€œCheer up, boy scout,” Malik advises, mouth full. “Hating your pizza isn’t going to make it any less stolen.”
    â€œWe’re just doing what we have to,” Amber argues, “to survive.”
    Malik takes a giant swig of his second drink. “How many chances did we ever get to eat as much junk food as we want without some hidden camera recording us, and Project Osiris making notes? Like pigging out makes you a criminal.” He utters a long, rolling belch.
    â€œThere ought to be a law against that ,” I say.
    Afterward, I stack up the plates and begin washing them off in the sink. Malik starts to say something, but I freeze him with a fierce look. “Bad enough we broke in and ate their food. I don’t want these poor people to come home and find a big mess in their house.”
    â€œYou’re a saint,” he agrees. “You must have been cloned from Joan of Arc.”
    We learn a few things about our “hosts” from the mail on their kitchen counter. They are the Campanella family, and the Denver suburb they live in is called Mountain View. One of the parents seems to be a teacher, since there’s a bulletin from the Colorado Education Association. There’s a magazine called Sports Illustrated , so somebody must a sports fan. Another, TV Guide , lists every show you can watch on television that week. I can’t helping thinking how much thinner it would be if they published it for Serenity, where there’s only one channel.
    â€œWell, we know one thing about the Campanellas,” Malik crows, holding up a large envelope covered with printed messages and a lot of exclamation points. “They’re dumb. This says they might have won ten million dollars, and they didn’t even bother to open it.” He rips into the side with his index finger.
    Eli is horrified. “That’s somebody’s mail!”
    â€œAnd they’re welcome to it,” Malik agrees readily. “It’s the ten million bucks I want.” He