“Shh, Ethan, they’re going to hear us.” John whispered.

“It’s fine,” Ethan said.

Ethan’s fourteen inch spade stabbed a patch of grass behind Mrs. Dunlap’s shambling home. John crouched over, waiting for a puddle of empty dirt, large enough to plant the baby orange tree in his hands. Ethan plowed as fast as he could, twisting his wrists like a golfer practicing putts. He fished out a sizeable chunk, and John nudged him.

“That’s big enough.”

Ethan backed away, and John dropped the base of the plant down. They quickly covered the hole with loose dirt and mulch, then sprinted to John’s 2009 Corolla. 

“You think Mrs. Dunlap would have heard us, even if we told her we were there?” Ethan asked with punchy breaths.

“Nah, but still got the nerves going. Who’s next?”

“Mr. Jenkins. Fifth and Wabash.” Ethan started, “He’s an apple tree?”

“Correct as usual, King Friday.”

The boys arrived at Mr. Jenkins house and hid behind the car as they eyed the neighborhood. Nothing. 

“Backyard?” Ethan asked.

“Yeah, through that side gate, you find a spot while I grab the tree.”

They nodded, and Ethan was off in a sprint. He unlatched the gate and, like a commando, hunched down while he jogged through the backyard. A moment later, he was on his knees, stabbing into the dirt. John quietly bumped Ethan and held the fig tree like a prize trophy. Moments later, Ethan had created a symmetrical hallow. John dropped the fig tree, and they sprinted off.

For the next three hours, the boys continued their Farmer John routine. Mrs. Wilkens (Clementines), Mr. Jacobs (Apples), Mr. Forest (Fig), and Ms. Robertson (Cherry - the boys were wary of its survival). Finally, they drove home and quietly snuck through their bedroom window.

“That was fun,” John hushed, but the words splashed with adrenaline.

“I know. We’re doing it tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, one more time, then that’s it. Not sure my Burger King salary can afford more, and we don’t want to get caught.”

“Cool!” 

Home Depot was their first stop. John opened his wallet and winced at forty bucks. Enough to buy the mulch. That meant date night would comprise grilled cheese sandwiches and anime reruns. Then he shrugged. Karen would get over it.

“Everything alright?” Ethan asked.

“Yeah, man, pick up that bag of mulch.“

Next, off to the Davey’s Florist Shop. Their plans depended on Mr. Withers and his big heart. If he went Crusty the Clown on them, round two wasn’t happening.

A small bell rang as they entered and a collective punch of smells ran up their nostrils. They spun in a slow half circle, taking inventory of the shrubs, flowers and tree saplings.

“I love the smell,” Ethan beamed.

“Let’s find Mr. Withers.” John said with a grin of pride. Most kids Ethan's age were into playing video games, sports, or chasing girls. Or doing everything they could to be jerks, Ethan didn’t. He was an eagle scout, went on hikes, and always took John’s words as gospel. John hoped this latest excursion wouldn’t put a dent in the latter.

Mr. Withers stood behind a glass encasement filled with exotic and miniature flowers, cactus, and vines. He had oddly tan skin that scrunched around his eyes no matter if he smiled or frowned. His bald head shined in between a white horseshoe of fluffy hair. A pair of reading glasses dangled on his chest, kept a breast by a withering strap swung around his neck.

“Hello boys. How may I help you?” 

“Mr. Withers, what’s that pink one? Is that some sort of exotic fly trap?” Ethan awed as he poked down at the case.

John shot him a glance.

Mr. Withers grinned. “It’s a Drosera Natalensis. It’s a South African that closely related to Venus Flytrap everyone knows so well,” He paused and turned to John, “But something tells me that’s not why you are here, is it, Mr. LeRoy?”

John rubbed his neck. Not a great liar on the best of days, John struggled mightily to keep the beans with Mr. W.

“The original project went well and we are hoping to do more. You know? For our school project.”

Mr. Withers eyed him for a cool five seconds. With every breath, John felt his palms dampen a bit more. Ethan stared at the South African flytrap, biting his lip. 

“Hmm, school project, you say? For Mrs. Menendez, right?”

“Yes, my Social Studies teacher.” John muscled out. 

“Mrs. Menendez, she used to bring her classes here for field trips.”

John had done his homework. Any other teacher’s name would have earned a phone call down to Willow Springs High School. Mrs. Mendez gave him a coin flip of a chance.

“Alright. But tell Mrs. Menendez not to be a stranger. What do you need?”

“Tree saplings would be great. The prettier the better. We’re trying to brighten some days where we can.” John swallowed. 

The other lies he could live with. Was it a school project? No. But it was for a good cause. It wasn’t like they were selling them on the Plantae black market. Which made John ponder where Mr. Withers got that flytrap. But, including Mrs. Menendez…

Mr. Withers paused. “Alright, let me see what I got. But next time, bring Mrs. Menendez or a note. Could be a nice write-off.”

The old horticulturist shuffled to his warehouse. Ethan shot his big brother a nervous glance, and John replied with a quick shrug. A moment later, Mr. Withers had two clementine saplings, a blue Chinese wisteria tree, a blossom flower, and in John’s mind, the highlight, a bonsai tree.

“Will these work?” Mr. Withers asked.

“Whoa, those are cool.” Ethan gasped.

“Yes, Mr. Withers, those are fantastic. Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure. Take some pictures, will ya? They’ll be great on our Facebook page and website.” Mr. Withers asked.

“Sure thing, Mr. Withers.” Another lie.

They exchanged pleasantries and parted ways.

“Those are better than the first ones!” Ethan said as he plopped onto his bed.

“Tell me about it. When I get some bucks, I’m buying a bonsai for sure.”

“No way, I’m getting that fly trap. Stupid flies, your days are numbered.” Ethan giggled.

“For sure. Alright, get some rest. We’ll leave when I get back from work then get home before sunrise.” 

Ethan nodded with an ear to ear grin. John extended a right hand and received a needle inducing high five. 

John was thinking about the upcoming adventure as he put the fries in the fryer. He had the next list of houses in his notebook, but now he mapped the route. He grinned as he thought of planting the bonsai in old man Johnson’s backyard. Maybe a little Miagi would take the frown off his mug. John grinned again as the buzz of excitement danced in his stomach. 

John didn’t play sports (he tried freshman football, but after getting flat-backed eight times in two practices, well, he knew sports wasn’t his gig), and clubs didn’t interest him either. Sneaking classmates extra fries or a whopper was as ‘cool’ as he got. But he had Ethan.

John returned home and quietly underdressed. He turned to wake Ethan only to find him fully dressed, an ear to ear grin on his face.

“Let’s skedaddle.” John whispered.

They slipped out of their bedroom window and sprinted to John’s car. Which he parked three blocks down. Mom wouldn’t hear it fire up from that distance.

The first four houses they were in and out. Pros now. The clementines, blossom tree, and Chinese wisteria tree recipients didn’t flash a light or ruffle a sound. Now the real test. Angry, old man Johnson. The man was a neighborhood legend for being an ex-military, sour curmudgeon.

“Ok, we gotta be quick here, E. Somehow, that old son of a gun can hear like a bat. You want me to dig the first hole?”

“A scout smiles and whistles under all circumstances.”

John chuckled to himself and thought, “What a nerd? But, he’s my little nerd.”

“Ok. I’m going to park two blocks down. If trouble happens, run out the back gate.”

“Gotcha.”

Ethan grabbed the spade and bolted through Mr. Johnson’s side gate. He knelt in Mr. Johnson’s yard, a foot away from the picketed fences exit. He raised his blade and slammed it into the hard autumn canvas. Pay dirt. He didn’t get that fire making badge for nothing. A great pit is the first step towards an efficient flame. Or, in this case, the foundation for Mr. Johnson’s new bonsai.

“Crap.” John said under his breath. A room on the second floor illuminated.

“Crap.” A moment later, the kitchen light lit.

Ethan squealed. John contemplated firing up the car, but they didn’t come this far to stop.

A scout smiles and whistles under all circumstances.

He scooped the baby bonsai and sprinted to the backyard. He slammed the tree into Ethan’s freshly made square. A few moments later, dirt and mulch packed in Mr. Johnson’s new lawn ornament. Then John screamed, “Hey I got his TV, somebody get the computer.”

Mr. Johnson roared a few words not meant for mixed company and sprinted back to his castle. Ethan turned, wide-eyed. He lurched towards the car like Ricky Henderson did before stealing a base. Once Mr. Johnson’s bald head slipped past the gate, he flew to John’s rust bucket.

John heard Mr. Johnson’s second bellow, and it was louder. The old man was chasing after him. He bolted out the gate and soared to the Corolla. Ethan banged on the dashboard as John jumped into the driver’s seat.

“Go man, go!” Ethan screamed.

John stomped the gas pedal.

They were one hundred feet away when they heard a faint, “I’m going to get you bastards.”

John and Ethan erupted with laughter. Ethan banged his head on the dashboard while John punched the roof of the Corolla. 

“Ah man, that was awesome!” John said and wrapped his arm around his brother’s neck.

“The best!” 

Neither slept the rest of the night. One would recall something and start giggling, the other would laugh, then they’d explode. Muffling their gut pounding giggles with clenched jaws. Finally, the sun peaked its head. Their night was done. 

“Alright, man. That’s it.” John said as he high-fived his brother.

“Thanks, John.” 

They went to school and lived their lives. When Mrs. Sanchez dropped a ‘C+’ pre-calculus test on John’s desk, he grimaced. Then grinned. When the jocks bumped into Ethan as if he didn’t exist, he sighed. Then grinned. Later that night, John went to work and Ethan whittled a key holder.

Two days later, John returned home from work to find Ethan staring him down.

“What the heck is your problem?” John asked.

“Look. I’ve watched it three times.”

Ethan rewound the recording of a news broadcast until the banner line read ‘Botanical Bandits: Menace or Mavericks?’

“What?” John muttered.

“I know!”

For three minutes, the newscaster informed the greater Danbury area of Ethan and John’s shenanigans. Ethan and John stared at each other. Next appeared Mrs. Wilkins.

“Do you feel violated, ma’am?” The TV reporter asked.

“Oh no. My grandson asked where the tree’d come from. I says, what? He rolled me out to the yard and there it was. I love clementines. I picked them as a child.”

Without a cursory ‘Thank you ma’am,’ Channel Five News flashed to another reporter standing next to none other than Mr. Johnson.

“How do you feel, sir?”

“I’ll tell you what, that was breaking an entering.”

“Do you feel violated, sir?”

“What? Violated? What in dangnub carnation are you talking about, son?” Mr. Johnson grabbed the microphone.

“They scared the bejeebs out of me for sure, but I chased ‘em away. Sure did. I looked for graffiti, a broken window, or a missing TV. Nothing. All I saw was that little goofy tree. I been using the Googles, and it tells me I need to wait six months before it’s grown. Then I’m going to do what that lil teacher fella from Karate Kid did with them.”

The reporter jerked the mic back. “Thank you, sir. Back to you Bob.”

Ethan paused the TV.

“No. Freaking. Way.” John said.

“We’re the Botanical Bandits!”

John extended a hand to be slapped, then the door knocked. The boys froze.

“Who the hell could that be? You think it’s Mr. Johnson? You think it’s the cops?” John asked.

“I know you are in there?” 

They knew that voice.

“Oh, crap.” John sputtered.

“I’m calling the cops if you don’t let me in.”

“Mr. Withers. We can explain.” John said as he opened the door.

“Sit down.” Mr. Withers demanded. 

They sat.

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? That you lied to me. Huh?”

John started, “Mr. Withers, we can explain. We only meant good...”

“Shoosh, I don’t care about that.” Mr. Withers let the words hang. With slitted eyes, he slowly peered from Ethan to John.

“I want in.” Mr. Withers finished.

“What?” the boys asked in unison.

The next day at Mr. Withers shop, they discussed the upcoming mission. Yes, the boys called it a mission. Channel Five fame and too many Cherry Colas had gone to their head.

“Listen, eventually, they’ll start poking around here. Gig will be over. So, let’s do one last great one. Spread the seed for others to share. Your video, along with Sherriff’s meme worthy interview, has created quite the buzz. So let’s use that. Here’s what I propose.....”

For the next hour, Ethan and John listened intently to the old man’s words. When he was done, they realized they weren’t James Bond, but the idea of having a charity daisy-chain sounded fair enough. They had a plan.

When the boys showed up, Mr. Withers took the wheel. His running days as a spring chicken were long gone.

“Alright, you know the eight houses we are hitting in Silver Heights?” Withers asked.

They nodded.

First up, Trung Nguyên, the mattress queen of Danbury. With Mr. Withers parked two houses down, the boys bobbed a nod, then sprinted to Trang’s front yard. Backyards were out of the question. Too much security. Plus, they wanted visibility.

Ethan stabbed the Bermuda grass, and it gave like a marshmallow. It took seconds before John could plant the tiny sycamore. Better houses, better plants. They sprinted to the Corolla and spun off without a hair raised.

They hit Doug Mitchell, the swank lawyer, John Barnett, the obtuse architect, Kevin Maldives, the ruthless banker, and Kim Schultze, Danbury’s favorite real estate agent. All with varying plants, all with zero issues. It appeared the Botanical Bandits were too good for Danbury’s elite. Or rich people don’t watch local news. 

Jonathan Douglas, the owner of seven riverboat casinos, was the expectation. 

Same plan. Nothing fancy. Dig the hole, plant, pack it up, and disappear. But Mr. Douglas hadn’t got the ‘disappear’ memo. As soon as the Ethan had the hole dug, two Dobermans sprinted at them. Jaws clapping.

“Oh crap. Run Ethan!.”

John pushed him forward and sprinted after Ethan. Withers saw the hounds in full pursuit and jammed open the back door. Ten feet from the car and the dogs sounded like they were in John’s back pocket. Ethan dove into the back like Barry Sanders jumping over a pile.

“Come on, John!” Ethan screamed.

John grabbed the door handle, about to swing himself in, when he felt a nose on his toosh. 

Bang.

Mr. Withers slammed open the front door and sent the dogs sprawling. John hopped in and Withers peeled off. Front door still dangling as they sped down Fremont street.

There was a shocked pause.

'Buahahahahaha' in harmony by all three.  

“Oh, my goodness! I have not had this much fun since I was a kid!” Withers yelped.

“That dog always took my butt off. Ethan, you ok?” John asked.

“Yeah, a scout always smi..”

“Dang it, not now Ethan.” John spat, then winced a smile.

That made Mr. Withers cough out another round of laughs.

The oddball three musketeers continued their rounds. They hit the last two houses without a scratch. Then Mr. Withers kicked in his real plan. He pulled out a burner phone and dialed the Channel Five newsroom.

In a meek, old lady’s voice, “Oh my goodness, that plant scum hit 1468 Fremont. I think they hit the entire neighborhood. The insanity. Help.”

Click. Withers knew the bloodhounds at Channel Five had enough to sniff.

The following morning, Channel Five led with a breaking story: “Botanical Bandits run amok in Silver Heights.”

A newscaster crouched beside the sycamore tree of the Mattress Queen. 

“They’ve struck again. This time with a message.”

The camera zoomed in a placard that read:

Love Thy Neighbor

Plant a seed

Plant a dream

Three Sisters Orphanage

3427 SW Baker ave

Danbury, MI 67812

P.S. They could use mattresses for new kids coming in.

The broadcast cut to the front of Kevin Maldives’ home:

Love Thy Neighbor

Plant a seed 

Plant a dream

Old St. Pat’s Homeless Shelter

2422 SW 76th st

Danbury, MI 67812

P.S. They could use some money for clothes and some hot meals.

The jump cuts became a collage of the other houses and their individualized messages.

The reporter finished with, “Bob, we don’t know who these Botanical Bandits are, but gotta love the message. Back to you.”

Ethan turned off the TV. “You think she’d be proud? Mima?”

“I do. I think she got what she asked for and then some. If just one of those millionaires helps, we’ve exceeded her wildest dreams. She’d be proud.”

“I miss her.”

“Me too. Come on, we have one more to plant. Cherry Willow, her favorite.”