Ethan is shrieking. It would be funny, but he is bleeding from the scrotum, and that's just not funny. In the adrenaline rush, he has shoved his dad's gun into his waistband and accidentally shot himself. His best friend Tom has stopped the car, a Chevy Suburban they paid someone $80 to steal for what was supposed to be their big finale. The Oregon teens had planned a major heist, Ethan would later say, maybe half a million that they would tote in athletic bags from the money room at a Nordstrom department store. But that plan didn't work out; in fact, the whole night had gone right to hell. (Why didn't they stick to knocking over Burger Kings?) Tom had worked as a clerk at Nordstrom and--duh--someone recognized him when he and Ethan ambled in. So they walked out without taking a thing. They should have gone home, but after weeks of planning, they were primed. They settled on Rustica, a neighborhood Italian place with a nice sourdough. The petrified manager handed over $500, and it was in the heady aftermath that not far away Ethan shot himself.
So here we are. Five hundred bucks, a hole blown into a very delicate place and DNA evidence drying on the seat of a stolen car. Though Ethan had the wound, both teens were ashen when they got to the hospital--"My God, they were white as sheets," friends would later say. The tale the boys concocted--some highly unbelievable stuff about a gang attack, followed by only slightly more believable stuff about a joyride gone bad--had made the cops suspicious. Rustica would be the inauspicious conclusion to a 12-month robbery spree by two boys who were, everyone thought, model young citizens.
It wasn't supposed to end like this. Something like 20 previous jobs had been nearly effortless, too easy to be planned. Just run in, wave guns (one of which didn't work), and the dorks unloaded cash drawers, whole tills--here, take it, don't kill me.
Kill them? Whatever. This was just high school ridiculousness--O.K., with an edge, a sharp one, but no one was going to die. The robbers weren't stupid. They were cool kids, campus superstars: Thomas Curtis, student-body president, eagle scout at 15, homecoming prince, a good-looking guy with solid parents, that cute Jenny White for a girlfriend and a nonstop sense of humor, the kind that could always cheer you up. And Ethan Thrower, sweet kid, churchgoer, MVP on the track team, a member of the elite Royal Blues choir, honor roll, yearbook, the whole deal. They were the most popular kids at the biggest school in town, a public school but a prestigious one--it even has a lacrosse team--a place so idyllic that Hollywood came there to film Mr. Holland's Opus.
Things aren't so special anymore for Ethan and Tom. They're in the county jail, where if you need a root canal, as Ethan did last month, your lawyer has to file a three-page motion. In November, a year after Rustica, Ethan pleaded guilty to three counts of robbery and promised to apologize to victims in all 20. Now 19 years old, he will spend 8 1/2 years in prison.