“Thanks,” she said with a pen in her mouth, and went back to refolding. Julie was at the front of the store, looking through the Hawaiian shirts. She had a few articles of clothing flung over her arm.
“What are you doing, Jule?” I said under my breath.
“You don’t need to talk like that,” she said, though she was whispering back. “You trust me, remember?” I sighed.
“I think I’m ready to go,” I said.
“Okay, just give me a few more minutes.” She looked at the jacket still over my arm. “You should buy that,” she said. I held it out in front of myself one more time. I really did love it. Don’t think too much, I told myself, and I went right up to the front counter to pay.
The girl at the front wrote “painters jacket” on the receipt. She put my jacket in a plastic Reminiscence shopping bag with pink-and-black leopard spots and handed me my change. It felt cool in my hand. As I put my money back in my wallet and took the bag, I couldn’t stop smiling. For some reason I thought about Ellie and that I was excited to show her my new jacket. Ellie had gotten into the Rhode Island School of Design, and she had gotten a half-scholarship, which was enough for Dad to relax.
I looked around for Julie and suddenly she was right behind me with the painters pants I had tried on over her arm and her wallet out. She was smiling. I looked at her, a little confused.
“Jule, you’re buying those?” I said. “You already have that exact same pair.”
“Duh!” she said. “They’re for you, silly!”
“What? You’re kidding!” I didn’t know what to say.
“Cash or charge?” the salesgirl said.
“Cash,” she said proudly to the salesgirl, who wrote and cranked out her receipt like she did mine.
“You didn’t get anything?” I whispered as we walked out of the store. Julie shook her head and held her arms up.
“You can search me!” she said. She handed me the Reminiscence bag with the pants in it. I noticed how different new pants looked with the tags still on.
“Julie, it’s too much,” I said, but I held the pants to my chest.
“Oh shush, it’s no biggie,” she said. “Hey, you’re sleeping over tonight, right?”
“Of course,” I said. We had a huge hug. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe you got, I mean, bought me those painters pants!”
“You’re welcome. Ooh! Let’s go into Capezio—I gotta show you this new lipstick!” Julie said. “It’s called Dew-berry Pink. Ruby has it and I tried it on at her house—it’s amazing!” Capezio was right next door to Reminiscence.
As I watched Julie skip up the three white steps to Capezio, the image of seeing her on the top step of P.A. the first day of school flashed in my mind. It seemed so long ago now, like that was a different Julie. I was a different Julie now, too—I wasn’t the Julie who was so scared of not finding a friend. And I was no longer Julie Also. I remembered our first after-school subway ride, the first time I saw Julie’s closet, sitting at her kitchen table laughing so hard we had tears running down our cheeks. Now we even had battle scars—we’d had our first fight and survived. Somewhere deep inside of me I had this really strong feeling: I will know Julie Braverman forever.
Acknowledgments
Klepto began in 1998 as a one-woman show called Good-night, Diary. It was based on the diary I kept during my teenage years. After many staged readings and workshop productions, the consistent feedback I got was, “This might make a good teen book.” But I didn’t know how to turn theater into young-adult fiction. I am indebted to so many people who helped me with that conversion process: Daniel Judah Sklar, Elizabeth Law, Victoria Labalme, Nadette Staša, Kevin Mandel, and Victor Warren were the most influential in those early days. I am grateful to Annette Cunningham for “funding” our Friday artist workshops in the summer of 2000, during which both of us banged away on our keyboards, let the creative juices flow, and tried very hard not to answer the phone.
Throughout my high school years and countless sleepovers and hours spent at my best friend’s house, I was awed and fascinated by her myriad family members and their boyfriends, girlfriends, and spouses. I remember thinking, Someday I’m going to write about this. For those years and all the juice, spice, and wisdom given to me by the Kravats, Buschmans, and Zinkers, I am profoundly grateful—especially to Annie, my second mom, and to Jenny, of course. Everyone should have a best friend like Jenny.
To Joan, Dan, and Susan Pollack, thank you for providing so much good material and for loving me and being proud of me. Thank you to the Kners, Nina Rowe, Regina Sheer, and Huck Hirsch, all of whom changed the course of my childhood. I am grateful to the Performing Arts’ Drama Department Class of 1985 students and teachers—you know who you are even though I have changed your names in this book.
To Jennifer Belle for her excellent feedback and support and her fantastic workshop, including Colleen Cruz, Scott Jones, Elin Lake Ewald, Leslie Ross, David Zaring, Brenna Tinkel, Robin Swid, and Sarah Bennett, thank you.
Thank you to my husband, Rob Handelman, for his willingness to read anything I write, talk endlessly about my process, give me the guy’s-eye view, and take Charlie away when necessary.
Many thanks to my agent, Merrilee Heifetz, for reading my book in one day and cheering me on immediately.
Finally, I am not only grateful to Joy Peskin, a first-time novelist’s dream of an editor, but I am also moved by her endless enthusiasm for this book. From our writing sessions in Prospect Park to pretzels and Pirate’s Booty on her living-room floor, I will always treasure her keen editorial eye, her sense of humor, and that simply, she “got” me.
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