“Impulsive thieves are incarcerated thieves,” Sarah A likes to say.
We plan our crimes carefully. And we sit around and rehash them a lot too. And we do noncriminal stuff in order to bond. Since it’s summer, we drive out to Lake Michigan at least once a week. And we visit Saugatuck. It’s an artist community near the lake that’s crammed with boutiques. We’ve stolen a variety of cookie cutters, jars of cheese spread, and Michigan-shaped oven mitts from an understaffed kitchen store there.
And we like to hike around the Kalamazoo Nature Center and watch the injured owls stare powerfully at us from behind their wire mesh cages. And we volunteer at the animal shelter where we mainly focus on the dogs. And we work on our college applications, mostly by discussing the great things we’ll say about ourselves in our personal statements. And we bake cookies (using the aforementioned cutters) that we don’t eat, because none of us want to be chunky seniors sucking our guts in while back fat ripples beneath our ridiculously priced and somewhat slutty prom dresses. And sometimes we read. We’re huge Sue Grafton fans.
Sarah A thinks that the reason criminals get caught has nothing to do with shelf life and everything to do with having a lack of other interests. She insists that criminals need to be well-rounded. It’s the only way to stay ahead of the law. She’s firm about this. So we’ve all developed other interests. Except, they’re identical and we do them together. Sarah A doesn’t think that’s a problem.
“So what if we live identical lives?” Sarah A says. “As long as they’re balanced.”
She makes being criminals sound like a circus act, like we’re all traipsing across the high wire, one after the other. Heights make me anxious. I try not to think of our lives this way. That’s why I developed my hallway metaphor. Sarah C calls being a thief-at-large a numbers game. She likens our fates to a bad lottery or draft. She’s always worried that our number may be coming up. I’m not really sure what Sarah B thinks.
But I doubt the Kalamazoo Police Department wants to lock up college-bound teens who volunteer at their local animal shelter and are willing to clean out the dirtiest dog cages. And I bet none of our Michigan judges want to throw the book at four honor students who also happen to be outstanding altos. We’re the backbone of Kalamazoo Central High School’s award-winning choir. Why should the law be interested in us? We barely commit any serious crimes at all. At least for the moment.
It’s almost time for me to go. I watch the store’s glass windows and stare at the people milling around behind them. There are many interesting ways to style a head of hair. Wait, I think I see a familiar head. I do. It’s Sarah C. She’s pressed up right against the glass. What is she doing? She’s jerking her arm up and down. If I can see her, so can other people. She’s going to draw a ton of attention.
I open my door. She’s still jerking. Is she having a seizure? Did she suddenly develop epilepsy? Are epileptics not supposed to wear ponytails? She’s in the café. Why is she in the café? Oh my God. I get it. She’s flashing me the peace sign. She does it again. And a third time. That’s the distress signal.
Three peace signs in quick succession means that something’s gone horribly wrong. But what could have gone horribly wrong? Nobody’s stolen anything yet. It’s not against the law to consider stealing a book. It’s not even against the law to consider killing the president. Of course, you can never voice that consideration, because that is against the law.
I climb out of the car. All this stress makes me feel dizzy. But I don’t have time to catch my emotional balance. I better get in there. My Sarah sisters need me.
Chapter 2
I make sure all of my car doors are locked. Even though it’s not a crime-ridden town, I do keep a lot of dimes in my ashtray. And my ashtray, like anyone’s, is sort of in plain view.
I need to act normal. While I walk toward the store, I bounce the big jingly wad of keys back and forth between my hands.
I open the first wooden door and smile at the mustached man in mustard-yellow pants exiting the store. Wait. I’ve seen him before. Suddenly, I know why Sarah C flashed me the peace sign three times. We know this guy. It’s Mr. Trego, our former boss. Last year, he ran a fudge shop in town. But then we all quit on him. Sarah A, Sarah B, and Sarah C self-terminated their employment with him in person and returned their uniforms. I stopped showing up. I hate confrontation. And I also liked my uniform. I’m wearing it right now. Khaki pants and a light blue T-shirt that says FRESH IS BEST.
After we quit, it didn’t take long for his business to tank. It probably would have happened regardless of our departures. But, in a random act of malice, Sarah A did spread some vicious untruths about his fudge-cooling process. None of us have seen him since his demise. But he’s here now. With his distinctive swagger. And smell. And lazy eye. Last fall, he vanished and we thought that was the end of him. But now, just like those Canada geese, Mr. Trego is back.
I try to veer to the other door, but it’s locked. Our paths are destined to meet. I try not to look him in the eye. Especially his lazy one. I glance down at my own sandals and my pink-polished toenails. He’s holding open the second wooden door for me. I don’t know what to do. I try to calm myself by asking, What’s the worst thing that could happen, he demands my pants? But then I imagine all these awful things he could say to me about dodging responsibility and leaving him high and dry. I don’t want to get within earshot of such accurate character assassination.
But the Sarahs are inside and I’m supposed to be inside, too. I wrestle with my options. Then I do the easiest and most polite thing. I walk through the open door. After I pass beneath the arch of his arm, I turn my head to keep on eye on him. I notice two things: First, his armpit smells like barbecued hot wings. Second, he’s boldly looking at my butt. I mean, he’s staring right at it. What is Mr. Trego doing? Trying to determine whether or not I’m wearing my fudge-shop pants?
His motives don’t really matter. I feel like I’m being dissected, and that always makes me uncomfortable. I’m several feet inside the store, but I can still feel him looking at me. I turn my whole body to face him, and to take my butt out of his view. Clearly, he can discern that this is his fudge-shop shirt. That’s when I notice my nipples. This is too much drama for them. Frightened into rigidity, they’re projecting right out of my T-shirt.
“Sarah Trestle?” he asks.
In a defensive move, I look him in the eye and shrug. He frowns at me and shakes his head. Then he reaches his hand toward me, like he’s going to touch me. Before I can do anything useful, like leave, I’m clobbered by my own anxiety. I have an uncontrollable urge to pee and there’s nothing I can do.
I mean, it’s right here. And so is Sarah C. She’s shaking her head back and forth. Her red ponytail wags behind her as her mouth forms a perfect O. She mouths the word no, trying to encourage me to hold it, but it’s too late. I can feel the sea of pee inside of me, and there’s no stopping it. Mr. Trego is watching too. The door has fallen closed, but he’s still there, behind the panes of glass. I look around for Sarah A. She needs to know that I’m aborting the plan. But I can’t see her. The Self Help section is buried too far into the belly of the store. I should run. I have time.
Instead, I let loose a puddle of my own urine on the welcome mat. There’s so much liquid that it flows onto the ceramic-tiled floor. There’s an actual sound. People turn and look. A wet spot has bloomed on my crotch and down my leg. The cotton absorbs what it can. I throw my hands down to cover the area. But it’s too big. Sarah C hands me a copy of People. It’s the Spanish edition.
“I’ll buy it,” she tells the clerk standing next to her. “I’m heading to the counter right now.”
The clerk nods.
“Take it,” she tells me. “Vamanos!”
I unfold the magazine and hold the glossy pages over the large pee mark as I run for my car. I have to hurry past Mr. Trego. As we pass in the alcove, our arms brush against each other.
“Why don’t you go ahead and keep
that outfit,” he says.
But I’m not thinking about my pilfered uniform anymore. Or the heavily populated Barnes & Noble where I just wet myself. I’m worried about Sarah A. She’s going to kill me. She’s been looking forward to reading What Color Is Your Parachute? all week. I think she’s on the brink of making an important life decision, maybe even choosing her college major. And that choice could really affect the rest of the Sarahs too.
Once in my car, I sit atop the magazine and wait for the other Sarahs. Sarah C comes out first. Sarah B follows about a minute later. But Sarah A doesn’t come until the established meeting time. We wait almost twenty minutes for her.
She saunters out of the store like nothing has happened. Her blonde hair spills around her neck and she’s smiling. But it’s her fake smile. Her pink lips force themselves to show a crescent of white teeth. She opens the passenger door and climbs inside. She smells like a cross between a blueberry muffin and a vanilla bean. After she closes the door, her whole demeanor shifts. Her mouth turns cold and expressionless.
“That was really stupid,” she tells me.
“It was Mr. Trego,” Sarah C explains. “Sarah T has been avoiding him ever since we quit.”
“Big deal,” Sarah A says. “The pay for that job was a joke.”
“But I hadn’t returned my uniform,” I say. I jerk my thumb toward my shirt.
“I doubt he wants it back now,” Sarah A says. “And if he does, he’s a serious pervert.”
“Good point,” I say. My throat feels tight. I sound squeaky.
“We all make mistakes,” Sarah C says.
“Yeah, but not the kind that involve our own bodily fluids,” Sarah A says.
I start the car.
“Sarah C, I have some awful news,” Sarah A says.
“What is it?” Sarah C asks.
“Benny Stowe was inside the store. He saw everything,” Sarah A says.
“He did not,” Sarah C says.
“Well, he didn’t see it,” Sarah A says. “But I told him about it.”
“Why?” Sarah C asks. “If he didn’t see one of my best friends pee her pants, why tell him that one of my best friends peed her pants?”
Benny Stowe is Sarah C’s longtime crush. He’s cute and one of the most popular guys in school. She’s always trying to look good in front of him.
“One of the clerks brought out a mop and one of those yellow plastic buckets on wheels,” Sarah A says. “I had to tell Benny something. It’s not like I’m going to lie for no good reason.”
I pull the car onto Milham.
“Did Benny seem grossed out?” I ask. I’m mortified to learn that Benny Stowe knows about my pee issues. But there’s not much I can do about it now. Except hope that in the near future a minor head injury resulting in short-term memory loss befalls Benny Stowe.
“Totally,” Sarah A says. “Even after it got mopped up, he wouldn’t step in that area. He took a long stride over the damp spot to get to the magazines.”
“Maybe he thought the wet tile would be slippery,” I say.
“He was probably more worried about getting pee on his shoes,” Sarah A says. She flips the visor down to shade her face from the sun. “How can we grow as thieves, and move on to the next phase, if we can’t count on one another to steal a simple book?”
“But we didn’t get caught either,” Sarah C says.
“You made a purchase. We spent money in there. And that dumb rag wasn’t even on sale. The only crime we’re guilty of is stupidity.”
“Actually, it’s against the law to urinate in public,” Sarah B says. “I saw a guy get arrested for it at a Tigers game. I think it’s a misdemeanor.” Pop.
I glance at Sarah A’s face. It’s bright red. What is Sarah B doing? I want this incident to blow over. I roll my window down to increase the ventilation in the car.
“Real crimes have victims,” Sarah A says. “Remember what I said when we broke out the windows of Davis Garlobo’s Mustang?”
“I remember. After three swings of your baseball bat, you said, ‘Davis Garlobo is a pizza-faced asshole who never should have laughed at me because I didn’t know how to pronounce Hispaniola,’” Sarah B says. “Then you spat on the hood of his car and called him captain crap-ass.”
Sarah A sucks in an angry breath and slowly releases it.
“I meant what I said on the ride home.”
None of us answer. If you can’t remember Sarah A’s words verbatim, it’s best to wait and let her restate them.
“I said that trespassing isn’t a true crime. Neither is criminal mischief or vagrancy, because there’s no real loss. Nobody suffers. Nobody grieves. But vandalism, that’s a crime. Real crimes have victims. Is it that hard to remember?”
I stop us with a jerk at a red light.
“Do you know what helps me remember things?” Sarah C says. “Acronyms. Like scuba for self-contained underwater breathing apparatus or NASA for National Aeronautics and Space Administration.”
“Real crimes have victims doesn’t make an acronym,” Sarah B says. “It’s RCHV. It doesn’t have a vowel.”
“You’re right,” Sarah C says. “We need an acrostic. Like Kings Play Chess On Fine Grain Sand for the taxonomy of organisms: kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species.”
“I know. Rod Carew Hates Vaseline,” Sarah B says.
“Rod Carew?” Sarah A asks.
“He’s one of the greatest baseball players of all time. He had over three thousand hits,” Sarah B says.
“Vaseline?” Sarah A asks.
“Vaseline or any balm,” Sarah B says, “is used by some pitchers to juice the ball. There’s all sorts of variations: spitball, scuffball, mudball—”
“Who cares? Am I surrounded by idiots?” Sarah A asks. She turns around to glare at the backseat Sarahs. “No wonder this town had the largest psychiatric hospital in the state of Michigan. Clearly, mental problems still abound.”
Nobody says anything else as I drive us back toward our Winchell neighborhood.
“Drop me off first,” Sarah A say. “It’s starting to smell.”
I shift my weight on top of the magazine and the moist pages rub against each other releasing a noise that sounds like a wet kiss. I’m nearly to Sarah C’s house, but I pull into a driveway and turn around. What Sarah A wants, Sarah A gets.
At speeds topping forty miles per hour, I proceed to the Marlborough Building. It’s a hoity-toity place where a lot of professional-type people live. It has a slate roof and stained-glass windows and decorative tiles and a swanky recessed entranceway. A lot of really old people live there, too. Mostly the kind who have already started to die.
I think the building is totally overrated. I mean, fix the elevator. Every time we come to visit we’ve got to ascend five whole flights of stairs. Sarah A thinks it’s the best place to live in Kalamazoo. She likes having rich hall neighbors. Sometimes she steals their mail. She takes pride in the fact that she’s the only Sarah who’s committed a federal offense.
“The air is so balmy,” Sarah C says, sticking her arm out the window.
Nobody responds. She pulls her long arm back inside the car.
I speed down Oakland. It used to be a tulip-lined street. Sadly, the tulips lost their heads during a thunderstorm the last week of May. Now, with June in full swing, most of our streets are flanked by rows of decapitated, wilting stems. I turn down South Street and decide not to comment on the condition of our local flora. When I pull up to the Marlborough Building, I slam my car into PARK. I try smiling at Sarah A, but she’s already climbing out.
“I’ll call you later,” Sarah A says. “I’m disappointed in everyone. Especially you,” she says, aiming a perfectly manicured index finger at me.
“I understand it wasn’t my best moment,” I say.
“That’s an understatement,” Sarah A says. She flips her hair and licks her lips. “You’re not going crazy, are you? I think this is about the same time your brother started losi
ng it. The summer before his senior year. Liam read that book about Tonto and became a totally different person.”
Liam is my brother. I never knew that Sarah A thought he went crazy. But I do remember him reading a book about Tonto. Our mother is one-half Potawatomi. Liam thinks this is a big deal. In high school, he went on a serious Native American literary jag. But I’m not like him. I’m not interested in myself in a genealogical or political sense. When it comes to my ancestry, it’s not something I think about.
“Liam read The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven,” Sarah C says. “It’s a movie now called Smoke Signals. Sherman Alexie wrote both.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sarah B says. Pop.
“Well, Sherman whoever’s book made Liam go crazy and become a totally political psycho person. Seriously. Look where he ended up … Stanford,” Sarah A says with disgust.
“Oh, I didn’t wet myself as a political statement,” I say. “I probably have some kind of disorder. A treatable one,” I add.
Sarah A rolls her eyes.
“I don’t think Liam went crazy,” Sarah C says. “And even if he did, Liam is way less crazy than your brother.”
Sarah A shuts the door with a thud.
“Vance is on very effective medication now,” Sarah A says. “And nobody is allowed to call my brother crazy except for me and his therapist. Do not disparage my family.”
“Sorry,” Sarah C says. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Sarah A raises her eyebrows. “Sing group is off tonight,” she says. “And tomorrow.”
We all watch her practically skip up the carpeted, covered walkway to the building’s front doors. This relieves me. Already, she’s bouncing back from the day’s disappointment.
“We could have sing group at my house,” Sarah C offers. “Midway though ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’ we get a little pitchy.”
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 2