Crimes of the Sarahs

by Kristen Tracy

  She’s not crying anymore. She turns to look at me and takes hold of my hands. Her face is damp with tears.

  “As Sarahs, we should strive to take risks. We should be braver. We could have at least tried.”

  “I don’t know. It was a big dog,” I say.

  She squeezes my hands tighter.

  “You need to support me. I’ll never put us in danger. Not real danger. You know that, right?”

  I rub my thumbs against her hands hoping that she’ll loosen her hold on me.

  “Some days we act like we’re not anything special at all. We act like everyone else. That’s a huge mistake. Because if you’re not trying hard to be special, then you just fade into the background. You become wallpaper. If you’re not the center, then you’re just the periphery. I’m not going to settle with being the periphery. I wasn’t brought into this world to be the wallpaper.”

  I lick my lips. She’s crying again. Sarah A really believes everything she’s saying. Her grip has loosened. I lift my hands and, using just my fingertips, wipe the tears away above her cheekbones.

  “I don’t want to be wallpaper either,” I say.

  “Then we need to go after what we want.”

  I’m tempted to tell her that while I do consider myself part of the “we” equation, I never wanted that dog. But I decide it’s more important to end the night on a good note.

  “You’re right,” I say. “We need to stay tough.”

  She lifts her hands to mine and threads her fingers through my fingers, pulling our hands into perfect alignment.

  “We should always support each other.”

  “Okay.”

  “Even through our doubts.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ve got to promise,” she says.

  “I promise.”

  She disentangles her hands from mine and presents me with her pinky finger. I offer up mine too. We hook them together and then pull them apart. The quick release makes a snapping sound. The air between us crackles with static electricity. The hair on the back on my neck stands up, as an unexpected feeling of fear snakes through me.

  “We’re sisters,” she says. “Forever.”

  We turn to get out of the car, but Sarah A pulls on my arm.

  “Wait. Remember how you talked about feeling bad about taking stuff, about how you want to get rid of the garden rock?” Sarah A says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “And remember how you talked about feeling bad about killing that possum and how you made that promise to yourself not to hurt another animal?” Sarah A asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m happy that she’s been listening so closely to what I tell her. I always figured she was barely paying much attention to anything I had to say.

  “You shouldn’t feel bad about stuff like that,” Sarah A says.

  “I don’t feel bad all the time,” I say.

  “But you don’t have to feel bad at all. You don’t have to feel anything you don’t want to feel,” Sarah A says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You turn it off,” Sarah A says.

  Sarah A is smiling again. Her face doesn’t look like she’s been crying. Her smile is perfect. Her mascara and liner remain unsmudged. When I stare into her eyes they are clear, but empty. Whatever it is that’s behind them seems flat. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Her eyes glow softly and pleasantly, like two faraway moons.

  Chapter 15

  We’re at the mall. Mall culture is not my favorite. It’s loud here. There’s too many people. And I can never find anything I want to buy, let alone steal.

  Sarah B is on the hunt for new tops. Sarah A is looking to acquire some bottoms. Sarah C has mentioned the desire to try on shoes. Maybe I should purchase something basic like socks. Sarah A, Sarah C, and I stand outside the dressing room waiting for Sarah B to come out and show us her most recent find. Sarah B walks out and rotates for us.

  “No way,” Sarah C says. “It makes your boobs look dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” I ask.

  “A distraction to drivers,” Sarah C says.

  Sarah C smiles at me and I smile back. But I don’t mean it. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t be connecting with Sarah C at all, even at the level of civility. How can I trust somebody who would mock my metaphor and then steal it? Every time I walk down a hallway I think of that. And feel this small sting of betrayal. It sucks.

  “I think my boobs look under control,” Sarah B says, leaning forward a bit.

  “No,” Sarah C says. “You’re imagining that.”

  I guess I agree. Sarah B is too busty to pull off that tube top.

  “You could work at Hooters,” Sarah A says.

  “Gross,” Sarah B says.

  But deep down, I think Sarah B took that as a compliment. Sarah B walks to the three-way mirror to look at the offending top at multiple angles.

  “Where should we go next?” I ask.

  Before our tube-top stop, we looped aimlessly around the mall. When we run out of things to do, one of the other Sarahs usually suggests going to the mall in Portage. Though I don’t know why. Nothing exciting ever happens here. And when I wear shoes with heels, like today, my feet get so sore.

  I slip out of my wedge sandals, and press my feet flat on the store’s dusty wood floor.

  “Without shoes you become a completely different size,” Sarah A says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Don’t you ever wish you were taller?” Sarah A asks me.

  I shrug. Of course I wish that. Certain sixth graders tower over me.

  “Do you think you’ll grow more?” Sarah B asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “I don’t think you will,” Sarah A says. “I think you’ve reached your maximum height.”

  “You’re not that short,” Sarah C says. “Besides, your body matches who you are.”

  “It does?” I ask. It bothers me that Sarah C pretends to be nice to me when I know she doesn’t mean it.

  “Totally,” Sarah C says. “You’re solid.”

  Sarah A starts laughing. “What an awful thing to say. You just called her squatty.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Sarah C says. “I called her solid.”

  I look back and forth between Sarah A and Sarah C, like I’m following a volleyball being lobbed and returned over the net.

  “Basically, ‘solid’ means ‘squatty,’” Sarah A says. “Don’t you think so, Sarah T?”

  Why is she asking me? She wants me to confirm an insult?

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Come on, what else could it mean?” Sarah A asks.

  “I don’t know,” Sarah B says. “Bionic?”

  “How could ‘solid’ mean ‘bionic’?” Sarah A asks. “That makes no sense.”

  Sarah B reenters the dressing room to change into her original top.

  “I’d take it. Just stuff it somewhere,” Sarah A whispers over the dressing room door.

  “It made me look like Dolly Parton,” Sarah B says. “Minus the rhinestones and vertical height of her wig.”

  “It was cute,” Sarah A says. “You could wear it somewhere.”

  “You girls need help?” A short salesclerk, shorter than even me, walks out of an adjacent dressing room stall. Holy crap! Did she hear what we said?

  “We’re fine,” Sarah A says.

  “Good,” the salesclerk answers. Her arms are draped with a wide array of cotton pants.

  “Thanks, though,” Sarah C says.

  “It’s my job,” the clerk says, walking away. “And solid can mean a lot of things. Like ‘tough’ or ‘strong’ or ‘thew’.”

  All of our eyes widen.

  “Thew?” Sarah A asks.

  “It means having well-developed muscles. You know, Mr. Universe is always thewy,” Sarah C says.

  We all look at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. No wonder she rocked the SAT verbal section.

  “Let’s get out
of here,” Sarah A says.

  My heart is beating very fast. I can’t believe Sarah A openly talked about robbing the Banana Republic store within earshot of an employee. That’s not like her at all. Sarah B swings open the door and sloppily folds the tube top on a table filled with other castoffs. I feel a little dizzy, so I reach for Sarah A to steady myself. She pulls away.

  “What’s wrong?” Sarah A asks.

  “Are you okay?” Sarah C asks, grabbing my arm as I start to teeter.

  “We should probably eat something,” Sarah B says.

  Sarah A rolls her eyes. I can tell that she’s mad at herself for slipping up with that clerk. We’re probably all going to be put on a list and be banned from this store and maybe some adjoining or even sister stores like the Gap. Sarah C holds my elbow and we all walk out into the mall’s main corridor.

  “Do you normally pass out if you don’t eat for three hours?” Sarah A asks me.

  I feel like pointing out that it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and the only thing I’ve eaten today was a banana for breakfast. But I also feel like not confronting Sarah A.

  “I guess it’s part of being solid and squatty,” Sarah A says.

  I look down at my shoes. Why am I at the mall? Why do I do this to myself? I wish I’d stayed home with John Glenn.

  “Don’t let it sink in,” Sarah C says. “She’s just mad. Probably at herself.”

  It’s impossible for Sarah C to improve my mood when I know that she’s completely fake.

  “Did you say something?” Sarah A asks.

  I want there to be peace. I try to cover.

  “I did. I said I feel like I could eat a whole pizza by myself.”

  “That’s probably part of your problem,” Sarah A says.

  “Probably,” I say.

  Sometimes I know I’m too forgiving. I think my easygoing nature ends up making me look like a doormat. But I don’t feel like I let everybody walk all over me. Just Sarah A. But that’s because I truly admire her. And because deep down I feel sorry for her and everything she’s gone through in life. She’s been handed so many trials. And she’s taken them head-on and wound up fierce. I’m nothing like that. I adapt or retreat, where Sarah A is willing to attack. How can I not admire her?

  Sarah C is very sympathetic to my hunger issues and insists that we proceed immediately to the Big Burrito.

  “Maybe Roman will be working,” Sarah A says.

  “Roman Karbowski works at the Big Burrito?” I ask.

  “Yeah. He started last week,” Sarah A says.

  “How did you find that out?” I ask.

  “I’ve been keeping close tabs on all of the guys,” Sarah A says. “By the way, I’m sorry to report that Doyle Rickerson pulled a muscle in his groin.”

  “He did?” Sarah B says. “That’s so awful.”

  “Why are you so concerned about Sarah T’s guy?” Sarah A asks. “There’s no crossover here. You wanted Gerard Truax and you’re getting Gerard Truax.”

  “I know,” Sarah B says. “I’m just worried about the team.”

  “You act like baseball is the great American pastime,” Sarah A says.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Sarah C says.

  “Hey guys, I can see Roman Karbowski working the register through the window,” I say. He’s tall. And tan. And has brown wavy hair that dangles attractively off his head like he spent all day grooming it to frame his face. Plus, for a guy, Roman Karbowski has unusually pink lips. And they pout. I can see why Sarah A is so drawn to him. Those two could make fantastic-looking babies.

  “Okay. We can’t screw this up. Follow my lead,” Sarah A says. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” the rest of us say in unison.

  The Big Burrito smells like spicy taco meat. Sarah A orders a burrito and some nachos for us to share.

  “Mild or hot sauce?” Roman Karbowski asks.

  “The green,” Sarah A says.

  “That’s mild,” Roman says.

  “Hot burns my lips,” Sarah A says.

  “That’s weird,” Roman says. “How do you eat your burrito? Tongue-burning I could understand.”

  Sarah A tilts her head to the side and laughs. We all laugh too, I guess because we’re following her lead.

  “I’ll bring your food over when it’s ready,” he says.

  Sarah takes an orange tray with four water glasses to a far corner table.

  “Why did you guys all laugh like that? That was so weird,” Sarah A says. “Even Roman thought it was weird. It made his eye twitch.”

  “His eye always twitches,” Sarah C says.

  “It does not,” Sarah A says. “Don’t tear down my guy.”

  “I thought we were supposed to follow your lead,” Sarah B says.

  “Use some common sense,” Sarah A says. “We want our carefully planned strategy to look totally natural. Group laughter looks orchestrated. It just does.”

  “I think she’s right,” I say.

  “Duh,” Sarah A says.

  “Here you go,” Roman says, setting down two plates of food. His arms are draped in a thin coat of dark hair.

  “It smells great,” Sarah A says. “Do you cook like this when you’re at home?”

  “Isabelle does all the cooking. I just schlep it out to the customers,” Roman says.

  “Are we supposed to tip the schleppers?” Sarah A asks.

  “Tips are always appreciated, but never expected,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything. And come say good-bye before you leave.”

  Sarah A smiles. After Roman makes it back to the counter, Sarah C breaks into a wide grin.

  “He’s after you,” Sarah C says. “He so doesn’t act like he has a girlfriend.”

  “He has a girlfriend?” I ask.

  “He and Meena are practically not even speaking to each other anymore,” Sarah A says. “She’s history.”

  “Ancient,” Sarah C says.

  “I think you’re right,” Sarah B says. “Roman can’t stop looking at you.”

  We all turn and look at Roman looking at Sarah A.

  “Don’t all look,” Sarah A says. “We’re being so obvious.”

  “What’s the hurt?” Sarah C asks. “Guys find attention flattering.”

  Sarah A picks up her fork and waves it over the burrito. “Who’s running this? You or me?” Sarah A aims the prong-end of the fork at Sarah C. “I said we looked obvious. Did I stutter?”

  Sarah C doesn’t answer her.

  “I’d like to see you get Benny Stowe without me,” Sarah A says. “You couldn’t. You know that? You couldn’t.”

  The bells jingle on the door as Meena Cooper walks into the Big Burrito and gives Roman a big hug followed by a kiss.

  “I can’t believe this,” Sarah A says.

  “It probably doesn’t mean anything,” I say. “They’ll probably have a big fight later on tonight.”

  Sarah A divvies up the food and we pick at it. We don’t say much of anything beyond polite chatter. Meena stays for ten minutes, and when she leaves, Roman swats her lovingly on the butt.

  “There’s more than one way to interpret an ass pat,” Sarah C says.

  “I don’t need your sympathy,” Sarah A says. “He’s still mine. This doesn’t alter my plans. Roman Karbowski will be my boyfriend for my senior year.”

  “I believe you,” Sarah B says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Don’t patronize me,” Sarah A says. “I’m going to go over there and talk to him. If I pick up a stack of napkins, that means I want Sarah C to come over and extricate me from the conversation. Got it?”

  “Got it,” we reply.

  But before Sarah A can make her move, Meena reenters the Big Burrito. She’s carrying a giant cookie. It’s enclosed in plastic wrap and it has a small purple bow stuck on it. I watch the bow tumble to the floor.

  “Thanks, Meena,” Roman says, peeling the cookie out of the wrapper and taking a big bite.

  Sarah A star
es at her water cup.

  “Are you still going to go?” Sarah C asks.

  “I don’t think I’d go now,” Sarah B says.

  “They could still have that fight,” I say.

  Sarah A softly shakes her head back and forth in disagreement. “In the big picture, this doesn’t change anything,” she says. “Either those two will break up due to natural causes, or something else will happen.”

  “Something else?” Sarah C asks.

  “The world is a crazy place. Unfortunate occurrences happen all the time,” Sarah A says. She places a corn chip on her napkin and smashes it with her thumb. Then she slowly eats all the pieces.

  “I should probably head back home,” I say. “I need to take John Glenn for a walk.”

  We gather our trash and throw it away. Sarah A waves politely to Roman.

  “Come back and visit me again,” he says.

  “What a tease,” Sarah C says.

  “That’s how I like them,” Sarah A says.

  We climb into my car and Sarah A sits down beside me. She looks tired, like she’s really been through something.

  “I think things are going well,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sarah A says.

  I pull out of the lot and drive down Drake.

  “So what’s it like being a first-time dog owner?” Sarah C asks me.

  I try to think of something funny that will lighten the mood.

  “It’s very turdy,” I say.

  It works. Everybody laughs. Even Sarah A.

  When we pull up to my driveway it’s crowded with a long line of cars.

  “It looks like my parents are here,” Sarah C says.

  “It looks like my parents are here too,” Sarah A says.

  “That’s my father’s Toyota,” Sarah B says.

  “Isn’t that Mr. King’s Civic?” I ask.

  None of us have time to figure out what’s going on, but it feels utterly abominable.

  “Should we all go inside?” Sarah B asks.

  “What other choice do we have?” I ask.

  We climb out of my car and file into my house. Seated in the family room I see everybody’s parents, minus Sarah B’s mom, and Mr. King. A lot of the mothers look weepy, especially mine.

  “Girls, this is so serious,” Mr. King says. “We want to talk to you one at a time.”

  Mr. King has never stood in my living room before. I hold my breath. This must be about what happened at the shelter last night. Somebody must have seen us. What an unholy mess.