“Should we set our dinosaur back up?” Lenny asks.
“No. Shut off the fans,” he says. “I think we can retire the big guy. It’s the salesmen who sell the cars. Not the inflatables.”
Chapter 21
It’s after dinner and the tingle of power is wearing thin. I should write my statement of purpose for college, especially while I still feel a sense of purpose. There’s a lot of paper and envelopes and typing and collation involved with the college application process. It’s probably a glimpse of what lies ahead. I wonder if the other Sarahs have started? Maybe the guy phase has delayed them. Let’s face it, desensitized against their pheromones or not, boys can be so distracting.
Colleges want to know so much about me. A common theme seems to be What can I do for them. It reminds me of our Sarah freewrite. Except this time around, I’ll omit any wildebeest references. The application for the University of Michigan has very specific questions that it wants me to answer. Here’s one I have to respond to in 250 words or less:
At the University of Michigan, we are committed to building a superb educational community of diverse talents, experiences, opinions, and cultural backgrounds. What would you as an individual bring to our campus community?
That question is so deep. As an individual, what do I have to offer? This is something that I’ve spent a great deal of my life not thinking about. I’m used to being a part of something. A cog in the wheel. One note of the melody. The toasted marshmallow portion of the s’more. Liam got into every school he applied to, including Michigan. I bet he had an awesome answer. I bet he said he’d bring all the right things. Shouldn’t he want to help me?
Me: I’m stuck. I have a question.
Liam: Why is it that you always call when you want something, but you never dial me up just to say hello?
Me: Because I know you’re busy.
Liam: What’s your question?
Me: What do I have to offer a university?
Silence.
Me: You think I don’t have anything to offer?
Liam: I’m thinking.
Me: I’m that dull?
Liam: Oh, you’re not dull. But you’re not supposed to be able to answer these questions right away. You’re supposed to really think about them.
Me: I have.
Liam: For days and days and days. Possibly weeks.
Me: Oh.
Liam: Is that all? Do you want to talk about anything else?
Me: I can tell that you’re fishing. I don’t know how much Mom and Dad have told you about my situation.
Liam: We’re a pretty open family. I know you knocked off a convenience store.
Me: How come you didn’t call me to make sure I was okay?
Liam: I wasn’t exactly sure what to say.
Me: Oh.
Liam: Are you okay?
Me: I’m stuck.
Liam: Are we talking big picture or college essay?
Me: I don’t know.
Liam: I’m never too busy to talk to you. You can always call.
Me: You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to rob any more stores.
Liam: I’m not sure what to say to that. Should I congratulate you?
Me: I guess not.
Liam: Listen, when I’m stuck like this, I try to freewrite my way out of it.
Me: Freewrites can be dangerous.
Liam: I guess it depends on what you say.
Me: Liam, I’m not the only one who’s stuck.
Liam: Are you pregnant?
Me: Holy crap! No! Where did that come from?
Liam: You sounded upset.
Me: I’m not that upset. I’m worried about Johanna Izzo.
Liam: She’s pregnant?
Me: No, Liam. Nobody who I know is pregnant. She wants to move to Florida, but she’s stuck at Dad’s car lot. She works in the detail shop.
Liam: I know Johanna. She’s a nice person.
Me: I think that’s why she’s stuck!
Liam: You should work on your college essays.
Me: I want to help Johanna.
Liam: Maybe she needs to help herself.
Me: Maybe she’s too stuck to realize that.
Liam: Friends shouldn’t be projects, Sarah.
Me: She’s not my friend. I don’t have friends.
Liam: I’m sure you’ve got someone.
Me: You’re sounding parental. I think I’m through talking.
Liam: You sound depressed.
Me: I wasn’t before I started this conversation.
Liam: Call me tomorrow and report on your progress.
Me: Okay.
Click.
I don’t ask him about his Godzilla lunch box or action figure. It gives me something to talk to him about later. If I want to.
John Glenn sticks his wet nose against my leg. I’m wearing khaki shorts. He licks at a mustard stain on the cuff. I ate a ham sandwich for lunch.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” I ask.
John Glenn sits down at my feet and wags his tail. I lead him to the back door.
“We’re not going for a big walk. Just a backyard walk,” I say.
He lowers his head in disappointment. He understands, but he doesn’t like it. Once outside, he runs back and forth across the yard, stopping to pee on the azalea bush. I watch him pad around the side of the house toward the front yard.
“Stay here,” I say.
He doesn’t.
“John Glenn!”
He won’t come. I jog around the house after him. That’s when she appears again. The phantom Sarah A.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Sarah A asks.
“You’re real?” I ask.
“Is that a serious question?” Sarah A asks.
“I think so,” I say.
“We need you,” Sarah A say.
My heart beats faster.
“You do?” I ask. “All three of you?”
“Mainly me. Meet up with us tonight at the Big Burrito,” Sarah A says.
“What time?” I ask.
“Seven o’clock.”
“I have a curfew,” I say.
“Figure a way out of it,” Sarah A says. “It’s very important.”
“I won’t be able to stay long,” I say.
“I’m not asking for your entire evening,” Sarah A says.
John Glenn comes to my side.
“He looks fat,” Sarah A says.
“He’s growing,” I say.
“In girth.”
Standing here, listening to Sarah A insult my dog, doesn’t feel pleasant. I’m not sure that I want to go to the Big Burrito. I’m not sure that I’m ready to hang out with the Sarahs again. A lot of people are counting on me to stay reformed. They’re certain I’m a good person. They believe in me.
“I don’t want to steal anything,” I say.
“What?” Sarah A asks.
“I don’t feel like breaking any more laws,” I say.
“The sisterhood is about more than being criminals.”
I nod.
“Is that a mustard stain?” Sarah A asks. “It’s huge.”
“I had a ham sandwich for lunch,” I say.
“That’s not coming out,” Sarah A says.
“You’re probably right,” I say. “Hey, have you guys started applying for college? Have you thought about what you have to offer them?”
“Sarah T, it’s August. The guy phase is in full swing. We haven’t had time to think about college. We’re in the midst of man issues.”
My mouth drops open.
“Is this why I’m coming to the Big Burrito?” I ask.
“Just make sure that you look good,” Sarah A says. “And change those shorts. Seriously. You look way cuter in jeans.”
Chapter 22
It’s awful. The timing couldn’t be worse. I’ve regained my parents’ trust. So if I lie to them and ask for permission to go out tonight and do something college-oriented and responsible, they’re going
to say yes. The only thing keeping me away from the Sarahs tonight is myself. And it’s so tempting to meet up with them. I miss them. And I’m getting tired of sleeping with Roman Karbowski and his pheromones. I’m seventeen and ready for a real guy.
My parents and I are sitting outside on lawn chairs. We’re watching John Glenn enthusiastically roll around on top of what we presume to be mole holes.
“He has so much energy,” my mother says.
“Do you know if he’s still a puppy?” my father asks.
“I think he’s just immature,” I say.
My parents are holding hands. Even though it’s a couple of hours away, I think they’re planning on watching the sunset together. They’re both big fans of looking at the sky and commenting on its varying shades of purple.
“How are your applications coming?” my mother asks. “Your room looks like a file cabinet exploded.”
“I hope attending college is more fun than applying for it,” I say.
“Oh, it is,” my father says. “Those were the days. Did you know that I belonged to the same fraternity as Frank Lloyd Wright? Phi Delta Theta.”
“You joined a frat? No wonder you thought college was fun,” I say.
“History is peppered with Phi Delts who’ve made lasting contributions: the twenty-third U.S. president, Benjamin Harrison, Neil Armstrong, and Lou Gehrig. Going Greek can be a responsible choice.”
“Maybe I’ll join a sorority,” I say.
“Oh, Sarah, groups tend to swallow you up,” my mother says. “You should go to college and stand on your own.”
“I don’t know. I met a lot of people in my fraternity,” my father says.
“He means women,” my mother says. She clears her throat. “College isn’t just about having fun,” she says.
“Right. Right,” my father says. “It’s a time of growth. A time of change.”
John Glenn assumes a crouched position and takes an enormous dump on the lawn in front of us.
“I’ll get a bag,” I say.
When I come back my parents aren’t holding hands anymore.
I think my mother has dragged her chair farther away from my father’s.
“All I’m saying is that it has its drawbacks. Okay, Frank Lloyd Wright was an architect ahead of his time, but why did he build such small kitchens? I can’t open the refrigerator and the dishwasher at the same time. It’s impossible! It can’t be done,” my mother says. “And there’s hardly any natural light. It’s gloomy in there. That kitchen is far too restrictive for my culinary needs.”
I walk between them, bypassing their argument, and scoop the poop.
“But the heart of the home is the hearth, honey,” my father says.
“The wiring is substandard. The oven won’t get above three hundred degrees. And the roof leaks,” she says. “It’s time to make some upgrades.”
“I’m going to throw this away,” I say. I lift the bag and its contents up so they know what I’m referring to.
“The roof has always leaked,” my father says.
“But now it’s leaking on the couch,” my mother says.
“Let’s move the couch,” my father says.
“We have. Twice,” my mother says.
I return from the garbage can. My father isn’t saying much. I think he’s hoping this will blow over.
“Is this why you’ve been cooking everything with the toaster?” I ask.
“The toaster is the only thing that works properly in there,” my mother says.
So Sarah A was wrong. My mother wasn’t on a Pop-Tart bender to satisfy a soul craving. She had staged a kitchen appliance protest in hopes of forcing an upgrade.
“But Frank Lloyd Wright is an architectural icon,” my father says. “I like living in the house he designed.”
“Oh, please. Frank Lloyd Wright was a real womanizer. He abandoned his first wife and family to run off to Europe with a married woman.”
“He was ahead of his time—loyal only to his imagination,” my father says. He shakes his head.
“Statements like that frighten me,” my mother says. “Let’s not forget that he violated the Mann Act twice.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” I say.
“It’s legislation passed by Congress that makes it a crime to take women across state lines for immoral purposes,” my mother says.
“A pimp built this house?” I ask.
“Frank Lloyd Wright was not a pimp! He took a couple of mistresses across state lines,” my father says. “It happens.”
My mother leans so far back in her lawn chair that it groans. “I want to remodel the kitchen,” she says.
“Wright is probably rolling over in his grave,” my father says.
“Well, that’s doubtful, as I remember reading that he was cremated,” my mother says.
“This will be tough on Liam,” my father says. “He looks up to Wright. Remember when we reglazed all the tubs in the house? Liam didn’t speak to us for a month. He felt we’d violated Wright’s original tub intent.”
This seems like a good time for me to exit.
“I can’t think in this atmosphere,” I say. “I need to go to the library. Then, I want to sit and work on my college essays at Full City Cafe.”
“I guess that sounds like an acceptable plan,” my father says.
“Bread helps fuel the mind,” my mother says.
“Good luck with your discussion,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll reach some middle ground.”
I race into the house.
“Sarah!” my father yells.
Oh, no. Has he already changed his mind?
“Be back by ten,” he says. “You’re not completely out of the doghouse.”
“Okay,” I say. “Bowwow.”
“And don’t make this a social outing,” my mother says. “Library. Cafe. Home.”
“Okay,” I lie.
“Change doesn’t always mean destruction,” my mother says.
“If we need to rent a commercial Dumpster to complete the project, I’m fairly certain there’s a sizable amount of destruction involved,” my father says.
I grab a book bag and look around my paper-cluttered room. In the last few weeks so much has changed for me. I am not the same person I was the night I returned the donation jar to Mr. King. And I am not the same person who stole that donation jar either. All that person wanted was to fit in at any cost. And that person was willing to take way too much abuse. If things were just a little different, if there wasn’t any stealing or putting one another down or taking each other’s life metaphors, the Sarahs could be an amazing group. Like a family. I wonder if any of the other Sarahs have changed? Without me, things had to have been different for them.
I turn to leave, but I notice the Godzilla lunch box. Next time I talk to Liam I’m going to ask him about this. I pick it up, but it feels empty. I shake it and it doesn’t make a noise. When I unclasp the lid I see that the Godzilla action figure is missing. Sarah A must’ve taken it, even though I asked her not to. She must have ignored what I said and stuck it right in her stupid pocket and sold it on the action figure black market.
I’m not shocked about this, but it does suck. Sarah A doesn’t respect anybody else’s property. She never has and she never will. She’s guided by her wants. That’s why she’s always taking things. Maybe she’s trying to fill up some sort or emotional hole. Some people probably can’t recover from the loss of a mother. That kind of absence must leave a huge empty space. I bet Sarah A tries to fill it with anything she can find. But it must not work. Because no matter how much Sarah A takes, she continues to want and want and want.
Chapter 23
When I walk into the Big Burrito, I feel like I’ve stepped back into my old life. There they are: the Sarahs—bare-armed, smiling, and wearing skorts. Nothing has changed. Except Sarah B is wearing a Tigers cap. And she also has a stylish new purse strapped around her neck. I’ve seen that kind of purse in magazines. It has long black fri
nge flowing down one side. It looks like a horse’s mane. Or tail. And the skorts are sort of a new thing. They must’ve been a recent purchase. I mean, I don’t have one.
Sarah B tugs down on the bill of her cap, adjusting the hat low on her head. It does make her look a little boyish. I’m surprised Sarah A permitted Sarah B to resume cap-wearing.
“You look great,” Sarah C says.
I look down at myself. I’m wearing jeans and a pink shirt. I look good but not spectacular.
“Hey, Sarah T,” a male voice calls.
I look at the cash register. It’s Bjorn Walters, our student-body vice president. He’s talking to Roman Karbowski. It looks like Bjorn is ordering a torta.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Doyle Rickerson is out,” Sarah A says.
“Groin injury?” I ask.
“We think he might not like girls,” Sarah B says.
“He’s gay?” I ask.
“He’s something,” Sarah C says.
“What happened?” I ask.
“We don’t have time to break it down for you,” Sarah A says. “Your new guy is Bjorn.”
“I’m still a Sarah?” I ask, pointing to myself.
“We can’t successfully complete this leg of the guy phase without you,” Sarah A says.
“You’re using me?” I ask.
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 19