I nodded again, the escalator descending steadily yet lethargically toward the main level. At the bottom, I willed my knees to support me as I plodded to the front of the store, Mary Jane at my side. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Whitney. She was walking away from the shoe department and, like us, was heading out into the mall. I tried to focus straight ahead, occasionally averting my gaze to Mary Jane while she delivered a nonsensical monologue. As we passed, salespeople smiled at us—a couple of teenagers enjoying an early autumn day at the mall.
Mary Jane had warned me, but the sound of the alarm still jolted my heart and sent terror zapping through my veins. We stopped and looked at each other. I knew Mary Jane was acting, pretending to wonder what had happened. All the while, she appeared innocent through and through. I could only hope that the look in my eyes passed for something similar—’cause in reality, I was screaming inside, the lifted jeans licking at my thighs like red-hot flames.
Then Mary Jane’s pretty blue eyes turned on Whitney, who waved her shopping bag in the air like a white flag. A short, mustached man emerged from the shoe department and fled to Whitney, apologies flying off his tongue as he escorted Whitney back to his cash register.
I wasn’t exactly sure what was going down, but when Mary Jane took my arm and steered me out into the mall, tossing her hair and giggling, I knew we’d made it.
I, Poppy Browne, had successfully lifted a pair of designer jeans, and Mary Jane and Whitney were my accomplished accomplices.
What had gotten into me? Nitrous oxide? I couldn’t stop laughing. My heart was still thumping like crazy and I was a sweaty disaster, but somehow I felt so light and . . . giddy, even. I didn’t want this feeling to end.
As we sped through my neighborhood, blasting country music, Whitney and Mary Jane kept looking back at me and smiling. “Was that your first time or something?” Whitney asked.
When I was in kindergarten, I swiped one of those lollipops that look like huge diamond rings ’cause Mom wouldn’t buy it for me. And what about when I ran out of Claire’s with the earrings? That was shoplifting, too, wasn’t it? “Sort of.” Those things were so small and inexpensive, though. And these were two-hundred-dollar jeans. We got away with lifting two-hundred-dollar jeans. “So how’d you do it, Whitney?”
Whitney snapped the visor mirror shut and smacked her lovely plump lips. “It was a breeze. First, I grabbed a pair of similar-looking jeans off a rack and, when the saleswoman wasn’t looking, tossed them into the dressing room.”
“The red herring item,” Mary Jane explained. “Very important, in case the saleswoman is paying any attention to what goes in and out of the dressing room.”
Whitney continued. “Next, I went down to the shoe department, where my ol’ buddy Harold works.”
“It’s no secret he’s smitten with Whitney,” Mary Jane said, pulling up my driveway and parking at a slant. “And Whitney can get him so flustered; he doesn’t know his tiny head from his not-so-tiny rear. Bless his heart.”
“Whatever, Mary Jane.” Whitney punched her arm. “He just gives me extra good service because my daddy’s a deacon.” She looked at me and said, “Anyway, I asked Harold to call up to the designer denim department to have the saleswoman put something on hold for me—”
“It’s best to keep the salespeople busy,” interjected Mary Jane. “And the Saturday morning shift has fewer employees on the clock than later shifts, so there aren’t as many people watching you do your thing. Of course, it also works well to hit a store when there’s a big sale and too many shoppers for the salespeople to keep track of. . . . But anyway, back to you,” she said, nodding at Whitney.
“I bought these off the clearance rack.” Whitney tipped the lid of a shoebox, showing me the black leather sandals inside. “Fifteen bucks—what a steal.” They both laughed. “I chatted Harold up the whole time so he’d space on deactivating the inventory control thing. And had he remembered, your tag would’ve made the alarm go off anyhow, and I would’ve had Harold deactivate the shoes again. No one would’ve known the difference.”
“Now all you have to do is put those babies in the freezer for an hour or two. Then pop the tag open with a nickel, and you’re the proud owner of some seriously killer jeans,” Mary Jane said, beaming at me.
“You guys are brilliant,” I said.
“So you know what this means, Poppy?” Mary Jane cut the engine.
“What?”
“We want you to be in on our biggest secret. But you cannot tell a soul. Ever. Do you promise?”
Their steady and intense gazes fell on me, and I couldn’t decide whether I should squirm or laugh. “I promise.”
“Do you swear . . . to God?”
She said it with so much credence; I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smirking. “I swear to God.”
Mary Jane let out a puff of air. “We like you, Poppy. You’re really cool and smart and, well, you did a great job with those jeans.”
“Which are fabulous, by the way,” Whitney interjected.
Shoplifting them was no harder than taking the earrings from Claire’s. A lot more exciting, though.
“This is serious business, you know. We can’t risk anyone finding out. Not our parents, not our teachers—not even Ellen. She can’t keep a secret to save her life, bless her heart. So, anyway, that’s why it’s so important that all of our . . . shopportunities . . . stay between us. Just the three of us, no one else.” Mary Jane paused and appeared to be gathering her next words. “It means we’re in this together,” she said, “no matter what.”
Whitney leaned closer to me. “So, are you in?”
“I—”
“Take your time answering, hon,” said Whitney. “We want you to be sure.”
After a beat or two, I smiled and nodded. “I’m in.”
“Poppy, can you come here a second?” I shed my cargos in my room, and then followed Mom’s voice to the backyard. She sat cross-legged in the garden, Crocs on her feet and a sun hat on her head. Her sunscreen-coated skin glistened. “Will you pass me that spade?”
I grabbed the spade out of her gardening pail and placed it in her gloved hands.
“How was shopping?” she asked, shading her eyes as she looked up at me.
“Fine.”
“You look different somehow.”
“I do?”
She signaled for me to come closer, and then stood so we looked at each other eye to eye. Oh, shit. Was “shoplifter” written all over my face? Mom didn’t get me, but she definitely had a gift for knowing if I was trying to hide something from her. I fought to keep steady.
“Your makeup?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I exhaled in relief. “Mary Jane and Whitney forced me to get a makeover at Hamilton’s, and the makeup lady gave me a few samples. . . .”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s it. It looks very nice.”
“Um, thanks.”
“And are those the new jeans you wanted?”
I swallowed and swung my gaze over to the bag of tulip bulbs in the wheelbarrow. “I bought them with the money you gave me.”
“They look really good on you. Your legs look nice and long in them.”
“Yeah, I like them.” And shoplifting them was such a rush. But it would be the one and only time I did anything like that.
She squatted down and poked the little shovel into the soil. “So, are you going in to work on homework now? You have two tests scheduled next week.”
I should have known the pleasant little mother-daughter exchange would swing over to my academic life at some point. Anger seeped into my body. I hated how she felt it necessary to check up on me. I silently counted one, two, three, letting the negative vibes ebb before turning around to face her.
“You know what, Mom? I wish you wouldn’t ride me so hard about my grades.”
She sighed. “I know you don’t understand at your age how important a good education is, but someday you’ll thank me, Poppy.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and a few minutes later, I said, “I think sometimes you use education as a crutch.”
“What do you mean?”
“You lean on it, hide behind it. You spend so much time learning and educating others, but you never stop to really experience life. When’s the last time you did something social? Something purely for fun?” She dug the hole deeper and then started another. “Whitney’s mom is in a garden club. Maybe you should do that,” I said.
“Yes, maybe.”
“See? It would be fun. Not that I have a clue what you do in a garden club . . . maybe plant daisy seeds in Dixie cups and give them to your kids on their birthdays?” My attempt at a joke fizzled under the tension.
Mom sighed. “Something like that.”
“Just tell me one thing, then, before I go into my room and study the rest of the weekend away. Are you always going to check up on me, or will there be a time when you’ll trust me?”
Her sun hat cast a masklike shadow over her eyes when she looked up at me. I paused to see if she’d answer, but of course she didn’t. Disappointed—no, mad—at myself for letting her get to me yet again, I turned on my heels, almost forgetting to cover the security tag on my back pocket, and went inside. I didn’t want her to see me cry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After we prayed Monday morning, the pastor called the Good News Choir up to sing the benediction. Bridgette stood front and center on the steps, flanked by the redheaded Ulrich twins. Toward the end of the song, Bridgette stepped off from the group and performed a solo. She sang amazingly well, and her voice captivated her entire audience. While she stood up there in her black blouse and too-tight-around-the-thighs khakis, singing her heart out, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d never seen this side of her before, and I had to admit it was a pleasant surprise. Once the song ended, everybody sat in silence for a few beats. I started clapping, and soon the entire auditorium filled with applause. Bridgette smiled from ear to ear, the lights reflecting off her braces.
When the clapping died down, Pastor Hillcrest returned to the microphone, and after thanking the choir, he began reading the weekly announcements. “As some of you know, our annual Sadie Hawkins dance is coming up on Saturday, September twenty-fifth. It’s one of Calvary High’s most popular events, and girls, it’s up to you to leave no boy at home twiddlin’ his thumbs that night.”
Whitney said, “Excuse me,” and slid out of the pew, perfectly coordinating her arrival at the podium with the preacher’s invitation to the student body to make any additional announcements.
“Hi, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Whitney Nickels and I’m a junior,” she said into the microphone. “Last spring, I started an organization called Gift of Virginity, or GOV for short. It’s a club that helps teens stay true to themselves and their future spouses. We have a lot of fun and would love for you to come to our assembly at Peery High School next Wednesday. We’ll just carpool right after school. And then we’ll have another meeting here in Mr. O’Donnell’s classroom on September fifteenth after school. If y’all have any questions or want more info, just stop Mary Jane Portman—wave so they see you, girl”—Mary Jane rose from the pew and waved, looking just like a homecoming queen—“or me around school and we’ll be happy to fill you in. Thanks.”
When Whitney finished, David Hillcrest sprinted down the aisle and took the mic. “Ah, yes, the GOV Club,” he said musingly. “Everybody’s doing it. Or not doing it, as the case may be.” I couldn’t help snickering, and so did quite a few others. Whitney, who was scooting back into her seat, narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay, I have an announcement too. I’m David Hillcrest, a senior, and I’m starting a paintball club. It’ll be a hoot. Well, if you suck it’ll be rather painful, but you’ll get better and then be able to put other people in pain. Anyway, I’ll have the sign-up list ready as you exit the auditorium.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Whitney said under her breath, and I wiped the smile off my face.
“Paintball for Christ?” I asked, reading the slapdash sign on his little table.
“My parents told me I needed to get more involved in school and church. I thought paintball was more appealing than writing letters to missionaries or coming up with lists of video games to throw in the bonfire at the revival. So, are you a fan of paintball, Miss Browne?”
I shook my head, still stuck on the disturbing image of people dumping games into a roaring fire. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.” He passed me a pad of paper with PAINTBALL FOR CHRIST TEAM scrawled on top in sloppy masculine handwriting. “I think you’ll be really good. In fact, I’ll make you a starter. First game, tonight at seven behind Liberty Park.”
The name and phone number lines were completely blank. I wasn’t sure what came over me—whether a part of me thought shooting paint pellets at people actually sounded fun, or I simply felt sorry for the preacher’s son and his miserable failure of a project—but I picked up the pen he slid over to me.
However, it suddenly occurred to me that if I signed up for David’s club, I sure as hell should sign up for Whitney’s. Even if it was a public testament that I was sorta kinda a virgin. But I wouldn’t go easily. Before filling in my name and contact info, I said, “Only if you promise to join the GOV Club.”
“You’re serious?”
I pointed the pen in the air and held his stare. He finally blinked and his shoulders slouched.
“Okay, it’s a deal. But only if you’re in it. Oh, and I’m not wearing a ring like the Jonas Brothers do, you hear me?” He squinted his right eye. “Hey, you look different today.”
Surprised he noticed, I said, “Yeah, well, just not so much . . .” I twirled my finger by my eyes. “. . . You know, black stuff. Makeup.”
He grinned. “Yeah, that’s it. You have nice eyes. I don’t know many blondes with such dark ones.” He looked down at the table and cleared his throat.
Was the preacher’s son flustered? I smiled to myself as I filled in my name and number. Then, when I finished, he snatched the sign-up sheet and held it to his chest, a goofy grin on his face. “Aw, man. All I had to do was put together a paintball team to get your phone number? Had I known, I wouldn’t have broken into the school office.”
“Poppy, what on earth are you doing?” Whitney asked. As she dragged me down the hall, I snuck a peek at David over my shoulder. I anticipated that he’d be doing something stupid, like pointing at the sign-up sheet and jumping up and down, but he just stood there, watching me with a wistful look in his green eyes. Had he really broken into the office to get my number? No one had ever gone through that much trouble—let alone done something so avant-garde—just to get my phone number. I just might’ve been flattered.
“Hey, Gabe,” Whitney said. “What do you think of Poppy’s new jeans?”
I blinked, trying to transition myself to the present. Gabe turned from his locker and gave my entire body a once-over. Then his gaze lingered on my jeans and he nodded. “They look good to me,” he said.
“Uh, thanks.” I shot Whitney the evil eye and walked away.
Whitney caught up with me. “What?” she asked, faking innocence.
“That was totally forced,” I said. “Not to mention lame.”
“I just wanted to draw his attention to how hot you look today. Mary Jane and I were talking and . . .”
I whirled around and planted my hands on my hips. Whitney almost ran into me. “And?”
“She thinks you and Gabe would be adorable together. And I agree. You should totally ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance.”
I started walking again. “I don’t do dances, especially school-sponsored ones.”
“But this one is different, Poppy,” Whitney said, jogging to catch up. “It’s girls’ choice, and it’s totally casual. So no rental tuxes, no limos, no corsages. You eat at a fast-food restaurant and wear matching shirts—”
“Matching shirts?”
She
nodded fervidly and I sighed. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”
After school, I hopped in the back of Mary Jane’s VW, buckling up beside Ellen. As Gabe whizzed by us in his black Toyota Celica, Andrew hung his head out the window and shouted, “Hey, hey, hey, beautiful lay-deez.” Mary Jane honked and we all laughed.
“So, Poppy, Whitney tells me you’re asking Gabe to Sadie’s,” said Mary Jane as she pulled onto Calvary Road. Ellen squealed.
“I said I’d think about it,” I clarified.
Whitney said, “You’ve had all day to get used to the idea.”
“Are you guys going?” I asked.
“Mary Jane’s going with Andrew,” Ellen said.
“Well, I haven’t exactly asked him yet,” Mary Jane said as she turned into Ellen’s pristine neighborhood.
“Whatever, it’s not like he’s going to say no,” Ellen said, rolling her eyes. “So anyway, Whitney’s asking this guy named Greg Styles, a track star at Kinsley.”
“Whoa, a college man,” I said. “You go, girl.”
“He’s a freshman,” explained Whitney. “Our dads are both deacons at the church and they’ve been family friends for eons. And he has a friend named Nick I’m gonna try and get for Ellen’s date.”
“He’d better be cute, that’s all I’ve gotta say.” Ellen got out of the car and swung her eggplant-colored book bag—which totally coordinated with her olive green capris—over her shoulder. “Well, girls, it’s been real. Bis später.”
We all said bye and Mary Jane hit the gas. However, she drove in the opposite direction of my house. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Is Whitney jonesing for chocolate again?”
Whitney turned around, a sparkly white smile on her face. “We want you to be at Sadie’s with us. And in order for that to happen, you need a date. So we’re going to help you.”
“Plus,” Mary Jane said, “this whole day has been a total bore, and we need to bring on a little excitement, don’t you think?” She parked across two parking spots in the grocery store parking lot.
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