“So was our forlorn friend hiding out in the gym yesterday?” he asked.
“What can I say? You were right.”
“And everything’s cool now?”
“Between Bridgette and me? Yeah, I guess so.”
He sat on my desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “So are you going to tell me what’s eatin’ you, or do I have to get nasty?”
“Really, David, it’s nothing,” I said. I didn’t want to admit I was some kind of grade freak.
He hopped off my desk and handed me my backpack. “Okay, how about after school we go play some paintball?”
I sighed. “I can’t. Maybe another time.”
“You sure are good at doggin’ me.”
“I’m not dogging you, David, it’s just that . . .”
He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to finish my sentence.
“Please . . . don’t give up on me.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mary Jane dropped me off at home after school, and I went directly into lockdown-study mode. My only hope was these grades would somehow slip under Mom’s radar. But I knew they wouldn’t. The woman had an uncanny ability to sniff out every “bad” grade I made. I’d just have to start preparing for next week’s exam and hope she’d give me a break if I could swing an A-plus.
I tried to study with music on, my typical modus operandi, but even when I flipped through different playlists, the music felt like mosquitoes buzzing around my ears. And turning the music off only made the grandfather clock in the hall sound like Big Ben. I couldn’t concentrate. I needed to get out of the house.
I texted Mary Jane and Whitney: I need a break. Want to go shopping? and anxiously awaited their responses. Whitney’s answer came first: Sorry, hon, babysitting the wonder twins and have to write an article about the GOV Club. I waited anxiously for Mary Jane’s reply but then remembered she’d mentioned going over to Andrew’s house.
I looked up Andrew’s number in the church directory and punched it into the phone. Andrew answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Andrew. It’s Poppy.”
“Well, hello there.”
“Yeah, hi. Um, can I talk to Mary Jane? That is, if she’s . . . you’re . . . not too busy?”
“Okay, sure. We’re just . . . watching TV. Hang on, I’ll get her.”
I heard muffled voices and a girlish shriek before she came on. “Hey, Poppy! What’s up?”
Suddenly, I felt ridiculous. Why was I bothering Mary Jane over at her boyfriend’s place? Had I turned into some desperate clinger? How pathetic! “Oh, never mind,” I said into the phone.
After a pause, she asked, “Are you okay, hon?”
“I’m fine. Wonderful. Perfect. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Uh . . . okay. See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sounds great. bye.”
I hung up and then put on my Converse and jogged down Holly Lane. About five minutes later, the white-and-green bus came to a screechy halt beside me. I ascended the rubbery steps and pulled out my wallet. “Does this go to the mall?” I asked.
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one?” I asked.
“Well, there’s the big ’un, but then there’re some small ones,” said the chubby, silver-haired man. “Lots of gals been going to the Clover Strip Mall lately, over on Main and Seventh.”
Clover Strip Mall—where had I heard that name before? Oh, yeah! Mrs. Portman mentioned it and said there was a new store called Colleen’s Closet that would be worth checking out. Today was as good as any. “All right, to Clover Strip Mall.”
The bus driver said, “Okeydoke,” and took my proffered money.
The six or seven passengers barely glanced up from their handheld video games and paperbacks as I lumbered halfway down the aisle and scooted into a window seat. The overhead vents huffed and puffed regurgitated air, drying out my eyes.
Finally the bus arrived at the strip mall, and out I hopped. Colleen’s Closet sold a bunch of cute stuff: Urban Outfitters–like clothes, shoes, costume jewelry, makeup, books, etc. After looking at the shoes and jewelry, I checked out the tank tops. I’d been wanting to make my friends their very own “Poppy Originals.” I selected a red tank top for Whitney and a pink one for Mary Jane, and then took them up to the cashier.
On the bus ride home, it dawned on me that Colleen’s Closet would be the perfect place to get matching his-and-her shirts for the Sadie Hawkins dance. In the event that I wasn’t grounded for getting crappy grades, of course. Would we be able to lift six shirts—two apiece—at the same time? Just thinking about it fired me up.
As soon as I got home, I ran to my room and shut the door. I reached into my purse and pulled out a cute plastic container, one of those all-inclusive, color-coordinated kits with mascara, lip gloss, lip liner, blush, eye shadow, and eyeliner. I’d seen it in Colleen’s Closet and it reminded me of the makeup the lady in Hamilton’s had used on me, in the shades everybody—even Mom—apparently liked on me.
Holding the makeup kit in my lap, I closed my eyes and relived the adrenaline rush I’d felt, first as I chose the perfect moment to take it, and again as I dropped it into my purse. When I’d walked out of the store with it, my heart pounded and I felt euphoric as the oxygenated blood surged through my veins. And the high I felt from knowing I’d gotten away with it stayed with me as the bus drove me home. It felt awesome, and I couldn’t wait to do it again.
I opened the homework file on my laptop. I nudged Mary Jane and Whitney on IM and typed:
Poppy15: I know where we’re getting our matching shirts for Sadies, ladies.
JesusRocksMyWorld: Awesome!
NickelsW: Let’s hear it
Poppy15: Colleen’s Closet. Plenty of shirts that can work for girls or boys
only 2 ppl work there
no inventory control tags
JesusRocksMyWorld: Sounds perfect. Good job, Poppy.
I thought I heard a knock. I turned down the Social D track and typed TTYL before saying, “Come in.”
As Mom opened the door, I minimized my IM box. “Sorry I had to work so late. I’m going to pick up Chinese. What would you like?”
“Um, how about Szechuan chicken?”
“Mmm, that sounds good. So what have you been up to today?” She tucked her blouse into her pin-striped trousers where it had come loose.
“Nothing too exciting,” I deadpanned, knowing any minute I’d be getting an earful for my grades.
“Oh, what’s this?” She walked over to my bed and peeked into the Colleen’s Closet shopping bag.
“Just a couple of tank tops I got after school. I’m going to fix ’em up for Mary Jane and Whitney.”
“They’ll love that. You must really like those girls.” She touched the square barrette at the nape of her neck and then ran her fingers down her sleek ponytail.
“Yeah, they’re cool.” Why isn’t she bringing up my grades? What kind of game is she playing?
“I’m glad you’ve made some good friends, but don’t let your social life get in the way of your schoolwork.” Okay, here it comes. I sucked in a breath.
“I know, I know. I’m working on a physics assignment right now,” I said, in case she hadn’t noticed the winding spring diagram and graph on my computer.
She hovered behind me, and I caught a whiff of the almond-scented lotion she religiously rubbed on her skin. “How did you do on your test this week?” she asked.
“You mean you don’t already know?” I turned back to the computer screen, agitated. She wasn’t fooling anyone.
“I decided I would stop calling the school, provided you keep me informed.”
I turned to face her, searching for a sign that she was kidding. She smiled—not a teasing one, an authentic one—and shrugged.
All sorts of sarcastic responses tempted my tongue, but if she were telling the truth—and I couldn’t find anything to suggest otherwise—I didn’t want her to regret giving me this wiggle room. So instead o
f cynicism and jokes, I decided to give candor a try.
“I didn’t do very well,” I confessed, still stunned. I reached into my binder and handed Mom the proof. Then, biting the inside of my cheek, I braced myself for a verbal lashing and a major blow to my future social life.
After what seemed like a week, Mom set the tests down on my desk. I looked up at her, trying not to wince. Her hands were on her hips, and she looked tired. “Once you let your grades go downhill, it’s hard to get them up again.”
“I know.”
She exhaled loudly. “Do you want me to arrange for a tutor?”
I shook my head, wanting to make a joke about “only if he’s a good kisser” or something like that, but I was still on edge. “I’ll be fine. I just hit a bad spell, that’s all. Maybe when I get to know my new school and new teachers a little better . . .”
“I hope you’re right, Poppy.” She yawned and glanced at her watch. “Well, I’ll go get dinner now.”
“Okay,” I said.
After she left, I stared at the door for a few minutes, puzzled. Who was that woman? I felt like Coraline must’ve felt when she met the Other Mother. Only I didn’t recall having crawled through a hole in the wall, and Mom didn’t have buttons for eyes.
Had what I said to her last weekend in the garden actually made a difference? And why hadn’t she gone ballistic when I showed her my way-beneath-par grades? Shaking my head, I tried to make sense of it. Meanwhile, a new IM message beeped at me.
sonofapreacherman: hey kiddo, R U there?
Poppy15: Hi David. What are you up to?
Poppy15: other than bugging girls who R trying 2 do homework?
sonofapreacherman: all homework and no play makes Jane a very dull girl
Poppy15: Is that in the Bible?
sonofapreacherman: U better believe it
sonofapreacherman: R U feeling OK now?
Poppy15: better, thanks
Poppy15: I’m having a hard time pegging you, David.
sonofapreacherman: I’m here 4 UR pegging pleasure.
Poppy15: Whitney was right. Your mind *is* in the gutter.
sonofapreacherman:
Poppy15: I just mean I’m not sure if you should be wearing a black hat or a white hat.
sonofapreacherman: whichever matches my shoes
Poppy15: LOL
It wasn’t just something I typed for the hell of it; I really did laugh out loud.
Mom called me to dinner, and I closed my IM. If I could rewind my life, maybe I would have asked David to go to Sadie’s. And I would’ve asked him in the single cheesiest way imaginable.
Mary Jane parked at the Clover Strip Mall, her “I Heart Jesus” charm on the rearview mirror swaying a few times before coming to a stop. The sun beat down on my head the entire ride, but when I hopped out of her convertible, I felt refreshed, like standing in front of an open fridge on a sultry summer day. Or, in the case of East Texas, a sultry early autumn day worked too.
Mary Jane waltzed by and said, “Ready, girls?”
Was I ever. The clock had taken an excruciatingly long time to reach the magic time of 2:10 p.m. I seriously wondered if my teachers had powwowed in their lounge that morning and decided to have a contest for who could whip out the most boring lesson ever. If I were the judge, I’d have to get each and every one of their names engraved on the trophy.
And then, Ellen had come over to Whitney’s locker and accused us of always taking off to do who knows what and making it a point to leave her behind. Which, of course, was exactly what we’d been doing, but Mary Jane said, “Sweetie, we’re not leaving you behind. We just know how important it is for you to be thoroughly prepared for your upcoming trip to Germany.” Ellen had signed up to be a foreign exchange student in a teensy German town. “We’re just staying out of your way so we’re not bad influences, that’s all.”
“But that’s not for three more months,” Ellen argued.
“It’s never too early to start packing,” Whitney said. “You don’t want to forget anything important.”
She shrugged. “Guess not.”
But anyway, there we were, finally, and eagerness and anticipation zapped through my body like a megaoverdose of caffeine. Six shirts with my two best friends. It was the perfect ending to the shoplifting chapter of my life. That’s right: This would be the last time Poppy Browne ever shoplifted. And I was beyond excited.
Mary Jane, Whitney, and I walked through the doors. Yes, yes, yes! This must be what football players felt like as they ran onto the field right before a pivotal game: flags waving high, instruments blaring, fans screaming at the top of their lungs, fists pumping in the air, hearts pumping in their chests.
The three of us went our separate ways in Colleen’s Closet. Mary Jane engaged one shopgirl in a lively conversation about headbands with feather accents while Whitney sent the other one to the back in search of a particular ankle boot in a size eight and a half. All the while, it seemed like I was watching a movie in fast-forward—catching snippets of what the other two girls were up to while carefully, deftly, stealthily lifting a pair of shirts for Gabe and me to wear at Sadie’s.
Next I hurried over to the shoe area to act all excited about the shoes Whitney was trying on. “They totally hurt my feet, though. I think they’re too narrow,” Whitney said with a convincing grimace. We pretended to be terribly upset that they wouldn’t be the newest addition to her fall shoe collection, keeping all eyes off of Mary Jane while she did her thing. Next, Mary Jane and I worked over the salesgirls so Whitney could swipe her shirts. I felt giddier and giddier with every passing second, a surreal, exciting thrill ride.
The feeling continued buzzing through my body as we drove away, the shopgirls at Colleen’s Closet oblivious to the fact that these three chatty, well-dressed teenagers had just lifted six shirts, right from under their noses.
“Gabe’s gonna look gorgeous in that,” Mary Jane said, slamming on the brakes at a yellow light.
There was a commotion over in the Piggly Wiggly’s parking lot. Two little boys ran circles around a reddish-orange Saturn. One had a bandanna over his face and the other wore a policeman’s hat and badge. The mom piled groceries into the trunk, seemingly oblivious to her sons’ rowdy game.
I folded the baby-blue-and-white-striped button-downs that I’d held up for Mary Jane and Whitney to see. “I figured he’d look good in just about any color,” I said, stashing the shirts back into my purse. Admittedly, I was warming up to the whole idea of going to a dance, though I predicted the most exciting part of it—getting the shirts—had already happened.
I looked out at the Piggly Wiggly parking lot again. The mom yelled something and the little boys filed into the backseat. Thank God I didn’t have to be inside that car right now. Actually, I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than with Mary Jane and Whitney. Who would’ve guessed someone like me would’ve clicked so well with girls like them?
Whitney held up her pair of shirts: long-sleeved burgundy tees with a gray stripe across the midline.
“Oooh. Very cool.” Mary Jane hit the gas pedal. “I didn’t even see those.”
“They were on a shelf over by the jeans,” said Whitney. “Let’s see yours.” She held up Mary Jane’s plunder: two golf-style shirts the color of Pepto-Bismol. Whitney and I cracked up.
“What?” Mary Jane asked, all offended.
“Did you get him some matching panties?” a hysterical Whitney asked.
Mary Jane yanked the shirts away from Whitney and stared at the road ahead of her. “I happen to like pink. And if Andrew loves me, he’ll wear it.”
“That’s true,” agreed Whitney. “At any rate, he’ll be easy to find if we lose him. The six-three dude in pink.” Whitney and I started laughing again.
“That was the perfect plan, Poppy,” Mary Jane said in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Almost too easy.”
My pulse still elevated from the heist and my mind buzzing, I wondered what she mean
t. Was it so easy it wasn’t any fun for her? Had they been doing it so long, they were starting to get bored? Did they feel let down, kind of like I had when I’d stolen the pack of gum at the convenience store Bridgette’s dad worked at? “So do you guys want to try something a little more challenging?” I asked.
“What do you have in mind?” Whitney asked, turning to look at me. Her beautiful dark eyes were full of expectation, and even though I promised myself not to shoplift anymore, I couldn’t let her down.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What if we did it, like, old-bank-robber style?” I said, my imagination ignited by the little boys back in the parking lot.
Whitney’s eyebrows lifted, and I couldn’t tell if she was impressed or concerned.
“Wait. Not with guns or masks . . . well, disguises would be fun. But what if you and I grab something and run for it and Mary Jane drives the getaway car? I bet that doesn’t happen very often these days.”
“Sounds . . . interesting,” Mary Jane said, capturing my eyes in the rearview mirror.
A mischievous smile emerged on Whitney’s face. “I think it sounds awesome.”
By the time Mary Jane turned into Whitney’s neighborhood, the energy in the little VW was palpable and nearly unbearable. Kind of like when the humidity is in the upper 90 percent and it really needs to rain, but the sky can’t seem to squeeze out a single raindrop.
Whitney’s little sisters, Keisha and Keralee, came running up to the car, all dimples, ringlets, and curious eyes. Then her mother opened the ornate front door and said, “Oh thank goodness you’re home, Whitney. I’m almost late for class.”
“Sorry,” Whitney said, and Mary Jane said, “I’m sorry too, Mrs. Nickels. I dragged Whitney on an errand for my parents that was way farther out than I thought, and then we had to get gas and—” The lies rolled off her tongue so convincingly, I had to give her kudos.
“That’s quite all right, Mary Jane. Thank you for getting her home. Now, Whitney, there’s some chicken on the counter. You can heat up some green beans, and make sure the twins have milk and not soda.” When she kissed Whitney’s head, she noticed me for the first time. “Hello, you must be Poppy. I’m really enjoying your mother’s class at KC. I’d love to chat, but I’m late.”
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