“That’s okay. Nice to meet you,” I said. Then, when Mary Jane drove me home, I said, “Whitney’s mom looks just like the Millennium Princess Barbie I used to have.” The Africana Studies prof at CU Boulder had given it to me when I was a little girl. In a sparkly navy-and-white ball gown with silver accents and a silver tiara in her shiny black hair, the Barbie was beautiful. However, I didn’t like dolls much—and I traded it for the neighbor girl’s yellow lab, Daisy. Of course, I had to give Daisy back once our moms found out, but I let her keep the Barbie.
“Yeah, she’s really pretty,” said Mary Jane, “and nice, too. It’s so pitiful that Mr. Nickels is cheating on her like that.”
“That’s for sure. Do you think Whitney will ever say anything to him about it?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary Jane. “She might if she gets mad enough.”
“Hey, do you want to come in?” I asked when she pulled up the driveway.
“Sure.”
“You can park in the carport if you want. Mom won’t be home for another hour or two.”
Once inside, we raided the fridge for pops and string cheese, and I unearthed a bag of pretzels from the pantry. Mary Jane’s cell phone rang. She smiled at the caller ID and when she said, “Hey, hon,” all mushylike, I knew it was Andrew. They talked for a few minutes while I sorted the mail and leafed through Mom’s new Time magazine.
“Crazy kids in love . . . ,” I said, fluttering my fingers.
“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I love him and all, it’s just . . . complicated, I guess.” Her dazzling smile faded as she slipped her phone back into her Brighton purse.
“How so?”
She picked the salt off a pretzel. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. But I feel like I can tell you anything.”
“You can.” I nodded.
“There’s one secret I can’t even tell Whitney.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” I said, a bit surprised. “Whitney’s been your best friend for years.”
“When I tell you what it is, you’ll understand why I can’t.”
“Oh.”
“You see, on New Year’s Eve, when Andrew and I were fooling around in Bridgette’s garage . . . we . . .” Her face turned a weird greenish-white color. “We went all the way. We had sex. Made love. Whatever.” While scrunching a napkin in her fist, she looked up for my reaction. She frowned. “You don’t look surprised,” she said, clearly disappointed.
“Lots of people have sex,” I said, covering for the fact I already had a hunch, thanks to Andrew’s little heart-to-heart with David at the barbecue.
She slapped the side of the counter. “I know. But not me. I’m Mary Jane Portman.”
I got it. In her eyes, she was Calvary High’s Hester Prynne. “You’re not a bad person, Mary Jane. If God forgives people for murdering their own kids or burning down entire villages or creating ghastly computer viruses, He’ll forgive you. No problem. Don’t you ever listen to Pastor Hillcrest’s sermons?”
She sucked her lower lip. She looked like a twelve-year-old, and I had this weird desire to protect her, to keep her safe from harm.
“Besides, it was just that once,” I said, trying to make it seem like a little slipup instead of the heinous sin she clearly believed it to be.
Tears welled in her blue eyes and she gazed at her reflection in the toaster. “We’ve done it . . . seven times now. Oh, wait. Eight. Yes, definitely eight.”
“Okay,” I said, mortified I’d made her feel even worse. “At least you’re not sleeping around with every guy at Calvary.”
Finally, a slight smile and a hint of a giggle. “No. Only one, thank you very much.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said and pantomimed wiping sweat off my forehead. “Can you imagine how terrible I’d feel if you moonlighted as the school slut?”
“Not as terrible as I’d feel.” She laughed.
“True,” I said, delighted that Mary Jane Portman trusted me enough to share her deepest, darkest secret. One she couldn’t tell even Whitney. I wasn’t sure why she was afraid to tell Whitney—except that Whitney was the president and founder of the GOV Club, and she certainly believed it was God’s divine plan for everyone to remain a virgin until married.
But did Mary Jane think Whitney wouldn’t be her friend anymore if she knew the truth about her? A sad and scary thought.
“Do you have a straw?” Mary Jane asked. “Stained teeth are so pitiful.” I grabbed her one out of the silverware drawer. “Thanks.” She tapped the straw on the counter and removed the paper.
“I know this sounds sappy, but I can totally see us getting married. Don’t worry,” she said, patting my hand, “I haven’t already ordered ‘Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Foremaster’ stationery or anything. It’s just that we’re so in love and . . . well, one day I asked him if he wanted to become a Born Again Virgin with me, and then he said there was no need since he had every intention to marry me someday anyhow, and he acted hurt, like I didn’t enjoy being with him, which is ridiculous, and I just don’t know what to think anymore.” She sighed and then took a swig of Dr Pepper through her straw. “So, what about you? Have you ever . . . done it, Poppy?”
I hadn’t expected that question. Buying time, I pressed a pretzel on the middle of my tongue and clicked it against my teeth. “Well, I’m . . . um, not sure?”
“Oh my gosh! I’ve heard of that happening. It was all over Fox News.” Her blue eyes widened. “You poor thing! So was it roofies, or something else?”
“No, no. I just mean, well, it depends on your definition, I guess.” I wasn’t ready to talk about my sex life, especially since it would probably lead to questions about Spence.
“Oooh,” Mary Jane said, the light coming on in her eyes. “I gotcha. So did you have a boyfriend back in Boulder?”
I nodded, again buying time while I figured out how much, if anything, to divulge. I’d never talked to anyone about what really happened with Spence, and just thinking about it made my stomach plummet and my palms sweat.
Although, Mary Jane had shared her secret with me, and the fact that she found me trustworthy felt so good. I took a deep breath. “His name’s Spence Farr. We had a pretty rocky breakup.”
Part of me wanted to stop the conversation before it went any further, but for some strange reason, the story I’d pent up inside since last spring poured out of me. “He was kind of quiet, into poetry and music and Final Fantasy.” While I struggled to string my memories into a coherent story, I peeled a strand off my cheese, coiled it on my tongue, and swallowed it.
“So did y’all hang out in the same group or something?” Mary Jane prompted.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I never really felt like I belonged in any one group at Flatirons High. Most of the kids in my classes were of the brainiac variety, and I was more of an independent studier. And as for the kids I sat with at lunch and sometimes hung out with on weekends—well, what with their bangs in their eyes and Skullcandy buds in their ears, I doubt they noticed (or even cared?) I was there. Except for Spence. He definitely noticed me. “Spence wrote poetry, which I thought was really cool. I had computer lab right after him, and since I always sat at the same computer he used, he’d leave me little poems on the screen.”
“Oh my gosh! How romantic.”
“Sure, at first. I mean, they weren’t like ‘Roses are red, violets are blue’ poems. They were interesting and deep and . . . elusive. But then, one day about four months into our relationship, he left his notebook in the computer room. Looking back, maybe he did it on purpose. But anyway, it was a three-subject spiral notebook where he wrote his poems and drew sketches and, well, needless to say, I’d always been curious about it. So I flipped through it, and . . .” The disturbing images flashed across my mind’s eye: knives of all sizes and shapes; nooses; blood; and, most alarming of all, numerous drawings of a girl who looked just like me. In some, she looked sad yet beautiful; in others, she was completely naked and scared-looking; and in one, she was be
ing choked by a faceless figure and she looked completely euphoric about it. Bile rose in my tummy and I had to pause to regain my composure. “It was just so creepy, Mary Jane. I actually vomited, and the school nurse called my mom to come pick me up.” Of course, everybody just assumed I had the stomach flu or something. I never admitted to Mom that she was right about Spence all along.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s pitiful. What a weirdo!”
“Yeah. The next time I saw him, I gave him the notebook and told him if he ever spoke to me again, I’d take the copy I made of it straight to the school counselor.” Ever since Columbine, high schools—particularly those in Colorado—took things like that very seriously.
Mary Jane leaned way back on her stool. “Whoooah.”
A small smile flickered on my face. “Yeah. So I broke up with him and went out and got my nose pierced to celebrate.” She raised her brows questioningly. “He hated it when chicks had piercings like that. He was okay with ears being pierced and the occasional lower-back or ankle tattoo, but that was it.”
Mary Jane laughed. “I like your nose piercing even more now.”
Leaning over, I checked out the titanium microstud in my reflection in the toaster. “Me too. So anyway, I burned the copies of his sketches and poems before coming out here.”
“Cool. Seriously, Poppy, your life sounds like a movie or a book or something.”
I laughed. “And the moral of the story is: ‘Never get together with a guy who wears more eyeliner than you do.’”
Mary Jane almost choked on her Dr Pepper. “Oh my gosh, Poppy, you’re killing me. How about, ‘Never get together with a guy who wears eyeliner, period.’”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. I can go with that.”
The grandfather clock in the hallway tolled five o’clock. Mom would be home any minute now. In my backpack, a whole weekend’s worth of homework taunted me. But I had more interesting things to think about. I chomped and swallowed the pretzel, then put my hand on top of Mary Jane’s. “Okay, enough about guys. Let’s talk about something more exciting. What store should we hit next?” I couldn’t wait to put the bank robber idea into action.
The next week was, in a word, crazy. Every time I had the opportunity to lift something, I did. If I happened to be with Mary Jane and/or Whitney, we’d do it together. But if they were busy with other stuff, I had no problem flying solo. Higher and higher, until I knew I could conquer anything that stood in my way.
I put some of my earlier plans into action, and before long, my DVDs—which, to begin with included Heathers, The Breakfast Club, and xXx—grew into a full-fledged movie collection, full of some I loved and many I hadn’t even gotten around to seeing. And for once, I had as many lotions and potions stashed in my bathroom as my mother.
Each time I lifted something, the adrenaline rush blew my mind. And when I got home, undetected by the cameras and salespeople, unnoticed by the other shoppers, and untouched by the security guards, I hid my plunder under my bed or behind the towels in my bathroom, and I sat down and I felt . . . down. And I promised myself over and over again I’d never shoplift anything ever again.
I have enough stuff. One of these times, I’ll surely get caught. It isn’t worth it.
But then I’d remind myself that Mary Jane and Whitney loved my bank-robber-style shoplifting idea. I predicted it would be twice—maybe even three times—the adrenaline rush as I got from the other heists. Like Christmas!
It couldn’t be pulled off with just two people, though. It needed all three of us. One to drive the getaway car and two to go into the store. Mary Jane and Whitney were counting on me.
It would be the last time.
Really.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A man with slicked-back black hair strutted past us and toward the cash register. A gold name tag flashed on his sports jacket. His shiny shoes squeaked on the tile floor. Was it just in my mind, or had the man eyed us suspiciously in passing? As he spoke into the phone in a hushed, professional-sounding tone, I felt him staring at us.
We’d decided to hit a midsize department store called Mumford Brothers. It was in a run-down mall in Falcon Hills, a city about forty-five minutes west of Pleasant Acres. We were pretty sure no one would recognize us out there.
Whitney wore her beret, and I cocked my baseball cap over my eyes. We both sported lightweight baggy sweatshirts, which provided plenty of storage room.
“Let’s go,” I said, praying Whitney would follow. Each time I shoplifted I felt a zing of excitement mixed with nervousness, but this time, the nervousness overwhelmed me. I rubbed my sweaty palms on the front of my hoodie and turned to leave.
Whitney reached out and grabbed my shoulder. “What’s wrong, hon?”
I swallowed. “I don’t know. Something just doesn’t feel . . . right.”
Whitney giggled. “It’s not right—and that’s why it’s so much fun.”
The man in the suit set the phone on the counter and took off across the men’s department, searching for something specific for the caller. The caller Whitney and I knew to be a beautiful blond sixteen-year-old in a convertible VW.
I sucked in a breath and dried my sweaty palms on my sweatshirt again. My heart rate accelerated like it always did when I was on the brink of swiping something. I reached out, and in one smooth, quick motion, the green-and-navy-striped Polo sweater was balled up under my sweatshirt.
Whitney winked at me, then grabbed a gray sweater, stuffed it under her sweatshirt, and took off. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. I didn’t need an official invitation to get the hell outta there. However, Whitney’s legs were almost twice as long as mine, and I had a difficult time keeping up.
The man in the suit dropped the tie he was holding and ran after us. “Hey! Get back here!” I heard the smacking of his shoes against the floor; he was right behind us.
I hauled ass through the store, hot on Whitney’s trail as we weaved through the watches section and zipped past the luggage. A little old lady thrust her pudgy hands in the air as if we were robbing her. Then a carrottopped man in a security-guard uniform appeared from behind a mannequin and yelled, “Hold it right there!”
I slowed down, but Whitney ran even faster, heading for the exit. I dodged the security guard and rounded a display of hosiery just in time to see Whitney disappear into the parking lot.
The security guard had me by the arm. “Now I gotcha, you little thief,” he said in a husky voice. I heard different voices, but I didn’t turn around. My body slammed into fifth gear and I shook him off, sprinting faster than I ever thought possible. He was on my heels, yelling. Without decelerating, I threw the sweater at his face. In his fleeting blindness, I managed to escape outside. Thankfully, Mary Jane’s VW idled curbside, the back door swung open.
“Get in!” they yelled, as if I needed direction. I dived into the getaway car and slammed the door as Mary Jane peeled out, leaving the cursing security guard and a breathless saleswoman behind.
None of us uttered a word as Mary Jane steered her car to the freeway entrance. My breath amplified and my chest heaving, I kept peering out the back, paranoid we were being chased. Every car resembling a cop’s freaked me out, and before long, I suspected almost every car that drove fast or erratically changed lanes. After all, lots of cops drove unmarked vehicles. And I had no clue if security guards ever left the mall premises to do the whole car chase thing, but if so, there was no telling what kind of car he (or she) would drive.
Whitney was the first to speak. “Oh. My. God.” She laughed robustly. “Sorry, but there’s no way to express what I’m feeling without taking the good Lord’s name in vain.”
“Y’all took so long in there,” Mary Jane said. “I seriously wondered if y’all had chickened out or something.”
“No chance.” Whitney shook her head side to side. “That was . . . exhilarating beyond belief.”
Mary Jane’s blue eyes sought out mine in the rearview mirror. I looked down at my hands and picke
d at my nail polish. “Poppy, are you okay? You’re awfully quiet back there.”
“She’s probably just catching her breath,” said Whitney. “Seriously, I haven’t run that fast since Mrs. Reid’s perverted Chihuahua was alive.” She kind of laughed, kind of shivered. “He had a thing for my ankles,” she said for my benefit. (Not that I needed to know that.) A few minutes later, she said, “Great sweater, don’t you think?” waving her trophy for all to see.
“Too bad you don’t have a boyfriend to give it to. How about your dad?” Mary Jane said.
“Heck no. But you can give it to Andrew if you want.”
“Okay, cool.” Mary Jane glimpsed me in the rearview mirror. “Are you giving yours to Gabe, Poppy?”
“I didn’t get one,” I said. “Had to leave it behind.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” Mary Jane said. “As long as you had fun, who cares about a stupid ol’ sweater?”
Whitney shook her head while making a sound like a deflating balloon. “Dang, girl. You should’ve been there.” Then Whitney gave Mary Jane a play-by-play, their mutual exhilaration electrifying the entire car.
I pulled up my sleeve and examined my right arm, the pressure and the redness of the security guard’s grip lingering. As much as I wanted it to, the high didn’t stick.
Ever since shoplifting at Mumford’s, I felt like I was about to get my period. My pores sweated, my nerves bristled, my head throbbed, and my stomach wouldn’t settle. With my period, a Diet Coke or a Butterfinger usually did the trick. However, the mere thought of eating or drinking anything made me feel sicker. I hadn’t touched my dinner, telling Mom my school lunch hadn’t settled well.
I changed out of my hoodie and jeans and into some pajama pants and a T-shirt. Then I pulled my hair into a messy bun on top of my head. I gave the mirror a cursory glance, just long enough to see that my face looked even whiter and my eyes even darker than normal.
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