Mary Jane’s expression morphed from bitter to confused to downright delighted. “You have got to be kidding me! Oh my goodness.” She wheezed and clapped her hand to her chest, over her heart. “Well, I never saw that coming. For how long?”
I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed.
“Don’t you know you’re obligated to tell me these things, Poppy? That’s what friends do.”
“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll let it slide this time. But we have a new rule, effective immediately. We can’t keep something as important as who we’re crushing on a secret from each other. Okay?”
Now that she knew about David Hillcrest, she seemed to have completely forgotten about Andrew. “Okay. Now, about Andrew . . .”
She leaned against the wall. Her smile wasn’t its usual dazzling self, but a certain serenity showed through. “It’s just so hard. He’s been such a rock in my life. Like Whitney. Like you, Poppy.” She twirled her hair and giggled. “You know what? I should’ve known he wasn’t my soul mate. I mean, way back when we started going out, he told me I reminded him of those girlie silhouettes—you know, the ones you see on the mud flaps of big rigs?”
I slapped my forehead. “Oh, man. That’s gotta go in the rule book along with ‘No guys who wear eyeliner.’”
“Amen, sista! Well, Poppy, thanks for letting me know. Now I know what I need to do.”
“So you’re okay?” I asked, suddenly scared for her.
“Well, I’m not really sure yet, to be honest. But it helps to know I’ve got you to help me through it.”
“Damn straight,” I said.
Mom picked me up after school and we drove to Pleasant Acres Mall. First stop, the Mr. Bean coffee shop to get a hot tea for her and a raspberry chiller for me. “So what’s your favorite store?” she asked. “I want to get you a new outfit or two. I heard a rumor that one of these days, it’s going to start feeling more like autumn around here.”
“We can try Hamilton’s,” I choked out as I battled a major brain freeze.
I tried on about twenty things, pretending it was just a fluke that everything I liked happened to be on the sale racks. It was really nice of Mom to want to splurge on me, and there was a time I’d have let her with no qualms, but not now. Not when we were getting along so well.
And because of that, I knew I’d play this shopping trip clean. No shoplifting.
I slipped on the next outfit: a black-and-white-plaid pencil skirt with a thin belt; a silky, high-necked white tank; and a cropped gray-and-black-striped cardigan. “What do you think?” I asked, strutting my stuff in the narrow dressing-room hallway.
Mom looked up from her little lipstick mirror and grinned. “I’ll never know how you manage to pull outfits like that together, Poppy. So you’ll just wear your black flats with it?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I’ll need some red combat boots.”
She nodded. “Exactly.” Though as different as night and day, we typically had a mutual respect for each other’s personal styles.
I ducked back into the dressing room to change back into my clothes.
“When you get everything off, just hand it to me,” Mom said, and I did. “So I haven’t seen any of your schoolwork lately.”
“Oh. Well, it’s been a pretty uneventful week.” In reality, I’d gotten my bio lab back with a B-plus grade. But I didn’t want to upset Mom right before our mother-daughter shopping spree.
I heard a lady ask, “Are you ready, ma’am? I can take you over at that cash register.”
When I emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later, I spotted a box pushed behind the three-way mirror, out of the way. Looked like it was full of new merchandise, stuff waiting to be set out. A brushed-aluminum-and-leather cuff caught my eye. I picked it up and admired it. It hadn’t been tagged yet, so I didn’t know how much it cost.
All I knew was I loved it, and holding it in my hands sparked something inside me—the same sensation I’d experienced many times before. Yes, I wanted it.
A little voice inside me said, No, Poppy. You’re with your mom. Don’t even think about it.
But it was no use. I wanted to lift it.
What about all those times you said you’d never do it again?
I had to lift it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I made sure no one was watching. Next I opened my purse, took out some hand lotion, and rubbed it on my hands. Still rubbing my hands together, I took the cuff and dropped it, along with the lotion, into my purse. As I snapped it shut, every cell in my body danced. I felt so . . . alive.
I ran over to my mom, thanking her enthusiastically for my cool new clothes. She hugged me back, and the saleswoman looked on with an “aww, isn’t that so sweet” expression on her face.
After Harold helped me find the perfect pair of red boots and told us about their upcoming Midnight Madness sale, we left. And, like when I’d stolen the jeans from that very store, I felt the amazing high of getting away with it.
Mom and I ate dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant with famous meatballs. Neither of us ordered anything with meatballs, though. And when we got home, Mom handed me the Hamilton’s shopping bag and said, “There’s a little something extra in there.”
I took out a mint green box, the size used for jewelry. Inside was a sterling silver cross necklace. I loosened it from the slit in the box, and Mom fastened it around my neck.
“Do you like it? I bought it when you were in the dressing room.” She took a few steps back to admire it. “I noticed all your girlfriends wear cross necklaces.”
I nodded. “Yeah, they do. It’s nice, Mom. Thank you.” I really did like it, and I looked forward to wearing it to school.
After she left, I walked over to my bureau and checked out my reflection in the mirror. In an instant, the happy, glowing face before me melted.
I grabbed my purse off my bed and took out the leather cuff. I slipped it on and ran my fingers up and over the metal studs and along the soft black leather.
Why had I stolen it? I could’ve asked the saleswoman how much it cost, and if it wasn’t too ridiculously priced, Mom would’ve bought it for me. Why had I felt the urge, the need, to lift it? It wasn’t like I couldn’t live without it. It was just a cool—yet decidedly unnecessary—accessory.
I couldn’t keep from stealing something even when I was with my own mother. How could I have sunk so low?
Suddenly, the cuff felt like a shackle, heavy and imposing and restricting. I took it off—it had slipped on a lot easier than it came off—and tossed it across my room. It rolled into the darkness of my closet.
Oh, God, what is wrong with me? “Why can’t I stop?” I whispered. I turned on my stereo, then fell to the floor, tucking my legs under me. Reaching out my arms, my face buried in the carpet, I cried.
I had to stop, once and for all. However, I wasn’t strong enough to go at it alone. My shopping trip with Mom proved that. I knew I had to take drastic measures.
Then, when my tears ran dry and my stereo automatically turned off due to inactivity, I confessed to myself that I needed help. But where could I turn? I didn’t want to go to jail. Every cell in my body writhed with hopelessness and shame.
I needed to admit I had a problem, to say it out loud in front of the people who mattered. I had to take control of my life, and that meant telling Mary Jane and Whitney I wanted out.
I’d grown to genuinely love those girls, and it terrified me to think they might write me off as crazy. (What kind of person shoplifted every chance she got, and when she wasn’t, she couldn’t stop thinking about it?) Or, they might take it as a personal stab and not want to be my friend anymore. Shoplifting together had become such an integral part of our bond.
But best case scenario, they’d support me and help me overcome it. And if my stars aligned just right, perhaps I would never have to admit my problem to Mom.
I dug out the tank tops—one pink, one red—and the arsenal of adorn
ments and tools I kept in a little tackle box. My heart weighed me down, making breathing difficult and concentrating impossible. But I forged on: sewing, ripping, cutting, and painting. Beads, sequins, shells, pieces of glass and metal, string, buttons, ribbons, thread, coins, zippers—the trinkets I’d collected over the years were born again as custom-made tops for my two best friends.
Raindrops thunked against my windowpane as I inspected my masterpieces. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying until I saw the little water marks on the material.
I folded the sequin-smattered, ribbon-stitched pink top. With its fantasylike swirled patterns and asymmetrical neckline, it screamed “Mary Jane.” Knowing she’d adore it put a smile on my face.
The more exotic look of beads and fringe in geometrical patterns gave the red tank top a decidedly “Whitney” feel. I could totally see her wearing it under her beloved denim jacket. I folded it as well, then wrapped them in gold tissue paper and placed them on my dresser.
Dog tired, I lugged myself into bed. The tranquil music of late-night raindrops eventually intensified into the pounding, slapping, jarring noises of a full-blown storm. I set my jaw and flopped onto my back. Lightning struck nearby, and thunder boomed.
I couldn’t sleep. Desperate, I snuck into Mom’s bathroom, took her sleeping pills out of the medicine cabinet, and swallowed one.
Back in my bed, my heart pounded like I was being chased. Though my lids were closed, my eyes were wide open behind them. I tossed and turned as a jumble of recent shoplifting memories surfaced and bobbed around in my consciousness.
No one’s looking. Come on! I can’t keep up. Get back here! It’s our secret. He’s on my heels. Look casual. Can you believe it? Snap my purse closed. Three-minute warning. Open the umbrella. Run interference. A hug for Mom. You little thief! Kiss the mirror. Is that all? No one will know. Close call. Cover for them. What a rush! Shoppers everywhere. A synchronized exit. The alarms don’t go off. We’re victorious. We’re free. Are they following us?
I sat up with a jolt. And before passing out, I realized I was trapped in my own private torture chamber.
On Thursday, I went through the motions of eating breakfast, going to school, and sitting through classes. I made eloquent small talk with Bridgette, David, and Gabe whenever I bumped into them, but for the most part, I laid low. I couldn’t concentrate on anything except the conversation I had to have with my two best friends. I was scared.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” David asked as we waited for Ellen to unlock the classroom we’d be having our GOV Club meeting in. “I mean, what if some freaks need to sacrifice a virgin or something? They could just come in and have their pick.”
“It’s a risk we’ll just have to take, I suppose.” I laughed and helped myself to the spread of refreshments by the window. I nodded at Mary Jane, Whitney, and Ellen, who congregated at the front of the classroom while David and I ducked into two desks in the very back.
Ellen stood behind the podium in her argyle sweater vest and called the meeting to order, then read an essay entitled “Why God Wants Me to Save Myself for My Wedding Night.”
I had a hard time paying attention, not only because of the yawn-inducing subject matter, but because David Hillcrest kept blowing freakishly huge bubbles with his gum and poking me with his pencil. I munched on a day-old doughnut from the teacher’s lounge and sipped watery Country Time while Whitney enlightened the GOV Club about famous historical people who, according to her Internet research, chose the celibate-till-married lifestyle. Like Queen Elizabeth I, Sir Isaac Newton, Andy Warhol, the Brontë sisters, Hitler, Beethoven . . . the rest went in one ear and out the other. Eventually, I completely zoned out. The meeting would end soon, bringing me closer to my moment of reckoning. Anxiety had plagued me all day, and now it had a choke hold on me.
“Poppy, do you have any ideas? Poppy? ” Whitney asked, and I snapped to attention.
“Um, sorry.” I shifted the emerald green scarf side to side on my neck. “What was that?”
“We’re brainstorming ways to raise money to help spread the word about our organization to teens throughout Texas,” she said, pointing behind her. So far, the words “bake sale” and “garage sale” graced the white board in Whitney’s loopy handwriting.
“How about a kissing booth?”
Before I had a chance to say I was kidding, a freshman called B.J. said, “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
Someone sniggered. I turned my head and saw David’s smiling face. “Hey, y’all have to admit, it’s the best proposal so far,” he said. I smiled back at him, and I realized just how much I appreciated our mutual sense of humor.
However, Whitney did not look pleased, and I didn’t want her to be upset with me—not when I could be risking our entire friendship in short order. “How much money do we need to raise?” I asked, turning a serious leaf.
“One thousand dollars,” she said.
The discussion continued. I nodded every now and then, pretending to be paying attention and actively brainstorming. At one point, Whitney was visibly frustrated and again asked my opinion. I had no clue. “Maybe we should just have the current members fork over all the money they’re saving by not buying birth control. I mean, have you seen the going price for condoms?” I froze, mortified those had words escaped out of my mouth.
Slowly, Whitney’s full lips curved into a smile and a rumble of laughter rippled through the room. “Not a bad idea,” she said.
Afterward, Mary Jane drove Whitney and me home. Just the three of us.
“Okay, girls,” said Mary Jane. “I have a brilliant idea how we can raise a thousand dollars for the GOV Club. The green scarf Poppy’s wearing gave me the idea. So anyway, you know Confessions of a Shopaholic?”
“By heart,” said Whitney.
“Rebecca Bloomwood sold her incredible wardrobe at a big auction and made a ton of money to pay off her credit card debt, right?”
“Yeah, yeah . . . ,” Whitney said.
“Well, we can have an auction, too, and sell a bunch of our stuff.”
“Stuff we lifted?” I asked.
Mary Jane nodded.
This was my golden opportunity, and I sat in the backseat trembling with fear and silently rehearsing what I needed to say. For as many times as I’d practiced in my mind, you’d think the words would just flow.
My friends chatted away about Mary Jane’s idea while I grappled with the unbearable task ahead of me. Mary Jane turned onto my street far too soon.
“I have to tell you guys something. Can you come inside?” My voice sounded strained, but I couldn’t help it. I liked Mary Jane and Whitney so much. I didn’t want to lose them.
“Of course,” Whitney said.
I darted to the kitchen and grabbed three cans of pop, three straws, and the cookie dough Mom and I bought on our last trip to the Piggly Wiggly. Strangely, my friends barely even looked at the cold, chocolate-chip mush.
Once we situated ourselves on the barstools, a surge of nausea attacked my belly and I spit my bite of dough into a napkin. I closed my eyes, blocking out the looks of concern on Mary Jane’s and Whitney’s faces. “This isn’t easy. It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” My fingers brushed my cross charm and I opened my eyes.
Whitney took my hand. “We’re your friends, and we love you.”
“Um, yeah. Thanks, Whitney.”
She smiled and patted my hand. “You’re welcome.”
“So I know you guys started shoplifting before I moved here. How long do you think you’ve been doing it?”
Mary Jane twirled her hair. “Gosh, I don’t know . . . do you remember, Whitney?”
“Two years. Almost exactly,” Whitney said, her smile having disappeared. “My first time was the same week I figured out Daddy was a lying, no-good cheater. We were coming home from church and he needed to stop and get some Tylenol at Walgreens and I stole a pair of red tights.”
Mary Jane said, “You n
ever told me that.”
Whitney laughed. “It’s not all that exciting.”
“Can you stop?” I asked, and they just looked at me with blank expressions. “Like, if you wanted to, could you stop shoplifting?”
They exchanged a quick glance, and then Mary Jane nodded. “It’s just something, you know, to break up all the monotony around here. It’s not like we need the stuff we take. I give most of it away, you know, to people at school and at church. People who appreciate it. Why are you asking these questions, Poppy?”
The room fell silent, except for the swoosh of Mary Jane cracking open her Dr Pepper.
Say it quickly, Poppy, like ripping off a BAND-AID. I pressed my palms into my knees and swallowed. “I want . . . no, I need, to opt out. I don’t want to shoplift ever again.”
My friends exchanged glances, but I couldn’t read whether they were angry or just confused. I braced myself, cold panic coursing through my blood.
“Why?” Mary Jane asked, her Southern drawl heavy in that single word. “Did we do something wrong?” She searched my eyes. “Is it because of the sweaters? I know that was really scary for you, but we pulled through. And I promise we’ll be more careful. It won’t happen again, Pop—”
“I have a problem, you guys. I tried to quit shoplifting—really, I did. I tell myself ‘This is the last time,’ or ‘just once more,’ but then I can’t sleep and I can’t concentrate on anything at school until I do it again. And sometimes you guys can’t come, but I don’t wait for you. I have to go and do it, somehow, somewhere, even if I’m alone. Even if I’m with my mom. I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to do.” I watched a swallow fly by the window and then locked my gaze with Mary Jane’s. “I think about it constantly. I swore to keep what we do a secret, and you can be sure I’ll take it with me to the grave. But whenever you two have the urge to lift something . . . please don’t take this personally, but I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out.”
Whitney tapped her fingernails on the countertop, her face pinched like she’d crammed a handful of wasabi peas into her mouth. “It’s okay, Poppy.”
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