by Barnes, Vivi
“Here, this will give you an energy boost before we start shopping.” Sam offers me one of the Styrofoam cups and hands some bills to the woman at Nature’s Table. She lost a bet on who could find the freakiest person outside the mall—I spotted a huge guy in a muscle shirt walking his cat on a leash. So she bought me the smoothie.
“Thanks.” The food court is crowded, but we soon find a small table and sit down. At first, we chitchat about school, homework, stuff like that. She’s so easy to talk to, and funny. She’s got me cracking up with her impression of Tyson drooling over me. The women next to us throw us dirty looks for being so loud, but I don’t care. I’ve had friends before, of course, but none who make me laugh as much as Sam.
The one thing we don’t dwell on is the night at the club. She does tell me that there’s no way Z would’ve drugged me. “He wouldn’t pull a jerk move like that. I live with the guy, remember? I should know.”
I don’t want to talk about Z. I’m still pissed at his attitude toward me yesterday. The conversation with Sam turns to computer programming, and when she asks if I’ve ever done any hacking, I realize the perfect opportunity to ask, “Sam, what exactly do you do at that company of yours?”
She tilts her head, a tiny smile on her lips. “What exactly do you think I do?”
I fiddle with the straw in my drink, trying to figure out how to phrase it just right. “Well, obviously you make a lot of money to afford that kind of car. If I had to guess…maybe someone pays you to hack into their security systems?”
She considers that for a moment. “Hmm…well, I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”
I exhale lightly. “So did you get any response from your boss? I mean, do they need an extra hacker?”
Her grin widens. “Oh, I believe they’re interested, yes.”
“Awesome. How do I contact them?”
“They’ll contact you.” She laughs. “Liv, stop worrying so much. They’ll get a hold of you when they’re ready.”
I laugh with her, but I hope it’s not one of those “we’ll call you” things where they never do. I take a sip of my smoothie, my thoughts slipping to Z. I can’t seem to stop thinking of him, even when I try. He bothers me at the same time that he thrills me—his dark hazel eyes that light up when he smiles, the way his cocky attitude dissolved when I told him off. I’ve played the moment in my head a thousand times. Confronting someone the way I did isn’t like me at all; I don’t know what got into me. The goose bumps tickle my arms as I picture his eyes widening in surprise and, most especially, the smirk melting from his lips. I have to admit, I felt pretty kick-ass at that moment.
I still don’t trust him, though I don’t know if it’s because of what happened the other night or something else I can’t quite put my finger on. He’s such an enigma; how could I ever be friends with him?
“Hello?” Sam snaps her fingers in front of my face, startling me.
“Sorry, what?”
She shakes her head. “Okay, again, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
She’s already tried a couple versions of the same question, always disappointed in my answer. “I told you, the time I took money from my foster mother’s wallet.”
She snorts. “Yeah, twenty bucks to buy new shoes. Big freakin’ deal. I’ll bet it was because your shoes had holes in them or something.”
I take another sip and watch a tired-looking woman shuttle her kids through the crowds. I don’t tell Sam that yes, that’s exactly why. Carla wouldn’t buy me new shoes, new clothes, or even old ones. Whatever money she got to take care of me, she spent on her five bratty kids. Everything I had when living with the Grays I borrowed or bought with money I took out of Carla’s wallet. It was a version of stealing, I guess, but I didn’t have much of a choice.
I change the subject. “So what are you looking for today?”
She waves her hand in a vague gesture. “Oh, you know, whatever’s good. Sometimes I find things, sometimes I don’t. But I love to shop, so it doesn’t matter. I can help you find tops that won’t make you look like you’re wearing kids’ clothes anymore.”
Well, that’s direct enough. We throw our cups in the trash before taking the escalator to the second floor. The line of apparel shops caters to various extremes of women—heavy, thin; rich, poor; old, young.
“That’s the loser store,” Sam says, grabbing my arm when I make a right toward Penney’s. “You don’t want to be caught buying stuff in there.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, like this is my area of expertise. Bernadette loved Penney’s. “So where do we go?”
“Here,” she says, pulling me toward a store where red satin lingerie and feathers are draped over bone-white mannequins. I jerk to a halt and Sam laughs.
“Just kidding! Over here.”
She leads me to a trendy store called M. Young women in crisp pin-striped suits nod to her without acknowledging me. Of course, her confidence shouts out I belong here, while mine whispers, Haven’t got a clue. I watch in amazement as she quickly sorts through jeans, shirts, and skirts and heads toward the back of the store with a small armful.
“You need to start with these,” she says, pushing me into a large dressing room and latching the door behind us. She flips through the clothes and hands me a multicolored chiffon top and dark-blue jeans.
I face the wall and quickly remove my shorts and tee. I pull the new clothes on and turn to check myself out in the mirror. W-o-w, wow! The jeans are too tight for my taste, but the airy top floats over me in a flattering way. The reflection is of someone who knows about fashion. Someone who might be thought of as cool.
Someone who is so not me.
“That’s awesome!” Sam says.
“It’s a little see-through, isn’t it?” I cover my top half with an arm and she laughs.
“It’s supposed to be. You can wear a black bra or cami under it. Speaking of that, who bought you such a grandma bra?” She lifts the shirt to get a better look, but I push her hands away, my face burning. “Seriously, you should donate that thing to a retirement home.”
“Cut it out. What other shirts do you have?” I ask.
“Try this one.” She hands me a black nothing of a top and a black-and-white flare skirt, and I slip them on. The style is alien on me, like I’m headed out for a night in New York. Way too chic and definitely too clingy. It makes me think of the outfits some of the girls wore at the club the other night. That’s reason enough for me to pull the tiny shirt back over my head and toss it on the bench.
“I like the first one better.” I finger the light, airy material and find the price. Seventy-five dollars! “Oh. Never mind.” I drop the tag and move to the next shirt, a plain black tee.
“Wait, what’s wrong with this one?” Sam says, going back to the chiffon. She glances at the tag. “I thought you said Denise gave you money to buy some new clothes.”
“Yeah, but not that much.” Denise gave me fifty dollars, which I was grateful for. But in this store, it might buy me a pair of socks.
“What about tips from Slice of Happy?”
I snort. “Please. I couldn’t afford the sleeve with the money I earn.”
She holds the shirt out. “You know, this looked really good on you. Try it on again.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“I know, but I want to see it again.”
I slip the shirt on. Sam walks around me and tugs at the bottom, pulls at the sleeves.
“I think you should get it.”
“I just said I can’t buy it.”
She puts an arm around me and leans close to my ear. “I didn’t say you should buy it.”
“What? No way, Sam.”
“Come on. Denise didn’t give you enough money for one thing, let alone a wardrobe. What does she expect, that you’re going to wear those shirts that are too small forever?”
It was only one shirt that didn’t fit, but Sam makes it sound like my entire closet. Still, my clothes are pretty worn out. “Maybe she’ll give me
more if I ask for it.”
“Uh huh. You know what she’ll say? ‘Olivia, you should go to Walmart. It’s good enough for me, so it should be good enough for your sorry ass. They introduced a new line of granny polyester to go with your Playtex bra.’”
Okay, that’s funny. And probably true. I laugh in spite of myself.
“Hang on, I know what’ll help. Stay right there.” She disappears, returning with a couple of black lacy camis, so tiny they may as well be bras. “Try these and see if one fits.”
She turns her back while I remove my bra and slip my arms through the holes of the cami. The clingy, lacy fabric is much more grown-up than anything I’ve ever owned. I pull the chiffon top over my head and look in the mirror, turning slightly to see the effect from the side. I swear I’m like one of those What Not to Wear victims, transformed from drab to…damn.
“Wow!” Sam says, whistling sexy-like.
“I can’t wear this to school.” Or anywhere else, for that matter.
She laughs. “It’s not really meant for school. Promise me you’ll get a new bra, though. Really. And toss that one in the garbage on the way out.” She picks my old bra up with an empty hanger and flings it around in an exaggerated way.
I twist again to view myself. The clothes do fit nicely.
“Where’s your T-shirt?” Sam whispers. “Put it on over this, and my sweater over that.”
“I don’t know, Sam…” But she’s already pushing my T-shirt over my head. I look in the mirror at the shirt clinging for dear life to the thin fabric underneath. If I don’t do this, I risk alienating the only friend I’ve made since moving here. Besides, I’ve behaved my entire life and look where that’s gotten me.
“It’s just a little thing, Liv,” she says, her expression serious. She leans back on the wall, crossing her arms as she watches me. “You need new clothes and your foster parents aren’t providing for you. It’s not like I’m asking you to break open the cash register. When you make better money, maybe you can come back and buy something for real. Come on, Miss Thang…”
It’s that pseudo-twang in her voice, the tone that reminds me of Bernadette, that makes up my mind.
Screw it. I put my arms in Sam’s sweater, imagining the tiny conscience fairy on my shoulder getting beaten to a pulp by a little guy with horns and twisted tail.
…
Z
I take off my glasses and wipe at my eyes. Page after page of information about Brownlow, Inc., and its founder and I’m coming up with crap. From the endless number of articles on his charitable contributions, Carlton Brownlow is a pretty major benefactor. The money he’s donated to United Way alone makes my take on most of these accounts look like a kid’s allowance. This doesn’t make me feel bad about cracking the bastard’s accounts in the least. The wealthy try to impress by giving huge donations and starting foundations, but it’s mostly tax-deductible shit that makes them feel less guilty about getting rich at other people’s expense.
Micah sails through the open door and drops into one of the chairs, kicking his feet up on the desk. “What’s up?”
“Took you long enough,” I grumble.
“I was busy. Anyway, here it is.”
He tosses me the flash drive, which is hot pink and covered in yellow flowers. I gaze at it, then him. “Really?”
He shrugs. “You don’t like it? Create your own program then, jackass.”
“Whatever.” I pick up the silly thing and flip it around my fingers. “How long will it take?”
“Depends. This one starts out slowly, then builds to flood their system without alerting their IT. At least for a while. But you’ll have to be ready. If his system is as advanced as I think it is, you won’t have long. How are you going to get it installed? I doubt you can set up a fake page or pop-ups or anything that they’ll recognize.”
“Still working on it. Might end up having to take a pretty banker out for drinks.”
Micah woo-hoos and smacks my hand. It’s a tactic used by Bill, and one he wants me to try. It’d probably be easy—meeting a woman “by chance” at a bar, getting her tipsy enough not to notice me slipping a loaded flash drive in her bag. For some reason, even though the idea once excited me, I’m not really looking forward to it.
“Z!” The singsongy voice pierces the doorway. Of all the kids in the house, Sam is the one I can always count on to interrupt me whenever I’m working. “Guess what? She’s in!” Sam says, bouncing on her heels like she’s twelve instead of seventeen. Micah jumps out of his chair and grabs her hands; the two of them start hopping around like idiots.
“Do you mind?” I ask acidly. “Some of us are trying to work.”
“But I did it! I got her to steal something! A shirt at the mall. It was ea-sy. Easy, easy, easy.” She does a hip-bump with Micah to emphasize each “easy.”
“Congratulations, sweetie,” he says, kissing her cheek. He probably doesn’t have a clue of what she’s talking about, but that doesn’t matter to Micah. He’s a hound for a good time. “Gotta go, though. Party later?” He salutes us and leaves.
Sam frowns at me, her hands on her hips. “Well, don’t break a sweat congratulating me or anything, Z.”
I wave my hand at her. “Fine. Good for you. Now go away.”
She grabs the arm of my chair and pulls it out from the desk. “Come on. Even you have to be excited about this. She’s in!”
I stand and yank the chair away from her. “No, she’s not. You bullied her into stealing a shirt, which has nothing to do with us.”
“Ha, so you say,” she replies smugly. “But at least we know she will do it.”
“So what’re you going to do now? Have her steal a car? Or hey, maybe bring her on over and see if she’d like to rob a bank. How about that? You’re an idiot if you believe it’s that easy.”
Sam’s eyes darken and she punches my shoulder. My skin smarts, but I don’t rub at it. I turn back to the computer and ignore her.
“I thought you’d be happy about this. Besides,” she says, her voice rising angrily, “I’m the only one who’s trying here. You’re not doing shit. Exactly what is your problem, Z?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Yes, you do.”
I sigh and swivel the chair back to face her. “Look, she thinks I’m an asshole. So what’s the point?”
“Yeah, well, she also thinks you’re hot. You should be doing more with that.”
Yeah, some hot guy she thinks drugged her. “Good-bye, Sam.” I turn back to the monitor, dismissing her. I don’t have to turn around to know she’s flipping me off before she heads out the door, no doubt to bitch to Nancy about how I’m not doing my part.
Chapter Seven
“Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts exercises even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature and their fellow men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the somber colours are reflections from their own jaundiced vision.”
—Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
Liv
After getting home with the stolen blouse from M, the realization that I took something really started to eat at me. I hung it in the back of the closet, not intending to wear it or the lacy bra. The fact that Sam persuaded me to steal makes me nervous about hanging out with her, so I don’t chat with her during class as much. I make my lunch at the house every day so I can bypass the cafeteria completely to eat alone on the grass outside. Sam seems confused at first, then pissed off when I keep making excuses.
It’s not just her, either. Avoiding her means avoiding Z. The more I obsess about it, the more I wonder if it really was him who drugged me. Why else would he show up at the bar at that moment and offer to take me home when I started feeling so strange? The only thing I remember is putting my hands all over his body and him taking me outside before I passed out. I remember his arms around me and his lips near my face. Sam says they both took me home. But then, he did beat up Tyson. Why would h
e do that?
Thinking about it all makes my head swim.
A couple other girls invite me to sit with them, but after a few lunches of listening to them gossip about pretty much everybody who walks by, I start making excuses to them as well. Tyson now completely avoids me.
Okay, well, that part’s not so bad.
The solitude doesn’t bother me that much, but I liked Sam. I even liked Z, I guess, so though it’s me avoiding them, it does hurt a bit when they were the only friends I had here.
Z ignores me, too. Although a couple times I’ve caught him watching me. I try not to look at him, try to act like I don’t care, but I can tell by the tiny lift to his lips that he knows better. Freaking weirdo jerk of a guy who drives me insane. I’ve mentally called him every name in the book, yet every nerve in my body stands at attention, tickling under my skin when we’re in the same room together. Stupid clueless body.
Sam is waiting for me at my locker after my last class. Her arms are crossed and I can tell by her narrowed eyes that I better not move past her.
“What’s up?” I ask for lack of anything better to say.
Her mouth drops open. “Seriously?” Then she laughs. “A week of not talking to me and you ask what’s up?”
I fight a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m sorry I got you to steal that shirt. Sorry but not sorry. Does that make sense?”
I shake my head. She sighs and wraps an arm around my shoulder. It’s such an honest, friendly gesture, I don’t pull away.
“Look, I’ve spent a lifetime in foster care. I know how it works. My parents died so long ago that I don’t remember them. I bet you went through a lot of crap yourself. Am I right?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. By the way she’s nodding, she can read my expression like a road map through hell. Even though part of me is still pissed that she talked me into stealing, I miss her friendship too much to stay angry. Most of the other kids in my classes are nice—friendly, even. But their carefree smiles and casual chatter represent the normalcy of their lives that’s missing from mine.
Sam, on the other hand, understands me. She gets it—the crap we go through being lost in a system that cares as much about us as stray dogs on the street. I can be myself with her, which is why I’m suddenly smiling back at her as if nothing’s happened. Stealing that shirt was wrong, but it’s not worth losing my friend over.