Patrick smiles. “Well, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s not the same without that special LO grease pool on top.” He walks on, heading over to sit with the theater geeks. At least I think they’re theater geeks. One of them is doing some kind of loud imitation of Will Smith from Independence Day. Patrick seems to find it amusing. I want to tell him not to encourage stupidity, because it only creates more of it. Instead, I get beaned in the head with a French fry.
I look up to see Brady standing there.
“Wanna fry?” he asks, grinning at me. He sits down, reaching over to grab another of Jason’s fries off his plate.
“Hey, dude, that was mine!” Jason Baines cries, protectively covering them. “You can’t be throwing them around!”
For the past two days, I’ve been avoiding Brady and succeeding because he had extra lacrosse practice and meetings during lunch hour and a big game last night. They won, so now he’s full of bravado.
“No, thanks.” I choose to ignore him and turn my attention back to Kayla, who’s dissecting her corn dog like a mortician in the middle of an autopsy.
“What is the ‘dog’ in the ‘corn’ made of?” Kayla wrinkles her nose at it.
“Don’t try to understand it,” I respond. “It will only cause you pain.”
Taryn looks over at Brady. “You guys were uh-mazing last night,” she simpers. I look at her sharply. Seriously? She’s going to gush on him? Girl code is clearly dead.
“I missed my good-luck charm, but I guess I’m so good I don’t need it.” He nods pointedly to me. I pretend my hummus is the most interesting thing in the world. It has red peppers in it. And cumin. And some other sort of spice that tastes like—
“Can I come sit with you so you can congratulate me and we can talk about the sexy dress you’re going to wear to the Spring Fling?” Brady says. He’s enjoying having an audience of Jason and his friends and all the other people at our table. Taryn elbows me, and I sigh. Sometimes it’s just easier to let things go back to normal than it is to try to change them.
“Sure.” I shrug.
Brady stands up and walks over, plunking his tray down across from me. On it is a Diet Coke and a huge salad with vinaigrette dressing. He doesn’t eat cheese or carbs or drink regular Coke ever. He’s like a girl that way.
“Hi, Tabs,” he says softly. I finally look up. He’s wearing a blue shirt that makes his eyes look like the sky on a perfect summer day.
“Miss me?” he asks. Fuck. He’s got such a cute smile.
“Miss me?” I retort.
“Like crazy,” he says, and then pelts a pickle at me. I hurl one back at him. Then Kayla throws one at Jason, and Taryn flings a splot of hummus at some poor nerd sitting at another table, and someone else chucks something else because this is what happens when you start something that looks like so much fun. Everyone else joins in because they’re afraid of what they’ll miss out on if they don’t.
MARCH 28
My aunt keeps bugging me to invite friends over to hang out at the house. I don’t know why she’s so into it. The last time I had Alex and Janet over, we spilled L’Oreal Superior Preference Intense Dark Red hair dye on the floor while Alex was coloring my hair and Aunt B was super pissed. And she hasn’t forgotten about it because every time she passes the spot on the floor she mutters, “Damn hair dye.” I try not to make her mad, but I always seem to anyway. At least my hair turned out amazing. Although I can’t say as much about that big red stain on the living room rug.
Her insisting I have friends over probably means Marc’s been telling her he doesn’t like my friends or they’re not good for me, so she’s worried and thinks I’m on drugs or something and wants to keep tabs on us. I find it kind of entertaining, so I constantly itch my nose when she’s around. Yesterday I even left a rolled-up dollar bill on the kitchen counter with powdered sugar on it. She called me a wiseass. I want to tell her to lighten up, but it doesn’t take a genius to notice when you tell people that, it usually has the opposite effect and they get hostile. I wish she had more of a sense of humor, just like she probably wishes I had a totally different personality.
YOU BET
“Want to come over and watch Top Model?” Taryn asks me in sixth period. She loves reality TV. She’s Generation Kardashian all the way. Even though I do, admittedly, read about them on blogs, I can’t take the girls on those shows. I guess you’ve got to admire them for cashing in on their tits, their asses, and their desperate need for attention, but it seems like there has to be more to life than fragrance lines and endorsement deals. So that’s why I don’t feel guilty for hoisting a fragrance or two by Khloe or Kim or jeggings by Kristin Cavallari; they’ve all stolen hours of my life at Tayrn’s behest.
Not today, though. Today I have to pay penance for my sins at Shoplifters Anonymous. I lie and tell Tayrn I’m doing an SAT prep course across town.
“Yuck. I’m sorry,” she says, and doesn’t press for more details. As predicted.
When my mom drops me off, I take a bottle of her Smartwater with me and ask her to e-mail Jeffrey. Maybe she can ask if it’s possible for me to get through the class in less than the normal required time.
“Why do you ask?” she says.
“Because it sucks, and because there’re people from my school in there I really don’t want to deal with.”
“Okay,” she says. “But in the meantime, why don’t you try to make the best of it?”
That means she won’t be emailing Jeffrey. Crap.
I get out of the car and slink into the building, past the AA meeting, the Al-Anon meeting, the Nicotine Anonymous meeting, down into the basement, and into a chair in the back row. I immediately bury myself in Facebook on my phone.
“Afternoon, lovelies!”
I’m dropkicked out of my status-update reverie by Shawn’s chipper voice.
“Tabitha, can you please turn off your phone?”
I obey as she launches into a “Group Participation and Identification Exercise.” As if to underscore the humiliation, she pairs me with Moe and Elodie. We drag our chairs together awkwardly as Shawn adds, “And, Harold, why don’t you join them too?” A guy who looks like he’s ninety-five years old slowly stands and starts to move his chair over.
Shawn calls out, “Moe, can you help Harold?”
Moe takes Harold’s chair from him and hoists it over her head, then drops it down, practically smashing it on my foot. I shoot her a dirty look. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“I want you to go around with your group-mates,” Shawn says, “and share exactly why you’re here and what regrets you have about getting caught.”
I keep my head down and curse myself for ever being stupid enough to look at the blog with Alexa Chung wearing that Maya Brenner bracelet.
Moe clears her throat. “My regret is that I shouldn’t have broken into someone’s car and stolen their CDs,” she says with a shrug. “I don’t even have a CD player.” Then she looks at Elodie. “What’d you take?”
“Stuff from Fred Meyer,” Elodie says quietly.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know… licorice, a clock, condoms—”
“Condoms?” I practically snarf my Smartwater.
Moe laughs. “Awesome.”
“I may need them,” Elodie says, defensive.
“Why’d you steal condoms?” I ask, genuinely curious. This girl doesn’t exactly radiate sexual activity.
“She probably stole them to have sex,” Moe says. “Duh.”
“With who?” I volley back. Obviously, the chick’s lying; she’s never stolen condoms. It’s not that she looks like a total square, but girls who’ve had sex look different from those who haven’t. And that’s not to say that I’ve had a ton of it and am some kind of expert. But I’ve had enough to at least know what I’m missing and what I’m not missing.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I press.
“Oh, so a committed relationship is required to bone somebody?” Moe asks.
“What about you?” Elodie says, glaring at me a little bit. “What did you take?”
Fuck. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Complete strangers knowing my business. But you know what? At least I was taking something more exciting than condoms that would only turn to dust in my purse.
“Designer bracelet.” I shrug, nonchalant.
“Why would you need to steal something? Aren’t you rich?” Moe asks.
“It’s none of your business,” I fire back.
Moe looks at Elodie. “She probably just forgot to lay down her daddy’s black AmEx. Either that or she’s claiming she stole something expensive so she can sound like a badass.”
Elodie and Moe exchange a smile, like they’re laughing at me.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s prove it, then.”
Moe laughs. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Just what I said.” I glare at her.
Elodie looks back and forth between us.
“After class we go lift the best stuff we can,” I continue. “Then we meet afterward at Pizzicato and compare notes. May the best thief win.”
Just then Harold snorts again. This time he’s snored so loud he’s woken himself up.
“Where am I?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“You’re in Shoplifters Anonymous with a bunch of girls who are about to have some fun.” Then Moe glances at me. “Your friends hang out at Pizzicato. We should probably meet at the Roxy instead, so you won’t blow your cover.”
She has a point.
“Fine,” I say. “Roxy it is.”
Elodie looks at us, surprised. “I’m in.”
“You’re into what?” Shawn asks, passing by our table.
“Identifying with each other,” Moe says, smirking at us.
“We sure are,” I add.
“Indeedy,” Harold says, proud to be included. Who wouldn’t be?
Powell’s
I weave through the literary mecca
that is Powell’s,
a place so big it must employ half of P-town.
It’s famous for not letting lifters get away
with anything bigger than a paper clip,
but I’m up for the challenge.
I tuck The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson
and Broken Soup by Jenny Valentine
underneath a copy of The Merc
and I pay for a lone hummingbird bookmark
and smile sweetly
at the girl at the counter
and I walk through the sensors,
which don’t go off,
since I removed all the magnetic strips from the books—
but then I stop.
If this is a war
about who’s the biggest badass,
a girl who stole two books
isn’t exactly
going to win.
THE ROXY
I’m sitting in a leopard-print chair five feet away from a ginormous crucified Jesus. His feet dangle above a jukebox.
“Sweet Jesus,” I crack. The shiny Pepto walls are starting to make me loopy.
“I like how his crown of thorns is made of lights,” Elodie says, taking a bite of her Quentin Tarantuna, which is basically a tuna melt on rye with a ridiculous name. We share a Lord of the Fries, dripping in chili cheese. Calories don’t count if you’ve been shoplifting.
After she takes a big slurp of Dr Pepper, Moe points and asks me if I’m “buddies” with anyone here.
“Like who?” I say. The only people here are a Mohawked guy and a smattering of scrawny hipster twentysomethings sitting in the corner.
“I don’t know,” she responds. “I just wanted to be sure you were saved the embarrassment of being affiliated with us,” Moe says.
“I never said I was embarrassed,” I snap.
“But aren’t you?” Elodie asks, curious.
“She obviously is.” Moe crams a fry into her mouth, then turns to me.
Whatever. Now I just want to win this infuriatingly dumb idea for a contest and leave. I yank out a red Betsey Johnson shirt and a strappy minidress. “Betsey Johnson. Admire and weep.”
Elodie fingers the red shirt with an impressed murmur as Moe reaches down and pulls out her bag, dumping a bunch of stuff all over the table.
Elodie inhales sharply. “Whoa.”
Moe holds up a bunch of cherry-flavored condoms. “Licorice, anyone?”
Elodie shoots her a look, and Moe shrugs. “I may need them to have sex.”
I hold up a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs and raise an eyebrow.
“Oh. Those are for you,” Moe says to me. “You wear pink, right?”
“Actually, I do.” I smirk. “Thanks.”
Elodie asks, “Where did you get all this stuff?”
Moe shrugs. “Spartacus.”
“You went into Spartacus?” I have to admit, I’m impressed. And a little ooked out. It’s a sex shop crawling with leather daddies and porn lovers. One time Brady dared me to go in there, but I couldn’t do it. Too much perv DNA on the premises.
“If you got caught there, they’d probably shanghai you and sell you into sex slavery,” I say with a sniff.
“I’m the last person they’d want to bust. They were too busy trying to stop a guy from putting his penis inside a blow-up doll.”
“Ew.” Elodie looks traumatized.
“Where did you go?” I ask Elodie.
She looks embarrassed, then reaches to the seat next to her, pulling her overcoat onto the table.
“Here,” Elodie says, pulling a novel and a book of poems out of the pockets.
I pick up The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson. “Didn’t Ms. Hoberman assign us some of her stuff a few months ago?”
Elodie nods. Then she pulls out a perfect little clutch. It’s chic and black, with a cute gold buckle. “I also went to Coach,” she says modestly.
“That’s, like, four hundred bucks!” I gasp. I can’t help it.
“I knew this girl was trouble,” Moe says, beaming.
“How’d you pull that off?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Perk of being a good girl. No one suspects you’ll do anything bad.”
As I stare at her, jaw dropped, Moe suddenly blurts out, “Oh, fuck.”
We turn to see what Moe’s staring at: a tall, pockmarked guy with wispy hair and a really creepy grimace on his face. Even though he’s skinny, he’s muscular and strong-looking.
“It’s the blow-up doll guy!” Moe whispers.
“That’s him?” I’m actually kind of scared.
“Don’t look at him!” Moe hisses, and we whip back around.
“He tried to get me to go in the back of the store with him,” she says, looking freaked out. “He told me if I didn’t, he’d call the cops and tell them I was stealing.”
Elodie panics. “What?!”
“He’s coming over here!” Moe says. Elodie panics, grabbing my arm.
“Should we scream?” I’m actually worried I may lose my shit—
From Moe’s eyes, I can tell he’s about to appear right over my shoulder, and then suddenly she says, “Oh no.”
We gasp and spin around—only to see a little girl standing behind us.
Elodie deflates, trying to catch her breath. Moe keels over with laughter.
“You asshole!” I say. “He wasn’t coming over at all.”
Moe points. “Looks like he’s getting himself some pie.” The guy is sitting in a booth, placing an order with the waitress and looking pretty benign.
She starts laughing so hard, she drops half her sandwich on her lap.
“You’ve got Tarantuna on your pants,” Elodie says, pointing and giggling.
“So he didn’t really say that to you in the sex shop?” I can’t believe she would do that.
“Heck no,” she says
. “I’ve never even seen that guy before.”
Elodie giggles even harder.
“And there was no blow-up doll,” Moe adds. “Well, it wasn’t inflated, anyway. But it was a pretty good story, right?”
I punch her in the arm, knocking over my milk shake and making a gross, disgusting mess, but I have to say that even though I wanted to kill her, I’m pretty sure I haven’t laughed that hard in six months.
Buried Treasure
Last week they had a story on the news
about a stolen sculpture
worth sixty million dollars
that the police found buried in a box
in the forest.
The thief had put it in the ground years earlier
for safekeeping
until finally he got so scared about being caught
he decided to turn himself in.
He led the authorities out into the woods
and watched
as they dug up his prize.
I relay this to Tabitha and Moe
as we walk down Stark Street, haul in hand,
and we agree
that maybe the thief felt proud
when they pulled the statue out;
he’d finally gotten to tell someone
what he’d accomplished,
he’d finally gotten to confess his crime
in all its glorious detail,
he’d finally realized that stealing in solitude
can drive you crazy,
the loneliness of a victory can overtake you
and maybe the only thing
that makes it worthwhile
is having someone to share it with.
APRIL 8
Aunt B says to not judge a book by the cover, but I guess everybody does. Elodie was surprised when I told her I’d already read Broken Soup. Tabitha said she hadn’t read it, so Elodie gave her the copy. Hanging out at the Roxy with them was more fun than listening to Alex lay out a plan to TP some nerd’s house, but it wasn’t like super buddy-buddy or anything. Obviously, I didn’t tell them about Noah or even that I like to read while taking a bath. It’s none of their business. I guess if I were a book, my cover would be different from what’s on the inside too.
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