“You’re kind of hard to find,” I say to Patrick, pressing a napkin on the molten piece of greasy cheese pizza to try to absorb whatever liquid is sitting on top.
“Why’s that?” he asks, watching me with amusement.
“You never sit at the same table.”
“I like to mix it up,” he says, nonchalant.
“Smart move,” I say. A freckly girl from my gym class nods at me. “Hey, Laura,” I volunteer as I wad up the greasy napkin and put it in the corner of my tray.
Then I turn back to Patrick. “So, do you really make this pizza at home?” I cut a tiny piece off with my knife and put it in my mouth. It’s like somewhat digestible wet rubber sitting on top of somewhat digestible dry rubber. I manage to chew. It’s not easy.
“Of course not,” he says, trying not to laugh as he watches me swallow. “I can’t believe you just allowed that to enter your body.”
I immediately regret consuming it. “It’s probably going to live in my intestines for twenty years, isn’t it?”
“Fifty,” he says. “Here. Try this. It’s much better. I make a mean sandwich.” He hands me half of a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread. It’s got some sort of sprouts and tomato on it.
“I thought you were into pizza.”
“I told you—I like to mix it up.”
I appraise the turkey sandwich. “Is it good?”
“Just trust me,” he says, and smiles at me. I bite into it and chew. It’s delicious.
Birthday Present
I’m up in my room
hating trigonometry more than life itself
when Jenna knocks on my door and says,
Someone’s here to see you.
I go downstairs
and standing there on my front porch
is Marc Truax.
He’s wearing a black Nirvana T-shirt
and scuffed Vans
and I am literally speechless
so it’s a good thing he is able to speak.
Happy birthday, he says,
followed by,
Do you want to go for a walk?
And I nod yes
and Jenna tries to act like
she’s not full-on eavesdropping,
but I’m so happy I don’t even care.
Turning Sixteen
Marc says there’s a rad doughnut place
that we could go to.
I’m not really sure what the big deal about doughnuts is,
but it doesn’t matter
because before I know it,
we’re walking
near the Burnside Bridge
and talking
and I’m nervous being around him
but only for about five minutes
and pretty soon
we’re talking about everything;
I tell him about my old school
and my mom
and he talks about motorcycles from the seventies,
which of course I know nothing about,
and finally we get to this really awesome bakery
called Voodoo
and they’re playing cool music
and the girl behind the counter
is all pierced and friendly
and Marc asks for one doughnut dusted with Tang
and another one topped with Cap’n Crunch
and I get chocolate on chocolate,
but before we eat them,
he says, Hang on,
and buys me a pair of underwear
with the Voodoo logo and a slogan
that says THE MAGIC IS IN THE HOLE.
I blush, since no guy has ever bought me underwear before.
Then he pulls a candle out of his pocket
that looks a little bit used
and he goes, Sorry, it was the only one I could find.
I had to mug somebody for it.
He grins and lights it
and he and the girl behind the counter
sing “Happy Birthday” really loud.
I make my wish,
which is you-know-what.
And we sit there devouring doughnuts
and when we’re done
he buys me a bunch more to take home
and says that if I’m celebrating my birthday properly,
I have to have enough to last a whole week,
because you can’t just turn sixteen once
and call it a day.
Doughnuts
What’s this?
my dad asks when he sees the pink box on the counter
that says GOOD THINGS COME IN PINK BOXES.
Jenna says, Doughnuts from Elodie’s friend.
Oh, he says.
A guy friend, she adds.
Oh, he says again.
He is clueless,
which is good
because if she blabs any more
I might start to get annoyed.
But when my dad gets up to go to his office,
she leans over and whispers,
I always liked bad boys too,
and I say, He’s not actually bad.
And she says, That’s even better.
It’s weird: I never pictured Jenna at my age,
but obviously she once was,
before she grew up
and found a nice widower to marry
who happened to have a daughter
with whom she had nothing in common
until now.
APRIL 29
After school Marc and I played Rage and when I teased him about Elodie, he made a point to slaughter five Gingers really fast right in a row, so I laid off. Then he asked me what Elodie was like. I said she was really sweet and a little shy but a good friend. I left out the part about how we met in a room full of shoplifters.
We went back to playing for a few minutes and then I asked him, “So are you into her or what?” and he said, “I’m just glad she’s nice to my little sister,” and went up to his room. For a second it was weird to think my brother and my friend might be dating, but then I realized what an adorable couple they’d make.
Speaking of couples or NOT COUPLES, I haven’t seen Noah since the night of the party I went to with Alex. I want to run across the street and bang on his windows, but it’s not really my style, so I’ll just sit here and think about how much it sucks we can’t hang out and how much I hate him even though I don’t.
MEMOIRS
“You guys did a great job on your memoirs,” says Ms. Hoberman as she starts passing them back to us with grades on them. I’m a little nervous because I wasn’t going to write one, but after I talked to Elodie and Moe, it seemed a little less daunting—everybody’s parents are crazy, so what’s the big deal? Plus, once I started, I decided to write it totally free-form and I unleashed the beast and vented about my dad and all his bullshit, not to mention my mom refusing to stand up to him. Then I retyped it and added in a part about how my mom keeps redecorating our house ever since my brother off to college. I wrote about how she thinks if she keeps buying new stuff, it will fix everything in our lives. I don’t know if it made any sense, but at least it was the truth. Ms. Hoberman asked for a memoir, so that’s what I gave her.
When she drops my four pages on my desk, I see the A+ right at the top and I can’t help but feel a little proud, especially when she says, “You did a lovely job, Tabitha.” It seems like she wants to say more. Or maybe she just wants to commit me to a mental institution.
She gives back Patrick Cushman’s paper and says, “Very nice writing, Patrick.” I see the A on his, and he looks over at me and says, “I guess we’re awesome, huh?”
Then he says, “So… what do you think about going to the Spring Fling thingamajig with me?” He says “Spring Fling thingamajig” in a self-effacing way, like he’s trying to mock it, but obviously he’s serious. It shocks the shit out of me. I mean, he’s cute and nice, but Spring Fling? And then I think about how badly every relationship I’ve ever had goes. Patrick Cushman deserve
s better than that. He deserves to have a great time at the Spring Fling with someone who is easy and simple and not complicated.
“I wish I could,” I say. “But it’s probably too messy of a situation.”
His smile disappears. “What do you mean?” I want to say, Even though you’re not technically my type and you’re the last person I’m supposed to go to the Fling with, I think you’re kind of awesome. But I don’t. Instead, I shrug and say, “With Brady and everything.” He looks surprised and hurt, and I feel like a shitty person. It used to be a feeling I was semi-comfortable with. But now it makes me as itchy as that sweater I used to love all through middle school, which, for some reason, suddenly started giving me hives until finally I just had to throw it away.
DRESSES
I flip through the rainbow of dresses at Betsey Johnson. I don’t know why I’m here, because I’m not going to the dance with Brady or Patrick or anyone else. All I know is I’m on a weird kind of autopilot. I may look like any other customer on the outside, but inside I’m dangerous. Okay, maybe not dangerous like Moe is, but I’m definitely not happy.
I take an armful of clothes into the dressing room, carefully hiding two of them so that when the salesgirl checks to see how many items I have, she gives me a number tag that says 4 instead of 6. Inside I try on a gauzy orange-and-yellow V-neck. Maybe Brady’s right. Maybe I am a few pounds overweight.
I think about Zoe Amato and Keith Savage and how they looked in the hall today before sixth period. Zoe was gazing up at Keith before he pulled her in for a kiss. I look in the mirror at myself, wondering if I’ll ever find a guy who’ll love me in the orange-and-yellow top the way Keith Savage loves Zoe Amato with her split ends and her flared jeans and her crooked bottom teeth, his love making her beautiful and golden and perfect in her imperfections.
“Everything okay in there?” the salesgirl calls.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I say.
“Well, let me know if you need any other sizes.”
“Okay.”
I pull off the top and appraise the red dress. It’s a fancy dress version of the shirt I stole months ago when Moe and Elodie and I first started stealing together, back when we first met. I carefully remove the sensor with nail clippers. If you clip it at just the right spot at the base, it won’t burst open and spill its blue ink everywhere. It takes practice, that’s all. I make sure not to snag the fabric before folding it and placing it inside my bag.
As I walk out, I leave a top on the floor and I hand the number 4 and the four items back to the salesgirl. Like I said, dangerous.
Pipe Dream
I’m supposed to meet Moe and Tabitha in fifteen minutes
at the Car Wash fountain.
They’re expecting me to bring something good
because Tabitha is stealing a dress and a halter top
and Moe is stealing an iPod
from some store on SW Fifth.
All I have so far is a photo book
about seventies motorcycle gear.
Okay, fine. It’s for Marc.
I know I should be stealing what I told them I was going to steal
and not a book from River Books & Gifts
for a guy who’s not even close to being my boyfriend.
But one day if we are boyfriend-girlfriend,
I can give it to him.
Normally, we hate stealing from mom-and-pop shops,
but in this case the owners are assholes—
their anti-gay-marriage signs posted in the front window prove it—
so they deserve to get lifted.
I walk out, the book tucked under a copy of The Merc,
and I scoot down the sidewalk,
passing the new Apple Store.
I stop when I see
Moe through the window.
And she’s not shoplifting at all:
She’s standing at the front,
swiping her card into the iPad at the counter,
paying for stuff she was supposed to be stealing.
Fake Like You
What’s wrong? Tabitha asks when I get to the fountain.
I just saw Moe in the new Apple Store, I say.
She stole from Apple?! Tabitha freaks out.
She’ll totally get caught!
No, I say, correcting her.
She wasn’t stealing—she was buying.
Tabitha looks confused.
Wasn’t she supposed to take an iPad from that place on Fifth?
I nod, trying to process the Why
and the What Next.
Hey, dudes, Moe says, walking up.
She pulls the iPad out of her bag.
Mission accomplished.
Tabitha glances at me.
Where’d you get this? she asks Moe.
That anti-gay place, Moe says, smug.
You stole it? I ask.
Moe rolls her eyes. Of course I did.
Tabitha and I look at each other.
Can we go? Moe says.
I don’t want to hang around here waiting to get caught.
UNTIED
“She just saw you buy it,” I say.
Moe stops walking.
For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks uncertain. She bends down and reties the lace of her boot, even though it isn’t untied.
I glare at her. “Why were you in Shoplifters Anonymous if you don’t steal?”
“I do steal,” she says, defensive.
“But why were you buying something you said you were going to take?” Elodie asks.
“Can’t a person change her mind?” Moe backpedals.
“Wait a minute.” I realize something. “All those other times—were you actually stealing, or were you just saying you were stealing, so you could be our friend?”
Elodie whips around to glare at me. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, come on,” I retort. “You would. You were desperate to be friends with me.”
“What?!” Elodie looks stung.
“Oh my God, you’re so pathetic,” Moe snarls at me.
“I may have wanted to be your friend,” Elodie says. “But (a) that’s not a crime, and (b) I wouldn’t have lied like Moe did in order to do it.”
“Oh, wow. Low blow.” Moe glares at Elodie.
“Well, whatever. I was being who I am,” I say, looking at both of them. “I wasn’t masquerading as a shoplifter.”
Moe snorts. “Masquerading is better than being a complete bitch.”
This from a girl who hangs out with grindcore vandals but loves covertly listening to Katy Perry. Phony.
“I agree,” Elodie says.
“At least I’m not a loser like the two of you are,” I say.
The second I say it, I wish I could take it back. But it’s too late. Elodie turns and marches off across SW Fifth and past the City Grill.
“Nice,” Moe says, glaring at me before turning and walking away in the opposite direction toward the 76 station, leaving me standing there alone, with nowhere to go but home.
“People disappear, but objects stay.”
APRIL 30
I don’t know if it was worth it to go and get friends I actually care about. But I guess if they were real friends, they wouldn’t care if I stole an iPod or bought it. I should be able to tell them the sky is magenta or whatever, and they should believe me.
When I got home Marc asked me again about Elodie and I wanted to say she fooled me. I wanted to say that the reason I never let myself have real friends is because eventually they always disappoint you.
He wouldn’t let up and I knew I had to say something, so I told him Elodie’s a wimp who doesn’t stand up for her friends. And she’s a thief. I probably should have also added that I lied to people and they called me on it, but instead I just pushed him out of my room and shut the door before he could see me cry.
THE HANDSOME STRANGER
I always wake up early; I can’t help it. Maybe it’s a trait I inherited from my dad. Bu
t today I’m not getting up early, because I didn’t really sleep last night. I tossed and turned all night with a sick, anxious feeling.
I drag myself out of bed and pull on my jogging clothes and put my hair in a ponytail. The sun streams into my room, and I look around at the photos on the wall, the collection of snow globes, all the earrings and clothes. Almost every bit of it was procured with a five-finger discount. But even if it was achieved illegally, at least I have a bunch of trinkets to comfort me. People disappear, but objects stay.
“Hi, honey.”
I turn around to see my dad standing in the doorway. It’s been so many days since I’ve seen him, it’s like he’s a handsome stranger in the hall.
“Hey.”
“How’s school?” he asks, giving me an encouraging smile.
“Decent.”
“And Brady?”
“Over.” I shrug.
He nods without comment and picks up one of the snow globes from my bureau. Inside it is a little gingerbread house with a tiny oak tree in its yard. It was the first thing I ever stole, three years ago from a stationery store in Beaverton. I remember how I plotted its theft, how clever I felt as my mom cluelessly drove us away from the scene of the crime.
“Sorry I’ve been working so late. It’s been busy, but I wanted to talk to you,” he says, juggling the globe a little, creating a mini snowstorm.
“You do?” I can’t help but feel a pang of excitement. Maybe this is the moment he comes clean about what he really does late at night. Maybe this is the moment the family bullshit can finally stop.
“I wanted to remind you to get your car serviced,” he says.
I stare at him. That’s what he has to talk to me about. A week ago I would have wanted to scream and shout and punch him for disappointing me. But now I realize it’s better to take a deep breath and not say anything. The best thing I can do is stop expecting anything from him.
So I just say, “Okay, I’ll do it this weekend.”
He nods and backs out of the doorway.
I stand there for a second, stomach churning, not doing anything except watching the snow in the globe fall on the tiny cottage and the miniature tree as they sit in their bubble of glass, trapped in winter forever.
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