Klepto

by Jenny Pollack

“No. I don’t know. I haven’t stopped stealing, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Did you think you would stop after talking to me for a couple of months?” Joyce said, putting down her pen. I liked her. I wasn’t exactly sure why but I did. I zoned out a little until I realized she was waiting for me to say something.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Did you want to tell me about a particular incident?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” she said, sighing. “What do you say we leave ‘I don’t know’ out there in the hallway.” She gestured toward the door. I just blinked at her. “Because you do know, Julie. You know why you came here, why you wanted to start talking to me. To ‘a professional’—isn’t that what you told your mother?”

  “Yeah. . . .” I said, kind of wishing I hadn’t.

  “So tell me what’s going on.” Joyce’s chair squeaked as she readjusted her position.

  “I don’t know,” I said, then realized I was supposed to leave “I don’t know” out in the hall, so I laughed a little. Joyce smiled.

  “I just think something’s really wrong with me. . . .” My voice trailed off, and I fell into a really good zone-out on Joyce Kazlick’s chubby knee.

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m a kleptomaniac,” I said, snapping back to look Joyce square in the eyes. “Isn’t that what I am? Isn’t that what a kleptomaniac is? Someone who steals uncontrollably and can’t stop?”

  Joyce waited again.

  “I mean, I think about stopping all the time, but the thing is, I never do. I never do stop.” I took a deep breath. “And I’m starting to get scared that I can’t even talk to Julie about it. I mean, I tried to talk to her about it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Joyce said.

  “Julie doesn’t seem to want to stop. She seems so okay with it all. Like it’s just no biggie to her. So it’s hard to talk about it.”

  “What’s no biggie to her?” Joyce asked.

  “All the stealing we do!” God! Was she even listening?

  Again, she sat back in her chair and waited. She was thinking. Looking at her notes, she said, “You told me that you’re usually with Julie when you go shopping.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Is it always Julie’s idea, when you go?” Joyce asked.

  “I don’t know. Oops, I mean, I guess so,” I said, worrying that this was telling on Julie. Maybe Joyce sensed my uneasiness, ’cause she reminded me that everything we talked about was confidential and no one would ever know what went on in this room.

  “Do you always want to go with her?” Joyce asked.

  “Yeah, usually,” I said, starting to swing my legs in my chair. “I mean, at first I was really into it, like Julie always is. And she didn’t pressure me or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Okay. And now?” Joyce said.

  “Now?” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. My head was starting to pound. I bit at my thumb again—I just couldn’t get that hangnail off. “Now . . . I mean, like, lately I just feel like it’s so bad what we’re doing, even though I want to do it. I mean I want to do it, and I don’t want to do it. I only take things because I want them. Even though I know I shouldn’t do it, I mean, I know better. My mother would say that.” I imitated my mother’s voice, “You should know better!”

  Then Joyce Kazlick and I stared at each other again.

  “The thing is,” I said, “I don’t even really think about stealing until I go shopping. Like, if I’m in a store, I do it. I mean, there are times when I go to stores with the intention to steal but I wouldn’t be stealing if I wasn’t there, do you know what I mean? This is so hard to put into words, what I mean.”

  “You’re doing all right,” Joyce said.

  “It’s like . . . I mean, I can control myself if I just stay at home or do something else. Like I saw this movie on TV once where this dizzy blonde girl steals all this stuff, like scarves and makeup and lipsticks and stuff, and then gets home and dumps it all out of her purse and says, like a total airhead, ‘Where did I get all this stuff?’—like she didn’t know she did it! I mean, give me a break! Well, it’s not like that with me. It’s not like I’m a klepto and don’t know it, ’cause I do. I know what I’m doing. That’s what’s so weird.” Joyce thought about this for a second.

  “And you think knowing you steal or being aware of it means something?” she asked.

  “Well, shouldn’t it?” I asked, wiping my sweaty hands on the thighs of my jeans. My stolen magenta Fiorucci jeans. “Shouldn’t it mean I could control myself and stop?”

  “What do you think?” she said. How totally annoying. Why couldn’t she just answer my question?

  “What will happen if you get caught?” Joyce asked, which I didn’t expect, but I just looked down and picked at the hangnail on my thumb. I did get caught, I was thinking, but I just couldn’t make my mouth say it. Joyce kept looking at me.

  “It would be really bad,” I said finally, thinking about Bloomingdales. “Our friend Jennifer Smalls got caught, and she talked her way out of it. She told them some other girls dared her and it was her first time and she’d never do it again. And she made up a fake name and address because they made her sign these forms that she’d never go into that store ever again!” Joyce just blinked and wrote something down.

  “Well, of course she was really freaked out,” I continued.

  “So what did you think when Jennifer Smalls told you that story?”

  “It freaked me out, too.” I thought about that little fitting room where we sat sweating in the basement of Blooming-dale’s, the blonde lady cop’s sprayed hair and Members Only jacket, and the fuzzy lavender angora gloves, now hidden at the top of my closet.

  “Mm-hmm,” Joyce said.

  I remembered thinking after we left Bloomingdale’s that if getting caught didn’t make me stop stealing forever, I didn’t know what would. But it didn’t.

  Joyce was looking at me kind of sympathetically, and I thought she could probably tell I felt frustrated and weird, ’cause then she said softly, “What?”

  “I just feel like I’m so fucked-up, and I don’t know what to do.” I finally yanked that hangnail off my thumb and it bled a little. It hurt.

  Joyce Kazlick asked me what I thought would happen if I told Julie more about how I felt. I said I did kind of tell her, but she didn’t really care and I worried she might not be my friend anymore, even though I knew that was stupid—Julie wasn’t really like that. She was open-minded. I had told her that I went to see a therapist and she said, “Cool.” Everybody in her family had been to a therapist at one time or another, so she didn’t think I was crazy or anything. She even asked me sometimes how it went with Joyce.

  “What?” I said. Joyce sighed and we sat there quietly for a few seconds.

  “Is there any part of you that might want your mother to find out?” she asked. I didn’t know what to say. Joyce glanced at the clock and said, “I’m afraid we have to stop for today, but I’ll leave you with that to think about. I don’t have the answers, Julie. But I believe you do. Somewhere inside you, you do. Together we’ll find them.” She clipped her pen to her clipboard.

  How could I have the answers when my life was totally out of control?

  15

  I Will Not Get a Thing

  One Saturday in the middle of March, Julie and Jennifer Smalls dragged me to Patricia Fields. Patricia Fields was known for being kind of a punk-rock store. They sold fluorescent pink and orange and green wigs, and spiky dog collars that people wore as chokers. The salespeople who worked there wore combat boots and plaid miniskirts and red or black lipstick. They also sold some non-punk stuff like silk shirts, turquoise fishnet stockings, black rubber bracelets, and makeup.

  We had gone to see Tootsie at the Waverly, which was this small movie theater in Greenwich Village that was kind of run-down. Sometimes it smelled like pee in the lobby. I loved Tootsie—it was so funny, and such a good
love story.

  I didn’t think we’d end up shopping that day. When Jennifer said, “Let’s swing by Patricia Fields,” I just stopped walking and said, “No, let’s not. I can’t do it anymore.” I amazed myself. Julie and Jennifer both stopped for a second, but they didn’t seem surprised or even annoyed. Then we all started walking again.

  “Just come with us; you don’t have to get anything,” Jennifer said. A part of me couldn’t believe that they weren’t gonna be mad at me if I didn’t steal. So what was the harm in just going with them, I thought.

  “All right,” I said. “But all I’m gonna do is browse. I’m not touching a thing.” Maybe I’d just wait in the doorway like the lookout girl. I swore to myself, I will not get. I will not get a thing. But as soon as I entered Patricia Fields, I immediately thought, So here I am again, and I had this feeling like, How can I not get something? Maybe this would be my last time for real.

  After about ten minutes, I could tell Julie had something hidden inside her jacket from the way she pressed her elbow to her side. I felt kind of like I was outside of myself, looking down from the ceiling watching everything. Then I noticed a pair of blue sparkly stockings and a rhinestone belt. Jennifer saw me notice the stockings. “Beautiful,” she whispered, fingering a pair. “I just have to have these.”

  “Me, too,” I whispered back, and Jennifer giggled a little. Oh my God, I’m a psycho, I thought. I was waiting for one of them to say, “I thought you were just going to browse.” I was so glad they didn’t.

  Suddenly I felt really tired. Then both sweaty and chilly. I wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown. I didn’t think that was even possible at my age. Nervous breakdowns only happened to people in their forties. Then I overheard the conversation this punk-rock guy was having with the people behind the counter. I wasn’t totally sure, but I thought he was doing an imitation of his father when he was drunk. “You blasted kids!” or something, he said in a Cockney accent, and he did this funny walk with his belly out, and this just cracked up everybody at the counter. Right when the laughter got really loud, I slid the stockings in between two shirts and slipped into the dressing room with my stuff and nobody even looked in my direction. Jennifer was already in the dressing room next to me and I was sure she had a pair of the stockings, too.

  I put the stockings in my bag and suddenly I really wanted to get out of there. As if Julie and Jennifer read my mind, we all met at the makeup counter and said, “Ready?”

  In an instant we were back outside.

  “The coolest shorts!” Julie declared triumphantly.

  “Socks, fishnets, some other stockings, and a belt!” Jennifer said. Then they looked at me.

  “Stockings,” I mumbled.

  “Yay!” Julie said. “So what do you look so depressed about?”

  “I don’t know, I just feel nervous. I told you guys, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  “But you just did!” Jennifer said.

  “Why do you worry so much?” Julie said, sighing and not looking at me. She just kept walking and staring straight ahead. “Don’t worry so much.”

  As we got to Sixth Avenue, Julie said, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go to Bigelow’s. Anyone want a black-and-white ice-cream soda? They’re so good there!”

  Bigelow’s was this old-fashioned pharmacy and ice-cream parlor on Ninth Street. I’d only been there once with my dad a long time ago, but I remembered it was pretty good.

  I ordered a black-and-white ice-cream soda with chocolate-chip ice cream and chocolate syrup. I liked it with chocolate-chip ice cream instead of vanilla ’cause then you had all these chips at the bottom to eat at the end. That first sip was so incredible. Jennifer got one with strawberry ice cream and Julie got coffee ice cream with chocolate syrup, and we all tried each other’s. I started to relax and felt the heaviness in my chest go away. Jennifer was telling us about her recent date with David Wine. (I had told Jennifer about my make-out with David last Christmas and she didn’t care.)

  “We went to see Body Heat,” Jennifer said, cracking a slight smile.

  “How’dja get in?” Julie asked. “Isn’t that rated R?”

  “Well, we were gonna ask someone on line to take us in, which would have been totally embarrassing, but then we didn’t have to, ’cause they just gave us tickets. I guess it’s good that David’s tall,” Jennifer said, relishing the word “David” in her mouth.

  “So how was it?” I asked.

  “Pretty groovy,” Jennifer said, chewing her straw. “Sexy.”

  “Weren’t you embarrassed to watch all that sex with David?” I asked.

  “Nah,” she said, waving her hand at me, like she’d done it a million times.

  “Did you go to his house after?” Julie asked.

  “Yes!” Jennifer squealed, and we all fell into a fit of giggles. The ice-cream guy behind the counter looked at us for a second and then went back to counting receipts or whatever he was doing. “But just for a little while. It took forever to get home from there. I took a taxi.”

  “You went all the way to Staten Island?” I said.

  “Yeah! The ferry ride was, like, so romantic. . . .” Jennifer said dreamily, chewing her straw.

  “The Staten Island Ferry? You’re kidding!” Julie said.

  “So? What happened?” I said.

  “Well, nothing much, actually. We just made out a lot. Oh my God, he’s such a good kisser!”

  “I know!” I said, even though I didn’t mean it, and we cracked up. I wondered if he did the rotating-tongue thing with Jennifer.

  “But I have to tell you the funniest part.” Jennifer paused, taking a long sip of her ice-cream soda like she was enjoying keeping us waiting. She swallowed and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Oh my God. Are you ready for this? He has this huge . . . poster over his bed!”

  We stared at her for a second. “What kind of poster?” Julie said.

  Then she got all red in the face like she was gonna burst out laughing.

  “It’s a poster of the Muppets! He’s, like, obsessed with the Muppets!” She was laughing so hard she could barely speak.

  “You’re kidding!” I said. “Kermit and Miss Piggy and Fozzie Bear, like, right over his bed?” We were all howling.

  “Yes! Framed!” Jennifer said, trying to swallow her soda. This actually made me kind of like David more than I already did. I mean, just as a friend. But he really was one of the funniest people in our class.

  “He told me he watches The Muppet Show every night,” Jennifer continued. “Beaker and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew are his favorites!” More howling.

  “Was he embarrassed at all?” Julie yelped, wiping the laughter tears from the corners of her eyes.

  “No!” Jennifer said. “I couldn’t believe it!” Then Jennifer started making the beep-beep sounds that Beaker the Muppet makes and we kept laughing for a while until I got stomach cramps.

  “Have you guys told anyone about Bloomingdale’s?” Jennifer said. The blonde lady cop popped into my mind. Shit, just when I was starting to relax. I hadn’t even been back to the Lexington Avenue subway stop, let alone anywhere near Bloomingdale’s. Would I really never go back there for the rest of my life? I imagined the scene of my return:

  I would get just one foot into the revolving door to B-WAY. Instantly, deafening alarms would go off, a giant searchlight would shine in my face, blinding me, and I’d barely be able to make out a silhouette of the blonde lady cop, dressed in a police uniform this time, with a team of mean-looking policemen behind her. The blonde lady cop would point at me angrily and shout through a giant bullhorn: “Julie Howe of One Fifteen Central Park West! You signed documents saying that you would never, ever return to Bloomingdale’s for the rest of your life! You have violated that contract!” Then I’d see my parents and Aunt Marty and some other relatives standing in the corner looking ashamed and disappointed in me. Maybe my mother would even be crying. And then all the cops would swarm around me, slap handcuffs on me, an
d lock me up forever in that little mug-shot fitting room in the basement.

  “What about you, Julie?” Jennifer was saying to me, shaking me out of my fantasy. “Were you listening?”

  “Oh, um. I don’t know,” I said. “What?”

  “I asked if you guys told anyone about Bloomie’s,” she repeated.

  “No, I haven’t,” I said, looking at my watch. Three o’clock. “Oh shit! I almost forgot! I have a rehearsal with my new scene partner, Demaris, at three thirty! I gotta go!” We slurped down the rest of our sodas and headed for the subway.

  The next Sunday, Mom and I were both in the kitchen in the late afternoon. She was emptying my hamper into the washing machine and I was at the counter getting a snack. I could see her eyeing my shirts. Three new shirts I’d gotten from Macy’s. They were all the same—long-sleeved with shoulder pads, in magenta, green, and black.

  “New shirts?” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, not looking at her. I took a bite of a pretzel.

  “Where’d you get them?” Oh God, I thought, she knows. I never should have put them all in the laundry at once. My heart started to race and I inhaled silently.

  “The flea market on Greene Street,” I lied, acting like it was no big deal that she was questioning me. I pretended not to see the funny look on her face. Was lying a normal part of being a teenager, or was something wrong with me? When would I stop lying? And if I never did stop, what kind of person would I grow up to be?

  I could only imagine she was thinking that these three shirts had “department store” written all over them. I wondered if she noticed the tiny rips where those white plastic things had been.

  “You got these brand-new shirts at the flea market?” She paused. “Julie . . . is there something you’re not telling me?”

  For a few seconds, I just looked at her, stunned. I didn’t know what to say.

  “You look like the cat who ate the canary,” she said.

  “Um.” I swallowed. “Can we go talk in my room?” I felt my voice get shaky. Mom put down the shirts and followed me. I didn’t actually know if I was ready to confess. If I did, I hoped that would mean I’d really stop stealing once and for all. But of course, I couldn’t be sure. The walk to my room was really quiet and serious like we were soldiers in line. Mom closed my door. I couldn’t think of a time we had ever talked in my room with the door closed. I wondered if I should tell her about Bloomingdale’s. No, that would just shock her. We sat down on my twin bed.