Klepto

by Jenny Pollack

  “I didn’t mean to say that,” Julie said, still giggling. “It just came out! Anyway, Mom was like, ‘So what’s the big deal?’ to the French guy. ‘My kid tried to steal a silk vest?’ Like, what’s everybody freaking out about? And even though she assured the policeman I’d never steal again, he wrote me a ticket! So I have this court date in a few months but Mom called Harvey, who she broke up with, but he’s a lawyer, and he’ll help us. And everyone at Sak’s thought Mom was totally crazy, of course, like I needed another reason to feel embarrassed, and somehow we got out of there and Mom says, ‘Julie, please, you should know better, ’ or something, like no biggie really, and she hugs me and puts me in a cab to go home so she could go meet Nate.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No,” Julie said. “And I cried the whole cab ride home.”

  “Did you tell anyone?” I asked.

  “I told Mandy and that was it.”

  “Really? Not even Jennifer Smalls? Or Natalie?”

  “Nope.” Julie shook her head.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, trying not to sound hurt.

  “I don’t know, I guess . . . I just . . .” she said. “Well, you had just said you were gonna stop. . . .”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Have you been mad at me this whole time for that? I kept telling myself that couldn’t be true.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I was,” Julie said, looking me in the eyes. “You got kind of weird about the whole thing.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. Now my voice was getting squeaky. I was scared we were gonna fight again and then not talk for God knows how long.

  “I don’t know, you were just bugging out and acting kind of uptight about stopping. I felt like you judged me or something. Like that time we went to Patricia Fields with Jennifer Smalls.”

  “I just couldn’t do it anymore,” I said, barely whispering. “Even though I did get something that day.”

  Julie just stared at me.

  “There was this other time I went to Fiorucci with Daze and Jennifer. I actually took a shirt and made it out of the store, and then I went and put it back. I just couldn’t go through with it,” I said.

  “I heard about that,” Julie said.

  “Oh.” We paused and sat there a second. I felt like Julie was still mad at me, but I didn’t think I should apologize.

  “Anyway, I was also pretty ashamed,” Julie said, crying again. “I felt so stupid—that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “I didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t sure. I just couldn’t figure out how you could stop talking to me over stealing.” Then I started crying again, too. “It was so weird.”

  “I know, I’m sorry—” Her voice dissolved into sobs.

  “I know,” I said. “You don’t have to say sorry anymore. But are you still mad at me ’cause I stopped?”

  Julie just cried silently and shook her head.

  “Have you stolen anything since this Sak’s thing?” I asked, lowering my voice.

  Julie nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  “Julie!” I said. “I know you’re gonna think I’m being uptight or whatever, but come on!”

  “I know,” she said. “I don’t think you’re uptight. You’re right.” I could feel my forehead was all scrunched up.

  “So what happens at the court date?” I said.

  “It’s July seventh, so at least school will be out. Harvey says I just have to go down there with him and look like I’m a really unhappy fucked-up kid, and he says the worst is probably I’ll have to pay a fine.” I must have had a horrified look on my face and Julie knew exactly what I was thinking.

  “No! There’s no chance I’m going to jail!” she said.

  I exhaled and Julie sighed, too. “God, it’s so good to talk to you,” she said. I suddenly felt this wave of calm.

  The world had completely stopped while Julie and I sat on that stoop and talked, until we realized we were both starving, so we walked to the Blimpie on Broadway. I thought, Julie Braverman and I actually talked again. It’s all going to be okay. She’s going to help me figure out the Josh stuff and we’re going to be best friends again. I thought about Joyce Kazlick and that she’d be proud of me, if therapists felt proud of their patients. I wasn’t sure. I liked going to Joyce, I realized. Even though I wasn’t planning to steal again, I wanted to keep talking to her.

  Whoever thought up the Blimpie was a genius. I mean, putting oil and vinegar on a ham and cheese hero with the lettuce, tomato, and mayo—I loved the tangyness of it. We bought Blimpies, sodas, chips, and brownies and brought them back to Julie’s house, where no one else was home. I had told Julie all the Josh Heller stuff while we waited on line for our sandwiches. She said he was a total asshole for going off with Leah Reemer, and as I had imagined, she said if she had been there instead of Jennifer Smalls, she would have told him off. Julie said it was a good sign that he tried to call me so much right after the run-in, that he apologized, and that he said he didn’t want to date Leah Reemer. But the whole Spring Dance question was a toughie.

  “Well, let’s put it this way,” Julie said with her mouth full of Blimpie. We were at her round kitchen table, using the paper wrappers from our sandwiches as plates. “Do you actually want to go to the dance?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” I tried to imagine what it would be like. The dance was going to be at the St. Moritz Hotel on Central Park South.

  I imagined the Spring Dance would be in some big ballroom with chandeliers and gold wallpaper. When I told my Mom that Josh asked me to the Spring Dance and that it was at the St. Moritz Hotel, she said, “Ooh! Fancy schmancy!” I imagined myself really dressed up in a taffeta 1950s dress I’d find at Unique Antique Boutique. My dress would be red with black velvet spaghetti straps and tiny black velvet flowers woven all through it. I’d wear red lipstick. I saw Julie in purple—a deep purple antique dress under which she’d wear a big poofy petticoat. She’d have a little purple clutch purse and we’d both have beautiful wrist corsages. And nothing we wore would be stolen. We’d have receipts for everything. But Julie hadn’t been asked to the Spring Dance.

  “If you were gonna be there, I think I’d want to go more,” I said, realizing Julie would probably want to go with Oliver, but he didn’t go to P.A. “Are you still going out with Oliver?” I asked.

  “No,” Julie said, like, Don’t remind me. “He went back to England, that schmuck.”

  “You’re kidding!” I said. I was shocked.

  “Nope. He broke the news to me, like, a week before he had to leave. His visa was up or something, I don’t know. And of course he waited to tell me till the morning after I spent the night and had sex with him again. I really wanted to tell you that, too. . . .” She looked sad again.

  “I wish you had,” I said.

  “Me, too.” Then we both looked at each other and smiled.

  “Don’t say it!” I started laughing.

  “I’m sorry!” she shouted, and kind of laughed, too.

  “No! You are not allowed to say sorry any more! I forbid it!”

  I shoved the last bite of my ham-and-cheese Blimpie in my mouth.

  “I’ve got an idea: How about you ask Rick DiBiassi to go to the dance?” I suggested. Julie thought for a second. She certainly had the guts for something like that.

  “Nah, that’d be weird, he’s gotta ask.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And anyway, as much as I still think Rick is totally gorgeous, I don’t really care about the Spring Dance. It’s for juniors. It’s not like it’s our Spring Dance or the prom, you know?”

  “I know,” I said, watching Julie toss her empty bag of chips into the garbage. “But what if I don’t have a boyfriend our junior year? When will I get a chance to go to a cool dance with a boy again?”

  “Well, that’s not a reason to go, just ’cause you got asked. It’s sounds to me like if you’re wanting to go only if I go, then you don’t really want to
go.” I thought about this for a second. She was right.

  “Besides, Jule,” Julie said, looking me square in the eye. “Wouldn’t you rather get asked by a really good boyfriend? One who won’t pressure you about sex and then cheat on you? Let’s wait for really good ones.”

  “Was Oliver a good boyfriend?” I asked.

  “I guess not,” Julie sighed.

  “What if neither of us has a date for our Spring Dance?” I asked.

  “Then we’ll go together,” Julie said, brushing crumbs off the table into her hand. “Let’s make a pact on it!” she said, looking up like she had a lightbulb over her head.

  She held out her pinky to me. I curled my pinky around hers and we pulled. It was official: if neither of us had boyfriends in June 1984—our junior year—we’d go to the dance together.

  I managed to avoid Josh for a whole week before I worked up the guts to talk to him. I was kind of nervous about actually confronting him, but Julie told me, “You can do it,” and in my heart, I knew I could. But whenever I imagined talking to Josh, my heart started racing like I was stealing clothes or something. One Friday after school, a week before the dance, I found Josh alone by the front steps to P.A. Tons of kids were outside listening to their boom boxes and talking and stuff, but he didn’t seem to be with anybody.

  “Hi,” I said, taking a deep breath.

  “Hi,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was glad to see me or not.

  “Listen . . .” I plunged right in. “I can’t, I don’t think I can go to the dance with you.” Josh thought for a second and kind of squinted at me ’cause the sun was in his face. I stood there adjusting my book bag, feeling totally self-conscious.

  He nodded a little before he spoke. “Okay . . . how come?”

  “Um . . .” I didn’t expect him to ask how come. I thought he’d just say, “Oh well, have a nice life, bye,” or something.

  “I just don’t . . .” I started. I wasn’t sure how to put it. “I just don’t . . . feel right about it,” I said.

  “’Cause of the whole Leah thing?” Josh said, sounding kind of pissed off.

  “I don’t know, I guess that’s partly—”

  “I told you, I don’t want to date her!” Josh said, interrupting.

  “What are you getting pissed off for?” I said. Then I sort of said under my breath, “I mean, you cheated on me!”

  “Excuse me? I didn’t exactly cheat on you! It’s not like we were girlfriend and boyfriend!” he said. Ouch.

  “What?” I said. I felt a combination of wanting to kill him and my heart breaking.

  Later, I would think of all the great things I should have said, like, “ANYWAY, I’D RATHER BE WITH SOMEONE TALLER!” or “I LIED ABOUT YOUR TEETH—GET BRACES, ASSHOLE!” or even just a simple “FUCK YOU!” and “EAT SHIT AND DIE!” But nothing even remotely like that came to mind.

  “Well, anyway,” I said, as if it wasn’t clear, “I don’t think we should go out anymore. So obviously I’m not going to the Spring Dance with you.” And then I actually added, “Have a nice time!” I looked him in the eyes one last time and turned away to walk to the subway, resisting every impulse to look behind me to see if he was watching me walk away. I felt like an idiot for wishing him a nice time, I mean, why in God’s name did I say that? But it didn’t really matter ’cause I did it. I broke up with him.

  “Julie Prodsky, you are just too chill!” Julie said when I told her everything later on the phone. I was a little depressed about Josh, but I also felt kind of relieved. I just couldn’t believe he turned into such an asshole after he seemed so nice. Maybe this whole ordeal would make me feel older somehow. I could chalk it up to one of life’s bittersweet experiences. You had to roll with the punches, or you weren’t really living a real life, right? Didn’t somebody important say that in a song or something?

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” Julie asked. Tomorrow was Saturday.

  “Nothing . . .” I started to say.

  “Good! ’Cause we’re going shopping!”

  “What? No, Jule—” I got scared that she meant we were going getting.

  “C’mon, c’mon, you can’t refuse. We need to celebrate! Let’s go down to the Village!”

  “All right,” I said, feeling unsure.

  “Am I your best friend?” Julie wanted to know.

  “Yeah. . . .” I said.

  “And do you trust me?” she asked. I’d never heard such determination in her voice.

  “Yeah....”

  “Okay, then, meet me at the subway at eleven in the morning.”

  Saturday morning I showered, scrunched my hair with mousse, got dressed, and took a twenty-dollar bill I kept in my undies-and-sock drawer that I had been saving for a special occasion. Today seemed like the perfect day to buy myself a present. I went into my parents’ bedroom to tell them I was going out. My dad had gone to the roof of our building to sit in the sun, and Mom was sitting at her vanity, putting foundation on her face.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi, pussy cat,” Mom said. “You look nice; where are you off to?”

  “Julie and I are going down to the Village to go shopping.”

  “Have fun,” she said, looking in her mirror at her eyelids; then she turned and looked at me. “Shopping, hmm? You’re not—”

  “No, I don’t do that anymore Mom,” I said, lowering my voice, sitting on the end of the bed. “I promise.”

  Mom squinted at me like she was trying to decide if I was telling the truth.

  “Really?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, looking her in the eyes. “I swear.” I crossed my heart.

  “All right,” she said skeptically. I changed the subject.

  “I do have to tell you something,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Josh and I broke up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, frowning. “What happened?”

  “He just turned out to be a total jerk, so I’m not going to the dance with him.”

  “Well that’s all right, there’ll be other dances,” Mom said.

  “That’s what Julie said,” I said.

  “Julie’s right. Now you know what you have to do, right?” Mom said.

  “What?” I said.

  “You just have to open the front door and shout ‘Next!’” We both kind of laughed.

  “Oh, Mom,” I said, getting up and walking out the doorway, “you’re so weird. If only your advice was, like, for people on this planet!”

  Sometimes, like maybe once a year or something, my mom wasn’t all bad.

  Sitting in the red vinyl booth at the Greene Street Diner, Julie and I ate our grilled-cheese sandwiches, and I had such mixed feelings. I was happy to be hanging out with her again and to be in the Village, my favorite place in New York City, but I was also kind of nervous about what she was gonna do once we got in a clothing store. A part of me wished we could go back to last fall, before she taught me how to steal, to before I knew how she got all those jeans. But that was impossible and anyway, I’d never want to go back to knowing Julie less than I did now. In a way, our whole stupid fight had made us closer.

  Our waiter came over to the table. He was a short older man with smiling eyes and a big belly.

  “How are you pretty girls?” he said with a Greek accent.

  “Fine,” Julie said, and looked at me.

  “Yeah, can we have the check please?” I said. The waiter took out his pad and flipped through a few pages till he found our order.

  “You girls sisters?” he said, not looking up. Julie and I laughed, like, He’s kidding, right?

  “No,” I said, and then not knowing why, I just blurted out, “I’m Julie.” The waiter looked at me and smiled.

  “And I’m Julie, also,” Julie said.

  “Ah!” the waiter said. “Oh! Two Julies!” He laughed a hearty, throaty laugh as he put our check on the table.

  It felt like ages since I’d been to Reminiscence. I had always wanted a pair of the pur
ple painters pants with the dark blue stripes, the same pair Julie had.

  “Try them on anyway,” Julie said, even though I said I couldn’t afford them. “Don’t you want to see how they look on you?”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. We went to the dressing rooms in the back with a few shirts and pairs of pants each, and I was thinking how this totally felt like old times. But some other part of me just knew I wasn’t going to steal anything. What Julie was gonna do, I wasn’t so sure about.

  Julie stepped out of her dressing room wearing a can vasy kind of lavender jacket with big white buttons and looked in the full-length mirror. I came out as she was pushing up the sleeves. I put my hands in the pockets of the painters pants.

  “Those look great on you!” Julie said. “Look at how great your butt looks!” I turned my butt toward the mirror to see my profile—not bad.

  “Very nice,” this girl who worked there said, from the ladder she was sitting on above us. She was refolding this enormous pile of different colored balloon pants.

  “Dontcha think?” Julie looked up to the girl.

  “Oh, yeah,” the girl said. “And I swear, if something doesn’t look good, I don’t say anything at all.”

  “I don’t think this jacket is really me,” Julie was saying back to the mirror.

  “I like it,” I said. “Cool buttons.”

  “It’s more you; you try it on,” Julie said, and she was totally right. I loved the jacket; it was so me. It had no collar and these big plastic buttons, kind of like an old-fashioned railroad worker’s jacket.

  “That’s on sale,” the salesgirl called down. “I think it’s only ten dollars.”

  Ten dollars was still kind of a lot. But I couldn’t take the jacket off. The sleeves looked so good pushed up, I kept turning in front of the mirror to see the different sides. I went back in my dressing room to change, unable to decide whether to buy the jacket. Julie, I realized, was in some other part of the store. I peeked into the dressing room she had been in to see if she had left anything in there, and it was empty. I started to feel nervous. I handed my painters pants up to the lady on the ladder.