I’m still stopped in front of the Marlborough. An elderly man waiting behind me in a Cadillac honks.
“I think I’d rather rest my throat,” I say.
The man honks again and I swing onto the road. Couldn’t he wait one minute? What’s with the elderly? Vehicularly speaking, they have no patience and consistently overuse their horns.
I pull into Sarah C’s driveway and she climbs out without saying another word about sing group or the balmy air. Sometimes, she acts like she belongs in a musical. Like The Sound of Music. She’s totally the kind of person who would persist against the Nazis, make outfits out of curtains, and then belt out a song about it. A problem-solving personality can be so nauseating. As a Sarah, she should know that.
Sarah B pops her gum at four-second intervals, but doesn’t say anything either. She waits until I pull in front of her house and then she’s gone, taking her tart scent with her. Maybe I should muster some sort of good-bye. Or make a joke out of what happened so I can lighten the mood. But I drive away. There’s no denying it. Right now, sitting atop this magazine, I feel like a substandard, spineless, pee-stained fool. I accelerate into the dusk. This isn’t the first time I’ve failed somebody. And because life is long, I doubt it’ll be the last.
I turn onto Taliesin and drive on automatic pilot toward my driveway. I don’t see the possum until it’s too late. He scampers in front of me and I’m so disconnected from the present moment, thinking about the Sarahs, that I smack him dead. I slam on the brakes. His white body glows pink in my taillights.
There’s no way that he’s merely injured. I can see a tread mark running down his center. I pull into the carport and look back at the flattened marsupial. Besides a few ants, and a low-flying sparrow in driver’s ed, this is the first animal I’ve ever killed. My first mammal.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
I walk to it. The possum’s eyes are closed, but its mouth is turned up in surprise. Like maybe it was expecting to have a future. But then it encountered my all-weather radials.
“I won’t let this happen again,” I say, tugging my form-fitting wet pants out of my crotch.
I walk away. I don’t enjoy confronting death either. As soon as my dad gets home, I’ll tell him about the possum. Sooner or later, he’ll dispose of it properly. There’s way too many of these ratlike marsupials in the neighborhood anyway. I think one of them murdered my neighbor’s puffy Pomeranian, Pom-Pom. It was either eaten or stolen. Because one day, that yapping fuzzball was gone. And I doubt anyone in our neighborhood would steal an elderly blind woman’s dog. Even the Sarahs have limits.
Once inside, I head toward my bedroom. My parents are at the movies. They’re watching a documentary about global warming. Apparently, there’s some startling shots of glaciers melting. I can’t even believe that they’re showing that in a movie theater. Documentaries aren’t movies. Everybody knows that.
I tug at my pants again. They’re clinging to me in a way that emphasizes my female anatomy. I need a shower. I feel filthy.
Standing beneath the shower’s warm flood, I let out a deep breath. I’m filled with this doomed feeling and I can’t shake it. It’s not about what happened at the Barnes & Noble. Or the possum. It’s about the Sarahs. What if Sarah A is planning to dump one of us and downsize our group to three? Am I a dumpee? Shouldn’t there be a vote? Wouldn’t it make more sense to dump Sarah C?
Sarah T, I’m concerned about our group of four.
I turn off the water and step out of the shower. Looking at myself in my most natural state makes me feel so insignificant. Steam hangs in the air, fogging the mirror’s glass. Slowly, it erases my short, naked body: brown hair, small boobs, pudgy stomach, thick thighs, and my ungroomed patch of hair down there. Soon, I’m barely visible at all. It’s like I’m looking at my own ghosthood.
I grab a towel and wrap it around me. I can feel myself begin to cry. I lift my damp hands and wipe away the tears. I want to be more than who I am, more than just Sarah Trestle. I want to be a part of something bigger than myself. Without the Sarahs, how would I do that?
I’m teetering on the brink of really losing it, of being swallowed by a wave of absolute sadness. I force myself to stop crying, and make the fragile and soft parts of myself, if only for a moment, turn hard. I look back into the mirror hoping to see some of this new resolve, but the glass doesn’t return my reflection. All it gives me is a thick, empty cloud.
Chapter 3
“It’s finally time for the next thing. We’re entering the guy phase,” Sarah A says.
Because it’s six o’clock in the morning, everything feels very dreamlike. I know I’m talking on the phone, because my mother just handed me the receiver and said, “You’ve got a phone call.” And I’m aware that the person on the other end is Sarah A, because the first thing out of Sarah A’s mouth was, “It’s me.” And telephonically speaking, that’s what Sarah A always says. But, being the crack of dawn, I feel fuzzy and surprised.
“Are we entering the guy phase right now?” I ask. “Because I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”
Sarah A sighs dramatically.
“Not right now, right now. But everything is lined up. Come over to my house at four,” Sarah A says.
I roll over onto my back and stare up at my ceiling.
“In the morning?” I ask.
“No. That’s stupid. Come over at four in the afternoon like a normal person.”
“And will guys be at your place?” I ask.
“No,” Sarah A says. “I said that we’re entering the guy phase. We need to ease into it. Each step we take will be carefully chosen.”
“You sound very full of energy,” I say, yawning.
“It’s been quite a night,” Sarah A says.
She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press.
“Do I need to bring anything?” I ask.
“An open mind,” Sarah A says.
We don’t say good-bye. Our conversations end when Sarah A is done talking. I hang up the phone and turn back onto my side. This is the first Sarah contact I’ve had in four days. I think it’s the longest I’ve ever gone without any Sarah interaction since I became a Sarah. One more day and I might’ve freaked out. I mean, in addition to being out of the Sarah loop, I also missed my weekly Wednesday volunteer shift at the shelter. Nobody called to give me the all-clear to show up last night, so I didn’t. I stayed home and stewed about my problems. Which did nothing to improve my emotional well-being.
But now it looks like I stewed for nothing, because the Sarahs are ready to enter the guy phase and I’m right there with them. The purity vow that I took in eighth grade will finally be reconsidered.
***
“Male/female relationships have a tendency to torpedo female/female relationships,” Sarah A said.
At that point, we didn’t have Sarah C or Sarah D. It was just me and Sarah A and Sarah B. I was disheartened to hear that guys were so destructive, because at twelve years old I found the prospect of securing a boyfriend thrilling. But Sarah A put the kibosh on those plans.
“We’re going to take a purity vow right now,” Sarah A said.
It was the first day of school after our remarkable “sponge cake summer.” All during break, the three of us had stolen individually wrapped Twinkies from a variety of grocery and convenience stores in southwest Michigan. We cleared somewhere around seventy-four. We sat outside on the front lawn, waiting for lunch to end, and our eighth-grade education in math, aka advanced algebra, to resume. Sarah A put her hand out, palm down, and Sarah B and I put our hands out, palms down, and then Sarah A smacked the top of our hands really hard. Then we all turned our hands sideways and I shook Sarah A’s hand and then Sarah B’s. And then they shook hands too. Then we spit on our hands and rubbed our knees and pressed them together to symbolize our chaste intent.
“Our purity vow has begun,” Sarah A said.
At the time, I thought a purity vow had something to do with keeping your virginit
y. But ours went a little bit further than that. Sarah A lifted her arm up high in the air and held it there, like she was trying to attract the attention of a higher being so he or she or it could call on her.
“Repeat after me,” Sarah A said. “From this point forward, I refuse to let any guy have access to my heart or my stuff.”
“Can we define ‘stuff’?” Sarah B asked.
“If you have to ask whether or not something is considered your stuff, I think it’s safe to assume that it is,” Sarah A said.
So Sarah B and I lifted up our hands and repeated the promise. Every few weeks after this, for the first year, Sarah A would think of things to add to our purity vow.
“I will not call a guy, nor will I allow a guy to call me.”
“I will not chat with any guy I sit next to in class.”
“I will respond to all male attention by laughing in a polite manner and walking away.”
When Sarah C and Sarah D joined our group, they had to take the purity vow too. I’m not going to pretend that I was happy with the purity vow. Even though I have my anxiety problems, I always felt like I was missing out on something. Guys seem so fun and interesting. I think Sarah A could sense that I was weak in this area, because she used to remind me quite frequently about the catastrophic and dangerously horny nature of our male peers.
“They’ll tear us apart, Sarah T,” Sarah A said. “They’ll drag your heart out of your chest and throw it down an elevator shaft just to watch it go boom.”
Based on the little I knew about boys, hearts, and the mechanical trappings of elevators, I thought this statement seemed plausible.
“Remember what you promised,” Sarah A said.
And I always remembered what I had promised. I kept it in the forefront of my mind, where it was as accessible to me as my locker combination. Sure, the Sarahs would talk amongst ourselves about guys we liked, but it never went further than that. Whether they knew it or not, every guy I came across was a potential Sarah destroyer. And so all through eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh grades, when I encountered male attention, I laughed politely and walked away. While this purity vow may have curtailed our male/female relationships, it had a weird side effect. The more distance we put between ourselves and guys, the more they sought after us. Our desirability shot into the stratosphere. Presently, the Sarahs are one of the most popular cliques at Central. Guys always try to capture our attention. And how do we respond? We laugh politely and walk away.
“It makes us mysterious,” Sarah A says. “Insecure teenagers eat that act up. The guys know we’re different. We’re what they can’t have. And it makes them go ape.”
I have to agree. I get plenty of attention from jocks, thespians, art freaks, and fellow choral students. And our standoffishness seems to have affected the way our female peers treat us too. Everybody from the cheerleaders to the debate queens are nice to us. I don’t know if it’s because they think we’re mysterious, or because we walk around with this fake confidence. Actually, Sarah A’s confidence isn’t fake. Sarah C’s might not be inauthentic either. Same goes with Sarah B. To be honest, I might be the only Sarah who is completely falsifying my current level of self-esteem. But it doesn’t matter. Because we’re at the guy phase.
***
“Are you off the phone?” my mother calls.
“Yes,” I say.
I pull my blanket close to my neck. I feel tingly. Just thinking about the guy phase excites me.
“Have you arisen for the day?” she asks.
“Nah. It’s summer,” I say. “I’ll arise around noon.”
***
I park outside the Marlborough and see Sarah A sitting on an enormous stone planter out front. She’s so happy that her face is glowing like a planet.
“You’re late,” Sarah A says.
“But it’s not four o’clock yet,” I say.
“You’re the last Sarah here,” Sarah A says.
I look around, but I don’t see them.
“I sent them to the Munchie Mart for crackers,” Sarah A says.
“Who’s working? I think the guy with the freckles who wears the beret suspects that we’ve been stealing his crackers,” I say.
“Relax,” Sarah A says. “Sarah C offered to buy them for us. It’s a great strategy on her part. Periodically entering the store as a paying costumer will help divert suspicion,” Sarah A says.
“That is smart,” I say.
“I know she can be saucy, but Sarah C truly has a criminal mind,” Sarah A says.
“Hmm,” I say, nodding in agreement.
Due to the potential ousting of one of us, I don’t want Sarah A to overvalue Sarah C. But I think Sarah A is right. After Sarah A, Sarah C has the most felonious brain among us.
It doesn’t take long before Sarah C and her red ponytail come swinging down the sidewalk. Sarah B walks beside her, blowing her trademark bubbles.
“Triscuits,” Sarah C says, lifting the box above her head.
Sarah A punches her code into the security keypad and pulls open the front door.
“Do you think you’ll ever give one of us the code?” Sarah C asks.
“If I give out the secret code to people, then it’s really not a secret code anymore, is it?” Sarah A says.
We follow her up the stairs to her condo.
“Is Vance here?” Sarah B asks.
“No,” Sarah A says. “He’s at therapy. He’s supposed to be on the verge of a breakthrough.”
Considering his recent breakdown involving the cantaloupe pyramid at Hardings, it’s a relief to hear this. I guess in a vague way I’d always wondered what would happen if some random person toppled a melon display at the grocery store and, with reckless abandon, bowled the sizable fruit down the aisles. Now I know. The store manager calls the cops.
“You guys are going to die,” Sarah A says, “when you see what I’ve done.”
“Did you steal something big?” Sarah B asks.
“Is it about the guy phase?” Sarah C asks.
“Did you steal a guy?” I ask.
Sarah A throws open her bedroom door and swings her arm out wide to welcome us. Inside, I see four large pillows. Each pillow is wearing a guy’s shirt. The shirts are familiar. They look like shirts that guys from our school wear.
“You stole Benny Stowe’s shirt for me?” Sarah C asks.
Sarah C runs to the beige button-down shirt and buries her face in its fluffy torso.
“It smells like him,” Sarah C says, sucking down a deep breath. “It smells exactly like Benny.”
“I took it last night from his bedroom,” Sarah A says.
“You broke into Benny’s house?” Sarah C asks.
Sarah A smiles wide. She walks over and picks up a pillow, wearing a light blue polo shirt.
“This is Roman Karbowski’s shirt,” Sarah A says. “I climbed in through a window. He was asleep on his side. I sat on his dresser and watched him. The shirt was on the floor. It’s still wrinkled.”
Sarah A runs her finger along the shirt’s collar.
“Is that Gerard Truax’s?” Sarah B asks. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been crushing on him since sixth grade.” Sarah B gathers her pillow in her arms and hugs it to her.
There’s one pillow left. I guess it’s mine, but I don’t recognize the shirt. All last year I talked about my interest in Sal Rodriguez. He’s an artist who recycles three-ring binders by making sculptures out of them. Usually, he’s able to preserve the binder’s original cover, which often features a sweet animal like a panda bear or a pony. But he’s subversive. Sal inserts ironic thought bubbles over the animals’ heads. His panda bears usually condemn China and its record on human rights. Also, Sal’s pandas freely admit to having low libidos. The ponies, cartoonlike and unrealistic, talk about how they’re aware and deeply ashamed of their commercial appeal amongst tween girls. Sal is the best. But the shirt on my pillow is a conservative yellow-and-white checkered shirt. It looks like something a stuck-up jo
ck would wear.
“Don’t you like your shirt?” Sarah A asks.
“Is it Sal’s?” I ask.
“Sal?” Sarah A says. “Why would you want that loser’s shirt?”
“Sarah T has had a thing for Sal since ninth grade,” Sarah C says. “Ever since he led the unpasteurized milk rally in the lunchroom.”
“That was so stupid. What kind of heathen drinks unpasteurized milk?” Sarah A asks.
“It’s like a movement,” Sarah B says. “Lots of my cousins drink it that way. They claim it has more nutrients.”
“You can’t be serious?” Sarah A asks. “You wanted Sal’s shirt? Sal Rodriguez?”
“Different strokes for different folks, I guess,” I say.
“Well, I didn’t get you Sal’s shirt. I got you Doyle Rickerson’s shirt,” Sarah A says. “Go on. Try it. He wears fantastic aftershave.”
“Doyle is the best pitcher Central has had in years,” Sarah B says.
“He’s definitely hot,” Sarah C says.
“Way hotter than Sal,” Sarah A says.
I pick up the pillow and wrap my arms around it. All this cushioned softness feels pleasant, but the shirt smells like a stranger.
“What do you think of his aftershave?” Sarah A asks.
“It smells like leather,” I say.
“I know. Yum,” Sarah A says.
It’s disappointing to arrive at the guy stage and be partnered with Doyle Rickerson. I know I should go forward with enthusiasm, but it’s hard.
“Doyle has great arms,” Sarah B says. “Especially his right one.”
“It’s settled. He’s a stud. Let’s sit,” Sarah A says.
We all take our places on her carpeted floor while Sarah A sits a tier above us on her bed.
“The ultimate goal of the guy phase is to secure dates for the homecoming dance that will lead to long-term boyfriends, who we will eventually break up with the summer before college,” Sarah A says. “This way we’ll be poised to enter our freshman year single, yet somewhat experienced.”
“But what if Doyle breaks up with me before that?” I ask. It seems possible. I hardly know Doyle. I’m not sure that we share any common interests.
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 3
