“What’s her specialty?”
“Beowulf.”
“Devoting your whole life to the study of Grendel and his mother, doesn’t that say it all?” I ask.
“You’re so smart. You’re ready for college right now.”
“Or culinary school,” I say. I’m not totally serious when I say this, but sometimes I think it would be fun to be a pastry chef. I’m a huge fan of icing.
“Sarah, sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways. And when a group of anonymous donors appears out of nowhere and they offer to cover all four years of college for every Kalamazoo high school student, I think it’s a sign that the universe wants you to go to college and not culinary school.”
I shrug. My mother is talking about the Kalamazoo Promise. Last year, a group of superrich people who live in the area, but wish to remain unnamed, donated a quarter of a billion dollars to establish the Kalamazoo Promise. So now, if you’re enrolled in Kalamazoo Central High School or Loy Norrix, you get four free years of college anywhere in the state of Michigan. The secret rich people will pay your tuition for you. It’s automatic. You just get it. For, like, the next thirteen years.
People in Kalamazoo are still sort of shocked about it. When it happened, the Sarahs all decided to apply to the University of Michigan. By far, it’s the best school in the state. And it’s expensive too. Some people consider it Ivy League.
“I’m not really planning to go to culinary school,” I say.
I smile. And bite off the head of my banana. My mother unties her apron and folds it into a square. She pats it and winks at me. That’s her way of saying she wants me to take care of the kitchen mess, though the counter is basically spotless. I nod. She must think that she’s running behind. She is very type A. I think if she had to show up late to something, she’d spontaneously combust. She grabs her infamous and enormous black shoulder bag and races out the door.
“Dinner at seven. We’re barbecuing franks and the Crock-Pot is stuffed with beans.”
“Wait. I need to tell you something,” I say.
Her hand is on the doorknob. She releases it and flips around. This is sort of surprising. I mean, I never tell her anything.
“What?”
I clear my throat.
“I killed a possum.”
“I saw. Your father will take care of it. Eventually.”
I watch her perfect perky body walk out the door. It might be true that I am a smaller, high school version of my mother, but I’m also pudgier. How did I get the plump gene? How can she eat barbecued franks and indulge in a mountain of beans and not gain weight? I reach deep into my pocket and rub the note between my thumb and finger. It’s such a stupid idea. I really should bag it.
Instead, I finish my banana, clean up the kitchen, and drive to the Educational Community Credit Union four times. Each time takes me anywhere between seven and nine minutes. The traffic light on Stadium is a killer. Not only is it long, but lots of other cars run it. I write this down in my notebook. Then I stuff it underneath the seat.
Sitting inside my car in the bank’s parking lot, I start to sweat. Huge drops roll down my back. It’s not just the stress; I’m sitting in the sun. I pull out the notebook. I write:
Consider robbing the bank in spring or fall, as I would not want to put panty hose on my head in bone-crushing heat.
Then I stow the book away again.
I roll my window down and take a deep breath. I watch a girl clomp up the sidewalk in a pair of flip-flops. She’s holding a blue Popsicle. She licks at the juice between her fingers. I close my eyes. That kid looks way too innocent. Like she belongs in a pudding commercial. I open my eyes and watch her go inside the bank. I’ll wait until after she leaves to case the place. I have a heart. It feels creepy to plot a criminal act in front of a Popsicle-sucking child. I close my eyes again. Even inside my car, it smells like summer and cut grass.
When I was five we moved to Kalamazoo. We came here via Livingston, Wyoming. I vaguely remember that place. A bear knocked over our trash can once. Also, I think a deer got trapped in our garage and dented my mother’s van. I guess it’s true that the West is still wild. After we arrived in the Midwest, my parents assumed Liam and I would make friends with everybody we met. For Liam, that was true. For me, I endured nearly four friendless years. If you arrive on the scene in kindergarten and pee yourself during snack time, it greatly limits your ability to mingle amongst your peer group and build lasting connections. The pants-wetter stigma ascended with me into grade school and beyond.
It was in fourth grade that I met Sarah Aberdeen. I felt like she saved me. I mean, because she literally saved me from being hit by a van. The crossing guard was escorting a group across Broadway. I wanted to cross Winchell. I looked to my left and then went. Then I heard this horn honking. And I felt Sarah A yank me by my collar back onto the sidewalk. Then my life continued. And I became a Sarah. I felt like I couldn’t thank her enough. It felt like she’d been sent right to me at that exact intersection. Maybe she’ll show up again.
I watch the overly blonde girl leave the bank. The Popsicle is gone. She’s sucking on a lollipop. Don’t they teach kids about tooth decay in elementary school anymore?
Before I go into the bank, I pop my trunk. This is where the stolen money will go. I’ve heard about the dye-packed money that bank tellers give to robbers. The dye explodes and stains the bills so that the money becomes marked and worthless. I bet if we rob this bank, we’ll get a dye-pack. What a waste. Who’d want to risk robbing a bank only to end up with crappy, unusable cash?
To avoid this fate, the Sarahs should separate the stacks of bills into coolers. My trunk can easily hold four small coolers. We’ll divide the money and stuff it in the coolers. We’ll have to be quick about it, but we’ll have time. One of the backseat Sarahs will make sure that the lids are on tight. Then we’ll drive off. Even if one explodes, the other three coolers will be fine.
After we get away, we’ll bury the contaminated cooler in the ground somewhere. Holy shit. This idea is so good that I feel like I must be channeling Bonnie and Clyde. In fact, it’s so fantastic, I don’t even need to take a minute to write it down, because it’s not going anywhere. I’m in love with my innovative cooler-strategy. As I walk to the bank, I’m so proud of myself that I can’t stop smiling.
I enter the building and stand in the corner by a staged beach scene meant to entice customers into taking out a home equity line of credit in order to travel to tropical places like Bermuda and Hawaii. They’ve trucked in actual sand and propped up a surfboard. A deflating, lopsided beach ball has rolled off to the side. I kick it toward the corner. It ricochets off a post and comes back to me. I pick it up. As I hold the bright red ball and scope out the bank, it’s clear to me that I should have brought my notebook with me.
There’s a lot of things to keep track of. First, the number and location of all cameras I’ve passed to get to this point. Second, the exact distance from the parking lot to the front door, and from the front door to the tellers. Third, the basic layout of the bank. Fourth, the fifty or more other things that require consideration before committing armed robbery that are to me, like most teenagers, unknown.
I back up against a window. I should read a book about bank robbing before executing a dry run. And even though it’s tempting, I should not Google this information because the police are totally allowed to search your computer. And I’ve heard of situations where your computer is used as a character witness against you in court.
I reach into my pocket and feel my mask and the note. I reach into my other pocket and touch the pocketknife. That’s when I realize how tight my jeans are. Am I bloated? I can’t believe I didn’t notice how obvious the bulging outline of the knife was before I left my house. I might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says I AM CARRYING A POTENTIALLY LETHAL BLADE. Is it illegal to enter a bank armed with a weapon and a threatening note?
I look around. Everywhere I look I see the glassy eye
of a camera. And really friendly-looking tellers. And toddlers. And a long, snaking line. And a deputy sheriff. I need to get out of here.
I know Sarah A hopes that one day we’ll become a band of female bank robbers, crisscrossing the country while stuffing our Escalade with bags of money, and I hope that my cooler-strategy will take us one step closer, but I’m not the kind of person who can single-handedly complete a dry run in preparation to rob a bank. The scenario makes me feel too fragile. And freaked out. In fact, as I stand here like a conspicuous and sweaty hog, I’m surprised anybody has ever been able to successfully rob a bank.
I’m done. But before I leave, I throw the beach ball back into the tropical scene. Sadly, the ball bounces against the surfboard making it slam to the ground. I had no idea surfboards weighed so much. Everybody in the whole bank turns to look at the source of the crash. Then they look at me.
“It got away from me,” I say, holding my palms up to let them know that I don’t mean any harm. Then I lower my left hand to conceal the pocketknife bulge. Maybe it could be mistaken for a tampon. Or a roll of quarters.
Then I hoof it outside. I wonder, if I weighed less, would I sweat less? Actually, I’m not heavy. My problem is that I lack muscle tone. I try flexing my arms. Except for the bones, they’re all mushy. Maybe I should start lifting weights. I wonder if that’s something the other Sarahs would enjoy? I glance back at the bank in my rearview mirror. I feel pretty good about my decision not to commit a felony. I don’t bother pulling out the notebook to write any of this down. All I want right now is a Big Gulp at the 7-Eleven.
As I drive down 9th Street, taking stock of a group of freshly shorn sheep dotting the roadside pastures, I realize that I know the car in front of me. It’s Sarah C and her seafoam-green Corolla. I speed up. All the Sarahs are in her car, bobbing along to the radio. Wait. I can’t believe it. There’s a fourth person in the car. She’s in the backseat and she has a very small head. It almost looks like a dog’s head. It is! The Sarahs have adopted a dog.
Sarah A has mentioned wanting one before. She planned to volunteer with it and visit elderly patients in hospitals. The shelter has a program for that. It’s called the Pet Visitation Project. Mr. King has mentioned it several times. He and his golden retriever, Copper, visit people in hospitals and residential facilities once a month. All you need to become a volunteer is an easygoing pet.
Sarah A thinks it’ll really make her college entrance essay stand out. She thinks that visiting sick children in hospitals with a rescued dog will give her a clear advantage. She says it will make her memorable. I guess I didn’t take her canine ambitions all that seriously. I thought the dog was hypothetical. But she really did it. That’s such a huge thing to do without me.
I’m so close now that I’m tailgating them. Sarah B is in the backseat and she waves to me. I honk. And flash my lights. I really wish my parents hadn’t taken away my cell phone last March, because I could call the Sarahs right now and meet up with them and tell them about how I almost planned a bank robbery. It’s not a completely lame story, because I did knock over a surfboard.
But the Sarahs don’t slow down. I see Sarah A hit Sarah C’s arm and they accelerate. Then they run a yellow light. I stop. I don’t want to get a traffic ticket. My heart is racing. I want so badly to be inside that car with them. And their dog. Discussing the guy phase and our futures. I watch as the glare from their bumper fades away into nothing. I wonder where they’re headed. I wonder what they named the dog.
Chapter 6
“I always say that if you see a possum during daylight hours, you’re doing the community a service by running it over.”
My father scoops up the dead animal with the shovel’s blade.
“I’ve never heard that,” I say.
“Possums are nocturnal. If they’re out during daylight hours, they’re most likely rabid.”
“I hit this one at dusk.”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. That’s a borderline situation.”
I nod. It took my dad over three weeks to finally dispose of the thing. My mom actually wrote it down on a “To Do List” that she stuck to the refrigerator. It said RELOCATE DEAD POSSUM. I watch my father walk into the woods and then return with an empty shovel.
“Lake looks nice. And so does the trail. People are really picking up after their dogs this season.”
I take for granted the fact that I live in a house overlooking a lake. I glance over at Asylum Lake. I know, it’s a very unfortunate name for a body of water.
“Do you think we’ll ever get a dog?”
“Sarah, you know how your mother feels about dander.”
“But we could get a shorthaired dog. Or a no-haired dog.”
My father frowns. He’s started growing out his beard again, so his face looks increasingly scruffy.
“You’ll be in college in a year. I think your dog days are behind you.”
That’s a misleading statement, as it suggests that I once had a dog or the possibility of owning a dog, which I’ve never had.
“I’m going to head down to the lot this afternoon and do some paperwork. You’re welcome to come hang out and look at the cars.”
I don’t know why my father has the impression that I harbor the desire to accompany him to his used car dealership to look at the cars. He asks me about once a month and I always refuse. Liam enjoyed looking at the cars. Sarah prefers to do other things. Like hanging out with the Sarahs.
“I’ve got plans.”
“Really?”
My father looks at me suspiciously.
“I’m going to hang out with the Sarahs,” I say.
“I wondered if something might be up with them. I haven’t seen them in weeks.”
“It’s this new thing we’re trying,” I say.
“I think it’s good you’re taking a rest.”
He puts his hands on his hips and looks at our house. It’s one of the four houses in our neighborhood that was built by the architect Frank Lloyd Wright. It’s a Usonian home. But I’m not totally sure what that means. The house has really small bathrooms. And a kitchen that resembles a tight alley. And cement floors throughout. But it’s got this enormous fireplace and hearth and amazing windows that make the outside and inside totally blend.
“Sometimes things change,” he says. “And sometimes that change can be so destructive that it demolishes the very foundation of the thing itself.”
I nod, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Sarah,” my mother calls, waving the phone over her head. “You’ve got a phone call.”
The hair stands up on the back of my neck. I’m thrilled. My dad was getting way too serious. When people start talking about change, it makes me think of menopause and I don’t know why anyone would want to talk to me about that. Especially my father. I race to the house and take the phone to my room. I know it’s a Sarah. I can feel it in my bones.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Sarah A says.
“How are you? I saw the dog. What kind is it? It looks like a Lab. Did you guys even see me? I thought you saw me, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Oh, we saw you.”
“Oh.”
“The dog is a yellow Lab. I named him John Glenn. Everybody likes John Glenn. I mean, he was an astronaut. And a U.S. Senator. And a Marine Corps fighter pilot. And a Presbyterian elder. And the first American to orbit the earth.”
“That’s a great name.”
“I know. It’ll really make my essay stand out to say that I visited terminally ill people with my shelter-adopted Lab, John Glenn.”
“It’s pure genius.”
Awkward pause. I think I hear her yawn.
“I’ve missed you guys.”
“I thought of what we need to do,” Sarah A says.
“You did?”
“Let’s face reality. The guy phase is going to be a huge transition. And then there’s college. We’ve all got to remain completely co
mmitted for the Sarahs to survive.”
“I believe you,” I say.
“Because senior year is when it all happens. The applications. The campus tours. The decisions. I mean, getting into U of M isn’t going to be a cakewalk. And we’ll each be deep in the throes of a successful relationship, which will be a complete time-suck. We’ve got to work hard and be on the same page.”
“I look forward to the time-suck. And give me the page number and I’m there.”
“Yeah. I’m just not sure.”
“What can I do to make you sure?”
“Compete in the challenge.”
“The challenge?” My mind flashes back to what happened to Sarah Dancer. I’m so screwed. I have weak ankles.
“All the other Sarahs, including myself, are doing something to prove our commitment. We’re meeting at my house tonight.”
“I’m there.” What a relief. The challenge isn’t what I thought it was. I’m not going to have to jump off anybody’s garage. At least not for the sake of demonstrating team loyalty.
“You have the rest of the day to do something important. Something that demonstrates your commitment to us. The Sarah who completes the least impressive act is going to be voted out.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What is everybody else doing?”
“I’m not going to tell you that. But Sarah T, you need to aim high.”
I’m almost ready to hang up because I think our conversation is over when I hear screaming on the other end of the line.
“My brother is being such a jackass. If he touches me again I might have to call the police.”
“Are you talking to me?” I ask.
“Of course I’m talking to you. Because I haven’t spoken to Vance in over a year. Because he’s crazy. And I don’t indulge crazy people in conversation.”
“Right,” I say.
“Because crazy people should learn how to not be crazy anymore, so that I can have a normal life again,” Sarah A says.
“I hear you,” I say. “Hey, what time tonight?”
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 6
