“Six. Looks like my psycho brother is going to throw grapes at me. I might have to train John Glenn to eat his rabbit.”
“Bye,” I say, hanging up the phone. Sarah A’s head game with Vance makes me extremely uncomfortable. It’s almost as if she’s trying to drive him more crazy than he actually is. She won’t talk to him. She just won’t. Even when he’s nice. She pretends to talk to him when their parents are around, but any other time, she won’t acknowledge him, and only refers to him in the third person. I think it’s a form of manipulation. Or harassment. Or maybe just cruelty.
I wish she knew how to handle things differently. But who am I to sit in judgment of Sarah A? I’ve got Liam. He’s basically normal. And she’s been saddled with a tweenage psycho brother who attacks cantaloupes. In public.
Okay. I can do this. I’ve got to complete a task. I was born to complete tasks to demonstrate my worthiness to be a Sarah. Think big. I either need to vandalize something or steal something. But which? It would be so anticlimactic to vandalize something, because I can’t show up with proof of what I did. Unless I take a picture. But I don’t have a digital camera. Can I get 35mm film developed before six o’clock?
Maybe I should vandalize something small enough to bring to the meeting. Wait. Vandalism is the wrong choice. Sarah A is the best vandal ever. She’s even vandalized moving objects and ill-tempered farm animals. She’d be so underwhelmed with anything I could possibly do. I need to steal something. I need to show up tonight with a trophy. Okay. What would Sarah A want?
Maybe I should steal the rest of Roman Karbowski’s shirts for her. Or I could take a couple pairs of his pants. Wouldn’t the bottom half of somebody have different pheromones than the top half? Shouldn’t we be desensitizing ourselves against those scents too? I think lower-regions smells would be the ones that we’d want to protect ourselves against the most. That’s where things get dangerous. Wait. Maybe Sarah A would think I was upstaging her if I stole a good chunk of her future serious boyfriend’s wardrobe. Even though I have outstanding intentions, perhaps it’s wise to steer clear of her guy and his pants.
Then it hits me. I know. I know what I need to do. I need to steal something that Sarah A will truly admire. Something to which she has very limited access. Something that she finds intriguing. Something that is illegal for sixteen-year-olds to purchase or consume. Clearly, that something has to be booze. Because of Vance, her parents don’t keep any liquor in the house. It’s so taboo. For her, more than the rest of us, alcohol is truly a banned and precious substance.
I don’t mean to suggest that any of the Sarahs drink. We rarely do. We’re not good at it. We’ve only tried it three times. At Sarah C’s. Our drink of choice was a mixture of Baileys, Kahlua, vodka, ice, and milk. On all three occasions, we dumped generous amounts of everything into a blender and prepared our concoction by grinding the ingredients on the CRUSH ICE setting. We drank them quickly from tall plastic tumblers. As a result, each Sarah has puked and been hungover three times. Apparently, we have a tendency to overdo it.
I grab a second banana for additional fuel and race out to my car. Finally, I feel so optimistic. Stealing a nice bottle of liquor will really impress everyone. In all of our crimes, rarely have I ever been the actual thief. I’m usually the driver. Or the lookout. Historically speaking, I’m practically a bystander. But this heist will cement my status as a real criminal. As a real Sarah. Everyone knows that stealing alcohol is a much more serious offense than stuffing a box of Oreos down your pants.
I drive to Tiffany’s liquor store on West Main, because Sarah A has talked about a nice bottle of cognac there. I walk up and down the long aisles crowded with bottles. Holy crap! Cognac costs an arm and a leg. I stand in the middle of the store staring at the bottle Sarah A has long admired. It’s kept behind a locked glass case. I’m shocked by the price tag. It costs $3,500. What’s cognac even made out of? Hundred-dollar bills?
“Can I help you?” a clerk asks me.
I must stick out like a rogue lime in a lemon display. I don’t know what to do. The only thing running through my mind is one single word: Abort! Abort! Abort!
“Nah, I’m just looking.”
“Don’t even think about stealing that bottle,” he says.
My eyes grow wide. Is this guy a mind reader? Do I look like a thief? I can feel myself breaking into a massive, hoglike sweat again. I point to myself.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask.
“It was a joke. That bottle is priceless.”
“The price tag says thirty-five hundred dollars.”
“I mean it’s irreplaceable.”
“How is that even possible? Has the world stopped making cognac?”
“No, it’s the container, not the contents. That bottle was designed by a Russian-born French painter named Erté. He’s known as the Father of Art Deco.”
“I don’t know much about art. But the bottle is pretty.”
“Erté hand painted it.”
Then he looks at me hard, like he’s studying me. I hate it when people look at me this way. It makes me feel so scrutinized and transparent. When I’m getting ready to rob a store, it’s a lousy combination. Because I know that I’m getting ready to do something wrong, and I can’t take the ocular judgment. I feel myself blush. Then I feel my own pee tingling inside of me.
“Bye!” I yell.
I run out the door. I don’t wet myself. Once I sit down in my car and am by myself, the impulse to pee goes away. I wonder if I need therapy. Maybe acupuncture would help. Or hypnosis. Or drugs. If I have this kind of problem with urine retention now, what will I be like at seventy?
I pull onto the road, feeling like a total loser. If I have any chance of getting back in with the Sarahs, I’ve got to commit a real crime. And fast. But what? It has to have a victim. Real crimes have victims. Rod Carew Hates Vaseline. What would Sarah A like? What would make Sarah A happy?
I turn onto West Main and head out of town. I know something that Sarah Aberdeen would like. She’s mentioned wanting one before. They’re always catching her eye. Especially around the holidays.
I’m going to steal a donation jar! Robbing from a needy organization will mean lots of victims. Plus, I’ll turn over the cash to Sarah A and she’ll appreciate that. My crime is rotten and unethical. It’s exactly what she loves. In fact, it’s so fabulous that I’ve stopped sweating and my bladder feels absolutely empty. For me, before a job, that’s a good place to be.
Chapter 7
It’s so much easier to commit a crime in your head than it is in real life. I stand, like a paralyzed chicken, in the 7-Eleven eyeing the donation jar. But I can’t take it. Shoplifting is much more fun when done in groups. It’s as if stealing something by yourself makes your conscience grow, as if maybe me and the other Sarahs have been sharing one small conscience together all along. Right now, I just don’t feel breathless and alive with excitement. Honestly, I feel a little empty.
I try to run my hands through my hair, but I can’t. Before getting out of my car, I pulled it back into a very tight and wholesome-looking ponytail. I glance at the cashier and smile, then feign interest in the magazine rack. I’m relieved that the clerk doesn’t look familiar.
I’m not an idiot. I drove to a 7-Eleven several miles outside of Kalamazoo. It’s not like I’m ever coming back to this place. I peek at the checkout area again. All I need to do is rip the jar off the counter and run. But the clerk looks like he’s in pretty good shape. What if he’s a jogger? What if he gives chase? Maybe I should leave.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
Luckily, I remember Sarah A’s foolproof method for robbing convenience stores. It’s called the go-fetch strategy. First, you come up with a difficult-to-find item. Then, you ask the clerk to fetch it for you. This distracts the cashier away from the register and front door long enough to allow you to take whatever you want and run.
“I want orange juice.”
“It’s back there,”
he says, pointing toward a wall of refrigerators.
“Not just regular orange juice,” I say. “I want the kind without pulp.”
He smiles. He has nice teeth. And kind eyes. I bet he’s the type of person who totally follows the Golden Rule, but life keeps screwing him over anyway.
“Yeah, I hate pulp too. I think we have that kind. Let me check.”
He walks back to the freezer. Now is my chance. I grab the Plexiglas box. It’s shaped like a house and has a big slit in the top of the chimney where people can slide in their money. It’s stuffed with change and dollar bills. I mean, it’s totally filled. Wow. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. And there’s a chain. And it’s bolted to the counter. Oh my God. Really crappy people must come in here and try to steal the donation jar all the time.
I look back into the freezer area. The clerk has gone all the way into the rear of the store. He’s standing behind the rows of refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t see what I’m doing. The milk cartons are blocking his view.
I yank hard. It doesn’t come loose. I yank again.
“Do you care which brand?” he calls to me. I can barely hear his muffled voice.
“Tropicana!” I yell.
“Can it be from concentrate?” he asks.
“No. One hundred percent pure juice!”
I give it one more tug. Somewhere in the kinked middle, one of the chain’s links pops open. It’s almost like a metaphor for the Sarahs. It’s the weak link that breaks the chain. I hear the back door shut. He’s walking toward me with a carton of juice. I race to my car with the money-stuffed house, trailing a couple of feet of chain. I throw everything in the passenger seat and peel out. The clerk runs after me. He’s holding something in his hand. Is it a gun? Holy crap! Are clerks allowed to shoot fleeing thieves? They can’t. Can they? Over a donation jar?
I’m already pulling out onto the main road before I realize what he’s holding. It’s his cell phone. Great. He’s taking a picture of my car. Why did I pick out a lemon-yellow Volkswagen Jetta? I push hard on the gas pedal and my tires squeal. I don’t want him snapping a photograph of my license plate.
“Drug addict!” he yells.
Drug addict? Is he talking to me? I may commit crimes, but I’m no drug addict. I even try to avoid eating refined sugar and consuming too much caffeine. Do I look like a drug addict? I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and the normally deep brown irises look faded. My skin is pasty. I’m sweating again. Maybe I do look like I’m on something. I turn my focus back to the road. Pennies rub against nickels. Quarters jostle into dimes.
As I speed down M43, the vibrating change jingles. It almost sounds like it’s singing. I set my hand on the small roof to quiet the noise. It’s like that scene in “Jack and the Beanstalk” where the harp keeps crying for her master. But in the end, instead of recapturing her, the giant dies and Jack escapes. Sometimes, the thief gets away.
I arrive at Sarah A’s a little early. Of course, I pulled into a nearby K-Mart before showing up, so I could count the money. This little house holds more than you’d think. I’ve got $118.95. There were a lot of crumpled-up dollar bills. Even some fives. Even a couple of tens. The donation is for a Belgian draft horse named Buttons who impaled himself on a fence post during a bad thunderstorm. I think if you’ve got enough money to own a big old horse and a fence, then you should be able to afford all the vet bills too. Actually, I’m telling myself whatever I can in order not to feel guilty about stealing this jar.
I carry the house under my arm. Once inside the alcove, I press the intercom button and dial Sarah A’s number.
“It’s Sarah T.”
“You’re early,” Sarah A says. “Go walk around the block. I’m not ready.”
I’m tempted to tell her that I’m carrying a big, transparent box full of money, but I don’t want to ruffle her feathers.
“I’ll come back in five minutes,” I say.
“Give me ten.”
Even the little intercom box emits a dial tone. I push the pound key to shut it up and walk back out to my car. As I sit, I can see Sarah B and Sarah C strolling down the sidewalk. Sarah B’s face is hidden behind an enormous bubble. Pop. They walk past the Kalamazoo Art Institute and they don’t even see me. Sarah B doesn’t look like she’s holding anything. She just has her purse slung over her neck. And Sarah C appears to be in possession of an animal. It looks like a cat. I think I know that cat. Sarah C is such a phony. Sometimes it takes the theft of your own life metaphor before a person wakes up and realizes who her real friends are. For the sake of self-preservation, I plan on being phony right back to her.
I beep my horn and they finally see me. They both wave. Before getting out of the car, I stuff the donation jar in an empty grocery bag. I feel so conspicuous toting an unconcealed, stolen box of money around.
“You guys look great!” I say.
“It’s nice that you’re back,” Sarah C says.
I give her a big fake smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “Cool cat. Did you steal it from a store?”
Sarah C shakes her head.
“Not exactly,” Sarah C says, rubbing the cat under its fluffy chin.
“Is it tranquilized?” I ask.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cat look so tired.
“No, it’s naturally lethargic,” Sarah C says. “Which is convenient, because it doesn’t have the energy to scratch me.”
I’d never thought of lethargy as a positive attribute before.
“Can you believe that one of us might get the boot?” Sarah B asks. She shifts her weight from her right leg to her left and fidgets with her purse strap. “Pirates used to kick other pirates out of their lives all the time. They would take the ousted pirate to a deserted island and abandon him without any provisions. Usually, all he got was a gun with one bullet.”
“I doubt Sarah A will be providing us with firearms,” Sarah C says.
“How come you know such much about pirates?” I ask. This isn’t the first time I’ve listened to Sarah B let loose random pirate trivia.
“Are you serious?” Sarah B asks. “Our culture has been obsessed with pirates for years. Haven’t you noticed all the eye patches and puffy shirts floating around?”
“No,” I say.
“She’s right,” Sarah C says. “America has reached a state of pirate saturation.”
“I never even think about pirates,” I say.
We start walking toward the Marlborough. The cat seems content to sleep in Sarah C’s arms.
“Maybe we pulled off such great crimes that Sarah A will end up keeping all of us,” I say.
Neither Sarah B or Sarah C respond to that comment.
“All this competition stresses me out,” I say. “Once it’s decided who the Sarahs are I hope we can get back to that place of just being friends and supporting each other.”
“When were we ever at that place?” Sarah C asks.
“Being a Sarah has always been stressful,” Sarah B says. “We’re robbing stores, like, every week.”
“Maybe we could move toward that place,” I say.
“Maybe we could go to some ball games,” Sarah B says. Pop.
“I’d go,” I say.
“I don’t foresee any changes of that nature looming on the horizon,” Sarah C says. “That’s just not what the Sarahs have ever been about.”
“I guess,” I say. But for the first time, I’m thinking, Why can’t the Sarahs be about something like that?
“Maybe if you think your life is like a hallway, you expect to see a few new doors appear. But I don’t think in our case that’s a realistic option. Sarah A picks the doors,” Sarah C says. “In fact, she’ll be picking another one this evening.”
I almost stop walking. I’m shocked that Sarah C would bring up my hallway metaphor right now. First, she disses it. Then, she steals it. And now, she flings its shortcomings right in my face. She must be playing a head game with me.
; “That’s not really how I see life anymore,” I say.
“Is it like a trail now?” Sarah C asks.
“No,” I say. I try to think fast. What do I think life is like?
“You think life is like a hallway trail?” Sarah B asks.
“No, I think that life is like those moving sidewalks at airports. You’re always going forward. And you’ve usually got baggage with you. And you’ve got to get around other people and their baggage. But in the end, you’re always making progress. Even when you stop for a break, the sidewalk moves you along without you personally providing your own locomotion.”
“A moving sidewalk?” Sarah B says. “What if you’re handicapped?”
“Don’t those things break down all the time?” Sarah C says.
“That’s a lot like life too,” I say. “No matter how hard you try to do everything the way it’s supposed to be done, sometimes things get screwed up and you wind up having to declare yourself out of order.”
I was aiming to pass along a deep message, but I think it came across as a little odd.
“What?” Sarah B asks.
“I think that metaphor is more interior than your last one. Some airports don’t even have healthy air,” Sarah C says.
“They don’t?” Sarah B asks.
“Airborne illnesses are rampant. That’s how my aunt thinks she contracted TB,” Sarah C says.
“Your aunt has tuberculosis?” I ask, taking a step back.
“Relax. She lives in Colorado. I’ve only met her once and she was wearing a special mask,” Sarah C says.
“That’s so eighteen hundreds,” Sarah B says.
“Actually, it was a neat-looking mask. It resembled a duck’s bill,” Sarah C says.
“We’re going to be late,” Sarah B says.
“Wait, before the gauntlet, I want you guys to know that I’ve always considered you my best friends. You two can always count on me,” Sarah C says.
“Unless one of us gets knocked out,” Sarah B says.
“Even if one of you gets bumped, you can still call me,” Sarah C says. “I know this is a competition and that we’re supposed to be ruthless. I mean, the guy phase is coming. And we all want to be part of it. But whatever happens, you still have my number.”
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 7
