“God, I almost forgot,” Sarah A laughs, smacking the heel of her hand to her forehead.
“I’ll take him to the shelter tonight,” Sarah C says.
“Oh, let’s hold off,” Sarah A says. “Let’s see how interesting things can get.”
“I guess I can keep him at my house,” Sarah C says. “We already have a cat. So I’ve got the basic feline necessities.”
“Whatever,” Sarah A says.
“What about your Roman Karbowski pillow?” Sarah B asks.
“Sarah T, can you grab that for me?” Sarah A asks.
“What about my Doyle pillow?” I ask.
“That thing will forever be associated with the time my brother tried to stab me,” Sarah A says. “It stays.”
So we all walk out of Sarah A’s room. Mrs. Aberdeen is kneeling on the floor where Vance fell. She has the phone in one hand and a scrub brush in the other. I don’t see Vance or Mr. Aberdeen. Once we’re out of the condo, the other two Sarahs wave good-bye and break off, heading in a different direction. Sarah A and I return their waves and climb into my car. John Glenn hops into the backseat like he knows that he belongs there.
“You should probably put Roman Karbowski in your trunk,” Sarah A says.
I get back out of the car and set the pillow in my trunk. When I climb back inside, Sarah A appears very calm. She’s yawning. It’s almost as if what just happened inside her condo was not the freakiest and most dramatic moment ever. I had no idea she was this resilient.
“Well, you’re one lucky coward,” Sarah A says.
I start my car. I guess that’s what you call a backhanded compliment.
“I’ve been displaced. This changes everything,” Sarah A says.
I’d assumed that my lackluster performance during the Vance attack had cemented my ousting from the Sarahs. Everyone seemed so upset about the Belgian draft horse situation, especially the part about me stealing from my fellow Sarahs. And then I didn’t help subdue Vance in any way when he launched his final assault on our leader. And I was the one who unintentionally provided him with a knife. If I were the head Sarah, I think I’d even kick my own butt out of the group.
“It’s not like I can knock you out of the group when I have to shack up at your house with you.”
“I guess,” I say.
But really, I’m thinking that she totally could.
“Consider it probation. If you can do something to redeem yourself, we’ll let the other stuff slide. It’ll be like water under the bridge.”
I nod. But the phrase “water under the bridge” makes my heartbeat quicken. It reminds me of a scene in a movie in which a killer dumps a body wrapped in a shower curtain into a river from the great height of an overpass and says, “You’re just water under the bridge.”
I feel real queasy. Like I could throw up. Instead, I swallow hard and force the fear and vomit back down inside of me. John Glenn barks.
“Open up the moonroof,” Sarah A says.
I do.
She reaches her left arm up through the open roof, so the night air can blow through her fingers. I thought she wanted me to open it for John Glenn.
“What’s wrong? You should be so happy. I’m going to let you worm your way back into your old spot,” Sarah A says.
She brings her arm back inside the car and touches the nape of my neck with her cold hand. It feels reptilian and creepy and makes me want to scream. My old spot. It should be exactly what I want right now. But I have mixed feelings about it. Let’s face it, I’m the grunt. It’s my job to take needless amounts of punishment and grief and shit. Sarah A pulls her hand away from my neck and it begins to turn warm again. She smiles at me. I smile back. Picturing my life without the Sarahs is like picturing myself without legs. How would my life work?
“I am so happy,” I say, pulling into my possum-free driveway.
I park the car. John Glenn is panting in my right ear. I have this feeling that Sarah A will be staying with us for more than a night. I crack open my door. Sarah A is already striding to my house. I take John Glenn’s leash. Ready or not. Let the worming begin.
Chapter 10
“I don’t quite get it. How again does having a dog help you get into college?” my mother asks. She’s placed a wet washcloth over her nose and mouth in an attempt to filter out any possible dander that might be floating through the air.
“This is John Glenn,” I say. “It will look great on my entrance essay to talk about all the important work I do with him.”
“Important work?” she asks. “What kind of work does a dog do in Kalamazoo?”
“We’ll visit sick people,” I say.
“And that requires a dog?” she asks.
I was planning on introducing John Glenn to my mother after breakfast. But when a dog sees his first deer, leaping around outside your bedroom window, apparently he likes to vocalize his enthusiasm.
My father seemed somewhat okay with the idea of introducing a canine to our household.
“He looks like a champ,” he said, as John Glenn barreled down the hallway, barking at the long-gone deer on the other side of our living room windows. “He doesn’t have any medical problems, does he? Hip dysplasia? Tumors?”
“Oh, he’s in terrific shape,” Sarah A said.
“I’m willing to have a dialog about this,” my father said as he left for work.
“A dialog?” my mother said. “What do you mean a dialog?”
But my father didn’t elaborate. He winked and left the four of us—me, my mother, Sarah A, and John Glenn—to further hash this out. At which time, my mother drenched a washcloth and attached it to her face. Just like open-winged, gold-plated eagles symbolizing glory perched atop flagpoles across America, or the Liberty Bell hanging in its showcase in Philadelphia, representing, well, liberty, I think my mother placed the cloth on her face to create a visible emblem of her dog protest. She stands for doglessness. Also, wearing the washcloth makes her look sympathetic.
“In a year you’ll be in college. This is no time to bring a dog into your life,” my mother says.
I’m so tired that I release a yawn. My mother takes this the wrong way and wags a finger at me.
“This is serious!” she says. “I have allergies!”
“I’m partly to blame,” Sarah A says. “I told her I thought that volunteer work would be a good fit for her. She has such a big heart.”
My mother pulls the washcloth away from her face. “I can’t believe you’d just bring a dog home,” she says.
“It felt like my only option,” I say. “Please, Mom. Let’s give it a week and see.”
“See what?” my mother asks.
“See if your allergies act up,” I say.
My mother’s eyes don’t look red. She hasn’t wheezed at all. I think her problems with animals might be rooted in psychological rather than physiological issues.
“What do you plan on feeding it?” she asks.
“Breeder’s Choice,” I say.
“And how do you plan on purchasing it?” she asks.
“Dad seems on board with the whole dog operation,” I say. “He said he’d pick up provisions after work.”
“Not only do I feel double-teamed,” she says. “I feel manipulated.”
John Glenn pads into the living room and looks out the window on to the lake. He makes a whining noise.
“I think he wants out,” Sarah A says.
“Then get him out! Don’t let him pee on the rug!” my mother yells. “Out! Out!”
I take John Glenn by the collar and lead him outside. Sarah A follows me.
“That went really well,” she says. “Your mom went from pissed to disillusioned to acceptance in less than five minutes.”
John Glenn inspects the perimeter of our property, lifting his leg up whenever he encounters a tree.
“I don’t want to manipulate her,” I say.
“That’s all part of life,” Sarah A says. “You’ll get used to it.”
/> “I don’t know if I want to get used to it,” I say.
Sarah A walks toward my bedroom window and with the toe of her sneaker clears leaves from a stepping stone.
“Nice rock,” she says.
“We took it last summer from Lowe’s,” I say.
“We did? It looks so heavy,” she says.
“It weighs sixteen pounds. We loaded it in the bottom of a cart and wheeled it right out of the store. We were going for a record. The heaviest thing we’d stolen before that was a flashlight. Don’t you remember?” I ask.
“Did we only take one?” Sarah A asks.
“No, we stole two. Sarah C took one home and I took the other,” I say.
“Why didn’t I take one?” she asks.
“Because you don’t have a yard,” I say. “You live in a condo.”
“Yeah, I like what’s carved into it,” Sarah A says, bending down and tracing her finger along the thick blocky letters etched into the stone.
“Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” She stands, sighs, and in a gesture of mock-swooning clutches her heart.
“I’m thinking about giving it away,” I say.
“I see your point. As far as rocks go, it’s sort of lame and Hallmarky,” Sarah A says.
“That’s not why,” I say. “It makes me feel weird.”
“Because it’s lame?”
“No, because I stole it. Every other thing I’ve stolen I keep in my room. I hide them away. This is so public. I guess I feel like it’s too public.”
“Are you being serious?” Sarah A asks.
“Yeah.”
Using her shoe, she drags some cut grass and leaves back over the stone’s gray surface. “You need to get over it. For the guy phase to work, we’ve got a lot more stuff to steal. If you hang on to all of it and stick it in your room, not only will you end up weighed down by a gigantic load of meaningless crap, but your bedroom area might turn Doyle skittish. You need a place with ambience, like mine.”
I ignore the guy angle altogether. My room is big. It can hold a lot more stolen goods. But meaningless crap? Every time we steal something, I feel like I’m taking a huge risk. I don’t want Sarah A to characterize our hauls in a way that diminishes their importance.
“Meaningless? I’ve still got the first thing we ever stole,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“The lip gloss. Seventh grade. It’s watermelon flavored. Don’t you remember?” I ask.
“No. You’ve still got lip gloss from seventh grade? Doesn’t that stuff go bad?”
“It’s empty. I keep the container,” I say.
“For what?”
“For the memory.”
Sarah A leans her body against my house and rests her head against my bedroom window. “Sarah T, you’re freaking me out. You’re like this woman I saw on a daytime TV show who couldn’t throw anything away. Not even her tampons. After she used them. With the sort of problems you have, I’m afraid to put you anywhere within a thousand feet of Doyle Rickerson.”
“I’m not anything like that,” I say. “I totally throw my used tampons away. But the stuff we’ve taken, that’s different. It matters.” Doyle Rickerson isn’t what’s at stake for me right now. I’m concerned about what Sarah A thinks of me and my tendency to hold on to our loot.
“By now, most of what we’ve stolen is trash,” Sarah A says. “A used lipstick container should be thrown in the garbage.”
“Lip gloss,” I say. “It’s the first thing we ever stole.”
“It’s not the first thing I ever stole.” Sarah A pushes herself away from my house and walks toward a small oak. She grabs its trunk with one hand, like it’s a pole, and begins walking around it in circles.
“It’s not?” I ask.
She circles and circles. Her grip on the tree rubs off the dry bark. It sounds like rain as it falls into the grass.
“You think I waited until the seventh grade before I started ripping stuff off?”
“I guess I did,” I say.
“Yeah. That’s not how it happened,” Sarah A says.
“So, how did it happen?” I ask.
Sarah A stops her circular plodding. “Wait. Where’s John Glenn?”
I look around. He’s gone.
“Would he try to run back to your condo?” I ask.
“How would I know? I don’t have a dog brain,” Sarah A says. She lets go of the tree and brushes her hand against her shirt.
“John Glenn! John Glenn!” I yell.
I run down the hill toward Asylum Lake. Sarah A doesn’t follow me. When I get to the main trail I can see John Glenn several yards ahead of me on the dirt path sniffing a painted turtle, Michigan’s state reptile.
“John Glenn! Come here!” I yell.
John Glenn walks toward me with his golden head lowered.
“Bad dog,” I say. “You can’t run away from home.”
“You should probably put him on a leash before you take him outside!” Sarah A calls from the top of the hill.
“Yeah,” I say.
“He doesn’t seem to respect limits with you,” Sarah A says.
I don’t say anything. I don’t know if that’s true. John Glenn and I take a shortcut, weaving through maples, oaks, and tall grass to reach the top of the hill.
“Having a dog is turning out to be a big responsibility,” I say.
“You’ll adapt,” Sarah A says. “That’s one of your best qualities. You’re an adapter.”
I reach the top of the hill and my thighs burn. I’m breathing heavy. I let go of John Glenn’s collar and he races toward the back door.
“Look at him. He seems right at home,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sarah A says. “He was happy when he lived at my place too. He’s just a dog, Sarah T. He’ll love whoever feeds him and be happy anywhere he lives.”
We’re standing side by side and, with her shoulder, she gives me a rough nudge, almost knocking me down.
“Ouch,” I say.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sarah A says.
I watch her walk to the back door and open it. John Glenn rushes inside. A breeze stirs the holly bushes beside my house. I rub my shoulder. She didn’t nudge me that hard. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it. I take a deep breath. It must be weird for Sarah A to be booted out of her own house. I bet being displaced like this makes her think about when her mother left. It’s probably harder for her than I realize. Last night, she wasn’t even given a choice. Her parents told her—demanded—that she pack her things and leave. I bet it made her feel helpless. I imagine it made her feel a lot like a twig.
Chapter 11
Dawn has cracked open another blue day. And after sharing my bedroom, my bathrobe, my toothpaste, and my parents with Sarah Aberdeen for a whole week, it’s become clear to me that this arrangement will continue for a second week. At least, that’s the time line I overheard Mrs. Aberdeen giving my parents. Apparently, that’s the soonest Vance could be placed in a wilderness camp for troubled teens located in the Utah desert. I guess there was a waiting list. America must be overflowing with screwed-up teenagers. It sort of makes me afraid to ever camp in the western wilderness. That place sounds like it’s crawling with nutso delinquents.
Sarah A hopes Vance gets mortally wounded by a Gila monster. Actually, her exact words were, “I hope that shithead gets set upon by a Gila monster. They’re poisonous, you know. And totally found in Utah.”
But I told her that outcome was pretty unlikely, because I’m a faithful viewer of Animal Planet, and I’ve never heard of a Gila monster killing anyone.
“Considering the rugged terrain, Vance could possibly be attacked by a cougar,” I said. “Possibly.”
Sarah A didn’t like hearing my dissenting point of view.
“It’s more than possible,” she shot back.
“You’re right,” I said, smiling. I’m not an idiot.
I know when to shift gears.
I have to admit that all this conversation is the best part about having Sarah A as a temporary roommate. We’re bonding. Before we go to bed at night, we talk a lot. Usually, we discuss what Sarah A thinks of the world. This requires a lot of active listening on my part. I don’t know why, but I think I’m more interested in what Sarah A thinks about local and global issues than what I think about them. I know she’s flawed. I know she’s far from perfect. But I admire her. She’s so strong. She doesn’t let anybody mess with her. And when she believes something, she’s unwavering in her commitment to her own ideas. She’s solid. And it’s awesome.
For instance, she’s not afraid to hold a minority opinion. Last night, I found out that she likes baby harp seals, but despises whales.
“I could care less if Japan harpoons every last one of those blubbery beasts,” she said.
So I said, “Seals make way better stuffed animals.”
And she said, “Seals rock.”
And I said, “Absolutely. If there’s two things the world can live without, it’s whales and terrorists.”
And she said, “I hope they both go extinct.”
And I said, “Maybe the terrorists will start killing off the whales. Or vice versa.”
And Sarah A made a noise like she was swallowing, which I think meant she agreed.
It’s clear Sarah A and I are getting closer. She’s sharing more and more of her criminal ideas with me. It’s like she was born with the perfect crooked brain to commit crimes. She’s figured out ways to override the credit card function in vending machines so that in addition to getting free cans of soda and bags of chips, change will actually shoot out at her.
And she knows where the city has recently planted expensive ornamental plum trees. She’s created an elaborate plan to uproot and sell them. Though, she hasn’t quite ironed out who the customer base will be or how we’ll transport the delicate and leafy contraband. She’s hoping to use the Internet and a Ryder truck. I really admire her. She thinks big. She isn’t afraid of her own ambition or imagination.
John Glenn comes to my bedside and whimpers to be let out.
“I’ll take him out,” Sarah A says.
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 10
