Crimes of the Sarahs

by Kristen Tracy

  “Please,” Sarah A says. “You’re dying to be part of the guy phase.”

  It’s hard for me to deny this. And there is a certain rebel quality that I’ve always liked about Bjorn. There’s something about him that’s just so attractive and tall and … Swedish.

  “I’m going to go talk to Roman. You,” Sarah A says, aiming her finger at Sarah C, “catch Sarah T up to speed. And you,” she says, turning her finger on me, “don’t drink anything. We don’t want an accident.”

  “Wow,” I say. “It’s weird to be back.”

  “Does it feel good?” Sarah C asks.

  “I think so,” I say. “To be honest, I feel like I’ve been through a lot since I last saw you guys.”

  Sarah B and Sarah C look at each other and then back at me.

  “We can relate,” Sarah C says.

  “What have you been up to?” I ask.

  Sarah C scans the restaurant.

  “It’s a little too crowded in here to disclose that kind of information,” Sarah C says. She leans forward over her half-eaten tacos to speak to me.

  “Let’s just say that the guy phase has had a few glitches,” Sarah B says.

  “Because of Doyle?” I ask.

  “I wish that was our problem,” Sarah C says. “Something like that is manageable.”

  “It sounds like you guys have faced some major obstacles,” I say.

  Sarah B and Sarah C look at each other again.

  “Let’s just say that Sarah A overlooked a few things,” Sarah C says.

  “Wow. I find that hard to believe,” I say.

  “Oh, you better believe it,” Sarah C says.

  Her comments feel loaded and almost spooky.

  “Hey, I like your purse,” I tell Sarah B.

  Sarah B reaches over and pets it. “My mom gave it to me,” she says.

  “It’s got a cute tassel,” I say. I’m glad that she and her mother are speaking again.

  My mouth feels dry. I reach for a glass of water to take a drink, but I stop when I see a panicked look break out on Sarah B’s face.

  “I’m not going to pee myself. Guys don’t make me wet my pants,” I say.

  “So can I ask you a personal question?” Sarah C asks.

  “I guess,” I say.

  “What does make you wet your pants?” Sarah C asks.

  “Keep your voices down,” Sarah B says. “This is so not something people want to hear about at the Big Burrito.”

  “What are you feeling before you wet yourself?” Sarah C asks.

  “I feel like I need to use the bathroom.” I say.

  “No, where does it come from?” Sarah C asks.

  “My bladder,” I say.

  “I’m being serious, Sarah T. The look on your face at Barnes & Noble scared me,” Sarah C says.

  “What did I look like?” I ask.

  “Like a complete and total failure,” Sarah C says.

  “I guess that’s what I feel like,” I say.

  “Is that what it feels like every time? At Circuit City? Sears? D&W?” Sarah C asks.

  “She also peed herself in kindergarten,” Sarah B says. “It happened on my row.”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t want to think about this,” I say.

  “I just wanted to know where it came from,” Sarah C says.

  “Why do you even care?” I ask. Sarah C is so good at pretending like she’s concerned about me. But I know the truth.

  “You’re one of my best friends,” Sarah C says.

  I look away.

  “Maybe you need to talk to somebody,” Sarah C says.

  “Like a therapist?” I ask. “Only people our age who are total nuts see therapists.”

  “I see a therapist,” Sarah B says.

  “You do?” I ask.

  My eyes must be huge. This is very shocking news. How can a Sarah be in therapy and this is the first that I’m hearing about it?

  “When did this start?” I ask.

  “After my mother left,” Sarah B says. “Two years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this?” I ask.

  “She told me about it,” Sarah C says.

  I feel a little hurt. Why did Sarah B tell Sarah C and not me? Do they share some sort of close relationship that I’m not aware of?

  “Hey Sarah T, come on over here,” Sarah A says.

  She’s sitting at a table with Bjorn. He’s with his younger brother, Sven, and Gerard Truax. All three of them have floppy hair that falls over their foreheads in long, curvy waves. Maybe they have the same barber. Bjorn and Sven are blond. Gerard has hair the color of a chocolate bar. I’ve never touched a guy’s hair before. I wonder what if feels like. I sit down next to Bjorn. He smells much better than Doyle Rickerson’s shirt. I smile. This is the first time I’ve talked with a guy since Sarah A called off the purity vow. I feel light. And happy.

  “Did you know that Bjorn skis?” Sarah A asks.

  “That’s cool,” I say.

  “Maybe we could go sometime. After it snows,” Bjorn says.

  I watch Bjorn take an enormous bite of his torta. His teeth are huge, almost as big as horse teeth. They tear through the thick bread like a machine, and it frightens me.

  “Well, we’ve got to get going,” Sarah A says.

  She smiles and waves good-bye by fluttering her fingers. I get up and follow her.

  “Stop making that face,” Sarah A whispers to me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You’ve got that expression you get when you watch surgeries on television,” Sarah A says.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Let’s go,” Sarah A says to Sarah B and Sarah C.

  “But you haven’t told Sarah T what we need her for,” Sarah C says.

  “You haven’t gotten there yet?” Sarah A asks. “What have you been talking about?”

  “Other issues,” Sarah C says.

  We walk outside and congregate around Sarah C’s car. She parked on the dark side of the building. My white sneakers look like they’re glowing. I’m relieved that I’ll be making it home well within my curfew. I rub my arms. It’s cold. It’s still August, but Kalamazoo already feels like fall.

  “I need something from you,” Sarah A says.

  “What?” I ask. I want to be able to help her out, but in a noncriminal kind of way.

  “I need John Glenn,” Sarah A says.

  Sarah C opens her car door. I follow Sarah A around to the passenger’s side.

  “But he’s my dog now,” I say. “We’ve bonded.”

  “I know. I don’t want him forever. Just the weekend,” Sarah A says.

  “But why?” I ask.

  “It’s not like I’m asking you for both of your kidneys,” Sarah A says. “We need him up at Yankee Springs.”

  “The designated wilderness area?” I ask.

  “No. It’s a recreation area,” Sarah C says.

  “I’ll be staying at a cabin up there,” Sarah A says.

  “You will? Like camping?” I ask.

  “I did my ‘alone’ time in the hotel until Vance got shipped off. But he’s coming back tomorrow. I can’t stay at the house with him,” Sarah A says. “My parents rented the cabin for a week for a summer vacation, but now that Vance is scheduled to re-arrive, they’ve abandoned those plans. I’ll be staying there by myself for three days.”

  “So your parents are sending you to live in a cabin in a recreation area?” I ask.

  “Just for three days,” Sarah A says.

  “Did Vance go super-crazy?” I ask.

  “No, he’ll be getting released from his first wilderness class and needs to attend another wilderness class to reinforce the lessons. But he’ll be home for three days. The point is, I’m going to need a guard dog. The cabin where I’ll be staying gives me the creeps. I stay there with my family every year, but never alone.”

  “But you don’t want a Sarah to stay with you?” I ask.

  “Sarah
B will be there. And a special friend,” Sarah A says.

  “Do you mean your period?” I ask.

  “No, not my period. Roman Karbowski,” Sarah A says.

  “Roman Karbowski?” I ask, pointing back to the Big Burrito.

  Sarah A breaks into a wide grin. “I need a dog tomorrow night. Bring him in the afternoon,” she says.

  “My parents won’t let me,” I say.

  “God, Sarah, can’t you think about somebody besides yourself? What if I get killed by an ax murderer?” Sarah A asks.

  Sarah B opens up her back door.

  “An ax murderer?” I ask. “Are you serious?”

  “It could happen,” Sarah A says. “I’m young, female, attractive, and will be staying overnight in a wooded area.”

  “I’m missing more than the first three innings,” Sarah B says. “Don’t you get how huge this is? The Tigers have a shot at making it to the World Series.”

  “Whatever,” Sarah A says. “There’s no way they can beat the Yankees.”

  “John Glenn sleeps a lot. Maybe you should borrow a more alert dog,” I say.

  “Are you saying no?” Sarah A asks.

  “She’s not saying no,” Sarah C says. “Are you?”

  “When will I get him back?” I ask.

  “I’m not going to steal your dog,” Sarah A says.

  “I know,” I say. “I just don’t know what I’ll tell my parents.”

  “Say that he ran away,” she says.

  “But then they’ll be worried and go look for him,” I say.

  “I’ll bring him back. Does my life mean nothing to you?”

  “Please, Sarah T,” Sarah B says.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Sarah C says. “I’ll drive up with you.”

  “What’s your answer?” Sarah A asks.

  “I guess I’ll bring him up tomorrow,” I say.

  I’m looking at Sarah A. She winks at me. Then I hear the sound of a horse neighing.

  “Don’t do that!” Sarah B yells.

  I look over Sarah A’s shoulder and see a boy dressed in a gray sweatshirt and jeans pulling at the fringe on Sarah B’s purse. Another boy laughs. There’re three boys, just standing around laughing at Sarah B. They look like elementary school kids. Where did they even come from? Why are they here?

  “We’re just playing,” the first boy says. “Your purse looks like a mare.” He releases several high-pitched whinnies and laughs.

  “You hurt my neck,” Sarah B says, rubbing the area around her collar, where her purse strap rests.

  “Are you gonna go cry to your mother about it?” the boy asks. He balls his hands up into fists and rubs them against his eyes. “Whah, whah, whah,” he whines.

  This kid is so annoying. He needs to grow up.

  “You piece of shit!” Sarah A yells. She lunges forward and pushes the boy against Sarah C’s car. His body knocks against her trunk with a thud. Sarah A kicks him in the leg, and then punches him in the chest.

  “Who’s crying now?” Sarah A asks.

  “You’re crazy,” the boy says.

  Sarah A kicks him hard between the legs. He doubles over and moans.

  “That’s enough,” Sarah B says, standing between Sarah A and the boy. I don’t move. I’m too shocked. Sarah A is attacking schoolchildren outside the Big Burrito.

  “It’s okay,” Sarah B says. “What he said didn’t bother me.”

  “What the blonde girl just did is assault,” the second boy says. “We’re only ten-year-olds. My friend could sue her.”

  Sarah A doesn’t say anything back to him. She just glares. Sarah C circles around the car to stand next to us. Sarah A is shaking. I don’t know if it’s from anger or adrenaline or a combination of the two. The boys walk off. The one Sarah A hit lumbers away, bent over, while his friends stand on either side of him, leading him toward the apartments behind the restaurant parking lot.

  “What an asshole,” Sarah A says. “I can’t believe he said that to you.”

  “It’s just a saying,” Sarah B says. “And he was a kid. It didn’t bother me that much.” She moves closer to us and opens her car door.

  “Well, kids can’t go around mouthing off about people’s mothers. It’s not right. The word ‘mother,’ that means something,” Sarah A says.

  “Yeah, but they’re not evil or anything. They’re just stupid. I was mostly worried that they were trying to steal my purse,” Sarah B says.

  “He shouldn’t have said what he said,” Sarah A says.

  “I think Sarah B’s right. They were just being stupid,” I say.

  “Yeah, ragging on somebody’s mother is completely unoriginal. It’s too cliché to pack any emotional punch,” Sarah C says.

  I’m nodding when I see a sudden movement. It’s Sarah A’s fist. She aims it at Sarah C and socks her in the chest. Sarah C stumbles backward.

  “Ouch,” Sarah C says, putting her hands up. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t tell me how to feel,” Sarah A says.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Sarah C says. “I was trying to make you feel better.”

  “Going away. Going to Yankee Springs and spending some time with Roman, that will make me feel better,” Sarah A says.

  “And I’ll bring John Glenn,” I say, trying to make things feel less weird.

  “Yeah, I know,” Sarah A says.

  “Maybe Sarah T should drive you home,” Sarah C says. She’s rubbing her chest with her hand.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Sarah A says.

  I get the feeling that this isn’t the first spat these two have had since I’ve been gone. Sarah C gets in her car, flips on her lights, and backs out.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “We had a fight,” Sarah A says. “It happens. We’re girls.”

  “You just punched Sarah C,” I say. “You used your fist.”

  “Not hard,” Sarah A says.

  Sarah A grabs my arm and links herself to me. We walk to my car and I don’t say anything else about the incident.

  At the stop sign, I turn to go left and take Sarah A home.

  “No,” Sarah A says. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  “I’ve got a ten o’clock curfew,” I say.

  “We’ve got an hour,” Sarah A says.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask.

  “I just want to stay in motion. Let’s drive out of town,” Sarah A says. “Do you need gas? I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’ve got a full tank,” I say.

  “That’s great,” Sarah A says. “Let’s head out toward the lake. Let’s blow down the road.”

  Chapter 24

  “The guy phase is so complicated,” Sarah A says.

  “Are you sure it’s the guys that are making it complicated?” I ask.

  “I hope we can weather all this,” Sarah A says.

  “Guys or not, you shouldn’t have hit Sarah C,” I say.

  “I pushed her,” she says.

  “No, it was a hit,” I say.

  “Can we go all the way to the lake?” Sarah A asks.

  “I’m turning around at Paw Paw,” I say.

  Sarah A reclines her seat back all the way.

  “Do you have any scars?” Sarah A asks.

  “Like from wounds?” I ask.

  “What other kind of scars are there?”

  I can hear her sliding off her shoes.

  “I guess I was thinking about emotional scars,” I say, starting my own mental list of them.

  “No, I mean real scars. An actual place on your body where your flesh has been injured.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I’m curious,” Sarah A says.

  “Are you asking me if I’m a cutter, because I’m not,” I say.

  Sarah A turns her head to look at me.

  “I know that. I’m asking because I have a scar. It’s shaped like a small bell. It’s right here,” she says, pulling down her skorts and pointing to her hip. “I
must’ve fallen on something. As a kid. I bet I slipped going down the stairs.”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “If my mom were around, my real mom, I could ask her how I got my bell scar.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “It might be a funny story. I might’ve been running away from a pigeon or something.”

  “You don’t consider Mrs. Aberdeen to be your real mom?” I ask.

  “She’s okay.”

  “You call her Mom,” I say.

  “I’m glad I have her. I love her. But it’s not the same thing.”

  “Are you mad at her and your dad because you’ve got to go stay in a cabin?” I ask.

  “It’s not their fault that Vance is crazy. I guess this is an okay solution.”

  “Do you ever think that you’ll go look for her?” I ask.

  “My real mom?” Sarah A asks.

  I nod.

  “Probably not,” Sarah A says.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Aberdeen are nice,” I say. “And Vance is so screwed up. You’re like a total gift.”

  Sarah A doesn’t say anything. She turns and looks out the windshield.

  “Sarah A?” I ask.

  “That makes sense,” she says. “Because a gift is something that you give away.”

  I turn the radio on real soft. We drive for a long time and when we reach the Paw Paw turnoff, I make a U-turn and head back toward Kalamazoo.

  “Can we pull over and get a drink?” Sarah A asks.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “That 7-Eleven up ahead.”

  That’s the 7-Eleven where I stole the donation jar. I don’t take my foot off the accelerator.

  “I’m really thirsty,” Sarah A says. “Come on.” She bumps me on my arm.

  “Don’t hit the driver,” I say.

  “I’m not hitting you. I barely touched you.”

  I take a deep breath and turn on my blinker. I pull into the parking lot and watch Sarah A walk into the store. The clerk working is not the clerk I robbed. It’s a woman. Her hair is pulled back behind her ears. It relieves me that I have no idea who she is. When Sarah A comes out of the store, she’s carrying two bottles of water.

  “For you,” she says, climbing into my car.

  I twist off the top and take a big drink. Her face looks tired and sad.

  “Let’s sit and talk,” Sarah A says.

  “I’ve got to get home,” I say. “I’m almost late.”

  “For five minutes,” Sarah A says.