Sorority Girls With Guns

by Cat Caruthers

“That looks a bit big for you,” the clerk says, frowning at the dress. Great, she's starting to seem like one of those thrift employees who get off on harassing people who do what they're not smart enough to do – buy other people's refuse and make a profit.

  “I'm shopping for someone else,” Morgan says, then busies herself in a rack of sweaters.

  The clerk turns her attention to Tiffany and me. “Anything I can help you with?” She frowns at Tiffany, who's digging in her purse, trying to adjust her phone to a better angle, and I realize she might just think we're shoplifters.

  “We're a big fan of Free People clothes,” I say. “We were hoping to find some at a good price.”

  “I think we might have some over there,” the clerk says, pointing to the end of the rack of tops. “Keep in mind, we do use camera surveillance.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “Nothing, it's just something we like to pass on to our customers,” she says.

  “Did you pass it on to that woman over there?” I point at a middle-aged woman in a fur coat.

  “They're just dropping stuff off,” the clerk says. The name tag says her name is Becky, and she's the assistant manager.

  “You feel it's not important that she know she might be on camera because she's dropping stuff off?” I ask. “Or do you just think that young, poor people are more likely to steal than older, richer-looking people? Are you judging us because we're not walking around in dead animal pelts?”

  “Shade, maybe you better let this go,” Tiffany says, trying to pull me away from the clerk. She doesn't get far because I work out every day and she goes to sweaty yoga once a week, if she's having a good week.

  “No, I want to know,” I say, standing my ground. “Why are you hovering around us instead of any of the other customers in your store? Why don't you think the fur-wearing customers need to know about your surveillance?”

  Becky's mouth puckers up like she just drank two shots of a whiskey sour in one gulp. “We just randomly tell customers about it sometimes.”

  “If that's true, then you should have no problem randomly telling those ladies,” I say, pointing at the fur-clad, Rolex-bearing woman. “Let's go right now.” I gently take her arm and lead her over to the counter. “Excuse me,” I say. “Becky here-” I point at Becky. “-needs to make you aware of something.”

  The woman looks up, her excellently shaped brows perking into upside-down V's. “And what would that be?”

  “That we're very happy to have your donation,” Becky says with a tight smile.

  “And that this store uses video surveillance,” I say, when it becomes clear that Becky isn't saying anything else. “At least, she found it necessary to tell me and my friends that, and when I asked her why she said they randomly tell guests in their store about it. So I figured if she randomly told me, she should randomly tell you. Otherwise, my friends and I might get the impression that it's not so random. Say, do you come in this store a lot?”

  The woman nods, her silver, dangly earrings tinkling like tiny chandeliers. “Why yes, I do. Every month my husband and I donate our old clothes to the less fortunate.”

  “That's wonderful!” I say. “So, on any of your other visits, have you been informed about the video surveillance?”

  Her eyes pull together, and I can see that she's been Botoxed because her brow remains as still as Mona Lisa's. “Well...no. I can't say that I have.”

  I put on an exaggerated frown. “Well, that doesn't sound right. If it's totally random, you should have told her about it at some point.” I stare down Becky, who's refusing to meet my eyes. “May I speak with the store manager, Becky?”

  The store manager is an affable guy with glasses, a steeply balding head and a smile that I think he wears as a protective shield from pissy customers. “How may I help you?” he asks, mopping at his brow. The store isn't well air-conditioned.

  “Becky here informed me and my friends-” I gesture at Tiffany and Morgan, who have both joined me at the counter in a show of solidarity. “-that this store uses video surveillance. When I asked her why she was pointing that out to me, she said she randomly informs customers.”

  The store manager – Evan, according to his name tag – nods. “That's right. Why?”

  “But I just asked this nice lady-” I gesture to the eager donator. “-if she's been informed. Ever. She tells me she comes here every month,and not once has she been randomly notified. So I can only assume that it's your store policy to try to inform people who aren't wearing Rolexes that you have video surveillance, because the management of this store believes poor people shoplift and rich people don't. Have you read any demographic reports about shoplifting, Jeff? If you had, you'd know shoplifters can be of any age, race or socioeconomic background.”

  Jeff mops his forehead again. “I apologize if we somehow gave you the wrong impression. Of course we don't profile our guests. And of course you're right, shoplifters can be anyone.” His smile widens but looks no more genuine. “I'm sure it was just an oversight that Becky didn't think to inform Mrs. Harris.” He scratches at the back of his head, where he still has some hair. “To make up for the misunderstanding, why don't we take ten percent off your purchases today?”

  “I think I'd feel better with a twenty percent discount.” I hold up my cell phone. “Or should I post this video of my shopping trip here today to my vlog so other shoppers know what to expect when they visit your establishment?” I flash an explaining-technology-to-old-people-who-don't-get-it grin. “You see, when I shop I use a little camera surveillance of my own. Not because I go around profiling people, but for educational purposes, so I can recommend – or warn against – stores to my audience.” The truth is that we're live-streaming, and if Evan and Becky can't figure that out from our gluestick-buttons, that's their problem.

  Evan pushes his glasses up on his nose and wipes his shiny, bald head one more time. “Again, I apologize for the unfortunate misunderstanding, and I'd like to reiterate that we do not profile our customers in this store. Surveillance is used 24/7. And to make up for any misunderstanding, we'll be happy to offer you a twenty percent discount on your purchases today.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Almost a week later, I'm still excited about my haul from the thrift store. Thanks to the generous twenty-percent discount, I was able to buy six blouses and a skirt for $42.05. Four of the blouses were Free People tops in excellent condition - basically jeweled pieces of gauze with lace trim. The less fabric there is to a blouse, the more Free People wants for it in a store – these things can go for $80-100!

  Two of them have bids already; since each piece was around $7, I started them at $14.99 with a Buy Now option of $24.99. Morgan argued that I should ask for more, but I pointed out that I only get forty free listings a month (ten of which I allocated to her and Tiffany, each), and after that I have to pay a fee just to list each item, so starting lower means a better chance of selling with no additional fees. At the current bids of $14.99, after adjusting for final value fees and slightly padded shipping, I'll make approximately $6 on each item. That's a veggie burger at a halfway-decent casual dining place.

  One of them sold on its second day up for the Buy Now price of $24.99, which was a big score. The other one hasn't gotten a bid yet, but it still has twenty hours left on the auction and four people watching it.

  “I don't understand why my items don't have any bids,” Tiffany says, leaning over my shoulder to stare at my laptop screen. “I got two Free People tops, and I don't even have any watchers. Did you do something to make people like your items more? Like, to get more traffic to them?”

  “It would not be worth the additional fees to do that on a $15-25 dollar item,” I explain. “I gave you good advice about selling your item, and you wouldn't listen to me.”

  “What good advice?” Tiffany turns her attention back to her cell phone. “Christ. Charlie won't give up. I told him I wasn't going to that charity ball with him, but he
keeps bugging me about it.”

  “Did he actually offer to buy you a ticket?” I ask. “You know those are fifty bucks a head, right?” I know, because I'm technically doing all the PR work that Delilah is being paid to do, because unfortunately the type of public relations she has experience with has no relation to the type of PR one does for a fundraiser.

  Tiffany's eyebrows pull together, and I can see that she plucked them herself today. Badly. And painfully. “Um....I didn't ask him.”

  “If he's willing to buy you a ticket, maybe he's decided you're more important to him than money,” I suggest, turning back to my computer. “And I told you to put measurements in your listings.”

  Tiffany groans. “Why should I bother with that? I listed the size, didn't I?”

  I get up and walk to our shared alcove/faux closet and pull back the folding door. Turning to Tiffany's side, I pull out first a jacket, then a blouse, then a skirt, then, after some more rummaging, another skirt. I turn around and fling them onto her bed.

  “What?” she asks.

  “All of those things fit you, don't they?”

  She nods.

  “Well, the jacket is a size 4, the blouse is a 2, that skirt-” I point to the one on the left, a white gauzy wraparound with faux pearl embellishments. “-is a 4. That other skirt-” I point at a hot pink mini. “-is a 0.”

  Tiffany shrugs. “Well, things fit differently depending on brand and style. And how much spandex is in the material, if any. That skirt-” She points at the pink mini. “-is from the Gap.”

  “Figures.” I go back to my computer and sit down. “I don't know why the Gap makes all their items huge compared to every other brand on the market. Their size six belongs in a Lane Bryant store.”

  Tiffany frowns. “But all you have to do is try on the – oh!” Her eyes widen. “Now I see why people buying on the internet need measurements.”

  “Here.” I push back my chair and point at the computer screen, where I've pulled up her listing for a Free People blouse, size 6. “Just click the button that says 'revise'.” I get up and pound on the wall. “Hey, Morgan, you over there?” With walls this thin, it's faster than finding my cell phone and typing in a text.

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “Can you bring your tape measure back over? Tiffany finally caved on item measurements.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why does she have a tape measure?” Tiffany asks.

  I roll my eyes. “Because she uses it to make sure she doesn't get cheated by that sub shop that promises '12 inches for five bucks'. Takes it to lunch with her every day.”

  “I imagine it comes in handy in other situations where you don't know if you're being lied to about getting twelve inches,” Tiffany mutters.

  “So how much publicity have you generated for this shindig of Richard's?” Morgan asks as she walks in and tosses Tiffany the tape measure.

  “Well, I sent a press release to all the local media outlets, and I've gotten their Flitter account up to more than 500 followers in a little less than a week,” I say.

  “That's pretty good,” Morgan says.

  “Not in the Flittersphere,” I admit. “You realize some celebrities have more than a million followers, right?”

  “How many do we have on GluedToYou?” Tiffany asks.

  “About a couple hundred,” I say. “But people are less likely to follow back on GluedToYou than they are on Flitter. I've followed about a thousand people on the charity's Flitter account, you know.”

  “And that's how you get followers?” Morgan asks, peering over Tiffany's shoulder as she tries to measure a blouse. “You have to double that to get the bust-measurement, you know.”

  “I know,” Tiffany snarls, and Morgan takes a hint and backs off.

  “Not all of them,” I say. “Some of it is word of mouth. Some of it is getting people involved with the dialogue, so they'll re-flit your posts. The more people re-flit, the more followers you can get from people you're not following. That's good for a couple reasons: First, Flitter limits how many people you can follow based on your followers, and I'm frozen at a thousand for now. Second, your account is more valuable to Flitter and its advertisers if your followers aren't all people who follow you.”

  “How many do we need to go viral?” Tiffany hits “submit” and Feebay saves her changes.

  “We need more than fifty thousand individual views, not followers,” I say. “When we get to ten videos with fifty thousand views, and/or have ten thousand followers, then GluedToYou will take us seriously. They'll give us promotion support, meaning they'll suggest our vids to people who are watching, say, other funny vacation videos, or vids about economizing, or being green-friendly. They'll also profit-share from ad revenue they generate off our vids.”

  “They should do that anyway. It's our video!” Tiffany huffs.

  “I agree, but the member agreement says you accept those terms,” I explain. “If you don't, you can keep your vid and post it somewhere else.”

  “What can we do to get our numbers up?” Morgan asks.

  “Keep posting and reposting the vids on all our social media,” I say. “Although that's probably where a lot of our followers came from already, so it might not help a whole lot, but do it anyway.”

  “But if other people besides our friends and family don't reshare the vids, they won't go viral,” Morgan says.

  “What about all those ads I keep seeing that promise to get you ten thousand followers?” Tiffany asks.

  I shake my head. “They're scams. They're small companies that have bot programs running all day, making new Flitter accounts. You're not getting real people following you, you're getting a bunch of accounts created by a computer program that probably also follow each other. No real person is watching your vid.”

  “But if it convinces GluedToYou to give us promotion support, then we will get real viewers,” Morgan says.

  “No.” I shake my head. “You think GluedToYou hasn't thought of that? You think half the people with vids on GluedToYou haven't thought of that? GluedToYou has invested heavily in software programs to discern real followers from bot followers with a pretty high accuracy. We'd never get away with it, and they could shut down our account for it.”

  Tiffany sighs, in this way she has of making her bangs flutter and her lips stick out like Dolly Parton's cleavage. “So we just have to hope our vids are pretty contagious.”

  “Yeah.” I go back to my computer. “Unless anyone has a better idea.”

  “Well, after the party Saturday night, we can put up all the vids, right?” Morgan says. “Even though the bet period is almost over?”

  I turn off the LiveStream button on my GluedToYou app and gesture for Morgan and Tiff to do the same. “But if people like them, we'll have to continue sticking to a budget, at least for a while,” I say. “While we build up viewership.”

  “Wait...what?” Tiffany frowns at me. “What do you mean, continue acting poor?”

  I shrug. “Well, that's the premise we've built the show on. Even though some people will know the truth, we'll want to continue making similar vids for a little while.”

  Tiffany and Morgan are staring at me as if I just told them Kimye will never get divorced. “What? We have to keep living this crappy lifestyle?” Tiff asks.

  I sigh. “Not all the time. Just a couple times a week when we're recording. And just think, with the money we make, you won't have to worry about your parents cutting you off anymore. So in the long run, you'll have to live like this a lot less!”

  I look over at Morgan. “And you won't have to study so hard, because if you don't get a scholarship and your parents refuse to pay for med school, you can still pay for it yourself.”

  “Okay.” Tiffany's phone screeches like a parakeet in pain and she looks at it. “Hey, Charlie says he is going to buy my ticket!”

  “Then we're all going?” I look at Morgan.

  She shrugs. “Sure, I'll buy a ticket with the profit I ma
de off that Blue Fish dress.”

  “Now,” I say, leaning back in my chair and staring up at the ceiling. “What can we do at this party to make sure we have some super-memorable video?”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “In order to be super-memorable, I need a designer gown,” Tiffany says, staring desolately into the closet. “And even if everything I listed on Feebay sells, I'm only going to make about forty dollars.”

  “That's forty more than you had,” Morgan says. “Maybe you can buy a purse with it.”

  Tiffany groans. “I thought there were people making six figures a year on Feebay.”

  I roll my eyes. “I told you, those people spend eight or ten hours a day going to thrift stores, not just an hour a week. They also sometimes buy direct from manufacturers and they spend hours scouring the bottoms of clearance bins. Plus they spend years building up their feedback profile so customers trust them, and so they got top standing in search results on Feebay. And even then, a lot of those people make five figures a year, not six.”

  “We could still try the thrifts around here and see if we luck out,” Morgan says.

  “What about the stuff I already have!” Tiffany's eyes go wide. “What if I sell all the crummy clothes I bought for the trip? Well, not all of them, but a bunch of them?”

  I sigh. “If they're not expensive brands, I wouldn't expect to make much. You can sure try though - sometimes people get lucky with stuff they didn't expect to sell at all.”

  “I like that idea.” Morgan drums her fingers on the countertop. “Hey, what did you say about dumpster diving? Why don't we try that?”

  Tiffany and I look at her like she just suggested that we all try out for Water Polo with Has-Beens. “You want to go climb in dumpsters?” I ask. I actually think it's a great idea, but I was hoping one of my friends would bring it up before I did, so I wouldn't have to spend so much time talking them into it.

  Morgan shrugs. “People do it. You said so yourself, right?”

  “Well, I've heard about people doing it....but it's not something I'd want to do myself.”

  “But you said rich people throw out awesome crap all the time.” Morgan points at our closet. “Do you guys want to wear that crap to this big party and let Richard smirk about how he's teaching us a lesson? Or do you want to show up in a gorgeous gown, having beaten him at his own challenge?”