The Girl You Thought I Was

by Rebecca Phillips

  “I’m sure,” I say, not taking my eyes off the ceiling.

  “Okay, well . . .” He goes quiet for a moment, and I turn my head to check if he’s still there. He’s leaning against the doorframe and peering at my floor. “Maybe we can have that talk now?” he says, glancing at me.

  God. That’s all I need tonight. “Not now, Dad.”

  He sighs. “Morgan, honey, you haven’t been yourself since you went to see your mother. Rachel told me about the engagement. I really think we should—”

  “I said no, okay?” I turn back to the ceiling. “Mom said you never listened. I think I get what she means now.”

  The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I’m being unfair. Dad has never treated me the way my mother says he treated her. He always listens to me. He cares about my opinions. He sees me. I don’t even know why I said that. Maybe because I need to release all this anger and sadness somehow, and better here—on him—than in the blind spots of a store. Or maybe I simply want to hurt him enough that he’ll finally leave me alone.

  Whatever the reason, it works. Before I get the chance to apologize, he backs out of my room and quietly shuts the door.

  Chapter Thirty

  ONE OF THE THINGS THAT STUCK WITH ME FROM my theft education class was Have a relapse prevention plan. Avoid triggers, learn to control impulses, and find alternatives to stealing. Something distracting that keeps your mind and hands busy and fills the void in your life.

  For most of the summer, spending time with my friends or Eli seemed to keep me on track, for the most part. But now that avenue is closed, so I’ve resorted to something else to help me stay grounded.

  Yesterday, when I opened the cupboard where we keep the storage containers and half of them rained down on my head, something in me snapped. I cleared out the rest of the containers and piled them in neat stacks, then did the same with the lids. After that, I decided to clean out the junk drawer, which still had Target receipts from the week Dad moved in. Once that was done, I moved on to the fridge, throwing out expired jars and cheese with green dots and a single blueberry yogurt several months past its best-before date.

  During my hours of frenzied organizing, my father only spoke to me once, to ask me what on earth I was doing.

  “Cleaning,” I told him. He took one look at me, elbows-deep in the cereal cupboard with my hair in a messy bun and a don’t mess with me look on my face, and scurried off to watch TV for the rest of the afternoon.

  I went to bed last night exhausted and sore but calm, then woke up this morning to start all over again. Today’s project is my bedroom, which I admit hasn’t seen a dust cloth in weeks. Everything goes fine until I start tackling the closet and notice something I haven’t paid attention to all summer.

  “I need new clothes,” I mumble to myself as I survey the sizable gaps in my wardrobe. Not only do I need clothes for fall, but school starts in five days and I haven’t bought a single school supply in preparation.

  It’s inevitable. I’m going to have to go shopping.

  I’ve been steering clear of stores as much as humanly possible for most of the summer. When I do have to go, to pick up shampoo or a box of tampons or something, I get in and out as fast as I can. I haven’t risked shopping for clothes in a while, simply because I know I’d be tempted to do my changing room trick, which I haven’t done since the bikini.

  But I can’t avoid stores forever. Eventually, I’m going to have to test myself.

  Once my bedroom is organized, I force myself to take a shower and get ready to go out. What I want to do is crawl into bed and forget shopping and wear my summer wardrobe right into February, but I refuse to let myself mope. Or cry. Or spend the rest of the day staring at my phone, waiting for Eli to text me back. I’ve sent him six messages in the past three days and he’s ignored every one of them. His silence—everyone’s silence—makes me feel like I barely exist.

  A little voice in my head tells me I’m being dumb, exposing myself to temptation when I’m feeling this low, but another part of me feels like it’ll be good. Maybe learning how to shop like a normal person will make me feel less like a freak.

  On the way down to the lobby, I open the zippered pocket inside my purse and reach in. It’s still there—the curved hook I used to pop off countless security tags. Taking this into a store with me is just asking for trouble, so I fold my fingers around it and carry it outside, pausing near the trash bins at the back of the building. They smell like death in this heat, but I hold my breath and lift the lid, dropping the hook inside with my other hand. There.

  Feeling a bit more confident, I drive to the next town over, where there’s a huge outdoor mall with every kind of store imaginable. I try not to list off each one I’ve stolen from, because I know the total will make me want to turn around and go back home.

  I start with the safest items—school supplies. It helps that every aisle is packed with people, and I fill my basket without any issues at all. Once everything’s paid for, I bring the bags of supplies out to my car so I won’t have to carry them around while I shop. I’ve done that trick too—putting unpaid-for items in bags I brought in from other stores. Risky but doable.

  I push the thought away as I head down the sidewalk to Rampage, one of my favorite clothing stores. Their security cameras are top-of-the-line, so it’s a little too risky to lift from, even though I’ve managed once or twice. But not today. Today I’m being good. I can do this.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” one of the salesgirls says when I walk in. She looks right at me and smiles, letting me know I’ve been seen. A tactic, I’ve learned. If you’ve been noticed, you’ll be less likely to try anything funny.

  I smile back at her and start browsing, paranoia already crawling up the back of my neck. It’s like a reflex, popping up even when there’s no reason for it. Am I ever going to be able to shop without being constantly on guard? Am I ever going to be one of those people who stroll through a store, perfectly relaxed, the notion of shoplifting never even crossing their minds? I wish I remembered what that felt like.

  After ten minutes, I’ve gathered a half dozen items to try on. The same salesgirl who greeted me shows me to a change room, then takes my pile of clothes, and hangs everything up herself. Another tactic—she sees exactly what I came in here with. Which is fine. Good, even. This way, I won’t be tempted.

  But when I try on the white scoop-neck top that laces up in the back and clings to my torso like a second skin, it doesn’t seem to matter who saw me come in with it. I look at the price tag for the first time. It’s fifty dollars—way above what I’d spend on one shirt—but all I can think about is how much I want it, and how Eli’s eyes would light up in approval if he saw me wearing it.

  Eli. Saturday evening in the park slams into me all over again. His eyes, burning with accusation. The shock and betrayal on his face when he learned that the honest, selfless girl he’d fallen for wasn’t honest or selfless at all. In fact, she was the complete opposite.

  I examine myself in the mirror, carefully avoiding my own gaze. It would be so easy to slip the shirt I wore in here over the white one I’m wearing now. I can picture just how it would feel: The surge of adrenaline that somehow balances out the chaos inside me. The calm as it drains away. Then the shame, hot and prickly, settling into my bones when the high wears off. This last stage is the one I always seem to forget, and forgetting the bad parts is probably why my craving never stops.

  But maybe the key to quitting isn’t about killing the urge. Maybe it’s about making the choice, every single day, not to act on it.

  I take off the white top and put it back on its hanger, itching to get out of this tiny room. Screw it. I’ll wear last year’s clothes, even though they’re all a little tight. Maybe if I eat a vegetable once in a while, I’ll fit into them again by Christmas.

  “No luck?” the salesgirl asks as I hand her everything I went in with, each item present and accounted for.

  “Nothing fit
s,” I tell her. Before she can offer to find me some different sizes, I turn and walk away.

  I don’t feel like going home yet, and the failed shopping trip has made me hungry for something greasy, so I head downtown to Ace Burger. Maybe Dawson’s working today. He’s the only one in my friend group who still treats me exactly the same as before.

  My mood lifts when I walk in and see him behind the register, ringing up some customers. Then it plummets again when I realize those customers are Sophie and Zach. Speaking of awkward.

  Dawson sees me first and lifts his chin in greeting. Sophie turns to check out who he’s looking at and several emotions cross her face when she sees me—happiness, fear, embarrassment, sadness. She finally settles on resigned and raises her hand in a wave. Zach glances over too, smiling at the sight of me.

  I contemplate leaving, running away like a coward so I don’t have to talk to them, but I will myself to stay put. I’m so sick of running. Sick of avoiding. Leaving right now would make me no better than my mother. The last thing I want is to be like her, giving up after a couple of failed tries. Staying away in fear of making things worse, only to end up doing nothing at all.

  No. Unlike my mother, I’m not going to stop trying to fix what I ruined.

  I wait until they finish ordering and then move forward, my legs shaking slightly. “Hi, guys,” I say, trying to smile.

  “Hey,” Sophie says, still looking slightly uncomfortable. Dawson clears his throat, and I realize I’m holding up the small line that’s formed behind me. I order the first thing I see on the menu board—a Chompin’ Chipotle burger—and dig a twenty out of my purse. Dawson gives me my change and my order number and I step aside, joining Sophie and Zach by the drink machine.

  “Do you think . . . ,” I begin, my voice fading out. I take a breath and try again. “Do you think I could sit with you guys? We need to talk about this.”

  Sophie looks at me for a moment and then nods. “Yeah, we do.”

  Once the orders are ready, we bring our trays over to a small table in the corner. I don’t look over, but I can sense Dawson watching us from the cash register, probably hoping that the three of us can figure out a way to be normal again. If normal is even possible anymore.

  “First, I want to apologize,” I say as soon as we sit down. “I never wanted you to find out the way you did. I should have told you guys long ago, and I’m sorry for keeping it from you.”

  Sophie slowly lifts a fry to her mouth and takes a bite. “Why did you?”

  I look down at my still-wrapped burger. Coming in here, I was starving, but now the thought of swallowing food seems impossible. “I don’t know. I was ashamed. And I was scared of . . . this. What’s happening right now. I knew you guys wouldn’t trust me anymore if you found out what I did.”

  They exchange a quick glance; then Zach looks at me. “I still trust you,” he says. “And yeah, of course the whole shoplifting thing was a shock, but that’s not what surprised us the most, honestly.”

  Confused, I shift my gaze from his face to Sophie’s. “What do you mean?”

  Sophie swallows the bite of burger in her mouth and says, “The lying, Morgan. You, like, lied to us for months, just because you had this idea in your head that we’d hate you and turn our backs on you if we knew the truth. I mean, yeah, things have been awkward since we found out, but if you’d told us earlier, we might have been able to help you. Instead, you hid it from us because you automatically assumed we wouldn’t understand. And maybe we don’t, but it would have been nice if you’d at least given us the chance to try.”

  My face warms and I drop my gaze to the table. She’s right. I did assume they wouldn’t understand; how could they? None of them would ever do what I did. We steer clear of the kids at school who drink every weekend or do drugs or cause trouble, because it’s not our scene. But stealing is just as bad as or worse than all of that, so of course I was worried they’d lump me in with the kind of people they didn’t have any use for.

  But maybe I was the one who was judging. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed I had to censor myself around them just so I could feel worthy of their friendship.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, meeting Sophie’s eyes, then Zach’s. “Friends should tell friends the truth, and if you . . . if it’s not too late and if you still want to be my friend, I’ll never lie to you again. I promise.”

  I don’t look away, or even blink. I need them to know I mean it. Zach breaks eye contact first and dips a fry into his little paper cup of ketchup. Sophie stares at me for a moment, the straw of her cup between her lips. I still haven’t touched anything on my tray.

  “Okay,” she says, setting her cup down. “Are you still doing it?”

  “Am I . . . ?”

  “You said you won’t lie, so I’m asking. Are you still shoplifting?”

  I think of earlier, in the Rampage change room, the smooth fabric of the shirt against my skin. I think of the compulsion that still lingered, even as I walked out empty-handed. “I wanted to, earlier,” I tell her. They want the whole, uncensored truth, so that’s what I’ll give them, even if it’s hard to say. “When I was in Rampage today, I found a shirt I really liked and I thought about stealing it.”

  They both watch me, eyes wide and food forgotten.

  “But I didn’t,” I go on, leaning forward a bit. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. I walked away instead, which I guess is something I should’ve done from the beginning. But I’m starting to do it now.”

  Relief flickers across both their faces. It feels good to know they care one way or another about my issues and struggles, even if they don’t fully understand them. I hope Alyssa feels the same, when I finally gather the nerve to approach her. With her it’ll be harder, since we’ve known each other for so long and been through so much. But if I want to distinguish myself from my mother, then I’m not going to waste time being afraid.

  “Well, that’s something,” Sophie says after several moments of silence. She lifts her burger to her mouth, then puts it down again without taking a bite. “I think I owe you an apology too. I’m sorry I acted suspicious of you that night at Zach’s house. Friends should also give friends the benefit of the doubt, and I promise to do that from now on.”

  “And I promise not to call you Sticky Fingers or ask if you paid for that gravy on your tray,” Zach adds with a crooked grin.

  This time, my smile comes easily. “Thanks, guys.”

  They both go back to eating. I wait for them to say more, to grill me about details or give me conditions that I’m not sure I can keep, but they don’t. I consider telling them about my visit with Mom and about Eli dumping me and the various other ways my dirty little habit has screwed everything up, but I don’t. Instead, I unwrap my Chompin’ Chipotle and take a huge bite, because right now, all I want to do is eat lunch with my friends.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  MY PHONE RINGS THE NEXT DAY AS I’M WALKING through the rain to my car after work. I dig it out and check the screen, hope blooming in my chest. It disappears as quickly as it arrived when I see my sister’s name.

  “Hey, Rach.”

  “I know you don’t want to talk about Mom,” she says, diving right in as usual. “But she called me last night, upset. She wanted my advice.”

  I slow my pace, even though it’s now pouring and my clothes are almost soaked through. Rachel hasn’t mentioned our mother since the disastrous visit ten days ago. On the way back from Sutton, I told her everything Mom said, everything I said, and exactly how fed up I was over the entire situation. Rachel wasn’t exactly thrilled about Mom and Gary’s engagement news either, and she even agreed that maybe going there was a mistake. So I’m not sure why she’s telling me this now.

  Still, I’m curious. “About what?” I ask as I finally reach my car. I unlock it and get in, shivering in the cool, dry air.

  “About you,” she says. “And what to do about you. She said you’re ignoring her calls.”

  What to do about you.
Like I’m some sort of problem to be resolved. And it’s true—she’s called me three times since I stormed out of her house, and I’ve ignored every call. I know if I answer, all I’ll get is another earful of excuses.

  “You’re right,” I say, dabbing at my dripping arms with a napkin. “I don’t want to talk about Mom, and I also don’t want the two of you plotting about me behind my back. Forget it, okay? Now can we talk about something else?”

  She lets out a sigh. “Fine. I’m just saying, I don’t think she’s planning on backing off this time. She’s pretty determined to talk things through with you and—”

  “Rachel.”

  “—I’ve been thinking about it and maybe her and Gary getting married isn’t the worst idea. I mean, we used to really like him when we were kids, and she obviously loves him if she agreed to—”

  “Rachel.”

  “Okay, okay, sorry.” She’s silent for a moment, like she’s trying to come up with a topic that won’t set me off. “How’s that cutie boyfriend of yours?”

  Bad choice. I haven’t had a chance to tell Rachel about the breakup. “Not my boyfriend anymore.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Oh, Morgan,” she says, and the sympathy in her voice makes my eyes well up. “He found out about the shoplifting? Was he really mad?”

  I blink and focus on the windshield, following the networks of raindrops as they stream down the glass. “He told me he was done, and I can’t really blame him. He also accused me of stealing something from his house.”

  Another pause. “Did you?”

  “No,” I say a little too forcefully. But I can’t blame her for asking any more than I can blame my friends and Eli for being suspicious. I’ve done bad things, so of course people are going to assume the worst of me until I manage to prove myself again.

  “I believe you,” Rachel says, and I know she means it. Lying to her is nearly impossible. She could always see through me, and vice versa, even over the phone. “And Eli will too, when he cools down and thinks about it.”