Trinkets

by Kirsten Smith

  VAPORS

  It’s one of those rare spring nights when it’s not too cold, so I roll down the windows on the drive home. I think of Elodie pulling out that little Coach clutch and how fun it was to sprint down the street in a pack, like we were on the run, like real criminals.

  I stop at a light and glance at the car next to me. The guy driving it smiles at me. He looks like a pimp. He probably is a pimp. I feel like Portland has more pimps and strip clubs per capita than other places, but then again, I’ve never spent much time anywhere else.

  I give him a small smile back. I might as well. It’s not like a pimp is going to follow me home and get me to marry him. Then again, maybe he would. I’m relieved when he turns off onto a side street and I drive on through Southshore, the pines pointing into the dark sky, reminding all who pass that even if they’re rooted into the ground, the only place you can really grow is up.

  Later that night, when my mom’s key turns in the lock, I go into the kitchen to meet her.

  “How was your night?” I ask. Her eyeliner is all smudged and flaky.

  “Oh, it was lovely, honey,” she says, pouring herself a glass of water and popping some vitamin B12. It’s her favorite hangover cure that doesn’t cure much, but she still swears by it. She throws in a multivitamin, and Lord knows whatever minerals and antiaging pills for good measure, and chugs them all down. “How was your group therapy?”

  I shrug. “It’s not really group therapy, but whatever.”

  “So you’re not going to do it again?”

  “You mean steal stuff?”

  My mom glares at me.

  “Do I look like an idiot?” I sneer, even though I hate lying to her, especially when she looks all disheveled and sort of lonely standing there.

  “Of course not. You don’t need to be so hard on me.” She starts getting teary.

  “I’m not!” I say, then I decide, What the heck, and I reach out and hug her good night. Her fingers linger on my back for a second, like a vapor drifting above warm liquor that’s just been poured into a frosty glass.

  “See you in the morning,” I say. Misty-eyed, my mom nods and smiles at me, making me wish that I’d left the whole hugging part out of the picture, but what can you do? Sometimes it’s nice to be nice.

  Coq au Vin

  Tonight at dinner, my father asks me

  how the program is going.

  I take a bite of Jenna’s coq au vin

  that she made with a recipe from her French cooking class,

  which is weird because she can barely make a salad,

  so how is she learning to make French food?

  He asks me if I thought shoplifting was worth

  the disappointment and embarrassment

  and I chew and chew

  the same piece of chicken

  and he says he doesn’t know why

  I would steal

  when he works hard so I can afford

  whatever I need or want

  and then Jenna interrupts to ask

  if anyone would like some more poulet

  and even though I can

  barely swallow the bite of the never-ending drumstick

  I’ve been chewing and chewing

  I say, Yes, please,

  and for once, my stepmom’s food

  tastes like salvation.

  APRIL 9

  Seeing Noah flirting with Kayla Lee in the parking lot doesn’t upset me as much as you’d think it would. I walked right past him. I know he saw me, and I’m sure he was wondering where I was going. I like that he doesn’t know what I do after school. He just keeps sending me texts asking me where I go. So far his guesses are:

  in training for a beauty pageant, ha-ha (he knows I think Miss America is the most evil thing ever)

  singing lessons

  needlepoint class

  Today he sent me one that said, ARE YOU A SPY?” And I wrote back, YOU’LL NEVER KNOW.

  FLOWER

  When Brady sees me in the hallway before lunch, he doesn’t look happy. We hooked up a few days ago after school, but I kept the conversation to a minimum. When he calls, I mostly send his calls to voice mail, but it’s pretty hard to avoid all contact if your locker is right next to his, and your friends are his friends. It takes timing and coordination, like being a thief.

  He catches up to me as I’m walking to the snack bar. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. It feels like one.

  Brady glares at me. “What’s your problem?”

  “What do you mean?” I shrug, playing as innocent as possible, even though I feel as guilty as possible.

  “You throw a bitch fit in front of everyone at Derek’s a month ago, and you’ve been acting all hot and cold since then…. What the hell? Why are you being a freak?”

  I can’t help but laugh. I sometimes laugh when I get nervous. I guess it’s a bad sign when your boyfriend makes you nervous.

  “And now you’re laughing at me?!” He looks furious.

  “No!” I say, but then another little laugh comes out. I’m sure I sound like a person on the brink of hysteria. Brady steps closer and grabs my arm, pinching it. Hard.

  “Ow!” I cry, yanking away. I wince and look down. A little red mark flowers on my triceps.

  “Whatever,” he says. Then turns and walks away.

  I watch him go, and wonder if a normal girl would have pinched him back. Or screamed. But what’s the point of that? Then I’d be making yet another scene.

  I stand there a second, before turning and robotically walking toward the snack bar as the spot on my arm blossoms into something less than beautiful.

  FUN

  Even after I buy my veggie dip and crackers, I still can’t stop shaking. I head for the library so I can eat my lunch somewhere away from everyone. I keep telling myself, This is what happens in relationships—people accidentally hurt each other. It’s a common occurrence.

  I walk past Keith Savage and Zoe Amato leaning against the lockers. Zoe wipes her eyes, and I can tell she’s been crying but she’s pretending she’s hasn’t. At first I think it’s just another fighting couple and it makes me sick, until I see how Keith is staring at her, and he reaches up to touch her shoulder. It’s gentle, like he’s going to apologize for saying or doing something wrong—proving, I guess, that even if people fight, they’re still capable of loving each other and being kind to each other. That kind of love makes me want to cry, so I keep walking.

  I pass all the Spring Fling signs that promise FUN FUN FUN!!! and they only stress me out more. The last time I kissed Brady by the lockers and actually enjoyed it was over a month ago, and he’d asked me what color dress I was wearing to the Fling. But there’s no reason to think of that now, because giving it airspace in my head just makes the pit in my stomach bigger.

  I throw my veggie dip and crackers in the trash and decide to go to Ms. Hoberman’s class early. As I’m heading into her room, I pass Moe walking out. She must have fourth period with her or something. She’s with a few burnouts who are being kind of loud.

  “What the hell’s a villanelle?” a pimply guy with a faux-hawk says. “Is that some kind of zombie pill?”

  The other girl with bleach-blond hair and a nose ring laughs. “Bring on the zombie pills, yo.” I think her name is Alex. I remember because last year she got accused of setting Taryn’s backpack on fire. Not like a full blaze or anything, but enough to cause the principal to ban all lighters and matches on school grounds.

  As Moe passes we meet eyes for a second, and then she gives me a wink. None of her friends seem to notice. She keeps walking as I head into the classroom. And, weirdly, it’s the only thing that gets me a little bit closer to feeling better.

  “Maybe we will save the world, one trinket at a time.”

  Gossip

  On the bus ride downtown,

  I sit next to Rachelle, who’s gossiping

  about what girl blew which guy

&nbs
p; and which football player’s dick is bigger

  and who’s hooking up and breaking up,

  because she says it’s her job as an editor

  to know everybody’s dirty secrets.

  She leaves to walk

  to the back of the bus

  to get a quote from Samantha about the

  Shakespeare trip

  for the “Outings & Aboutings” page.

  Sometimes I think she uses Yearbook as an excuse

  to talk to kids who wouldn’t

  give her the time of day before.

  In a way I don’t blame her;

  we’re all on a quest to be noticed—

  except maybe Moe,

  who’s fully snoring six seats in front of me.

  When Rachelle comes back,

  she’s amped up because

  Samantha introduced her to Tabitha Foster,

  “who was a total bitch.”

  She’s not a bitch, I say,

  and Rachelle says, How do you know?

  and I say, I have a class with her, and she asks what class.

  If I were a gossip I’d say,

  A class for people who steal,

  and Rachelle would die with happiness

  because it’s a dirty secret no one knows,

  but I just shrug and say, Geometry Two, and Rachelle says,

  Well, trust me, she’s a bitch,

  and I say, You’re probably right,

  because I realize that with Rachelle,

  if you don’t have anything mean to say,

  she doesn’t want to hear anything at all.

  NOBODY

  I find my seat in the theater next to Taryn, who’s buried in her phone.

  “Who’re you texting?” I ask, glancing over her shoulder.

  She yanks her phone away. “Nobody,” she says.

  “You need to watch yourself.” I shoot daggers at her. I’m not sure when she got the idea that she could talk to me like that.

  There are about sixty LO kids here in the theater, mixed with a few hundred people my parents’ age. The room has little balconies and berry-red seats and gold walls. A few of the people gave us smiles as we came in and sat down, like they approved of what culturally advanced students we were.

  I straighten my dress, a Nanette Lepore I stole from Souchi a few months ago when I was shopping with my mom. It was risky to steal it when I was standing ten feet away from her, but that was half the fun of it. Besides, she was too distracted to notice.

  I peer up at the little balconies before spotting Elodie, sitting in her berry-red seat a few rows in front of us. She’s with another girl from Yearbook, snapping pictures of the old baroque theater and its gold walls with her camera. Moe is sitting in the row right in front of me. If I squint hard enough, I can almost read what she’s writing in her notebook… which she probably wouldn’t appreciate. Although she’d be more chill about it than Taryn was when I tried to read her text messages. Taryn’s kind of a dick. But whatever. Kayla’s a little better. And I guess the point is, no matter what, Taryn and Kayla and I have a history together. For what it’s worth.

  As the lights dim, Ms. Hoberman looks rapt. The parental-age people in their suits and dresses start to clap. I sink down in my seat as the red curtain rises up and away. I can’t help feeling like whatever’s going to happen isn’t going to be good. But obviously that’s because I’ve read the play, and everybody knows this is a tragedy.

  APRIL 15

  Why do we have to read a play and then sit through a shitty performance of it? I feel bad for those suckers onstage because this is going to be the highlight of their acting careers. Fortunately I have a journal, where I can write observations of how I definitely smelled a fart in the lobby and now I’m pretty sure Mercutio has a boner. Can you imagine getting a chubby onstage? I’d totally play it off like I didn’t care, but inside I’d be mortified. There are tons of annoying things about being a girl, but at least we don’t have to deal with phantom boners. I wrote a note on a piece of paper and covertly flashed it to Tabitha, but I don’t think she got it. I wrote, “Mercutio’s giving the full salute.” She looked confused. Once I explain it, I’m sure she’ll think it’s funny. Or maybe she’ll be annoyed I tried to flash her a note in public, but who cares. Somebody needed to appreciate my humor, and it might as well be her.

  Flush

  Ms. Hoberman is flush with love.

  After the play is over, she gathers everyone—

  but Keith Savage and Zoe Amato, who are off making out,

  and Heather Rardin and Oliver Montone, who are probably

  doing more than that in an alley somewhere—

  and she goes on a virtual soliloquy

  about the themes of the play

  like fate versus free will and the power of love

  and the passage of time

  and the individual versus society,

  and how society and your family

  want you to behave one way

  even if your heart tells you

  to act different.

  Then she gets her program

  signed by all the actors

  and she blushes when the guy who played Mercutio

  puts his arm around her for a photo,

  and when Patrick Cushman tries to look at her program

  she slaps his hand away.

  She says she needs to get it laminated

  and then we can look at it.

  Clearly this is her new prized possession

  of all prized possessions.

  As I take a picture for the yearbook,

  Moe makes a peace sign over Patrick’s head

  and I try not to laugh.

  I guess if there ever was an individual against society,

  it would probably be her.

  MODERATELY APPEALING

  On the bus home, Patrick Cushman passes out gum. When he asks me if I want any, I decline. I hate gum. It seems like the flavor never lasts more than a minute. It always leaves you disappointed and wanting more.

  “He’s retarded,” Taryn says, glaring over at Patrick. “He’s just trying to impress you because he said he stole it from 7-Eleven.

  “He stole it?” I ask, surprised.

  “Apparently.” Taryn rolls her eyes. “Only an idiot would shoplift,” she sneers.

  I’m glad I never confided about my extracurricular activities. Some girls steal with their friends, but I never wanted to risk telling her. Once when I was drunk, I was tempted to tell Kayla, but she started telling a long story about hooking up with some hippie guy she met from Lewis & Clark and how she was totally scared he gave her herpes, and the moment passed, so I didn’t bring it up again.

  And now girls I wasn’t aware of three weeks ago know more stuff about me than some of my friends do. When Moe tried to get my attention tonight, at first I was irritated. Then the whole rest of the play I kept intermittently wishing I could figure out what the hell she had written on that piece of paper. I bet it was funny.

  Patrick Cushman leans over to me. “It’s watermelon. You sure you don’t want a piece?”

  “Sure.” He grins and hands me one. “So, was it worth the risk?” I ask.

  He looks a little surprised by the question. “To be honest, I’ve never stolen anything in my life.” He shrugs. “It was a complete accident that I’m reframing as a criminal act in order to make myself sound impressive to girls.”

  I smile. He’s kind of cute, actually. Lanky limbs. Green eyes with a little bit of a sparkle. He’s not as buff as Brady, but he has nice hands. I get a sudden flash of him putting my sweatshirt around my shoulders that day as we left the nurse’s office after my dodgeball debacle. He may have been creeping on me, but it was in the most gentlemanly way possible.

  “I’m not sure if ‘impressive’ applies. Maybe ‘moderately appealing’?”

  He laughs. “I’ll take that.”

  I unwrap the piece of gum he hands me and put it in my mouth. “Mmm. Defini
tely worth it. Delicious.” I nod.

  “Here,” he says. “Keep one for the road. It always loses its flavor too quick.” He walks back to join his friends, and I watch him go. Taryn is staring over at me like WTF? so I just put on my iPod and concentrate on making the taste of watermelon last as long as it possibly can.

  APRIL 16

  Aunt B was working the night shift at the hospital, so Marc was waiting up for me after I got home from the play. He pretends he doesn’t do it, but he always does.

  As far as brothers go, he’s not bad, aside from the time when I was seven and he got us lost on that “secret” ski run only he knew about at Mount Hood Meadows. It was right before our parents had their car accident. Ski patrol had to go out looking for us. When we finally made it back to the lodge, our parents were furious, because tons of people die up there. Usually hikers, but still. They were so pissed they made us stay in the cabin all weekend, and our mom wouldn’t let us get hot chocolate. I loved hot chocolate, so I stopped talking to Marc for a week, until he used all of his allowance money to buy me three boxes of Nestlé hot chocolate with little mini marshmallows and I forgave him.

  I didn’t really have much to report about the play, but Marc didn’t care. He just likes to know I’m home before he goes to sleep.

  CRACK

  When Moe walks into Shoplifters Anonymous, she stops at my chair. “Meet up after?” she asks me. I nod, and she says, “Cool. I’ll tell Elodie.”

  We sit there for an hour and forty minutes as Shawn shows an ancient educational film about the perils of shoplifting. It features Winona Ryder doing community service and talking to the camera about how wrong it is to steal. She’s wearing a cute vintage dress and tiny diamond studs. She doesn’t seem super regretful even though all she talks about is how sorry she is. You’d think as an actress, she’d want to act a little more apologetic, but then again, if somebody made me do a video after I got caught shoplifting, I’d probably be highly flipping annoyed.