The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton

by Richard Fifield

* * *

  I HAD ONE MORE ERRAND that morning, but I barely made any distance in the trailer court before the sheriff pulled up next to me.

  I could handle whatever he threw at me, but just in case, I hid the painting under my jacket. He rolled down his window, and I could feel the heat blasting from inside his patrol car.

  He was stern-faced, but he was always stern-faced. I waited for the worst, but instead he addressed me like a normal person. “You wrote that play last night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fantastic. Loved every minute of it. Especially the pack rats. Don’t tell anybody, but you’re now my favorite juvenile delinquent. The rest of them are useless.”

  Before I could thank him, he drove away, and I followed his taillights to Lou Ann’s house.

  * * *

  * * *

  LOU ANN’S FRONT STEPS WERE still splattered with cerulean footprints, just the one shoe. The paint in the Laundromat had been scraped, but the stain remained, a blur of blue that soaked into the linoleum. She hadn’t bothered cleaning up this trail, and I didn’t blame her one bit. Even though she was a painter, cleaning the front steps of oil paint would require sanding. And then repainting, and then maybe polyurethane. Maybe it wasn’t the work that stopped her. Maybe she decided to live as a marked woman.

  Unlike I had done with the answering machine, I wrapped the painting in a towel from the lost and found box in the Laundromat. I still could not look at it, could not acknowledge the shape of my father, and especially the expression she had captured on his face.

  Lou Ann did not answer her door. She was clearly terrified and slid open the kitchen window.

  “Did you tell your mother? Is she hiding somewhere?”

  “My mother is incapable of hiding,” I said. “You know that.”

  “I found somebody to do my taxes,” she said. “It’s a big relief.”

  “I want to keep this,” I said. “I stole it last year.”

  “The nude,” she said. “Oh my.”

  I fished in my pocket and withdrew $137. The last of Coach Bitzche’s money. I pushed the wad of cash into her hand. “I think artists should get paid. I learned that this year.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’ve got one question,” I said. “Why did you paint him that color?”

  “He chose it.” Through the screen of the window, I could see tears beginning in her eyes. “He went through the entire box of paints. I think he was trying to find the color of his soul.” I didn’t have much sympathy, but since she wouldn’t open the door, it’s not like I could comfort her.

  “If you ever paint my soul, make sure you paint it black.”

  “Red,” she said. “Red like fire. A girl who isn’t afraid of the flames.”

  “Whatever,” I said. I didn’t know how to respond. “I’m not going to tell my mom. I’m not going to tell anybody.” I rubbed my foot on her dirty welcome mat, slid my shoe back and forth on the remnants of a cerulean footprint.

  “You never really know somebody,” she said. “That’s the problem with spying, Tiffany. You only see the window. You only see part of the picture and only part of the time.”

  “You knew I was watching?”

  “Your dad warned me,” she said.

  At this, tears sprang up in my own eyes, and I hated it. I hated her to see this. I began to walk away but stopped on the top step. When I turned around, she was still watching through her screen.

  “Thank you for loving him,” I said.

  And I meant it.

  * * *

  * * *

  A NEW KID SAT ON a folding chair in Mr. Francine’s office. He looked like he’d been crying. The pimples on his face were fiery, like he’d been wiping away his tears with sandpaper. I think he was in junior high, because I didn’t recognize him. The criminals in this town kept getting younger.

  I wanted to offer him some encouragement, but I was extra careful around Mr. Francine.

  Kelly smiled when I entered the room. I was expecting a speech about teen suicide, maybe even a referral to a counselor. My letter had been so melodramatic, and I was embarrassed.

  Instead, Kelly clapped her hands. “Bravo,” she said. “It was amazing. And your mother was so nervous. It was adorable.”

  “I don’t think anybody has used that word to describe my mother before.”

  “And that man who sang at the beginning! I have to admit I have a bit of a crush.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s Waterbed Fred. From all my letters.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I get it now. I couldn’t wait to talk to you today.” Here it comes. She’s going to give me the same questionnaire we took the first day at Dogwood. Ten questions to determine suicidal ideation.

  “I hope my letter didn’t freak you out.”

  “What letter?”

  “Never mind.” Goddamn that Mr. Francine. Actually, I’m glad he stole it. I had it coming.

  “The sheriff was in here this morning. He brought Mr. Francine some can openers. He bought them with his own money. You don’t need to worry about any charges, Tiffany. I think the sheriff hates Mr. Francine. And I think he kind of likes you.”

  “Really?”

  “Tiffany, I know you find it hard to believe, but there are people who care about you.”

  I sighed. “Bitsy isn’t talking to me anymore. Consequences.”

  “Boys are stupid. Trust me on this. Most of them grow up and just get dumber.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Your mother was beaming,” she said. “I’m serious. She was the first person to jump up and applaud.”

  “Really?”

  “Your play was amazing,” she said. “I’m proud of you. You are a natural writer, and you proved it. Now put all of your letters together, and you’ll have a book.”

  “I wasn’t trying to write a book. I was just trying to tell the truth.”

  “I want you to keep in touch with me. Regular letters, please. No more confessions.” She stood up and pointed at the door. “You’re done.”

  “I’ve still got four months.”

  “I’m not worried about you,” she said. “And now the county won’t be worried about you, either.”

  “I’m off probation?”

  “Yes,” said Kelly. “You’re free. Join a circus. Follow a cult. Whatever you choose, I support you. Just keep writing.”

  “How do you know I’m not going to stay in Gabardine?”

  “The world needs you, Tiffany. Tough Tiff is destined for greatness.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “You made my student debt worthwhile,” she said. “Hope-fully, that won’t be the last time I say those words.”

  “There’s still a bunch of Sweets in grade school,” I said.

  “Get out of here,” she said. Before I left, I made sure to give her one last envelope.

  Inside, a Thank You card. Paid for and everything. I signed it, and that was all. Important things need to be typewritten.

  No more confessions.

  FROM THE DESK OF TIFFANY TEMPLETON

  Dear Kelly:

  I’ve only got eleven pages of stationery left, but now it’s an even number. Ten. You deserve it. Enclosed is a gift certificate for my mother’s gas station. She actually gave it to me without a fight. She likes you. It’s only for fifty bucks, but that should get you a full tank, and you can spend the rest on Kleenex or whatever. I hope you fill up your car and keep driving. I’m not scared of a new probation officer. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m no good at secrets. Someday, I hope to be as loud and proud as David. I don’t think anybody in the trailer park is ever going to get curtains, but they don’t need to worry. My days of being a juvenile delinquent are over. And if I can help somebody else, I will. Just like you helped me. I don’t think I can
stop kids from making pipe bombs. Sorry about that. I know what it’s like to blow things up, and I know that sometimes it’s necessary. You just have to admit what you did, and then pick up the pieces. Thanks for everything.

  Sincerely,

  Tiffany Templeton

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  THE NEXT DAY, I WOKE to a dusting of snow. Winter had crept up without us noticing, as sneaky as a girl spy.

  At the Laundromat, I kneeled in the powder to pull out the typewriter case. I knew my jeans were going to soak through, but this was worth it. I was not going to leave a time capsule. I would leave an empty box for the next bad girl to fill. There would always be another bad girl. I had blazed a trail in the trailer park for those who did not belong, who took things too far, and now I was leaving her a space to put those things. I burned the entire envelope and took the can openers home with me. We still didn’t have silverware, but we would be prepared for the apocalypse.

  I thought the painting would be harder to burn, that I might have to return with lighter fluid or build some sort of pyre. But as soon as I flicked my lighter and lit the corner, the entire surface spread with blue flame. I thought the oil paint would have shed all those chemicals after a year, but like most things, it would always remain highly flammable, just waiting for a spark. I dropped it in the juniper bush and watched for ten minutes, until all that remained were black ashes skittering among the gusts of wind and snow. I scooped up as many of the ashes as I could and entered the Laundromat with sooty hands and left the mess in the garbage can. Lou Ann could deal with the aftermath.

  I would survive without Bitsy. I would survive without David.

  This is what a feminist looks like.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  IN THE HALLWAYS AT SCHOOL, I was a ghost once more. If Dogwood hadn’t been shut down, I would consider committing a crime just to go back, but an ethical crime this time, like blowing up a laboratory that experimented on monkeys. I knew where I could get a pipe bomb.

  One day I saw TJ, wearing his winter jacket, a new model but just as puffy. I saw him hang back near the drinking fountain.

  I watched the NyQuil bottle raise to his lips, and he guzzled twice as much. We did have social studies in two minutes, so the extra dosage was warranted. None of the kids in the hallway seemed to notice, but they didn’t know what to look for.

  I couldn’t help myself. Months ago, we were in the same gang. When I approached him, he was dazed, but when he recognized me, his face twisted in confusion.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered this, even though the traffic in the hallways was nearly deafening.

  He stood taller, corrected his normally sloppy posture. He knew we were being watched. The NyQuil bottle disappeared into his pocket. “Why are you talking to me?”

  “I’m concerned,” I said.

  “I have a cold,” he said. “Fuck off.”

  * * *

  * * *

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I FINALLY walked out the front door, free from a place that seemed more of a prison than the one I had been remanded to. Kaitlynn waited for me by the flagpole. Since a freak windstorm my freshman year, only the halyards remained.

  I tried to walk past her, but she called out my name.

  She leaned against the barren flagpole. I knew it must have been ice-cold, but she wanted to look tough, or nonchalant, or something. All these poses. We all have all these poses.

  She reached into her jeans pocket, removed a receipt. It was crisp, folded in half. She placed it into her palm, and blew it toward me, into the air. We both watched as it landed on the slushy sidewalk between us. Neither of us made a move to pick it up.

  “It’s from David,” she said. “He wants you to pay him for that jacket.” I was wearing the new jacket at that very moment. I knew David was mad, but not enough to take back a makeover.

  “Fuck that,” I said. “I’ll just give it back.” I began to pull the jacket from my shoulders, even though it was probably twenty degrees outside.

  “Stop,” she said. “He won’t want it back. It’s tainted.”

  “Jesus,” I said. I began to walk away. I would pay him back for the jacket, and I could be free of these girls for the rest of high school.

  “You are a psycho,” she said. “I can’t believe you stole from poor people.”

  “It was an answering machine,” I said, and the receipt twitched a bit in the wind, just like the boy I missed so terribly. I reached down before the wind could catch it, send it scurrying across the parking lot like a dead leaf.

  “You’d better pay him back,” she said. “He said he would get a restraining order.”

  I stared at the receipt. He’d bought the jacket at a store in Spokane, and how he did that would have to remain a mystery. “I will leave forty dollars on their porch.”

  “Unless he gets the restraining order,” she said. “I don’t think you’d be allowed to go on their property.” She stared at me, and all the fake aggression had disappeared from her face. “You really should wear lipstick. I think it would help.”

  Satisfied, she stomped away. She knew how to hurt, had learned from the best.

  I stood in the parking lot, still clutching the receipt. I knew how to hurt people, too. I lost Bitsy, and there would be no receipt, no exchange. I paid the price.

  Chapter Forty

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF December, we got our first heavy snow of the season. The streets were still clogged with the storm, but in Gabardine, the parade would go on. We had no main street, just the highway, so the sheriff and his deputies parked at each end of town, lights flashing, apologizing to the reverse snowbirds from Canada. We had no detour. That describes Gabardine perfectly.

  In the gas station, my mother grumbled at all of the purchases, kids gathered for the parade, carefully counting out pennies and nickels to buy candy. She was used to pennies and nickels, and she was also used to kids, but not a hundred in two hours, and the floor of the gas station was flooded with snow from tiny boots. The first kid slipped and fell without incident, but the second landed hard and crushed a bag of Doritos. At that point, my mother stopped grumbling, and began to issue commands. I had a job, and that was to mop.

  “The last thing I need is a damn lawsuit,” she said. “I don’t even have a wet floor sign.”

  Too late. The door swung open, and before I could warn him, David rushed into the store in his usual fashion. This time, there was nothing fashionable about his quick descent to the floor. I stood there with the mop in my hand and examined him as he lay still on the wet linoleum. He said nothing, and my mother peered over the counter. David was never silent, so she probably thought he was dead.

  From the floor, he reached into the pocket of his beloved cashmere jacket and removed a familiar envelope.

  “Here,” he said. “This is awkward enough. Don’t make me beg.”

  Still on his back, I took the envelope out of his hand.

  “Get up,” said my mother. “You’ll ruin that coat.”

  David eased himself to standing, and for the first time I could remember, he looked embarrassed. “There was no Thank You card,” he said. “Typical.”

  Inside the envelope, I knew there were three ten-dollar bills and two fives.

  My mother watched without a word. For once, she could not control the dynamic in the room, and even she could sense the weight between us.

  “I don’t believe in Thank You cards anymore,” I said. “And you’re lucky Mrs. Bitzche even delivered it.” I had made sure to write my return address as clearly as possible.

  “It was never about the jacket,” he said. He stared down at the floor, and I saw the back of his neck flush red. “My mother told me that. My mother forgave you, and she told me my karma would be bad until I did the same.”

  “Smart woman,” said my mother.

  “Please don’t write about this,�
�� said David. His eyes remained trained on the spot where he had fallen. “I have a reputation.”

  “You’re my friend,” I said. “You’ll always be my friend.”

  He looked up then and offered a sad smile. “It’s an honor to be stuck with you, Tiffany Templeton.” He bowed to my mother and exited into the frigid air, and I watched through the window as he popped up his collar against the cold.

  As the clock ticked closer to eleven, the traffic in the store died down, as the kids joined their parents, teachers, and the most patriotic of townies. I carried my mop outside, and it was so cold that it froze immediately. We had no sidewalks, and down the length of the highway, I could see groups in winter coats clinging to each other for warmth. If you didn’t know better, you would think Gabardine was full of lovers.

  When I returned inside the store, my mother had a stricken look on her face. At first, I thought she figured out who bought the streetlight.

  “We didn’t have a fire season this year,” she said. “I can’t remember a year without a fire season.”

  “That’s a good thing,” I said.

  Wide-eyed, she grasped the cash register drawer. “What if your brother was right? What if he really did have a mission?”

  “Seriously?” I nearly dropped the mop handle. “He’s a brainwashed idiot.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “Maybe it was just good luck. We were due.”

  “Ghosts,” I said. “You admitted that you believed in ghosts.”

  “If you tell anybody I said that, I’ll kill you.”

  “I can keep your secret,” I said. Promises would be kept. “But I know why we didn’t have a fire season.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t talk to me about meteorology,” she said. “I’m sorry if you’ve got an interest, but you don’t have the looks to be a weather girl.”

  “I think it was ghosts,” I said. “Eight of them.”