Crimes of the Sarahs (11 page)

“This isn’t a small thing, Sarah T.”

I can feel tears forming.

“You know, letters of recommendation are pretty important for college. You just put all of that in jeopardy by what
you did. Getting into the University of Michigan is tough. You get that, right?”

“I do. I know. We need to be well-rounded. We need school interests and charity interests and the shelter was our charity interest. I get it.”

“Do you think Mr. King will write us letters if he finds out we stole from the shelter? That we robbed from a maimed, kindhearted Belgian draft horse? Your fellow Sarahs and I have volunteered—have cleaned up after yapping and shitting dogs—for two years to get a good letter. Do you understand how big this is?”

“I get that now, but I didn’t know. When I stole it, I didn’t have a clue.”

“As a Sarah, you can never be clueless. Ever. You’ve always got to think of who you’re representing. It’s completely unacceptable to put us all in jeopardy like that.”

“I didn’t know.” Which is the truth. I’d never really thought too deeply about how anybody would be affected by my crime.

Sarah A is standing now, walking toward the door.

“Well, you know now. I’m sorry to say this, but this is the worst crime.”

I wait for one of the other two Sarahs to possibly say something in my defense, but neither do. I stand up.

“Is this it?” I ask. “It is over?”

“I believe it is,” Sarah A says.

I’m stunned. I guess I have to leave. It would be weird and desperate if I didn’t, right? Sarah A turns the doorknob and I’m ready to walk out and go home, but I can’t. Why? I’d like to say it’s because a newfound strength is building inside of me and for the first time in my life I don’t want to retreat. But that’s not it.

Vance is blocking my path. He’s standing in the doorway, with his eyes opened so wide that they look a little like golf balls. He’s applied a liberal amount of hair gel and teased his coif into a stiff Mohawk. He’s also applied thick lines of black shoe polish to his face, presumably to look like some kind of warrior.

At first, I think it’s comical. But then he shoves me out of the way and lifts a power screwdriver over his head. He slips it into the door’s upper brass hinge and commences unscrewing it.

“My brother really needs to leave,” Sarah A says. “This is an off-limits area.”

“Vance,” I say.

“No, do not talk to him. Do not!” Sarah A says.

Sarah A and I back up. Sarah B and Sarah C climb onto Sarah A’s bed.

We all watch the door fall down. He tosses the screws onto the carpet.

“Sarah, we are going to have a dialog,” Vance says. “No borders. No boundaries. No walls.”

Across the hall, I can see that he’s removed the bathroom door from its frame too. I wonder if he’s removed every bedroom, closet, and bathroom door in the condo.

“Sarah C, maybe we should put Digits in a drawer,” Sarah A says.

Sarah C nods and hands Sarah A the cat. When Sarah A reaches into the drawer, she sets Digits inside with her right hand and pulls out a handful of silverware with her left. She hands it to me. They’re butter knives.

“Take one and pass them around,” Sarah A says. “If he’s being serious, you’ve got to defend yourself. Don’t let him disfigure your face!”

Sarah A keeps a knife, and I take one and hand one each to Sarah B and Sarah C. They eagerly take them. But I still have two knives. I drop the extra one on the carpet and hurry over to the bed to join Sarah B and Sarah C.

“No, no,” Sarah C yells.

I watch as Vance runs into the room and scoops up the extra butter knife. Then he starts releasing awful screams and stabbing at the air.

“What were you thinking?” Sarah A asks.

I shrug.

“Maybe you should just have a conversation with him,” Sarah C says.

“Yeah,” Sarah B says.

“It’s something to consider,” I add.

“Are you nuts? Are you all high? Do you want something bad to happen to me?” Sarah A asks. “Seriously, how can anyone converse with that?”

Vance punches the knife in the air and screams. The veins in his neck bulge.

“I want a dialog!” he yells. “I will not be ignored!”

Chapter 9

My first instinct is to reattach the door. Where did Vance set the power screwdriver? I glance around, but then I realize that I don’t really know how to operate a power screwdriver. Plus, none of the other Sarahs make any moves toward the fallen door. I decide it’s best just to do whatever they do. All four of us huddle on the bed. Then we commence releasing anguished screams.

We aren’t screaming words or anything. We’re just making high-pitched sounds. Personally, I think we sound like a flock of startled birds. Maybe seagulls or pelicans. At one point, I hear Vance screaming too. But I’m wrong. He’s not. It’s just the Sarahs. We’re freaking out.

“Get over here and talk to me!” Vance says.

“Holy shit!” Sarah A says. “Run!”

We all jump off the bed and start racing around pell-mell. For some reason, none of us leave Sarah A’s room. We keep running around inside it, sort of pinballing off the walls.

“You’re insane!” Sarah A yells.

For a second I think she’s yelling at me, but her comments are directed at her maniac brother, Vance. This is good. She’s finally talking to him. Let the dialog begin.

“Don’t try to dismiss my feelings by making me look like a psycho,” Vance says.

“You think I’m making you look like a psycho?” Sarah A says. “Check out a mirror.”

I must not be in very good shape, because all this running and excitement fatigues my thigh muscles and turns them all rubbery. How much more actual running do we have to do? Sarah A hasn’t even led us out of her room. How serious is this? Are we really in imminent danger? It’s not like we’re being threatened with steak knives.

Breathless and red-faced, eventually all the Sarahs stop running around and gather next to Sarah A’s closet in the corner. Tragically, it’s the kind of closet that doesn’t have a door. You just walk into it. It has zero potential for operating as a bunker.

“Talk to me!” Vance yells. “Get over here and talk to me!”

He’s standing on top of her bed, holding the knife firmly in his right hand.

“No,” Sarah A says.

“But I’m your brother,” Vance says.

“He’s a giant wad of psychiatric problems,” Sarah A says.
“Somebody needs to put him in a box and study him, just like a rat.”

Sarah B shakes her head back and forth and smacks her gum.

“I don’t think PETA lets people do that anymore. Not even scientists.”

“Scientists can absolutely still do that,” Sarah C says, her red hair streaming around her shoulders in a wild mess. “They’re growing two-headed rats in labs across the country and then conducting experiments, like, only feeding one of the heads. You just have to put the rats in a big enough box.”

Soon, Sarahs B and C are so busy talking about the ethical treatment of rats, mainly focusing on the most humane-sized box in which to raise two-headed, mutated rats, that they’re completely missing the stabbing. So I point it out.

“Look at Vance!” I yell.

“He’s lost it,” Sarah A says. “He’s on a one-way street toward a straitjacket.”

Vance is kneeling on Sarah A’s bed. He’s thrusting his butter knife blade into my Doyle Rickerson pillow over and over again. I didn’t think a butter knife could pierce anything, especially not a cotton shirt
and
a pillow. But Vance strikes my Doyle pillow with such force that he actually punctures the mattress below. Feathers swim through the air.

“Maybe you will end up dating Sal Rodriguez,” Sarah C says.

Each time Vance punches the knife down, he releases a grunt. This rhythmic pumping goes on and on. As I stand watching, I’m struck by a weird thought. Maybe Doyle Rickerson’s pheromones have triggered some sort of psychotic break. How powerful are pheromones anyway?

After assaulting the pillow, Vance continues his attack on Sarah A’s bed. Suddenly, things feel very scary. I mean, this kid is out of control.

“Mom and Dad will institutionalize you,” Sarah A yells. “You won’t even get sunlight.”

Vance stops stabbing her comforter and stares at her. His brown eyes don’t look like they belong to a tween in the midst of a psychotic rage. Instead of looking crazy, his eyes just look sad. Standing there in the corner of Sarah A’s room, I can totally sympathize with him. He’s all alone. Like a twig. And I know exactly what that feels like. It’s like everything in the world can hurt you. It’s like you’re not even sure if you exist, because you barely feel real. He stops knifing the bed and stares at Sarah A.

“Why do you hate me?” he asks.

“I don’t hate you,” Sarah C says. “I can almost empathize with you.”

“No, my sister, Sarah Aberdeen, why do
you
hate me?”

Sarah A bites on her bottom lip. “I think you’re a freak. And you embarrass me.”

I’m tempted to interject and try to steer the discourse toward a less insulting tone, but I don’t really know how to do that. I glance at Sarah B and Sarah C. They’re each holding their butter knives, blade out, in Vance’s direction.

“I bet if Mom and Dad had never adopted you,” Vance says, “that my life would be better.”

“Maybe,” Sarah A says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Your birth hasn’t exactly been a boon to my life. I bet if Mom knew how emotionally retarded you’d turn out, she never would have had you.”

That’s when I notice the change in his eyes. Yes, they’re still sad, but they’re also enraged. Now he’s the one who sounds like a bird, like a giant pterodactyl. Or at least how they sound in movies when they attack their prey. Emitting this weird cry, he lunges toward Sarah A. But since we’re all grouped together into a single Sarah clump, he’s swinging his knife toward all of us.

“Run! Run! Protect your face!” Sarah A yells.

She reiterates this survival tip like she’s had experience. All the Sarahs flee the room, running one right after the other. Of course, I’m the last Sarah. How is it that I’m always the Sarah bringing up the rear?

We race to the big open living room.

“Split up!” Sarah A yells.

All the Sarahs pick a corner. Personally, I hate this idea. I
feel very vulnerable in my corner near the fireplace. It would make sense for all the Sarahs to attempt an escape from the condo, but Vance has stacked all the unhinged doors in a large pile, effectively blocking the main entrance. I’ve never met anyone so intent on having a dialog.

Vance has stopped running. Breathing heavily, he plods down the hallway toward the living room. There’s a white foam forming around his mouth. I’ve never seen a person create mouth froth before. His mohawk has tipped to the left, curling over like a cresting wave. The war markings he drew on his face have smeared. The black smudges make him appear dirty and strange. Vance Aberdeen looks like somebody I don’t even know.

“Look at yourself,” Sarah A says. “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

I jerk my gaze toward Sarah A. She should really stop egging him on. I mean, what’s the point?

“You ruined my life,” he says.

“Whatever,” Sarah A says. “This whole dialog is pretty lame.”

“I hate you,” Vance says.

He lifts the knife over his head and runs at her. I duck my head down and close my eyes. I also drop my knife and plug my ears. But I don’t realize that I’ve dropped my one piece of cutlery until I hear it clatter onto the ceramic tiles that line the fireplace.

“Stay armed!” Sarah C yells at me.

But it’s too late. I’m totally ill-suited for knife battles. I keep my ears plugged and squint at the awful situation unfolding in front of me.

Interestingly, the other Sarahs react much differently. None of them retreat. I watch as Sarah C and Sarah B move toward Vance. While Sarah A throws her arms up to protect her face, Sarah C kicks Vance behind his knees. And as he’s falling, Sarah B grabs his legs. Somehow, she does this without letting go of her knife. But her butter knife isn’t the one I’m most worried about.

I watch Vance plunge his bright blade toward Sarah A’s crossed arms. Then, Sarah A quickly pivots her body, and Vance falls down onto the carpet chin-first. His face paint leaves a big skid mark where he fell. Sarah C sits on his back. Sarah B continues to hold his legs. Sarah A kicks him three times in his side.

“Don’t make any sudden moves,” Sarah C says. “I’ve got a box cutter in my pants.”

Vance releases a depressed moan. Then I hear this loud crash and I think that an earthquake must have struck Kalamazoo, because it sounds like the Marlborough Building is falling down.

“Mom! He tried to kill us with a knife.”

In an attempt to enter her home, Mrs. Aberdeen has
opened her front door and sent the tower of doors tumbling every which way into the foyer. She shoves hard to get the front door to swing fully open.

“I don’t believe it,” Mrs. Aberdeen gasps.

“I hate her!” Vance screams. “I wish she were dead.”

I guess he is sort of stupid, because this is not the time to be airing those particular feelings.

“Girls, stay on him. Mr. Aberdeen is coming up the stairs.”

Vance wriggles beneath the other three Sarahs, but I don’t think that he’s sincere in his escape attempt. I bet he’s doing it because he thinks that’s what he ought to do. I mean, that’s what I’d even do.

“You should see my room, Mom. He’s a savage. He stabbed my new bed to shreds. And he’s totally stained the living room carpet with shoe polish.”

Mrs. Aberdeen looks very pale. She lets her handbag fall to the floor as she approaches her girl-clobbered son.

“Why did you do this?” she asks.

“I hate her!” he says.

He’s crying now, squashed by the weight of the Sarahs and probably his own shame. Like a reluctant tube of nearly empty toothpaste, it’s as if the pressure of the Sarahs is forcing the grunts and sobs out of him. His mohawk has splintered into several sections. It has no upright integrity left whatsoever.

“I hate her!”

“Stop saying that. She’s your sister.”

“Not by blood! I’m just unlucky!”

Sarah A makes a pained face, like she’s actually been wounded by his comment. “How can you say that?” she asks.