Crimes of the Sarahs (15 page)

“Stabilizing?” Sarah A asks.

“That means clean out and organize,” I say. “I thought you stabilized her pantry last week.”

“No, that was her laundry room. Next, we’ll stabilize the garage.” My mother’s forehead wrinkles with concern.

“How big is her garage?” Sarah A asks.

“Currently, it contains one broken spa, two crashed bikes, three kayaks, and a disabled Winnebago.”

“And four calling birds?” I ask.

My mother stares blankly at me. “I don’t know if there are any birds in the garage,” she says. “I guess it wouldn’t surprise me.”

She pats the counter and smiles. That means I’m supposed to clean it up.

“Okay,” I say.

She grabs her big bag and is off.

“Four calling birds. It was from the song, ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’” I say.

“Okay,” Sarah A says.

“Get it?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Do you think my mom got it?” I ask.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Sarah A says. “What you said about Madonna was way funnier.”

“All I said was that she went to the U of M,” I say.

“Yeah, but you sounded impressed about it. Come on. It’s not like going to Michigan made her famous. She had to take most of her clothes off and perform dance routines that involved a ton of floor-humping before that all happened.”

“That’s true,” I say.

Sarah A pulls her hair into a ponytail and snaps the rubber band in place.

“Ready to help me get the
Purple Cow
?”

“Barnes & Noble?” I ask

She shakes her head.

“The library,” she says.

I let out a sigh. That’s a relief. Other than the planned
cat dump and eventual Roman Karbowski phone call, maybe today will be uneventful. Maybe there won’t be any shoplifting. Sarah A clucks her tongue.

“I think I know how to rip the sensor right out of the book. We can do it in the bathroom.”

Chapter 13

Sarah A did know exactly how to rip the sensor right out of a library book. And she did this while locked inside the handicap stall in the first-floor bathroom. I stood on guard in the sink area. The library has a pretty decent sink area. First, it was clean. Second, it was very well stocked. There were enough paper towels and hand soap to weather a national disaster. If I’m ever downtown during a tornado warning, I totally know where to go.

And the crime went off without a hitch. Grab book from shelf. Take book to bathroom. Strip book of sensor. Shove book in purse. Tell security guard to have a nice day. Leave library. Drive at normal rate of speed to Marlborough Building.

Sarah A really loves that cow book. And it came with a free plastic book cover to protect it against the elements. I mean, all library books do. You just usually don’t get to keep them. Sarah is reading through the table of contents
and first chapter while I circle back around to her condo.

“I’m not sure if it’s going to help me pick out a major, but it’s great information about marketing. Seriously. In this day and age, it’s so important to market yourself.”

“To who?” I ask.

“Your target audience.”

This is surprising, because I personally don’t even know who that would be. Guys? Teachers? Parents? My same-sex peers? I thought corporations marketed stuff to try to manipulate people into buying it. I had no idea high school seniors were supposed to be marketing themselves to some sort of target audience.

“Where’s the pillowcase?” Sarah A asks.

I pull to a stop in front of her condo. I reach into my backseat and hand her my least favorite pillowcase. The one that I had a nosebleed on last summer and now it’s permanently dotted with brown spots.

“I thought the pillowcase was for Digits,” I say.

“No, why would we need to put Digits in a pillowcase? We’ve already stolen him. He’s living with Sarah C.”

I shrug. I don’t mention how I thought the pillowcase was going to be used in the poor cat’s nefarious demise. It freaks me out to think that I might have a more criminal mind than Sarah A. I mean, is that possible?

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Sarah runs down the covered walkway and goes inside. I guess she forgot to pack some stuff. That’s understandable. We got out of that place in a hurry. As she runs, I notice her outstanding posture and the effortless way she enters the building. There’s so few people who have that kind of raw and amazing beauty. It’s magnetic. It pulls you in. Just standing next to her makes me feel important. Better than that, it makes me feel chosen.

Sarah A isn’t in the Marlborough Building long. She races back to the car dangling the pillowcase at her side. Something the size of a loaf of bread is stuffed inside it. I’m actually hoping that it’s a loaf of bread.

“Pop the trunk,” she says.

Instead of popping the trunk, I accidentally open my gas tank. I decide to get out of the car to open the trunk for her. That way I can shut my tank. With the skyrocketing price of gas these days, you can’t afford to leave your tank popped open. Anybody could siphon it right out. Seriously. The Sarahs and I have talked about doing that. Except all of us are skittish about getting gasoline in our mouths. When ingested, petroleum is totally poisonous.

I open the trunk. Sarah A has tied a knot around the top of the pillowcase. She drops the bundle inside next to my spare tire. The bulge inside the pillowcase moves. It sort of hops.

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“A rabbit.”

“Vance’s rabbit? Frenchy?”

“Yeah. You sound like you have a problem with that.”

“Well, it’s alive,” I say.

“It’s a rabbit. We’re going to dump it at the shelter.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally. I can’t stand Frenchy.” She shoves her hands, knuckle deep, into the shallow pockets of her capris.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it.”

“I have to drive around with it in my trunk.”

“What’s the big deal?”

My mind flashes to the flattened possum that my father dumped in the woods surrounding our home. I know it sounds stupid, but I made a promise to myself to avoid hurting another animal. This is obviously a violation of that vow. I feel conflicted.

I’m holding the top of my trunk’s lid, ready to pull it down, but I can’t. “It’s a living animal.”

“So, people eat rabbits every day.”

“Not when they’re alive! Not after they’ve driven around town with them in their trunks. It’s almost eighty degrees. The shelter drop isn’t until tonight. Frenchy could suffocate.”

“Why are you acting like this?” Sarah A asks. “I want to put a rabbit in your trunk. Adapt.”

I let go of my car. My arms fall to my sides. “I don’t think I can. I think I’d be so worried about Frenchy that I might crash the car,” I say.

“You can’t be serious. Don’t go all environmental all me. Next, you’ll want to drive to Binder Park Zoo and open all the cages and release those animals.”

Frenchy, still enclosed in the pillowcase, has leaped into the center of my spare tire. I fold my arms.

Sarah A reaches up and slams my trunk so hard that the back end of my car bounces.

“No,” I say, grabbing for her hands.

“Yes,” she says, keeping her palms firmly planted on my trunk.

I push the ‘open trunk’ button on my key chain over and over. “I won’t do this,” I say. My voice wavers, not with its normal indecision, but with determination.

Sarah A looks at me. She’s leaning into my car like she’s doing a modified push-up off the trunk. Finally, her locked elbows soften and she shoves herself away from my Jetta.

My trunk pops open. Sarah A watches me. I reach forward and raise the lid. My heart is thumping fast inside of me. I’m breaking ranks. But it feels like the right thing to do—for me, for Frenchy, and even for Sarah A.

“Have it your way. We’re wasting time. But keep it in the backseat. That thing totally smells.”

I don’t really want a stinky rabbit in my backseat either, but I feel way better about that than driving around with him withering away in my trunk space all afternoon.

When we get to Sarah B’s, she’s sitting on the curb, waiting for us.

“I’m so ready to go to a movie,” Sarah B says.

“We’re going to a movie?” I ask.

“Yeah. We’re going to see that new film with the cars in it,” Sarah A says.

“What about Frenchy?” I ask.

“You want to bring the rabbit inside the theater?” Sarah A asks. “That’s, like, even beyond PETA.”

“Is Frenchy in this pillowcase?” Sarah B asks.

“How did you know?” I ask.

“This corner is twitching. It looks like a bunny nose,” Sarah B says.

I try to ignore that fact that I have a live rabbit in my car and drive to pick up Sarah C.

“I’m so excited to see that movie,” Sarah C says when we pull up to her house.

“About cars?” Sarah B asks.

“No, the one where the guy and girl break up because they have a fight about lemons,” Sarah C says.

“We’re not seeing that. We’re seeing a movie with cars in it,” Sarah A says. “We just took a vote and that’s the one everybody else wants to see.”

“I didn’t get to vote,” Sarah C says.

Sarah A unfastens her seat belt and flips around to face Sarah C.

“I’m calling Roman Karbowski tonight. I don’t want to depress my great vibes by watching a movie about people falling out of love. It’s a no-brainer,” Sarah A says, pointing to her head and mouthing the words “no-brainer.”

I try to break the tension. “Hey, where’s Digits?” I ask.

“In my house,” Sarah C says. “Probably napping.”

“What is it with you and animals? Do you want to take the cat to the movies too?” Sarah A asks.

“No, I was thinking we could put Frenchy with Digits. We could pick them both up after the show.”

“Is Frenchy in this pillowcase?” Sarah C asks. “It smells like poop.”

“I tried to put him in the trunk, but Ms. Greenpeace over here insisted that he needed to ride with us.”

“It is kind of hot in here,” Sarah B says.

“It’s just a rabbit,” Sarah A says. “It’s not like we’re sticking a baby in the car. Think of Frenchy as an overgrown rat.”

Sarah C clears her throat.

“Actually, rabbits are lagomorphs, and are more closely
related to horses than they are to rats or mice,” Sarah C says.

“Who cares?” Sarah A says. “There’s nothing special about this rabbit. Trust me. Let’s get going.”

“Actually, the rabbit is one of the only two animals that can see behind itself without turning its head. The other is the parrot,” Sarah C says.

“I didn’t know that about parrots,” Sarah B says.

My car idles in Sarah C’s driveway. She hasn’t gotten inside the car yet.

“Fine, I don’t care. Stick the rabbit in Sarah C’s bedroom with Digits,” Sarah A says.

Sarah C takes the pillowcase by its knotted top. “This is a smart move, because rabbits can get heatstroke.”

“I didn’t know that either,” Sarah B says.

Sarah A doesn’t respond. She opens up the
Purple Cow
and starts reading the second chapter. After a few minutes, I turn off my car.

“Should I go get her?” Sarah B asks.

“Here she comes,” I say.

She bounds down her walkway and opens up our door.

“Sorry, Frenchy felt really hot. To lower his temperature, I applied cold water to his earflaps.”

“Thank the Lord,” Sarah A says. “Because what would the world come to if a rabbit overheated?”

“They were kind of cute together. Left alone, I think they’d
develop a symbiotic relationship. Like sharks and sucker fish.”

“What are you talking about?” Sarah A asks. She turns her body around so she can directly glower into the backseat at Sarah C.

“What time will we make the drop-off?” Sarah B asks.

Sarah A turns back around and settles into the passenger seat. “After dark,” she says.

“Won’t your parents notice that the rabbit is gone?” I ask.

“Whose side are you on anyway? Don’t you realize that you’re on probation? Quit with the commentary.”

I don’t say anything else. I can hear Sarah C telling Sarah B about an ongoing campaign in Australia to eliminate its non-native rabbit population. The government is spreading a bunny-killing virus, and it sounds very effective.

“Maybe it’s too effective,” Sarah C says. “The public has been warned to be on the lookout for hungry eagles. On some highways they’ve actually attacked motorists.”

“Wow,” Sarah B says. “I wouldn’t want to ride a bicycle there.”

Sarah A has tried very hard to keep her focus on her book, but she can’t take it anymore. She flips around again, partway, this time entangled in her seat belt.

“Do you want to marry a goddamned rabbit or something? Do you want to become a stupid, over-copulating rabbit? Let it go.”

Nobody says anything else. I keep my eyes locked on the road.

“I don’t want to hear another word about rabbits. Or any other animals. Life is short. Let’s focus on what’s important. Now we’re going to see a movie and we’re going to have a good time.”

I can hear everybody breathing. Each Sarah has a different pattern of inhalation and exhalation. Mine is the quickest. We usually don’t fight like this. Traditionally, we fall in line behind our leader. But something is out of whack. An awkward anger is trapped in the car with us. We keep breathing.

“I didn’t mean to yell that loud,” Sarah A says. “I think I’m stressed-out about calling Roman tonight. Don’t hate me.”

She sounds sincere. And somewhat sympathetic.

“We don’t hate you,” I say. “Do we?”

“No,” Sarah B says.

“I don’t
hate
anybody,” Sarah C says.

Unlike the rabbit odor that has managed to saturate every particle of air within our scent range, the weird tension that existed seconds ago has somehow managed to leak its way out of the car. After several series of breaths, Sarah B offers up a compliment.

“Your hair smells really good.”

Of course, she’s talking to Sarah A. It goes without saying that nearly all our compliments are aimed at her. Especially when she’s in a foul mood.

“Thanks. It’s Sarah T’s kiwi shampoo.”

My what? I don’t have kiwi shampoo. I’m tempted to tell her that the kiwi product in my shower is shaving gel and isn’t intended to cleanse hair, but I don’t. I mean, if she’s able to work that stuff into a lather that produces satisfying head-hair volume, then more power to her.