Crimes of the Sarahs (2 page)

Sarah C doesn’t say anything right away.

“That’s a very interior metaphor. I spend a lot of time outdoors. That comparison doesn’t really work for me,” Sarah C says.

“
My life
is like a hallway,” I say.

“That’s tragic. I really dig trees,” Sarah C says.

I turn and look at Sarah C in the backseat. She’s twisting a small section of her red hair around her pointer finger.

“Didn’t Sarah A tell you to keep your hair pulled back into a ponytail?” I ask.

“She did, but it makes my neck look so long.”

“Aren’t swan necks considered attractive?” I ask.

“Maybe. But I like my hair down.”

“Sarah C, remember the Oreos,” I say.

I turn back to face the front and look out the windshield. I’m thirsty. But I never consume any fluid for at least four hours before a hit. Too much anxiety triggers my pee reflex. I can hear the sound of an elastic band snapping itself into place. Sarah A thinks ponytails look wholesome. She thinks it’s the right message to send.

“You’ve got two more minutes,” I say.

“I know. I’m going to ask for help in the magazine section.
I’m interested in buying a Spanish copy of
People
.”

“But you’re not going to
buy
it,” I say.

“I know. I’m going to act extremely disappointed by the cover and pretend that I wanted the issue containing
los cincuenta mas bellos
.”

“I thought Sarah A said to trill your
R
’s,” I say.

“There aren’t any
R
’s in the phrase
los cincuenta mas bellos
,” she says.

She makes a valid point.

“Maybe you should follow up by saying
muchas gracias
and trill that
R
.”

“I’m not trying to sound like I’m an actual Spaniard. I’m supposedly buying it for a summer school report. Overdone inflection might make a clerk suspicious.”

“Don’t get mad at me. These are Sarah A’s instructions,” I say.

She doesn’t respond. We sit in uncomfortable silence. Sometimes I think Sarah C misses the bigger picture about being a Sarah. It’s as if she mixes up the idea that we’re good people who sometimes do bad things with the idea that we’re deeply flawed people driven to commit deplorable acts on a daily basis. I might have to talk with Sarah A about this again. Last time I brought up Sarah C’s negative attitude with Sarah A, I was left with the impression that Sarah A was growing concerned about our group of four.

I got this impression when she ended the conversation by saying, “Sarah T, I’m concerned about our group of four.” I don’t know exactly what she meant, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Sarah A decided to purge one of the remaining three Sarahs from the group. That’s the sort of power she totes around. She’s a real decider. She even makes decisions for other people. She makes mine all the time. And you never want to cross her.

That’s how we lost our fifth Sarah, Sarah Dancer, during the middle of our junior year. But it’s not like she was wheelchair-bound forever. Just like three months. And they flew by. And she’s totally fine now. Mostly.

Sarah A, our ballsy blonde leader, our thievery guru, our governing Sarah, aka Sarah Aberdeen, has been in the targeted bookstore for roughly ten minutes. It’s the job of the remaining Sarahs to keep the clerks away from the Self Help section while Sarah A finds the title she’s looking for,
What Color Is Your Parachute?
, and takes it from the store. A typical Sunday afternoon.

Sarah A has the money to pay for the book, even if forced to buy a hardback edition. But if an item she desires is smaller than a toaster, Sarah A prefers utilizing the five-finger discount. It’s much more exciting than making a legitimate purchase.

After a few more quiet moments, Sarah C squeaks open her back door and says something haughty under her breath.
I can’t hear exactly what it is, but it’s probably related to her ponytail. Sometimes, her attitude is the worst. Who brings up the possibility of getting caught in the middle of a job? Talk about a fatalist. And what’s so hard about wearing a ponytail? Does she have an overly sensitive scalp?

I watch her long bare legs stride to the store. When Sarah A doesn’t wear heels, Sarah C is the tallest Sarah. She also looks the best in shorts. Before us, she played on the volleyball team. She might’ve been the setter. I can’t remember. Now she does Pilates and jogs. Being a Sarah is the only team sport of which she’s currently a member. It takes up more time than you’d think.

Being a Sarah is pretty much a sixty-hour work week. We’re not running around Kalamazoo willy-nilly, ripping off fashion magazines from Walgreens. Of course, we
do
rip off fashion magazines from Walgreens. Usually the one at the corner of Kilgore and Westnedge. But we’re not spontaneous criminals.

“Impulsive thieves are incarcerated thieves,” Sarah A likes to say.

We plan our crimes carefully. And we sit around and rehash them a lot too. And we do noncriminal stuff in order to bond. Since it’s summer, we drive out to Lake Michigan at least once a week. And we visit Saugatuck. It’s an artist community near the lake that’s crammed with boutiques. We’ve stolen a variety
of cookie cutters, jars of cheese spread, and Michigan-shaped oven mitts from an understaffed kitchen store there.

And we like to hike around the Kalamazoo Nature Center and watch the injured owls stare powerfully at us from behind their wire mesh cages. And we volunteer at the animal shelter where we mainly focus on the dogs. And we work on our college applications, mostly by discussing the great things we’ll say about ourselves in our personal statements. And we bake cookies (using the aforementioned cutters) that we don’t eat, because none of us want to be chunky seniors sucking our guts in while back fat ripples beneath our ridiculously priced and somewhat slutty prom dresses. And sometimes we read. We’re huge Sue Grafton fans.

Sarah A thinks that the reason criminals get caught has nothing to do with shelf life and everything to do with having a lack of other interests. She insists that criminals need to be well-rounded. It’s the only way to stay ahead of the law. She’s firm about this. So we’ve all developed other interests. Except, they’re identical and we do them together. Sarah A doesn’t think that’s a problem.

“So what if we live identical lives?” Sarah A says. “As long as they’re balanced.”

She makes being criminals sound like a circus act, like we’re all traipsing across the high wire, one after the other. Heights make me anxious. I try not to think of our lives this
way. That’s why I developed my hallway metaphor. Sarah C calls being a thief-at-large a numbers game. She likens our fates to a bad lottery or draft. She’s always worried that our number may be coming up. I’m not really sure what Sarah B thinks.

But I doubt the Kalamazoo Police Department wants to lock up college-bound teens who volunteer at their local animal shelter and are willing to clean out the dirtiest dog cages. And I bet none of our Michigan judges want to throw the book at four honor students who also happen to be outstanding altos. We’re the backbone of Kalamazoo Central High School’s award-winning choir. Why should the law be interested in us? We barely commit any serious crimes at all. At least for the moment.

It’s almost time for me to go. I watch the store’s glass windows and stare at the people milling around behind them. There are many interesting ways to style a head of hair. Wait, I think I see a familiar head. I do. It’s Sarah C. She’s pressed up right against the glass. What is she doing? She’s jerking her arm up and down. If I can see her, so can other people. She’s going to draw a ton of attention.

I open my door. She’s still jerking. Is she having a seizure? Did she suddenly develop epilepsy? Are epileptics not supposed to wear ponytails? She’s in the café. Why is she in the café? Oh my God. I get it. She’s flashing me the peace sign. She does it again. And a third time. That’s the distress signal.

Three peace signs in quick succession means that something’s gone horribly wrong. But what could have gone horribly wrong? Nobody’s stolen anything yet. It’s not against the law to consider stealing a book. It’s not even against the law to consider killing the president. Of course, you can never voice that consideration, because that
is
against the law.

I climb out of the car. All this stress makes me feel dizzy. But I don’t have time to catch my emotional balance. I better get in there. My Sarah sisters need me.

Chapter 2

I make sure all of my car doors are locked. Even though it’s not a crime-ridden town, I do keep a lot of dimes in my ashtray. And my ashtray, like anyone’s, is sort of in plain view.

I need to act normal. While I walk toward the store, I bounce the big jingly wad of keys back and forth between my hands.

I open the first wooden door and smile at the mustached man in mustard-yellow pants exiting the store. Wait. I’ve seen him before. Suddenly, I know why Sarah C flashed me the peace sign three times. We know this guy. It’s Mr. Trego, our former boss. Last year, he ran a fudge shop in town. But then we all quit on him. Sarah A, Sarah B, and Sarah C self-terminated their employment with him in person and returned their uniforms. I stopped showing up. I hate confrontation. And I also liked my uniform. I’m wearing it right now. Khaki pants and a light blue T-shirt that says
FRESH IS BEST
.

After we quit, it didn’t take long for his business to tank.
It probably would have happened regardless of our departures. But, in a random act of malice, Sarah A did spread some vicious untruths about his fudge-cooling process. None of us have seen him since his demise. But he’s here now. With his distinctive swagger. And smell. And lazy eye. Last fall, he vanished and we thought that was the end of him. But now, just like those Canada geese, Mr. Trego is back.

I try to veer to the other door, but it’s locked. Our paths are destined to meet. I try not to look him in the eye. Especially his lazy one. I glance down at my own sandals and my pink-polished toenails. He’s holding open the second wooden door for me. I don’t know what to do. I try to calm myself by asking,
What’s the worst thing that could happen, he demands my pants?
But then I imagine all these awful things he could say to me about dodging responsibility and leaving him high and dry. I don’t want to get within earshot of such accurate character assassination.

But the Sarahs are inside and I’m supposed to be inside, too. I wrestle with my options. Then I do the easiest and most polite thing. I walk through the open door. After I pass beneath the arch of his arm, I turn my head to keep on eye on him. I notice two things: First, his armpit smells like barbecued hot wings. Second, he’s boldly looking at my butt. I mean, he’s staring right at it.
What is Mr. Trego doing? Trying to determine whether or not I’m wearing my fudge-shop pants?

His motives don’t really matter. I feel like I’m being dissected, and that always makes me uncomfortable. I’m several feet inside the store, but I can still feel him looking at me. I turn my whole body to face him, and to take my butt out of his view. Clearly, he can discern that this is his fudge-shop shirt. That’s when I notice my nipples. This is too much drama for them. Frightened into rigidity, they’re projecting right out of my T-shirt.

“Sarah Trestle?” he asks.

In a defensive move, I look him in the eye and shrug. He frowns at me and shakes his head. Then he reaches his hand toward me, like he’s going to touch me. Before I can do anything useful, like leave, I’m clobbered by my own anxiety. I have an uncontrollable urge to pee and there’s nothing I can do.

I mean, it’s right here. And so is Sarah C. She’s shaking her head back and forth. Her red ponytail wags behind her as her mouth forms a perfect O. She mouths the word
no
, trying to encourage me to hold it, but it’s too late. I can feel the sea of pee inside of me, and there’s no stopping it. Mr. Trego is watching too. The door has fallen closed, but he’s still there, behind the panes of glass. I look around for Sarah A. She needs to know that I’m aborting the plan. But I can’t see her. The Self Help section is buried too far into the belly of the store. I should run. I have time.

Instead, I let loose a puddle of my own urine on the welcome mat. There’s so much liquid that it flows onto the ceramic-tiled floor. There’s an actual sound. People turn and look. A wet spot has bloomed on my crotch and down my leg. The cotton absorbs what it can. I throw my hands down to cover the area. But it’s too big. Sarah C hands me a copy of
People
. It’s the Spanish edition.

“I’ll buy it,” she tells the clerk standing next to her. “I’m heading to the counter right now.”

The clerk nods.

“Take it,” she tells me.
“Vamanos!”

I unfold the magazine and hold the glossy pages over the large pee mark as I run for my car. I have to hurry past Mr. Trego. As we pass in the alcove, our arms brush against each other.

“Why don’t you go ahead and keep that outfit,” he says.

But I’m not thinking about my pilfered uniform anymore. Or the heavily populated Barnes & Noble where I just wet myself. I’m worried about Sarah A. She’s going to kill me. She’s been looking forward to reading
What Color Is Your Parachute?
all week. I think she’s on the brink of making an important life decision, maybe even choosing her college major. And that choice could really affect the rest of the Sarahs too.

Once in my car, I sit atop the magazine and wait for the
other Sarahs. Sarah C comes out first. Sarah B follows about a minute later. But Sarah A doesn’t come until the established meeting time. We wait almost twenty minutes for her.

She saunters out of the store like nothing has happened. Her blonde hair spills around her neck and she’s smiling. But it’s her fake smile. Her pink lips force themselves to show a crescent of white teeth. She opens the passenger door and climbs inside. She smells like a cross between a blueberry muffin and a vanilla bean. After she closes the door, her whole demeanor shifts. Her mouth turns cold and expressionless.