Crimes of the Sarahs (8 page)

Then I hoof it outside. I wonder, if I weighed less, would I sweat less? Actually, I’m not heavy. My problem is that I lack muscle tone. I try flexing my arms. Except for the bones, they’re all mushy. Maybe I should start lifting weights. I wonder if that’s something the other Sarahs would enjoy? I glance back at the bank in my rearview mirror. I feel pretty good about my decision not to commit a felony. I don’t bother pulling out the notebook to write any of this down. All I want right now is a Big Gulp at the 7-Eleven.

As I drive down 9th Street, taking stock of a group of freshly shorn sheep dotting the roadside pastures, I realize that I know the car in front of me. It’s Sarah C and her seafoam-green Corolla. I speed up. All the Sarahs are in her car, bobbing along to the radio. Wait. I can’t believe it. There’s a fourth person in the car. She’s in the backseat and she has a very small head. It almost looks like a dog’s head. It is! The Sarahs have adopted a dog.

Sarah A has mentioned wanting one before. She planned to volunteer with it and visit elderly patients in hospitals. The shelter has a program for that. It’s called the Pet Visitation Project. Mr. King has mentioned it several times. He and his golden retriever, Copper, visit people in hospitals and residential facilities once a
month. All you need to become a volunteer is an easygoing pet.

Sarah A thinks it’ll really make her college entrance essay stand out. She thinks that visiting sick children in hospitals with a rescued dog will give her a clear advantage. She says it will make her memorable. I guess I didn’t take her canine ambitions all that seriously. I thought the dog was hypothetical. But she really did it. That’s such a huge thing to do without me.

I’m so close now that I’m tailgating them. Sarah B is in the backseat and she waves to me. I honk. And flash my lights. I really wish my parents hadn’t taken away my cell phone last March, because I could call the Sarahs right now and meet up with them and tell them about how I almost planned a bank robbery. It’s not a completely lame story, because I did knock over a surfboard.

But the Sarahs don’t slow down. I see Sarah A hit Sarah C’s arm and they accelerate. Then they run a yellow light. I stop. I don’t want to get a traffic ticket. My heart is racing. I want so badly to be inside that car with them. And their dog. Discussing the guy phase and our futures. I watch as the glare from their bumper fades away into nothing. I wonder where they’re headed. I wonder what they named the dog.

Chapter 6

“I always say that if you see a possum during daylight hours, you’re doing the community a service by running it over.”

My father scoops up the dead animal with the shovel’s blade.

“I’ve never heard that,” I say.

“Possums are nocturnal. If they’re out during daylight hours, they’re most likely rabid.”

“I hit this one at dusk.”

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. That’s a borderline situation.”

I nod. It took my dad over three weeks to finally dispose of the thing. My mom actually wrote it down on a “To Do List” that she stuck to the refrigerator. It said
RELOCATE DEAD POSSUM.
I watch my father walk into the woods and then return with an empty shovel.

“Lake looks nice. And so does the trail. People are really picking up after their dogs this season.”

I take for granted the fact that I live in a house overlooking a lake. I glance over at Asylum Lake. I know, it’s a very unfortunate name for a body of water.

“Do you think we’ll ever get a dog?”

“Sarah, you know how your mother feels about dander.”

“But we could get a shorthaired dog. Or a no-haired dog.”

My father frowns. He’s started growing out his beard again, so his face looks increasingly scruffy.

“You’ll be in college in a year. I think your dog days are behind you.”

That’s a misleading statement, as it suggests that I once had a dog or the possibility of owning a dog, which I’ve never had.

“I’m going to head down to the lot this afternoon and do some paperwork. You’re welcome to come hang out and look at the cars.”

I don’t know why my father has the impression that I harbor the desire to accompany him to his used car dealership to look at the cars. He asks me about once a month and I always refuse. Liam enjoyed looking at the cars. Sarah prefers to do other things. Like hanging out with the Sarahs.

“I’ve got plans.”

“Really?”

My father looks at me suspiciously.

“I’m going to hang out with the Sarahs,” I say.

“I wondered if something might be up with them. I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

“It’s this new thing we’re trying,” I say.

“I think it’s good you’re taking a rest.”

He puts his hands on his hips and looks at our house. It’s one of the four houses in our neighborhood that was built by the architect Frank Lloyd Wright. It’s a Usonian home. But I’m not totally sure what that means. The house has really small bathrooms. And a kitchen that resembles a tight alley. And cement floors throughout. But it’s got this enormous fireplace and hearth and amazing windows that make the outside and inside totally blend.

“Sometimes things change,” he says. “And sometimes that change can be so destructive that it demolishes the very foundation of the thing itself.”

I nod, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Sarah,” my mother calls, waving the phone over her head. “You’ve got a phone call.”

The hair stands up on the back of my neck. I’m thrilled. My dad was getting way too serious. When people start talking about change, it makes me think of menopause and I don’t know why anyone would want to talk to me about that. Especially my father. I race to the house and take the phone
to my room. I know it’s a Sarah. I can feel it in my bones.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Sarah A says.

“How are you? I saw the dog. What kind is it? It looks like a Lab. Did you guys even see me? I thought you saw me, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Oh, we saw you.”

“Oh.”

“The dog is a yellow Lab. I named him John Glenn. Everybody likes John Glenn. I mean, he was an astronaut. And a U.S. Senator. And a Marine Corps fighter pilot. And a Presbyterian elder. And the first American to orbit the earth.”

“That’s a great name.”

“I know. It’ll really make my essay stand out to say that I visited terminally ill people with my shelter-adopted Lab, John Glenn.”

“It’s pure genius.”

Awkward pause. I think I hear her yawn.

“I’ve missed you guys.”

“I thought of what we need to do,” Sarah A says.

“You did?”

“Let’s face reality. The guy phase is going to be a huge transition. And then there’s college. We’ve all got to remain completely committed for the Sarahs to survive.”

“I believe you,” I say.

“Because senior year is when it all happens. The applications. The campus tours. The decisions. I mean, getting into U of M isn’t going to be a cakewalk. And we’ll each be deep in the throes of a successful relationship, which will be a complete time-suck. We’ve got to work hard and be on the same page.”

“I look forward to the time-suck. And give me the page number and I’m there.”

“Yeah. I’m just not sure.”

“What can I do to make you sure?”

“Compete in the challenge.”

“The challenge?” My mind flashes back to what happened to Sarah Dancer. I’m so screwed. I have weak ankles.

“All the other Sarahs, including myself, are doing something to prove our commitment. We’re meeting at my house tonight.”

“I’m there.” What a relief. The challenge isn’t what I thought it was. I’m not going to have to jump off anybody’s garage. At least not for the sake of demonstrating team loyalty.

“You have the rest of the day to do something important. Something that demonstrates your commitment to us. The Sarah who completes the least impressive act is going to be voted out.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What is everybody else doing?”

“I’m not going to tell you that. But Sarah T, you need to aim high.”

I’m almost ready to hang up because I think our conversation is over when I hear screaming on the other end of the line.

“My brother is being such a jackass. If he touches me again I might have to call the police.”

“Are you talking to me?” I ask.

“Of course I’m talking to you. Because I haven’t spoken to Vance in over a year. Because he’s crazy. And I don’t indulge crazy people in conversation.”

“Right,” I say.

“Because crazy people should learn how to not be crazy anymore, so that I can have a normal life again,” Sarah A says.

“I hear you,” I say. “Hey, what time tonight?”

“Six. Looks like my psycho brother is going to throw grapes at me. I might have to train John Glenn to eat his rabbit.”

“Bye,” I say, hanging up the phone. Sarah A’s head game with Vance makes me extremely uncomfortable. It’s almost as if she’s trying to drive him more crazy than he actually is. She won’t talk to him. She just won’t. Even when he’s nice. She pretends to talk to him when their parents are around, but any other time, she won’t acknowledge him, and only refers to him in the third person. I think it’s a form of manipulation. Or harassment. Or maybe just cruelty.

I wish she knew how to handle things differently. But who am I to sit in judgment of Sarah A? I’ve got Liam. He’s basically normal. And she’s been saddled with a tweenage psycho brother who attacks cantaloupes. In public.

Okay. I can do this. I’ve got to complete a task. I was born to complete tasks to demonstrate my worthiness to be a Sarah. Think big. I either need to vandalize something or steal something. But which? It would be so anticlimactic to vandalize something, because I can’t show up with proof of what I did. Unless I take a picture. But I don’t have a digital camera. Can I get 35mm film developed before six o’clock?

Maybe I should vandalize something small enough to bring to the meeting. Wait. Vandalism is the wrong choice. Sarah A is the best vandal ever. She’s even vandalized moving objects and ill-tempered farm animals. She’d be so underwhelmed with anything I could possibly do. I need to steal something. I need to show up tonight with a trophy. Okay. What would Sarah A want?

Maybe I should steal the rest of Roman Karbowski’s shirts for her. Or I could take a couple pairs of his pants. Wouldn’t the bottom half of somebody have different pheromones than the top half? Shouldn’t we be desensitizing ourselves against those scents too? I think lower-regions smells would be the ones that we’d want to protect ourselves against the most. That’s where things get dangerous. Wait. Maybe Sarah A
would think I was upstaging her if I stole a good chunk of her future serious boyfriend’s wardrobe. Even though I have outstanding intentions, perhaps it’s wise to steer clear of her guy and his pants.

Then it hits me. I know. I know what I need to do. I need to steal something that Sarah A will truly admire. Something to which she has very limited access. Something that she finds intriguing. Something that is illegal for sixteen-year-olds to purchase or consume. Clearly, that something has to be booze. Because of Vance, her parents don’t keep any liquor in the house. It’s so taboo. For her, more than the rest of us, alcohol is truly a banned and precious substance.

I don’t mean to suggest that any of the Sarahs drink. We rarely do. We’re not good at it. We’ve only tried it three times. At Sarah C’s. Our drink of choice was a mixture of Baileys, Kahlua, vodka, ice, and milk. On all three occasions, we dumped generous amounts of everything into a blender and prepared our concoction by grinding the ingredients on the
CRUSH ICE
setting. We drank them quickly from tall plastic tumblers. As a result, each Sarah has puked and been hungover three times. Apparently, we have a tendency to overdo it.

I grab a second banana for additional fuel and race out to my car. Finally, I feel so optimistic. Stealing a nice bottle of liquor will really impress everyone. In all of our crimes, rarely have I ever been the actual thief. I’m usually the driver. Or
the lookout. Historically speaking, I’m practically a bystander. But this heist will cement my status as a real criminal. As a real Sarah. Everyone knows that stealing alcohol is a much more serious offense than stuffing a box of Oreos down your pants.

I drive to Tiffany’s liquor store on West Main, because Sarah A has talked about a nice bottle of cognac there. I walk up and down the long aisles crowded with bottles. Holy crap! Cognac costs an arm and a leg. I stand in the middle of the store staring at the bottle Sarah A has long admired. It’s kept behind a locked glass case. I’m shocked by the price tag. It costs $3,500. What’s cognac even made out of? Hundred-dollar bills?

“Can I help you?” a clerk asks me.

I must stick out like a rogue lime in a lemon display. I don’t know what to do. The only thing running through my mind is one single word:
Abort! Abort! Abort!

“Nah, I’m just looking.”

“Don’t even think about stealing that bottle,” he says.

My eyes grow wide. Is this guy a mind reader? Do I look like a thief? I can feel myself breaking into a massive, hoglike sweat again. I point to myself.

“Are you talking to me?” I ask.

“It was a joke. That bottle is priceless.”

“The price tag says thirty-five hundred dollars.”

“I mean it’s irreplaceable.”

“How is that even possible? Has the world stopped making cognac?”

“No, it’s the container, not the contents. That bottle was designed by a Russian-born French painter named Erté. He’s known as the Father of Art Deco.”

“I don’t know much about art. But the bottle is pretty.”

“Erté hand painted it.”

Then he looks at me hard, like he’s studying me. I hate it when people look at me this way. It makes me feel so scrutinized and transparent. When I’m getting ready to rob a store, it’s a lousy combination. Because I know that I’m getting ready to do something wrong, and I can’t take the ocular judgment. I feel myself blush. Then I feel my own pee tingling inside of me.

“Bye!” I yell.

I run out the door. I don’t wet myself. Once I sit down in my car and am by myself, the impulse to pee goes away. I wonder if I need therapy. Maybe acupuncture would help. Or hypnosis. Or drugs. If I have this kind of problem with urine retention now, what will I be like at seventy?