Crimes of the Sarahs (9 page)

I pull onto the road, feeling like a total loser. If I have any chance of getting back in with the Sarahs, I’ve got to commit a real crime. And fast. But what? It has to have a victim. Real crimes have victims.
Rod Carew Hates Vaseline
. What would Sarah A like? What would make Sarah A happy?

I turn onto West Main and head out of town. I know something that Sarah Aberdeen would like. She’s mentioned wanting one before. They’re always catching her eye. Especially around the holidays.

I’m going to steal a donation jar! Robbing from a needy organization will mean lots of victims. Plus, I’ll turn over the cash to Sarah A and she’ll appreciate that. My crime is rotten and unethical. It’s exactly what she loves. In fact, it’s so fabulous that I’ve stopped sweating and my bladder feels absolutely empty. For me, before a job, that’s a good place to be.

Chapter 7

It’s so much easier to commit a crime in your head than it is in real life. I stand, like a paralyzed chicken, in the 7-Eleven eyeing the donation jar. But I can’t take it. Shoplifting is much more fun when done in groups. It’s as if stealing something by yourself makes your conscience grow, as if maybe me and the other Sarahs have been sharing one small conscience together all along. Right now, I just don’t feel breathless and alive with excitement. Honestly, I feel a little empty.

I try to run my hands through my hair, but I can’t. Before getting out of my car, I pulled it back into a very tight and wholesome-looking ponytail. I glance at the cashier and smile, then feign interest in the magazine rack. I’m relieved that the clerk doesn’t look familiar.

I’m not an idiot. I drove to a 7-Eleven several miles outside of Kalamazoo. It’s not like I’m ever coming back to this place. I peek at the checkout area again. All I need to do is rip the jar off the counter and run. But the clerk looks like he’s
in pretty good shape. What if he’s a jogger? What if he gives chase? Maybe I should leave.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

Luckily, I remember Sarah A’s foolproof method for robbing convenience stores. It’s called the go-fetch strategy. First, you come up with a difficult-to-find item. Then, you ask the clerk to fetch it for you. This distracts the cashier away from the register and front door long enough to allow you to take whatever you want and run.

“I want orange juice.”

“It’s back there,” he says, pointing toward a wall of refrigerators.

“Not just regular orange juice,” I say. “I want the kind without pulp.”

He smiles. He has nice teeth. And kind eyes. I bet he’s the type of person who totally follows the Golden Rule, but life keeps screwing him over anyway.

“Yeah, I hate pulp too. I think we have that kind. Let me check.”

He walks back to the freezer. Now is my chance. I grab the Plexiglas box. It’s shaped like a house and has a big slit in the top of the chimney where people can slide in their money. It’s stuffed with change and dollar bills. I mean, it’s totally filled. Wow. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. And there’s a chain. And it’s bolted to the counter. Oh my God. Really
crappy people must come in here and try to steal the donation jar all the time.

I look back into the freezer area. The clerk has gone all the way into the rear of the store. He’s standing behind the rows of refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t see what I’m doing. The milk cartons are blocking his view.

I yank hard. It doesn’t come loose. I yank again.

“Do you care which brand?” he calls to me. I can barely hear his muffled voice.

“Tropicana!” I yell.

“Can it be from concentrate?” he asks.

“No. One hundred percent pure juice!”

I give it one more tug. Somewhere in the kinked middle, one of the chain’s links pops open. It’s almost like a metaphor for the Sarahs. It’s the weak link that breaks the chain. I hear the back door shut. He’s walking toward me with a carton of juice. I race to my car with the money-stuffed house, trailing a couple of feet of chain. I throw everything in the passenger seat and peel out. The clerk runs after me. He’s holding something in his hand. Is it a gun? Holy crap! Are clerks allowed to shoot fleeing thieves? They can’t. Can they? Over a donation jar?

I’m already pulling out onto the main road before I realize what he’s holding. It’s his cell phone. Great. He’s taking a picture of my car. Why did I pick out a lemon-yellow Volkswagen
Jetta? I push hard on the gas pedal and my tires squeal. I don’t want him snapping a photograph of my license plate.

“Drug addict!” he yells.

Drug addict? Is he talking to me? I may commit crimes, but I’m no drug addict. I even try to avoid eating refined sugar and consuming too much caffeine. Do I look like a drug addict? I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and the normally deep brown irises look faded. My skin is pasty. I’m sweating again. Maybe I do look like I’m on something. I turn my focus back to the road. Pennies rub against nickels. Quarters jostle into dimes.

As I speed down M43, the vibrating change jingles. It almost sounds like it’s singing. I set my hand on the small roof to quiet the noise. It’s like that scene in “Jack and the Beanstalk” where the harp keeps crying for her master. But in the end, instead of recapturing her, the giant dies and Jack escapes. Sometimes, the thief gets away.

I arrive at Sarah A’s a little early. Of course, I pulled into a nearby K-Mart before showing up, so I could count the money. This little house holds more than you’d think. I’ve got $118.95. There were a lot of crumpled-up dollar bills. Even some fives. Even a couple of tens. The donation is for a Belgian draft horse named Buttons who impaled himself on a fence post during a bad thunderstorm. I think if you’ve got enough money to own a big old horse and a fence, then
you should be able to afford all the vet bills too. Actually, I’m telling myself whatever I can in order not to feel guilty about stealing this jar.

I carry the house under my arm. Once inside the alcove, I press the intercom button and dial Sarah A’s number.

“It’s Sarah T.”

“You’re early,” Sarah A says. “Go walk around the block. I’m not ready.”

I’m tempted to tell her that I’m carrying a big, transparent box full of money, but I don’t want to ruffle her feathers.

“I’ll come back in five minutes,” I say.

“Give me ten.”

Even the little intercom box emits a dial tone. I push the pound key to shut it up and walk back out to my car. As I sit, I can see Sarah B and Sarah C strolling down the sidewalk. Sarah B’s face is hidden behind an enormous bubble.
Pop
. They walk past the Kalamazoo Art Institute and they don’t even see me. Sarah B doesn’t look like she’s holding anything. She just has her purse slung over her neck. And Sarah C appears to be in possession of an animal. It looks like a cat. I think I know that cat. Sarah C is such a phony. Sometimes it takes the theft of your own life metaphor before a person wakes up and realizes who her
real
friends are. For the sake of self-preservation, I plan on being phony right back to her.

I beep my horn and they finally see me. They both wave. Before getting out of the car, I stuff the donation jar in an empty grocery bag. I feel so conspicuous toting an unconcealed, stolen box of money around.

“You guys look great!” I say.

“It’s nice that you’re back,” Sarah C says.

I give her a big fake smile.

“Yeah,” I say. “Cool cat. Did you steal it from a store?”

Sarah C shakes her head.

“Not exactly,” Sarah C says, rubbing the cat under its fluffy chin.

“Is it tranquilized?” I ask.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cat look so tired.

“No, it’s naturally lethargic,” Sarah C says. “Which is convenient, because it doesn’t have the energy to scratch me.”

I’d never thought of lethargy as a positive attribute before.

“Can you believe that one of us might get the boot?” Sarah B asks. She shifts her weight from her right leg to her left and fidgets with her purse strap. “Pirates used to kick other pirates out of their lives all the time. They would take the ousted pirate to a deserted island and abandon him without any provisions. Usually, all he got was a gun with one bullet.”

“I doubt Sarah A will be providing us with firearms,” Sarah C says.

“How come you know such much about pirates?” I ask.
This isn’t the first time I’ve listened to Sarah B let loose random pirate trivia.

“Are you serious?” Sarah B asks. “Our culture has been obsessed with pirates for years. Haven’t you noticed all the eye patches and puffy shirts floating around?”

“No,” I say.

“She’s right,” Sarah C says. “America has reached a state of pirate saturation.”

“I never even think about pirates,” I say.

We start walking toward the Marlborough. The cat seems content to sleep in Sarah C’s arms.

“Maybe we pulled off such great crimes that Sarah A will end up keeping all of us,” I say.

Neither Sarah B or Sarah C respond to that comment.

“All this competition stresses me out,” I say. “Once it’s decided who the Sarahs are I hope we can get back to that place of just being friends and supporting each other.”

“When were we ever at that place?” Sarah C asks.

“Being a Sarah has always been stressful,” Sarah B says. “We’re robbing stores, like, every week.”

“Maybe we could move toward that place,” I say.

“Maybe we could go to some ball games,” Sarah B says.
Pop
.

“I’d go,” I say.

“I don’t foresee any changes of that nature looming on
the horizon,” Sarah C says. “That’s just not what the Sarahs have ever been about.”

“I guess,” I say. But for the first time, I’m thinking,
Why can’t the Sarahs be about something like that?

“Maybe if you think your life is like a hallway, you expect to see a few new doors appear. But I don’t think in our case that’s a realistic option. Sarah A picks the doors,” Sarah C says. “In fact, she’ll be picking another one this evening.”

I almost stop walking. I’m shocked that Sarah C would bring up my hallway metaphor right now. First, she disses it. Then, she steals it. And now, she flings its shortcomings right in my face. She must be playing a head game with me.

“That’s not really how I see life anymore,” I say.

“Is it like a trail now?” Sarah C asks.

“No,” I say. I try to think fast. What do I think life is like?

“You think life is like a hallway trail?” Sarah B asks.

“No, I think that life is like those moving sidewalks at airports. You’re always going forward. And you’ve usually got baggage with you. And you’ve got to get around other people and their baggage. But in the end, you’re always making progress. Even when you stop for a break, the sidewalk moves you along without you personally providing your own locomotion.”

“A moving sidewalk?” Sarah B says. “What if you’re handicapped?”

“Don’t those things break down all the time?” Sarah C says.

“That’s a lot like life too,” I say. “No matter how hard you try to do everything the way it’s supposed to be done, sometimes things get screwed up and you wind up having to declare yourself out of order.”

I was aiming to pass along a deep message, but I think it came across as a little odd.

“What?” Sarah B asks.

“I think that metaphor is more interior than your last one. Some airports don’t even have healthy air,” Sarah C says.

“They don’t?” Sarah B asks.

“Airborne illnesses are rampant. That’s how my aunt thinks she contracted TB,” Sarah C says.

“Your aunt has tuberculosis?” I ask, taking a step back.

“Relax. She lives in Colorado. I’ve only met her once and she was wearing a special mask,” Sarah C says.

“That’s so eighteen hundreds,” Sarah B says.

“Actually, it was a neat-looking mask. It resembled a duck’s bill,” Sarah C says.

“We’re going to be late,” Sarah B says.

“Wait, before the gauntlet, I want you guys to know that I’ve always considered you my best friends. You two can always count on me,” Sarah C says.

“Unless one of us gets knocked out,” Sarah B says.

“Even if one of you gets bumped, you can still call me,” Sarah C says. “I know this is a competition and that we’re
supposed to be ruthless. I mean, the guy phase is coming. And we all want to be part of it. But whatever happens, you still have my number.”

“That’s good to know,” I say.

It’s such a huge disappointment that the only Sarah who seems committed to preserving a friendship with me at this point is the one Sarah I know I can’t trust and who may or may not have been exposed to a contagious and fatal disease.

I’m not sure how much Sarah C’s offer matters, because as we climb the stairs to the Aberdeen’s condo, I’m pretty sure that I’m not going to get voted out. I did my crime. And I’ve got money and an enormous horse victim to show for it. I just have this feeling that my crime is way better than anyone else’s. What could possibly top it?

Chapter 8

Sarah A swings open the door and the first thing I see is a drooling, tail-wagging, yellow dog.

“John Glenn,” Sarah B coos, reaching down to pet his head. “Doesn’t he look smart? He must have a high IQ. I bet if he wanted to, he could be an astronaut dog.”

I get the feeling that Sarah B’s comments are meant to flatter Sarah A. And from the smile on Sarah A’s face, I think it’s working. But as soon as John Glenn’s snout moves toward Sarah B’s crotch, she’s much less enamored by his stunning IQ.

“No,” she says firmly. “That’s a very sensitive area.”

Finally, Sarah A invites us all inside. I don’t think John Glenn looks smart at all. In fact, after sniffing all our butts, I watch him trot to the bathroom and insert his head inside the toilet bowl. That dog is never going to orbit the earth.

“I see we have a cat,” Sarah A says.

John Glenn returns to the entranceway with a damp muzzle.

“John Glenn, leave it. Good boy,” Sarah A says.

What he lacks in intelligence, he makes up for in obedience. John Glenn freezes, while Sarah A leads us back to her bedroom. The condo feels cool and quiet. Sarah A’s parents are rarely home. They’re both orthodontists, and apparently, Kalamazoo is the bucktooth capital of the universe. Because it’s Saturday and they’re off fitting braces and gluing retainers into mouth after mouth. Their profession is reflected in their paint choices. The walls glisten a soft white enamel color. Even the half wall separating the kitchen from the living looks like a pristine incisor. Even though it’s lucrative, I could never pursue a career in orthodontics or dentistry. I’m not even that comfortable looking inside my own mouth.