Authors: Kimberly Reid

My Own Worst Frenemy (7 page)

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy

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“So what did you go in for? That's what no one seems to know. Not that I've been gossiping about you or anything . . .”

“It's a'ight. I know people are talking. I know you have my back when they do, which is why I'll tell you. Wrong place, wrong time, that's all.”

“That's all?” I was really hoping that wasn't all.

“My boyfriend was in the Down Homes. I knew that when I met him. Where I lived, just about everybody wore colors, so I either had to be a nun or go out with a G. I also took my books seriously. I wanted to go to college, the whole nine. But I was in love with that boy for real. So I stayed with him even though I knew what he was about.”

She stopped to ask if I wanted a Coke.

Uh, no. I wanted to hear about the boy she loved enough to do time for, which was obviously where the story was headed.

“One day he says he needs to go to the bank, and could I drive him because his license was suspended. I should have known something was wrong right there because of two things. One, he kept all his money at home where he could keep a better eye on it. He always said there was no better vault than a shoebox and a Smith and Wesson. He was funny as hell, way better than Chris Rock.”

MJ stopped to laugh at the memory of this bit of comedy. I prompted her back on track by asking her about the other thing that should have clued her in about her hilarious boyfriend.

“Oh yeah. He never cared before about driving on a suspended license. All of a sudden, he was law-abiding. He was almost twenty, and hadn't had a license in two years. That's just another way for the man to keep track of you.”

“So he was really going to the bank to rob it?” I asked, in case she got sidetracked by stories of keeping ahead of the man. I know all about staying ahead of the man, since I live with him. Her.

“You guessed it. I'm sitting in the car, and he comes out and says, âLet's go.' So I do. I don't even know what's happened until there's a blue light on us. Then two more sets of blue lights. My first thought is whether we have any pot in the car. It didn't even dawn on me that he'd just robbed the bank until the Five-Os jumped out of the car screaming âPut your hands up!' They wouldn't do all that over some weed. Not in L.A.”

“So they got you as an âaccessory after the fact.' ”

“Man, Chanti you watch too much
Law & Order
. Sound just like a cop. I'd probably been better off with you as my public defender. That dude was clueless, just out of law school. Got me close to two years in JD.”

“So wait, how old are you? You said this happened when you were fifteen.”

“I lied. I'm not sixteen. I'll be a legal adult my next birthday, but I feel like I've been grown for a long time.”

MJ was done with her confession. She took the TV off mute just in time for the Final Jeopardy round, which I got wrong and she got right. During the closing credits, a cruiser went down Aurora Ave running hot. MJ stopped smiling over her victory in Final Jeopardy and with a voice like ice said, “Man, do I hate the cops.”

Chapter 10

I
t's one of those late-summer days that make me think I'll never leave Colorado, even when I'm grownâmid-eighties, sky bluer than you could ever make up in a dream, the highest mountain peaks dusted with early snow. The sporting-goods stores have started running ski sales, but winter and snow seem so far away that you forget how cold November will be. It's a day made for a convertible.

I guess Bethanie isn't certain she has my friendship yet because she insists on taking me shopping after schoolâher treat. When I told her I needed to dress business casual for my new job but I didn't know exactly what that meant, she suggested I get a subscription to
In Style
magazine and said we were going to the mall. She doesn't need to buy my loyalty, but I'm not doing much to stop her. If nothing else, I figure it will be a chance for me to see if she'll be “borrowing” clothes from the mall or if she'll be dipping into the glove box for some spending money. She still hasn't let me in on the source of her funds.

I text Tasha and Michelle that I won't be joining them for our usual Friday happy hourâthe buy-one-get-one deal on tamales at the Center Street bodega, then kick back and enjoy the ride to the mall. Call me shallow, but I like riding around in a brand-new BMW with the top down, people looking at us and assuming we're rich girls. If I was with Tasha and Michelle and two girls went by in a car like this, we'd immediately start hating on them, angry it was them and not us.

The wind blows a receipt from somewhere in the car into my lap. Bethanie doesn't notice so I take a look. It's from the campus bookstore, dated the first day of school, for a greeting card and a Montblanc pen. I see why Smythe got all agitatedâit cost three hundred dollars! So the only thing Bethanie lied about that day is not noticing Lissa's compliment about Smythe's pen. Not only did she notice, she ran out and bought one just like it. I'd be embarrassed to admit that, too. But I'm glad to know the only thing she's guilty of is having low self-esteem. Except now I'm wondering how she can afford to buy something that expensive. Bethanie says she isn't broke, but it's a big leap from not being broke to being able to buy overpriced stuff you don't even need.

Finding the receipt also leaves the question of who actually stole the pen. I know it wasn't Marco, and the only other person in the room, the one who thought it was such a great pen, was Lissa. She was in the cafeteria when it went missing, but I still want to get the story on her because if anyone could make my life at Langdon miserableâother than Smytheâit would probably be her. It's smart to have information on people who might one day cause problems.

“You never gave me all the details of your ride with Lissa after y'all dropped me off. So what's she like?”

Lissa knew all about a neighborhood she'd never be caught dead in (mine). She says her maid lives around there, but I'm sorry, I just don't see Lissa riding with her father to take the maid home. She's the type who probably doesn't even know her maid's name.

“At first she was kind of standoffish, but after we started talking fashion, we found some common ground.”

“Enough to build a friendship on?”

“It's not about friendship, Chanti. This is business.”

Now here's something new. “Business?”

“I want all the best. If she's the person I need to run with to get it, then that's what I'll do. Friendship would be good, but that's secondary.”

I thought she already had all the best, but I keep quiet about that. And I make a mental note whether I can trust Bethanie with anything real, even though we now share secrets. She makes friendship sound a little disposable.

“That's why I'm going shopping today, too. For her party next weekend. She mentioned I might want to rethink my style, because your sense of style says more about you than words or actions.”

“Wow, that's deep.”

“Well, I happen to agree with her.”

“So she gave you style tips based on what? How you iron your uniform skirt? No one has any style wearing a uniformâthus the name.
Uniform
.”

“Sure you can. She pointed out that my old manicure was inconsistent with my Coach bag. See?” she says, waving her right hand in my face. “I've changed it to a French manicure. More understated.”

When I first met her, Bethanie had what I thought was a cubic zirconia glued onto her manicured pinkie fingernail. Now I wonder if it was a real diamond, but that's still a little ghetto fabulous for a girl trying to feign Langdon style. I have to agree with Lissa on one point. Bethanie is a walking inconsistency. She might be trying to cop Lissa's style, but sometimes I get the feeling Bethanie is from around the way just like me.

When we pull into a parking lot full of shiny new cars made everywhere but in America, Bethanie announces, “This is Cherry Creek Mall,” as if we've just arrived at the end of the yellow brick road. We're walking toward the mall when a woman running away from it nearly knocks us down as she passes by.

“Watch where you're going!” Bethanie yells at the fleeing woman. “What was her problem? She's running like she stole something.”

It's true. I've seen plenty of people running out of the Denver Heights Mall and usually someone was after them. In most cases, it was the off-duty cop the mall hired as security. I didn't get a good look at the woman, but being Lana's daughter, I watch to see where she goes. She stuffs two huge bags into the trunk of a tiny orange car, gets behind the wheel and guns it out of the lot. License-plate number 431ZTF2. The way she's moving, I expect to see a couple of security guards run out the door after her, so I'm ready to give them a description of her car. But no one follows her.

“Maybe she was just in a serious hurry to get home.”

“Forget about her. We've got shopping to do,” Bethanie says.

I have never seen so many designer bags and jeans on the arms and butts of girls my age, or younger in some cases. How is it possible to be thirteen and afford the kind of clothes these girls are rocking? Where I come from, you'd have to be a baller, rapper, or dealer to afford this stuff. Michelle had a Louis Vuitton wallet after she spent a few paychecks on it, but there was no way she could afford a whole bag. I thought it kind of defeated the purpose when she had to pull her LV wallet out of her Payless purse. But at least Michelle earned the right to spend stupid money; I doubt the girls in this mall earned theirs.

“You ever been here before?” Bethanie asks, leading me into a store so shiny and bright that it almost makes sense some shoppers are wearing sunglasses inside. Even the sales racks appear to be made of gold. Ms. Reeves would pass out if she just walked past this place.

I say, “A few times,” which is a lie because I've never even been in the mall before. Most of the stores there are so far out of my price range that I never saw the point. I'm not sure why I lied about itâhopefully I'm not turning into Bethanie, pretending to be something I'm not. It's scary that Langdon might have that effect on me.

Right away, I see I was accurate about the place. Besides the fact that I can't even afford to pay attention in a store like this, much less a pair of shoes, the minute we get three feet inside, all employee eyes are on us, and not because we look that good. There's another girl in the store, about our age, who someone ought to be following around instead of me, because that huge Louis Vuitton dog carrier she's sporting is a lot more full than it was when I noticed her out in the mall a few minutes ago.

While Bethanie is ooh-aahing over something ridiculously overpriced, I watch the girl with the growing bag. She's so confident she doesn't even watch the store, doesn't notice me checking out that bag. This is the perfect place to stealâthey won't risk ruining a four hundred-dollar blouse with a hole from a security sensor. I bet she didn't pay for a thing she's wearing, including the dog carrier. Hello? Is no one wondering where the dog is or why it's so quiet?

I guess not, because here comes a saleslady running up to us right now.

“Hi, ladies. How can I help you today?”

“We're just looking,” I say. “Maybe that girl over there needs your help.”

The saleslady ignores me and again asks what kind of help we need. My conscience is clearâI tried to do the right thing. Now I hope the shoplifter robs the place blind. Bethanie acts like she didn't just hear me say we don't need any help. “I'm looking for some jeans.”

“I can help you find your size.”

“We can find them ourselves. Thanks though.” Apparently my tone isn't dismissive enough, because the saleslady doesn't leave us alone until she's helped Bethanie find several pairs of jeans and tops, counted them all, and placed them in the fitting room. But she's still keeping an eye on us from her cash wrap. Louis Vuitton girl is heading for the entrance unnoticed, dog carrier bulging.

“What is your problem?” Bethanie whispers from inside a dressing room.

“I can't stand when they follow us around like that. Even in these uniforms with the Langdon crest all over them, they figure we're stealing.”

“Shhh. You're embarrassing me.”

“No one's out here but me. That saleslady can't hear us, but I wish she could.”

“She wasn't following us. It's called good customer service. Maybe you aren't used to it.”

“Good service? Are you serious?”

“Look, Chanti, maybe where you shop, service isn't part of the experience the way it is here. No one needs to steal around here.”

“I'm guessing that girl with the dog carrier just ripped off a few thousand's worth in under three minutes, and not because she needed to. Number-one lesson in solving a crime is understanding the motive. Need is not always the motive.”

“Who are you? Nancy Drew, girl detective?”

Soon as she opens the dressing room door, here comes the saleslady to see what all we've stolen so far. Bethanie comes out wearing jeans worth two Tastee Treets paychecksâa size too small and a couple of inches too lowâalmost requiring a bikini wax. The silk and lace tank she's wearing looks more like underwear. I don't think this is the style change Queen of the Preps was suggesting.

“What do you think?”

“It's a little skanky,” I say, at the same time the saleslady says, “It's a little expensive.”

Bethanie yanks off the tags, hands them to the saleslady, and says, “Excellent. Ring it up, then.”

But I can tell she's really saying to both of us,
Screw you.

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy

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