Authors: Kirsten Smith
Trinkets (23 page)
At first the dance was kind of awkward, but fortunately we got a table where all five of us could sit. It’s bizarre trying to make chitchat with everyone on their best behavior. Especially when one of the people is your brother. But then fortunately he broke the ice and told some stupid story about the time I dislocated his elbow when we were wrestling in junior high, which seemed to make everyone laugh. Noah leaned over and said, “That’s so you,” and I guess he’s right. But now, being in a dress at the dance is me too. Who says you can’t be both?
The best part of the night was when the DJ announced he was playing a slow song “that goes out to Maureen, from Tabitha and Elodie.” I was like, WHAT? And then the song
came on—“Glory of Love” by Peter Cetera. Tabs and Elodie elbowed Noah like they’d sort of planned it.
Noah grabbed my hand and took me out on the dance floor, which was pretty empty because the entire student body obviously doesn’t understand the joy of a cheesy love song. We started slow dancing and I told him that this was one of my parents’ favorite jams, and he said that was cool.
Tabitha came out with Patrick Cushman. It wasn’t as if suddenly they were a couple or anything, but they kept looking at each other like they were super into each other. As for Marc and Elodie, at first I thought it would be creepy to dance next to my brother and his “girlfriend,” but he kept a little bit of distance so it wouldn’t be weird. Plus, I made note of his ridiculous dance moves so as to mock him at length later. Tabitha and Elodie and I started joke-singing along to the lyrics and laughing, and some people were joining in, but they looked confused, like for the first time they were the ones who didn’t get the joke. At the end of the song Noah pulled me close in front of everybody.
Later we did the Robot and the Running Man, and then it was over and we drove home. Noah asked me if I wanted to stop and get a hamburger. For a second I thought I wouldn’t want to eat in front of him and then I realized we’ve lived next door to each other for six years so who cares. Plus, I was starving. After burgers, we went home
and he walked me to the door and kissed me with hamburger breath on the front steps. I waited in my room for about ten minutes, thinking he was probably going to try to sneak in my window, but then he sent me a text: NIGHT C U TOMORROW. I wrote back OK and was really scared he had a terrible time, but he wrote: I MISS U. C U FOR BFAST? It almost made me cry, even though I wish he was here right now so we could be together all night long. But I’m so tired, so I guess sleep is a good idea.
XOXOXOXO
New and OldThe yearbooks came out today
and everyone is busy looking through the pages
trying to find themselves.
I’ve been here nine months
and I’m more old than new now.
I’m old enough to know that Moe Truax
has a soft spot for
The Golden Girls
.
I’m old enough to know that Marc Truax
is as good at physics as he is at wheelies.
I’m old enough to know that Tabitha Foster
can’t tell a joke to save her life,
but it doesn’t make her any less funny.
I’m new enough to have only recently figured out
that people never stop surprising you,
even if they’re your best friends.
As I walk out the front door of school,
I see Tabitha and Moe waiting for me in the parking lot.
We’re taking Tabitha’s new car to the Roxy,
the shiny silver Prius her dad bought her
to make himself feel better
about finally packing up and going,
the car she accepted with a smile
and moved on,
because she’s smart enough to know you can’t make people—
especially your parents—
become who you wish they were.
The sun starts out of the clouds
and finds its way to Tabitha’s hair
as she slides behind the wheel.
It’s hair that girls like me will probably
envy forever, whether we’re friends or foes.
Moe sits shotgun, her feet up on the dash,
wiggling her toes,
which she’s painted neon turquoise
so they looked like little blue Smurf turds.
The yearbooks came out today
and everyone is busy looking through the pages
trying to find themselves.
I don’t need to.
It took me a minute,
but I already know
right where I am.
HOARDERS“
Hoarders
called,” Moe says. “They want to do an entire season on you.” She’s staring in awe as Elodie and I unload gobs and gobs of stuff from the trunk of my car. We’ve just pulled up in front of the women’s homeless shelter on Burnside because we decided to take all the stuff we’ve ever stolen and donate it to homeless people. Okay, that’s a lie. Not
all
of it. Maybe half. It was Elodie’s idea. I think she wanted to show Marc she wasn’t an evil person and that she was a good influence on his sister and all. Point proved.
“I like this,” Elodie says, holding up a green pencil skirt. “Can I keep it?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Doreen’s eyeballing it.” I point to a really pretty but really skinny lady with frizzy brown hair who’s hanging out watching us.
We haul the stuff up the steps to the shelter, and Moe’s
right. There is a
fuck-load
of stuff. Based on the amount, we clearly should have been professional thieves. Maybe all this time we should have been planning a bank robbery instead of just ripping off retail merchandise. Oh well. Next year.
Elodie has boxes full of books and scarves and makeup and knickknacks. As for me, I have boxes and boxes of clothes. I even put a couple of dolls and two of my snow globes in there for good measure. I figured if some of the women have kids, they’ll like them.
“Hey, girls, I’m Natalie,” says a friendly black lady who lets us into the shelter. “Shawn said you might be coming by.”
I look at Elodie, surprised. “You told Shawn we were coming?”
Elodie shrugs. “I figured she’d know where the best place to donate was.”
“Getting that phone call probably made her entire life,” Moe says, grabbing a Gumby doll out of my box and holding it up with a quizzical look. “Why you no keep Gumby?”
I swat Moe with it as Elodie snaps a picture of us. Natalie leads us into the entryway of the shelter, which obviously isn’t the world’s most cheerful place, and around the corner to the main living area. She shows us where to put down our stuff, and immediately a group of women descend on the goods.
“Dolce and Gabbana? Wuh-what?” says a woman in her twenties with a gap in her teeth, holding up a jacket to her friend. I wince. I love that jacket. I remember when I stole it at Mario’s and wore it every day that winter. I wish I’d kept it. Suddenly, I wish I’d kept all this stuff.
As I’m thinking this, “Doreen” steps up, holding a white shirt with big cuffs. “Is this really Prada?” she asks shyly.
“Yeah,” I confirm. “Well, last season.”
She pulls it on over her tank top, and it falls to the perfect length on her hips. It accents her collarbone just right. So
that’s
how it’s supposed to look.
“Wow. It looks way better on you than it ever did on me,” I say, genuinely impressed.
“Really?” She beams. “I’ve never worn anything like this.”
“Well, you look amazing.”
As she nods, Moe snaps a photo of me with her phone. “
Hoarders
would be so proud.”
I smack her, and Elodie laughs. Just then Natalie comes over. “Thank you, guys, for coming by.”
“Sure,” Elodie says.
“If you ever have any more donations, you know where to find us.”
“Let’s hope we won’t,” Elodie says. “We’re trying to reform ourselves.”
We say good-bye and walk outside. It’s a perfect sunny day in Portland, the first real summer moment of the year. It’s times like this, when you’re hit with greenery and blue sky, that you realize maybe all those months of rain really do pay off. As I walk down the steps with Moe and Elodie, I’m glad we gave away our stuff. Stolen trinkets lead you to places you never predicted you’d go, but eventually you have to leave them behind.
TK
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Kirsten Smith