Crimes of the Sarahs (12 page)

“Vance, stop it!” Mrs. Aberdeen says.

“What’s going on?” Mr. Aberdeen yells.

Standing in the doorway, he looks like a character in a sitcom—backlit, bald, and clueless. He hurries inside the condo, his belly bouncing as he runs.

“He attacked the girls with a bowie knife,” Mrs. Aberdeen says.

I’m tempted to point out that the attack was executed with a butter knife that Sarah A and I provided. And that we all had butter knives too. But I stay mum. When somebody gets worked up into hysterics, it takes a lot of energy and carefully chosen words to deflate the situation. I just don’t have it in me.

“He tried to take out my eyes,” Sarah A says. “My fellow Sarahs are the only thing that saved me.”

Mr. Aberdeen picks up the four scattered butter knives and hands them to me, like I’m some sort of knife receptacle.

“Thank you,” I say, grouping their handles together like a bouquet.

Mr. Aberdeen steps on the back of Vance’s hand and pries
the fifth knife out of his grip. Mr. Aberdeen gives me that one too. The metal feels warm. Like it’s been lying in the sun. “Sarah, you need to leave,” Mr. Aberdeen says.

He’s talking to Sarah A and he sounds very sad. Like a man who’s finally agreed to surrender.

“But I didn’t assault anybody!” Sarah A says.

“We need to sort this out. Get your things. Go stay at Sarah Trestle’s for the night.”

“Kick him out, not me. I belong here!”

“Sarah Louisa Aberdeen, take some things and spend the night at Sarah Trestle’s. Your mother will call the Trestles right now to make the arrangements.”

“And Sarah Trestle,” Mrs. Aberdeen says to me, “You’re going to have to take your dog home. I’m sympathetic to the fact that you want a dog, and to your mother’s severe allergies concerning dander, but we just can’t keep John Glenn here anymore. You understand, don’t you?”

“I told my parents about how your mom wouldn’t let you keep John Glenn, about how I’d take care of him for you for a few months,” Sarah A says.

“Our condo rules are strict. If we get caught with a dog, we’ll be fined,” Mrs. Aberdeen says.

This is so bizarre. Why would she lie to her parents about John Glenn being my dog? Why wouldn’t she just tell them that she wanted a dog?

“Okay,” I say, nodding in agreement. Because really, what am I supposed to say?

“I’ll call your mother and explain everything,” Mrs. Aberdeen says.

“You don’t have to explain about John Glenn. I should probably do that,” I say.

Mr. Aberdeen’s face is as red as a cherry tomato. He’s gotten Vance to his feet and has a tight grip on his arm.

“Get your things, Sarah. Go to the Trestles’. We’ll sort this out soon enough,” he says.

All the Sarahs escort Sarah A back to her room. I glance over my shoulder and watch Mr. Aberdeen shake Vance’s arm. The light tugging makes him wobble. A part of me feels like I should go in there and explain how everything really happened. But not a very big part of me.

“Sarah T, do I need to bring my own towel?” Sarah A asks.

“No,” I say.

“How about my flip-flops? Does your shower or tub have fungus?”

“No,” I say.

“Can you think of anything I’m forgetting?” she asks.

“John Glenn,” I say.

“Yeah, where is he?” Sarah A asks.

Sarah A and I follow a faint panting noise into the bathroom. Vance used John Glenn’s own leash to tie him to the
toilet’s reservoir tank. John Glenn seems unfazed. He’s no stranger to toilets.

“Does he have any treats or toys?” I ask.

“No,” Sarah A says.

“What about dog food?” I ask.

“There’s a big bag of Alpo underneath the kitchen sink.”

I almost frown. She feeds my dog Alpo? I don’t know how I feel about that. I always figured if I had a dog I’d feed him an all-natural dog food like Breeder’s Choice. Sarah A and I walk back to her bedroom and John Glenn merrily trots behind us.

The other Sarahs are cleaning up the remains of our contest. Sarah B puts all her nail polishes and other loot inside a sack for Sarah A. Sarah C has the stolen donation jar concealed in its original grocery bag. Sarah B and Sarah C hand it all over to Sarah A. She doesn’t bother to say thanks.

“Am I forgetting anything else?” Sarah A asks.

“Didn’t somebody shove Digits inside your sock drawer?” I ask.

“God, I almost forgot,” Sarah A laughs, smacking the heel of her hand to her forehead.

“I’ll take him to the shelter tonight,” Sarah C says.

“Oh, let’s hold off,” Sarah A says. “Let’s see how interesting things can get.”

“I guess I can keep him at my house,” Sarah C says. “We already have a cat. So I’ve got the basic feline necessities.”

“Whatever,” Sarah A says.

“What about your Roman Karbowski pillow?” Sarah B asks.

“Sarah T, can you grab that for me?” Sarah A asks.

“What about my Doyle pillow?” I ask.

“That thing will forever be associated with the time my brother tried to stab me,” Sarah A says. “It stays.”

So we all walk out of Sarah A’s room. Mrs. Aberdeen is kneeling on the floor where Vance fell. She has the phone in one hand and a scrub brush in the other. I don’t see Vance or Mr. Aberdeen. Once we’re out of the condo, the other two Sarahs wave good-bye and break off, heading in a different direction. Sarah A and I return their waves and climb into my car. John Glenn hops into the backseat like he knows that he belongs there.

“You should probably put Roman Karbowski in your trunk,” Sarah A says.

I get back out of the car and set the pillow in my trunk. When I climb back inside, Sarah A appears very calm. She’s yawning. It’s almost as if what just happened inside her condo was not the freakiest and most dramatic moment ever. I had no idea she was
this
resilient.

“Well, you’re one lucky coward,” Sarah A says.

I start my car. I guess that’s what you call a backhanded compliment.

“I’ve been displaced. This changes everything,” Sarah A says.

I’d assumed that my lackluster performance during the Vance attack had cemented my ousting from the Sarahs. Everyone seemed so upset about the Belgian draft horse situation, especially the part about me stealing from my fellow Sarahs. And then I didn’t help subdue Vance in any way when he launched his final assault on our leader. And I was the one who unintentionally provided him with a knife. If I were the head Sarah, I think I’d even kick my own butt out of the group.

“It’s not like I can knock you out of the group when I have to shack up at your house with you.”

“I guess,” I say.

But really, I’m thinking that she totally could.

“Consider it probation. If you can do something to redeem yourself, we’ll let the other stuff slide. It’ll be like water under the bridge.”

I nod. But the phrase “water under the bridge” makes my heartbeat quicken. It reminds me of a scene in a movie in which a killer dumps a body wrapped in a shower curtain into a river from the great height of an overpass and says, “You’re just water under the bridge.”

I feel real queasy. Like I could throw up. Instead, I swallow hard and force the fear and vomit back down inside of me. John Glenn barks.

“Open up the moonroof,” Sarah A says.

I do.

She reaches her left arm up through the open roof, so the night air can blow through her fingers. I thought she wanted me to open it for John Glenn.

“What’s wrong? You should be so happy. I’m going to let you worm your way back into your old spot,” Sarah A says.

She brings her arm back inside the car and touches the nape of my neck with her cold hand. It feels reptilian and creepy and makes me want to scream. My old spot. It should be exactly what I want right now. But I have mixed feelings about it. Let’s face it, I’m the grunt. It’s my job to take needless amounts of punishment and grief and shit. Sarah A pulls her hand away from my neck and it begins to turn warm again. She smiles at me. I smile back. Picturing my life without the Sarahs is like picturing myself without legs. How would my life work?

“I
am
so happy,” I say, pulling into my possum-free driveway.

I park the car. John Glenn is panting in my right ear. I have this feeling that Sarah A will be staying with us for more than a night. I crack open my door. Sarah A is already striding to my house. I take John Glenn’s leash. Ready or not. Let the worming begin.

Chapter 10

“I don’t quite get it. How again does having a dog help you get into college?” my mother asks. She’s placed a wet washcloth over her nose and mouth in an attempt to filter out any possible dander that might be floating through the air.

“This is John Glenn,” I say. “It will look great on my entrance essay to talk about all the important work I do with him.”

“Important work?” she asks. “What kind of work does a dog do in Kalamazoo?”

“We’ll visit sick people,” I say.

“And that requires a dog?” she asks.

I was planning on introducing John Glenn to my mother after breakfast. But when a dog sees his first deer, leaping around outside your bedroom window, apparently he likes to vocalize his enthusiasm.

My father seemed somewhat okay with the idea of introducing a canine to our household.

“He looks like a champ,” he said, as John Glenn barreled
down the hallway, barking at the long-gone deer on the other side of our living room windows. “He doesn’t have any medical problems, does he? Hip dysplasia? Tumors?”

“Oh, he’s in terrific shape,” Sarah A said.

“I’m willing to have a dialog about this,” my father said as he left for work.

“A dialog?” my mother said. “What do you mean a dialog?”

But my father didn’t elaborate. He winked and left the four of us—me, my mother, Sarah A, and John Glenn—to further hash this out. At which time, my mother drenched a washcloth and attached it to her face. Just like open-winged, gold-plated eagles symbolizing glory perched atop flagpoles across America, or the Liberty Bell hanging in its showcase in Philadelphia, representing, well, liberty, I think my mother placed the cloth on her face to create a visible emblem of her dog protest. She stands for doglessness. Also, wearing the washcloth makes her look sympathetic.

“In a year you’ll be in college. This is no time to bring a dog into your life,” my mother says.

I’m so tired that I release a yawn. My mother takes this the wrong way and wags a finger at me.

“This is serious!” she says. “I have allergies!”

“I’m partly to blame,” Sarah A says. “I told her I thought that volunteer work would be a good fit for her. She has such a big heart.”

My mother pulls the washcloth away from her face. “I can’t believe you’d just bring a dog home,” she says.

“It felt like my only option,” I say. “Please, Mom. Let’s give it a week and see.”

“See what?” my mother asks.

“See if your allergies act up,” I say.

My mother’s eyes don’t look red. She hasn’t wheezed at all. I think her problems with animals might be rooted in psychological rather than physiological issues.

“What do you plan on feeding it?” she asks.

“Breeder’s Choice,” I say.

“And how do you plan on purchasing it?” she asks.

“Dad seems on board with the whole dog operation,” I say. “He said he’d pick up provisions after work.”

“Not only do I feel double-teamed,” she says. “I feel manipulated.”

John Glenn pads into the living room and looks out the window on to the lake. He makes a whining noise.

“I think he wants out,” Sarah A says.

“Then get him out! Don’t let him pee on the rug!” my mother yells. “Out! Out!”

I take John Glenn by the collar and lead him outside. Sarah A follows me.

“That went really well,” she says. “Your mom went from pissed to disillusioned to acceptance in less than five minutes.”

John Glenn inspects the perimeter of our property, lifting his leg up whenever he encounters a tree.

“I don’t want to manipulate her,” I say.

“That’s all part of life,” Sarah A says. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t know if I want to get used to it,” I say.

Sarah A walks toward my bedroom window and with the toe of her sneaker clears leaves from a stepping stone.

“Nice rock,” she says.

“We took it last summer from Lowe’s,” I say.

“We did? It looks so heavy,” she says.

“It weighs sixteen pounds. We loaded it in the bottom of a cart and wheeled it right out of the store. We were going for a record. The heaviest thing we’d stolen before that was a flashlight. Don’t you remember?” I ask.

“Did we only take one?” Sarah A asks.

“No, we stole two. Sarah C took one home and I took the other,” I say.

“Why didn’t I take one?” she asks.

“Because you don’t have a yard,” I say. “You live in a condo.”

“Yeah, I like what’s carved into it,” Sarah A says, bending down and tracing her finger along the thick blocky letters etched into the stone.

“
Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away
.” She stands, sighs, and
in a gesture of mock-swooning clutches her heart.

“I’m thinking about giving it away,” I say.

“I see your point. As far as rocks go, it’s sort of lame and Hallmarky,” Sarah A says.

“That’s not why,” I say. “It makes me feel weird.”

“Because it’s lame?”

“No, because I stole it. Every other thing I’ve stolen I keep in my room. I hide them away. This is so public. I guess I feel like it’s too public.”

“Are you being serious?” Sarah A asks.

“Yeah.”

Using her shoe, she drags some cut grass and leaves back over the stone’s gray surface. “You need to get over it. For the guy phase to work, we’ve got a lot more stuff to steal. If you hang on to all of it and stick it in your room, not only will you end up weighed down by a gigantic load of meaningless crap, but your bedroom area might turn Doyle skittish. You need a place with ambience, like mine.”

I ignore the guy angle altogether. My room is big. It can hold a lot more stolen goods. But
meaningless crap
? Every time we steal something, I feel like I’m taking a huge risk. I don’t want Sarah A to characterize our hauls in a way that diminishes their importance.