Crimes of the Sarahs (13 page)

“Meaningless? I’ve still got the first thing we ever stole,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“The lip gloss. Seventh grade. It’s watermelon flavored. Don’t you remember?” I ask.

“No. You’ve still got lip gloss from seventh grade? Doesn’t that stuff go bad?”

“It’s empty. I keep the container,” I say.

“For what?”

“For the memory.”

Sarah A leans her body against my house and rests her head against my bedroom window. “Sarah T, you’re freaking me out. You’re like this woman I saw on a daytime TV show who couldn’t throw anything away. Not even her tampons.
After
she used them. With the sort of problems you have, I’m afraid to put you anywhere within a thousand feet of Doyle Rickerson.”

“I’m not anything like that,” I say. “I totally throw my used tampons away. But the stuff we’ve taken, that’s different. It matters.” Doyle Rickerson isn’t what’s at stake for me right now. I’m concerned about what Sarah A thinks of me and my tendency to hold on to our loot.

“By now, most of what we’ve stolen is trash,” Sarah A says. “A used lipstick container should be thrown in the garbage.”

“Lip
gloss
,” I say. “It’s the first thing we ever stole.”

“It’s not the first thing
I
ever stole.” Sarah A pushes herself away from my house and walks toward a small oak. She grabs
its trunk with one hand, like it’s a pole, and begins walking around it in circles.

“It’s not?” I ask.

She circles and circles. Her grip on the tree rubs off the dry bark. It sounds like rain as it falls into the grass.

“You think I waited until the seventh grade before I started ripping stuff off?”

“I guess I did,” I say.

“Yeah. That’s not how it happened,” Sarah A says.

“So, how did it happen?” I ask.

Sarah A stops her circular plodding. “Wait. Where’s John Glenn?”

I look around. He’s gone.

“Would he try to run back to your condo?” I ask.

“How would I know? I don’t have a dog brain,” Sarah A says. She lets go of the tree and brushes her hand against her shirt.

“John Glenn! John Glenn!” I yell.

I run down the hill toward Asylum Lake. Sarah A doesn’t follow me. When I get to the main trail I can see John Glenn several yards ahead of me on the dirt path sniffing a painted turtle, Michigan’s state reptile.

“John Glenn! Come here!” I yell.

John Glenn walks toward me with his golden head lowered.

“Bad dog,” I say. “You can’t run away from home.”

“You should probably put him on a leash before you take him outside!” Sarah A calls from the top of the hill.

“Yeah,” I say.

“He doesn’t seem to respect limits with you,” Sarah A says.

I don’t say anything. I don’t know if that’s true. John Glenn and I take a shortcut, weaving through maples, oaks, and tall grass to reach the top of the hill.

“Having a dog is turning out to be a big responsibility,” I say.

“You’ll adapt,” Sarah A says. “That’s one of your best qualities. You’re an adapter.”

I reach the top of the hill and my thighs burn. I’m breathing heavy. I let go of John Glenn’s collar and he races toward the back door.

“Look at him. He seems right at home,” I say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sarah A says. “He was happy when he lived at my place too. He’s just a dog, Sarah T. He’ll love whoever feeds him and be happy anywhere he lives.”

We’re standing side by side and, with her shoulder, she gives me a rough nudge, almost knocking me down.

“Ouch,” I say.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sarah A says.

I watch her walk to the back door and open it. John Glenn rushes inside. A breeze stirs the holly bushes beside my house.
I rub my shoulder. She didn’t nudge me that hard. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it. I take a deep breath. It must be weird for Sarah A to be booted out of her own house. I bet being displaced like this makes her think about when her mother left. It’s probably harder for her than I realize. Last night, she wasn’t even given a choice. Her parents told her—demanded—that she pack her things and leave. I bet it made her feel helpless. I imagine it made her feel a lot like a twig.

Chapter 11

Dawn has cracked open another blue day. And after sharing my bedroom, my bathrobe, my toothpaste, and my parents with Sarah Aberdeen for a whole week, it’s become clear to me that this arrangement will continue for a second week. At least, that’s the time line I overheard Mrs. Aberdeen giving my parents. Apparently, that’s the soonest Vance could be placed in a wilderness camp for troubled teens located in the Utah desert. I guess there was a waiting list. America must be overflowing with screwed-up teenagers. It sort of makes me afraid to ever camp in the western wilderness. That place sounds like it’s crawling with nutso delinquents.

Sarah A hopes Vance gets mortally wounded by a Gila monster. Actually, her exact words were, “I hope that shithead gets set upon by a Gila monster. They’re poisonous, you know. And totally found in Utah.”

But I told her that outcome was pretty unlikely, because
I’m a faithful viewer of Animal Planet, and I’ve never heard of a Gila monster killing anyone.

“Considering the rugged terrain, Vance could possibly be attacked by a cougar,” I said.
“Possibly.”

Sarah A didn’t like hearing my dissenting point of view.

“It’s more than possible,” she shot back.

“You’re right,” I said, smiling. I’m not an idiot. I know when to shift gears.

I have to admit that all this conversation is the best part about having Sarah A as a temporary roommate. We’re bonding. Before we go to bed at night, we talk a lot. Usually, we discuss what Sarah A thinks of the world. This requires a lot of active listening on my part. I don’t know why, but I think I’m more interested in what Sarah A thinks about local and global issues than what I think about them. I know she’s flawed. I know she’s far from perfect. But I admire her. She’s so strong. She doesn’t let anybody mess with her. And when she believes something, she’s unwavering in her commitment to her own ideas. She’s solid. And it’s awesome.

For instance, she’s not afraid to hold a minority opinion. Last night, I found out that she likes baby harp seals, but despises whales.

“I could care less if Japan harpoons every last one of those blubbery beasts,” she said.

So I said, “Seals make way better stuffed animals.”

And she said, “Seals rock.”

And I said, “Absolutely. If there’s two things the world can live without, it’s whales and terrorists.”

And she said, “I hope they both go extinct.”

And I said, “Maybe the terrorists will start killing off the whales. Or vice versa.”

And Sarah A made a noise like she was swallowing, which I think meant she agreed.

It’s clear Sarah A and I are getting closer. She’s sharing more and more of her criminal ideas with me. It’s like she was born with the perfect crooked brain to commit crimes. She’s figured out ways to override the credit card function in vending machines so that in addition to getting free cans of soda and bags of chips, change will actually shoot out at her.

And she knows where the city has recently planted expensive ornamental plum trees. She’s created an elaborate plan to uproot and sell them. Though, she hasn’t quite ironed out who the customer base will be or how we’ll transport the delicate and leafy contraband. She’s hoping to use the Internet and a Ryder truck. I really admire her. She thinks big. She isn’t afraid of her own ambition or imagination.

John Glenn comes to my bedside and whimpers to be let out.

“I’ll take him out,” Sarah A says.

“Cool,” I say. “Don’t forget his leash.”

When she comes back she sits down next to me and presses her cold hands against my neck.

“You’re lazy,” Sarah A says.

“It’s summer,” I say. “I enjoy sleeping in.”

“Do you know what I like most about staying with you?” Sarah A asks.

I roll onto my back and stare up at her. Even without makeup, she’s the prettiest Sarah.

“Our talks?” I ask.

“No. You have basically no supervision whatsoever. This will be the perfect launchpad for the guy phase. I couldn’t have planned it any better,” Sarah A says. “I didn’t realize that people still offered their kids such huge pockets of dangerous freedom. Were your parents hippies or something?”

I blink several times. I’m the kind of person who has to transition from sleep to wake.

“My parents aren’t
that
old,” I say.

“Yeah, having old parents would be such a burden. Poor Sarah C.”

“How old are her parents?” I ask. I didn’t realize they were elderly.

“They’re in their
fifties
. And it totally affects her. That’s why she’s always thinking so much. Because her parents are
mature and decrepit and close to death. That makes a person more meditative.”

I don’t say anything. I stretch instead. And ponder that whole fifty-being-close-to-death remark. Maybe that’s true in poor countries where they have to wear tire treads for shoes and kids aren’t vaccinated against the mumps. But in America that can’t be the case. Because our senior citizens are freaked about Social Security going bust. And why worry if you’ll already be dead? I yawn.

“I think that’s part of the reason why my parents had me stay with you and not Sarah C.”

“Because her parents are in their fifties and close to death?”

“No, because they used to be hippies.”

“They did?”

“They own a health food store. Nobody but hippies manage those things. And I bet my parents didn’t want me to stay with Sarah B because she comes from a broken home. I mean, she’s being raised by a single parent.”

“But her dad is so great.” I sit up. But this quick vertical maneuver makes me feel dizzy and I lower myself back to my pillow.

“He’s a mechanic!”

“But he’s really involved in her life. They go to sporting events together.”

Sarah A rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, she’s barely middle class.”

I try to keep my eyes from widening. I wonder if Sarah A talks about me like this when I’m not around. Probably. I smile through this observation. I guess we all gossip at some point in our lives. Nobody is perfect.

“So the reason you’re staying with me is because my parents weren’t hippies, are still married, and are middle class?”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Your brother goes to Stanford, and your father owns a car lot. You’re upper-middle class. And my parents are orthodontists. They’re responsible people. They’re not going to ship me off to live in a questionable environment.”

“Do you really feel that way?” I ask.

“Of course,” Sarah A says.

I don’t know if I totally believe her. I think it must ruffle her somewhat that her parents shipped her off. I yawn again and stretch my arms over my head.

“I don’t care about the reasons why you’re here,” I say. “I’m just glad you came to stay with me. My home is definitely a healthy environment.”

I should have knocked on wood. My last comment is like a cue for dysfunction and mayhem to start raining down on my happy, healthy home. Out of nowhere, my father screams, “That man is a shithead!” This never happens. Why is this happening? My father is a procrastinator, not a screamer. But it’s like he’s trying to openly demonstrate that our house might actually be a questionable environment.

“He’s got a big, antagonistic head stuffed with certifiable shit!” my father yells.

“Calm down. It’s just an inflatable monkey,” my mother says.

“Big Don knew I’d bought the duck. He knew I’d paid big dollars for that inflatable. He purposely bought King Kong to dwarf me,” he says.

“It’s not that bad,” my mother says.

“That ape’s head casts an afternoon shadow right over the row of Passats. They’re huge sellers! They can’t be in some big ape’s head shade.”

“Maybe you can talk to him,” my mother says.

I can hear my father slam the refrigerator door. This is not like my dad at all. He’s not a fighter. He’s like me, an adapter. From my room, Sarah A and I listen to the lively discussion unfold.

“Who’s Big Don?” Sarah A asks me.

She seems thrilled by this familial discord.

“My dad’s competition. He owns the lot across the street from him.”

“What’s an inflatable?”

“Those huge balloonlike things that businesses put in front of their buildings to draw in customers.”

“Your dad bought a duck?”

“It’s a cool duck. It has black sunglasses and is as big as a school bus.”

“And his competition bought King Kong?”

“It sounds like it,” I say.

Sarah A slides on my slippers and races to my bedroom door. She opens it and pokes her head out.

“I’m sorry to jump into your conversation,” she says, “but why not buy Godzilla? That would even the playing field. It would be an epic battle played out with inflatables, Godzilla versus King Kong. Everyone knows Godzilla would win.”

I’m tempted to tell Sarah A to get back inside my bedroom. This isn’t any of her business. I’m the one who picked out the cool duck inflatable. But I don’t. I hear my father’s footsteps rushing toward my room. Sarah A squeals and runs back to her bed.

“Are you decent in there, girls?” my father asks.

“Yes,” I say.

He opens the door and his increasingly scruffy face emerges before us.

“You really think Godzilla could beat King Kong?”

“They made a movie about it. I’m pretty sure Godzilla won. He’s way bigger than Kong and Godzilla can breathe fire.”

My father walks all the way inside my room. A dot of skim milk glistens like an iridescent pearl in his chin hair.

“Sarah?” he asks me. “Have you seen that movie?”

“No.” I don’t know much about King Kong. And everything
I learned about Godzilla I gleaned from watching Liam play with his Godzilla action figure. When he was ten, Liam went through a Godzilla phase, which occurred very much before his “pre-social-conscience phase.” In addition to his bright green Godzilla action figure, Liam also had that monster on a plastic lunch box. “I bet Liam has. He spent an entire year worshipping that beast. I’ll call him. But that sounds right. A lizard that can breathe fire should be able to defeat a big ape.”