Crimes of the Sarahs (17 page)

I drop off the other Sarahs and drive Sarah A and myself home.

“What a night,” I say.

Sarah A doesn’t answer me. I park the car.

“I’m really sick of living with you,” she says.

I pull my key out of the ignition. This is horrible news.

How does she expect me to respond?

“You think you’re so perfect. You think you’re so smart.”

“I do not,” I say. When Sarah A is ticked off, she must really suck at mind reading, because I’m not even close to feeling that way.

“You pee your pants. You’re not that perfect.”

I sit motionless. I wish Sarah A was better at coping with disappointment.

“Turn your lights off.”

I do, but I’m sort of haughty about it. I flick the switch really quickly and cluck my tongue.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sarah A asks. “I’m the one who should be upset.”

“I thought this living arrangement would be fun,” I say. “I thought it would be like we were sisters.”

Sarah A sighs. I’m so disappointed that things are turning out like this. The night feels like a disaster. And my relationship with Sarah A doesn’t feel much better.

“Will you still call Roman tonight?” I ask.

“No. Not when I’m feeling like this,” Sarah A says.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I’m frustrated. You didn’t support me tonight. Not with the rabbit or the pit bull. In fact, you completely undermined me.”

“I didn’t want the rabbit to die and stealing the pit bull wasn’t the best idea,” I say.

“I’m not stupid. I know. But at the shelter nobody even considered it with me. I was all alone. I was arguing against all three of you.”

She slaps the dashboard in frustration and firmly pushes her body back into the seat.

“But we didn’t agree with you,” I say.

I can see tears slipping down Sarah A’s cheeks. I bite the
inside of my cheek. Sarah A never cries. Sarah A is always in control. I’m surprised to see her this devastated over a dog.

“I know you didn’t agree with me,” Sarah A says.

“Isn’t that part of being sisters?” I ask.

“No. Sisterhood is about love and support. It’s about trying to understand each other. Nobody even tried to understand me tonight. You all rallied around one another like I didn’t even matter.”

“Do you need a Kleenex?” I ask.

“Do you have a Kleenex?” she asks.

“Inside the house.”

She wipes beneath her eyes using the back of her hand.

“I felt abandoned,” she says. “I felt all alone.”

This is sort of weird and dramatic to hear, because the whole dog incident lasted less than ten minutes. Yet, Sarah A makes it sound like her whole worth was tied up in that one moment. This isn’t just about the dog. There are bigger issues here. But I’m not sure how to talk to Sarah A. I feel like anything I say will be the wrong thing.

“I’ll never abandon you,” I say. “I just won’t.”

“God, Sarah, you make this sound all romantic and sexual and stuff.”

“No, I don’t mean it that way. I mean it like friends.”

She’s not crying anymore. She turns to look at me and takes hold of my hands. Her face is damp with tears.

“As Sarahs, we should strive to take risks. We should be braver. We could have at least tried.”

“I don’t know. It was a big dog,” I say.

She squeezes my hands tighter.

“You need to support me. I’ll never put us in danger. Not
real
danger. You know that, right?”

I rub my thumbs against her hands hoping that she’ll loosen her hold on me.

“Some days we act like we’re not anything special at all. We act like everyone else. That’s a huge mistake. Because if you’re not trying hard to be special, then you just fade into the background. You become wallpaper. If you’re not the center, then you’re just the periphery. I’m not going to settle with being the periphery. I wasn’t brought into this world to be the wallpaper.”

I lick my lips. She’s crying again. Sarah A really believes everything she’s saying. Her grip has loosened. I lift my hands and, using just my fingertips, wipe the tears away above her cheekbones.

“I don’t want to be wallpaper either,” I say.

“Then we need to go after what we want.”

I’m tempted to tell her that while I do consider myself part of the “we” equation, I never wanted that dog. But I decide it’s more important to end the night on a good note.

“You’re right,” I say. “We need to stay tough.”

She lifts her hands to mine and threads her fingers through my fingers, pulling our hands into perfect alignment.

“We should always support each other.”

“Okay.”

“Even through our doubts.”

“I will.”

“You’ve got to promise,” she says.

“I promise.”

She disentangles her hands from mine and presents me with her pinky finger. I offer up mine too. We hook them together and then pull them apart. The quick release makes a snapping sound. The air between us crackles with static electricity. The hair on the back on my neck stands up, as an unexpected feeling of fear snakes through me.

“We’re sisters,” she says. “Forever.”

We turn to get out of the car, but Sarah A pulls on my arm.

“Wait. Remember how you talked about feeling bad about taking stuff, about how you want to get rid of the garden rock?” Sarah A says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“And remember how you talked about feeling bad about killing that possum and how you made that promise to yourself not to hurt another animal?” Sarah A asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I’m happy that she’s been listening so closely
to what I tell her. I always figured she was barely paying much attention to anything I had to say.

“You shouldn’t feel bad about stuff like that,” Sarah A says.

“I don’t feel bad all the time,” I say.

“But you don’t have to feel bad at all. You don’t have to feel anything you don’t want to feel,” Sarah A says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You turn it off,” Sarah A says.

Sarah A is smiling again. Her face doesn’t look like she’s been crying. Her smile is perfect. Her mascara and liner remain unsmudged. When I stare into her eyes they are clear, but empty. Whatever it is that’s behind them seems flat. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Her eyes glow softly and pleasantly, like two faraway moons.

Chapter 15

We’re at the mall. Mall culture is not my favorite. It’s loud here. There’s too many people. And I can never find anything I want to buy, let alone steal.

Sarah B is on the hunt for new tops. Sarah A is looking to acquire some bottoms. Sarah C has mentioned the desire to try on shoes. Maybe I should purchase something basic like socks. Sarah A, Sarah C, and I stand outside the dressing room waiting for Sarah B to come out and show us her most recent find. Sarah B walks out and rotates for us.

“No way,” Sarah C says. “It makes your boobs look dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” I ask.

“A distraction to drivers,” Sarah C says.

Sarah C smiles at me and I smile back. But I don’t mean it. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t be connecting with Sarah C at all, even at the level of civility. How can I trust somebody who would mock my metaphor and then steal it? Every time I
walk down a hallway I think of that. And feel this small sting of betrayal. It sucks.

“I think my boobs look under control,” Sarah B says, leaning forward a bit.

“No,” Sarah C says. “You’re imagining that.”

I guess I agree. Sarah B is too busty to pull off that tube top.

“You could work at Hooters,” Sarah A says.

“Gross,” Sarah B says.

But deep down, I think Sarah B took that as a compliment. Sarah B walks to the three-way mirror to look at the offending top at multiple angles.

“Where should we go next?” I ask.

Before our tube-top stop, we looped aimlessly around the mall. When we run out of things to do, one of the other Sarahs usually suggests going to the mall in Portage. Though I don’t know why. Nothing exciting ever happens here. And when I wear shoes with heels, like today, my feet get so sore.

I slip out of my wedge sandals, and press my feet flat on the store’s dusty wood floor.

“Without shoes you become a completely different size,” Sarah A says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Don’t you ever wish you were taller?” Sarah A asks me.

I shrug. Of course I wish that. Certain sixth graders tower over me.

“Do you think you’ll grow more?” Sarah B asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I don’t think you will,” Sarah A says. “I think you’ve reached your maximum height.”

“You’re not that short,” Sarah C says. “Besides, your body matches who you are.”

“It does?” I ask. It bothers me that Sarah C pretends to be nice to me when I know she doesn’t mean it.

“Totally,” Sarah C says. “You’re solid.”

Sarah A starts laughing. “What an awful thing to say. You just called her squatty.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sarah C says. “I called her solid.”

I look back and forth between Sarah A and Sarah C, like I’m following a volleyball being lobbed and returned over the net.

“Basically, ‘solid’ means ‘squatty,’” Sarah A says. “Don’t you think so, Sarah T?”

Why is she asking me? She wants me to confirm an insult?

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Come on, what else could it mean?” Sarah A asks.

“I don’t know,” Sarah B says. “Bionic?”

“How could ‘solid’ mean ‘bionic’?” Sarah A asks. “That makes no sense.”

Sarah B reenters the dressing room to change into her original top.

“I’d take it. Just stuff it somewhere,” Sarah A whispers over the dressing room door.

“It made me look like Dolly Parton,” Sarah B says. “Minus the rhinestones and vertical height of her wig.”

“It was cute,” Sarah A says. “You could wear it
somewhere
.”

“You girls need help?” A short salesclerk, shorter than even me, walks out of an adjacent dressing room stall. Holy crap! Did she hear what we said?

“We’re fine,” Sarah A says.

“Good,” the salesclerk answers. Her arms are draped with a wide array of cotton pants.

“Thanks, though,” Sarah C says.

“It’s my job,” the clerk says, walking away. “And solid can mean a lot of things. Like ‘tough’ or ‘strong’ or ‘thew’.”

All of our eyes widen.

“Thew?” Sarah A asks.

“It means having well-developed muscles. You know, Mr. Universe is always thewy,” Sarah C says.

We all look at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. No wonder she rocked the SAT verbal section.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sarah A says.

My heart is beating very fast. I can’t believe Sarah A openly talked about robbing the Banana Republic store within earshot of an employee. That’s not like her at all. Sarah B swings open the door and sloppily folds the tube top on a table filled
with other castoffs. I feel a little dizzy, so I reach for Sarah A to steady myself. She pulls away.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah A asks.

“Are you okay?” Sarah C asks, grabbing my arm as I start to teeter.

“We should probably eat something,” Sarah B says.

Sarah A rolls her eyes. I can tell that she’s mad at herself for slipping up with that clerk. We’re probably all going to be put on a list and be banned from this store and maybe some adjoining or even sister stores like the Gap. Sarah C holds my elbow and we all walk out into the mall’s main corridor.

“Do you normally pass out if you don’t eat for three hours?” Sarah A asks me.

I feel like pointing out that it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and the only thing I’ve eaten today was a banana for breakfast. But I also feel like not confronting Sarah A.

“I guess it’s part of being solid and squatty,” Sarah A says.

I look down at my shoes. Why am I at the mall? Why do I do this to myself? I wish I’d stayed home with John Glenn.

“Don’t let it sink in,” Sarah C says. “She’s just mad. Probably at herself.”

It’s impossible for Sarah C to improve my mood when I know that she’s completely fake.

“Did you say something?” Sarah A asks.

I want there to be peace. I try to cover.

“I did. I said I feel like I could eat a whole pizza by myself.”

“That’s probably part of your problem,” Sarah A says.

“Probably,” I say.

Sometimes I know I’m too forgiving. I think my easygoing nature ends up making me look like a doormat. But I don’t feel like I let everybody walk all over me. Just Sarah A. But that’s because I truly admire her. And because deep down I feel sorry for her and everything she’s gone through in life. She’s been handed so many trials. And she’s taken them head-on and wound up fierce. I’m nothing like that. I adapt or retreat, where Sarah A is willing to attack. How can I not admire her?

Sarah C is very sympathetic to my hunger issues and insists that we proceed immediately to the Big Burrito.

“Maybe Roman will be working,” Sarah A says.

“Roman Karbowski works at the Big Burrito?” I ask.

“Yeah. He started last week,” Sarah A says.

“How did you find that out?” I ask.

“I’ve been keeping close tabs on all of the guys,” Sarah A says. “By the way, I’m sorry to report that Doyle Rickerson pulled a muscle in his groin.”

“He did?” Sarah B says. “That’s so awful.”

“Why are you so concerned about Sarah T’s guy?” Sarah A asks. “There’s no crossover here. You wanted Gerard Truax and you’re getting Gerard Truax.”

“I know,” Sarah B says. “I’m just worried about the team.”

“You act like baseball is the great American pastime,” Sarah A says.

“That’s exactly what it is,” Sarah C says.

“Hey guys, I can see Roman Karbowski working the register through the window,” I say. He’s tall. And tan. And has brown wavy hair that dangles attractively off his head like he spent all day grooming it to frame his face. Plus, for a guy, Roman Karbowski has unusually pink lips. And they pout. I can see why Sarah A is so drawn to him. Those two could make fantastic-looking babies.

“Okay. We can’t screw this up. Follow my lead,” Sarah A says. “Got it?”

“Got it,” the rest of us say in unison.

The Big Burrito smells like spicy taco meat. Sarah A orders a burrito and some nachos for us to share.