Crimes of the Sarahs (24 page)

“I hope attending college is more fun than applying for it,” I say.

“Oh, it is,” my father says. “Those were the days. Did you know that I belonged to the same fraternity as Frank Lloyd Wright? Phi Delta Theta.”

“You joined a frat? No wonder you thought college was fun,” I say.

“History is peppered with Phi Delts who’ve made lasting contributions: the twenty-third U.S. president, Benjamin Harrison, Neil Armstrong, and Lou Gehrig. Going Greek can be a responsible choice.”

“Maybe I’ll join a sorority,” I say.

“Oh, Sarah, groups tend to swallow you up,” my mother says. “You should go to college and stand on your own.”

“I don’t know. I met a lot of people in my fraternity,” my father says.

“He means women,” my mother says. She clears her throat. “College isn’t just about having fun,” she says.

“Right. Right,” my father says. “It’s a time of growth. A time of change.”

John Glenn assumes a crouched position and takes an enormous dump on the lawn in front of us.

“I’ll get a bag,” I say.

When I come back my parents aren’t holding hands anymore.

I think my mother has dragged her chair farther away from my father’s.

“All I’m saying is that it has its drawbacks. Okay, Frank Lloyd Wright was an architect ahead of his time, but why did he build such small kitchens? I can’t open the refrigerator and the dishwasher at the same time. It’s impossible! It can’t be done,” my mother says. “And there’s hardly any natural light. It’s gloomy in there. That kitchen is far too restrictive for my culinary needs.”

I walk between them, bypassing their argument, and scoop the poop.

“But the heart of the home is the hearth, honey,” my father says.

“The wiring is substandard. The oven won’t get above three hundred degrees. And the roof leaks,” she says. “It’s time to make some upgrades.”

“I’m going to throw this away,” I say. I lift the bag and its contents up so they know what I’m referring to.

“The roof has always leaked,” my father says.

“But now it’s leaking on the couch,” my mother says.

“Let’s move the couch,” my father says.

“We have. Twice,” my mother says.

I return from the garbage can. My father isn’t saying much. I think he’s hoping this will blow over.

“Is this why you’ve been cooking everything with the toaster?” I ask.

“The toaster is the only thing that works properly in there,” my mother says.

So Sarah A was wrong. My mother wasn’t on a Pop-Tart bender to satisfy a soul craving. She had staged a kitchen appliance protest in hopes of forcing an upgrade.

“But Frank Lloyd Wright is an architectural icon,” my father says. “I like living in the house he designed.”

“Oh, please. Frank Lloyd Wright was a real womanizer. He abandoned his first wife and family to run off to Europe with a married woman.”

“He was ahead of his time—loyal only to his imagination,” my father says. He shakes his head.

“Statements like that frighten me,” my mother says. “Let’s not forget that he violated the Mann Act twice.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” I say.

“It’s legislation passed by Congress that makes it a crime to take women across state lines for immoral purposes,” my mother says.

“A pimp built this house?” I ask.

“Frank Lloyd Wright was not a pimp! He took a couple of mistresses across state lines,” my father says. “It happens.”

My mother leans so far back in her lawn chair that it groans. “I want to remodel the kitchen,” she says.

“Wright is probably rolling over in his grave,” my father says.

“Well, that’s doubtful, as I remember reading that he was cremated,” my mother says.

“This will be tough on Liam,” my father says. “He looks up to Wright. Remember when we reglazed all the tubs in the house? Liam didn’t speak to us for a month. He felt we’d violated Wright’s original tub intent.”

This seems like a good time for me to exit.

“I can’t think in this atmosphere,” I say. “I need to go to the library. Then, I want to sit and work on my college essays at Full City Cafe.”

“I guess that sounds like an acceptable plan,” my father says.

“Bread helps fuel the mind,” my mother says.

“Good luck with your discussion,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll reach some middle ground.”

I race into the house.

“Sarah!” my father yells.

Oh, no. Has he already changed his mind?

“Be back by ten,” he says. “You’re not completely out of the doghouse.”

“Okay,” I say. “Bowwow.”

“And don’t make this a social outing,” my mother says. “Library. Cafe. Home.”

“Okay,” I lie.

“Change doesn’t always mean destruction,” my mother says.

“If we need to rent a commercial Dumpster to complete the project, I’m fairly certain there’s a sizable amount of destruction involved,” my father says.

I grab a book bag and look around my paper-cluttered room. In the last few weeks so much has changed for me. I am not the same person I was the night I returned the donation jar to Mr. King. And I am not the same person who stole that donation jar either. All that person wanted was to fit in at any cost. And that person was willing to take way too much abuse. If things were just a little different, if there wasn’t any stealing or putting one another down or taking each other’s life metaphors, the Sarahs could be an amazing group. Like a family. I wonder if any of the other Sarahs have changed? Without me, things had to have been different for them.

I turn to leave, but I notice the Godzilla lunch box. Next time I talk to Liam I’m going to ask him about this. I pick it up, but it feels empty. I shake it and it doesn’t make a noise. When I unclasp the lid I see that the Godzilla action figure is missing. Sarah A must’ve taken it, even though I asked her not to. She must have ignored what I said and stuck it right
in her stupid pocket and sold it on the action figure black market.

I’m not shocked about this, but it does suck. Sarah A doesn’t respect anybody else’s property. She never has and she never will. She’s guided by her wants. That’s why she’s always taking things. Maybe she’s trying to fill up some sort or emotional hole. Some people probably can’t recover from the loss of a mother. That kind of absence must leave a huge empty space. I bet Sarah A tries to fill it with anything she can find. But it must not work. Because no matter how much Sarah A takes, she continues to want and want and want.

Chapter 23

When I walk into the Big Burrito, I feel like I’ve stepped back into my old life. There they are: the Sarahs—bare-armed, smiling, and wearing skorts. Nothing has changed. Except Sarah B is wearing a Tigers cap. And she also has a stylish new purse strapped around her neck. I’ve seen that kind of purse in magazines. It has long black fringe flowing down one side. It looks like a horse’s mane. Or tail. And the skorts are sort of a new thing. They must’ve been a recent purchase. I mean, I don’t have one.

Sarah B tugs down on the bill of her cap, adjusting the hat low on her head. It does make her look a little boyish. I’m surprised Sarah A permitted Sarah B to resume cap-wearing.

“You look great,” Sarah C says.

I look down at myself. I’m wearing jeans and a pink shirt. I look good but not spectacular.

“Hey, Sarah T,” a male voice calls.

I look at the cash register. It’s Bjorn Walters, our student-body
vice president. He’s talking to Roman Karbowski. It looks like Bjorn is ordering a torta.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Doyle Rickerson is out,” Sarah A says.

“Groin injury?” I ask.

“We think he might not like girls,” Sarah B says.

“He’s gay?” I ask.

“He’s something,” Sarah C says.

“What happened?” I ask.

“We don’t have time to break it down for you,” Sarah A says. “Your new guy is Bjorn.”

“I’m still a Sarah?” I ask, pointing to myself.

“We can’t successfully complete this leg of the guy phase without you,” Sarah A says.

“You’re using me?” I ask.

“Please,” Sarah A says. “You’re dying to be part of the guy phase.”

It’s hard for me to deny this. And there is a certain rebel quality that I’ve always liked about Bjorn. There’s something about him that’s just so attractive and tall and … Swedish.

“I’m going to go talk to Roman. You,” Sarah A says, aiming her finger at Sarah C, “catch Sarah T up to speed. And you,” she says, turning her finger on me, “don’t drink anything. We don’t want an accident.”

“Wow,” I say. “It’s weird to be back.”

“Does it feel good?” Sarah C asks.

“I think so,” I say. “To be honest, I feel like I’ve been through a lot since I last saw you guys.”

Sarah B and Sarah C look at each other and then back at me.

“We can relate,” Sarah C says.

“What have you been up to?” I ask.

Sarah C scans the restaurant.

“It’s a little too crowded in here to disclose that kind of information,” Sarah C says. She leans forward over her half-eaten tacos to speak to me.

“Let’s just say that the guy phase has had a few glitches,” Sarah B says.

“Because of Doyle?” I ask.

“I wish that was our problem,” Sarah C says. “Something like that is manageable.”

“It sounds like you guys have faced some major obstacles,” I say.

Sarah B and Sarah C look at each other again.

“Let’s just say that Sarah A overlooked a few things,” Sarah C says.

“Wow. I find that hard to believe,” I say.

“Oh, you better believe it,” Sarah C says.

Her comments feel loaded and almost spooky.

“Hey, I like your purse,” I tell Sarah B.

Sarah B reaches over and pets it. “My mom gave it to me,” she says.

“It’s got a cute tassel,” I say. I’m glad that she and her mother are speaking again.

My mouth feels dry. I reach for a glass of water to take a drink, but I stop when I see a panicked look break out on Sarah B’s face.

“I’m not going to pee myself. Guys don’t make me wet my pants,” I say.

“So can I ask you a personal question?” Sarah C asks.

“I guess,” I say.

“What does make you wet your pants?” Sarah C asks.

“Keep your voices down,” Sarah B says. “This is so not something people want to hear about at the Big Burrito.”

“What are you feeling before you wet yourself?” Sarah C asks.

“I feel like I need to use the bathroom.” I say.

“No, where does it come from?” Sarah C asks.

“My bladder,” I say.

“I’m being serious, Sarah T. The look on your face at Barnes & Noble scared me,” Sarah C says.

“What did I look like?” I ask.

“Like a complete and total failure,” Sarah C says.

“I guess that’s what I feel like,” I say.

“Is that what it feels like every time? At Circuit City? Sears? D&W?” Sarah C asks.

“She also peed herself in kindergarten,” Sarah B says. “It happened on my row.”

I shake my head.

“I don’t want to think about this,” I say.

“I just wanted to know where it came from,” Sarah C says.

“Why do you even care?” I ask. Sarah C is so good at pretending like she’s concerned about me. But I know the truth.

“You’re one of my best friends,” Sarah C says.

I look away.

“Maybe you need to talk to somebody,” Sarah C says.

“Like a therapist?” I ask. “Only people our age who are total nuts see therapists.”

“I see a therapist,” Sarah B says.

“You do?” I ask.

My eyes must be huge. This is very shocking news. How can a Sarah be in therapy and this is the first that I’m hearing about it?

“When did this start?” I ask.

“After my mother left,” Sarah B says. “Two years ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” I ask.

“She told me about it,” Sarah C says.

I feel a little hurt. Why did Sarah B tell Sarah C and not
me? Do they share some sort of close relationship that I’m not aware of?

“Hey Sarah T, come on over here,” Sarah A says.

She’s sitting at a table with Bjorn. He’s with his younger brother, Sven, and Gerard Truax. All three of them have floppy hair that falls over their foreheads in long, curvy waves. Maybe they have the same barber. Bjorn and Sven are blond. Gerard has hair the color of a chocolate bar. I’ve never touched a guy’s hair before. I wonder what if feels like. I sit down next to Bjorn. He smells much better than Doyle Rickerson’s shirt. I smile. This is the first time I’ve talked with a guy since Sarah A called off the purity vow. I feel light. And happy.

“Did you know that Bjorn skis?” Sarah A asks.

“That’s cool,” I say.

“Maybe we could go sometime. After it snows,” Bjorn says.

I watch Bjorn take an enormous bite of his torta. His teeth are huge, almost as big as horse teeth. They tear through the thick bread like a machine, and it frightens me.

“Well, we’ve got to get going,” Sarah A says.

She smiles and waves good-bye by fluttering her fingers. I get up and follow her.

“Stop making that face,” Sarah A whispers to me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You’ve got that expression you get when you watch surgeries on television,” Sarah A says.

“Oh,” I say.

“Let’s go,” Sarah A says to Sarah B and Sarah C.

“But you haven’t told Sarah T what we need her for,” Sarah C says.

“You haven’t gotten there yet?” Sarah A asks. “What have you been talking about?”

“Other issues,” Sarah C says.

We walk outside and congregate around Sarah C’s car. She parked on the dark side of the building. My white sneakers look like they’re glowing. I’m relieved that I’ll be making it home well within my curfew. I rub my arms. It’s cold. It’s still August, but Kalamazoo already feels like fall.

“I need something from you,” Sarah A says.

“What?” I ask. I want to be able to help her out, but in a noncriminal kind of way.

“I need John Glenn,” Sarah A says.

Sarah C opens her car door. I follow Sarah A around to the passenger’s side.

“But he’s my dog now,” I say. “We’ve bonded.”

“I know. I don’t want him forever. Just the weekend,” Sarah A says.

“But why?” I ask.