Crimes of the Sarahs (27 page)

“Well, I can’t speak to the numbers, but I have been keeping a list of the varieties,” Sarah C says.

“What have you killed?” I ask.

“Let’s see. We’ve snuffed out birch, juniper, boxwood, crabapple, pine, sycamore, spruce, purple leaf sand cherry, willow, elm, quaking aspen, hackberry, sassafras, sourwood, magnolia, maple, and American beech,” Sarah C says.

“That’s a lot of pulp,” I say.

“I know,” Sarah B says.

“Will they grow back?” I ask.

“Never,” Sarah C says.

“That’s awful. And oddly assaultive,” I say.

“I know. It’s really starting to get to me. I don’t think I can commit another hit.”

“That’s pretty violent crap,” I say. “You’re running around with knives at night slashing up trees?”

“Don’t act too innocent. You did rob a convenience store,” Sarah C says.

I bite my bottom lip. I don’t like thinking about that. But my situation was so different. I just flew into that store and
distracted the clerk and grabbed the donation jar and didn’t hurt anyone. Except maybe the horse.

“So whatever happened to Buttons?” I ask.

“Who?” Sarah B asks.

“Buttons. That impaled draft horse,” I say.

“He was put down,” Sarah C says.

“Right away?” I ask.

“No, they gave him a few weeks, but he was pretty much lame,” Sarah C says.

“Was he an old horse?” I ask.

“No,” Sarah C says. “He was, like, two.”

“Shit,” I say. “That stinks.”

Death by impalement is always a tragedy.

“Aren’t you just sick with guilt about those trees?” I ask.

“A little bit,” Sarah B says.

“I try not to think about it,” Sarah C says. “Also, I make a habit of leaving a small patch of bark uncut. It gives the tree a fighting chance.”

“I didn’t know you did that,” Sarah B says. “I do that too.”

“It’s the only humane thing to do,” Sarah C says. “I totally dig trees.”

“Do you think trees can feel?” I ask.

We’re approaching the turnoff to Yankee Springs.

“I do,” Sarah C says. “Not the kind of intelligent feeling that we’re capable of, but they sense stuff.”

“Yeah. They totally sense stuff,” Sarah B says.

The station’s reception crackles, so I click off the radio.

“I’ve missed you,” Sarah C says.

“You say that like you mean it,” I say.

“Of course I mean it,” Sarah C says.

There it is. I can’t hold it inside of me anymore. I know Sarah C stole my analogy. And I know when she did this that she jeopardized my fate. Did she care about me then? I doubt it. She’s part phony. She hides it well, but it’s there, like a mole near your bra strap that nobody ever sees.

“What are you trying to say?” Sarah C asks.

Sarah C needs to know that I know about this phoniness so that she can own up to it right now, to the side of my head, and give me the chance to forgive her so we can possibly move on.

“I know what you did,” I say.

“I just told you what we did,” Sarah C says.

“No. During the freewrite, I know what you put down,” I say.

“Oh, that. I don’t do well under pressure. I get good grades and am smart enough, but when given timed essays or exams I always choke. We’d just been talking about your analogy, so that’s what popped into my head,” Sarah C says.

I’m shocked. She doesn’t sound apologetic at all.

“Well, you can’t
steal
other people’s ideas,” I say.

“I didn’t steal it,” Sarah C says. “I footnoted you.”

“You what?” I ask.

“I wrote at the bottom of my freewrite that this was your idea and I was borrowing it to build my argument,” Sarah C says.

I’m sort of flattered that I was footnoted. To my knowledge, it’s the first time that it’s ever happened.

“How did you know what I wrote on my freewrite?” Sarah C asks.

“Sarah A told me,” I say.

“But she didn’t tell you about the footnote?” Sarah C asks.

“No,” I say.

“Typical,” Sarah C says with a snort.

“You shouldn’t sound so indignant,” Sarah B says. “Considering what you said about me.”

“I never said anything bad about you,” I say. Did I say something bad about Sarah B? I might have.

“Your nickname for me is Teflon face. Sarah A told me,” Sarah B says.

“It was so not a nickname,” I say. “And it was Teflon complexion.” That probably doesn’t sound like a great defense, but I only said that phrase a couple of times. “And I didn’t mean it maliciously.”

“Right,” Sarah B says. “Because every high school girl is secretly hoping to have her friends compare her skin texture to cookware coating.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. It was thoughtless and I never should have said it. I’ll never say anything snarky like that again. I promise.”

“I promise too,” Sarah C says.

“I never said snarky stuff to begin with,” Sarah B says. “So I’ll stay that course.”

I listen to the tires turn against the road. Why are we heading to Yankee Springs? Out of loyalty to Sarah A? Out of devotion to the Sarahs? Out of a desire to press forward with the guy phase? Out of an urge to remain popular? Out of fear that Sarah A might get hacked to pieces by an ax murderer? Why?

“I’d just like to say that our group hasn’t been the same without you. Four white chicks is a lot more fun than three,” Sarah B says.

“I think I could stand hanging out with three white chicks and a dog,” Sarah C says. “It just has to be the right three white chicks and the right dog.”

Sarah B laughs. I don’t. For some reason being lumped into a group referred to as “white chicks” feels a little wrong. A month ago it probably wouldn’t have, but today it does. If I’m one-quarter Potawatomi, is that the right word for me?

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” I say.

“Shoot,” Sarah C says.

“It’s a confession,” I say.

I’ve silenced everyone.

“What is it?” Sarah C asks.

“I’m not white.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah B says.

“Are you a descendant of slaves?” Sarah C asks. “Are you a quadroon?”

“A what?” I ask.

“A quadroon. It’s a person who has one-quarter black ancestry,” Sarah C says.

“No. I’m one-quarter Potawatomi. I’m part Native American. I think my great-grandmother grew up on a reservation. But she left it. Afterward, she lived alone and had a ton of cats. I don’t know if those events are related.”

“My grandma has a ton of cats and she’s just plain white,” Sarah B says.

“I think that’s neat,” Sarah C says.

“About my grandma’s cats?” Sarah B says. “I don’t. I think she needs to have them spayed and neutered. Her house smells like ammonia.”

“I’m talking about Sarah T being part Potawatomi. I think stuff like that is cool,” Sarah C says. “I think it’s good to be connected to things bigger than yourself.”

I’d never thought of it that way.

“I’m not going to start acting like Liam,” I say. “I won’t be
driving out to visit the monument of Chief White Pigeon on the weekends or anything.”

“Okay,” Sarah C says.

“I’ll probably read a book or two,” I say. “You know, about my ancestry.”

“Yeah,” Sarah B says.

“Change takes time,” I say.

“Haven’t you always known you were one-quarter Potawatomi? How is this change?” Sarah C asks.

“The way I see myself. It’s different now,” I say.

We drive along the 131 until the Yankee Springs exit. I merge onto the off ramp. A small animal scurries across the road in front of me and I brake hard.

“Look,” Sarah B says. “It’s a cat.”

“That’s a fox,” Sarah C says.

“I’ve never seen a fox before,” Sarah B says.

“How would you know?” I ask. “You probably thought it was a cat.”

We laugh. We’re almost to Yankee Springs.

“Why do you think women collect cats?” Sarah C asks.

“It’s not really a gender thing,” I say.

“Sure it is,” Sarah C says.

Nobody answers right away. I think we’re really mulling it over.

“I think it’s all about your own helplessness,” Sarah B says.
“First, a cat is smaller than you and so you see it as vulnerable. Plus, it depends on you for food and stuff. By saving the cats maybe you think you’re somehow saving yourself. Also, cats are covered in fur and most people like the way that feels.”

“Okay,” I say. “So why do some people not like cats, especially in packs? I mean, my mom can’t stand them.”

I’m surprised when Sarah B has such a quick response.

“First off, and most obvious, is the odor. Nobody likes that kind of stink. But the bigger reason is probably related to that same sense of helplessness. Visiting a place stuffed with cats would make a person feel vulnerable but also responsible. I mean, all those cats have needs. And then you’ve got the broken person who hordes the cats and she has needs too, but she doesn’t even recognize that. It’s like the cats are her Band-Aids so she doesn’t have to see her own wound,” Sarah B says.

“That’s so deep,” I say.

“Totally inner core,” Sarah C says.

“Imagine how it must feel to visit a massive cat dwelling, to be able to recognize this. There’s somebody you love. And there’s this pool of cats. It’s like you’d feel more helpless than the animals,” Sarah B says.

“You’ve thought a lot about this,” I say.

“I think it’s because my mom’s not around. I think about being helpless a lot. I also think about women a lot and
why they do what they do. It’s something I talk about in counseling.”

I glance in the rearview mirror at Sarah B. Tears are slipping down her cheeks, rolling off her jawbone onto her shirt.

“Plus, volunteering at the shelter has helped me see that our pet population is completely out of control,” Sarah B says.

“That’s an understatement,” I say.

I open the moonroof and let a cool breeze flow through the car.

“Do you two feel like singing?” I ask.

“Sure, what song?” Sarah C says.

“I don’t feel like singing anything,” I say. “I think I might quit choir. And do something else. Something I really want to do.”

“Like what?” Sarah C asks.

“Maybe join Activists for Action,” I say.

“The campus environmental group? Don’t they just recycle stuff after school?” Sarah B asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Maybe I’ll join Forensics. Or Mock Trial. Or maybe take a class in zoology,” I say.

“I didn’t know Central offered classes in zoology,” Sarah B says.

“I didn’t know you hated choir,” Sarah C says.

“I don’t hate it,” I say. “But I don’t love it either. After all these years of it, I think I’m choired out.”

“Hey, I’ve got a confession, too,” Sarah C says.

I don’t know if our car can handle more confessions.

“What is it?” I ask.

“My name isn’t Sarah,” she says.

“That’s impossible,” Sarah B says.

“No, it’s not. I never officially changed it. I lied. Legally, I’m still Lisa Sarah Cody.”

“Did you forge those documents?” I ask.

“Just for Sarah A’s benefit. I didn’t break any laws.”

“You were always a little different,” Sarah B says.

All this talking has made me feel much less burdened. Literally, I feel lighter.

“I haven’t made a confession,” Sarah B says.

“Do you have one?” I ask.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Then shoot,” Sarah C says.

“I don’t chew gum anymore,” Sarah B says.

That doesn’t seem like a confession that’s at the same level as mine and Sarah C’s.

“Don’t you want to know why?” Sarah B asks.

“Did your dentist tell you to stop?” I ask.

“No, it’s because I’ve decided to forgive my mother,” Sarah B says.

“Really?” I ask. “I don’t know if I could forgive my mother if she ran off with the meter reader and moved to North Dakota.”

“So how does gum chewing play into that?” Sarah C asks.

“My mother has TMJ. She can’t chew gum, so I was chewing it all the time to spite her,” Sarah B says.

“But your mom was never around to see you chewing it,” Sarah C says.

“The point wasn’t that she had to see me; the point was that I could do it and she couldn’t,” Sarah B says. “But I don’t anymore. I’m over it. I forgave her.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because staying mad at her every day was a huge energy suck. She is what she is. Sometimes people screw up,” Sarah B says. “And sometimes they don’t stop screwing up.”

“That’s so big of you,” I say.

And as we all seem poised to experience a major epiphany, we don’t quite get there. I pull into the parking lot, and Sarah A bursts out of her cabin and races to the car, slapping my window with her hands. Her fingers leave greasy marks on the glass.

“There’s a problem!” Sarah A yells. “It’s a situation!”

I pull on my parking brake and turn off the car. We all climb out.

“You look awful,” Sarah C says.

“I am. I am awful,” Sarah A answers. “We need to get back inside the car.”

We hurry back inside my little Jetta, Sarah A in the passenger seat, and Sarah B and Sarah C in the backseat, with John Glenn riding on Sarah B’s lap. Then we slam all the doors. Sarah A’s face is red. She’s sweating. Her blonde hair sticks to her cheeks in clumps. She reaches over and grabs my arm. “Thank God you’re here,” she says. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

Chapter 27

I pull out of the parking lot and attempt to turn right.

“Go left! Go left!” Sarah A yells.

I do.

“What’s going on?” Sarah C asks. “You act like you’re being attacked.”

“You guys,” Sarah A says, flipping around to look into the backseat. “You’ll never guess what’s going on at Yankee Springs.”

“Does it involve an ax murderer?” Sarah C asks.

Sarah A shakes her head.

“Why are you sweating?” Sarah B asks.

“It’s, like, a hundred degrees in those cabins. And I don’t have a fan. Or a cooler,” Sarah A says. “Turn left here.”

I do.

“Are we going to the Shell station?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Sarah A says. “I totally need ice.”

“Is that your emergency?” I ask.

“What emergency? I never said there was an emergency,” Sarah A says. “I said I had a problem.”