Crimes of the Sarahs (30 page)

“I’ve got a huge Dumpster at my house. I say we throw it out and all turn over a new leaf.” This feels like the absolute right thing to say. To take our old selves and huck them right into the trash. That’s what I’ll do with all my stolen stuff, too. I won’t bury it. I’ll toss it. If I’m really at a new place in my life, I need to start acting like it.

At first, nobody says anything.

“I’m finished with crime. It’s behind me,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.

“Me too,” Sarah B says.

“Me three. I fail to see the upside anymore,” Sarah C says. “Also, you guys can start calling me Lisa again.”

“What?” Sarah A asks. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Sarah C says.

Sarah A lets out a big breath.

“But being part of the Sarahs is so much fun,” Sarah A says.

“It was so much fun,” I say. “But also stressful.”

“Wait! Wait!” Sarah A yells. “Stop driving!”

I pull off to the side of the road and stop the car. Sarah A unlocks her door and pushes it open.

“We’re in a moving vehicle,” Sarah B says. “Don’t do that.”

“I don’t want to be in this car,” Sarah A says.

“I know it’s a tight fit,” I say.

“No. I’m not finished. If you want out, that’s fine. But I’m not done. I’m still a Sarah. I don’t care if I’m the last one.”

“You can’t mean that,” I say.

“But I do,” Sarah A says. “I’m not done. I’ve still got the guy phase to look forward to.”

“We don’t need to call it that anymore. We could just start dating,” Sarah C says. “It’d be more fun than thrashing innocent trees at night to try to manipulate people into breaking up so that we can forge relationships with them.”

“Roman is coming up tonight,” Sarah A says. “I’m not ready to quit.”

“Doesn’t Roman have a girlfriend?” I ask.

“It’s rocky,” Sarah A says. “They won’t last another week.”

“You don’t know that,” Sarah C says. “Personally, I’ve lost all respect for Roman Karbowski. He’s stringing you along, Sarah A.”

“Maybe I want to be strung,” Sarah A says.

“Don’t you want a boyfriend who you don’t have to share?” I ask.

“I like Roman. I’ve always liked Roman. We’re, like, destined,” Sarah A says.

“Listen. Roman Karbowski is the kind of guy who will rip your heart out of your chest and throw it down an elevator shaft just to watch it go boom,” I say.

Sarah A bites her lower lip. “But before the ripping and the part where my heart goes boom, I bet things will feel really great.”

Sarah A starts to climb out of the car.

“Don’t do it,” Sarah B says.

“Have some self-respect,” Sarah C says.

“We’re a half mile away from your cabin,” I say.

“Walking will dry me off,” Sarah A says. She slams the door. Sarah C rolls her window down all the way.

“I thought you were ready for a change,” Sarah C says.

“I like my life. And now I have a chance at Roman. All right, I can understand no more destroying trees and stuff. And I get that we don’t want to commit any more crimes. But I am who I am. I like being a Sarah. And I don’t ever want to stop.”

“But if you’re the only one, then you’re not a Sarah anymore,” I say.

Sarah A looks down. I think she’s crying, but when she glances at me I can see that her eyes are dry.

“I guess you’re right,” Sarah A says.

We watch her turn around and walk along the road’s shoulder toward her campsite at Yankee Springs. She is so strong. In all the wrong ways.

“Do I keep going?” I ask.

“I guess so,” Sarah B says.

I don’t feel like there’s a good option here.

“Should we try to wrestle her into the car again?” I ask. “She’ll probably have much less energy.”

“That’s not our job,” Sarah C says. “People have to make their own decisions.”

I know she’s right. I know I can’t dedicate my future to physically restraining Sarah A every time she’s on the verge of doing something stupid. As I drive past the Shell gas station I slow down.

“Last pit stop for a while. Anyone need to go?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” Sarah B says. “But don’t you need to go? You haven’t gone in a long time.”

“I’m good,” I say. “Sarah C, remember when you asked me what I think about before I pee myself?”

“Yeah,” Sarah C says.

“I’m usually stressed-out about a crime I’m about to commit. And then somebody looks at me. Not a glance, but a real hard stare. I guess I think they’re seeing parts of myself that I don’t want anyone to see. I feel exposed. I feel vulnerable. Then I feel this tingling sensation and I have to pee.”

“I think that’s called ‘anxiety,’” Sarah C says.

“Then why did it happen in kindergarten? What crime were you committing then?” Sarah B asks.

“I’d accidentally taken Madeline Murphy’s pencil box instead of my own. I was trying to put it back on her desk without anybody seeing. But Mr. Larsen looked right at me while I was doing it, and I wet myself.”

“I imagine that was hard to live down,” Sarah C says.

“You have no idea,” I say. “Being unpopular in grade school is like enduring trench warfare before mustard gas was banned.”

John Glenn barks. It sounds like he wants something.

“What do you think Sarah A is doing?” I ask.

“She’s probably still walking,” Sarah B says.

“We shouldn’t have left her,” I say.

“I bet a piece of her is wishing that she’d just stayed in the car with us,” Sarah C says. “She’s all alone.”

“It would suck to have your family ship you off to a hotel and then a cabin,” Sarah B says. “Sarah A so doesn’t belong in a cabin.”

I try to picture what she’s doing. Maybe she’s wrapped up in a towel. Maybe she’s curled up on her bed and attempting to take a nap. I guess I thought, in the end, that standing up to Sarah A would make me feel a lot like how I felt when I stood up to Big Don. But it’s not the same thing at all.
Because Big Don is a jerk. And Sarah A, while she may act like a jerk, is a wounded person who has real issues. And I care about her.

“It’s rotten to think of Sarah A up there totally wet and cabin-bound. Does she even have a towel?” Sarah B asks.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to end,” I say. “Endings are supposed to be happy. We’re supposed to wind up entirely transformed and on a positive course. This feels so, so … unpleasant.”

“This is real life,” Sarah C says. “Endings aren’t scripted. They just happen.”

John Glenn presses his body between the front seats and sets his snout down on my wet pants.

“How do you know this is the end?” Sarah B asks.

“Because things couldn’t go on the way they were,” I say.

The scenery flies by. Tree. Tree. Fence posts. Car. Mailbox. Pasture. Dead raccoon.

“I can’t do this,” I say.

I tap on the brakes.

“Are you turning around?” Sarah C asks.

“Maybe we should,” Sarah B says.

I flip on my blinker and prepare to make a three-point turn.

“It’s the right thing to do,” I say.

“She might not come,” Sarah C says.

“That’s true,” I say. “But at least we can say we tried.”

“The more I think about your analogy, the more I think you’re right,” Sarah C says.

“About life being like a moving sidewalk?” I ask.

“Not that one.”

“About life being like a path?” I ask.

“No, the hallway metaphor,” Sarah C says. “It’s as if Sarah A thinks she knows what’s behind the Roman Karbowski door, but she doesn’t really know. She has no idea what she’ll get. And she’s passing by all these other doors.”

I imagine my metaphor. I picture door after door. They spread out before me and behind me. They go on and on. I don’t know why I’ve made them so mysterious. They’re not magical. They’re just doors. Open it or don’t open it. And then move on. You shouldn’t spend your life wondering what’s on the other side. Just look. Just open it. Open as many as you want. Go ahead and see what’s there.

“She still has time to figure it out,” I say.

We drive and drive. Then I pull into the Yankee Springs parking lot for a third time. Sarah A is sitting at a park bench by herself. The shade of a pine tree casts a dark shadow over her. She looks at us and turns away.

“I’ll go,” I say.

I get out of the car and slowly walk to where Sarah A sits. A breeze stirs leaves across my path and I crunch over them.
Sarah A turns to face me. Her bottom lip trembles. I don’t say anything. I just move toward her. I can sense the other Sarahs watching me. I feel new and certain. Maybe change doesn’t take as long as I thought. I don’t know how this will end. All I know is that I’m not doing this out of guilt or obligation or pity. I am Sarah A’s friend. And I go to her because this is what I want to do.

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Here’s a peek at another novel by Kristen Tracy:

I DIDN’T START OUT MY JUNIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL
planning to lose my virginity to Benjamin Easter—a senior—at his parents’ cabin in Island Park underneath a sloppily patched, unseaworthy, upside-down canoe. Up to that point in my life, I’d been somewhat of a prude who’d avoided the outdoors, especially the wilderness, for the sole purpose that I didn’t want to be eaten alive.

I’m from Idaho. The true West. And if there’s a beast indigenous to North America that can kill you, it probably lives here. My whole life, well-meaning people have tried to alleviate my fear of unpredictable, toothy carnivores.

But I was never fooled by the pamphlets handed to me by tan-capped park rangers during the seven-day camping trip that my parents forced upon me every summer. The tourist literature wanted you to believe that you were safe as long as you hung your food in a
tree and didn’t try to snap pictures of the buffalo within goring distance. Seriously, when in the presence of a buffalo, isn’t
any
distance within goring distance?

And they expect intelligent people to believe that a bear can’t smell menstrual blood? A bear’s nose is more sensitive than a dog’s. Every Westerner knows that. In my opinion, if you’re having your period and you’re stupid enough to pitch a tent in Yellowstone Park, you’re either crazy or suicidal. Maybe both.

It’s clear why losing my virginity outdoors, in the wilderness, with Benjamin Easter should be taken as an enormous shock. I could have been eaten by a mountain lion, mauled by a grizzly bear, or (thanks to some people my father refers to as “troublemaking tree huggers”) torn to pieces by a pack of recently relocated gray wolves.

Of course, I wasn’t. To be completely honest, I may be overstating the actual risk that was involved. It happened in December. The bears were all hibernating. And the event didn’t end up taking that long. Plus, like I already said, we were hidden underneath a canoe.

But the fact that I lost it in a waterproof sleeping bag on top of a patch of frozen dirt with Benjamin
Easter is something that I’m still coming to terms with.

I can’t believe it. Even though I’ve had several days to process the event. I let a boy see me completely naked, and by this I mean braless and without my underpants. I let a boy I’d known for less than four months bear witness to the fact that my right breast was slightly smaller than my left one. And would I do it again?

We did do it again. After the canoe, in the days that followed, we did it two more times. I remember them well. Honestly, I remember them
very
well. Each moment is etched into my mind like a petroglyph. After the third and final time, I watched as he rolled his body away from mine. With my ring finger, I tussled his curly brown hair. Then, I fell asleep. When I woke up, Ben was dressed again, kissing me good-bye. I find myself returning to this moment often. Like it’s frozen in time. Sadly, you can’t actually freeze time.

Last night, Ben told me, “You’re acting outrageous.” He said this while inserting a wooden spoon into the elbow-end of my plaster cast. He was trying to rescue the hamster. The hamster had been my idea. I’d just bought it for him. I wanted him to take it to college and always think of me, his broken-armed first love.
But the rodent had weaseled its way into my cast. I hadn’t realized that hamsters were equipt with burrowing instincts. I also had no idea how to make a boy stay in love with me. Hence, the pet hamster.

It’s been hours since I’ve talked to Ben. Since the hamster episode. And the argument that followed the hamster episode. That night Ben told me to stop calling him. He was serious. I told him to have a happy New Year. And he hung up on me. The boy I’d lost it with in a sleeping bag in the frozen dirt had left me with nothing but a dial tone.

I swear, the day I woke up and started my junior year of high school, Benjamin Easter wasn’t even on my radar. I didn’t know a thing about leukemia. And because I was raised by deeply conservative people, who wouldn’t let me wear mascara or attend sex education classes at Rocky Mountain High School, I wasn’t even aware that I had a hymen or that having sex would break it.

Actually, in the spirit of full disclosure and total honesty, I should mention that my parents only became born again rather recently, at about the time I hit puberty, following a serious grease fire in the kitchen. Before that, they only ventured to church on major holidays. Hence, my life became much more
restricted and we gave up eating deep-fried foods.