Crimes of the Sarahs (6 page)

“Yes,” I say. “Are you calling about the freewrites? Structurally, I know mine could’ve been stronger. Also, the content. That could’ve been better, too.”

“Freewrites?” Sarah A asks me. “You’re still hung up about the freewrites?”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you since the freewrites,” I say. “It’s been a whole week.”

“Okay. About that. I’m not saying that you’re not a Sarah anymore, but your freewrite totally sucked,” Sarah A says.

“I agree,” I say.

“But they all sucked in their own ways. I don’t think that it’s fair to bounce anybody because of their lame paragraphs,” Sarah A says.

“Sarah C wrote a lame paragraph, too?” I ask.

I’d assumed hers would be an engrossing read.

“Hers was okay. It was a metaphor about life. About how we’re all walking down this hallway and there are all these doors that we have to either walk through or past. It was thought-provoking. Probably the best one.”

“Better than yours?” I ask.

“Hers was a really deep analogy. You could tell that she’s put a lot of thought into it,” Sarah A says. “Plus, it was nice not being compared to a wildebeest.”

“I know. That was a complete misstep on my part,” I say. “But back to Sarah C’s freewrite. How does comparing life to a hallway answer the question, ‘What can you do for the Sarahs?’”

“Sarah C talked about always supporting our door choices. And her willingness to go first when any of us felt a door looked too freaky to open,” Sarah A says.

“I see,” I say.

“Anyway, we’re going to do something else,” Sarah A says.

“What?” I ask.

“I haven’t figured it out,” Sarah A says. “But once I do, I’ll call you.”

“Should I come and drive you guys to the shelter tonight? I can throw some pants on and be there in five minutes,” I say.

“You’re not wearing pants? It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” Sarah A says.

I don’t say anything. I really wish I hadn’t mentioned my pantless state.

“Sarah C is going to drive us. It’s probably best if you don’t come. I’ve explained your absence at the shelter so thoroughly that if you showed up tonight it would look suspicious,” Sarah A says.

“Oh,” I say.

This is very depressing. First, I don’t want anybody to think that I have a serious disease or anything. Second, being Sarah A’s ride is part of my niche. I’m the taxi driver. I ferry us around in my lemon-yellow Volkswagen. And we have a good time. Sometimes we sing. It’s the way it’s always been. I never knew Sarah C was such an traitor. First, she stole my hallway metaphor. And now she’s taken my niche. She’s a much better thief than I realized.

“Enjoy your evening without pants,” Sarah A says. “You won’t be missing much. After the shelter, we’re calling it an early night.”

The dial tone is such a sad sound.

I know I can’t call the supervisor at the shelter, because it would mess up Sarah A’s lie. But I wish I could. He’s nice. “Call me Kevin,” he always says. But I don’t. I call him Mr. King. I think he’s almost as old as my parents. Out of respect, all of the Sarahs call him Mr. King. We’re actually hoping that he’ll write us glowing letters of recommendation for college. What looks
better to an admission’s board than teens helping unwanted animals? At least that’s why Sarah A does it. As for me, I don’t mind helping the animals. They seem to appreciate it.

I better just blow off another shift.

I close my eyes. Sitting here in my own personal darkness, all I can do is think about the Sarahs. I like volunteering with them. We’re not old enough to touch the dogs. We’re in charge of cleaning cages and weighing food and filling water dishes and processing the donated supplies. We’re assigned other low-rung duties too. Sometimes we file. Sometimes we hold on to animals by their leashes when a supervisor is standing right there. On adoption night, we try to lure the kindest-looking people toward the animals that have been there the longest. Sarah A is the best at this. She hates seeing people head straight for the puppies. She’s come up with great slogans for the older dogs. Some of them are even partially true.

“Give her some love and she’ll give you her life.”

“This dog has worked in several situation comedies.”

“Her pee is weak and won’t kill your lawn.”

“This one cured her own foot tumor.”

Sarah A usually refers to the dogs as girls, even when they’re clearly males. She says that people prefer female pets. I think something deeper might be going on there.

I wonder how many will find homes tonight? I wonder how many new ones arrived throughout the week?

At the shelter, there are cages outside so people can leave animals all through the night. I think it’s awful that during the cover of darkness people anonymously dump their pets. But it happens. Maybe after the shift, Sarah A will think of what she wants us to do next and call me and invite me over. After three shifts without me, Sarah A has got to feel the void.

Time ticks by. My mother is digging around in her closet. I can hear her. She sounds like a gerbil running in a wheel. That’s actually not a rude comparison. My mother is very active. She’s a professional closet organizer. She says that your closet is a reflection of your soul. She says that a lot. She also totally overvalues the shoe rack. It’s annoying.

“Sarah, have you seen the extension cord?” she asks.

She enters my bedroom wearing her traditional cleaning outfit: sweatpants, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Her dark hair is pulled back with a red bandanna. This touch makes her look somewhat prepared for either aerobics or combat.

“The orange one?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“I haven’t,” I say.

She exhales loudly and walks to my bedside.

“Do you have a bug?” she asks.

“Like the flu?” I ask.

She nods.

“No,” I say.

“For a healthy person, you’re spending a lot of time in bed,” she says.

“I’m soaking up the summer,” I say.

“Without any pants, I see.”

I look down at my bare legs. I’m not sure why I haven’t put pants on today. It just didn’t happen.

“Maybe I should go shopping,” I say.

“For pants?”

“And maybe some capris,” I say.

“Have you and the Sarahs had a falling out?” she asks.

She sits down beside me and places her hand on my calf. She doesn’t realize that “the Sarahs” is the formal name for our clique. It’s just easier for her to call them that than to refer to them as Sarah Aberdeen, Sarah Babbitt, and Sarah Cody.

“No. We’re good,” I say. “Busy. But good.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“This is busy?” she asks.

She can tell that I’m lying, but she doesn’t press me on it.

“You might think about picking up some dress pants,” she says.

She knows better than to suggest that I buy a skirt. I’m not a dressy girl. Amongst the Sarahs, I’m the least fashion-literate. My mother dresses better than I do. And I’m okay with this.

“I want to buy jeans,” I say.

“You own a lot of jeans,” my mother says. “Maybe you should purge a little.”

“Purge?” I ask.

“Throw out some of your old jeans. Look through your closet and ask yourself, ‘Have I worn you this year?’ If the answer is no, you should donate it.”

“You want me to talk to my clothes?” I ask. I reach down to the floor and pick up a pair of crumpled jeans. “Have I worn you this year?” I ask it. I lower the zipper and raise it quickly, like it’s a mouth. “Yes, you have, Sarah, I’m your favorite pants.”

“There’s no need to mock me. I’m giving you good ideas,” she says.

She gets up and walks out of my room. When she returns, she’s holding an empty box.

“Put your purged items in here,” she says. “Doing something for others will probably buoy your spirits. At heart, you’re a real giver.”

“Thanks,” I say.

If my mother understood how ironic that statement was, she would have to laugh at it. I can’t think of any bigger “taker” in life than a criminal. I glance at my closet. My disinterest in clothes is a disappointment to her. Recently, she told me that my closet had left the world of “teen casual” and entered a
realm of “articles of clothing one might find in smoldering piles after a nuclear war.”

After purging eight pairs of jeans that I have not worn in at least two years, and several tops that I can’t quite remember buying, (but am certain I didn’t steal, because I always remember what I steal), and napping on my pleasantly cool but rock-hard concrete floor, I crawl back to my bed. If Sarah A was telling me the truth about having an early night, then the Sarahs should all be back home now. Or maybe they’ve decided to move on without me, but Sarah A didn’t want to tell me. Maybe I should drive past all the Sarahs’ homes and see if I can spot them gathered together. No, they’ll recognize my Volkswagen. It’s impossible to execute a drive-by in my vehicle. Everybody notices a lemon-yellow car.

What should I do? I pick up Sue Grafton’s novel
B Is for Burglar
. Maybe I need to read. No. I’m too stressed-out. My vision is blurred. Can being extremely passive cause a brain aneurysm? Is it time for me to finally start acting a little alpha? I pick up the phone. I’ve put this off long enough. I need to sort this out. So I dial my brother. I’m not calling Liam for counsel, because that would be a waste of time. Just like my parents, Liam doesn’t get the Sarahs either.

I call him in California in the hope that he can be persuaded to call Sarah B for me. I need to find out if the other Sarahs
are there. They could be singing. Or smelling their pillows. Or planning future crimes. Wait. They could be launching into the next leg of the guy phase without me. All of the sudden, things feel very life or death. I don’t bother easing into the conversation by asking Liam questions about himself or his classes. I get to what matters.

“Liam, I need you to call Sarah Babbitt immediately,” I say.

“Why don’t you call her?” he asks.

“What do you mean? I don’t want to talk to her,” I say.

“I don’t want to talk to her either,” he says.

“Just ask to speak to Sarah Cody.”

“I thought you wanted me to call Sarah Babbitt.”

“I do. I want to know if Sarah Cody is at Sarah Babbitt’s.”

There’s a pause. I can hear him chewing gum.

“What if Sarah Cody answers Sarah Babbitt’s phone?”

“Just hang up. They have caller ID, but they won’t recognize your number.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“I’m in college now, Sarah. This is beneath me.”

“But you’re my brother.”

There’s a long silence. I worry that he’s hung up the phone on me. Then I hear more gum-smacking.

“I’m not going to do this. You’re acting like you’re in junior high.”

“I’ll give you something,” I say.

“I don’t want your money.”

“It’s way better than money.”

“I’m listening,” he says.

“I’ll read that bingo book you’ve been harassing me about.”

“
The Bingo Palace
by Louise Erdrich?”

“That’s the one,” I say.

“Don’t read it for me. Read it for yourself.”

“I could care less about bingo,” I say.

“It’s not a book about bingo.”

“Then it’s a very misleading title.”

“Sarah, you know Erdrich is one of my favorite Native American writers. You need to get past all your Sarah Aberdeen and Sarah Babbitt and Sarah Cody issues.”

“I don’t have issues,” I say.

“You are an issue,” he says.

“Liam, if you don’t call Sarah Babbitt and ask to speak to Sarah Cody, I’ll tell Mom and Dad about that thing that you don’t want me to tell them.”

“What thing?” he asks.

This is a tactic that I picked up from Sarah A. I don’t really have anything to hold over Liam, but sometimes it’s possible, by using underhanded means, to trick an incriminating tidbit out of somebody.

“We both know exactly what thing I’m talking about,” I say.

“Weasel-like conduct is so unflattering,” he says.

“Squeak, squeak, frrp, frrp,” I say, trying to sound as weasel-like as possible.

“You can’t blackmail me about smoking pot forever,” he says.

I had no idea that my brother smoked pot. This is useful information in more ways than one. It’s not like there’s an expiration date for blackmailing your brother concerning cannabis use.

“Marijuana should be legal anyway,” he says.

“But it’s not. Do you need Sarah Babbitt’s number?” I ask.

“Let me get a pen.”

I tell him to call me back right away. I sit with my hand on the phone. If Sarah B is at Sarah C’s, then Sarah A lied to me and they’re moving on without me. Maybe Sarah A figured that the guy phase would be easier to accomplish without me. And Doyle. And if that’s happening, what will I do about it? How do you shoehorn your way back into your social group?

“Was she there?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

“Thank God!”

“They’re both at Sarah Aberdeen’s.”

I almost drop the phone.

“Why would they be there? Are you sure?”

“Her mom said that they were making cookies and singing and working on their applications for Michigan.”

“Michigan State?” I ask.

“No, U of M.”

“Did Mrs. Babbitt ask you who you were?” I ask. That’s a lot of information to give out over the phone.

“I said I was Don from the shelter.”

“But there isn’t a Don at the shelter,” I say.

“Duh,” he says. “Sarah, maybe you need to branch out of your current peer group and make friends with people named Bibi or Janice or Pam.”

“Yeah. Branch out,” I say.

“Don’t be bummed. That Aberdeen kid is bad news.”

“Sarah Aberdeen is not bad news. She just doesn’t deviate from her standards.”

“I meant her brother, Vance.”

“You shouldn’t judge other people. I hear that he’s on very effective medication now. He’s practically normal.”

“I’m just trying to cheer you up. Okay?”

“Liam, I killed a possum.”

“On purpose?”

“I accidentally ran it over three Sundays ago with the car. It’s still in the driveway.”

“Don’t worry. Dad’ll get to it. Sometimes animals just go splat.”

“He didn’t go splat. He went smoosh.”