Crimes of the Sarahs (7 page)

“Sarah, that’s TMI. Listen, I’m helping out with a rally this week. I’m late for the planning meeting.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t say what kind of rally, but I know it’s some sort of antiwar rally.

Liam thinks the world’s problems can all by solved by diplomatic measures like trade embargos and economic sanctions. I think that’s sort of naive. Because the world has been making tanks for at least a hundred years. Which suggests to me that armored vehicles equipped with artillery must be useful in peace negotiations. Besides, with so many wars raging in so many countries, what does marching down a street in San Francisco really accomplish?

“Go do something,” Liam says.

“I’m resting,” I say.

“I meant with your life,” he says.

He doesn’t wait for me to say good-bye. I’m just left with a dial tone again and I have to deal with it.

I can’t believe the Sarahs are making all these new strides without me. The summer is slipping by. It just doesn’t feel like I’ve earned permanent banishment. I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes. I feel delicate. Like a tulip petal. Or a blade of grass. Or a grasshopper leg. Once, our government teacher snapped a twig in two right in front of our class to demonstrate the fragility of the individual. Then he took a
group of twigs and bundled them together and tried to break them. But he couldn’t. They bent, but he couldn’t break them. I think he was lecturing on the Civil Rights movement in the sixties, and the power of civil disobedience.

After class, Sarah A said, “That’s just like us. We’re as strong as a stick bundle.”

I remember feeling so relieved, picturing myself as one of those protected inner twigs. But that’s not me anymore. I might never be a protected inner twig again. I’m a lone vulnerable stick. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. There’s no denying it, the Sarahs mean a lot more to me than I ever realized. I’ll do anything to get back in with them. Anything.

Chapter 5

After a good night’s sleep, I start out my Thursday somewhat determined to rob a bank. Okay. I don’t think I can execute such a high-stakes heist by myself. But I can complete a dry run in which I take copious notes, detailing each difficult and deliberate step. Clearly, said notes will be a surefire way to impress the Sarahs. Not only will it speak to my criminal mind, but it will also address my level of commitment. And emphasize my potential. The plan is so fabulous that my skin intermittently goose pimples as I wash my face and brush my teeth.

For this idea to be a complete success, I need the dry run to be as realistic as possible. I’ve got to move forward as if I’m literally prepared to hold up a bank. This includes arming myself. We are not a gun-equipped household, so my options are limited. My dad keeps a baseball bat near the front door. But I need a weapon that can fit in my pocket. I dig through my sock drawer. I find a golf ball. A pack of gum. A very old wristwatch. Lots of nickels. Socks. A thermometer. A pocketknife! Perfect.
I knew it was in there somewhere. I shove it in my left jeans pocket. Then I grab a pair of my mother’s panty hose to stick over my head. I’ve seen enough movies to know that a mask is essential. Then, I draft a note. I keep it simple: I want one hundred thousand dollars in small bills—immediately. I shove it deep inside my front right jeans pocket, along with my “borrowed” mask, and walk into the kitchen.

“I made French toast,” my mother says.

Her brown hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail. With cheeks blushed and eyelashes curled, she’s ready to go somewhere. Her coral lips are glossed to glasslike perfection. But she’s not the kind of mother who overdoes her makeup and leaves the house looking heavily spackled. Her primp job is usually both lovely and respectable. I’m surprised that she made French toast. Due to our kitchen’s galley construction and malfunctioning oven, my mother hasn’t been clocking much culinary time. I glance at her version of French toast. It’s considerably lacking on the French part. Basically, it’s browned bread. It’s from a box. And she cooked it in the toaster. Not the toaster oven. Just the toaster.

“All I want is a banana,” I say.

She reaches for the banana hook and pulls off a slightly green, medium-ripe one for me.

“What are your plans for the day?” she asks.

I shrug my shoulders. She only asks me that question as a
courtesy. She never presses for a detailed answer. She eagerly surrenders the banana.

“Good thing you drove me to my meeting last week. I got the job! I’ll be organizing Dr. Pewter’s closets. Her entire condo is a rattrap. I won’t be back until dinner.”

“Does she have actual rats?” I ask.

My mother squeezes her eyes closed and sticks out her tongue in disgust.

“She might. I don’t know what it is about academics. On the one hand, they make excellent
Jeopardy
contestants. On the other hand, they live in bestial filth.”

“What’s her specialty?”

“
Beowulf
.”

“Devoting your whole life to the study of Grendel and his mother, doesn’t that say it all?” I ask.

“You’re so smart. You’re ready for college right now.”

“Or culinary school,” I say. I’m not totally serious when I say this, but sometimes I think it would be fun to be a pastry chef. I’m a huge fan of icing.

“Sarah, sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways. And when a group of anonymous donors appears out of nowhere and they offer to cover all four years of college for every Kalamazoo high school student, I think it’s a sign that the universe wants you to go to college and not culinary school.”

I shrug. My mother is talking about the Kalamazoo Promise.
Last year, a group of superrich people who live in the area, but wish to remain unnamed, donated a quarter of a billion dollars to establish the Kalamazoo Promise. So now, if you’re enrolled in Kalamazoo Central High School or Loy Norrix, you get four free years of college anywhere in the state of Michigan. The secret rich people will pay your tuition for you. It’s automatic. You just get it. For, like, the next thirteen years.

People in Kalamazoo are still sort of shocked about it. When it happened, the Sarahs all decided to apply to the University of Michigan. By far, it’s the best school in the state. And it’s expensive too. Some people consider it Ivy League.

“I’m not really planning to go to culinary school,” I say.

I smile. And bite off the head of my banana. My mother unties her apron and folds it into a square. She pats it and winks at me. That’s her way of saying she wants me to take care of the kitchen mess, though the counter is basically spotless. I nod. She must think that she’s running behind. She is very type A. I think if she had to show up late to something, she’d spontaneously combust. She grabs her infamous and enormous black shoulder bag and races out the door.

“Dinner at seven. We’re barbecuing franks and the Crock-Pot is stuffed with beans.”

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

Her hand is on the doorknob. She releases it and flips around. This is sort of surprising. I mean, I never tell her anything.

“What?”

I clear my throat.

“I killed a possum.”

“I saw. Your father will take care of it. Eventually.”

I watch her perfect perky body walk out the door. It might be true that I am a smaller, high school version of my mother, but I’m also pudgier. How did I get the plump gene? How can she eat barbecued franks and indulge in a mountain of beans and not gain weight? I reach deep into my pocket and rub the note between my thumb and finger. It’s such a stupid idea. I really should bag it.

Instead, I finish my banana, clean up the kitchen, and drive to the Educational Community Credit Union four times. Each time takes me anywhere between seven and nine minutes. The traffic light on Stadium is a killer. Not only is it long, but lots of other cars run it. I write this down in my notebook. Then I stuff it underneath the seat.

Sitting inside my car in the bank’s parking lot, I start to sweat. Huge drops roll down my back. It’s not just the stress; I’m sitting in the sun. I pull out the notebook. I write:

Consider robbing the bank in spring or fall, as I would not want to put panty hose on my head in bone-crushing heat.

Then I stow the book away again.

I roll my window down and take a deep breath. I watch
a girl clomp up the sidewalk in a pair of flip-flops. She’s holding a blue Popsicle. She licks at the juice between her fingers. I close my eyes. That kid looks way too innocent. Like she belongs in a pudding commercial. I open my eyes and watch her go inside the bank. I’ll wait until after she leaves to case the place. I have a heart. It feels creepy to plot a criminal act in front of a Popsicle-sucking child. I close my eyes again. Even inside my car, it smells like summer and cut grass.

When I was five we moved to Kalamazoo. We came here via Livingston, Wyoming. I vaguely remember that place. A bear knocked over our trash can once. Also, I think a deer got trapped in our garage and dented my mother’s van. I guess it’s true that the West is still wild. After we arrived in the Midwest, my parents assumed Liam and I would make friends with everybody we met. For Liam, that was true. For me, I endured nearly four friendless years. If you arrive on the scene in kindergarten and pee yourself during snack time, it greatly limits your ability to mingle amongst your peer group and build lasting connections. The pants-wetter stigma ascended with me into grade school and beyond.

It was in fourth grade that I met Sarah Aberdeen. I felt like she saved me. I mean, because she literally saved me from being hit by a van. The crossing guard was escorting a group across Broadway. I wanted to cross Winchell. I looked to my
left and then went. Then I heard this horn honking. And I felt Sarah A yank me by my collar back onto the sidewalk. Then my life continued. And I became a Sarah. I felt like I couldn’t thank her enough. It felt like she’d been sent right to me at that exact intersection. Maybe she’ll show up again.

I watch the overly blonde girl leave the bank. The Popsicle is gone. She’s sucking on a lollipop. Don’t they teach kids about tooth decay in elementary school anymore?

Before I go into the bank, I pop my trunk. This is where the stolen money will go. I’ve heard about the dye-packed money that bank tellers give to robbers. The dye explodes and stains the bills so that the money becomes marked and worthless. I bet if we rob this bank, we’ll get a dye-pack. What a waste. Who’d want to risk robbing a bank only to end up with crappy, unusable cash?

To avoid this fate, the Sarahs should separate the stacks of bills into coolers. My trunk can easily hold four small coolers. We’ll divide the money and stuff it in the coolers. We’ll have to be quick about it, but we’ll have time. One of the backseat Sarahs will make sure that the lids are on tight. Then we’ll drive off. Even if one explodes, the other three coolers will be fine.

After we get away, we’ll bury the contaminated cooler in the ground somewhere. Holy shit. This idea is so good that I feel like I must be channeling Bonnie and Clyde. In fact, it’s so fantastic, I don’t even need to take a minute to write
it down, because it’s not going anywhere. I’m in love with my innovative cooler-strategy. As I walk to the bank, I’m so proud of myself that I can’t stop smiling.

I enter the building and stand in the corner by a staged beach scene meant to entice customers into taking out a home equity line of credit in order to travel to tropical places like Bermuda and Hawaii. They’ve trucked in actual sand and propped up a surfboard. A deflating, lopsided beach ball has rolled off to the side. I kick it toward the corner. It ricochets off a post and comes back to me. I pick it up. As I hold the bright red ball and scope out the bank, it’s clear to me that I should have brought my notebook with me.

There’s a lot of things to keep track of. First, the number and location of all cameras I’ve passed to get to this point. Second, the exact distance from the parking lot to the front door, and from the front door to the tellers. Third, the basic layout of the bank. Fourth, the fifty or more other things that require consideration before committing armed robbery that are to me, like most teenagers, unknown.

I back up against a window. I should read a book about bank robbing before executing a dry run. And even though it’s tempting, I should not Google this information because the police are totally allowed to search your computer. And I’ve heard of situations where your computer is used as a character witness against you in court.

I reach into my pocket and feel my mask and the note. I reach into my other pocket and touch the pocketknife. That’s when I realize how tight my jeans are. Am I bloated? I can’t believe I didn’t notice how obvious the bulging outline of the knife was before I left my house. I might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says
I AM CARRYING A POTENTIALLY LETHAL BLADE
. Is it illegal to enter a bank armed with a weapon and a threatening note?

I look around. Everywhere I look I see the glassy eye of a camera. And really friendly-looking tellers. And toddlers. And a long, snaking line. And a deputy sheriff. I need to get out of here.

I know Sarah A hopes that one day we’ll become a band of female bank robbers, crisscrossing the country while stuffing our Escalade with bags of money, and I hope that my cooler-strategy will take us one step closer, but I’m not the kind of person who can single-handedly complete a dry run in preparation to rob a bank. The scenario makes me feel too fragile. And freaked out. In fact, as I stand here like a conspicuous and sweaty hog, I’m surprised anybody has ever been able to successfully rob a bank.

I’m done. But before I leave, I throw the beach ball back into the tropical scene. Sadly, the ball bounces against the surfboard making it slam to the ground. I had no idea surfboards weighed so much. Everybody in the whole bank turns to look at the source of the crash. Then they look at me.

“It got away from me,” I say, holding my palms up to let them know that I don’t mean any harm. Then I lower my left hand to conceal the pocketknife bulge. Maybe it could be mistaken for a tampon. Or a roll of quarters.