Life After Theft (6 page)

Another ten minutes of small talk flowed around me. It wasn’t that they talked about things that weren’t interesting—local indie concerts, who was hooking up or breaking up, which teachers were the lamest—it’s just that I didn’t know enough about anything to join in.

When there was a lull, I worked up the nerve to turn to Sera and ask, “So, you heard about the party this weekend?”

She looked over at me, but said nothing.

“Harrison Hill?” I added nervously, hoping Kimberlee—not to mention Langdon and his friends—hadn’t fed me a total line about it being the place to be.

“Yeeeeaaaah,” she said, drawing out the word. “I did hear something about that.”

“I was kinda thinking maybe I’d see you there.”

“I don’t do keggers,” she said, her smile tightening. “Not my thing.”

“You’re not going?” I did
not
have a backup plan for that.

“Sera doesn’t do the partying scene,” Wilson piped in “helpfully.”

“How come?” I asked.

Sera shrugged. “I’m in the middle of competition season for cheer. The last thing I need is to get wasted on the weekends.”

“You don’t
have
to drink.”
You could, say, make out with me instead
. But I had a feeling it wasn’t in my best interest to say that out loud.

“Trust me, the parties are only fun if you’re drunk,” she said.

I laughed but she didn’t look amused.

“I’m going,” Brynley said, looking up at me.

“Me too,” Hampton added.

I pulled out one more piece of ammunition. “I’m going with Langdon,” I said, hoping he actually was as cool as Kimberlee made him sound.

“Langdon?” Sera said, though not in quite the same tone of voice I had said it.

“And Neil,” I added, not so confident in my invite anymore.

She looked like she wanted to say something, and then changed her mind and took a bite instead. “Maybe I
should
drop by,” she said after swallowing.

“Nice job, bro,” Wilson said softly, nudging my shoulder. “She hasn’t gone to one of these things since freshman year.” He whispered
freshman year
like it was a secret. As though being a freshman was some kind of embarrassing option.

The guys around me chuckled nervously, but I was lost.

After a few seconds Sera smiled awkwardly and grabbed the edges of her tray. “I better—”

“Are you going to bring your boyfriend?” I asked, totally cutting her off. Yes, I am a desperate loser.

Everyone at the table fell silent.

“Do you have news for us?” the
other
Jewel said, leaning forward on her elbows with her eyes glinting.

“No,” Sera said flatly.

No?

No!

“What about that Mikhail guy?” I hedged.

Sera raised an eyebrow and looked at me in confusion. “Khail?”

“Yeah, the, uh . . . wrestler?” Everyone was looking at
me
now, and I wanted to disappear—melt right through the floor like Kimberlee could. Then, almost as one, they started laughing. Not social, polite laughing; serious you-got-
Punk’d
laughing.

And I had no clue why.

I must have started to look pitiful because Sera finally let me off the hook. “Khail’s my brother. We’re very close. But not
that
close,” she added sarcastically.

My candle of hope instantly relit. No, “candle” is far too tame; this was a torch, a bonfire, a shock-and-awe
explosion
of hope.

Kimberlee was dead meat.

KIMBERLEE DIDN’T SHOW UP
again until after school, when she fell into step with me in the hallway—as if nothing had happened. “Are we going now?”

“You are in so much trouble,” I said quietly.

“What are you talking about?” she asked at full volume. I think she enjoyed being able to talk loud when I couldn’t.

I burst through the front doors into the crisp January air. A little chilly, but mostly a perfect, sunny day. Like pretty much every day in Santa Monica. I stayed silent until I let myself into my car and Kimberlee slid into the passenger seat.

“Open the top,” Kimberlee said. “It’s, like, sacrilege to keep the top up on a day like this.”

“Not till I’m finished,” I said.

“What’s your problem?”

“Sera and Mikhail?”

“What about them?”

She had so much nerve. “Sera and Mikhail
Hewitt
. I’ll give you a hint. They’re not married.”

She at least had the courtesy to look slightly abashed.
Very
slightly. “So?”

I glared at her.

“Okay, fine, I should have told you. Big deal.”

The glaring continued.

“What do you want me to do?” Kimberlee said, not apologetic in the least. “Are you gonna pop the top or what?”

“Not today,” I grumbled.

Kimberlee rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break. I just forgot.”

“You really expect me to believe you just
forgot
he was Sera’s brother?”

“Fine, I didn’t forget. But come on, it was
funny
! You should have seen the look on your face. Priceless.”

“You don’t understand. I like this girl, Kimberlee.” Like, a lot. Weirdly a lot.

“All the more reason for me to warn you off her. Really, Jeff, she’s totally untouchable.”

“What the hell does that mean? First you say she’s a slut, then you let me think she’s dating her brother, now she’s
untouchable
?”

“You may be ready to hand her your heart on a silver platter, but she won’t give it back. She’s cold.”

“Even if that did make any sense, why should I believe you? You lie as often as you tell the truth. More often, really,” I added, realizing the truth of it even as I said it.

“Well, believe me this time. She’s not the innocent angel she appears to be.”

“And you
are
?”

“You’re not getting involved with me, are you?” She raised her eyebrows. “Though you seem like the kind of guy who would try, if he could.”

I swear she had one more button done up last time I looked over.

“I’m at least as hot as she is. And my boobs are way bigger.” Another button was mysteriously gone.

I focused on the road and didn’t look again. “And fake, probably.”

“Hey, they don’t feel fake when you got ’em in your hands.”

I almost swerved off the road. “Are you serious?” My eyes involuntarily returned to her chest; they didn’t
look
fake.

Kimberlee smiled victoriously and rebuttoned her blouse.

I turned to face the road again, feeling like a total schmuck. She knew just how to play me and I fell right into it. Kimberlee, one—Jeff, zero.

Even though this was my second trip to the cave, I still felt like a trespasser. But at least I climbed the wall faster.

Sadly, the scenery hadn’t changed.

If not for the rough, rocky walls and floor, it could have been an office storage room. Lidded file-sized boxes were lined up in rows with one wide aisle down the middle and an odd code of numbers and letters I didn’t understand written in black Sharpie on each box. Off to the side was a stack of still-flat boxes in plastic wrapping, and I could imagine alive-Kimberlee buying—or, more likely, stealing—them in anticipation of more pilfered items.

It was kind of sick, really.

“I don’t get you,” I admitted as we sorted through boxes. Well,
I
sorted and she directed. Unfortunate drawback to working with ghosts: Only one of you can actually work. Luckily, Kimberlee was happily interpreting her weird code on the boxes, and the bags inside were neatly labeled with names and dates.

“Jeez, it’s not that hard,” Kimberlee said. “This number means—”

“Not your code,” I said, pulling another box down. “
You
. I’ve seen your house—you’re obviously super-rich. And I get that whole thrill-seeking thing behind shoplifting, but
this
?” I asked, beckoning at the mass of boxes. “This is something else. Why?”

Kimberlee shook her head, looking down at the floor of the cave. “I don’t know,” she said sheepishly. “I just . . . couldn’t help myself.”

“But you have everything you stole just hidden in here. You didn’t use any of this stuff.”

“That wasn’t the point,” Kimberlee said, her tone brittle. “Besides, that kind of stuff gets you caught. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were.” I totally didn’t
say
it. “So . . . you never got caught? Even after all of this?”

“There were a couple of close calls.”

“And people just—what?—didn’t notice?”

Now a sly smile crossed her face. “Oh, they noticed, all right.”

That
did not sound good. “What does that mean?”

“There was a . . .
bit
. . . of a theft scandal at Whitestone for, um, several months before I died,” Kimberlee said, avoiding my eyes. “Things . . . things were pretty bad, and I was taking a lot of stuff.”

Great. Just great
.

“Principal Hennigan got complaints from students, teachers, parents, you name it. He was obsessed with catching the culprit. He kept trying to get the cops to come out and, like, send someone undercover—he is so lame—but obviously things eventually stopped disappearing and everyone moved on with their lives.”

“And no one realized the stuff stopped going missing when you
died
?” I asked skeptically.

“People never see what they don’t want to see,” Kimberlee said, looking out at the ocean. Anywhere but at me.

“But when this stuff starts coming back people are going to realize it’s the stuff that got stolen before, right?” Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

“Maybe,” Kimberlee said quietly.

“Maybe? I don’t think there’s any
maybe
about it, unless the entire school is much less intelligent than the brochures say. Returning this stuff wasn’t supposed to draw attention—it was supposed to be subtle.” I had no idea when I agreed to this that it was so . . . big.

“It
can
be subtle,” Kimberlee said, clearly attempting to sound optimistic.

“I have serious doubts,” I said dryly. “Especially considering we’ve got three boxes of stuff just from the teachers.”

“I’m trying to make amends,” Kimberlee said, irritation creeping into her voice. “My entire future—whatever that consists of—is resting on this. What do you want me to do?”

And as I stood there looking over box after box of stolen stuff, I realized I had no idea how to answer that question.

“So,” Kimberlee said, sounding strangely detached. “Do you want to give stuff back to people first or take stuff back to stores?”

I closed my eyes and sighed. I must have been insane when I agreed to this. “Let’s try people first.”

“Okay. Box numero uno. Miss
Serafina
,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

Ah yes, Sera
, I thought and smiled, remembering all over again that she was single. Until I realized that if Kimberlee had a bag for Sera, there was something in there she’d stolen. “What did you take from her?” I demanded.

She rolled her eyes. “Go look.”

I grumbled under my breath as I looked through the bags until I found the ones marked with Sera’s name. A cheer skirt and shoes. They looked brand-new, but Kimberlee had been dead for over a year. “When did you take these?”

Silence.

“Kimberlee?”

“The date’s on the bag, okay?”

Of course it was. How could I expect anything different from Miss OCD Klepto? “When she was a freshman?” I said, counting backward.

Kimberlee poked her head out from the boxes. The
middle
of the boxes. I was never going to get used to that. “She was the first freshman at Whitestone to make the varsity squad.”

“So you thought you’d take some of her excitement away? That’s real nice.”

“Shut up. I didn’t ask for commentary.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded angry or hurt.

“Well, she’s a really awesome girl.”
And hot. So very, very hot
.

“Says who? You’ve known her for what, a day?”

“Yeah, but she was nice to me without even knowing who I was. Nicer than anyone else I’ve met here so far,” I added in a grumble.

“Hey, I
totally
talked to you,” Kimberlee argued.

“I said
nice
.” I stuffed the cheer gear into my backpack. “I have room for some more; who else?”

I managed to gather bags for half a dozen of the kids Sera had introduced me to at lunch before my backpack started to look like that blueberry girl in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
. The pile of boxes didn’t look any smaller. If anything, it looked
bigger
.

“Day one,” I muttered.

My mom was constantly telling me that getting started on any project is the hardest part. I hoped she was right and that the worst was now behind me. On both the Kimberlee front
and
the Sera front.

When did my life become a soap opera?

I got the idea when I spotted a printing shop as I was driving home, trying to ignore Kimberlee belting rather off-tune to the radio beside me.

“What are you doing here?” Kimberlee asked, looking up at the nondescript shop.

“We.”

“Huh?”

“What are
we
doing here. You have to help.”

“Help what?”

“You’ll see.”

I pushed open the poster-laden front door and something chimed the first few notes of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” A man in a button-up sweater poked his head out a doorway at the back of the store. “I’ll be right with you,” he chirped.

“No hurry,” I called as I turned to a display of stickers and labels.

Kimberlee huffed beside me—and not too quietly. “Shh,” I hissed at her.

“Why? It’s not like Mr. Rogers back there can hear me.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stickers.

After I had browsed for a few minutes, the clerk took his place at the register. “What can I do for you?” he asked, sliding his order pad in front of him.

“You do all these custom, right?”

“Of course.”

“When could you have them ready for me?”

“If you use one of our designs and just add words, I can print them for you in about an hour. Send-out takes five business days.”