Life After Theft (8 page)

“Finally,” she grumbled as I clicked into my seat belt.

“Where’s the mall?” I asked, as I turned on my signal and headed out of our neighborhood.

“You’re kidding, right? People like us do not shop at the mall. Not for a Harrison Hill outfit.”

Well, my chances of picking out something quick and easy at Macy’s just went out the window. “Where, then?”

“Oh please; Montana Avenue, duh.”

“Huh?”

Her mouth dropped open and she gave me her best
you are an idiot
stare. “You don’t know Montana Avenue?
Everyone
knows about Montana Avenue. It’s the hottest place to shop.” She settled back in her seat. “We’ll find something fabulous there.”

The light was still red, but it was going to turn any second. “Which way?” I asked, ignoring her lecture.

“I can’t believe you don’t know this.”

“Get over it. Which way?”

The light changed and the Mercedes behind me honked.

“Which way?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel.

Kimberlee looked at me like I was a particularly gross bug, and the Mercedes honked again.

“Straight it is,” I muttered, peeling out.

“You should have gone left,” Kimberlee said with no change of expression.

I gritted my teeth and reined in my temper as I casually, slowly, thoughtfully cut off about six cars, flipping a U-turn that left an arc of black tire marks across three lanes of traffic.

I was going to have to apologize to Halle later.

Kimberlee shrieked and attempted to grab hold of something, but she ended up sprawled across my lap. Well, sprawled
inside
my lap, since she sank right through my thighs. I gasped as ice shot up my spine and I was wracked with a bone-grinding chill that almost made me let go of the wheel. After that, she quietly directed me down the Santa Monica 10 to Lincoln Boulevard. My nerves were somewhat recovered by the time we reached the outdoor strip-mallish street that looked about two miles long.

At least Kimberlee was excited. She got out of the car, straightened her shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” she said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened.

I shuffled after her.

I have to admit, Montana Avenue was impressive, though I tried to act all nonchalant. Every kind of store you could imagine lined the streets, their displays so bright it was almost hard to look at. Hundreds of people milled around, most of them looking either like dazzled tourists or runway models.

Guess which category I fit into.

We passed a store with tailored suits and colorful dress shirts hanging in the window. “Let’s go in here,” I whispered to Kimberlee. This was classic and chic, wasn’t it? Girls go for that metro look. I think.

But Kimberlee just wrinkled her nose. “SEAN? Oh please. What are you? A future MBA? No, don’t answer that; I don’t even want to know. Come on.” I took one last glance at the window before trudging after her.

“Here,” she said, surveying the front of a funkily decorated store, her hands on her hips. “This looks promising.”

I looked up at the sign. Citron. My eyes went down to the window display. I wasn’t even completely sure it was clothing. I mean, there was fabric on mannequins, but it was all drapey and covered with strange designs. Lots of snakes, flowers, and . . . Buddhas?

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“In, in!” she ordered.

Someone help me
. Pushing open the door sounded a very soft tinkle in the back and a tall, thin woman with dark brown lipstick came walking up to me with a huge smile on her face. “Welcome to Citron. Can I help you find something?”

“Tell her you’re just looking right now,” Kimberlee said, already studying the racks of clothing.

“Just looking, thanks,” I mumbled. “So what now?” I asked, flipping through the rack Kimberlee was eyeing.

She snorted. “I suggest you start by going to a stand with
men’s
clothing on it.”

“How can you tell?”

She rolled her eyes and strode to the other end of the store. I looked around, comparing the two sides. I guess there was a difference. The male side looked a little more brown. I squinted. Yeah, definitely more brown. I sighed and went over to stand next to Kimberlee.

“Hold this up,” she said, pointing to a hideous yellow button-up shirt with brownish swirls all over it.

“You’re kidding, right?”

She sent me a look full of fire and I yanked the monstrosity up to my chest. “Nope,” Kimberlee said. “Put it back.”

Thank you, universe
.

She had me hold up several more shirts—some were a little less hideous and some a little more, but none were anywhere near the range I’d have considered wearable. I held up a semisheer, long-sleeved black thing with an intricate silver design on it, and Kimberlee paused. Then she walked all around me and continued to stand in front of me and stare. I was starting to get uncomfortable when she nodded.

“Get that one.”

I looked around me. “This one?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t want me to try it on or anything?”

She laughed like that was the silliest idea in the world. “I know what size you wear. Just go buy it.”

“Fine,” I huffed.

I took the shirt to the register without looking at it again, and the saleswoman gushed that it was the newest thing from some spring lineup, or something, and then took about ten minutes folding it into an oversized paper bag with tissue paper and everything.

“Here you are,” she said with that fake smile. “That’ll be eighty-four ninety-nine.”

I turned and shot a wide-eyed look at where Kimberlee had been about two seconds before, but she had conveniently disappeared. I dug out my credit card, glad my mom had mentioned just yesterday that I should get some new clothes. Maybe she’d understand.

I was afraid of where Kimberlee might take me next, but relief washed over me as she lead me into a store called Blue Jeans Bar. This couldn’t be too bad.

And it wasn’t—until she made me buy a glittering silver belt.

“It matches the shirt,” she protested when I refused to even pick up the spangled accessory.

“So? The shirt sucks!”

“The shirt is awesome. Trust me.”

“Trust you?”

“Maybe that was the wrong phrase to use.” She paused, thinking. “Believe in my innate fashion sense that has never been wrong.”

My shoulders slumped. She
was
the one who had been to all the Harrison Hill parties before.

I picked up the belt.

“I knew you had good judgment,” she said, flouncing off toward a huge display of baggy, torn jeans.

I tried to argue about the faded and patched jeans that looked just like the ones I had at home, and even more strongly against the jean jacket she paired them with. But when it came to fashion among Santa Monica’s elite, I had nothing to go on, and though I’d never seen Kimberlee in anything but her uniform, I kind of assumed she must have been fashionable.

I refused to even look at the amount when the cashier rang me up. I could decide if it was worth it after the party.

“One more stop,” Kimberlee said, heading back up the street.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I insisted as quietly as possible. “I am not getting shoes,” I said, cutting her off.

“What?”

“I’m not getting shoes.” I pointed at the bags I was holding. “This is enough.”

“Who said anything about shoes?”

Well, that was comforting.

I followed her a few more steps into a store and stood there for several seconds before I realized I was surrounded by lingerie of every shape, size, and color I could have possibly imagined.

And several my imagination had never come up with.

The ten or so women in the store were all staring at me.

I froze for a few seconds before muttering, “Excuse me,” and fleeing the store. As soon as I was safely on the sidewalk I looked up at the sign. Lisa Normal Lingerie. Perfect. Kimberlee strikes again.

Kimberlee walked out of the store with that wide-eyed expression of innocence I was becoming sickeningly familiar with. “You won’t come in and just browse with me?” she asked. “I can’t exactly move the hangers myself.”

“You think this is about me being afraid to touch underwear?” I sputtered. Remembering that no one could see Kimberlee but me, I lowered my voice and slipped around the corner of the store. “This isn’t about the underwear. You keep doing this! Putting me in stupid or embarrassing situations and then acting like you have no idea how it happened. Well I am
not
going to go in and do you a favor after you pull that kind of crap on me. No!”

“Whatever. You just don’t want to be in a lingerie store.”

“I am not afraid of bras!” I said, knowing, even as the words escaped my mouth, that I sounded like a total moron.

Kimberlee sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll have to hope I get lucky with one of the other browsers.”

“And I’m not going to wait out here on the sidewalk for you.”

“Whatever,” she said, and strolled into the store without looking back. I just grabbed my bags and walked back toward my car. She could find her own way home.

AT NINE THIRTY THAT NIGHT
I stood in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door in an outfit that no one in their right mind would
ever
refer to as either chic or elegant.

“I look ridiculous,” I whispered to Kimberlee who had, as I suspected, made her way back just in time to direct—as she called it—my transformation.

“Please,” Kimberlee lectured. “I
led
the fashion revolution around here. When I was alive, I didn’t just wear fashions, I made them. What you ‘look’ is fabulous. Stop complaining.”

I watched my eyebrow raise in the mirror.

“This outfit accentuates your form,” Kimberlee insisted, her hand doing this funky silhouette thing. I thought it just made me look skinny.

For starters, the pants were too big; the only thing keeping them from sliding down to my ankles was that appalling sparkly belt balanced on my hip bones. The shirt was covered with the jean jacket, which was too small. It only just reached my waistline and was too slim to zip up in the front.

“It’s not for warmth,” Kimberlee protested when I pointed that out. “It’s decor.”

At least she let me wear my old scuffed Doc Martens. “They’re practically vintage,” she said, using the same word that hadn’t been good enough for my jeans and tees this morning.

I didn’t care what she called them as long as she let me wear them.

“Okay,” Kimberlee said after scrutinizing me from head to toe. “Let’s go.” She paused. “Unless you want to do some guy-liner—just a little?”

My eyes widened.
Oh hell no
.

“I didn’t think so,” she said, heading toward the door. “Come on, then; I’ll show you the shortcut.”

This was the hard part. “Uh, Kimberlee?”

“Yeah,” she said distractedly.

“Can I go by myself?”

She paused and turned to look at me. “Yourself?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

I shrugged. “I’d just be more comfortable.”

She still stared at me.

I was going to have to tell her. “I’m meeting Sera there.”
Sort of
.

Kimberlee stiffened. “She doesn’t go to the parties.”

“Well, she’s coming to this one. Listen,” I said before Kimberlee could speak. “I know you don’t like her. So I think we’d both be better off if you just didn’t hang around when I’m with her.”

She laughed, a short, condescending bark. “You think that’s going to happen very often?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But it’s going to happen tonight and I want a little privacy.”

She said nothing.

“Kim,” I said, as gently as I could.

“Kimberlee,” she corrected, but she sounded more hurt than mad.

“I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a night on my own.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Go.” She plopped down on my bed.

“Kimberlee?” I said tentatively. “You want me to . . . turn on the TV for you or something?”

“Just go,” she said, turning away.

I opened my mouth to explain further, but after the hell she’d put me through, I decided I should take the opportunity to leave and hope she wouldn’t change her mind. I put my hand on the door and was about to turn the knob when Kimberlee said, very softly, “Wait.”

I looked over at her and she seemed a little surprised that she had spoken at all. “What?” I said, not bothering to hide my exasperation.

She lowered her eyebrows for a second then said, “Be careful.”

“Yes, Mom,” I muttered under my breath.

“And stay away from Langdon,” she added in a rush.

“Langdon?” I asked, my hand tightening on the doorknob. I still hadn’t told her it was Langdon who’d actually invited me. “I thought you two were tight.”

“We were,” Kimberlee said, making me think there was much more to
this
story. “That’s how I know he’s a mean drunk.” The concern vanished from her face as she flipped her hair back. “Just stay out of his way.”

I wasn’t totally confident Kimberlee hadn’t dressed me up like a freak for revenge, so when I arrived at the bonfire I slipped very slowly out of my car and walked with my shoulders hunched forward. But to my surprise, most of the guys looked pretty much like clones of me—a few even had sparkles on their belts. By the time someone dropped a big red plastic cup of beer into my hand, I was feeling pretty confident. I looked down at the foamy amber liquid that almost reached the brim of my very large cup, and sniffed it tentatively.

Now, it’s not that I hadn’t had alcohol before. I always got some champagne at Christmas and an occasional glass of wine at dinner. But I’d never had beer. Back in Phoenix, my friends and I had been planning a big party once school was out, so it was in my future, but none of us had gotten brave enough to acquire any on our own yet.

It didn’t smell much like wine. But everyone here was gulping it down like it was liquid crack, so it couldn’t be that bad. Right?

Right.

I took a deep breath and a big mouthful. Bleh.
Swallow, just swallow
. I finally got it down and looked around at all the partiers with new eyes.
What the hell are they thinking? This is disgusting
. Maybe the second taste wouldn’t be so bad; I knew what to expect now and I hadn’t liked wine on the first taste, either. I sipped this time instead of gulping.
Hmmm, not much better. But maybe a little
. I sipped again. It needed something.
Sugar?
I tried a bit more.
Salt
, I decided, but doubted I’d find any of that here. I’d have to just sip and walk and sip and walk while waiting for Sera to show.