Trinkets (12 page)

After the movie, Shawn makes one of her efforts to lead a productive discussion.

“We spoke about ‘relief mechanisms,’ right? Well, the problem with alleviating your issue with kleptomania is that then it just needs to be activated again and again. So you have to sort out what’s
causing
your behavior in order to not need the behavior.”

Why does everything Shawn says sound like Latin? I wish it didn’t, because maybe I’d learn something.

“Yes, Gina?”

“I started smoking. Do you think that’s a good relief mechanism?” Gina asks.

“I need a relief mechanism to get me away from Gina,” Moe whispers.

I try not to laugh because Gina kind of reminds me of my mom in some weird way. Failed hopes and dreams and all that. She makes me a little sad.

“Okay, well, you have to be careful to not replace one addiction with another, but if you keep working on yourself and being honest about your issues, then you’re already heading in the right direction,” Shawn says. I’ve got to hand it to her: The woman can attempt to turn any inquiry into a Positive Learning Experience.

After class, I meet Elodie and Moe at the Pepsi machine in the hall.

“Dude, Gina’s gonna end up on crack before this is over,” Moe says.

“You think?” Elodie asks, worried.

“What else is there for her to do?” Moe says, taking a
big swig of her soda. “Does anyone else think Mountain Dew is poisonous? I mean, it looks like cat pee.”

“Maybe you should give some to Gina,” Elodie offers just as Shawn walks up.

“Hey, girls,” she says, all smiles.

We all kind of mutter hello, and she says, “I think it’s great you guys are forming support for one another. It’s a really important part of the work.”

“Super,” Moe says, mocking her with a placid smile on her face. Elodie looks like she’s about to start laughing, and Shawn frowns. The last thing in the world I want is to have to take this whole program over again just because of Moe, so I jump in.

“I had to deal with my dad’s addiction for a while,” I say, “so I agree about the whole support-system thing.”

“Really?” Shawn looks intrigued.

I nod. “Definitely.”

“Well, thank you for sharing that.” She touches my elbow with compassion, looking highly pleased with this breakthrough. She gives us all a supportive nod and walks off down the hall, the fringe on her beaded vest jangling jauntily.

Elodie looks at me, curious.

“What’s your dad addicted to?”

I think for a second. “Uh, vaginas?”

“Jesus!” Moe coughs on her Mountain Dew.

“You can’t be addicted to that,” Elodie says. “Can you?”

“Dude, they have, like, Love and Sex Addicts Anonymous down the hall,” Moe says. “So obviously you can.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s in Screw Whoever He Wants All the Time Anonymous,” I say.

“So your parents are divorced?” Elodie asks tentatively.

“Nope. Happily married, according to my mom.”

“She doesn’t know he does it?” Elodie’s confused.

“Sure she does. She just doesn’t like to admit it to herself.”

The girls stare at me for a second, and finally Moe observes, “No wonder you’re so fucked up.”

Elodie shoots a look at her. “Moe!”

“No, she’s kind of right,” I say. It feels good to come clean. Secrets have power if they’re buried in a box, so sometimes it can be good to dig them up and take them out into the open.

“You guys want to come over to my house?” Moe asks. She looks at me. “My aunt says I should invite people over more. I think she thinks I’m as fucked up as you are.”

“So, did you have fun at
Romeo and Juliet
?” Elodie asks us. We’re walking downtown past Pioneer Courthouse Square, where all kinds of people are basking in the almost sunny day. Some dude is banging on plastic tubs like they’re drums.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Moe offers. “I hope Ms. H got that guy’s number. The erect one. I feel like he could have a positive impact on her life.” She makes a hip thrusting motion, and Elodie squeals.

“Did she assign you guys to write some stupid creative memoir about your family? Or was that just our class?” I ask.

“Yeah. Annoying. What’s there to say?” Moe shrugs, taking a piece of turkey jerky out of her bag and shoving it into her mouth.

“Trust me, I’ve got plenty to say about my parents,” I say. “I just don’t want to say it in an assignment in Ms. Hoberman’s class.”

“So, have you written it?” Elodie asks us both.

“No. And I don’t plan to.”

“The only writing I can seem to do is in my journal. When I go to write a paper, it reeks,” says Moe.

“I like writing poems,” Elodie says.

“You’re a total poetry type,” Moe teases, chasing down her jerky with a chug of Red Bull and swishing it around before she adds, “Poems are dorky.”

“They are not!” Elodie looks offended. “What do you think all great songs are? Poetry.”

“No, a great song is a great song. A poem is always going to be just a poem,” Moe retorts.

“I don’t know about poems, but I read blogs,” I say. “Have you been to the one run by some girl in Chicago who’s our age?”

“Blogs by teenagers: also stupid,” Moe says.

“No, it’s good, trust me.” I don’t know why I am bothering to try to convince a person who is a known vandal about the validity of a well-known website, so I change the subject. “Let’s go get some stuff and meet back here.”

“In twenty minutes?” Elodie asks.

“What? That’s barely enough time,” whines Moe.

“Nut up,” Elodie fires back. Jesus, she’s got surprising balls. Then she blushes. “Sorry. Something my dad used to say.”

“See you then,” I say. Moe sighs and heads off in one direction, and Elodie and I go in another. If only poor Shawn knew that this particular 10 percent of the population was definitely not curbing its shoplifting tendencies but fanning their flames as much as possible.

At Moe’s house, the first thing I notice is the orange-and-blue parrot in the kitchen. The poor thing is missing so many feathers, it’s downright bald in places.

“Does that parrot have alopecia or something?” I ask.

“My aunt says it’s because Marc got him high once and he starting picking out his feathers. But I think he was just born with ADD or OCD or something,” Moe explains.

“Maybe it’s a relief mechanism,” Elodie says.