Trinkets (18 page)

When she drops my four pages on my desk, I see the A+ right at the top and I can’t help but feel a little proud, especially when she says, “You did a lovely job, Tabitha.” It seems like she wants to say more. Or maybe she just wants to commit me to a mental institution.

She gives back Patrick Cushman’s paper and says, “Very nice writing, Patrick.” I see the A on his, and he looks over at me and says, “I guess we’re awesome, huh?”

Then he says, “So… what do you think about going to the Spring Fling thingamajig with me?” He says “Spring Fling thingamajig” in a self-effacing way, like he’s trying to mock it, but obviously he’s serious. It shocks the shit out of me. I mean, he’s cute and nice, but Spring Fling? And then I think about how badly every relationship I’ve ever had goes. Patrick Cushman deserves better than that. He deserves to have a great time at the Spring Fling with someone who is easy and simple and not complicated.

“I wish I could,” I say. “But it’s probably too messy of a situation.”

His smile disappears. “What do you mean?” I want to say,
Even though you’re not technically my type and you’re the last person I’m supposed to go to the Fling with, I think you’re kind of awesome
. But I don’t. Instead, I shrug and say, “With Brady and everything.” He looks surprised and hurt, and I feel like a shitty person. It used to be a feeling I was semi-comfortable with. But now it makes me as itchy as that sweater I used to love all through middle school, which, for some reason, suddenly started giving me hives until finally I just had to throw it away.

I flip through the rainbow of dresses at Betsey Johnson. I don’t know why I’m here, because I’m not going to the dance with Brady or Patrick or anyone else. All I know is I’m on a weird kind of autopilot. I may look like any other customer on the outside, but inside I’m dangerous. Okay, maybe not dangerous like Moe is, but I’m definitely not happy.

I take an armful of clothes into the dressing room, carefully hiding two of them so that when the salesgirl checks to see how many items I have, she gives me a number tag that says 4 instead of 6. Inside I try on a gauzy orange-and-yellow V-neck. Maybe Brady’s right. Maybe I am a few pounds overweight.

I think about Zoe Amato and Keith Savage and how they looked in the hall today before sixth period. Zoe was gazing up at Keith before he pulled her in for a kiss. I look in the mirror at myself, wondering if I’ll ever find a guy who’ll love me in the orange-and-yellow top the way Keith Savage loves Zoe Amato with her split ends and her flared jeans and her crooked bottom teeth, his love making her beautiful and golden and perfect in her imperfections.

“Everything okay in there?” the salesgirl calls.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I say.

“Well, let me know if you need any other sizes.”

“Okay.”

I pull off the top and appraise the red dress. It’s a fancy dress version of the shirt I stole months ago when Moe and
Elodie and I first started stealing together, back when we first met. I carefully remove the sensor with nail clippers. If you clip it at just the right spot at the base, it won’t burst open and spill its blue ink everywhere. It takes practice, that’s all. I make sure not to snag the fabric before folding it and placing it inside my bag.

As I walk out, I leave a top on the floor and I hand the number 4 and the four items back to the salesgirl. Like I said, dangerous.

“She just saw you buy it,” I say.

Moe stops walking.

For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks uncertain. She bends down and reties the lace of her boot, even though it isn’t untied.

I glare at her. “Why were you in Shoplifters Anonymous if you don’t steal?”

“I do steal,” she says, defensive.

“But why were you buying something you said you were going to take?” Elodie asks.

“Can’t a person change her mind?” Moe backpedals.

“Wait a minute.” I realize something. “All those other times—were you actually stealing, or were you just
saying
you were stealing, so you could be our friend?”

Elodie whips around to glare at me. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, come on,” I retort. “
You
would. You were desperate to be friends with me.”

“What?!” Elodie looks stung.

“Oh my God, you’re so pathetic,” Moe snarls at me.

“I may have wanted to be your friend,” Elodie says. “But (a) that’s not a crime, and (b) I wouldn’t have lied like Moe did in order to do it.”

“Oh, wow. Low blow.” Moe glares at Elodie.

“Well, whatever. I was being who I am,” I say, looking at both of them. “I wasn’t
masquerading
as a shoplifter.”

Moe snorts. “Masquerading is better than being a complete bitch.”

This from a girl who hangs out with grindcore vandals but loves covertly listening to Katy Perry. Phony.

“I agree,” Elodie says.

“At least I’m not a loser like the two of you are,” I say.

The second I say it, I wish I could take it back. But it’s too late. Elodie turns and marches off across SW Fifth and past the City Grill.

“Nice,” Moe says, glaring at me before turning and walking away in the opposite direction toward the 76 station, leaving me standing there alone, with nowhere to go but home.

“People disappear, but objects stay.”

I don’t know if it was worth it to go and get friends I actually care about. But I guess if they were real friends, they wouldn’t care if I stole an iPod or bought it. I should be able to tell them the sky is magenta or whatever, and they should believe me.

When I got home Marc asked me again about Elodie and I wanted to say she fooled me. I wanted to say that the reason I never let myself have real friends is because eventually they always disappoint you.

He wouldn’t let up and I knew I had to say something, so I told him Elodie’s a wimp who doesn’t stand up for her
friends. And she’s a thief. I probably should have also added that I lied to people and they called me on it, but instead I just pushed him out of my room and shut the door before he could see me cry.

I always wake up early; I can’t help it. Maybe it’s a trait I inherited from my dad. But today I’m not getting up early, because I didn’t really sleep last night. I tossed and turned all night with a sick, anxious feeling.

I drag myself out of bed and pull on my jogging clothes and put my hair in a ponytail. The sun streams into my room, and I look around at the photos on the wall, the collection of snow globes, all the earrings and clothes. Almost every bit of it was procured with a five-finger discount. But even if it was achieved illegally, at least I have a bunch of trinkets to comfort me. People disappear, but objects stay.