Trinkets Page 2

  The despondent saleslady unlocks the case. She has frizzy brown hair and looks like all the gloomy weather has soaked straight through to her soul. Either that or she’s been sprayed with a little too much Eau de Homeless on her walk to work. That could bum out anybody.

  “Oh, and the earrings,” I say once she plunks the charm bracelet on the velvet pad on the counter. She turns to get them.

  “No, not those.” I point. “The pearl ones. And that silver bracelet with the big chain links? And can I see the rose gold hoops? Thanks so much.” As the saleswoman sets out one thing after another, I smile sweetly. “Do you mind getting out that skull pendant necklace too? Sorry.”

  “Which one?” She’s starting to get confused.

  “It’s so hard to make up my mind here,” I say, holding up the rose gold hoops. “By the way, I love your blouse. It looks amazing on you.”

  “It does?” She looks down at her navy-blue sheath as if seeing herself for the first time. I feel a little guilty for preying on her insecurities, but I guess on the plus side she looks happier now than she did five minutes ago.

  “Jean, there’s someone on line three for you—Eric?” a woman from the Clinique counter calls over.

  From the look on Jean’s face, it’s obvious Eric has been dodging her for weeks. His favorite activities are probably Nintendo, drinking Coors, and not returning the calls of women he’s had sex with. Jean is obviously one of them. Seeing her happy face, I remember feeling that excited when Brady used to call me. Now I just feel stuck in a loop of bad chitchat and sloppy make-out sessions. Sometimes, yes, we do the actual deed, but we’re usually drunk, so I don’t even know if it qualifies. It’s basically a formula of grabs, gropes, and insertions, all leading to an inevitably brief conclusion. I wouldn’t rank it as one of my all-time favorite activities. This trip to the mall would score way higher.

  “I’m with a customer. Tell him I’ll call him back,” Jean says reluctantly, casting a disappointed eye my way.

  “No, it’s cool.” I give her a knowing smile. “Go ahead. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Jean nods appreciatively and goes to take the call. Jackpot.

  “Hey, stranger!” Jean blurts into the phone. “I love Ruth’s Chris!…” Then her shoulders slump. “Yeah, I think I still have the gift certificate. It was only for fifty dollars, though, so I’m not sure how big a dinner it will get us….”

  He wants her to take him out to dinner with her gift certificate? Jesus. Jean needs to hang up on this guy and delete his number. But whatever—her low self-esteem is my good fortune. When she hangs up, I give her a little wave and say, “Thanks! I’ll come back later!” and stroll off. Leaving everything behind but the Maya Brenner bracelet.

  BRILLIANT CON ARTIST

  Walking your trinket out of the store is the worst and best part, where you’re about to become either a brilliant con artist or another juvenile-delinquency statistic.

  I force myself to slow down and supposedly admire a pink sundress, but underneath the sleeve of my sweater, I’m covertly ripping off the price tag and tiny bar-code sensor from the bracelet, which is fastened on my wrist. I drop the tag and sensor on the floor and walk on through Sporting Goods.

  Ninety seconds later, I’m at the street exit. I take a deep breath and make the final plunge through the electronic gates by the front doors—which, 87 percent of the time, are for show, but still they’re the final, exhilaratingly scary hurdle—and I push open the door. The winter air hits me like a slap of freedom.

  I quicken my pace as I beeline to the parking lot. I figure I’ll make a hard right in thirty feet, walk around the building, and reenter the mall near Yopop. I pull out my phone to text Kayla my ETA, and move faster and faster, freer and freer. I pick up speed and round the corner of the building, and that’s when I walk right smack into a security guard.

  CAUGHT

  Blood bolts to the surface of my skin so hard it feels like my face is being pricked by a hundred little pins.

  I have no freaking clue what to do, so I cover. Badly. “Oops. Sorry. I’m such a spaz—”

  He smiles a slow, casual smile. A tattoo of a bobcat or some kind of jungle lion peeks out from under his collar. I stare at it. Was he my age when he decided to permanently ink himself? Was it something he did with his friends? I wonder if he regrets it.

  “I’ll need you to come with me,” he says.

  “Why?”

  He chuckles a little bit. “I think you know.”

  “I do?” I ask. There is literally no oxygen going in or out of my body.

  “Girls who steal three-hundred-dollar bracelets aren’t as dumb as they look.”

  “I didn’t steal anything.” I try to make my Mirror Face, my model face, my “you are the most charming person I know, and your arm around my shoulder makes me happier than anything in the entire world” face, but he doesn’t buy it.

  “I need you to come back inside and show me what’s on your wrist.”

  I have no choice. So I say, “Oh, shit! Is this what you’re talking about?” I hold out my wrist. “I totally forgot I tried it on! I’m retarded.”

  He smiles at me. Just beneath his smile, I can see the tattooed point of the bobcat’s claw, poised above his jugular.

  “You may have ‘forgotten’ ”—he stresses the word, obviously not believing me—“but you still walked out of the store without paying for it, which means you broke the law.”

  When we head back inside, I try to look like nothing’s wrong, but then I see Jean standing there by the big glass doors. She’s pointing me out to her coworker and wearing a smug smile on her face. Ten minutes ago, Jean was the loser and I was the winner. Now it’s a completely different story.

  “Eric is just using you for a free steak,” I snipe to Jean as we pass. Her smug smile disappears. The guard holds out his arm for me to take, and it’s almost the way a gentleman leads a lady onto the dance floor—or a bobcat drags its prey into the forest after the chase is over.

  “This is what happens to princesses in real life.”

  MARCH 2

  Okay, question of the day: What’s the big deal about Spring Fling? People waste hundreds of dollars on one night for a cheesy photo with a backdrop full of stars. I’ll admit the prospect of dancing around to pop songs with Noah Simos isn’t the worst thing I can imagine, but it’s never actually going to happen, so there’s no use wasting time thinking about it.

  Aunt B keeps telling me stories about her high school dances, which are fully boring. She keeps insisting that if I don’t go to Spring Fling I’ll regret it. She’s big on “living life to the fullest” and having “no regrets.” I always feel that’s what people who peaked in high school say. Not that it’s her fault—she didn’t plan on having to give up her life because my parents died in a random car accident and she had to become guardian, but still. Of course I have regrets, like not paying more attention to my folks when they were right in front of me, but I try not to spend too much time dwelling on it, because I was only seven when it happened. I have a few special memories I keep to myself and a few things I wish I’d done differently, like not whining about wanting a skateboard for my birthday. If I hadn’t asked for it, they probably would still be alive. But the more you think about stuff like that, the worse you feel, and the more you talk about special memories, the less special they become. Marc and I actually agree on this topic, and last year for Christmas, he gave Aunt B a T-shirt that says “No Regrets” as a kind of joke. She didn’t laugh. He said he regretted giving it to her, but she didn’t laugh at that either.

  Small Talk

  When I get home,

  I give my dad the permission slip

  for the Shakespeare field trip.

  It’s not like I love Shakespeare,

  but if you go,

  you’re a shoo-in for the Ashland overnight trip,

  which is supposed to be the most fun

  you can have in school

  an
d still get credit for it.

  He asks me how school is

  and how my friends are.

  I tell him fine and he nods and says,

  I’m available to problem-solve if you’re having any difficulties, Elodie,

  and he gives me one of his District Manager Looks,

  which makes me think I should

  be paying him a salary for talking to me.

  Maybe he should bill me after dinner.

  As she’s clearing the plates

  my stepmom Jenna reminds me they’re going to the Stegemans’ later.

  She’s stoked at the prospect of small-talking herself into a stupor.

  That’s one of her special skills:

  saying a whole lot of nothing

  all the time.

  I guess my dad married her because

  silent types like people

  who aren’t silent.

  What are you and Rachelle up to tonight? Jenna asks.

  I shrug and say, Nothing, probably just watching movies,

  because that’s the way it is with parents;

  you tell them what they want to hear

  and everything else

  you leave out.

  ICE

  After the Mr. Bobcat calls the police, my mother shows up, pale-faced and with her usually perfectly coiffed ash-blond hair mussed up on the sides. Clearly, she was in the middle of an afternoon-cocktail–fueled power nap.

  But I have to hand it to her—she barely flinches when she sees me sitting in the dank little chair in the back of the Customer Service Center.

  On the drive home, my mom calls Jeffrey, an attorney and “old family friend,” on speakerphone. They went to college together at UW, and once when I asked her if they ever dated, she just shrugged it off. Two Christmases ago at our house, I walked in on them having drinks in the kitchen. He was telling her a story that had her doubled over laughing, which is weird because she’s not really a big laugher. When she saw me, she straightened up and tried to collect herself, but he just stood there staring at her, like he wished he could live in that kitchen with her forever and not have to go home with his plus-sized wife and their super-annoying five-year-old twin sons.

  Apparently, she’s already given Jeffrey the lowdown, because he comes on the speakerphone full of confidence and calm. “I’ll handle the paperwork,” he says. “I’ve had my assistant enroll you in a counseling rehabilitation program.”

  “I’m going to rehab?”

  “You need to show the judge you’re addressing your problem,” he says.

  “I don’t have a problem.” I roll my eyes.

  “I’ll e-mail your mom the information.”

  “What if I don’t want to go to a program? I’ve never been arrested before. It’s not like they’re going to send me to jail if I don’t go to a program, right?”

  “Actually, the state’s been cracking down on shoplifters. Statistically, thirty-five percent of first-offender shoplifters are high-risk repeaters. If we show them you aren’t one of the thirty-five percent, we have more ammo to plea-bargain,” he says.

  “She’ll do it,” my mom interjects. “We really appreciate all your help, Jeffrey.” She grips the steering wheel tightly and shoots me a sharp glance. “Don’t we?”

  I don’t answer. Plea-bargain? Please. I took one tiny little bracelet. It’s not like I’m Winona Ryder.

  When we get home, my mom goes into the living room, smooths her dress, and sits on the arm of a plum-colored Barcelona chair—a new addition, thanks to her latest renovation. I feel so guilty that I know I can’t just run upstairs and escape, which is fully what I want to do.

  The clink of ice cubes in my mom’s glass is the only sound in the house, other than the distant hum of an ever-present mower two houses down. Mr. Patterson apparently thinks if he mows his yard morning, noon, and night into pure perfection, then somehow maybe his life will improve. He’s obviously delusional.

  I fiddle with my phone. There are eight texts from Kayla and Taryn, asking WHERE THE HELL DID U GO? I can’t exactly say the truth, so I write SORRY. PMS CU @ PARTY.

  My mother takes another sip of her drink—“club soda,” aka straight Tanqueray.

  “I still do not understand why you would shoplift.” She sighs.

  I look away. “I told you—it was a stupid misunderstanding.”

  “Your dad or I could have given you money to buy that bracelet.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, all right?” I say, and it seems to satisfy her, especially because she prefers easy explanations to life’s complicated problems.

  “Jeffrey says that program is only for twelve weeks,” she says, “and he thinks if you have good attendance, you can get it taken off your record altogether. He didn’t want me to tell you that, though. He thinks scaring you might be good.” She shoots me a look, furrowing her brow as much as her Botox allows. Then she adds, “I’m not telling your father about this. He doesn’t need the stress.”

  Duh. Who would need the stress of their kid getting busted for stealing stuff? She goes to refill her drink, and I stand up. I can’t take this conversation anymore. I need to go do what I do best, which is get dressed and make myself pretty so I can go to a party with a bunch of people I can’t stand.

  What We’re Doing

  Derek Godfrey—

  whoever he is—

  is having a party

  and we’re going.

  It’s the first party I’ve been to in Oregon,

  or maybe it’s my first party ever really,

  aside from a birthday here and there.

  I guess that kind of sums me up:

  I’m here and there but not really anywhere.

  I’m only here now because I’m Rachelle’s plus one,

  a beta to her alpha.

  That was the unspoken agreement, anyway;

  if she deigned to take me under her wing,

  I’d do whatever she said,

  no questions asked.

  When I get to her house,

  she’s wearing a teeny bit too much makeup

  and a skirt that’s supershort

  and a wide-eyed look that says,

  If I don’t have a good time tonight,

  I’ll DIE.

  Proving that even alphas get nervous

  here and there.

  MARCH 7

  Staying in and writing in my journal on a Friday night is not what people would expect someone like me to do. Troublemakers like me smash mailboxes on Friday nights. Burnouts like me get baked on Friday nights. Tough girls like me do not explore their feelings on Friday nights.

  When Noah told me that he was going to Derek’s party tonight, a part of me—ALL of me—was disappointed. Sometimes I wish I could just morph into a cheerleader or whatever I’d need to be to make Noah feel comfortable being seen together. But even in my dreamworld, that cheerleading uniform looks itchy and uncomfortable.

  Obviously, I can’t tell anyone I want to be at Derek’s party. And doing mushrooms with Alex and Janet and those guys at the Oaks Amusement Park would be a waste of time, since it’s not where I really want to be, so that’s why I’m here.

  Marc is out playing video games at the Avalon in SE and my aunt is, for once, out to dinner with her friends from the hospital. I’m glad, because she never goes out on dates; it’s like she feels too guilty or stressed to have fun. She never complains and she always does her best to make sure Marc and I are taken care of: She makes us breakfast, eats dinner with us, asks us how our days were, follows up on our schoolwork, and is generally concerned about us. She’s older than my parents were, and she says it’s crazy that they died when they were young and in love and had a family, and she was single and no one would care. It’s been so long that I can barely remember them, so I know this could sound bad, but I feel like she should try to get over it because that’s what we’re trying to do. That’s why it’s good she’s out having fun and drinking white wine or whatever ladies her age drink. M
aybe she’ll flirt with a nice forty-something fellow. I’m going to use this opportunity to take a relaxing bubble bath and read. Like I said, not what people would expect, but all in all not a bad way to spend a Friday night if you can’t spend it with the person you love.

  Normal Teenage Girl

  The second Rachelle and I get to Derek Godfrey’s,

  I wish I was somewhere else.

  It makes me feel like a freak,

  because doesn’t every normal teenage girl

  love going to parties?

  I must not be normal, then.

  I am hating it until I see

  Brady Finch walk in.

  Even if he’s out of my league,

  I still think it’s better

  having a crush on someone who’s awesome but unattainable

  than having a crush on

  someone gettable and lame.

  At least I have standards.

  Suddenly, he’s walking my way

  and he jostles my arm

  and turns and says, Excuse me, sweetie.

  Sweetie?! Brady Finch just called me sweetie?

  As I stand there in the wake of his glow,

  some drunk guy says to me,

  What are you smiling about?

  and hands me a sweaty cup of keg beer,

  and I say, Nothing.

  Maybe you’ll be more fun after you’re drunk, he says, and staggers off.

  Rachelle appears beside me, all sympathetic, and says,

  That guy’s a dick. We can go if you want to.

  I have a pang of affection for her,

  because even though she’s not the bestest bestie in the world

  she’s the only one I’ve got.

  I’m gonna say bye to Samantha first,

  she says, pointing to a group of cheerleaders,