Trinkets (20 page)

I had all the dos and don’ts of shoplifting written down, but when it came time for me to actually steal something, I did it all wrong. I acted guilty. I stole from someone I know. I didn’t make sure the coast was clear. But I wanted to prove to them I wasn’t a phony. I couldn’t think of anything better than a souvenir from the field trip, where we all should have been sitting with each other instead of off in our corners with other people, pretending not to be friends. That’s what I was thinking as I sit here waiting to go into the principal’s office, where everything is about to go even more wrong than it already is.

As I’m going to my locker right before sixth period, I make sure the path is free of all assholes first. That’s when I see an envelope jammed into a slat of my locker. As I’m about to pull it out, I hear:

“Hey, Tabitha.”

I jump. I can’t help it. I turn to see Brady standing there.

“What’d you get?” he drawls.

I give him a tight smile.

“I hope it isn’t hate mail,” he says, pushing his hair out of his eyes. I try not to notice his biceps, other than the fact that it no longer appeals to me.

“Then here, you do the honors.” If it’s hate mail, it might as well be opened by someone I hate.

He rips it open, then reacts. “What the fuck?”

It’s the laminated program from
Romeo and Juliet
with all the signatures on it.

“Did
you
steal this?” he cackles, holding it up.

“No!” I say.

“Then why the hell do you have it?”

“Give it to me!” I yank the program out of his hand. “It’s a gift.”

“From who? Patrick Cushman?”

I roll my eyes. Seriously? This is what he’s going to start bugging me about?

“What are you talking about, Brady?” I give him a flat look.

“I saw you eating lunch with him the other day.” He glowers just as Taryn walks up.

“Hi, sweetie,” Taryn purrs to me, looking guilty as shit. “I love your shoes.”

She and Brady meet eyes. I look back and forth between the two of them.

“We didn’t do anything,” Taryn blurts. Brady gives her a sharp look, and I see everything laid out. Brady is now with my so-called best friend. And even though she feels bad about it, it’s clearly something she wanted all along and she’s fine sacrificing years of friendship to get it. Not that I blame her. There wasn’t much to our relationship anyway, besides fashion and gossip and jealousy.

“You guys are so gross,” I say.

Brady steps forward, reaching out for me—it’s hard to tell if he’s trying to comfort me or hurt me, but I do the thing that I probably should have done a long time ago. As hard as I can, I kick him in the balls.

“FUCK!” he shouts.

“What the hell?!” Taryn screeches.

Brady reels backward. I wish I could say I kicked him hard enough to make him fall over, but to be honest, leg strength isn’t really my forte.

“You’re such a bitch,” Brady says as he leans against the lockers, trying to catch his breath.

“I really hate that word,” I snarl, and walk away, tucking the Shakespeare program under my arm. People are staring at me as I go, probably because they agree with Brady’s assessment that I am a so-called bitch. But you know what? There are people whose opinions matter to me, and these aren’t them.

I’m looking at Patrick Cushman’s Facebook page, trying to think of what to message him, when my mom knocks on the bedroom door.

“We’re going to sushi dinner,” she says, which is kind of a shock because we used to go all the time until a year ago, when my dad was convinced sushi gave him mercury poisoning. He never really had it, but he poisoned my mom with his paranoia, which might be worse than actual mercury poisoning.

She drives us over to Bamboo Sushi, which is on the east side. She likes it because it’s “sustainable sushi” and all the fish are free-range, so nothing is caught in a way that harms marine life or the environment. They have all this art on the walls, and there’s this big frame filled with hundreds of white origami swans all lined up perfectly. If
you look at it from a distance, they make their own pattern, but if you get close, you can see they’re just rows and rows of folded white paper. We sit at the back of the restaurant at the sushi bar, an L-shaped wide plank of wood lined with little tea lights. The sushi chef hands us a plate of albacore carpaccio with pickled shiitakes. I don’t really like it, but it’s one of my mom’s favorites. He asks her if she’d like to try one of their signature sake flights.

“No, thanks. I’ll have a green tea,” she says.

“Mom, come on,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Are you having tea just to prove a point?”

“No, I’m ordering it because I want to,” she says.

“Whatever.” I’m not sure whether to believe her.

After she gets her tea and takes a sip, she says, “I’m starting a program like you did.”

“A program?”

“AA. It helped you, didn’t it?”

“I guess….” I trail off, not exactly wanting to admit that Shoplifters Anonymous was pretty useless when it came to curing my shoplifting.

“You can’t tell people what to do,” she says. “But sometimes you can inspire them toward a better path of action.”

She clinks her glass of water with mine, and I don’t know what to say other than that I’m not sure when my mom became all Buddha and that raw fish never tasted so good.

Principal Prescott called Aunt B to say my suspension was lifted. The missing program was found and turned in by two students. He added that even though it’s going to be taken off my permanent record, I may have to attend a rehabilitation program. Hilarious.

Aunt B was relieved and happy, but not so happy we got to go out to Zeppo for dinner or anything. Marc asked Aunt B if the principal told her who the two students were who turned in the program. She said no, but I said to Marc, “I’m pretty sure you can guess, can’t you?” I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but we just left it at that and went to play some Rage.