Trinkets (4 page)

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.

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. Maybe 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.

Derek’s house is a five-bedroom affair that sits atop Westridge Estates. It’s famous for its sweet pool table, bought by Derek’s divorced dad, who’s always out of town with younger girls he’s trying to impress.

When I get there, I’m greeted with the sight of a hammered Jenny Heder and Serena Bell rapping along to Kanye blasting out of a huge sound system. (I love how hip-hop is the voice of white-girl suburban angst.) Derek’s dad works at Adidas, making him single
and
loaded, so he’s tricked out the house with speakers and games and is so desperate for his son to love him that he tells him it’s okay to have parties when he’s gone. Mix that with Jason Baines having an older brother who buys him booze in bulk, and you’ve got a winning combination of party possibilities.

I make a quick detour into the kitchen to retrieve an
extremely crappy strawberry daiquiri from Patrick Cushman, who’s apparently appointed himself Blender Master.

“Special recipe created for teenagers who want to get drunk quick,” he says.

“How’d you get put in charge of cocktails?”

“Does it matter?”

I shrug. Patrick is one of those guys who don’t seem to belong to any group; he always floats along with everyone—tennis players, smart kids, band geeks, skaters—and sometimes he even hangs out with Brady’s lacrosse friends. It probably means he’s insecure and can’t decide who he is. We had freshman gym together. One day I got pegged really hard in dodgeball by some dickhead, and Patrick walked me to the nurse’s office to get an ice pack for my arm. He was obviously creeping on me, but it wasn’t bad to have the company.

I take a giant chug of daiquiri. It’s strong and sweet and sour. The taste makes me pucker.

“So, you must really want to get drunk, huh?” he says.

“None of your business.” I glare at him.

“Whoa. Sorry,” he says, looking taken aback.

“Whatever.” I don’t need his pity. I leave him standing there and head for the living room, taking another glug of daiquiri as I go. He may be annoying to talk to, but I have to admit, Patrick Cushman does make a pretty delicious, extremely crappy strawberry daiquiri.

“Hey, Tabs,” Brady says, smirking at me as I walk up and say hi to everyone. Taryn’s too busy texting to say hi back.

Brady puts an arm around my waist and pinches the spot where a teeny bit of flesh bubbles out over my jeans. I’m only a size 6, but clearly this is his way of telling me I’m fat. Sometimes it seems like guys really hate girls, with all the little things they say and do to try to get us to hate ourselves.

I fight the urge to hit him and instead turn and plant a kiss on his perfect mouth. I’ve seen my mom do it to my dad when he’s being a dick. She tries to trick him with affection into being in a good mood. Sometimes it even works.

“Where did you go earlier?” Taryn asks.

“Cabbed it home,” I say with a shrug, trying to play it off.

“You could have texted us. We sat at Yopop for twenty minutes waiting for you,” she gripes.

“Like I have to broadcast everywhere I am at all times?” I snap. Taryn looks away. I mouth
cramps
to Kayla. Any explanation involving people’s periods works for Kayla. She got hers late—she was fourteen, which is practically menopausal—so she loves stories about the follies of menstruation. Her favorite is one about her cousin’s first attempt at wearing a maxi pad. Her cousin got her period in the middle of a family Christmas party, so someone gave her a pad. She came out of the bathroom looking tragically uncomfortable.