Crimes of the Sarahs (5 page)

“That’s cool,” Sarah B says.

I glance at Sarah C to figure out where she stands on all of this. But she’s hard to read. Her face is pressed deep into Benny Stowe’s torso. Her mouth looks like it’s doing something too. Is she unbuttoning his shirt with her teeth? It’s hard to tell, but her grip is frighteningly tight. Sarah C’s holding that pillow like in the past five minutes she’s been able to forge a committed relationship with it. I guess she’s been pining for Benny on a deeper level than I realized.

“Why do you look like that?” Sarah A asks me.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like you’re going to die,” Sarah A says. “This will be fun. And we’ll move slow. I promise.”

I find these words calming and so I loosen the grip on my Doyle.

“What I want us to do now is get used to their smell,” Sarah A says. “We need to desensitize ourselves to their pheromones, so that their scent will never influence our behavior.”

“Does this mean that we get to take our pillows home with us?” Sarah C asks.

She clutches her makeshift Benny Stowe with such enthusiasm that her pillow’s top seam bulges.

“Yes, but nobody’s parents can see these, because, let’s face
it, out-of-touch adults might find this weird,” Sarah A says.

“I’m so with you,” Sarah B says.

I hadn’t realized how eager Sarah C and Sarah B were to enter the guy phase.

“What’s the next step?” I ask. “After we overcome their smell?”

Sarah A reaches down and retrieves her cushioned Roman. She punches it in the center region to fluff it.

“Luckily, all the guys we like are friends,” Sarah A says. “The next phase will be group dating. Our first group date will be the third week of August. They’ll invite us to go hiking in the Kalamazoo Nature Center. Then we’ll eat pizza at Bilbo’s.”

“That sounds like so much fun!” Sarah C says, falling backward with a soft thud.

“I love Bilbo’s crust,” Sarah B says.

“How do you know this will happen?” I ask. It all seems so random and out of our control.

Sarah A licks her lips and shakes her head.

“Sarah T, have you ever heard the phrase ‘stick in the mud’? Because right now you’re being a serious stick in our mud,” Sarah A says.

I stare down at my sandals. I am sort of bucking the flow.

“We should be excited about this. It’s the next step,” Sarah A says.

Sarah B reaches over and touches my leg.

“Aren’t you excited, Sarah T?” Sarah B asks.

“I am,” I say.

“You don’t act like it,” Sarah A says.

“Plus, after the guy phase, we get to go on to the
next thing
,” Sarah C says, popping back up to a sitting position.

“It’s going to be so cool,” Sarah B says, repeatedly swatting her Gerard Truax pillow on the floor.

“That’s right,” Sarah A says. “After the guy phase we’ll quickly move on to the next thing: fake IDs.”

Sarah B and Sarah C are so giddy over this that they’re making bird noises. Sarah B will finally be able to buy a beer at a Tigers game, plus she’ll be able to go to R-rated movies. Sarah C will be able to attend certain mature-themed art shows that travel through Kalamazoo and are restricted to people eighteen and older. I guess it’s cool. We can go to dance clubs that are twenty-one and older. I don’t really think I need a fake ID, but I definitely won’t turn it down.

“It’s all pretty great,” I say.

“Let’s open the Triscuits,” Sarah A says.

I watch Sarah C break into the yellow cardboard box and tear open the plastic bag with her teeth. All the Sarahs start eating crackers. Even me.

“I’m surprised that we’re moving forward so quickly,” Sarah B says. “I mean, with what happened at Barnes & Noble.”

Suddenly, all I can hear is the sound of the Sarahs chewing and not chewing crackers. Nobody says anything. The silence is unbearable.

“Yeah, I’m really glad we can put that behind us,” I say, swallowing hard.

“I’m not sure that I’m totally over it,” Sarah A says.

“But,” I say, lifting up my Doyle pillow, “we’ve launched into the guy phase.”

“Yeah, but I guess I think there’s room for improvement,” Sarah A says.

“Totally,” I say. Then I pull my Doyle to me like the apocalypse is imminent and I’ll be needing my pillow to do some much needed repopulating of the earth.

“Why couldn’t you have been like this when I first gave you Doyle?” Sarah A asks.

I shake my head.

“Fatigue?” I offer.

“Sarah T, I think it’s time that we all either put up or shut up,” Sarah A says.

Sarah B and Sarah C don’t object to this suggestion. I feel alone and vulnerable, like a wildebeest with a leg injury being left behind by the herd.

“I’m willing to put up,” I say.

Sarah A gets off her bed and walks to her dresser. She picks up four spiral notebooks and four pens. My heart is
thumping inside of me. Is this going to be like those closing moments in reality TV shows where everybody has to vote a person out? There’s no doubt in my mind that every other Sarah would put my name down. Sweat forms at my hairline. I rub my face against my overstuffed Doyle to sweep my forehead clean.

“I think it’s high time that we articulate a few things,” Sarah A says.

She lifts the pens over her head and clicks them several times. Then she tosses them, stabbing them through the air at us, ink-end first. The notebooks are flung to us like Frisbees, and I catch mine mid-flight. Even obtaining my writing utensils feels like a competitive sport.

“I’m going to ask you one question, and you’re going to do your best to answer it,” Sarah A says.

“Does spelling count?” Sarah B asks.

“No, spelling will not be held against you,” Sarah A says. “We’ll each have ten minutes. I’ll participate too.”

I hold the ballpoint tip to the paper and it trembles, marking the clean page with a string of spittle-like ink.

“One question,” Sarah A says. “Ten minutes to answer. Ask not what the Sarahs can do for you, but what you can do for the Sarahs.”

Nobody writes anything.

“Isn’t that a statement?” I ask. “I missed the question.”

“I think she’s right. It’s a play off President Kennedy’s famous speech, but it’s not a question,” Sarah C says.

“Okay,” Sarah A says, rolling her eyes. “Let me spell it out for you: What can you do for the Sarahs? Go!”

We all frantically begin scratching on our tablets. All of that advice my junior English teacher, Ms. Pellet, gave me about taking a minute or two to gather my thoughts before I began a timed essay goes out the window. I’m winging it. We all are. We’re spilling our hearts. We’re giving birth, who cares what the baby looks like?

Predictably, I begin with an analogy about how I see life. It’s not like a hallway. Sarah C was right; that’s too interior. Life is like a trail.

What can I do for the Sarahs? Plenty! Being a Sarah is my life. And life is like a trail in the wilderness. Picture it: We’re hiking on the trail and there’s cougars and trees. These are symbols for our adversaries. And because I’m a Sarah who loves the Sarahs, I will fight these things for the Sarahs. Except I don’t know how to fight a tree. But I’d save a Sarah from a falling tree. And if a Sarah ever became wounded on the path, I would never leave her behind, because a wildebeest that gets left behind gets eaten. And nobody should eat a Sarah. This brings me to guys. I will like Doyle Rickerson for the Sarahs. I’ll
smell my leathery Doyle pillow every night to overcome his pheromones. I’ll suck his stink down into the lowest recesses of my lungs for my fellow Sarahs…
.

I take a break and shake my hand. My finger is cramping. Plus, Sarah A’s phone keeps ringing and it’s beyond distracting.

“Should you get that?” Sarah C asks.

“No,” Sarah A says.

“What if it’s an emergency?” I ask.

“We’re doing a very important freewrite!” Sarah A says.

After several more rings, the answering machine picks up.

“Sarah Trestle, it’s your mother. I have an emergency. Are you there?”

My mother’s voice sounds loud and panicked.

“I have to answer it,” I say.

Sarah A’s head is down. Her loopy handwriting has already filled two whole pages in her notebook. I run to the phone and listen to my mother rattle off something about having a flat tire, wearing white linen pants, being late for an important meeting, and being roughly three blocks away.

“Can you get here?” she asks.

“To change the tire?” I ask.

“I need help,” she says.

“Don’t we have AAA?” I ask.

“They’ll take forever. I’ll miss my meeting,” she says.

“I’ll come,” I say. “I’m leaving now.”

I go back into the room and the other Sarahs have written so much that they’re literally sweating from the effort.

“My mom has car trouble,” I say. “I need to go.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sarah A says.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” I say. “It’s my
mother
. Wouldn’t any of us go and help our
mothers
?”

I’ve said the wrong thing. Sarah A looks up at me. Her stare is cold, but underneath it, I can tell by her eyes she seems hurt.

“Well, if my mother called me I guess I’d ask her, ‘Hey Mom, why did you put me up for adoption? And, who are you? And, how come we’ve never met? And, would you mind forwarding me some information about our family’s medical history? You know, cancer, heart conditions, liver disorders, strokes, general health of your ovaries …’”

I blink and blink, as if by rapidly reopening my eyes I can somehow change the picture in front of me.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Leave what you wrote,” Sarah A says.

“How much time do we have left?” Sarah C asks.

“Four minutes,” Sarah A says.

I feel like I need to say something to Sarah A.

“Um,” I say.

“Just go,” Sarah A says. “Obviously,
your
mother needs
you
.”

I hand Sarah A my notebook, but she doesn’t take it.

“Set it on the floor,” Sarah A says. “I’ll read through them tonight and call everybody with the results. I have a feeling we’ll be downsizing.”

“What about my Doyle pillow?” I ask.

“Leave it. We wouldn’t want your
mom
to see it.”

Sarah A puts her head down and continues to write.

It doesn’t feel good to leave, but I don’t see any other option. As I walk out to my car, I can see my mother a block away, moving toward me in her crisp white pants. Her long brown hair swings around her shoulders. A lot of people think I look like a smaller, high school version of her. She’s smiling. She’s so happy to see me.

“Why don’t you just drive me to my meeting?” she yells.

“Okay!” I say.

“You’re a real lifesaver!” she says, picking up her pace.

Old Victorian homes rise up along South Street on both sides, turning the road and its sidewalks into a long suburban hallway. Doors close. Doors open. With or without me, my life is happening. I glance back at the Marlborough, then back at her. I’m ashamed of myself. I wish I was as happy to see her as she is to see me. But I’m not.

Chapter 4

Am I still a Sarah? It’s been a week and I haven’t heard from them. I missed my second volunteer shift at the animal shelter. Now it’s Wednesday again, animal adoption night, and I feel like I want to go, but I’m not sure that I should. It’ll be my third missed shift. It’s like I’m not even a volunteer anymore. It’s like I’ve fallen into a deep, miserable hole, and there’s nobody down here but me. And a telephone. That isn’t ringing.

If I was less devoted to the sisterhood, I’d venture out and try to develop new interests: bingo, racquetball, pottery, or spelunking. I’d go visit Sal at his part-time job at Ridge and Kramer Auto Parts. I might ask him to inspect my windshield wipers and give me some feedback about the projected lifetime of their rubber parts. But I won’t. That’s not how I’m built. I’m not flighty. I’m loyal. At least that’s how I like to view my blind devotion.

I could simply call Sarah A and find out what she thought about my freewrite. But I’m too scared. Why did I include
that part about wildebeests? It’s not a good idea to compare your friends to large, hairy land mammals. Sometimes I’m so clueless. And why did I bring up Sarah A’s absent mother? I should never mention the word “mother” around the Sarahs again. Sarah B has an absent mother too. Mrs. Babbitt had an affair and took off to one of the Dakotas. I think it was the northern one. But Sarah B doesn’t seem as wounded by her mother’s absence as Sarah A. I guess it’s different because Sarah A has so many unanswered questions.

Back in fourth grade, when we first became friends, Sarah A talked about her biological mom a lot. It was mostly information and details that she imagined about her mom. Things that she wanted to believe. But after we hit junior high, right around the time we became thieves, Sarah A stopped talking about her mother altogether. I still remember the last thing Sarah A said about her. We’d taken a tube of watermelon-flavored lip gloss from a health food store (our first theft ever), and we were walking home, smearing it on our mouths, and out of nowhere Sarah A said, “Maybe my mom was just a wreck. Maybe she left me so I wouldn’t have to live in her wreckage.”

I didn’t say anything. I worried that Sarah A had recently found out that her biological mother had been killed in a car accident. But I don’t think that anymore. I think it was easier for Sarah A to turn her mother into an enormous disappointment and to finally move on. To leave her too.

This isn’t anything I discuss with my mom or dad, because they don’t understand the importance of the Sarah sisterhood. They actually think I need to make other friends. They’re so misguided. What they call “branching out” would be a total betrayal of the Sarahs.

The phone rings. I snag it right away. It could be a Sarah. My mother is home and I don’t need her conversing with any of them. She’s always trying to learn more about them. And there’s no reason for that. She can tell them apart and knows their last names. Really, isn’t that enough?

“Sarah T?” Sarah A asks me.