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Petty Criminals

It was just sitting there in the school parking lot
—a blue, metallic Camaro. Shiny. Perfect. New. Unexpected.

Casually, I mentioned to the girls, “Look, Anthony’s car. I
could
just reach over and break off his windshield wipers.”

I wasn’t actually planning to, but you know how sometimes you just fantasize a little out loud?

Rose, the devil next to me: “Do it. Come on, Stacy!”

(It’s a little embarrassing how quickly I cave to peer pressure.)

Rose and Bethany covered me, looking around for witnesses. The coast was clear. But first I made a little speech, because Queen Stacy had returned and would not be silenced.

“This is for the girls you’ve thrown away like trash, Anthony.”

“Hurry
up
, Stacy!” Rose was beside herself.

“All right, all right.”

My adrenaline was pumping as I reached over—I felt my hands shake a little—and grabbed each end of the wiper blade. I bent it down as hard as I could. It was ridiculously easy.

Rose ran around to the passenger side, giggling like crazy, while Bethany and I stood lookout.

She bent it in about two seconds. My accomplice, Rose.

We walked away quickly, giggling at the floppy wiper blades, all weak and powerless. And we went through all the stages of a person who has just committed a crime:

Stage 1: Giddy excitement. Adrenaline rush.

Me: Wide eyes, breathless. “I can’t believe we just
did
that.”

Bethany: Giggling. “Me either.”

Rose: All powerful. “That was great. We are awesome!”

Stage 2: Reality. Worry.

Me: Eyes moving from side to side. “God, I hope we don’t get caught.”

Rose: Looking behind her. “Me too.”

Bethany: Looking at the two of us. “Why did you
two
do that?”

Stage 3: Regret.

Me: Eyes looking down. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that.”

Rose: Eyes looking down. “Yeah, maybe not.”

Bethany: Looking at the two of us. “I don’t know who you people
are
anymore.”

The bell rang, and we skulked to our classes in the guilty way that people skulk.

On the way home from school, I sat in the backseat of Roman’s car while he and Becca had a conversation up front, and I thought about what I did, kicking it around in my head, kicking myself. That wasn’t me. I’m not a defacer. I’ve never vandalized anything in my life.

Then again, I’m not sorry.

That Familiar Ache

At my session with Joy, I conveniently forgot to tell her
about my crime. Not that she’d judge me (she’d probably say I have unresolved anger issues), but I just didn’t feel like talking about it.

While discussing the men in my life, she surprised me with this question, “Stacy, has it occurred to you—do you think you’re trying to find a replacement for your dad?”

She was looking at me with her laser beam eyes, boring a hole in my soul.

“No. No, I don’t.”

I mean, what a thing to say. Like I could replace my dad with some guy? (And why in psychology does everything come back to the parents?)

“I don’t
think
I’m trying to replace him, but I admit, I do look at older men sometimes and see my dad. Just for a second. I’m not planning to run up to one of them any time soon and ask them to adopt me though.”

I wasn’t trying to make her laugh, but I did.

“That’s not what I meant, Stacy. I get the feeling you’re a little preoccupied with boys—”

I had to cut her off there.

“Joy, I hate to tell you. I’ve been preoccupied with boys since I was in Huggies.”

Joy laughed again.

“Well, then, Stacy, how about we work on your choices in men.”

Yeah, she’s funny. Considering my track record, one snake and one mentally ill but ridiculously perfect person, Joy may have had a point, so I told her so.

“Joy, you might have something there. I will try not to be such a ridiculous goober.”

She laughed again. I’m very funny. Then she started talking about celebrity gossip—who just got arrested, and who was caught not wearing anything under their micro minidress (Doesn’t anybody wear underwear anymore?). I guess she figures that I’m a teenager, and aren’t we all obsessed with celebrity gossip? Maybe she thought it was something we could relate to together. But she was
way
more interested in it than I was.

After our session, when I got home, I opened up the package from Bobby that had been sitting gathering dust on the kitchen table, papers piling up on top of it.

It was a CD inside a purple jewel case with the words “Stacy’s Mix” written across the front in a black Sharpie. Also in the package was a note with these words:

To my girl Stacy. Some classics for you. Play them loud. Love, Bobby.

I fought for a second to keep control. Deep breath. I slipped it into the player.
Okay, here goes.

The first track was his acoustic version of “The Wind Cries Mary” by Jimi Hendrix. (
Of course
it was Jimi Hendrix.) It was beautiful, his voice haunting and smooth, quiet and strong. I sat on my bed with my arms wrapped around my legs, and I rocked back and forth. He was in the room with me now. I could almost
feel
him there next to me. In my head, he kissed me. It was the same daydream that had been running over and over through my head. I snapped out of it, though, and just listened—I listened for clues to anything about him— trying to get inside his head, trying to figure out what happened. I listened to how his fingers moved over the guitar strings.

How cruel is it to learn about somebody after they’re gone? What
good
is it?

The next track was “All Apologies” by Nirvana. Bobby’s voice had a little growl, an edge to it now, more raw, and I wondered if he really felt like he had so much to apologize to everyone for. But I’ll never know.

He’s talented, or was. A great guitar player, great voice. So much potential, gone. I sat on my bed and listened to the rest of the CD, wiping the tears when they came, then put it back in its case and hid it in the bottom drawer of my dresser, all the way in the back. I didn’t want to throw it away, but I didn’t want to listen to it again. At least not for a while.

Meeting The Dog
Named Jimi Hendrix

I started having the craziest thought
—couldn’t get it out of my head—especially going through the whole therapy process with Joy, and especially after listening to Bobby’s CD. All of it made me think about not just my life but about life in general. About people coming into your life and about goodbyes.

In all of my thinking and talking about Bobby, listening to him play his guitar and sing, one thing stayed stuck in my head, and I couldn’t get it out—his dog Jimi. I
really
want to meet this dog. It sounds like a ridiculous—crazy—idea, feeling like I
have
to meet a dog, but I can’t help it. I just want to touch him again; I want to touch Bobby, but I can’t. It’s impossible. So I thought maybe if I could just touch his dog, I’d feel some kind of connection.

I approached Mom as she sat at the kitchen table grading papers.

“Mom?”

“Yes, babe?”

“There’s this thing I want to do.”

“Okay.” (She was peering over her reading glasses at me now. Interested. Maybe worried.)

“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to reassure her. (Maybe I shouldn’t have started out this way.)

Her mom alarm bells started going off. “Stacy, what is it? What’s going on?”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not a problem.”

She was trying to be patient, I could tell.

“Okay.”

I took a deep breath. “See, I really want to meet Bobby’s dog Jimi. And before you tell me what a bad idea you think it is”—because I could tell what a bad idea she thought it was by the way she was looking at me all apprehensively, raised eyebrows and all—“Before you tell me no, I’ve thought a lot about this. And it’s something I feel like I really have to do.”

Mom looked at me with this doubtful look, “I don’t know, Stacy. We’d need to call his parents. And do you
really
want to do that?”

“I just feel like it’s something I need to do, Mom. I can’t really explain it.”

She kind of gave a little shrug of the shoulders. “Okay. Well, we’ll have to see if we can track them down, get a number for them.”

I nodded, relieved but also nervous at the thought of meeting Bobby’s parents. But it was what I wanted—needed—to do, so I pushed the anxious thoughts out of my head and decided to be brave.

On Being Brave

Becca came home from her Friday afternoon group therapy
and handed me a piece of paper.

“Are you
sure
you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I am. I really am.”

When my dad died, I didn’t get to say goodbye. With Bobby I want it to be different. If I could meet Jimi, then maybe I’d be able to move on. Maybe I’d be able to let go of this ache I’ve been feeling inside. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it would work, but I
was
sure I wanted to make the call, and I’d rehearsed it in my head a few times so I wouldn’t stumble around like a goofball.

I took a breath, tried to compose myself, and dialed. Then I immediately started regretting the whole idiotic thing.

A woman answered.

“Hello, is this Mrs. Sullivan?”

“Yes?”

“Um, hi.”
Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m doing this
. “You don’t know me, but I’m Stacy. I’m a friend of Bobby’s.”

Silence. Awkward. Cursing myself for making the call.

“Hello, Stacy. Is…there…something I can do for you?”

Oh God. Okay, I’m just going to go for it.

“Um, I was just wondering, uh”—
Shoot. Stop stammering
—“I was wondering if I could come over and meet you.” I almost stopped there, but then I continued, “And I was wondering if I could spend some time with Jimi.”

Silence again for a couple seconds. Darnit. This was
not
going well. Then:

“Uh, okay. I’m, uh, just thinking about my schedule this weekend. Would you like to come over tomorrow? Around noon? I’ve got something later in the day.”

“Yes.”
Yes.
“That would be really nice. Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan.” And I was so grateful that she was letting me do this. She gave me the address, and I let out a deep breath after we finished the call.

Becca was watching me.

“So we gonna do this, or what?” she asked, and I just nodded.

She nodded back. “Okay then. Let’s do this thing. Let’s go see a woman about a dog.”