distance, I could hear Francie squabbling with a clerk. I paid no attention. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and I didn’t care. There was something building inside of me, a black inky rage that I couldn’t quite understand. It was anger, but not the kind I was used to from my brother and stepfather. This was something quieter; something slithering and austere. It was powerful. Subtle. I liked it.
Then I was putting on the jacket. I just put it on. I’m not saying I was possessed or anything; it wasn’t like that. I knew exactly what I was doing. I just took it off the rack, without a thought, and slipped it on and zipped it up, and as the zipper closed, I was surprised to find that it felt like I was shedding a skin instead of gaining a new one. Without hesitation, I turned and walked out of the store, not thinking, I just stole a three-hundred-dollar jacket, but thinking, This jacket looks amazing on me. Not wondering where Francie wasor what she was doing, but knowing without a doubt that she was right on my heels.
Francie and I had decided to meet in the handicap stall by Sears. The handicap bathroom at any mall is always deserted and is generally hidden somewhere in a dim alcove somewhere off the beaten path. There’s usually a handicap stall by the food court, too, but Francie and I tried to avoid those because they were always full of bulimics. The “handicap” part was important because the wheelchair stall was big enough for two people, with a door that went all the way to the tiles so no one could tell you were in there. That was where we caught our breath every day before heading home. It was where we took the loot from our bags, unballed it, and held it out at arm’s length, admiring it all under spastic white fluorescent light. Where we congratulated ourselves on the fruits of our misdemeanors.
Waiting for Francie in there ten minutes after stealing the leather jacket, my heart was not pounding. For the first time, I had walked out of the store unafraid of being caught. People always talk about what a rush shoplifting is, but that day, I hadn’t been scared and I hadn’t been excited. I had just been angry about something that I couldn’t name. It wasn’t until I was sitting there on the white and gray tile in the wheelchair stall, my back against the partition, that a wave of euphoria rushed over me—a delayed reaction. I had done it. The jacket was mine. I stood up, then sat again, thenstood up, then sat. I fiddled with the zipper, trying to find the perfect ratio of leather to cleavage.
When Francie came busting into the stall, I stood one more time.
“My God,” she said, out of breath. “You were amazing. Amazing. I couldn’t even keep track! I looked away for, like, one second, like, less than a second, and you were gone. The blink of an eye. Amazing!”
I didn’t say anything. I stood on my tiptoes and leaned in, and her eyes widened and then closed as I kissed her on the mouth.
Francie’s lips were waxy and kiwi-strawberry and I put my hand on hers, my fingertips smooth against her long and shiny nails. Francie, being Francie, made it French. That one time I kissed Francie, fluorescent lights lit us in the bathroom like jellyfish shining miles below everything. And I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. It wasn’t remotely romantic, or even very sexy. But that’s not to say it didn’t mean anything. Because it did.
It was a pact that bound us. It was a kiss to say, We are deadly. We are sisters. Just to say, Genuine Italian Leather.
Francie with her eyes closed and her tongue cautiously in my mouth. Francie was hot and then she was blinding. Francie was burning and then she was the sun. Francie was the sun and I was—I don’t know—something opposite.
Chapter Seven
“V edela.” Ms. Tinker grabbed my arm as I was walking out of class. “I want to talk to you.”
“It’s Vickie,” I corrected her. My name wasn’t Vickie, either, but it
Then I was putting on the jacket. I just put it on. I’m not saying I was possessed or anything; it wasn’t like that. I knew exactly what I was doing. I just took it off the rack, without a thought, and slipped it on and zipped it up, and as the zipper closed, I was surprised to find that it felt like I was shedding a skin instead of gaining a new one. Without hesitation, I turned and walked out of the store, not thinking, I just stole a three-hundred-dollar jacket, but thinking, This jacket looks amazing on me. Not wondering where Francie wasor what she was doing, but knowing without a doubt that she was right on my heels.
Francie and I had decided to meet in the handicap stall by Sears. The handicap bathroom at any mall is always deserted and is generally hidden somewhere in a dim alcove somewhere off the beaten path. There’s usually a handicap stall by the food court, too, but Francie and I tried to avoid those because they were always full of bulimics. The “handicap” part was important because the wheelchair stall was big enough for two people, with a door that went all the way to the tiles so no one could tell you were in there. That was where we caught our breath every day before heading home. It was where we took the loot from our bags, unballed it, and held it out at arm’s length, admiring it all under spastic white fluorescent light. Where we congratulated ourselves on the fruits of our misdemeanors.
Waiting for Francie in there ten minutes after stealing the leather jacket, my heart was not pounding. For the first time, I had walked out of the store unafraid of being caught. People always talk about what a rush shoplifting is, but that day, I hadn’t been scared and I hadn’t been excited. I had just been angry about something that I couldn’t name. It wasn’t until I was sitting there on the white and gray tile in the wheelchair stall, my back against the partition, that a wave of euphoria rushed over me—a delayed reaction. I had done it. The jacket was mine. I stood up, then sat again, thenstood up, then sat. I fiddled with the zipper, trying to find the perfect ratio of leather to cleavage.
When Francie came busting into the stall, I stood one more time.
“My God,” she said, out of breath. “You were amazing. Amazing. I couldn’t even keep track! I looked away for, like, one second, like, less than a second, and you were gone. The blink of an eye. Amazing!”
I didn’t say anything. I stood on my tiptoes and leaned in, and her eyes widened and then closed as I kissed her on the mouth.
Francie’s lips were waxy and kiwi-strawberry and I put my hand on hers, my fingertips smooth against her long and shiny nails. Francie, being Francie, made it French. That one time I kissed Francie, fluorescent lights lit us in the bathroom like jellyfish shining miles below everything. And I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. It wasn’t remotely romantic, or even very sexy. But that’s not to say it didn’t mean anything. Because it did.
It was a pact that bound us. It was a kiss to say, We are deadly. We are sisters. Just to say, Genuine Italian Leather.
Francie with her eyes closed and her tongue cautiously in my mouth. Francie was hot and then she was blinding. Francie was burning and then she was the sun. Francie was the sun and I was—I don’t know—something opposite.
Chapter Seven
“V edela.” Ms. Tinker grabbed my arm as I was walking out of class. “I want to talk to you.”
“It’s Vickie,” I corrected her. My name wasn’t Vickie, either, but it
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