Life After Theft

  “‘I’m sorry’? That’s weird.” But she tossed the empty bag into the garbage without another word and stowed her shirt in her backpack with a smile.

  I caught sight of Sera making her way toward the table and subtly stepped back so I wasn’t blocking the seat beside my tray. Because I’m supersmooth like that . . .

  A few other people pulled things from the pile as she walked up—one from two years ago and one from just a few weeks before Kimberlee drowned. It was exciting to watch all the happy faces around me, and I tried not to be too obvious as I turned to watch Sera find her bag.

  She sat staring at her skirt and shoes for a long time with no expression on her face at all while everyone else started digging into their food. Finally, when the din at the table settled, Sera said, “This is too creepy.”

  “Why?” I tried to ask casually. “Someone’s conscience got to ’em.”

  Sera shook her head. “No. I know who stole these and she didn’t have a conscience at all.” She addressed the whole table again. “You all remember Kimberlee.” It wasn’t a question.

  Wilson snorted. “Who could forget that beyotch?”

  I stared straight ahead, not daring to look at Kimberlee. She told me she hadn’t gotten caught, so how did Sera know?

  “She stole these,” Sera said. “I saw her do it. But she never would ’fess.”

  I tried to look as clueless as possible. “Kimberlee who?”

  “Schaffer,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Before your time.”

  “So, she reformed and gave you your stuff back?” I hoped it sounded like a natural—and uninformed—theory.

  “Dude, she’s dead,” Wilson said.

  “And good riddance,” Sera muttered into her pasta.

  I stared at Sera in shock. This was not the reaction I’d expected. Sure, she could be annoying as hell, but I figured it was just because I wasn’t one of her friends. Hadn’t Kimberlee told me how wonderful her life was? How popular she was? Open dislike was hardly the way someone as popular as Kimberlee claimed to be should be treated.

  Especially a dead someone.

  I chanced a look around. Kimberlee was nowhere to be seen.

  She didn’t show up again until I got into my car after school. And even then she slid silently into her place.

  “Hey.”

  “Let’s just go to the cave,” she replied shortly.

  We made it to the beach, and I filled my backpack with bags for Monday and started packing two boxes to set me up for the rest of the week before she spoke again. “I probably shouldn’t have taken all this stuff,” she said, her admission echoing in the cave.

  I paused for a moment, then resumed yanking on my backpack zipper. “It’s not really a ‘probably’ thing. You said you had everything. Why wasn’t that enough?”

  She sat on a box and stared at the ground. “I tried not to, but I couldn’t stop. You don’t know what it’s like. What if I asked you to stop breathing, or eating—could you?”

  “But it’s not breathing or eating, Kimberlee. It’s stealing.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped. “Don’t you think that every time I came up here with more stuff to file away I hated myself for it?”

  “Could have fooled me,” I said, gesturing to the masses of boxes surrounding us.

  She looked at me for a long time; not glaring, just studying me until I started to feel uncomfortable. “You think being a klepto means I like to steal stuff? I don’t. I hate stealing. I hate stealing more than anything in the entire world.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop?”

  “I couldn’t. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. I tried so hard. I went, like, four months one time. Then one day, I was walking behind this lady at the mall, and she had this stupid little fluffy keychain on the strap of her purse. And I wanted it so badly I couldn’t think about anything else. I walked away. I went and sat on the water fountain and tried to think of anything except the keychain. And I started to shake. My whole body was, like, having convulsions. I was seriously afraid I was going to die if I didn’t find that woman and take her keychain.” She stared down at the ground, something that looked eerily like shame filling her face.

  “So what happened?” I asked quietly.

  “I found her and took the keychain,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’ve never felt so good and so bad at the same time. I got this amazing high like I could conquer the world. But that was the moment that I knew I would never, ever conquer stealing.” She shrugged dejectedly. “I kinda gave up after that. There didn’t seem to be any point. I guess dying was the only way to stop.”

  “I’m sorry.” But it felt like a stupid thing to say.

  She shrugged. “My own fault for swimming out into that riptide.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “We don’t all die from them.”

  “No, but some of us end up being miserable for the rest of our lives.” I paused for a moment, considering that. “Maybe that’s worse.”

  “As opposed to being miserable for the rest of your afterlife?”

  Something in her voice made me feel sorry for her, and it wasn’t a feeling I wanted to have. I needed to stay rational and in control here. Kimberlee was a veritable emotional steamroller and I was constantly in danger of getting myself flattened. I sat down beside her, but not close enough to touch. The cold, creepy feeling still freaked me out. “But it might not last too much longer. You return everything and apologize and you’ll be out of here . . . to . . . wherever.”

  “It’ll be a good place, won’t it?” Kimberlee said, starting to smile now.

  A little.

  But I was so the wrong person to ask.

  When in doubt, lie. “Absolutely,” I said, without meeting her eyes.

  Nine

  “WAKE UP, LAZY ASS!” Kimberlee shouted at about two-hours-before-rational-time o’clock the next morning. “It’s Harrison Hill day!”

  “Sure,” I said, grabbing a pillow and dropping it on top of my head. “And in case you didn’t hear right, I’m going at ten o’clock p.m.”

  “Duh. We have to go shopping now and get you something decent to wear.”

  That cheered me up like a kick to the head. “Shopping? Uh, no.”

  “Dude, I’ve seen what’s in your closet. Old tees and faded jeans. And Converse? Please!”

  “Vintage,” I corrected her, defending my eclectic collection of shirts I’d very carefully selected from some of Phoenix’s finest thrift stores.

  “Whatever. Not good enough for Harrison Hill. When you go to a school with uniforms, you make the most of any chance to actually show off your taste. This party will be a full-on fashion show and your clothes will totes stick out. And not in the good way.”

  “I never stood out in Phoenix,” I grumbled, smooshing my face back into the pillow.

  “This is not Phoenix.”

  I mumbled something incoherent into my pillow.

  She sat down on the bed, almost touching me, and I cringed. “This is your first chance to make a real impression on the social scene. You want to do it right.”

  Sometimes Kimberlee does have a point. “Fine,” I said. “But nothing too wild. I don’t want to look like some kind of weird freak show, fashionable or not.”

  “Absolutely,” Kimberlee promised. “We’ll go chic and elegant instead of cheap and flashy.”

  Chic. Elegant. That sounded good. Good enough to drag myself out of bed and into a nice, hot shower.

  I admit, I didn’t hurry. I lingered over the coffee and donuts that my dad had declared a new Saturday-morning tradition—I think it was his own little rebellion against Tina’s health-food espionage—and I really needed to see the end of some news show that was on. Current events, right? By the time I finally grabbed my keys, Kimberlee had been pacing and throwing me dirty looks for fifteen minutes.

  “Finally,” she grumbled as I clicked into my seat belt
.

  “Where’s the mall?” I asked, as I turned on my signal and headed out of our neighborhood.

  “You’re kidding, right? People like us do not shop at the mall. Not for a Harrison Hill outfit.”

  Well, my chances of picking out something quick and easy at Macy’s just went out the window. “Where, then?”

  “Oh please; Montana Avenue, duh.”

  “Huh?”

  Her mouth dropped open and she gave me her best you are an idiot stare. “You don’t know Montana Avenue? Everyone knows about Montana Avenue. It’s the hottest place to shop.” She settled back in her seat. “We’ll find something fabulous there.”

  The light was still red, but it was going to turn any second. “Which way?” I asked, ignoring her lecture.

  “I can’t believe you don’t know this.”

  “Get over it. Which way?”

  The light changed and the Mercedes behind me honked.

  “Which way?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel.

  Kimberlee looked at me like I was a particularly gross bug, and the Mercedes honked again.

  “Straight it is,” I muttered, peeling out.

  “You should have gone left,” Kimberlee said with no change of expression.

  I gritted my teeth and reined in my temper as I casually, slowly, thoughtfully cut off about six cars, flipping a U-turn that left an arc of black tire marks across three lanes of traffic.

  I was going to have to apologize to Halle later.

  Kimberlee shrieked and attempted to grab hold of something, but she ended up sprawled across my lap. Well, sprawled inside my lap, since she sank right through my thighs. I gasped as ice shot up my spine and I was wracked with a bone-grinding chill that almost made me let go of the wheel. After that, she quietly directed me down the Santa Monica 10 to Lincoln Boulevard. My nerves were somewhat recovered by the time we reached the outdoor strip-mallish street that looked about two miles long.

  At least Kimberlee was excited. She got out of the car, straightened her shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” she said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened.

  I shuffled after her.

  I have to admit, Montana Avenue was impressive, though I tried to act all nonchalant. Every kind of store you could imagine lined the streets, their displays so bright it was almost hard to look at. Hundreds of people milled around, most of them looking either like dazzled tourists or runway models.

  Guess which category I fit into.

  We passed a store with tailored suits and colorful dress shirts hanging in the window. “Let’s go in here,” I whispered to Kimberlee. This was classic and chic, wasn’t it? Girls go for that metro look. I think.

  But Kimberlee just wrinkled her nose. “SEAN? Oh please. What are you? A future MBA? No, don’t answer that; I don’t even want to know. Come on.” I took one last glance at the window before trudging after her.

  “Here,” she said, surveying the front of a funkily decorated store, her hands on her hips. “This looks promising.”

  I looked up at the sign. Citron. My eyes went down to the window display. I wasn’t even completely sure it was clothing. I mean, there was fabric on mannequins, but it was all drapey and covered with strange designs. Lots of snakes, flowers, and . . . Buddhas?

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “In, in!” she ordered.

  Someone help me. Pushing open the door sounded a very soft tinkle in the back and a tall, thin woman with dark brown lipstick came walking up to me with a huge smile on her face. “Welcome to Citron. Can I help you find something?”

  “Tell her you’re just looking right now,” Kimberlee said, already studying the racks of clothing.

  “Just looking, thanks,” I mumbled. “So what now?” I asked, flipping through the rack Kimberlee was eyeing.

  She snorted. “I suggest you start by going to a stand with men’s clothing on it.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She rolled her eyes and strode to the other end of the store. I looked around, comparing the two sides. I guess there was a difference. The male side looked a little more brown. I squinted. Yeah, definitely more brown. I sighed and went over to stand next to Kimberlee.

  “Hold this up,” she said, pointing to a hideous yellow button-up shirt with brownish swirls all over it.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  She sent me a look full of fire and I yanked the monstrosity up to my chest. “Nope,” Kimberlee said. “Put it back.”

  Thank you, universe.

  She had me hold up several more shirts—some were a little less hideous and some a little more, but none were anywhere near the range I’d have considered wearable. I held up a semisheer, long-sleeved black thing with an intricate silver design on it, and Kimberlee paused. Then she walked all around me and continued to stand in front of me and stare. I was starting to get uncomfortable when she nodded.

  “Get that one.”

  I looked around me. “This one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t want me to try it on or anything?”

  She laughed like that was the silliest idea in the world. “I know what size you wear. Just go buy it.”

  “Fine,” I huffed.

  I took the shirt to the register without looking at it again, and the saleswoman gushed that it was the newest thing from some spring lineup, or something, and then took about ten minutes folding it into an oversized paper bag with tissue paper and everything.

  “Here you are,” she said with that fake smile. “That’ll be eighty-four ninety-nine.”

  I turned and shot a wide-eyed look at where Kimberlee had been about two seconds before, but she had conveniently disappeared. I dug out my credit card, glad my mom had mentioned just yesterday that I should get some new clothes. Maybe she’d understand.

  I was afraid of where Kimberlee might take me next, but relief washed over me as she lead me into a store called Blue Jeans Bar. This couldn’t be too bad.

  And it wasn’t—until she made me buy a glittering silver belt.

  “It matches the shirt,” she protested when I refused to even pick up the spangled accessory.

  “So? The shirt sucks!”

  “The shirt is awesome. Trust me.”

  “Trust you?”

  “Maybe that was the wrong phrase to use.” She paused, thinking. “Believe in my innate fashion sense that has never been wrong.”

  My shoulders slumped. She was the one who had been to all the Harrison Hill parties before.

  I picked up the belt.

  “I knew you had good judgment,” she said, flouncing off toward a huge display of baggy, torn jeans.

  I tried to argue about the faded and patched jeans that looked just like the ones I had at home, and even more strongly against the jean jacket she paired them with. But when it came to fashion among Santa Monica’s elite, I had nothing to go on, and though I’d never seen Kimberlee in anything but her uniform, I kind of assumed she must have been fashionable.

  I refused to even look at the amount when the cashier rang me up. I could decide if it was worth it after the party.

  “One more stop,” Kimberlee said, heading back up the street.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” I insisted as quietly as possible. “I am not getting shoes,” I said, cutting her off.

  “What?”

  “I’m not getting shoes.” I pointed at the bags I was holding. “This is enough.”

  “Who said anything about shoes?”

  Well, that was comforting.

  I followed her a few more steps into a store and stood there for several seconds before I realized I was surrounded by lingerie of every shape, size, and color I could have possibly imagined.

  And several my imagination had never come up with.

  The ten or so women in the store were all staring at me.

  I froze for a few seconds before muttering, “Excuse me,” and fleeing the store. As soon as I was safely on the sidewalk I looked up at t
he sign. Lisa Normal Lingerie. Perfect. Kimberlee strikes again.

  Kimberlee walked out of the store with that wide-eyed expression of innocence I was becoming sickeningly familiar with. “You won’t come in and just browse with me?” she asked. “I can’t exactly move the hangers myself.”

  “You think this is about me being afraid to touch underwear?” I sputtered. Remembering that no one could see Kimberlee but me, I lowered my voice and slipped around the corner of the store. “This isn’t about the underwear. You keep doing this! Putting me in stupid or embarrassing situations and then acting like you have no idea how it happened. Well I am not going to go in and do you a favor after you pull that kind of crap on me. No!”

  “Whatever. You just don’t want to be in a lingerie store.”

  “I am not afraid of bras!” I said, knowing, even as the words escaped my mouth, that I sounded like a total moron.

  Kimberlee sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll have to hope I get lucky with one of the other browsers.”

  “And I’m not going to wait out here on the sidewalk for you.”

  “Whatever,” she said, and strolled into the store without looking back. I just grabbed my bags and walked back toward my car. She could find her own way home.

  Ten

  AT NINE THIRTY THAT NIGHT I stood in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door in an outfit that no one in their right mind would ever refer to as either chic or elegant.

  “I look ridiculous,” I whispered to Kimberlee who had, as I suspected, made her way back just in time to direct—as she called it—my transformation.

  “Please,” Kimberlee lectured. “I led the fashion revolution around here. When I was alive, I didn’t just wear fashions, I made them. What you ‘look’ is fabulous. Stop complaining.”

  I watched my eyebrow raise in the mirror.

  “This outfit accentuates your form,” Kimberlee insisted, her hand doing this funky silhouette thing. I thought it just made me look skinny.

  For starters, the pants were too big; the only thing keeping them from sliding down to my ankles was that appalling sparkly belt balanced on my hip bones. The shirt was covered with the jean jacket, which was too small. It only just reached my waistline and was too slim to zip up in the front.