Klepto (15 page)

“Are there any celebrity’s kids in your class?” I said brightly, hoping this would ease the tension.

“Yeah, Tom Brokaw’s daughter. And I think Bette Midler’s kid is a few years behind me.”

“Cool!” I said, trying to act impressed. But it still felt weird.

We hung out in Olivia’s room looking at our old eighth-grade yearbook and talking about our new friends. I tried to tell her about Julie without sounding like I was bragging about how cool she was. I wanted to tell her about my crush on Josh Heller, but the timing never seemed right. I waited for Olivia to talk about the boys in her school, but she never did. Then the phone rang, and Olivia went to answer it in the kitchen. When she was gone for a while, I started to poke around her desk. I found this really cool little tin box with hot-pink elephants painted on it. It was empty. Without even thinking really, I dropped it into my bag.

13

Shoplifting Is Not a Game

“I don’t think you should have said yes,” I complained to Julie as we waited in the cold the next Saturday morning on the corner of 59th and Lexington. We were going to Bloomingdale’s to see what we could get. “Three people is too conspicuous.”

Julie had told Jennifer Smalls she could join us that morning at Bloomingdale’s.

“It’ll be fine,” Julie said. “Jennifer’s experienced.”

“I know, I just think it would have been better with just you and me.”

“What about that time we all went to Macy’s? That was, like, five of us,” Julie pointed out.

“That was different,” I said. “Besides, it’s like eleven fifteen. She’s late. Where the hell is she?”

“How was that different?” Julie said, and just then Jennifer came running up to us.

“Am I late?” she said, slightly out of breath, and gave us each a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t worry about it,” Julie said. “Let’s go in. It’s freezing.”

We browsed through the angora scarves and gloves on the first floor, near B-WAY, the cosmetics part of Bloom ingdale’s. When no one was looking, I slipped a lavender scarf under my armpit inside my coat. I had to move a little stiffly after that, but I didn’t think it was noticeable. We all stood at different racks and shelves a few feet from each other, acting like we weren’t together. Jennifer, I noticed, had been holding a lime-green hat in her hands, and when I looked back at her again, the hat had disappeared and she was trying on gloves.
God, she’s good,
I thought. Her face was kind of hidden behind her long, permed blonde hair. Julie was wearing her big black puffer coat—perfect for hiding stuff. She discreetly held up a mohair magenta scarf, looked over at me, and raised her eyebrows, as if to say,
Do you like it?
I shrugged, meaning,
It’s okay.
She put it back. I really wanted the lavender angora gloves that matched the scarf under my armpit. I felt a little nervous, but I was sure I was acting calm. B-WAY was pretty busy; lots of people were around the cosmetics counters, no one really looking at us. It was my perfect opportunity. I quickly put the gloves in my outside pocket.
Nobody saw,
I thought, looking around slowly. There were some ladies browsing around the hats and gloves, but they seemed too far away to see us. Okay, we all glanced at one another—time to go. For some reason we all just knew this by our glances—this was going to be a quickie. We had other stores to get to.

I stepped into one of the revolving doors and felt a hand on my shoulder. I tried to push the door but somebody’s foot was stuck in the way, stopping it from moving. It took me a second to figure out what was happening. A blonde lady dressed in regular clothes flashed a badge at us and said, “Excuse me, can I see what’s in your coat?” I froze and stared at her. She stared back at me. Julie and Jennifer were standing a little to the side, and they were frozen, too. Oh my God. I had heard of people called “plainclothes cops” who acted like shoppers; I think I saw it in a movie once. Shit. A cop with no uniform. Just a badge. She had flicked it so fast in my face, it was just a blur of silver.

“Did you hear me?” the blonde lady said. “Please unzip your jacket.” Still semifrozen, I slowly opened my coat and handed her the scarf.

“Come with me please,” the lady cop said.

Then she motioned for the three of us to walk in front of her down one of the aisles of B-WAY. It went Julie, Jennifer, then me, and I could have sworn we were all walking in slow motion. That’s what it felt like. No one said anything. It was like there was no sound except the pounding in my chest. All I could think was,
What do I do with the pair of gloves stuffed in my pocket?
Should I have told her right away or waited to see if she knew they were there? We solemnly marched down the aisle, past all the cosmetics counters like Borghese, Shiseido, and Lancôme. I looked down at the black-and-white-checked floor the whole way. Where was she taking us? She opened a heavy black door that you’d never even know was there, and we went down one flight to the basement. We sat on a bench in a room that was as tiny as a fitting room, and she sat on a metal folding chair in the doorway. She began to question us and never smiled. I thought she looked fortyish. Her blonde hair had a little gray in it, and it was kind of sprayed. She was wearing a white cotton blouse and a tan Members Only jacket.

I looked at these Polaroid mug shots and handcuffs hanging on the wall behind her head. Were they gonna take our pictures, too? Oh my God, if my parents found out about this they’d
kill
me. I’d never hear the end of it. Aunt Marty would find out, and I’d die of shame and embarrassment. What if I got expelled from school? Would this mean I couldn’t go to college?

Was this lady gonna arrest us? I could tell Julie and Jennifer were trying not to cry, just like I was. The cop had a clipboard with forms on it, and she asked us our names and addresses. Oh shit, this was really happening.

Julie went first—thank God ’cause I needed a minute to think of a fake address. There was
no way
I could tell her my real address; if they’d sent something home to my parents or called them, that would’ve been it. My life would’ve been over.

“Julie Braverman,” Julie said, “Two Sixty-Five Riverside Drive.” She could give her real name and address because she had a mailbox key and got home in the afternoon before Mimi. I was not so lucky; I did not have a mailbox key.

“And you,” the lady cop said to Jennifer.

“Jennifer Gibson, One Eighty-Six Franklin Street,” she said, still hidden behind her hair. Oh man, she gave Julie’s sister Ruby’s address in Tribeca! Ruby was twenty-six and lived in a big loft.
Way to go, Jennifer,
I thought. I wished I had thought of that. And how did she think of that fake last name so fast? The lady cop finished writing and looked at me. All I could think of was that building where Olivia Howe’s dad moved for a brief period when her parents almost got divorced. Was it 115 Central Park West? One Fifteen Central Park West was the only building I could think of that I knew exactly where it was. What if she quizzed me about the cross street or something? I had to force myself to speak.

“Julie Howe,” I said, “One Fifteen Central Park West.” Julie and Jennifer did not even flinch. I amazed myself. I knew I was keeping a straight face, but the tears were getting harder and harder to hold back.

“How old are you girls?” the lady cop asked.

“Fifteen,” we said.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not sixteen or I could arrest you as adults. You could be sent to a correctional juvenile home. Shoplifting is not a
game
, you know that?” She looked at us like this was the most serious thing ever. Then I heard this small squeaking sound coming from Julie. Oh Jesus, was she cracking up? From the corner of my eye I saw tears falling into her lap. We didn’t know what to say. We could barely hold our heads up ’cause we were so scared. Jennifer kept sniffing to keep her nose from running and my eyes spilled over, too. It was impossible to hold it in.

“Would you like to explain yourselves?”

We stared at the lady cop and the mug shots on the wall hanging behind her. One guy in a mug shot was black and he had a huge blond Afro. I wondered what that guy did. Nobody was saying anything.

Finally, Julie said through her tears, “It was a dare. . . . Some other kids in our class dared us. We’ve never done this before. I swear.” Jennifer and I just sat there totally silent except for our crying.

The lady cop looked at each of us for a second. “Uh-huh,” she said. Man, was she mad. “Well, you should know better than to accept such a stupid dare. And you’re never going to do it again. At least not here. Now stand up,” she said bossily, and reached for the Polaroid camera on the shelf. She pointed it at Julie and clicked. Oh, shit. This couldn’t be happening. Julie’s picture slid out of the camera and the lady cop put it on a chair, where it sat developing. Then she snapped the camera in Jennifer’s face. And then mine. I couldn’t even imagine what we all must have looked like sobbing like that.

Our three pictures sat on the chair, slowly revealing who we were, while the lady cop took out some forms and more clipboards and pens. She motioned for us to sit back down on the bench, then handed each of us a pen and a clipboard and made us all sign the form on it. We were agreeing to never again set foot in Bloomingdale’s for the rest of our lives. Oh . . . my . . . God. How would I avoid Blooming-dale’s for the rest of my life? I imagined Christmas morning and Mom has bought me a shirt from Bloomingdale’s and it’s the wrong color and I have to exchange it. How would I finish collecting all the different “Bloomies” undies, with the
O
s like tennis rackets or hearts or wreaths? What if I ran out of Shiseido Iridescent Baby Pink lipstick—did they even have a Shiseido at Macy’s?

We sat in this little basement room for maybe fifteen minutes and we had our winter coats on, and I was sweating. We signed the forms and suddenly we were free to go. The walk back up the stairs, through B-WAY and out the revolving doors, was much faster this time.

Jennifer, Julie, and I could not look one another in the eye. We got outside onto Lexington Avenue and exhaled. It was cold out. The three of us started walking toward the subway, and I stuck my hand in my pockets.

“You guys,” I said. I pulled out the lavender angora gloves.

“Oh my God,” Julie said. We all burst out laughing. But it was weird; it was kind of like we were crying-laughing. It felt like what it must feel like to be crazy. Pretty soon it was just laughing-laughing—we were practically doubled over right there on the sidewalk.

“What an idiot! Do you think she was even a real cop?” Jennifer said.

“She must have been! I’ve never been so scared in my entire life!” I said, trying to catch my breath. “How did I get away with this?” I waved the gloves in the air.

“Shhh! Shhhh!” Julie said. “Put them away.” And she looped her arms through mine and Jennifer’s and led us to the Lexington Avenue subway.

On the train, my head was spinning. Julie and Jennifer seemed fine, but I felt this hollow feeling in my chest. Would we ever stop doing this? What if we never stopped?

Sunday morning Mom and I were in the kitchen getting breakfast. Ellie was still asleep and Dad was in the shower.

“Mom, can I ask you a question?” I said out of nowhere. She’d had a few sips of orange juice and was pouring Wheaties into a bowl. I was waiting for my English muffin to finish toasting.

“Of course,” she said.

“What if I told you I wanted to go see . . . um . . . like . . . a professional?”

Then she thought for a second, and I wasn’t sure if it was too early in the morning for her to talk about stuff like this or if she was gonna ask me why or what.

“What kind of professional?” she said.

“Um. Like that lady you and Dad go to sometimes at Mt. Sinai. Joyce What’s-her-name?”

“Joyce Kazlick?”

“Yeah. Joyce Kazlick. Like her.”

“You mean, you want to see a therapist?”

“Yeah,” I said, not really looking at her. My mother was looking at me over her reading glasses, about to open
The New York Times
.

“Well, I suppose we could find you someone. Or you could see Joyce. I’ll call Mt. Sinai on Monday, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, and the toaster oven popped open.

“Okay,” she said, and that was that. She didn’t ask why or pry any further. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, part of me kind of wanted her to, but part of me was glad she didn’t.

“And Mom?”

“Mm-hmm?” she said, pouring half-and-half on her cereal.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? Don’t tell Ellie.”

Mom made the motion for zipping her lips. I left the kitchen feeling kind of bummed out, and I didn’t know why.

14

Thank God I Was Seeking Professional Help

I got to Joyce Kazlick’s office at Mt. Sinai early, which was a good thing since I had to pee. The plaque on her door said JOYCE KAZLICK, C.S.W., but I didn’t know what “C.S.W.” meant. I loved the smell of the liquid soap in the bathroom; it reminded me of Dr. Beaumont, my pediatrician, and I always liked him. I thought the smell of the soap and my liking it was a good sign. As I sat there on the tan vinyl waiting chair in Joyce Kazlick’s hallway, I tried to concentrate on reading
The Crucible
for Dr. Deutsch’s English class, but I kept smelling my hands instead. An older balding black man sat snoozing a few chairs away. He held his cheek in his hand and his elbow kept sliding off the armrest, but he didn’t wake up. Finally, Joyce Kazlick’s door opened.