“I need you to do something for me, okay?” Tommy says.
I’m trying to concentrate on what he’s saying, but he has a sandwich. A real one. With white bread and gooey peanut butter dripping out the sides. Not made with sandwich thins and some freaky peanut powder they sell at the health food store.
Grape jelly.
“Can you do it?” he asks.
“What?”
He rolls his eyes at me from his seat at the picnic table. The weather is nice, so we’ve taken seats outside the Mountain Vista cafeteria. Kennes is across the courtyard. She’s mastered the Scottsdale uniform of jeans with rhinestones on the ass and a nearly see-through T-shirt.
I glance down at my tie-dyed T-shirt covered with a swirl of ironic, yawning cats. Kennes and I aren’t even living in the same fashion universe.
Once word got out Kennes was a billionaire’s daughter, she had no shortage of attention-seeking sycophants jockeying for her friendship and shored herself up with a snobby mixture of cheerleaders and jocks. There’d been a couple of days when I felt sure she planned to transfer her affections for Tommy to some loser on the lacrosse team, but that didn’t pan out. She wanted him because she knew I did.
Kennes crosses the yard to toss her trash and gives Tommy a flirtatious wave. I lean into his field of view as he grins back at her.
“Do what?” I repeat.
He returns to the moment. “Oh. Meet me after school. I have to go over to Toys“R”Us and return some of my Lego sets. But I’ve been...well...I’ve taken a lot of stuff back recently and they keep giving me crap. So I need you to return the stuff.”
“We’ll have to do it fast,” I say. “My shift starts at five.”
“We’ll be in and out.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. He’s watching Kennes as she walks off, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s hot for her and wants to make out behind the portables or if he’s worried about something.
He nods, smiles and chews his sandwich.
After lunch, I have to dress for PE. I’m one of the few seniors taking it. You need one semester to graduate, and I should have gotten it out of the way freshman year like almost everybody else.
The only thing that sucks worse than PE is PE on Friday when you’re stuck watching the seconds to the weekend tick by as you try to square dance or play volleyball. I reach into my locker for my gym shorts and drop them immediately. They smell. I mean really smell and I realize that I meant to take them home the day before and wash them. Luckily, I keep an old pair of sweats for an emergency.
It’s one of the few times of the year that the temperature isn’t a thousand degrees outside, so this is when they make us run. It’s only a mile, but in the past, I would have ditched. Or I would have been in the locker room trying to find a way to fake spraining my ankle.
Now I’m kind of okay with the running. I’ve been doing five miles on a regular basis with my NutriNation group. But today, Houston, we have a problem. My sweats are falling off.
I have to use one hand to hold on to the waistband as I walk-run around Mountain Vista’s orange track. I’m still one of the first to finish, even with my weird sideways shuffle.
“Well, Miss Vonn, I nominate you for most improved PE student of the decade,” Coach O’Grady says as I pass her. She’s the opposite of the butch female coach stereotype. She looks like she might have been Susan Lucci in a past life. She checks her stopwatch and makes a note on her clipboard. “You’re just under ten minutes. At the start of the semester, you were over twenty.”
“Uh...thanks,” I say. It’s sort of a backhanded compliment.
“You’ve dropped a lot of weight. You look great.”
I’m down fifty pounds and I should be thrilled, but it’s super awkward to have people call attention to me. It’s like people think they’re saying something that should make me feel really great. Instead, it’s a reminder that they didn’t like the way I looked before. That I’m fat and everybody has been judging me all along.
“Keep it up, Miss Vonn.”
“Uh, sure,” I say.
I pick up the pace of my walk both to get away from O’Grady and to have more time to change. I’m almost outside the track fence when I hear her call, “You’ll need to bring in some pants that fit, though, Miss Vonn.”
Behind me, a couple of girls snicker. I don’t look back.
After school, I follow Tommy’s truck to Superstition Springs Mall, where there’s a Toys“R”Us on the south side. He pulls Lego Mindstorm sets out of the cab of the truck for what seems to be forever. I know he’s king of the nerds and captain of the school’s FIRST Lego League team, but this is excessive even for him.
“Jeez, did you and your team of dorks hijack the Polar Express or something?”
“No,” he says. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”
I roll my eyes. “Why do I ask if you’ve become a train bandit and joined the Conrail Boyz? It’s a joke, Tommy.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He frowns and is way off his A-game as we load the Mindstorms into a shopping cart and I push it into the store.
Tommy grabs a second cart and says, “All you have to do is take the returns over to Customer Service. Tell them you need store credit. I’ll meet you right back here.”
“Okay.”
As I approach the customer service counter, I can see the bleached-blonde girl behind the counter is thinking the same thing as me. What the hell?
“I need to return these.” I hand her the receipt I got from Tommy. The total on the receipt is more than $6,000. These fucking Mindstorm sets are $100 each. Tommy’s parents do okay, but they’re not Jay-Z and Beyoncé. My stomach starts to churn out extra acid. It hits me that I should have asked a few follow-up questions.
But I’m committed now, and Blondie reaches into a drawer and pulls out a form. “What’s the reason for the return?”
“Uh...” I realize I don’t know the answer. Tommy didn’t tell me why he needed to exchange all this stuff.
The clerk reaches into the cart and pulls one of the sets out. “I guess they’re damaged?” she supplies.
I look down and see that she’s right. Each box is partially torn or smashed on one side. “Uh. Yeah,” I say.
“I need your driver’s license.”
I hand it to her and she starts scanning the Mindstorms. She makes it through the first couple and then the computer beeps. She scowls at the screen and presses a few keys. And then a few more. Then she’s typing like she’s decided to do a complete rewrite of Hamlet while I wait. She picks up the phone. “I need assistance at Customer Service. Code three.”
Code three doesn’t sound positive.
The speed of my pulse picks up but I tell myself that, with all this stuff, she probably needs a manager’s signature or something. I turn toward the store window and wave my hand to get Tommy’s attention. He’s standing next to his car watching me with a puzzled frown. A few feet from me, there’s a loud scene developing as a mom wrestles a SpongeBob doll from a wailing toddler.
“I need you to come with me.”
I jump as I find a large, balding man in a tan blazer standing right next to my left elbow. Blondie is passing him my driver’s license.
“What?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tommy closing the distance to the store.
“You need to come with me, uh, Miss Vonn.” He reads my name off my ID.
“Wait. Wait,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even know you.” I take a step back toward the exit door. It’s about five feet behind me and stuck in an open position. I consider making a break for it.
He reaches out and grabs my elbow. It doesn’t hurt, but I won’t be going anywhere either. “Darren Smith. Store security. You need to come with me.”
Before Tommy can make it inside, Darren Smith guides me to a gray door in the rear of the store, up a flight of stairs and into a small office, also gray. A large whiteboard with two columns, one labeled “Police Report Number” and the other “Status,” hangs behind a clean metal desk.
He closes the door, drops me into the chair in front of the desk, and takes the seat behind. With the two of us in the cramped, claustrophobic space, I’m flushing and breathing hard.
“I suppose you know you’re in a lot of trouble.” Darren Smith opens the top drawer of the desk and produces a notepad and a pen.
The pen clicks.
“If you’d like to give a statement, we might be able to avoid making this a police matter.”
“What? I don’t understand...what?” I stammer in shock.
Smith grunts. “Young lady, you wheeled a cart full of more than $5,000 in stolen Lego sets into the store. That’s not the kind of thing where the cops show up and give you a desk appearance ticket. You get arrested. For grand theft.”
“I had a receipt for that stuff. That blonde girl took it from me...and I...I don’t know...and um...” I’m trying to make some kind of sense of what’s happening. Tommy’s behavior. The bizarre amount of merchandise he had.
“Obviously, we’re interested in the identities of the shoplifters.”
“Shoplifters? I had a receipt...”
He drops his pen and pulls the black desk phone close to him. “So we’re doing this the hard way, I guess. Okay. Well, here’s the part where I tell you that we’ve been working in conjunction with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office on an operation designed to put a stop to this little return-fraud racket of yours.”
“Return fraud? Um...”
“We added individual serial numbers to the items in our Mindstorm inventory and sprayed them with code-laced liquid. We can prove the sets you tried to return were stolen from various stores in the valley, and we have your friends on CCTV, so cut the crap, young lady.”
He’s staring at me with an expression that combines anger with impatience with disbelief. He shakes his head. “Either you are a better actress than Meryl Streep, or you’re a complete moron.”
This comment fires up my engine. “Or I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Darren Smith smirks. “Sure. I suppose you just found all that stuff sitting in the parking lot.”
“I had a receipt.”
The smirk fades. “Look, I might be able to buy that someone put you up to this. But I would need you to tell me who.”
Tommy.
I can’t rat him out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about return fraud. Typically, someone goes into a store and steals an item for the purpose of taking it back and receiving a ‘refund.’” Smith makes air quotes when he says the word refund.
Tommy.
The guy who spent three weekends helping reroof Grandma’s house is involved in a shoplifting ring.
“In this case, your pals come into the store and steal Lego. Since they often have to damage the boxes in the process of removing the security sensors, they come back and buy a set like the one they have stolen.”
Tommy.
The guy who’d driven me to Donutville on five seconds notice when my car broke down.
“They bring the stolen, damaged Mindstorms back to the store—using the receipts for the ones they purchased—and trade them in for sets in good condition. Then they sell both sets on eBay, pocketing the profit from the theft. Return fraud, Miss Vonn.”
Tommy.
The guy who’d loaned me $600 without blinking when the airline said I was too fat to fly.
“So why don’t you tell me who put you up to this?”
I shake my head.
There’s nothing quite so disgraceful as being hauled out of a toy store in handcuffs while a bunch of five-year-olds gawk at you. You become the instant example of their parents’ cautionary tales. See, you better not stuff that Pokémon figure in your pocket, Billy, or you’ll end up like that girl.
Tommy’s at the front having an argument with the blonde lady at the return desk. I only catch the last part as he says, “I have to see my friend.”
I see the wide brown eyes of the boy who brought me dinner at Fairy Falls and told me stories of the stars, and I can’t let him get in trouble. I’m not even sure that whatever’s inside of him is tough enough to handle trouble. “Tommy. Go home.”
His voice shakes. “C-C-Cookie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know... I’ll tell them—”
“You can’t tell them what you don’t know. Go home.”
Mr. Darren Smith watches with interest. Maybe he’s got a shoplifting quota and one more arrest equals a bonus. He’s disappointed as Tommy walks back to his car. I am too. But I know it’s better this way.
Smith calls the cops. We wait for them outside the front of the store.
It’s actually the Mesa police who come to arrest me, although there’s some talk of jurisdiction issues as they try to figure out exactly which Toys“R”Us stores the stolen Lego belong to.
They’ve got me in yet another small, gray room and they’re discussing if, when and how to book me.
Then the cops call Grandma. Grandma calls Mom.
Mom sends Chad Tate.
Instant fraternity.
Chad Tate. The Chad Tate of the New York Giants. Yeah, the quarterback. The one who made that pass that one time. The one who scored that touchdown. The one with the $65,000 Super Bowl Ring.
Somehow in the span of about five minutes Chad Tate convinces the police I’m a mindless schoolgirl who could be talked into anything at any time by anybody. He signs autographs, poses for pictures and tells the story of that one time he threw the football.
I’d almost rather be in juvie than have Chad Tate’s sophomoric antics be my Get Out of Jail Free Card. But Grandma’s there too. And the look on her face.
I don’t say anything.
They charge me with a misdemeanor and I get to go home.
Yep. I’d prefer jail to having Grandma look at me like that.
“Let’s go, girl,” she says.
We’re in the parking lot and Grandma decides to wait on the bench out front for Chad Tate to bring the car around. I’m about to wait with her when Chad Tate says, “Come on, Cookie. We need to have a little talk.”
“You in town for a game?” I ask as we walk through the parking lot.
He nods. He’s got a completely sucky personality, but there’s no getting around the fact that he’s gorgeous. He’s tall, has an almost comically chiseled jaw and spends eight hours a day lifting weights. After he retired from playing, the Giants gave their star player some kind of coaching job. From what I can tell, it consists of pacing up and down the sidelines during games.
“Yep. Giants versus the Cards. Sunday at the University of Phoenix Stadium.”
He opens the passenger door of his white, rented Mercedes. “And it’s lucky for you that I happen to be in town. Otherwise you’d still be back there with the cops trying to figure out how many different cities they could have you arrested in.”
I probably should be relieved. I probably should be grateful. But I’m not. “Yeah. Well, thanks. I’ll consider this my Christmas gift for the past ten years.”
Chad Tate gives me an appealing grin. “Funny.” He pushes the start button of the car but doesn’t drive. “I think we need to get a couple of things straight right now.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Please don’t tell me you plan to give me some lame ‘I’m your stepfather’ authority figure lecture. That really seems like a waste of time.”
He ignores my comment. “First, you look good, Cookie.”
Great. Another gross “compliment.”
Plus, it’s totally out of character, because Chad Tate’s never had one nice thing to say about me in his life. He squeezes my arm in a super creepy fashion.
He’s still smiling as if he expects the Channel 3 News Crew to show up any minute. “Second, whether you like it or not, I just saved your butt, and now you owe me.” Chad Tate backs out of the parking space, stops the car in front of the station and waits for Grandma. “Sooner or later, I’m gonna want something from you. And you’re gonna give it to me.”
My face turns red in embarrassment and shame and anger. I’m pissed at Tommy for getting me into this mess. For putting me in this position with Chad fucking Tate. I’m mad as hell at Mom for being married to such an ass.
Chad Tate winks at me as I move to clear the front seat for Grandma. No one says anything else as we drive to the yellow house.
Tommy’s outside sitting on the curb.
Grandma passes him without saying a word. She glares at him and yet again, I know she understands what’s happening without me having to tell her.
I stop in front of him. He’s been crying.
Chad Tate stares at the two of us for a second and pulls away.
“I’m sorry, Cookie. I’m sorry.”
“You have been saying that a lot lately.”
He gets up and grabs my hand. “I know. I’m sorry. I would have stayed. But you told me...you told me to go. I will... I can go back to the cops and...”
I stamp my foot on the sidewalk. “You’re not going anywhere. There’s no sense in both of us getting arrested. But what the hell is wrong with you? You’re part of a shoplifting ring? Why? You have money. Your parents have money, and you’ve saved almost every dollar you’ve ever made from your lawn-mower business.”
He bursts into tears.
This startles me, and I forget how mad I am.
Dropping my hand, he covers his face and sobs. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I sigh. “Come on.”
I yank on his shirt and pull him through the carport, into the backyard and past my old tetherball pole. Roscoe barks a couple times as we go by. I keep walking, through the oleander bushes blooming with pink flowers and into the alley.
“Okay. Talk,” I say.
“I...I started out selling my extra Mindstorms on eBay. I had a few that were damaged. I decided to try to exchange them at the store so I could sell them. It seemed harmless. Then I met these people and they said that...”
“They had extra sets too?” I guess.
He nods. “I didn’t realize they were stolen. The store didn’t tell me that last time. They said I was bringing too much stuff back... I figured that...well, it’s obvious in retrospect that they...”
I grunt in frustration. “What are you doing with all the money?”
The wind picks up, scattering pink flower petals across the alley. Tommy turns away from me.
“Tommy. What are you doing with the money?”
“Kennes. She comes from a really wealthy background and she’s used to...” He trails off and stares into space.
“Are you fucking kidding me? That girl isn’t good for you.” It’s taking all my self-control not to jump into my car, hunt Kennes down and beat the snot out of her.
“I know.”
“You can’t steal to buy shit for Kennes.”
“I know.”
He’s now pacing around the alley. He grabs me by the shoulders, and all of a sudden his lips are on mine. He’s kissing me. His lips are firm and soft, his breath warm. The very tip of his tongue moves against my upper lip. My first real kiss. I’ve been dreaming of this. With Tommy. My Tommy. A shot of adrenaline explodes inside my veins and my heart soars. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
He releases me and I stumble back. A cold settles over me.
We’re silent for a few seconds. It’s awkward.
I shake off the numbness. “You have to tell her, Tommy.”
“I will.” His voice is sincere, and he leans over to kiss me lightly on the cheek.
Somehow, this feels off too.
“Thank you, Cookie. Thank you for today.”
I nod but then tense up again. The sun is setting behind the alley. I’m missing my shift at Donutville. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What time is it?”
Tommy smiles. “I called Steve. He’s covering for you.”
I relax. Sort of. I feel like I’ve done a hundred loop-the-loops on a roller coaster.
A dull confusion sets in as I wonder what this means for the future.
Tommy pats my back like things are going to be okay.
I hope they’ll be okay.