Page 11

“W HAT AM I EVEN SUPPOSED to write?” I ask Salem as I stand poised in front of the statue of Martha Camden, wife of Camden Academy founder William Henry Camden, whose pedestal is covered with black-inked names. “Everything here is, like, initials in hearts. Is this a couples’ statue?”

“Supposedly,” Salem concedes, and I both do and very much don’t want to ask him if there’s an SG+JL on here somewhere. “But I figured it was a good baby step, considering about a thousand people got here first.”

“I don’t need baby steps,” I lie, putting my initials into a heart all on their own. Salem nods as if he believes me, then nods toward the accompanying Martha Camden bench and hands me his omnipresent uncurled paper clip. It takes me about ten minutes to carve a remotely satisfying SKEEVY into the polished wood, and while it is the worst nickname known to man, at least it’s a slightly less dead giveaway of whose vandalism is on display.

“Nice job,” he says with a nod as he takes back the clip and pulls out a lighter. “Wanna step it up?”

“I do not.”

“Probably a good choice.” He slips his lighter back into his pocket. “Cutting classes was another big one, but I guess a Sunday’s not a great day for that. Oh, I once got a week of in-school suspension for streaking across the football field. You could try that?”

Over my dead body. “Maybe next week.”

Salem drops onto the bench, kicking up his Vans as he considers other options. “Honestly, there’s not a whole lot to be done on campus, especially if you’re not up for smoking or arson. We might need to take a field trip. How would you feel about stealing a car?”

“Not great, especially since I don’t have a license, and neither do you.”

He swings his legs around and rests his elbows on his knees. “I mean. You did want to do things I’ve gotten in trouble for before…”

“Not things that could potentially get me a record,” I clarify.

“Well, that doesn’t leave a whole lot. But since it looks like we’ll be taking the Camden shuttle, I think I know where we’re going. First, though, a quick stop at Rumson.”

“Okay, why?”

“Because it’s my turn to teach you how to dress for the occasion.”

“Candy store, candle shop, or Old Navy?”

My heart pounds in my chest as I consider my options. “Why just those three?” As if I want more. But I’m buying myself time.

“Because neither of us are interested in sporting goods and I thought the lingerie place would be awkward. Now, which one?”

The lingerie place certainly would be awkward, especially since it’s where his girlfriend and I bought matching lacy underwear. Hard pass. “Candy store.” Candy’s small, cheap, and mass-produced; who really cares if I walk off with a little bit of it in the strategically placed pockets of the outfit Salem selected for this purpose?

“Good call. Let’s go.” He holds open the door for me— now those etiquette lessons come in handy?—and I slip inside, my eyes immediately flying to the pink-shirted staff.

Not one of them is looking at us. Not one of them looks like they give a shit about anything at all. They’re probably just MCC kids, or even Pinebrook High students with weekend jobs. They don’t care if a package of Starbursts finds its way up my sleeve. They don’t. They absolutely don’t.

“Are you sweating ?”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“Jesus Christ, Skeevy. A pack of gum is like a dollar.”

“It’s still stealing!” I hiss, assessing the shelves for what I could most easily slip out of its colorful box. The glass jars on the central platform are out of the question, even though I’d kill for some gummy Coke bottles right about now, but there are cinnamints and Life Savers and a whole display of Airheads that looks promising. Or maybe the Tootsie Roll bins…

“It’s not the fucking Louvre.”

“Pardon me for not having cased the joint in advance.”

“I will not pardon you for having used the phrase ‘cased the joint’ at all, in fact.”

I accidentally step on Salem’s foot. Twice.

“The longer you stay here browsing, the more familiar you’ll look,” Salem points out when he’s done cursing me under his breath. “Your hair does not exactly blend into the scenery.”

“I said I should wear a hat!”

“The only thing more conspicuous than your actual hair is your hair sticking out like a clown wig mashed down by a hat. Now pick something and let’s go.”

“ Okay. ” The loose saltwater taffies look easy enough, so I scoop up a couple and slide them into my T-shirt pocket, which is strategically hidden by the plaid button-up I’m wearing over it. I wait for a shout that never comes, and then add a couple of Bit-O-Honeys, which are, in my opinion, extremely underrated. Finally, a pack of gum makes its way into my bag too easily. Then I kick Salem in the sneaker and we head toward the exit while I try to keep my breathing under control.

And then, magically, we’re outside. No alarm goes off. No one calls after us. We’re just… free. And so is the candy.

We keep going down the hall and around the corner, and I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding since I picked up that first taffy.

“Holy shit,” I manage, panting. “I did it. I shoplifted.”

“You did!” Salem says with a proud smile. “How’s it feel?”

I take a second to consider my answer. “Super shitty. I really do not like stealing. Did you do this a lot?”

“Nah, only a couple of times, with things I’m not old enough to buy legally—lighters and rolling papers, mostly. I did get my start at a candy store, though. Seemed pretty low stakes, and I can eat ten pounds of sour bears when I’m stoned.”

“Wow, so marijuana really is a gateway drug.”

Salem rolls his eyes. “Come on—what’s next on the list?”

I can’t bring myself to tell him. If anything else feels as bad as stealing does, it’ll make it official that I am not cut out to be a bad girl.

He watches me for a minute before finally letting out a heavy sigh. “Gimme the candy, Skeevy.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

I reach into my pockets and put it all in Salem’s hands. It feels good to be rid of it, but now I’m just afraid of Salem getting in trouble. He doesn’t seem remotely bothered, though; he turns and heads back the way we came.

“Salem! Where are you going?”

“Where do you think?” he calls, and I watch him turn the corner.

I’m too afraid to follow him, and by the time he returns a few minutes later, my nails are bitten down to the quick. “Here you go,” he says, holding up a little plastic bag.

I take it and open it up. Inside is all the stolen candy, a baggie of Coke-bottle gummies, and a clean white receipt. “You went back and paid for it? What did you tell them?”

“That my friend ‘forgot’ to pay. But you still get a treat for trying,” he adds with a nod to the gummies. I don’t know how he remembered they’re my favorite, or when I even told him, but I tear into them like a mountain lion. “Classy,” he observes with a grin.

I’m too hungry to even tell him to shut up.

Once I’ve ingested my weight in sugar, I let Salem in on my next thought. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually, and today seems like the perfect day. “We’re going to the Ink Spot.”

He’s been following me in that direction, but now he stops in his tracks. “You want to get a tattoo ? Skeevy, no. ”

“No?” A tattoo was not my actual plan, but I thought he’d find the idea hilarious. Instead, he looks straight-up horrified. “Are you telling me you don’t have an entire sleeve of tattoos planned for someday?”

“I don’t, actually—my mom’s grandparents were Holocaust survivors and she made me swear on their graves I’d never get one—but that’s not the point. This isn’t like paying for stolen candy five minutes later, Peach. If you hate it, there’s no magic eraser.”

“What makes you so sure I’d hate it?”

He sighs. “What would you even get?”

“Hmm… I was thinking maybe your face, as a back piece. If I bend at the right angle, you can kiss my ass whenever I want,” I say sweetly.

“Ha ha. Then what’s really at the Ink Spot?”

“They have a piercing chair, too. I was thinking maybe a cute little stud, right here.” I tap the outside of my right nostril. “What do you think?”

He tips his head. “I think… that’d look cool, actually. All right, come on.”

We head down to the Ink Spot, trading ludicrous tattoo ideas as we go, and are greeted by a cute girl with pigtails the color of blue raspberry cotton candy and a double lip piercing that clearly captures Salem’s attention. I can’t help wondering if he’s lusting after the piercing or the mouth it’s attached to. She’s definitely what I would’ve picked out as his type, and for the millionth time since my discovery on Friday night, I wonder how the hell he can be with Jenna London, of all people.

Unfortunately, Pigtails’s coolness extends only so far as her own appearance; as soon as we tell her why we’re here, she taps the sign next to her that says MINORS MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY A PARENT OR LEGAL GUARDIAN .

“Oh, uhh, this is my dad?” I offer, indicating Salem.

“She’ll be sent straight to her room after this,” Salem confirms.

“Orrr I’m eighteen? Should I have gone with that?”

“Probably,” Pigtails says with a shrug, “but only if you’ve got a good fake. We do check IDs.”

“I do,” Salem says, pulling out his wallet, but Pigtails stops him.

“You’re a little late,” she says, but at least she sounds a little sympathetic. “Come back at three when we change shifts. You have perfect eyebrows for a barbell.”

“No one tells me I have perfect eyebrows for anything,” I grumble as we walk away, the depleted bag of candy swinging between us.

“You have perfect eyebrows for scrunching up when you’re pissed at me.”

“That helps, thank you.” We walk until we reach the central atrium, and I look over the banister at the shoppers below. As I watch them film each other on escalators and holding up hauls, I think about how today has been an incredible bust on my part… and then finally, I think of something even I can’t screw up.

“I’m going shopping,” I tell Salem.

“Yes, I did notice we are at the mall.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m running into Azalea Commons—ten minutes, tops. You can go do whatever, and I’ll meet you at the food court.” If I’d been with Sabrina, or pretty much any female friend, I’d have dragged them into the cheap fast-fashion shop with me, but I can’t bring myself to make Salem sit there while I try on outfits, looking for one daring piece to add to my wardrobe.

Sticking to the bargain bins, I find it easily—an aqua lace corset with lime-green ribbons that I change into in the bathroom immediately after checking out and cover with the button-up before stuffing my original tee into my bag.

Salem’s sucking noisily from a cup of fountain soda when I arrive, five minutes later than I said I’d be. “Hey, you wanna share fries?” he asks when I walk up.

“Soon,” I promise. “First, I need you to do a silly, embarrassing thing with me without making fun of me for it.”

“Can I make fun of you for it later ?”

“Sure. Come on.” I yank him out into the parking lot and start unbuttoning my shirt.

“Whoa, Skeevy, this is not the place—”

“Do you seriously think I am flashing you in a parking lot?” My fingers fly over the buttons, and then I push the fabric off my shoulders. “It’s just a different shirt.”

“It… is definitely that.” He sounds a little bit like he’s choking on his tongue, and I imagine he’s kindly swallowing down fifty shades of mockery. “You look—um.” Am I imagining it, or are his cheeks flushing a little pink? “What’s the plan here?”

“I just want some pictures,” I tell him, handing over my phone set to camera mode. “I have nothing and no one to dress up—or down—for, and this is definitely not in Camden dress code, but I want just one little photo shoot of me looking like a rule breaker.”

His lips curve into a little smile. “In that case, I have a prop for you.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a case of candy cigarettes. “I picked these up when I was buying your stolen goods. Figured they might come in handy today.”

It’s so brilliant, I laugh as I grab one and slip it between my fingers. “Perfect!”

We do a full-on photo shoot, and I even convince him to take a selfie with me, cigarette gum hanging from both our lips as we loiter in front of a NO LOITERING sign. Then we play the penis game as loudly as we dare while we head back to the food court for those fries.

It’s an absolutely ridiculous day, but damn if I don’t feel a thousand times better when we hop off the shuttle back at Camden and then devour Sunday-night Bolognese at the Beast. Of course, we both still have a mountain of homework waiting for us after cutting our studying short this morning, so we trudge back to Rumson, passing the remaining gummy Coke bottles back and forth between us on the walk.

But in my room, other plans await.

“What are you doing here?”

Isabel rises from my bed, her gaze flicking to Salem and back to me. Even though she essentially broke into my room (not that it was locked, but still), somehow I’m left feeling guilty. “I wanted to talk. Didn’t realize you were gonna have other company.”

“She doesn’t,” Salem breaks in. “Just coming back from dinner and heading upstairs. Night, Skeevy. Iz.”

Iz. I don’t want to think about how much time Salem spends with Jenna’s best friend that he calls her Iz.

“We’re friends,” I say firmly as soon as I hear Salem’s footsteps grow fainter in the distance. “You don’t need to come babysit on Jenna’s behalf.”

“You really think I just do Jenna’s bidding all the time, huh?”

I don’t have the eyebrow-arching powers of a Grayson twin, but I try my best. “Don’t you?”

“No, you little wench,” she says airily. “But I am a good friend to have, and considering you’re using me for attention with your talent-show act, I think maybe we’re even.”

“I didn’t make you do that,” I insist, and I’m pretty sure about that.

“No, you didn’t, but don’t pretend that isn’t why you came asking me specifically in the first place.”

Okay, she has a point. “Fine, we’re even. Friends?”

“Friends. If you teach me that card trick.”

“Deal. After the talent show.”

We go through my clothes, upon which she declares I don’t have anything worthy of being a sexy magician. “These shorts, maybe, ” she says, holding the only high-waisted article of clothing I own, “if Priya will lend you her tuxedo blazer. You two are probably around the same size, give or take three cup sizes.” She eyes my generous chest critically. “You’d need to leave it open, which means you need a sexy top underneath.”

“Like this?” For the third time today, I unbutton my shirt, revealing the corset underneath, and Isabel claps approvingly.

“Yes, that’ll work. God, that is so trashy, I love it. Why on earth are you wearing that?”

“Long story,” I say, and it’s only partly a lie. She definitely doesn’t need to know I was with Salem when I bought it. We may be friends again, but the last thing I need is her misreading Salem’s and my friendship and going running to Jenna about it.

“Okay, lady of mystery; you keep your weird secrets. Now let’s practice.”

We go through the routine again, which allows me to show off how much better I’m getting at my grips and fans, and Isabel applauds proudly when I finish the intro to the trick. She really is fun to do this with, and I’m just hoping that she means it when she says our friendship is real.

Friends are not the easiest for me to come by, and this time around, I want the ones I make to stick.