Trinkets Read Free Page B

sons.
    Apparently, she’s already given Jeffrey the lowdown, because he comes on the speakerphone full of confidence and calm. “I’ll handle the paperwork,” he says. “I’ve had my assistant enroll you in a counseling rehabilitation program.”
    “I’m going to
rehab
?”
    “You need to show the judge you’re addressing your problem,” he says.
    “I don’t have a problem.” I roll my eyes.
    “I’ll e-mail your mom the information.”
    “What if I don’t want to go to a program? I’ve never been arrested before. It’s not like they’re going to send me to jail if I don’t go to a program, right?”
    “Actually, the state’s been cracking down on shoplifters. Statistically, thirty-five percent of first-offender shoplifters are high-risk repeaters. If we show them you aren’t one of the thirty-five percent, we have more ammo to plea-bargain,” he says.
    “She’ll do it,” my mom interjects. “We really appreciate all your help, Jeffrey.” She grips the steering wheel tightly and shoots me a sharp glance. “Don’t we?”
    I don’t answer. Plea-bargain? Please. I took one tiny little bracelet. It’s not like I’m Winona Ryder.
    When we get home, my mom goes into the living room, smooths her dress, and sits on the arm of a plum-colored Barcelona chair—a new addition, thanks to her latest renovation. I feel so guilty that I know I can’t just run upstairs and escape, which is fully what I want to do.
    The clink of ice cubes in my mom’s glass is the only sound in the house, other than the distant hum of an ever-present mower two houses down. Mr. Patterson apparently thinks if he mows his yard morning, noon, and night into pure perfection, then somehow maybe his life will improve. He’s obviously delusional.
    I fiddle with my phone. There are eight texts from Kayla and Taryn, asking WHERE THE HELL DID U GO? I can’t exactly say the truth, so I write SORRY. PMS CU @ PARTY.
    My mother takes another sip of her drink—“club soda,” aka straight Tanqueray.
    “I still do not understand why you would shoplift.” She sighs.
    I look away. “I told you—it was a stupid misunderstanding.”
    “Your dad or I could have given you money to buy that bracelet.”
    “I know. I’m sorry, all right?” I say, and it seems to satisfy her, especially because she prefers easy explanations to life’s complicated problems.
    “Jeffrey says that program is only for twelve weeks,”she says, “and he thinks if you have good attendance, you can get it taken off your record altogether. He didn’t want me to tell you that, though. He thinks scaring you might be good.” She shoots me a look, furrowing her brow as much as her Botox allows. Then she adds, “I’m not telling your father about this. He doesn’t need the stress.”
    Duh. Who would need the stress of their kid getting busted for stealing stuff? She goes to refill her drink, and I stand up. I can’t take this conversation anymore. I need to go do what I do best, which is get dressed and make myself pretty so I can go to a party with a bunch of people I can’t stand.

What We’re Doing
    Derek Godfrey—
    whoever he is—
    is having a party
    and we’re going.
    It’s the first party I’ve been to in Oregon,
    or maybe it’s my first party ever really,
    aside from a birthday here and there.
    I guess that kind of sums me up:
    I’m here and there but not really anywhere.
    I’m only here now because I’m Rachelle’s plus one,
    a beta to her alpha.
    That was the unspoken agreement, anyway;
    if she deigned to take me under her wing,
    I’d do whatever she said,
    no questions asked.
    When I get to her house,
    she’s wearing a teeny bit too much makeup
    and a skirt that’s supershort
    and a wide-eyed look that says,
    If I don’t have a good time tonight,
    I’ll DIE.
    Proving that even alphas get nervous
    here and there.

MARCH 7
    Staying in and writing in my journal on a Friday night is not what people would expect someone like me to do.