Crimes of the Sarahs by Kristen Tracy Page A

says.
    “Sarah B and Sarah C each put in ten-dollar bills,” Sarah A says. “I even put in a five!”
    “At harvest time, Buttons pulls sleighs for hayrides at orchards,” Sarah B says.
    “I didn’t know about that,” I say.
    “Yeah, they let terminally ill kids ride the sleighs for free,” Sarah A says.
    “I just didn’t know.”
    “Basically, you stole from us,” Sarah A says.
    “No, I stole from Buttons. From the shelter.”
    Nobody answers me and nobody will look me in the eye. Sarah C focuses on Digits and pets him behind the ears. Sarah B looks at her lap and scratches her crotch. And Sarah A has her eyes closed and is breathing really slowly.
    “Real crimes have victims, Sarah T, but we should never be your victims. Your fellow Sarahs should never have to pay for your crimes.”
    “I’ll return it,” I say. “I’ll think of another crime.” I’m starting to feel very panicked.
    “It’s too risky to return it. Somebody could see you. You need to send a cashier’s check to the shelter for the amount you stole.”
    “Okay, I’ll take the money to the bank and cash it in.”
    “No. The donation jar stays with us. Why should we have to pay for your mistake?”
    Admittedly, it doesn’t seem fair that I have to come up with $118.95 to send to the shelter while Sarah A gets to keep the jar, but I’m willing to do whatever is necessary.
    “I’ll do it. I just don’t want to be voted out.”
    Neither of the other two Sarahs are looking at me.
    “This isn’t a small thing, Sarah T.”
    I can feel tears forming.
    “You know, letters of recommendation are pretty important for college. You just put all of that in jeopardy by whatyou did. Getting into the University of Michigan is tough. You get that, right?”
    “I do. I know. We need to be well-rounded. We need school interests and charity interests and the shelter was our charity interest. I get it.”
    “Do you think Mr. King will write us letters if he finds out we stole from the shelter? That we robbed from a maimed, kindhearted Belgian draft horse? Your fellow Sarahs and I have volunteered—have cleaned up after yapping and shitting dogs—for two years to get a good letter. Do you understand how big this is?”
    “I get that now, but I didn’t know. When I stole it, I didn’t have a clue.”
    “As a Sarah, you can never be clueless. Ever. You’ve always got to think of who you’re representing. It’s completely unacceptable to put us all in jeopardy like that.”
    “I didn’t know.” Which is the truth. I’d never really thought too deeply about how anybody would be affected by my crime.
    Sarah A is standing now, walking toward the door.
    “Well, you know now. I’m sorry to say this, but this is the worst crime.”
    I wait for one of the other two Sarahs to possibly say something in my defense, but neither do. I stand up.
    “Is this it?” I ask. “It is over?”
    “I believe it is,” Sarah A says.
    I’m stunned. I guess I have to leave. It would be weird and desperate if I didn’t, right? Sarah A turns the doorknob and I’m ready to walk out and go home, but I can’t. Why? I’d like to say it’s because a newfound strength is building inside of me and for the first time in my life I don’t want to retreat. But that’s not it.
    Vance is blocking my path. He’s standing in the doorway, with his eyes opened so wide that they look a little like golf balls. He’s applied a liberal amount of hair gel and teased his coif into a stiff Mohawk. He’s also applied thick lines of black shoe polish to his face, presumably to look like some kind of warrior.
    At first, I think it’s comical. But then he shoves me out of the way and lifts a power screwdriver over his head. He slips it into the door’s upper brass hinge and commences unscrewing it.
    “My brother really needs to leave,” Sarah A says. “This is an off-limits area.”
    “Vance,” I say.
    “No, do not talk to him. Do not!” Sarah A says.
    Sarah A and I