The Girl You Thought I Was Read online

  “Is there something I can help you find?”

  I turn around. The saleswoman is smiling at me from behind the counter, like I’m a completely normal customer who doesn’t have a pilfered pair of one-hundred-and-eighty-five-dollar sunglasses in her purse.

  “No, thanks,” I say, and I smile back at her and start walking toward the exit. As usual, I hold my breath as I pass through the door, and when nothing happens, I slowly let it out.

  Home free. Again.

  Adrenaline still pulsing through my veins, I veer right toward the food court, where my friends are waiting for me. Breathe, Morgan. Look normal. I’m so focused on composing myself, it takes me a few seconds to notice the sound of footsteps behind me.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  I freeze. Everything freezes. Shit.

  “Miss? I’m with security. Can you come back inside the store with me, please?”

  My stomach drops, and I force myself to turn around. A middle-aged man with a beard stands in front of me, dressed in street clothes. Loss prevention officers come in all shapes, ages, and sizes.

  “What?” I ask, playing dumb. This can’t be happening. I’m too careful. “Why?”

  His expression is unmoving. Solemn. “I just watched you steal a pair of sunglasses. That’s why. Follow me, please.”

  I consider running. Can I run faster than this guy? He’s not in the best shape. Then again, neither am I. And if I run, he might chase me, and we’d make a scene, and someone I know might see me. One of my friends might see me. Oh God. How am I going to explain this to Sophie and Alyssa?

  The fight-or-flight instinct in me drains away. I’m not going to do either. The best choice I have right now is to go quietly.

  I look at the security guy. He nods at me, like he can sense my decision and approves. I step forward and let him lead me away.

  Chapter Four

  THE FIRST THING I EVER STOLE WAS A PACKAGE OF purple bubble gum. I was three. As the story goes, I kept it in my pocket until my mom and I got to the car. Then, when she was driving, she heard the crackle of the wrapper and glanced back to see me shoving piece after piece into my mouth. She turned right back around to the store, made me spit out the gum, and marched me inside so I could explain to the cashier what I’d done.

  “We can’t take things that don’t belong to us,” she said on the drive home, after giving me a few coins to pay for the gum and making me apologize—through humiliated sobs—for stealing.

  I remember none of this, but my mother used to tell the story often, always with a humorous tone. A lot of little kids innocently pocket a treat at the register. Everyone understands. It’s almost cute. And, of course, a good opportunity for a lesson.

  The second time I stole, it was a lip gloss from Walmart. I was sixteen and fully aware that stealing was wrong, but I did it anyway. I’m not even sure why. All I knew was that I was angry, the kind of angry that fills you and consumes you until you feel like you’re going to explode from the force of it. My family had just fallen apart. One minute my world was happy and safe, and the next, my parents were screaming at each other in their bedroom at night. Then my mother was packing her bags, leaving us to be with the man she’d been having a secret affair with for the past two years. A man both my parents had worked with at the car dealership. A man who was married too.

  We can’t take things that don’t belong to us, she’d told me. Apparently this rule doesn’t apply to her, so why should it apply to me? And it felt good, taking that lip gloss. Like someone had opened a valve in my body and released some of the pressure. So I did it again. And again. I stole whenever I had the chance, moving on from small items like makeup to bigger, harder-to-conceal items, like clothes. Each time I was smarter about it, having armed myself with the secrets and tricks of shoplifting that I’d learned online. Within months, I’d managed to lift hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuff without even coming close to getting caught, so I assumed I never would.

  Stupid me.

  “What’s your name?”

  I look at the woman behind the desk. She’s black, with a round face and very kind eyes. Almost sympathetic. She told me her name when she came in, but I was in too much shock to retain anything.

  “Morgan Kemper.” My gaze drifts to my purse, open on the desk. The blue-framed sunglasses sit beside it, proof of my crime. I was surprisingly calm when the LP officer led me down a hallway and into this small, windowless room, where he made me sit and wait. I stayed calm when this woman came in and searched my purse, checking each and every pocket until she was sure I hadn’t taken anything else.

  But now, sitting here with her gentle brown eyes on me, I feel like I’m going to vomit.

  “Morgan,” she says, “will you please turn the volume down on your phone?”

  “Oh.” I reach into my purse and bring out my phone, which has been dinging the entire time I’ve been in here. “Can I just . . . text my friend and let her know where I am?”

  When she nods, I quickly type a message to Alyssa: Had to rush home. Everything’s okay but I can’t come back to mall. Can you guys take the bus? Sorry.

  Lies, lies, lies. But I don’t have time to dwell on it. There are much bigger things to worry about at the moment.

  The woman takes my basic info—address, phone number, birth date—and then asks me if I’ve done this before.

  “No,” I say.

  She looks at me for a long moment, making me want to squirm. But I force myself to remain still, look her in the face as my lie echoes through the room.

  “We’re going to have to call your parents,” she tells me. Her kind demeanor hasn’t wavered once, for which I should probably be grateful. The cops, if they’re summoned, won’t be nearly as nice. “Are they at work?”

  “I live with my dad.” I lower my gaze to my hands, picturing my father’s face when he gets the call. The lines in his skin burrowing even deeper. “Yes, he’s at work.” I tell her where and give her the number. Maybe if I cooperate, she’ll let me go without involving the police at all.

  Dad arrives in under twenty minutes, his face ashen. The sight of him makes my chest ache.

  “Morgan, what is going on?” He looks scared and maybe a little desperate, like he’s hoping I’ll tell him this is all a mistake.

  I wish I could. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. What can I say to him, this man who’s been there my entire life and does so much for me? First he has to deal with a wife who cheated on him and took off, and now this. He deserves better.

  A police officer arrives while the woman is explaining to Dad what happened. Somehow, Dad’s face gets even paler when he sees the beefy cop, whose girth seems to fill the tiny room. My urge to upchuck my lunch intensifies. I’m not three years old anymore, and this isn’t a pack of gum. A few tears and an apology aren’t going to smooth things over this time.

  “This way.” Dad takes my arm as we exit the mall and starts leading me across the parking lot to his car.

  “But I drove here.”

  “Well, you’re driving home with me,” he says in a low, even voice that makes my stomach twist. “We’ll deal with your car later. You’re not going to be using it again for a while, anyway.”

  He doesn’t let go of my arm until I’m sitting in the passenger seat of his CR-Z. He slams my door and circles the car to the driver’s side, his jaw set the entire time. I clutch my purse to my chest and shut my eyes, trying to hold back tears. He’s pissed. And no wonder. He was pulled out of work to deal with his delinquent daughter, then had to sit there while the store pressed charges against me. Being a “first-time offender” doesn’t hold many perks. I’m going to have to go to court, maybe even get a record. This can follow you your whole life, the cop told me, like I’d just robbed a bank or something.

  I might as well have, going by the way my father glares at me when he gets in the car.

  “Why, Morgan?” he asks. The roughness from a minute ago is gone. Now he just sounds disappointed. Whi
ch is even worse.

  I look down at my hands. “I needed sunglasses.”

  “But why . . .” He turns away and runs a hand through his thinning, rust-colored hair. “Why steal? What on earth was going through your head?”

  I shrug. He’d never understand. I don’t even understand. All I know is that shoplifting gives me some kind of strange comfort. It makes me feel powerful, more in control. It centers me when life feels unbalanced. There’s no point in trying to explain or make excuses. Clearly, there’s something fundamentally wrong with me if I need to steal things to feel normal again.

  Dad starts the car. “When you need something, come to me. I’ll give you the money.”

  Something inside me breaks free and suddenly I’m pissed. “We don’t have the money, Dad,” I yell, even though it’s not really about money at all. But letting him think I stole the sunglasses because we can’t afford them seems to make the most sense, so I run with it. “You really think I’d ask you for expensive sunglasses when you’ve barely been able to keep up with the rent?”

  “Then you do without!” he yells back at me.

  His words ring in the small space. I turn toward the window, quickly wiping a tear off my cheek. Dad only raises his voice when he’s reached the outer limit of his patience, and it takes a lot to get him there. Mom used to push him there sometimes, but today is a first for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say after a few moments of silence.

  Dad sighs, and I dare a glance at him. His face is flushed and he’s gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing stopping him from strangling me. Not that he ever would, but the thought has probably crossed his mind in the past hour or so.

  “I’m going to have to tell your mother about this.”

  My body goes cold. Contact with my mother has been sporadic since I chose to stay here with Dad instead of moving away with her. I haven’t really spoken to her in months, and I don’t want this to be the thing that reopens the lines of communication. Knowing her, she’d use it as proof that Dad’s an unfit parent and force me to come live with her.

  “No. Please, Dad. There’s no reason to tell her. It was my mistake, and I’ll deal with it myself. Don’t mention it to Rachel either. Please.” It’s not that I think my sister would judge me—she’s not exactly a saint, herself. She spent the summer before college drinking and smoking pot, but she stopped before it got out of hand, unlike me with my stealing. I don’t want her to know how out of control I let it get.

  “I’m not making any promises.” Dad backs out of the parking space a little rougher than usual. “We have no idea what’s going to come of this yet. You could be in serious trouble, Morgan. Do you realize that? I need to hire a damn lawyer. Another one.”

  I face the window again, my cheeks burning. I didn’t think of that at the time. More lawyer costs. More time spent in the legal system. First for the divorce, and now for me. When I screw up, I screw up epically.

  “I just . . . I don’t know what you were thinking. This isn’t like you at all. Why would a smart girl like you do something so unbelievably stupid?”

  All the way home, I sit quietly and let him rant. And I take it. There’s nothing I can say to defend myself, because there’s no defense. No excuses. Trying would just make things worse.

  It’s a tense, silent ride in the elevator up to our apartment. When we go inside, Fergus greets us with an excited meow. At least someone’s glad to see me.

  “I’m going back to work for a couple of hours,” Dad says flatly. He fiddles with his keys, unable to look at me. “Don’t even think about leaving this apartment. We’ll discuss your punishment when I get home.” He meets my eyes, finally, and my heart squeezes when I see the hurt and exhaustion in them. “I’m really disappointed in you, Morgan.”

  He leaves, closing the door softly behind him. Fergus rubs against my leg, his body vibrating with happiness. I scoop him up and let my tears soak into his soft, orange fur.

  Chapter Five

  MY PUNISHMENT FROM DAD TURNS OUT TO BE A three-week grounding, along with the loss of car privileges except for driving to and from school. All in all, I expected much worse.

  For the next two weeks, I’m perfect. I go to school, study, clean up around the apartment, and most important, I stay away from stores. I don’t see my friends outside of school, but no one suspects anything’s amiss because we’re all stuck inside studying for finals anyway. I don’t hear anything about my shoplifting charge, and after a while I start to wonder if I ever will. It was a stupid pair of sunglasses. Maybe they were just trying to scare me. Maybe they forgot all about it.

  I try to forget about it too, and shift my focus to exams. After finishing my last one, English, on Thursday morning, I meet up with Alyssa outside the classroom.

  “How’d you do?” she asks.

  I make a don’t ask face. Like we suspected, the exam was mostly essay questions, which hopefully I managed to bullshit my way through. “You?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t even care. We’re done. Let summer begin!”

  I force a smile. My grounding doesn’t end until next week. What am I supposed to tell my friends when they try to make plans? Alyssa and Sophie easily believed my excuse for ditching them at the mall the day I got caught—I told them I came down with a stomach bug and had to go home immediately—but each lie makes me feel like a total jerk. Still, telling them the truth would be so much worse.

  Before Alyssa and I head home, we stop in to visit Sophie in the cafeteria, which has been turned into an extra study area for exam week. We find her at a table by the window, surrounded by papers and empty chip bags. Her last exam is this afternoon.

  “Hi, guys!” She waves cheerfully as we approach. “I’m so glad you’re here to witness the complete meltdown I’m about to have any second now.”

  I wince in sympathy. “That bad, huh?”

  Just as we sit down, Dawson breezes by and taps his knuckles on the back of my chair. I look up to see his wide smile. “Got the job at Ace Burger,” he tells me.

  “Awesome! Congrats.” I hold out my hand, which he slaps hard before continuing on his way.

  “You got him a job?” Sophie asks, momentarily distracted from her breakdown.

  “Ace Burger is right across the street from Royal Smoothie,” I remind her. “I noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window there when I went for my interview, and I mentioned it to Dawson. That’s all.”

  Alyssa’s eyes follow Dawson as he exits the cafeteria. “Huh. He didn’t tell me he applied at Ace Burger.”

  One of Sophie’s blond eyebrows shoots up. “Do you guys have a private group chat going on or something?”

  We exchange a quick glance. Does Sophie see it too, this quiet connection between Dawson and Alyssa? Maybe his crush is more obvious than I thought.

  “We text sometimes,” Alyssa says, her tone mildly defensive. “Hello? We’re friends.”

  Now both of Sophie’s eyebrows go up, along with one corner of her mouth. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”

  Alyssa stares at her for a moment and then shifts her gaze to me, as if checking to see if I agree. I give her a slight nod. Dawson is one of the sweetest guys I know, and great boyfriend material.

  “Seriously?” She rolls her eyes. “Even if I did have any interest in dating someone—which I don’t—I wouldn’t choose Dawson. He’s one of my best friends. Besides,” she adds, glancing again at the exit, even though he’s long gone, “my grandmother would freak.”

  Sophie frowns. “Because he’s black?”

  “No, because he’s not Greek. You know my yiayia wants me to settle down with a nice Greek boy. She doesn’t listen when I tell her I don’t want to settle down with anyone right now, Greek or otherwise.”

  “Um, she knows it’s the twenty-first century, right?” Sophie asks.

  Alyssa just shrugs and changes the subject, something she does whenever her family is brought up. She and I have that in common. We weren’t friends with Sophie, Za
ch, and Dawson yet when Lyss’s father suffered a massive heart attack and never made it out of surgery. Or when my mother shattered our family with her cheating and lies. They’re aware of these things, but we’ve never really discussed it in depth, even though Alyssa and I know our friends would be sympathetic. Still, they didn’t live through them with us. Alyssa and I just had each other then, two lost girls stumbling their way around a frightening new reality. The difference is, I could see my mom, if I wanted to, but Alyssa will never spend time with her father again. Yet somehow, even in the face of grief, she eventually adapted while I stayed more lost than ever.

  “Morgan has zoned out again.” Alyssa pokes my shoulder.

  “What?” I meet her eyes. I was listening but only caught about every other sentence.

  “Do you want to all drive together to Jasmine’s pool party on Saturday?”

  “Oh.” I squirm in my chair, uncomfortable. Again, my mind flashes on the striped bikini, folded among my underwear. All that work and I’ll probably never get to wear it. “Um, I’m not going to that.”

  “What?” Sophie shrieks. A girl studying at the next table over shoots us a dirty look.

  “Since when?” Alyssa asks.

  Since I got caught stealing at the mall while you guys were waiting for me just a short walk away. I swallow. My throat aches with the effort of keeping the truth from slipping past my tongue. But I can’t say anything. My friends are good people, with values and integrity. They’re rule followers, and they believe I have all these qualities too. They’d never understand.

  “Since I got grounded. Long story.” Maybe a half-truth will be enough to dull the ache.

  Sophie and Alyssa gape at me, shocked. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been grounded, and this is the first grounding given out by Dad. He’s always trusted me, given me lots of freedom. Until now.