One Day More (2 page)

I don't need anyone.

I point my car fob at my Mini and it chirps brightly. As I turn the key I glance down at my key chain—a cute little purple fluff ball with goofy eyes. The ones that move when you tip them.

I hate it. I hate it
so much
. My hands start to tremble and I fold my fingers around the fluff ball and squeeze as hard as I can.

Nothing happens, but sometimes I wish I could choke the life out of it—squeeze it with enough pressure that it would just wink out of existence.

But then, if I ever managed to accomplish that, I'd just wish I had it back.

The mall
. I gotta go to the mall.

I drive almost desperately and then yell every swearword I can think of as I circle the parking lot looking for a stupid spot that isn't, like, two miles away. I finally swoop in and grab one from some guy who's sitting there with his signal on as another car backs out. Not my fault; I just happen to be coming from the “right” direction.

I don't know why I'm so on edge today. Maybe because it's Thursday, but there have been a lot of Thursdays in my life the last couple of years. What is it about
today?
I wander around aimlessly for a while. I buy a pretzel at Wetzel's, a set of shiny barrettes at Claire's: enough little shopping bags that I look like I belong. When my heart has slowed to a normal beat and my muscles don't feel like they're ready to jump out of my body anymore, I wander over to the movie theater and ask the pimply guy behind the glass what's good. He looks confused and instead tells me what's coming up next.

Close enough.

“Yeah, a ticket for that,” I say distractedly, glancing around at the crowds milling behind me, itching to escape.

He hands me my ticket and I flee.

In the darkened theater I sit three rows from the back. Two rows in front of the couples who just want somewhere dark to make out, and several rows behind the people who came to actually watch the movie. I suffer through about twenty-five minutes of previews and then the first ten minutes of the actual movie until everyone is fully engaged—either in the story or spit-swapping.

And then I take inventory. I pull the lipstick from Sephora out of my bra, the perfume from The Body Shop out of my jacket pocket, and when I reach into my purse, I find a tiny snow globe and an
I Love Malibu
key chain.

I don't remember stealing the key chain.

I sit ramrod straight in the dark theater, and stare at today's take.

It's getting worse.

Again.

I was doing really well for a long time. Until the purple fluff-ball key chain. I'd quit cold turkey. It had been, like, months. And then I had to have that stupid fluff ball on that lady's purse. To this day I don't know why it felt so important.

After that, I stopped trying to quit. It's also when I started stealing things I didn't remember. And that's the scariest part. I know I can't keep doing this.

And I know I can't stop.

I tried. Like, really,
really
tried. And when I couldn't, it was worse than if I hadn't tried at all. Like a yo-yo diet where you regain the twenty pounds you lost
plus
twenty more. Yo-yo stealing, I guess. And I've learned my lesson.

I cradle the small items in my hands and stroke them gently with my fingertips. I shake the snow globe and hold it up just high enough to catch the light, and watch it snow on a smiling cactus in sunglasses. Someone in California's idea of a clever joke.

With a barely audible groan I let my head fall back against the velvety seat. I'm going to have to go to the cave today. It's been three days—three bad days—and my jewelry box will be too full to close.

To lock.

I can't keep things in my house unless they're locked away. Not because I don't want my parents to see them, since they don't pay enough attention to bother.

I need them locked away where
I
can't see them.

For the thousandth time I wish I could just throw them away. But that doesn't work, either. It just ends with me climbing in gross, disgusting garbage cans and sifting through spoiled food to get them back.

Never
doing that again. Ever.

I squirm in my seat, feel myself break into a sweat. I hate this movie. I haven't seen much of it, but I'm pretty sure it's the worst movie ever made. And the theater chairs—I hate them, too. I hate everything about this damn place. Why the hell did I come here? I shove my take into my purse and stomp out.

A few people shush me and an usher hovering in the doorway gives me the evil eye. What does he think he's going to do? Kick me out? That's where I'm going anyway.

I break the speed limit all the way home, knowing no cop would dare pull over Judge Schaffer's little girl. And it's a good thing, too, because I would die before letting a cop see my cheeks wet with tears.

No one's home. They never are, but especially not on Thursdays. Thursday is date night. Traditionally it really should be Friday, but Mom and Dad don't like crowds—the more people at a restaurant, the more likely someone is to
invade their privacy
. Their precious, precious privacy. So they go out every Thursday instead.

Therapist's orders.

Because the
maladaptive behaviors
I had a few years ago were
not my fault
. That's what Dr. Carson said when we first started family therapy when I got in trouble for mouthing off at teachers. Judge and Mrs. Schaffer assumed the good doctor would tell them exactly what was wrong with their perfect little girl and how to fix me. They didn't expect her to tell them it was
their
fault.

Acting out in children can always be laid at the feet of the parents
, she told them. I still remember every word that came spilling out of her calm, ever-centered voice.
And because it is never the child's fault, you must never, ever try to fix the child; you must fix yourselves
. She told them that a stronger marriage was the magic pill that would fix me.

And date night was the magic pill that would fix their crumbling marriage. Easy-Peasy-Lemon-Squeezy.

So they leave work early, dutifully, every Thursday evening at six o'clock sharp and go somewhere together—just the two of them. Apparently the way to restore a child's self-worth is to pay more attention to each other and less to the child. Literally, ignore the problem—me—and it will go away.

And since I don't act out anymore—at least not in ways they see or hear about—it must be working.

I hate Dr. Carson.

The first thing I stole was a tiny porcelain box from her desk after about three sessions, when I realized she was never going to do anything for
me
.

She never asked me about it. Never suspected.

No one ever does.

Because after her brilliant therapy I'm so perfect, no one has to notice me at all.

I didn't keep that one. I waited until my parents were gone one Thursday and I dropped it from the balcony and then had to sweep up the mess all by myself. And then I wished I hadn't done it. Not that I hadn't
stolen
the box, but that I hadn't
broken
it. I wanted it back.

I stole a tube of lip gloss from a store the next day and kept it under my bed. That was the beginning.

I walk into the Schaffer house and hang my keys on the Kimberlee hook. They look lonely beneath the empty Mom hook and Dad hook. But the Kimberlee hook is used to it. They leave before me every morning—not just on Thursdays.

“She doesn't mind getting herself ready,” my mom explained to Dr. Carson when she raised one eyebrow at that.

“No, no, certainly I don't mind.”
Smile big!

Our housekeeper, Maria, left turkey meatloaf with garlic-and-rosemary mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus on the counter for me. Comfort food. It's even still a little warm because she put a cover on it. She does something like this every Thursday because somehow, she knows. Knows how much I hate Thursday night. The night that's somehow all about
me
even though it's the night that I'm invisible.

The woman doesn't even speak decent English and yet,
she knows
.

I pick up the plate and fantasize about throwing it against the newly seafoam-green wall across from me. Part of my mother's forty-thousand-dollar kitchen renovation; the paint has been dry less than two months. I imagine the light-brown gravy sliding down the walls in stripes, and in my head they look like bars. Bars would be more fitting.

But I am a mature young woman who knows how to control my childish impulses, so I don't do that.

I don't eat it, either, even though my stomach is growling. I don't want food; I want vodka. I want it to burn into my empty stomach and spread through my arms and legs until I can't feel anything.

Then I'll be able to face the cave.

Feeling sick, I dump the food into the garbage disposal so no one who isn't bothering to check up on me will know I didn't eat. I consider leaving it on the counter, all perfect under its little cover. But as much as I wish someone in this household would notice
something
about me, I figure that if yelling at teachers got me utterly ignored 14.3 percent of the week, not eating and stealing will probably land me in some kind of solitary confinement.

As I head up to my room I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror and stand straight, scrutinizing what I see. My not-quite-brown roots are starting to show; I need to call my stylist. My blue contacts do enhance my eye color, but only from light blue to bright blue. I lean forward until my nose is almost touching the mirror and wonder what I would look like with brown eyes. Because, seriously, I'm a blonde with blue eyes. Nothing special about that. I'm what everyone thinks of when they hear the phrase
California girl
.

The sight of myself suddenly makes me angry. I tear my eyes away and toss my hair over my shoulder so I can't see the golden ends.

Parents' room first. They keep the liquor in there to
protect me
because they read about it in some parenting magazine that claims to know more about me than they do. Too bad I stole and then copied the key to their enormous liquor closet—really,
cupboard
doesn't begin to cover it—over a year ago. And they throw so many parties with their thirty nearest and dearest friends that they have no idea how many bottles of what should be in there. I usually only take one at a time, but a few months ago I made off with two bottles of Jose Cuervo, one of Gold Crown, two of Jack, half a bottle of Wild Turkey, some Jägermeister, and a dozen various minis for a Harrison Hill party.

They never missed it.

They won't miss one little fifth of Absolut. But just in case, I bring my Evian bottle in with me and empty most of the vodka into it, leaving the actual container behind. That's the safest way.

I lock everything up behind me and use my hands to smooth away my shoeprints from the carpet. You'd think they'd pay more attention to the liquor cabinet than the carpet, but an imperfect carpet means a possible opportunity to bitch at Maria. And if you can't yell at the help, really, what fun is there in life? Luckily, they walked around in here after Maria vacuumed, so it's pretty easy to disguise.

It's warm today and I need some kind of excuse to go down to the beach anyway, so I figure I'll take my bottle and go swimming for a bit. I take as big a swallow as I can handle before stripping my clothes off and digging out my wet suit—even in Southern California the ocean is
cold
in the winter. My mouth and throat burn and the sensation makes my eyes water.

Maybe it's not entirely from the alcohol. But maybe it is.

I dump the contents of my jewelry box onto the floor, then perch on the end of my crisply made bed and stare at the pile. All of the stuff I stole in the last three days: a set of rhinestone earrings I took out of a girl's gym locker on Tuesday, two rulers I swiped when I went to the office supply store with Kyndra, a cell-phone case I managed to get out of a guy's backpack in history yesterday, and another knickknack from Mr. Bleekman's never-ending supply on his desk.

At least I didn't steal from a
person
today.

Somehow, stores seem less wrong. I'm not
really
hurting anyone by stealing from stores. They'll write it off.

Oh, I suppose that someone, somewhere, will pay for it, if I follow the money far enough. But it'll almost certainly be some old rich guy like my dad, or a stuck-up CFO like my mom. So I don't feel very bad.

Not as bad as I ought to.

I stare at the peanut-butter Snickers bar and even though it makes my stomach churn, I take one bite, then another. The stealing doesn't seem quite so pointless if I
do
something with it.

But after forcing myself to swallow two bites I know I'll puke if I eat any more. I take a swallow of the vodka instead and flush the rest of the candy bar down the toilet.

I need to get out of here.

I've always lived in this house. Mansion, really, and I'm not too modest to admit it. It's a humongous house, even for Santa Monica, with private beach access and everything. But I didn't really appreciate the beach that much until I found the cave. It became my secret place. My special place.

Then I started stashing my stolen stuff there.

I hate it now.

I wish I could have it back the way it was, but I've ruined it. Ruined a lot of things. Things that are too far gone to ever get back.

I grab a wide, flat water noodle from the beach house on the way down the path—paved oh-so-naturally with sea rocks—my stealthy Evian/Absolut bottle clutched in one hand and my
stuff
in the other in a shoulder bag I grabbed on my way out.

I should have come down and put everything away yesterday. I shouldn't have left the stuff in my room where Maria might find it.

I shouldn't have put it off until Thursday.