Free Crimes of the Sarahs by Kristen Tracy Page B

trophy. Okay. What would Sarah A want?
    Maybe I should steal the rest of Roman Karbowski’s shirts for her. Or I could take a couple pairs of his pants. Wouldn’t the bottom half of somebody have different pheromones than the top half? Shouldn’t we be desensitizing ourselves against those scents too? I think lower-regions smells would be the ones that we’d want to protect ourselves against the most. That’s where things get dangerous. Wait. Maybe Sarah Awould think I was upstaging her if I stole a good chunk of her future serious boyfriend’s wardrobe. Even though I have outstanding intentions, perhaps it’s wise to steer clear of her guy and his pants.
    Then it hits me. I know. I know what I need to do. I need to steal something that Sarah A will truly admire. Something to which she has very limited access. Something that she finds intriguing. Something that is illegal for sixteen-year-olds to purchase or consume. Clearly, that something has to be booze. Because of Vance, her parents don’t keep any liquor in the house. It’s so taboo. For her, more than the rest of us, alcohol is truly a banned and precious substance.
    I don’t mean to suggest that any of the Sarahs drink. We rarely do. We’re not good at it. We’ve only tried it three times. At Sarah C’s. Our drink of choice was a mixture of Baileys, Kahlua, vodka, ice, and milk. On all three occasions, we dumped generous amounts of everything into a blender and prepared our concoction by grinding the ingredients on the CRUSH ICE setting. We drank them quickly from tall plastic tumblers. As a result, each Sarah has puked and been hungover three times. Apparently, we have a tendency to overdo it.
    I grab a second banana for additional fuel and race out to my car. Finally, I feel so optimistic. Stealing a nice bottle of liquor will really impress everyone. In all of our crimes, rarely have I ever been the actual thief. I’m usually the driver. Orthe lookout. Historically speaking, I’m practically a bystander. But this heist will cement my status as a real criminal. As a real Sarah. Everyone knows that stealing alcohol is a much more serious offense than stuffing a box of Oreos down your pants.
    I drive to Tiffany’s liquor store on West Main, because Sarah A has talked about a nice bottle of cognac there. I walk up and down the long aisles crowded with bottles. Holy crap! Cognac costs an arm and a leg. I stand in the middle of the store staring at the bottle Sarah A has long admired. It’s kept behind a locked glass case. I’m shocked by the price tag. It costs $3,500. What’s cognac even made out of? Hundred-dollar bills?
    “Can I help you?” a clerk asks me.
    I must stick out like a rogue lime in a lemon display. I don’t know what to do. The only thing running through my mind is one single word: Abort! Abort! Abort!
    “Nah, I’m just looking.”
    “Don’t even think about stealing that bottle,” he says.
    My eyes grow wide. Is this guy a mind reader? Do I look like a thief? I can feel myself breaking into a massive, hoglike sweat again. I point to myself.
    “Are you talking to me?” I ask.
    “It was a joke. That bottle is priceless.”
    “The price tag says thirty-five hundred dollars.”
    “I mean it’s irreplaceable.”
    “How is that even possible? Has the world stopped making cognac?”
    “No, it’s the container, not the contents. That bottle was designed by a Russian-born French painter named Erté. He’s known as the Father of Art Deco.”
    “I don’t know much about art. But the bottle is pretty.”
    “Erté hand painted it.”
    Then he looks at me hard, like he’s studying me. I hate it when people look at me this way. It makes me feel so scrutinized and transparent. When I’m getting ready to rob a store, it’s a lousy combination. Because I know that I’m getting ready to do something wrong, and I can’t take the ocular judgment. I feel myself blush. Then I feel my own pee tingling inside of me.
    “Bye!” I