Free One Good Hustle by Billie Livingston Page B

freak; she thinks shoplifting is totally low-class.
    The problem with this scam, though, is you have to be exact. Not like when Sam was young. Ever since some stores started using barcode scanners instead of perfectly decent price tags, everything’s gotten more complicated.
    I have almost everything—the same pregnancy test, mascara, foundation and lipstick—but I can’t find the right blush. Shit! I see the tag on the shelf but there’s none left.
    My heart starts to pound.
    “Can I help you find something?”
    Shit-shit! It’s one of those cosmetic-counter ladies, wearing a dump truck’s worth of makeup and frosty pink nails.
    “No. I mean, yeah. I’m trying to find this, um, stuff and they’re all, umm—” Smooth. What a loser.
    “Oh, that shipment came in yesterday. I guess they haven’t put them out yet,” she says. “Can you wait just a moment?”
    So I stand there and wait for her to bring me some blusher to steal. God!
    When she gets back I choose the “English Suede” shade, thank her with this big phony smile, and take off to anotheraisle. When I take the store bag out of my pocket, my chest is banging so hard, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a heart attack. I should put it all back. My legs are all wonky and wooden. I make myself go to the checkout.
    I dump the pregnancy test and makeup on the counter and hand over the receipt. The cashier slaps down a pad of return slips. This is the worst —when you’re freaking and you still have to close the deal. I take a deep breath, pull my hands out of my pockets, and write down a fake last name and number. As she reverses the charges and I take the cash, I start thinking about how disgusted my dad would be by this lame performance of mine.
    “Sammie!”
    My head snaps around. Jesus Christ. It’s Drew, three people behind me in line.
    I freeze a second. “Hey, how’s it going?” I make a show of checking my watch as I head for the door. “I’ve got to go to the supermarket. For my mom.”
    “Wait!” His woolly blond lion hair hides his face as he counts out change to pay for a pack of gum. He told me once that he leaves his hair kind of long to distract from his big nose and his zits, but his skin’s not that bad. And I like his nose.
    I feel queasy and melty inside all at once.
    “I’ll be outside.” I want to get out of here before a security guy’s hand lands on my shoulder.
    Out on the sidewalk, I try to remember this morning’s dream. Something about fire. And Drew held my hand.
    He comes out a few seconds later, and we head down the strip-mall sidewalk. The air between us is clunky.
    “Where’ve you been?”
    He’s acting like it’s no big deal, but I know he’s mad. Before that shitty night when he drove me downtown, we talked on the phone nearly every day.
    “I keep calling. But every time, your mom says you’re not home.”
    “I’ve been really busy.”
    He nods. “You coming to the DYF roller party this Friday?” His voice is tight and the pitch is all wrong.
    “Doubt it.”
    “When I called the last time,” Drew tells me, “your mom said you were sleeping over at Jill’s. I thought you didn’t—I didn’t think she was your type.”
    “We’re not dating, for chrissake,” I say, and roll my eyes as if he’s the biggest moron. “What are you doing around here anyway?”
    “Mandy organized this thing at her place this morning, making cookies for the Burnaby Seniors Centre.”
    “Mandy, Mandy. Quelle saint!”
    Drew stops and stares at me. “Are you in trouble?”
    I stop too. My chest clenches like a fist.
    “A pregnancy test?” he whispers.
    He saw. I look away and laugh.
    Drew jams his hands in his pockets. He’s got a loose long-sleeved T-shirt on but I can still make out the bones in his chest.
    “I was taking it back , doofus.”
    “Your face is red,” he says.
    His is too.
    My mind bugs around for an explanation. I hate lying to Drew, but he asks too many damn questions.
    “You’re