Free Trinkets by Kirsten Smith

I’m as fucked up as you are.”

Spies Like Us
    On our way out of class,
    Moe joked maybe we are being
    secretly recruited by the CIA,
    and maybe Shawn is a top agent
    sent to find new trainees,
    and we are the chosen ones.
    Maybe we will learn to carry state secrets
    and smuggle microchips
    and seduce bad guys.
    Maybe we will save the world,
    one trinket
    at a time.

THE ASSIGNMENT
    “So, did you have fun at
Romeo and Juliet
?” Elodie asks us. We’re walking downtown past Pioneer Courthouse Square, where all kinds of people are basking in the almost sunny day. Some dude is banging on plastic tubs like they’re drums.
    “It wasn’t so bad,” Moe offers. “I hope Ms. H got that guy’s number. The erect one. I feel like he could have a positive impact on her life.” She makes a hip thrusting motion, and Elodie squeals.
    “Did she assign you guys to write some stupid creative memoir about your family? Or was that just our class?” I ask.
    “Yeah. Annoying. What’s there to say?” Moe shrugs, taking a piece of turkey jerky out of her bag and shoving it into her mouth.
    “Trust me, I’ve got plenty to say about my parents,” I say. “I just don’t want to say it in an assignment in Ms. Hoberman’s class.”
    “So, have you written it?” Elodie asks us both.
    “No. And I don’t plan to.”
    “The only writing I can seem to do is in my journal. When I go to write a paper, it reeks,” says Moe.
    “I like writing poems,” Elodie says.
    “You’re a total poetry type,” Moe teases, chasing down her jerky with a chug of Red Bull and swishing it around before she adds, “Poems are dorky.”
    “They are not!” Elodie looks offended. “What do you think all great songs are? Poetry.”
    “No, a great song is a great song. A poem is always going to be just a poem,” Moe retorts.
    “I don’t know about poems, but I read blogs,” I say. “Have you been to the one run by some girl in Chicago who’s our age?”
    “Blogs by teenagers: also stupid,” Moe says.
    “No, it’s good, trust me.” I don’t know why I am bothering to try to convince a person who is a known vandal about the validity of a well-known website, so I change the subject. “Let’s go get some stuff and meet back here.”
    “In twenty minutes?” Elodie asks.
    “What? That’s barely enough time,” whines Moe.
    “Nut up,” Elodie fires back. Jesus, she’s got surprising balls. Then she blushes. “Sorry. Something my dad used to say.”
    “See you then,” I say. Moe sighs and heads off in one direction, and Elodie and I go in another. If only poor Shawn knew that this particular 10 percent of the population was definitely not curbing its shoplifting tendencies but fanning their flames as much as possible.

Red
    All right, let’s see what you got,
    I say to Tabitha.
    We’re waiting for Moe back at our meeting spot,
    in front of the sculpture of a guy sitting on a bench.
    People always freak out because even though he’s bronze,
    they always think he’s real.
    Tabitha opens her bag
    and pulls out a red Prada dress from Mario’s.
    You should get one of these,
she says.
    It’s not really my style, but I like red.
    Red says sexy and mysterious
    and dangerous
    and everything that I used to not be
    but am now totally becoming.

 
The Sprint
    Moe runs up all out of breath:
We gotta go!
    She takes off in a sprint.
    Shit!
Tabitha says, and we bolt after Moe,
    who races out of the square
    and around the corner
    and up the stairs into a parking garage,
    until she drags us behind a Prius
    covered in left-wing bumper stickers
    like GO GREEN OR GO HOME
    and UNFAIRIZONA .
    We crouch down, panting,
    and after a second Tabitha peeks
    around the bumper
    and says,
Are they gone?
    Who?
Moe says.
    Whoever was chasing us
, Tabitha says, annoyed.
    Oh, that. I was just seeing how fast you guys could run.
    Tabitha looks at her.
    Bitch!
    Moe grins.
    You know you love me.

 
Screech Crackle Pop
    Screech crackle pop.
    We are on the light rail