Life After Theft

Crap. “That’s not fair.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s fair that I sit here all day, every day with no one to talk to and no way to help myself?” she shouted. “To be stuck in a world I don’t belong to and where I can’t do anything?” Her face stayed angry for a few seconds, then crumpled into despair.

There’s a reason girls always win arguments with me. Tears are like Kryptonite. “Don’t cry, Kimberlee,” I said with a sigh.

“You would cry, t-t-too,” she wailed, “if you only had one person in the whole world who you could talk to.”

I could feel my will crumbling as I walked over and slumped down onto my bed.

Kimberlee stayed by my bathroom doorway.

I cleared my throat and patted the spot beside me. “Okay,” I said as she slowly sat. “If I help you, and I do mean if, there’ve got to be a few rules.”

She sniffed but nodded.

“Rule number the first is, no coming into my room until I’m dressed. Got it?”

She took a deep breath and swiped her sleeve across her face, wiping away her sad expression along with any traces of tears. “Fine. What else?”

There was only one other person I’d seen turn tears off that quickly. Like an on/off switch. My mom. The actress. “None of that . . . other stuff you talked about,” I said, starting to feel like a total sucker.

Kimberlee just shrugged. “No problem. Any other demands?”

“I’ll . . . make up more rules as we go along.” Now I was just pissed at her fake breakdown.

“’Kay,” she said, suddenly very businesslike. “Go shower or you’ll be late.”

“All right, but you stay out here. No peeking, no popping through the shower wall, no nothing.”

“Like I’d want to,” she muttered.

I hurried into the bathroom and showered as fast as I could. It was true that I didn’t want to be late, but the main reason was so Kimberlee wouldn’t change her mind and decide to come play a little peek-a-boo. I got out and jumped into my uniform half-wet; at least I was covered. I pulled out my electric razor and turned it on.

“Stop! Stop!” Kimberlee melted through the wall with her hands over her eyes. “Put the razor down. Do you really shave?” she asked, peeking through her fingers.

I pointed to the razor with my best duh look.

“No, I mean do you have to shave? You get stubble and everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Lemme see.” She leaned close and studied the fringe of hair on my chin and around my mouth. “That’s sexy; you can’t get rid of that.”

“But the dress code says no facial hair.”

“Oh, please. They won’t bust you for stubble.”

“Why would I want stubble?”

“Girls love stubble. If you can grow it, it shows you’re more virile.”

I rolled my eyes. “Do you even know what that word means?”

“Capable of performing sexually as a male,” she said proudly. “I looked it up.”

I looked at my chin in the mirror and my thoughts flashed to Serafina. That wrestler guy yesterday probably had a little stubble, too. “Virile. You know, I’m feeling virile.”

“Whatever—do your hair.”

I took a comb and parted my hair, then brushed it back with my fingers.

“You’re kidding me.”

“What? It’s the messy look.”

“I know the messy look, Jeff, and that is not it. Do you have any gel?”

Last straw. “Listen, I am not changing my hair. If you want me to help you, you take me the way I am or no deal.”

Kimberlee folded her arms across her chest. “Whatever,” she said. “But if no girl will touch you, don’t say I didn’t try.”

It took fifteen minutes of coaching before Kimberlee was satisfied. I wasn’t convinced. I had poky spears on one side with a flattened patch on the other, and bits of crunchy bangs were hanging down over one eye. “I look like an idiot.”

“No, you look hot!”

“I don’t know, Kim, maybe—”

“Kimberlee.”

“Kimberlee. Maybe this really isn’t the look for me.”

“Trust me. You’ve never looked better.”

Trust Kimberlee? Every instinct rebelled against that thought, but what choice did I really have? Kimberlee was born and raised in Santa Monica, and based on what I’d skimmed from her internet presence—yes, I did more Googling—she apparently was the queen of Whitestone for almost three years before the riptide cut her reign short. I had nothing.

Besides, I’d spent so long on my hair I only had ten minutes to get to school. No time to start over.

I poked my head in the kitchen. Just my luck: Mom, Dad, and Tina. As big an audience as our kitchen ever got this time of morning. I tried to appear confident as I rushed through the kitchen, attempting to not be seen.

“Jeff! Look at you!” my mom gushed. “You look like Ryan Seacrest.”

Was that a compliment?

My dad didn’t even look up from his paper. I was okay with that.

I grabbed my breakfast burrito to go, said my good-byes, and slipped out to my car before anyone could make any more comments.

“Loosen your tie,” Kimberlee said, popping suddenly into the front seat.