Life After Theft

My candle of hope instantly relit. No, “candle” is far too tame; this was a torch, a bonfire, a shock-and-awe explosion of hope.

Kimberlee was dead meat.

KIMBERLEE DIDN’T SHOW UP AGAIN until after school, when she fell into step with me in the hallway—as if nothing had happened. “Are we going now?”

“You are in so much trouble,” I said quietly.

“What are you talking about?” she asked at full volume. I think she enjoyed being able to talk loud when I couldn’t.

I burst through the front doors into the crisp January air. A little chilly, but mostly a perfect, sunny day. Like pretty much every day in Santa Monica. I stayed silent until I let myself into my car and Kimberlee slid into the passenger seat.

“Open the top,” Kimberlee said. “It’s, like, sacrilege to keep the top up on a day like this.”

“Not till I’m finished,” I said.

“What’s your problem?”

“Sera and Mikhail?”

“What about them?”

She had so much nerve. “Sera and Mikhail Hewitt. I’ll give you a hint. They’re not married.”

She at least had the courtesy to look slightly abashed. Very slightly. “So?”

I glared at her.

“Okay, fine, I should have told you. Big deal.”

The glaring continued.

“What do you want me to do?” Kimberlee said, not apologetic in the least. “Are you gonna pop the top or what?”

“Not today,” I grumbled.

Kimberlee rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break. I just forgot.”

“You really expect me to believe you just forgot he was Sera’s brother?”

“Fine, I didn’t forget. But come on, it was funny! You should have seen the look on your face. Priceless.”

“You don’t understand. I like this girl, Kimberlee.” Like, a lot. Weirdly a lot.

“All the more reason for me to warn you off her. Really, Jeff, she’s totally untouchable.”

“What the hell does that mean? First you say she’s a slut, then you let me think she’s dating her brother, now she’s untouchable?”

“You may be ready to hand her your heart on a silver platter, but she won’t give it back. She’s cold.”

“Even if that did make any sense, why should I believe you? You lie as often as you tell the truth. More often, really,” I added, realizing the truth of it even as I said it.

“Well, believe me this time. She’s not the innocent angel she appears to be.”

“And you are?”

“You’re not getting involved with me, are you?” She raised her eyebrows. “Though you seem like the kind of guy who would try, if he could.”

I swear she had one more button done up last time I looked over.

“I’m at least as hot as she is. And my boobs are way bigger.” Another button was mysteriously gone.

I focused on the road and didn’t look again. “And fake, probably.”

“Hey, they don’t feel fake when you got ’em in your hands.”

I almost swerved off the road. “Are you serious?” My eyes involuntarily returned to her chest; they didn’t look fake.

Kimberlee smiled victoriously and rebuttoned her blouse.

I turned to face the road again, feeling like a total schmuck. She knew just how to play me and I fell right into it. Kimberlee, one—Jeff, zero.

Even though this was my second trip to the cave, I still felt like a trespasser. But at least I climbed the wall faster.

Sadly, the scenery hadn’t changed.

If not for the rough, rocky walls and floor, it could have been an office storage room. Lidded file-sized boxes were lined up in rows with one wide aisle down the middle and an odd code of numbers and letters I didn’t understand written in black Sharpie on each box. Off to the side was a stack of still-flat boxes in plastic wrapping, and I could imagine alive-Kimberlee buying—or, more likely, stealing—them in anticipation of more pilfered items.

It was kind of sick, really.

“I don’t get you,” I admitted as we sorted through boxes. Well, I sorted and she directed. Unfortunate drawback to working with ghosts: Only one of you can actually work. Luckily, Kimberlee was happily interpreting her weird code on the boxes, and the bags inside were neatly labeled with names and dates.

“Jeez, it’s not that hard,” Kimberlee said. “This number means—”

“Not your code,” I said, pulling another box down. “You. I’ve seen your house—you’re obviously super-rich. And I get that whole thrill-seeking thing behind shoplifting, but this?” I asked, beckoning at the mass of boxes. “This is something else. Why?”

Kimberlee shook her head, looking down at the floor of the cave. “I don’t know,” she said sheepishly. “I just . . . couldn’t help myself.”

“But you have everything you stole just hidden in here. You didn’t use any of this stuff.”

“That wasn’t the point,” Kimberlee said, her tone brittle. “Besides, that kind of stuff gets you caught. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were.” I totally didn’t say it. “So . . . you never got caught? Even after all of this?”

“There were a couple of close calls.”

“And people just—what?—didn’t notice?”

Now a sly smile crossed her face. “Oh, they noticed, all right.”

That did not sound good. “What does that mean?”

“There was a . . . bit . . . of a theft scandal at Whitestone for, um, several months before I died,” Kimberlee said, avoiding my eyes. “Things . . . things were pretty bad, and I was taking a lot of stuff.”

Great. Just great.

“Principal Hennigan got complaints from students, teachers, parents, you name it. He was obsessed with catching the culprit. He kept trying to get the cops to come out and, like, send someone undercover—he is so lame—but obviously things eventually stopped disappearing and everyone moved on with their lives.”

“And no one realized the stuff stopped going missing when you died?” I asked skeptically.

“People never see what they don’t want to see,” Kimberlee said, looking out at the ocean. Anywhere but at me.

“But when this stuff starts coming back people are going to realize it’s the stuff that got stolen before, right?” Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

“Maybe,” Kimberlee said quietly.

“Maybe? I don’t think there’s any maybe about it, unless the entire school is much less intelligent than the brochures say. Returning this stuff wasn’t supposed to draw attention—it was supposed to be subtle.” I had no idea when I agreed to this that it was so . . . big.

“It can be subtle,” Kimberlee said, clearly attempting to sound optimistic.

“I have serious doubts,” I said dryly. “Especially considering we’ve got three boxes of stuff just from the teachers.”

“I’m trying to make amends,” Kimberlee said, irritation creeping into her voice. “My entire future—whatever that consists of—is resting on this. What do you want me to do?”

And as I stood there looking over box after box of stolen stuff, I realized I had no idea how to answer that question.

“So,” Kimberlee said, sounding strangely detached. “Do you want to give stuff back to people first or take stuff back to stores?”

I closed my eyes and sighed. I must have been insane when I agreed to this. “Let’s try people first.”

“Okay. Box numero uno. Miss Serafina,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

Ah yes, Sera, I thought and smiled, remembering all over again that she was single. Until I realized that if Kimberlee had a bag for Sera, there was something in there she’d stolen. “What did you take from her?” I demanded.

She rolled her eyes. “Go look.”

I grumbled under my breath as I looked through the bags until I found the ones marked with Sera’s name. A cheer skirt and shoes. They looked brand-new, but Kimberlee had been dead for over a year. “When did you take these?”

Silence.

“Kimberlee?”

“The date’s on the bag, okay?”

Of course it was. How could I expect anything different from Miss OCD Klepto? “When she was a freshman?” I said, counting backward.

Kimberlee poked her head out from the boxes. The middle of the boxes. I was never going to get used to that. “She was the first freshman at Whitestone to make the varsity squad.”

“So you thought you’d take some of her excitement away? That’s real nice.”

“Shut up. I didn’t ask for commentary.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded angry or hurt.

“Well, she’s a really awesome girl.” And hot. So very, very hot.

“Says who? You’ve known her for what, a day?”

“Yeah, but she was nice to me without even knowing who I was. Nicer than anyone else I’ve met here so far,” I added in a grumble.

“Hey, I totally talked to you,” Kimberlee argued.

“I said nice.” I stuffed the cheer gear into my backpack. “I have room for some more; who else?”

I managed to gather bags for half a dozen of the kids Sera had introduced me to at lunch before my backpack started to look like that blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The pile of boxes didn’t look any smaller. If anything, it looked bigger.

“Day one,” I muttered.

My mom was constantly telling me that getting started on any project is the hardest part. I hoped she was right and that the worst was now behind me. On both the Kimberlee front and the Sera front.

When did my life become a soap opera?

I got the idea when I spotted a printing shop as I was driving home, trying to ignore Kimberlee belting rather off-tune to the radio beside me.

“What are you doing here?” Kimberlee asked, looking up at the nondescript shop.

“We.”

“Huh?”

“What are we doing here. You have to help.”

“Help what?”

“You’ll see.”

I pushed open the poster-laden front door and something chimed the first few notes of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” A man in a button-up sweater poked his head out a doorway at the back of the store. “I’ll be right with you,” he chirped.

“No hurry,” I called as I turned to a display of stickers and labels.

Kimberlee huffed beside me—and not too quietly. “Shh,” I hissed at her.

“Why? It’s not like Mr. Rogers back there can hear me.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stickers.

After I had browsed for a few minutes, the clerk took his place at the register. “What can I do for you?” he asked, sliding his order pad in front of him.

“You do all these custom, right?”

“Of course.”

“When could you have them ready for me?”

“If you use one of our designs and just add words, I can print them for you in about an hour. Send-out takes five business days.”

“Your designs’ll work. Can you just give me this white oval?” I pointed to a strip of plain white stickers.

The man scratched on his order pad. “What would you like them to say?”

“I’m sorry, comma, Kimberlee. That’s K-I—”

“Are you kidding me?” Kimberlee shrieked. “You can’t just blab to the world that I’m suddenly giving a bunch of stuff back a year after I’m dead!”

I shot her a nasty look, but she didn’t even notice.

“I forbid you to put my name on there! If you want to put someone’s name on there, put your own.” Her voice was grating on my eardrums and it seemed like it just got louder with each word.

I cringed as the salesman asked, “M next? Right?”

Kimberlee screamed again, a sound that probably would have shattered the windows if she’d been alive—and I forced myself not to cover my ears. “You know what? I have a better idea; give me these instead.” I pointed to the same round stickers, but just a little bit bigger with a pretty red flower and some decorative leaves printed along the bottom. “Leave off the name. Just print ‘I’m sorry’ on them with the flower.” I shot a very pointed glare at Kimberlee.

The sales guy glanced at me worriedly but said nothing as he scratched out the order and started writing again.

“This is ridiculous,” Kimberlee said. “But at least it’s better than the name thing.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the man. “How many?” he asked.

It was depressing to even think about. I looked up at the display. There was a bulk discount at a thousand. And that should definitely cover it.

I hoped.

“A thousand,” I said, digging into my back pocket for my wallet.

The guy looked over the rims of his glasses at me for an instant, probably wondering just how sorry I was for whatever I had done. “All right. About an hour.”

Kimberlee didn’t even bother waiting until we had left the store before starting up again. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s the principle,” I said as I slid into my car. “If you’re stuck here till you make amends, you should do more than just return the stuff. You should be sorry.”

“And if I’m not?” she huffed, with her arms folded over her chest.

“By the time we’re done, I bet you will be. But if you start trying to apologize then, it’ll be too late. Start now.” I slid into my seat and pulled on my seat belt. “If I have to do this, I’m going to make sure it gets done right. You don’t get a choice on this one.”

Kimberlee rolled her eyes. “You are the lamest thing that ever happened to me.” Then she turned and walked away.

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT HAVING A fight with a ghost that makes you paranoid in the morning. I kept checking over my shoulder in the shower, and I peeked out of my bathroom door before darting to my closet for the shirt I’d forgotten to bring in with me.

But in the end Kimberlee popped up beside me at my locker, two minutes before the bell, acting as if we hadn’t argued at all.

I think that was the moment I understood how desperate she was. She could get mad and rage and ignore me all night, but in the end, she needed me. It made me feel really powerful for a few seconds before the guilt sank in. Of course I was powerful. She was a helpless ghost. Pain in the ass or not.

Okay, there was no reason to even end that sentence with “or not.”

Nonetheless, when we put our plan into action a few hours later, I was glad she was there.

“Is anyone coming?” I asked.

“No, but hurry.”

Kimberlee watched the doors as I ran across the cafeteria to the table where I saw Sera sitting yesterday and opened my backpack. I threw six gallon-sized plastic bags into a pile in the middle of the long rectangle and ran back as my heart sped up to about three hundred beats per minute.

“All clear,” Kimberlee said, her eyes still scanning the halls. “Just look cool and keep your bathroom pass where the teachers can see it.”

I haven’t used a bathroom pass since I was in, like, third grade—and never one the size of a dinner plate. But at Whitestone they insisted such a nonconcealable pass cut down on the number of students who wandered the halls. Personally, I thought it was a good reason to hold it until lunchtime.

“Why can’t we just look everyone up in the phone book and drop stuff off on their porch?” I muttered.

“Oh please,” Kimberlee said. “People who can afford to send their kids to Whitestone are not listed in the phone book. And even if they were, do you know all these kids’ parents’ names? I sure as hell don’t, and I’ve been going to school with them since kindergarten.”

I glanced back down at the pass. “Fine.”

It was ten minutes until lunch when I returned the enormous pass to its spot and started on the assignment that would now be homework, since I didn’t get to work on it the whole class period. Great.

Everything was quiet—so quiet that when the bell rang, I gasped and knocked my book on the floor. I should never apply for the FBI. For everyone’s sake.

I entered the cafeteria hesitantly, and not just because the stuff I’d returned was there. Sera hadn’t actually said that I was invited back, but the guys seemed to think I was cool enough, and she was coming to see me at the party. So . . . that meant I could sit with her again, right?

Sera was nowhere to be seen, but I wasn’t going to make the mistake of standing like a dork with a tray full of food again, so I headed toward the table and hoped my invitation didn’t have an expiration date.

“Ah, man,” Wilson said just as I came into earshot, “someone left a bunch of crap on our table.” He raised an arm to sweep it onto the floor.

Stop! Don’t! my mind screamed. If this stuff got trashed Kimberlee was going to haunt me forever.

“Wait a sec.” Hampton edged in and plucked one of the bags from the table. He pulled out a small day planner covered with Sharpie doodles. “This is mine.” He stared at the planner in confusion, then flipped through it, pausing at some of the pages. “I lost this when I was in seventh grade. It had a hundred bucks in it.” He dug into a small pocket on the back page and pulled out a Benjamin. “No way. Sweet!”

Brynley pulled a pink T-shirt from another bag. “This was my favorite shirt freshman year. Someone stole it out of my gym locker.”

I forced myself not to shoot Kimberlee a nasty look, but I heard her clear her throat behind me.

Brynley looked back at the bag. “What’s this?” she asked, poking at the sticker.

I proceeded to get very interested in the wall to my left.

“‘I’m sorry’? That’s weird.” But she tossed the empty bag into the garbage without another word and stowed her shirt in her backpack with a smile.

I caught sight of Sera making her way toward the table and subtly stepped back so I wasn’t blocking the seat beside my tray. Because I’m supersmooth like that . . .

A few other people pulled things from the pile as she walked up—one from two years ago and one from just a few weeks before Kimberlee drowned. It was exciting to watch all the happy faces around me, and I tried not to be too obvious as I turned to watch Sera find her bag.

She sat staring at her skirt and shoes for a long time with no expression on her face at all while everyone else started digging into their food. Finally, when the din at the table settled, Sera said, “This is too creepy.”

“Why?” I tried to ask casually. “Someone’s conscience got to ’em.”

Sera shook her head. “No. I know who stole these and she didn’t have a conscience at all.” She addressed the whole table again. “You all remember Kimberlee.” It wasn’t a question.

Wilson snorted. “Who could forget that beyotch?”

I stared straight ahead, not daring to look at Kimberlee. She told me she hadn’t gotten caught, so how did Sera know?

“She stole these,” Sera said. “I saw her do it. But she never would ’fess.”

I tried to look as clueless as possible. “Kimberlee who?”

“Schaffer,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Before your time.”

“So, she reformed and gave you your stuff back?” I hoped it sounded like a natural—and uninformed—theory.

“Dude, she’s dead,” Wilson said.

“And good riddance,” Sera muttered into her pasta.

I stared at Sera in shock. This was not the reaction I’d expected. Sure, she could be annoying as hell, but I figured it was just because I wasn’t one of her friends. Hadn’t Kimberlee told me how wonderful her life was? How popular she was? Open dislike was hardly the way someone as popular as Kimberlee claimed to be should be treated.

Especially a dead someone.

I chanced a look around. Kimberlee was nowhere to be seen.

She didn’t show up again until I got into my car after school. And even then she slid silently into her place.

“Hey.”

“Let’s just go to the cave,” she replied shortly.

We made it to the beach, and I filled my backpack with bags for Monday and started packing two boxes to set me up for the rest of the week before she spoke again. “I probably shouldn’t have taken all this stuff,” she said, her admission echoing in the cave.

I paused for a moment, then resumed yanking on my backpack zipper. “It’s not really a ‘probably’ thing. You said you had everything. Why wasn’t that enough?”

She sat on a box and stared at the ground. “I tried not to, but I couldn’t stop. You don’t know what it’s like. What if I asked you to stop breathing, or eating—could you?”

“But it’s not breathing or eating, Kimberlee. It’s stealing.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped. “Don’t you think that every time I came up here with more stuff to file away I hated myself for it?”

“Could have fooled me,” I said, gesturing to the masses of boxes surrounding us.

She looked at me for a long time; not glaring, just studying me until I started to feel uncomfortable. “You think being a klepto means I like to steal stuff? I don’t. I hate stealing. I hate stealing more than anything in the entire world.”

“Then why didn’t you stop?”

“I couldn’t. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. I tried so hard. I went, like, four months one time. Then one day, I was walking behind this lady at the mall, and she had this stupid little fluffy keychain on the strap of her purse. And I wanted it so badly I couldn’t think about anything else. I walked away. I went and sat on the water fountain and tried to think of anything except the keychain. And I started to shake. My whole body was, like, having convulsions. I was seriously afraid I was going to die if I didn’t find that woman and take her keychain.” She stared down at the ground, something that looked eerily like shame filling her face.

“So what happened?” I asked quietly.

“I found her and took the keychain,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’ve never felt so good and so bad at the same time. I got this amazing high like I could conquer the world. But that was the moment that I knew I would never, ever conquer stealing.” She shrugged dejectedly. “I kinda gave up after that. There didn’t seem to be any point. I guess dying was the only way to stop.”

“I’m sorry.” But it felt like a stupid thing to say.

She shrugged. “My own fault for swimming out into that riptide.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“We don’t all die from them.”

“No, but some of us end up being miserable for the rest of our lives.” I paused for a moment, considering that. “Maybe that’s worse.”

“As opposed to being miserable for the rest of your afterlife?”

Something in her voice made me feel sorry for her, and it wasn’t a feeling I wanted to have. I needed to stay rational and in control here. Kimberlee was a veritable emotional steamroller and I was constantly in danger of getting myself flattened. I sat down beside her, but not close enough to touch. The cold, creepy feeling still freaked me out. “But it might not last too much longer. You return everything and apologize and you’ll be out of here . . . to . . . wherever.”

“It’ll be a good place, won’t it?” Kimberlee said, starting to smile now.

A little.

But I was so the wrong person to ask.

When in doubt, lie. “Absolutely,” I said, without meeting her eyes.

“WAKE UP, LAZY ASS!” KIMBERLEE shouted at about two-hours-before-rational-time o’clock the next morning. “It’s Harrison Hill day!”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing a pillow and dropping it on top of my head. “And in case you didn’t hear right, I’m going at ten o’clock p.m.”

“Duh. We have to go shopping now and get you something decent to wear.”

That cheered me up like a kick to the head. “Shopping? Uh, no.”

“Dude, I’ve seen what’s in your closet. Old tees and faded jeans. And Converse? Please!”

“Vintage,” I corrected her, defending my eclectic collection of shirts I’d very carefully selected from some of Phoenix’s finest thrift stores.

“Whatever. Not good enough for Harrison Hill. When you go to a school with uniforms, you make the most of any chance to actually show off your taste. This party will be a full-on fashion show and your clothes will totes stick out. And not in the good way.”