THE BIKINI HAS BLACK AND WHITE STRIPES AND little turquoise beads attached to the ends of the strings. It’s probably expensive, but that doesn’t matter because this is it. The one. I move closer and rub the smooth fabric between my fingers.
I want it.
No. I need it.
Showing up at Jasmine Tully’s school’s-out-for-summer pool party in my old, stretched-out one-piece that I’ve had since ninth grade isn’t an option. Most of the girls will be wearing cute swimsuits, probably freshly selected at the mall. Or maybe even from a boutique downtown. But I’m smart enough to stay away from little shops, where the risk of being noticed is a lot greater. At least this department store has some cute clothes.
With practiced ease, I turn over the price tags. The bikini top alone is thirty dollars, on sale. The bottoms are twenty-two. Over fifty dollars for a few tiny scraps of fabric, which seems silly to me. Like so many other things, the smaller it is, the more you pay.
I think of the two twenties in my wallet—the last of my savings—and turn my back on the swimsuit section. I start browsing through a rack of shirts, my senses on high alert. It’s Saturday afternoon, a busy time for big-box stores, and several other shoppers are buzzing around the women’s section. Casually, I check them out: an old woman slowly pushing a cart. A skinny blonde picking through activewear. A pretty mom flanked by two small boys fighting over who gets to carry a package of cookies. None of them look even remotely like a loss prevention officer, which is the official job title for those creepy plainclothes people who lurk in the aisles and try to catch people stealing. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any around. As usual, the tips I learned from the internet flash through my mind.
Never let your guard down. Stay paranoid, even when you know the store.
I do know this store. I spent weeks studying the layout, locating the cameras, and figuring out all the blind spots. I learned the best times and days to go and what some of the LP officers look like. But no matter how many times I do this, no matter how confident I’ve become, the paranoia never stops. And it shouldn’t. Arrogance can make you sloppy.
I adjust my purse against my shoulder and drift over to a table display of jeans. They’re not my style, but it doesn’t matter. I take my time digging through the pile and eventually pull out a pair in my size. Draping them over my forearm, I double back to the shirts. That thick blue-and-white flannel one I spotted a few minutes ago will work just fine.
Blend in. Don’t give anyone a reason to suspect you.
One good thing about being short—blending in is easy. No one would ever suspect the tiny red-haired girl with the glasses and cute dusting of freckles across her nose. I look like a bouncy student-council-president type, someone who organizes fund-raisers for new gym equipment and paints her face at football games. Not a criminal.
No one looks at me twice.
I pick out a flannel shirt in size small. It’s almost summer and getting warm, but a good flannel is always useful. I hold it by its hanger and continue to browse, slowly, picking things up and putting them back, flipping through tops and camis, the metal hangers screeching against the rack. Typical shopper behavior. All the while, I’m listening. Watching. Aware. I know there’s a camera above me, but I don’t look at it. That’s just asking for trouble.
It’s time. I make my way over to swimwear again. By now, I have two more shirts hanging from my hand. Cute ones that I’m actually going to buy. Because it’s always smart to act normal and go through the checkout.
The bikini is right where I left it. Looking at it again, I see that both pieces have sensor tags. No big deal. I find size smalls in each and hook the hangers over my fingers, positioning them behind the shirts so they’re not in full view. Step one—done.
Take advantage of blind spots.
I start walking, making sure my pace isn’t stiff or overly fast. In the distance, the housewares section stretches out across several aisles. It’s an area, I’ve discovered, that’s not closely monitored. A blind spot. I stroll down an aisle and stop in front of a display of curtains. After double-checking to make sure the aisle is empty, I quickly tuck the bikini into the unbuttoned plaid shirt, then adjust the fabric until it’s completely hidden. Step two.
The fitting rooms are across from women’s underwear, a short walk away. I continue to browse as I go, head facing forward, pausing every so often to flip through a rack. Cool and casual. No one appears to be following me or paying any attention to me. I’m good to go.
“How many, honey?”
The woman working the fitting rooms barely looks at me. She’s busy digging through a messy pile of clothes and putting things back on hangers.
I show her my selections. “Four.”
She nods and gets a little plastic hanger with the number four on it, then unlocks a change room. I thank her and slip inside, my heart thumping. The nervous anticipation makes me feel weightless and dizzy, like I’m floating somewhere outside myself. All I can think about is the goal in front of me—doing what I have to do and then getting out as quickly and smoothly as possible.
I drop the jeans on the bench and hang up the three tops. Above the row of hooks, there’s a sign: Shoplifters Will Be Prosecuted. A scare tactic. Change rooms aren’t monitored, and this store doesn’t have the extreme types of LP officers who slide mirrors under the doors. No eyes are on me right now, and for the first time in twenty minutes, I take in a full breath.
The bikini is still hidden securely in the flannel shirt. I free it and hang both pieces on a hook of their own. After stripping down to just my underwear, I slide the bottoms up my legs, silently praying that everything fits. Because if it doesn’t, I might have to try again tomorrow, when the store isn’t quite as busy and the risk of detection is greater. Please let it fit.
So far so good. I slip the bikini top on next, tying the strings with slightly shaky fingers. It feels good. Comfortable. I let out a small sigh of relief as I study my reflection. Looks pretty good too. Better than my ratty one-piece, anyway.
As silently as possible, I unlatch my purse and dig out my hook—a small, curved piece of metal that removes several types of security tags—which I ordered online a few months ago. I grip the tag attached to the bikini bottom and work the tip of the hook into the hole on the end. I need to push with enough force to remove the pin, which isn’t always easy. But this time the tag pops off right away. I do the same with the one on the top, then stick both tags into the pockets of the jeans I brought in just for this purpose. And that’s step three.
Quickly, I get dressed again, arranging my clothes over my new bikini. I twist around, checking to see if anything shows. The ties at the back of my neck stick out a little, but once I put my jacket on, they’re no longer noticeable. Satisfied, I stuff the hook in my purse, along with my bra, and grab the rest of the stuff I came in with. In total, I was in here for about ten minutes. Completely respectable.
When I emerge, the woman is still hanging up discarded clothes. I smile at her as I return the number four hanger.
“How’d you do?” she asks, her gaze flicking to the items in my hands. The same number I went in with, as far as she knows.
“This doesn’t fit me.” I hand over the flannel shirt but keep the jeans. She might feel the security tags in the pockets, and if that happened, it would be all over.
“Have a good day,” she tells me, turning back to her work.
“You too.”
I head for the checkouts with the jeans and the two shirts I plan to buy. On the way, I furtively dump the jeans on a ransacked table of T-shirts. Thirty or so feet to the checkouts. Twenty feet. Still facing straight ahead, I shift my eyes back and forth. No one is watching me. I strain my ears, listening. No footsteps behind me. No one is trailing. I reach the checkout and stand in line behind a tired-looking man with a baby in a car seat. The baby smiles at me, drool dripping down her chin, but I’m too focused on my pounding heart and the tingling feeling in my limbs to smile back. Just a few more minutes.
You’re not free yet. Not until you’re leaving the parking lot. Until then, don’t assume.
When it’s my turn, I set the shirts on the counter.
“Find everything you were looking for today?” the cashier, a girl about my age, asks brightly as she scans my stuff. Each beep echoes through my head, the sound amplified.
“Yes,” I say, trying not to fidget. I resist the urge to adjust the collar of my jacket again and dig out my cash instead.
“That’ll be thirty-two fifty-nine.”
I hand over my twenties, already damp from the sheen of sweat on my palms. The cashier gives me my change and receipt, and I leisurely take my bag, like I’m in no hurry to leave. Next comes the most nerve-racking part. Nothing can be done to you in the store itself—but once you’re outside those doors, you’re fair game.
“Have a nice afternoon,” the cashier says as I walk away.
“You too.”
The doors have alarm towers on each side, which I don’t need to worry about since I know enough to remove security tags. What I do need to worry about is getting stopped by a perceptive employee or an LP officer outside the doors. I’ve read stories online about even the smartest lifters getting caught and then taken to a room to be grilled for hours. Obviously, they got sloppy.
I won’t let myself get sloppy.
As I approach the exit, I keep my receipt in my hand in case the alarms do go off for some reason and I need proof for my purchases. But nothing happens as I pass through, and just like that, I’m stepping out into the warm, late-May rain.
Don’t pause. Don’t look around. Just keep walking.
No footsteps. No angry voice yelling for me to stop. No firm hand on my arm. Like always, I walk away free.
My black Honda Civic is parked near the end of the lot. I get in and toss the bag on the passenger seat, automatically glancing in the mirrors for approaching security. All I see is an old lady wearing a plastic rain bonnet, shuffling toward the store.
The adrenaline drains out of my body, and suddenly I’m exhausted. Confident that no one’s coming for me, I lean back against the seat and shut my eyes for a moment. As I do, I catch a whiff of my mother’s vanilla-scented perfume. This used to be her car, before she left. I’ve tried everything from air fresheners to leaving the windows open for days to get rid of the smell, the reminder of her. But it still lingers, trapped forever in the seat fabric.
I drive home in the rain with my window open wide, turquoise beads digging into my back the whole way.