She'll Take It Read online

  Advance praise for Mary Carter and her hilarious debut, She’ll Take It!

  “Mary Carter’s She’ll Take It is funny and heart-breaking, outrageous and touching. I eagerly followed Melanie through triumphs and pitfalls alike, and cheered the enormous act of courage that finally allows her to find personal redemption—and true love. If you’re looking for a story with a real-life happy ending, She’ll Take It is for for you,”

  —Holly Chamberlin, author of Babyland

  “Poignant and hilarious, this is one satisfying read.”

  —Eugenie Seifer Olson, author of Babe In Toyland

  “Move over, Shopaholic! With perfect comic sleight of hand, She’ll Take It chronicles the adventures of the most neurotic public enemy ever to hit the Big Apple. It should be a crime to have this much fun reading a book!”

  —Liz Ireland, author of How I Stole Her Husband

  “A sparkling, sassy story! Mary Carter’s wit is of the laugh-out-loud variety.”

  —Sara Faith Alterman, author of My 15 Minutes

  She’ll Take It

  Mary Carter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Advance praise for Mary Carter and her hilarious debut, She’ll Take It!

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Contract With Self

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Copyright Page

  Notes

  To my mother,

  who loved the book even before she read it.

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you to Jim McCarthy and John Scognamiglio for their patience, humor, and advice; Lisa Erbach Vance for taking the time to share some early, helpful thoughts with me; Jerry Cleaver, whose writing course started my novel ball rolling; and thank you to my team of early readers: Corey Lindberg, Tamara Moxham, Jennifer Blatto, Melissa Carter, and Pat Carter. And last but not least, I’d like to thank the friends, who sometimes willingly and sometimes after several glasses of wine, regaled me with their own “sticky fingered” tales.

  Contract With Self

  I, Melanie Zeitgar, being of sound mind and body (minus fifteen pounds) do solemnly swear:

  1. I will never shoplift again. Ever!1

  Chapter 1

  Before I steal, I pray. Saint of Kleptomaniacs, forgive me. That’s all. I don’t think it’s necessary to waste the Saints’ time with lame excuses about how society or New York or your parents are making you do it. They know we’re weak, original sin and all that. For me stealing is like love: I’ll know it when I see it.

  Today it’s a beautiful, little lavender bar of soap—a sudsy slice of heaven. It’s wrapped in soft purple tissue paper and topped with a white satin bow. I could eat it. I survey the territory. The five-hundred-square-foot boutique is divided into sections, and I am standing in the southeast corner flush against the wall. New Yorkers are slow to come out of their holiday comas, but the late January thaw has ignited early spring fever, and the boutique is crowded and noisy. Decorative hand mirrors are propped like sentinels on the shelves above the soaps, but there are no security cameras.

  I pick up one of the hand mirrors and use it to glance at the girl working the register. The crowd obscures my view. This is good news; if I can’t see her, she can’t see me. My heart begins to tap dance. My fingers tingle. While holding the mirror with my right hand, I covet the bar of soap in my left, holding it like an injured baby bird. Then I set the mirror down, open my purse, and scrounge around until I find my cell phone. I don’t need to make a call, but it’s an old magician’s trick—distraction, distraction, distraction. While removing my phone with my right hand, I open my left and tilt it down toward my purse like a slide. Whee! The bar of soap glides past my fingers and disappears safely inside. I snap the purse shut and linger by the soaps for a few more minutes, smelling the fragrances, pretending to be a normal, ambivalent shopper. “Excuse me.” I move away from the woman elbowing her way in. I head toward the door reading the posted sign as I slip out. SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Only if they’re caught, I think to myself. Only if they’re caught.

  Look at the lights! Look at the people! Can you smell the roasted chestnuts, the soft pretzels, and just a trace of diesel? Look around you, there are so many of us. Tall, short, fat, round, skinny, punk, white, black, Asian, Indian, and klepto. Look at those sweet, pudgy Midwesterners clutching their programs from The Producers while juggling their tourist maps and cans of mace. There is no greater place on earth than Manhattan. I could die now. I could die happy right this very minute, my size seven and one-half feet bouncing down the sidewalk, toe to toe with every other New Yorker, squeezing my dreams between theirs, offering them up to this maze of steel, concrete and blazing lights like a sacrificial lamb. I’m a lamb, I’m a lamb, I’m a happy little lamb.

  I’m also a good twenty blocks from home, but I decide to walk anyway. In addition to the springlike weather, I’m emanating warmth from deep within, riding the high that always bubbles up in me after a good, clean lift. I walk with a bounce in my step and blow mental kisses to my Saints.

  And before you think I’m totally off my rocker, I know I’m interacting with invisible, made-up idols of perfection, but can I help it if I feel the need for daily, Saintly intervention ? Some people throw salt over their shoulders, walk around ladders, and knock on wood for luck—I simply call upon the Universe for a little ethereal backup. And although I prefer to find God in the stars instead of a church, I consider myself a vicarious Catholic, and I figure if I’m going to be saddled with random guilt and a healthy fear of my own mortality, I might as well reap a few fringe benefits along the way.

  But don’t get me wrong—they may be Saints, but they aren’t perfect. Case in point, here I am bobbing along, singing their praises while they’re clearing the stage for the next act. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s only been three blocks, two shoves, four “Spare any change” and one “Hey baby” since I’ve left the store, but the guilt portion of this morning’s program is about to begin. Suddenly, the glorious bar of soap in my purse turns to stone. Its dead weight is like an anchor weighing me down. Ugly thoughts touch down and take off again like flies pestering a horse.

  You didn’t need a bar of soap. You should wash your mouth out with it when you get home. You could have walked up to the counter and paid for it like a decent human being. Turn around right now and take it back. But I don’t. I keep walking downtown. If I make it to the twenties there’s no turning back. Just five more blocks and I’m in the safe zone. The safe zone is where I can no longer rationalize going back to the store and the guilt stops. I can take it. I’m an actress, a New Yorker and a vicarious Catholic. I eat guilt for breakfast. It’s like a multivitamin; you just have to take it. Guilt is like the g
unk that washes to shore at the beach. You don’t stop going to the ocean because of the gunk. You just pick out the pretty seashells. It’s the yin yang of shoplifting. It comes with the territory. And believe me—by now I’ve got the territory down.

  I don’t look like a thief. I’m an attractive young woman. True, I’m clinging onto the last rung of the ladder of my twenties like a bulldog with a stolen bone, but I come from good aging genes, and I figure by the time I’m forty they will have come up with an anti-aging treatment that still allows you to use your facial muscles to do the odd thing like smile now and again without looking like a deranged robot, so I’m trying not to freak out. In all other aspects, I’m a decent citizen. I use sunscreen with an SPF of 15 or higher, I vote, and I buy Girl Scout cookies for my anorexic friends. I get Pap smears once a year, AIDS tests every six months, and I give to the homeless.

  In one way my decency makes up for the stealing, but on the other hand, it leaves me very little room to rationalize my habit. I’m neither a pimply faced teenager crumbling under peer pressure to stick heart-shaped lip gloss in my pockets nor a poor mother forced by tragic necessity to swipe a few boxes of generic macaroni for her three starving children. That would be understandable. Forgivable even. The truth is in this tale there are no starving children—not even starving cats or dogs. Likewise, no animals or children have been hurt by my kleptomania, so let’s call it a wash.

  I do not steal to feed a drug habit. I do not smoke crack cocaine, nor do I pop speed with my morning latte (nonfat, double shot, one Sweet’N Low). I like an occasional glass of wine (Australian Shiraz is always a good choice) or a pint of Guinness now and again, but that’s about it. Okay, I have been known to drink to excess on special occasions (birthdays, New Year’s, and getting to the subway only to find your ticket is gone and you’ve only fifty cents in your purse) and I’ve spent at least three mornings in the past six months swearing and puking and bargaining with the Saint of Hangovers that I’ll never, ever drink again if he would just (please!) make that ridiculous pounding in my head go away and let me take a sip of water without immediately returning it to the great white throne, but it has absolutely nothing to do with my secret shame.

  I’m afraid there are no explanations good enough to explain why I’m a 29-year-old klepto. Except this. I’m in love with (okay, so he had no ambitions whatsoever, but you should have seen the body on that man), (in my defense he didn’t enroll in clown school until after we had slept together), (don’t ask), (British, Australian, Irish, Russian) Ray Arbor. Beautiful, wonderful, incredible, there’s-just-one-catch Ray.

  He’s a musician.

  I know it’s bad, it’s wrong, it’s foolish, it’s trouble—but it is. For those of you who have loved and lost musicians, no explanation is needed. You feel my pain. You know dating a musician is akin to sticking your hand in a roaring fire to save a falling s’more. No matter how delicious it tastes, in the end you’re going to get burned.

  At some point in the dating scheme you have to ask yourself, “Is he thinking three little words about me, or am I just another groupie?” Ray Arbor and I have been spending every day together for the past three months. Ray’s band, Suicide Train, plays in dives all over Manhattan, New Jersey, and Long Island, and I’ve been a fixture at every show. By the second week of our courtship, I knew I would marry him and live in a trailer with six squalling brats if it meant spending the rest of my life staring into those jade green eyes. The guys in the band are used to women hanging on Ray, and they’ve started taking bets on how long I’m going to last, so I’ve doubled my efforts to be nice to them. I told Brett, the drummer, that he reminds me of Bono from U2, when actually with his curly red hair and freckled face, he looks more like a Muppet. I bring scotch and soda to the bass player, Tim, and point out the women in the crowd who I think will sleep with him on the first date. Nine out of ten times I’m right. Jason, the main singer, is the one I haven’t succeeded in winning over. He responds to my flirtations with a quiet disdain that leaves me feeling like I just wet my pants in public. I have decided to leave him alone.

  Last, Trent, Ray’s backup singer, is a pushover. He is a hundred pounds overweight and responds to touch—a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the knee, a peck on the cheek. I’m proud to say that when Trent gets drunk after shows and rants and raves about how evil women are, he never includes me in that category. In summary, Ray and I are having sex four plus times a week, I’m ignoring my closest female friends and sucking up to his, and I regularly shave my legs, highlight my hair, and wax my eyebrows. He has to be in love with me, right?

  Then why, why, why has it been six days, three hours, and twenty-four minutes since he’s called? The last I heard from him was the day after Trina Wilcox’s party. And even though I was blind drunk by the end of it, from what I can remember I looked smashing and it went swimmingly. We even had sex in the coatroom. It’s enough to make you insane. It’s enough to make you a klepto.

  As punishment for stealing the bar of soap, I go home, turn on every light in my place, and stand naked in front of my full-length mirror. My roommate Kim is out so I don’t even shut the door. I try to imagine my imperfect body swathed in orange prison garb. It’s not so bad. I would look good in orange—especially if I get blond highlights to perk up my roots. I wonder if I’ll be propositioned by a prison guard and what the chances are the relationship will last. I imagine myself by the side of the road, picking up trash with a long, sharp stick. The sun would feel good on my cheeks, my highlights would glimmer, and my fellow inmates and prison guard/lover would say, “She’s really calmed down. She’s at peace with herself. We’ve locked up her body but we can’t touch her soul.” And “Has she lost fifteen pounds or what?”

  Here are the facts. You already know I’m twenty-nine and holding. 5’7” (relatively tall, but I’m no giant), I have shoulder-length, dark blond hair, and long, thin arms with freckles. I thank the Saint of Freckles that he marched them up my arms and sprinkled them on my shoulders but left my face alone. I wonder if prior to this lifetime we’re given a choice about our appearance as well as our disposition. Did I give up sanity for a freckleless face? I can see Saint Peter prodding me with a white feather pen. “Melanie dear, you must decide. Would you like a face full of freckles or a lifetime supply of Prozac?” I wouldn’t have hesitated. “I’ll take the Prozac please, and make it a double.”

  Back to the mirror. Breasts adequate, not too small, not too large (Goldilocks would be proud), hips too big, stomach okay if I suck it in, calves actually very nice, but thighs frustrating beyond belief and constantly in need of hiding as if my entire lower body were a spy. Although I would never resort to liposuction, I do look forward to the day that you can buy your own fat-sucking vacuum right off the shelf and do it yourself in the privacy of your own home. I’m sure the technology is only minutes away. Until then, I’ll continue to refer to myself as “voluptuous”—it’s much nicer than “needs to lose a few.”

  My eyes are my best feature; they fluctuate between gray, blue, and green like a mood ring. If I go a few days without eating, I look even better—cheekbones—but a few days after that I binge from all the deprivation, and they puff out again. I really like my feet, but I hate my ass. My feet are petite, and I have a great arch (I could have been a ballet dancer), but my ass is way too big. Ray (My boyfriend? Friend I’m sleeping with? Future husband?) tells me he loves my ass. What kind of man could love this ass? The kind who doesn’t have to spend hours trying on a bloody pair of jeans, that’s who. Bloody hell. (I picked that up after a week in London. That and shagging. Sounds like you’re having way more fun. Some of it doesn’t work. For example, “Shag you!” Not enough grit. But when it comes to my ass, nothing works like a good “bloody hell.” Sod off!)

  When I’m done torturing myself, I hide the bar of soap in my bedroom closet. It’s the only spot in this room that’s not a disaster area. In fact the rest of my room looks like an abstract, post-robbery painting. It’s purpo
seful. My roommate Kim hates a mess, and although I would prefer a nice and tidy space, as long as I keep my room like this she won’t dare enter it. The padlock on my closet door would grab Kim’s attention like sharks smelling blood. She’s a sensitive girl and would think the padlock was because of her and might even accuse me of not trusting her, blah, blah, blah. You know how we are. I would do the same thing. After all, her room is an open book. There are no locks on her closets, and I’m welcome to waltz in anytime I’d like and borrow anything of hers that I can squeeze myself into. So for now I have to put up with my messy room and content myself with a meticulous closet.

  On the windowsill next to my closet sits a porcelain clown that my father gave me for my tenth birthday. We were supposed to actually go to the circus that day, but at the eleventh hour my father couldn’t get out of work and instead of a night of Lions! Tigers! And Bears! (Oh my!) I got a moody babysitter and a porcelain clown. Now my father is a tour guide who lives a laid-back life in the Florida Keys, but the ten-year-old me is still waiting for an apology. Ironically, I was too young then to be bitter, and I absolutely loved the clown. Now I use it to hide the key to my closet. It just fits underneath his big blue feet. I remove the key now and hold my breath. I relish the anticipation of opening my closet.

  The first thing I notice (with a twinge of panic) is that my closet is getting full. I have to hide what I steal or I can’t sleep, like an insomniac squirrel. I used to worry that dirt would build up on the objects and attach to my soul, but the nightly dustings have eased that. I place the bar of soap on the bottom shelf next to a package of island coasters (Bahamas! Bermuda! Virgin Islands!), a spanking-new Yankees cap, and six long, twisting beeswax candles. I feel a little bit sick. I didn’t really need another bar of soap. I’m a horrible person. That’s it. I’m done shoplifting. Besides giving myself an ulcer, I just don’t have the closet space. New York apartments are infamously small.