“You look like you’re gonna throw up,” Tristan tells me, his eyes narrowing in concern, but his mouth twisting into a smile, like he finds it a little bit amusing. I keep drinking and shake my head.
“I never throw up.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, then you look like you’re gonna pass out,” he adjusts. I refill my cup.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him, finishing that cup too.
“How about you just watch me first. Will that make you feel better?”
I nod. I don’t feel like explaining that my issue is more related to social anxiety than concern over stealing a wallet. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m once again in a high school cafeteria, surrounded by people who don’t notice I am there. I need time for the alcohol to work its magic, so I tell him, “Yes, actually.”
Tristan gets straight to business. Not that watching does me any good. He’s so fast at grabbing the wallets out of men’s back pockets that I can only tell when he’s stolen something because his coat is wider. By the third or fourth wallet, I’ve finished more than half the bottle of wine and have learned absolutely zilch. My anxiety is spiking, having to stand in the kitchen alone, so I disappear out back to smoke a cigarette with a few others. In our puffy winter jackets it’s almost difficult to tell that we’ve come from such different worlds. It’s dark, and therefore hard to notice the holes in my clothes, which I suddenly feel self-conscious about. I sit on a patio bench and finish the cigarette far too quickly, then go back inside, where I realize I’ve also now lost Tristan. The place is crowded, wall to wall, with belligerent students. A beer pong table has been set up on the other side of the room, and a group of the drunkest students are playing against each other. Several people are making out, not even bothering to go into a room.
Suddenly, someone is touching me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to find Tristan.
“There you are,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. I feel his arms wrapping around me from behind. I feel him slide the wallets from his hand into my bag. To the left of us, I watch a group of men yelling “Chug! Chug! Chug,” while a girl swallows beer from a plastic funnel.
“They won’t even feel it, losing fifty bucks. For us, that’s food. To them, it’s a manicure.”
My heart flutters with nerves. Now that the time has come to emulate him, I no longer feel so lighthearted about it. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper in his ear.
Tristan kisses me again. “You can do anything,” he says. No one has ever said this to me before and it makes me a little bit giddy. It makes me want to prove him right. That, combined with the stream of alcohol I’d just imbibed, sends a brief surge of temporary calm into my system. Maybe I really can do it. Tristan is right. These people will barely notice the absence of twenty, thirty dollars, and for me, that’s lunch for a week.
I finish the rest of my wine in one gulp. “Do you think they will know it was me?” I ask.
“Nah. You look like a college student. You look like one of them,” he says.
“Not to them I don’t.”
Tristan slaps my butt. “See? Use that anger. It’ll make you less nervous.”
“Who said I was angry?”
“Aren’t these the same fuckers who made you sit in a bathroom for lunch?”
“I really wish I hadn’t told you that.”
“I don’t. I want to know you.”
I almost smile, hearing him say that. He is really quite sweet for a criminal. Considering his upbringing, it demonstrates a lot about his nature. As an attempt to procrastinate, and pretend we are here as nothing but partygoers, I ask him, “Where did you eat lunch at school?”
“I didn’t.” Tristan leans against the granite countertop of the kitchen island and crosses his arms over his chest. “If I went to school, I was usually shooting up by lunch somewhere. In my car, likely.”
“Oh,” I say, sadly. “I keep forgetting you were so… into drugs.”
“You don’t have to worry,” he says, licking his lips. “Those days are behind me.”
“I know.” I expand my focus to the rest of the party again, and my glance lands on a bright yellow purse that’s been left on the floor. It’s sitting next to a six-pack and a stack of winter coats worth more than a year’s worth of rent. For a moment I try to imagine myself walking by and taking it, as casually as if it was my own. But this image is replaced by another one—being chased down the road by an angry mob of perfectly tousled blonde hair. I start to second-guess my ability to pull this off.
“I’ll be right here,” he says, and that’s all I need. Where is everyone else who promised the same? Nowhere to be found. Tristan means what he says, and he cares about me. Whenever I’m around him I feel like I can be myself, and I’ve never had that feeling before in my life. It feels like freedom. And sure, it comes with certain costs. But I like trying new things. Generally, going out of my comfort zone is more exciting than scary.
Plus, the people here are so drunk; it’s the perfect setting to make a first attempt at theft. If I get caught, I can claim it was an accident, that I mistook the purse for my own. I take a long breath. I let go of Tristan, then stride across the room. My heart is beating into my chest like I’ve just run a mile. When I reach the purse, I swallow the knee-jerk inclination I have to look around and make sure no one is watching. Instead, I try to be cool. I bend over like I’m tying the laces of my all-black converse shoes. Then, rather than take the entire purse, I reach into the bag and feel around for a wallet. Soon my fingers land on a smooth pleather pouch filled with coins, cash, and cards. I snap the pouch closed, slide it into my right coat pocket, and stand up. I’m not as fast as I would like, but I’m fast enough. No one seems to notice anything; I don’t feel anyone watching me or hear anyone screaming for me to stop. Immediately I cross the threshold back into the foyer and, seeing some stairs, practically run to the top of them.
Tristan is only a few seconds behind me. He pins me against the wall of the hallway, and starts kissing me.
“That was dope,” he says, smiling.
My heart is pounding so hard I feel it in my ears. But I’m also totally energized. Is this how Tristan feels when he’s doing drugs? I wonder. “Did anyone see me?” I ask him.
“No. You did great,” he says. He kisses me again. My body is full of adrenaline now, but also something else. Not guilt. Relief. Excitement. I’d actually gotten away with it. And possibly solved my money problems at the same time. At least, temporarily. I drag Tristan by the arm into a closed bedroom on the second floor and try to catch my breath. As happy as I am to have my freedom, I would like to continue to have it. All I want to do now is hide.
“Did we get enough stuff?” I ask. “Can we go?”
“We can go whenever you want,” Tristan explains, lying down on the bed. “Fuck this is comfortable. How much do you think this bed costs?”
“I’m really bad at that game.”
“More than a grand, I can tell you that much for sure.”
“Who pays more than a grand for a bed?” I ask, but of course, I know the answer to this question. Rich people. They spend money on expensive items just so other people can see they were able to afford it. Why else do all my aunts and uncles need three-bedroom homes in the suburbs when none of them have any children left in the house?