A Martyr's Guide to Thievery

Lesson One: Don't Ever Pay $20 for Gross Rootbeer

"Where are you going, Am?" A voice chirped. I hate it when people call me by a nickname. Is it really that difficult to pronounce four syllables? I hide my scowl and mutter a quick curse as I turn to face the offender keeping me from my sweet, sweet escape. 

It was none other than Georgia Haverford, that one perfect girl that exists in some form or another in every single school in America, including mine. That one girl with the straight A's, the charming boyfriend, the excessively friendly attitude towards everyone, including me. The one that acts like their BFFs with everybody, including me. The one girl that everyone really, truly, desperately wants to hate, but just can't, including me.

"Oh, um, I was just going--" I pause, startled by the sadness in her eyes when she sees my hand hovering near the door handle. "I have somewhere to be, is all," I clarify, plastering a fake smile on my face.

"Somewhere to be? At 8:15 on a Saturday night?" Georgia brushes away my badly devised excuse with a wave of her french-manicured fingers. "Come on, silly! Everything's just getting started!" 

I sigh mentally as she drags me through the crowds, my four hours of magazines and hot chocolate vanishing before my very eyes. As much as I want to slap her hand away and bolt out of there like a tabby-cat being tracked down by a rabid pit bull, something keeps me from doing it. Maybe it's because I can't stand to see the untainted hurt in her eyes that I know will be there.Grr. Curse my somewhat good heart.

"Hey girls, Am is going to join us, isn't it great?" Georgia declares once we reach her giant group of friends. I give a meek wave, but by the less-than-enthused looks I get, I assume the only one that thinks my arrival is great is Georgia. As much as I loathe admitting it, Georgia is the closest thing to a friend I've got, and for some reason, her being my pity friend is worse than having no companionship at all. And I can forget talking to her friends; they aren't nearly as nice as she is. They put on fake smiles, though, and even tell me I look pretty tonight, which, unless one of them is a Russian spy here to take over the US, is probably the biggest lie they've ever told.

I'm not half as pretty as any of them. And don't worry, I'm not one of those girls who thinks she's hideous but is actually beautiful. God gifted me with lots of great things, but  beauty is simply not one of them. I guess I've come to terms with that. I mean, when you go through your whole life with hair too curly, eyes too green, face too freckled, and cup size WAY too small, you get used to it. Besides, the dress I'm wearing isn't anything special either, just a tight black number with only one sleeve and a bow tied in the front. Plus, I don't even own a decent pair of high heels, so I feel exceptionally ridiculous in the black flats that are way too small for me. 

After about an hour of standing awkwardly next to Georgia, my feeling of good hearted-ness has all but disappeared. I'm starting to get desperate to get out of there. ASAP.

"Georgia?" I yelled over the Kanye West song blaring through the speakers, "I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back." Guilt overwhelms me at the thought of what I'm about to do.

"Oh, alright, but hurry back. They're going to play the Cha Cha Slide soon!" She flashes me a huge grin that I try my best to return. She'll forget about me soon enough anyways, I remind myself.

"Don't forget to try the root beer!" She calls after me. "It's amazing!"

Needless to say, my guilty emotions were gone in the blink of an eye. I nearly tackle two people to the floor in my hurry to flee the school. Finally, after taking a detour to avoid being seen by Georgia, I arrive in the crisp early October air. It's about ten degrees too cold for so early on, but that's Pittsburgh for you. I wrap my beige peacoat tighter around me, wishing I had thought to wear tights or at least a scarf, and blow hot air onto my hands The road is eerily silent for a Saturday night, with next to no one on the road and not a single soul roaming the streets but me. The stores on either side of me are either closed for the night or deserted, and the only sounds to be heard are the whistling of wind in the trees and my own feet shuffling down the sidewalk. I shiver, but it has nothing to do with the cold. Maybe  I should have stayed at the dance. The idea of walking two miles home from Starbucks gets less and less relaxing the more I think about it. Just when I'm contemplating turning back, I hear the screaming.