Excerpt from Lifted
“Ready, Poppy?” She held out her hand. When Mary Jane released my hand, I wondered if she noticed how sweaty it was. Not that it was the least bit hot in Hamilton’s. These Texans loved their AC.
In one smooth motion, she swooped up a pair of jeans that had magically appeared between my dressing room and the one next door. “Hand me that hanger and I’ll hang ’em up,” she said in her Southern drawl. In contrast to the whispered tones she’d been using, it seemed as if she spoke into a megaphone. “Too bad they made your fanny look like a pancake.”
My mind struggled to keep up with this whirlwind of events. She winked to let me know this was all part of the plan. I grabbed the silver hanger off the bench and passed it to her with unsteady hands. “It’s okay, Poppy. You’ll see,” she said, reverting back to the quiet, tranquil voice.
With one last check in the mirror to make sure the jeans were fully hidden under my cargos, I took a deep, ragged breath, attempting to regulate my heartbeat. I swallowed, but it was no use. My mouth was parched, but I knew that when—if—I got away with this, I sure as hell wasn’t stopping at the food court for a lemonade. I could only pray that I wouldn’t have to speak until it was all over and I was safe in my house. Which was a lovely thought, really. A thought I played over and over again in my mind as I followed Mary Jane out of the dressing room.
The saleswoman excused herself from the couple of college-age girls she was hovering behind, then walked toward us. Mary Jane handed her the jeans and they exchanged a few words, though I couldn’t really concentrate on what they said. The noise of my cargos rubbing against the denim underneath was deafening. The mannequins seemed to watch me knowingly, sticking up their pointy snow-white noses in disdain.
Then a sharp briiiiiing filled the air. I froze mid-step, my breath stuck in my throat. It’s just a phone, I told myself, silencing my inner scaredy-cat. Keep walking.
The saleswoman floated demurely over to the cash register to answer the phone. “Oh. Hi, Harold. Yes, we do have that jacket in ice blue. Let me check the sizes. I’ll be but a moment.” She lowered the receiver and flashed us a rueful grin before vanishing around the corner.
When Mary Jane and I boarded the Hamilton’s escalator, I felt like I’d jumped into a lake fully dressed, my waterlogged clothing so heavy I could barely keep from drowning. Mary Jane stretched out her long, thin arms and yawned. Then she whispered in a hypnotist’s voice, “You do not know Whitney. Understand?” I nodded. “The alarm will go off when you leave the store. Just act like you’re confused and wait for the problem to resolve itself.”
I bit my lower lip, wishing I could stop the madness— wishing I could run back to the dressing room, shed the jeans, and go home. But where was Whitney, and how exactly was she involved? Would my putting the kibosh on this insane scheme put her in any danger?
“Have faith,” Mary Jane said in a feather-soft voice meant for my ears alone. I nodded again, the escalator descending steadily yet lethargically toward the main level. At the bottom, I willed my knees to support me as I plodded to the front of the store, Mary Jane at my side. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Whitney. She was walking away from the shoe department and, like us, was heading out into the mall. I tried to focus straight ahead, occasionally averting my gaze to Mary Jane while she delivered a nonsensical monologue. As we passed, salespeople smiled at us—a couple of teenagers enjoying an early autumn day at the mall.
Mary Jane had warned me, but the sound of the alarm still jolted my heart and sent terror zapping through my veins. We stopped and looked at each other. I knew Mary Jane was acting, pretending to wonder what had happened. All the while, she appeared innocent through and through. I could only hope that the look in my eyes passed for something similar—’cause in reality, I was screaming inside, the lifted jeans licking at my thighs like red-hot flames.
Then Mary Jane’s pretty blue eyes turned on Whitney, who waved her shopping bag in the air like a white flag. A short, mustached man emerged from the shoe department and fled to Whitney, apologies flying off his tongue as he escorted Whitney back to his cash register. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going down, but when Mary Jane took my arm and steered me out into the mall, tossing her hair and giggling, I knew we’d made it.
I, Poppy Browne, had successfully lifted a pair of designer jeans, and Mary Jane and Whitney were my accomplished accomplices. What had gotten into me? Nitrous oxide? I couldn’t stop laughing. My heart was still thumping like crazy and I was a sweaty disaster, but somehow I felt so light and . . . giddy, even. I didn’t want this feeling to end.
Reprinted with permission of Wendy Toliver