never forgive me.
Leah’s next. “Good hunting, birdlings?” she asks. Birdwoman is with her, sticking her head out of Leah’s pocketbook so she can see. Jonah and I nod.
Dahlia’s last to meet us, the soles of her heavy boots stomping across the polished floor, the pink plastic rosary swinging crazily against her chest as she hurries toward us. I can see from her smile she’s had success. She has her best shoplifting bag tonight—it’s a huge shoulder bag in a patchwork pattern. Once, she fit a whole turkey dinner in it—bird, cranberries, and all. Dahlia’s the one who takes the biggest chances—she surprises us every time.
“Well, what did everyone choose?” she asks. “Jonah first.”
Jonah looks shy, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if he wants to share it.
“A magic ring,” he says reluctantly, pulling a silver band with a garnet stone out from his pocket. “It’s a ring of invisibility.”
It’s a cheap ring, the kind made for little girls and displayed by the cash register at gift shops and drugstores—easy to steal.
“Put it on, put it on!” urges Dahlia.
“No. Not now. It’s only for very special occasions. It won’t work unless you really need it to,” Jonah explains.
“A ring of invisibility will come in handy at the end of the world,” says Leah, and we all agree.
“Leah’s next,” says Dahlia, and we watch Leah pull two gray plastic walkie-talkies from her bag. Leah doesn’t usually shoplift; it’s too risky. See, she went to jail once (it was a total setup) and the cops look at that as having a record, which means she has to be really careful—if she went to jail again, Dahlia and Jonah could end up in foster care, or worse, with their Aunt Elsbeth in New York.
Leah probably bought the walkie-talkies at the high-tech outlet with one of her credit cards. She has a ton. One gets rejected and she just pulls out another.
“It’s so we can stay in touch and give each other important messages when the end of the world comes,” Leah explains as she takes the walkie-talkies from their box. She shows us how they even have a button that makes a beeping alarm, and there’s a guide to Morse code on the side.
“Now you, Maggie,” Dahlia says, and I reach into my pocket and pull out the knife I swiped from the case at Valley Sports. It’s a hunting knife, with a locking blade folded into the curved wooden handle. It feels heavy, covers the length of my open hand. I pull open the silver blade carefully; this knife is razor sharp. It’s for gutting deer—slicing through skin, muscle, and tendon.
I chose the knife because it was the most dangerous thing I could think of. It seems to fit my new life. My life where I do dangerous things like shoplifting and siphoning gas. BTA Maggie would never have carried a knife. ATA Maggie is an outlaw girl. The knife is a symbol that anything goes.
“Jumping catfish!” says Dahlia, her eyes wide as she stares at the knife, reaches out to touch the polished brass end. “You could kill an army of bears with that thing! You’ll use it to build us a shelter; hunt and gather; defend us from the marauders. Such a practical tool for the end of the world. LaSamba, the practical clown.”
I push down on the safety catch, close the knife, and slide it into my pocket. I’m blushing like some kind of idiot just because some crazy girl with pink plastic rosary beads called me a practical clown.
Dahlia reaches into her bag and pulls out a Polaroid and several packs of film.
“It will be important to document the end of the world,” she explains. She’s ripping open the packet of film, loading the cartridge into the camera. She points the camera at us. Jonah, Leah, and I are leaning against the wall of the skating rink. Shoppers are walking past us. Behind Dahlia are the escalators, carrying an endless stream of people up and down, up and down. It reminds me of watching ants in an ant farm.
“Smile and say ‘apocalypse,’ ” says