A Little Christmastime Shoplifting

The Northshore Mall, in Peabody, Mass., was the mall. Our mall. The competing mall, Liberty Tree, a mile or so down the road, suffered from inferior stores and worse parking. So in the 1990s and early 2000s, Northshore was where the kids from my area congregated, to wander through the department stores, and then on toward J. Crew, for roll-neck sweaters; Abercrombie & Fitch, for boyfriend jeans; and Pacific Sunwear, for anything related to skater culture.

I was 18, and my style was wholly attached to whatever glossy catalog arrived at my mother’s pristine home in Newburyport. My friend was 19, wearing outdated bell-bottoms and driving a very old Nissan that rattled. Filene’s, the week before Christmas, was heady with the spray of perfume.

I didn’t think we were being watched. To me, we were invincible. I palmed a cool, hard MAC foundation compact in my hand.

“I just don’t think this is a good idea,” my friend whispered, though she was usually the one with bad ideas.

I was the one who had left home to go to a good college while she stayed behind. I was the one who had pursued perfectionism — and just this once I wanted to do something a little strange, a little bad, a little raw.

My friend jabbed an elbow into my ribs and gestured toward a middle-aged woman with dry blond hair who stood at the end of the makeup counter. The woman was just minding her business, I said, shopping like everyone else.