said, looking out at the ocean. Anywhere but at me.
“But when this stuff starts coming back people are going to realize it’s the stuff that got stolen before, right?” Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
“Maybe,” Kimberlee said quietly.
“Maybe? I don’t think there’s any maybe about it, unless the entire school is much less intelligent than the brochures say. Returning this stuff wasn’t supposed to draw attention—it was supposed to be subtle.” I had no idea when I agreed to this that it was so . . . big.
“It can be subtle,” Kimberlee said, clearly attempting to sound optimistic.
“I have serious doubts,” I said dryly. “Especially considering we’ve got three boxes of stuff just from the teachers.”
“I’m trying to make amends,” Kimberlee said, irritation creeping into her voice. “My entire future—whatever that consists of—is resting on this. What do you want me to do?”
And as I stood there looking over box after box of stolen stuff, I realized I had no idea how to answer that question.
“So,” Kimberlee said, sounding strangely detached. “Do you want to give stuff back to people first or take stuff back to stores?”
I closed my eyes and sighed. I must have been insane when I agreed to this. “Let’s try people first.”
“Okay. Box numero uno. Miss Serafina,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
Ah yes, Sera, I thought and smiled, remembering all over again that she was single. Until I realized that if Kimberlee had a bag for Sera, there was something in there she’d stolen. “What did you take from her?” I demanded.
She rolled her eyes. “Go look.”
I grumbled under my breath as I looked through the bags until I found the ones marked with Sera’s name. A cheer skirt and shoes. They looked brand-new, but Kimberlee had been dead for over a year. “When did you take these?”
Silence.
“Kimberlee?”
“The date’s on the bag, okay?”
Of course it was. How could I expect anything different from Miss OCD Klepto? “When she was a freshman?” I said, counting backward.
Kimberlee poked her head out from the boxes. The middle of the boxes. I was never going to get used to that. “She was the first freshman at Whitestone to make the varsity squad.”
“So you thought you’d take some of her excitement away? That’s real nice.”
“Shut up. I didn’t ask for commentary.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded angry or hurt.
“Well, she’s a really awesome girl.” And hot. So very, very hot.
“Says who? You’ve known her for what, a day?”
“Yeah, but she was nice to me without even knowing who I was. Nicer than anyone else I’ve met here so far,” I added in a grumble.
“Hey, I totally talked to you,” Kimberlee argued.
“I said nice.” I stuffed the cheer gear into my backpack. “I have room for some more; who else?”
I managed to gather bags for half a dozen of the kids Sera had introduced me to at lunch before my backpack started to look like that blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The pile of boxes didn’t look any smaller. If anything, it looked bigger.
“Day one,” I muttered.
My mom was constantly telling me that getting started on any project is the hardest part. I hoped she was right and that the worst was now behind me. On both the Kimberlee front and the Sera front.
When did my life become a soap opera?
I got the idea when I spotted a printing shop as I was driving home, trying to ignore Kimberlee belting rather off-tune to the radio beside me.
“What are you doing here?” Kimberlee asked, looking up at the nondescript shop.
“We.”
“Huh?”
“What are we doing here. You have to help.”
“Help what?”
“You’ll see.”
I pushed open the poster-laden front door and something chimed the first few notes of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” A man in a button-up sweater poked his head out a doorway at the back of the store. “I’ll be right with you,” he chirped.
“No hurry,” I called as I turned to a display of stickers and labels.
Kimberlee huffed beside me—and not too quietly. “Shh,” I hissed at her.
“Why? It’s not like Mr. Rogers back there can hear me.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stickers.
After I had browsed for a few minutes, the clerk took his place at the register. “What can I do for you?” he asked, sliding his order pad in front of him.
“You do all these custom, right?”
“Of course.”
“When could you have them ready for me?”
“If you use one of our designs and just add words, I can print them for you in about an hour. Send-out takes five business days.”
“Your designs’ll work. Can you just give me this white oval?” I pointed to a strip of plain white stickers.
The man scratched on his order pad. “What would you like them to say?”
“I’m sorry, comma, Kimberlee. That’s K-I—”
“Are you kidding me?” Kimberlee shrieked. “You can’t just blab to the world that I’m suddenly giving a bunch of stuff back a year after I’m dead!”
I shot her a nasty look, but she didn’t even notice.
“I forbid you to put my name on there! If you want to put someone’s name on there, put your own.” Her voice was grating on my eardrums and it seemed like it just got louder with each word.
I cringed as the salesman asked, “M next? Right?”
Kimberlee screamed again, a sound that probably would have shattered the windows if she’d been alive—and I forced myself not to cover my ears. “You know what? I have a better idea; give me these instead.” I pointed to the same round stickers, but just a little bit bigger with a pretty red flower and some decorative leaves printed along the bottom. “Leave off the name. Just print ‘I’m sorry’ on them with the flower.” I shot a very pointed glare at Kimberlee.
The
