Lauren is standing at her closet, naked, all skinny white legs and arms.
“You have too much shit,” I say.
She laughs, pointing to the floor. “Half is yours.”
A hot-pink tube top we stole last year covers part of an old Rolling Stone. Just the other day we’d walked out of Sawgrass Mills with almost a grand in tanks and panties—all those tiny, stretchy, stringy things she loved—layered over our bras, one in every color. When counting the price tags back here, we laughed at the losers who’d pay for what we took straight out of the dressing rooms. Most everything stayed tagged and rumpled on her floor; she was always losing interest, eyeing some new piece on a fashion blog, and I couldn’t take any of it home ’cause my mom had an eye for things we could no longer afford. Lauren called it the five-finger discount. “Another…
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