The hill was a long, gradual climb. Not steep by any means, but thigh-burning nonetheless. The woods that used to be here were cleared to lay power lines long ago, leaving an open path up to the top. They walked over the crest until they reached the edge of an empty parking lot.
"Is this it?" the girl asked.
"Almost," he replied. "See all those cars? That's the main road." The boy swept his pointer finger in the general direction of Route 19, the four-lane drag servicing too many banks, too many fast food chains, and too many car dealerships.
"The shops are on the other side," the boy said, "we'll cross at the light on the corner."
The boy and girl were in their early teens. The boy recently graduated from briefs to boxers but still wore his tighty-whiteys underneath out of a gripping fear of unintended exposure. His hair had all the intentionality of a Jackson Pollock painting, and he usually kept it muzzled under his sweaty Penguins hat. He walked with untied shoes, but somehow never managed to trip over them. In between the hat and shoes, he never paid much attention. His shirts were usually hand-me-downs from his sister of bands he never listened to, though he'd be a lot cooler if he did. And the shorts, grabbed from his bedroom floor that morning, won the prize for "least smelliest" for a third day running. But he loved a good pair of Nike's, and he was obsessed with his hats. His father would always make him remove his hat at restaurants, which always annoyed him. One year, while on the long journey to Maine for summer vacation, he left his favorite hat at the restaurant. He still hasn't fully mourned the loss.
They made their way to the corner. A lull washed over them as they waited for the traffic light to change. The boy peeked over with the side of his eye to see the girl biting the corner of her thumbnail while staring at the pavement like she was daydreaming.
The girl was quiet. She spent most of her free time reading novels and listening to Pearl Jam. She was taller than the boy and her short jet-black hair shined more than the hair in most conditioner commercials - a contradiction to her otherwise Grunge ensemble of ultra-baggy t-shirt and frayed jean shorts. She wore a red jelly bracelet on one wrist and a broken calculator watch given to her by her father on the other.
"Ever shoplifted before?"
His words hung in the air for a moment, then the girl came to.
"Uhh...no? Why, have you?"
"Sure, I do it a bunch. It's easy."
"What do you mean, it's easy? You're doing a crime."
"I mean it's easy." He pointed toward the strip mall across the road. "See that drugstore? There's only ever one person behind the counter and they can't see down all the aisles at once. That's where I do it."
"Aren't you worried about getting caught?"
"Not really. They have baseball cards. I want baseball cards. But baseball cards cost too much. The trick is to still buy something instead of just walking out so they don't get suspicious. So every time I buy baseball cards, I pocket a few packs while I'm at it. Give myself a little buy-one-get-two-free discount, you know? It's not like I'm taking the whole box. That would be greedy."
"You're an imbecile."
"Come on, don't you want to add some spice to your life?"
"I'll stick with Tabasco."
The steady patter of cars passing slowed to a stop as the light changed from green to yellow to red. "We're good," said the boy as he stepped into the crosswalk.