A a D nee IVORKS SUIVIVINg a Roshni Riar Staff Writer gaze A girl with a green toque and stylish freckles peers at me from across the congested SkyTrain, her eyes lazily scanning the side of my face. The cluster of hairs on my upper lip curl in shame, the dry patch of skin on my cheek grows tighter. Iam aware that my nose ring is crooked, I fight the urge to toy at it with my fingers, twitching my nose desperately to correct it. The single grey hair I found last week in the bathroom catches the light just right and shoots a beam her way like it’s waving its dead end to say, hello. Edmonds approaches. I see the flash of an and wonder how long my peripheral craning can last. I got dressed in the dark and I think she can tell. Deodorant dropped on the ground, hurriedly kicked the chunks of white towards the garbage can and sprayed body spray under She giggles as I move to follow the shuffling masses out the doors. I wonder upturned lip, something akin to acknowledgement, my pits in desperation. She knows. It’s all in my posture. Do you like this? Anonymous Do you like this? The hot oil and flame the same windowless room every day the ovens and fryers and flattops. The heat that grinds against you. The sharp knives, the arms full of burns, hands full of cuts, dangerous and painful on the best of days. I dont understand who could love the mandolin, the greasy dish pit, the broken glass. But you do. It’s the people that make me hate this. Customers taking their bad days out on servers, servers coming into the kitchen crying again. I hate how jaded we are to that. The boss is nasty, the servers quit, aches and pains make us alcoholics, and none of us ever leave until we're “let go.” What the fuck does this job do to people? what I did that was so funny? Maybe she caught a glimpse of my mismatched socks or the way my left pant leg always seems to bunch itself up and ride awkwardly high? She laughs again, I hear a chuckle from behind me as I exit onto the platform and pull my jacket straight. Through the window, I see a girl with a blue coat moving forwards to occupy the spot where I once stood, gripping the yellow bar that’s still warm from my touch. I look through the window to see the girl in the green toque looking down bashfully, smiling as she lifts her head. The girl in the blue coat smiles back. I feel bad for having blocked their silent dance of exchanging glances. The train trudges away, smudging the mass of people inside the car together. I look up, past the station to see a clear sky and damp ground. Look down and see the socks I was so embarrassed about. Without cause. Green and blue, actually complimentary. They go together, | think, as I move towards the turnstiles, reaching for my wallet. My brief life of crime Isabelle Orr Entertainment Editor (The three things I won't have in my house are lying, cheating, and stealing,” my mom would declare, unprompted. While in theory this sounds like a good (albeit LAME) motto that deserves being silkscreened onto a wall applique for a white woman, the reality is everybody lies (personable notable lie: Telling people I was Jamaican in elementary school for the cred), cheats (personable notable cheating: Every test I’ve ever taken) — but I somehow never stole while living in my parents’ house. Why? For many reasons, though mostly because I’m a little baby who's scared of being thrown in the clinker. Though I have watched all the seasons of Orange is the New Black, | know that my big mouth and cavalier attitude will get me as far in prison as I got into the audiobook for the novel Orange is the New Black is based on (the answer: Not far, since I don’t like being reminded that the people in the author’s story aren't as hot as television actors). I was once accused of shoplifting from (I now gasp and clutch my vintage estate-sale pearls) Garage. However, as almost anyone who set eyes on my pudgy, preteen frame could see, the only thing I had concealed on me was a wad of mashed-together sticks of 5 Gum in my back pocket that I was saving for later. The incident scarred me so much that I told myself I would never, ever steal. I was also banned from Garage for three months and had to lower myself to shopping at Urban Planet to get shirts that showed my nonexistent cleavage. I was shocked—betrayed— dismayed—to learn that one of my friends shoplifted on the regular. Talented, rich, and hip, she didn’t need to steal, yet she showed me pilfered jewelry, clothes, and knickknacks. Obviously, shoplifting gave her something she couldn’ get from day- to-day life. Was I getting enough from my daily life? I love routine and knowing how my day will flow. Things like jobs, friends, and hobbies have to slowly seep into my schedule, lest I panic and go on a mood-bender. Could something as gratifying and adrenaline-inducing help me, a creature of habit? Last year I visited Value Village with a friend’s ex. He was the epitome of cool—he wore some form of leather at all times, no matter the heat, and photographed after-hours queer sex clubs. In contrast, I was learning how to knit (hard!). He held up a pair of monogrammed loafers. “These are amazing, but I’m not paying 30 dollars,” he said. He deftly took off his shoes and slid on the loafers. My eyes bugged out of my head. “Value Village is shitty anyways,” he said. “They're owned by Walmart and they hire workers to sort through their clothes for barely any pay.” But the security guard! I cried. “He doesn't do anything,” my friend said. “Just take something. No one cares. You'll be doing them a favour” It was a classic example of peer pressure, but I am no pillar of righteousness. I grabbed a pair of the least offensive earrings I could find, and when I was sure we were alone in an aisle, I slipped them into my pocket. “This isn’t Ocean’s Eleven,’ he hissed. “We're in a Value Village.” Still, my heart beat hard as we walked out the door. Was the guard looking at me? But—no! I had escaped the threat of a lifetime prison sentence. “Youre such a freak,” my friend said. I rode the high for the rest of the day. I fully recommend light (read: very light) theft for a buzz, but nothing more. For now, I get my rocks off by skimming organic gummies from the bins at Whole Foods. On the phone with my mom, I breezily dropped my light theft into conversation. “Belle!” she shrieked. “I don’t like lying, cheating, or stealing” “Chill out, Mom,” I said. “You're sucha freak.”