“Nah, only a couple of times, with things I’m not old enough to buy legally—lighters and rolling papers, mostly. I did get my start at a candy store, though. Seemed pretty low stakes, and I can eat ten pounds of sour bears when I’m stoned.”

“Wow, so marijuana really is a gateway drug.”

Salem rolls his eyes. “Come on—what’s next on the list?”

I can’t bring myself to tell him. If anything else feels as bad as stealing does, it’ll make it official that I am not cut out to be a bad girl.

He watches me for a minute before finally letting out a heavy sigh. “Gimme the candy, Skeevy.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

I reach into my pockets and put it all in Salem’s hands. It feels good to be rid of it, but now I’m just afraid of Salem getting in trouble. He doesn’t seem remotely bothered, though; he turns and heads back the way we came.

“Salem! Where are you going?”

“Where do you think?” he calls, and I watch him turn the corner.

I’m too afraid to follow him, and by the time he returns a few minutes later, my nails are bitten down to the quick. “Here you go,” he says, holding up a little plastic bag.

I take it and open it up. Inside is all the stolen candy, a baggie of Coke-bottle gummies, and a clean white receipt. “You went back and paid for it? What did you tell them?”

“That my friend ‘forgot’ to pay. But you still get a treat for trying,” he adds with a nod to the gummies. I don’t know how he remembered they’re my favorite, or when I even told him, but I tear into them like a mountain lion. “Classy,” he observes with a grin.

I’m too hungry to even tell him to shut up.

Once I’ve ingested my weight in sugar, I let Salem in on my next thought. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually, and today seems like the perfect day. “We’re going to the Ink Spot.”

He’s been following me in that direction, but now he stops in his tracks. “You want to get a tattoo? Skeevy, no.”

“No?” A tattoo was not my actual plan, but I thought he’d find the idea hilarious. Instead, he looks straight-up horrified. “Are you telling me you don’t have an entire sleeve of tattoos planned for someday?”

“I don’t, actually—my mom’s grandparents were Holocaust survivors and she made me swear on their graves I’d never get one—but that’s not the point. This isn’t like paying for stolen candy five minutes later, Peach. If you hate it, there’s no magic eraser.”

“What makes you so sure I’d hate it?”

He sighs. “What would you even get?”