“I’m not sure,” she says, looking confused.

“Well, it’s definitely scissors,” I say, getting a closer look. “And it looks like a shirt or something. Are you taking a design class? If you are, you should totally call Grant over. He’s really good at stuff like that.”

“It’s James’s.”

“It’s James’s shirt?” I ask. It sounds kind of like a tongue twister.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” I’m not sure what to do with this. So I wait.

“I stole it.”

“You stole it?”

“Out of the dryer. Downstairs.”

“Okay.” I wait.

“I think I want to cut it up.” She looks at the shirt— which, under further inspection, turns out to be his trademark “outta my way or you’re gonna get played” shirt— and then at the scissors, which are a tempting few inches away. “But I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure if you should, or you’re not sure if you want to?”

“If I should.”

“Okay.” I’m in a very I-hate-all-men-except-Corey-and-hope-they-die mood, so I don’t want to encourage her, although inside I’m hoping she destroys the shirt, then hands me the scissors so that I can go rip up some of Drew’s stuff, then catch a late-night flight to Florida and do the same to that wanna-be-boyfriend-stealing basketball groupie slut Jen’s stuff. Like all of her short skirts.

But I don’t say anything. I know I shouldn’t convince my roommate to commit violence and vandalism. I don’t want to corrupt her. I mean, she was a virgin when she got here. I don’t want her developing anger issues or a criminal record on top of everything else.

She looks at me, her red hair messy around her face. “Maybe we should talk about this,” I say, sitting down on the side of her bed.

“We should,” she says, nodding. “It would be wrong.”

“Very wrong.”

“It’s his favorite shirt.”

“He wears it all the time.”

“Plus, it’s his property. It wouldn’t matter if he hated it—it would still be wrong to destroy it. Because it doesn’t belong to me.”

“Right,” I say, knowing she’s right but at the same time being slightly disappointed that she’s losing steam.

“What are you guys doing?” Jasmine asks, coming in to the room. She looks down at the scissors and the shirt lying on the bed. “Oh, please tell me you haven’t bought a bedazzler or whatever the fuck those things are called.” We look at her blankly. “You know, where you bead up purses and shirts and shit?”

“No,” I tell her. “Simone was just considering committing a crime.”

“Really!” Jasmine says, suddenly interested. “What sort?” She looks down at the shirt, getting the picture. “Simone, you bad, bad girl.” She smiles.