Death of a Kleptomaniac (3 page)

“Stop acting weird. You and Tate will make a good couple,” Ruthann says. “Except he has this one problem that you probably don't know about.”

I leave my wildflowers, pull myself out of my meadow, and look at Ruthann. She's staring into a small round mirror and applying lip gloss. She smacks her lips together several times after the second coat.

“What?” I ask. My mind flips through possible deal-breakers. Does he have a girlfriend at a different school? Is he a closet drinker? Could he be addicted to Internet porn? What is Tate's hidden problem?

“He smells,” Ruthann says. “Like baloney.”

I'm relieved that Tate isn't a closet drinker with a girlfriend and a porn addiction. “I've never noticed a weird odor. And I've smelled him a few times.”

Funky body odor could be a deal-breaker. Tate has always been the guy who caught my attention from afar. So if he does smell, I wouldn't know. Whereas Henry is a guy I've been smelling since fourth grade when he used to live on my street. Why am I thinking about Henry again?
Focus on Tate. Focus on Tate.

Ruthann laughs a little. But it feels like she's laughing at a joke I didn't make.

“Trust me: when we work at the nut house and he has to lean over me to scoop pistachios, his armpits reek. They smell exactly like meat,” she says.

Tate's family owns the nut house at the Grand Teton Mall, where Ruthann works part-time. The thought of Tate leaning over her for any reason, scooping pistachios among them, makes me nauseous.

“Maybe it's his deodorant,” I say defensively.

“I don't think Right Guard has a deli meat scent.”

Ruthann bites her bottom lip with her two front teeth and slowly shakes her head. “Molly, do you like it when a man smells like meat?”

“Stop messing with me,” I say.

“Don't dodge the question,” Ruthann says. Her tone is far more serious than it needs to be.

I want to be a triangle point. I don't want to make waves. I go along with her. “I don't smell meat that much. When it comes to the cattle industry, my mom has serious beef reservations. She mainly just cooks free-range chicken.”

“God, your mom has serious beef reservations. That's hilarious. You're such a crack-up.”

“It's actually the truth,” I say.

“Statements like that give me insight into why Tate likes you,” Ruthann says.

“My lack of beef consumption?” I ask.

“No. You're quirky. Some guys dig that.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don't thank me. Quirky can be limiting. Some guys detest it.”

“Oh,” I say. I quickly run down my Crush List to figure out if any of my interests detest quirky. Matt Guthrie? He dressed up like a waffle last year for Halloween. Jamie Sands? All his still-life paintings in art are of pineapples. Dane Enzo? He wants to be a professional bowler. Curtis Belnap? He wears green shoes. I think I'm safe.

“I've picked a flirt mode with a broader range,” Ruthann said.

“Quirky is my flirt mode?” I ask. I didn't realize I had a flirt mode.

Ruthann raises her eyebrows and takes a big sip of milk. “I'm a tease.” Two pearls of milk dribble onto her chin.

“And more guys dig that?” I ask.

“Molly, all guys dig that.” She dramatically wipes below her mouth with the back of her hand. “That's why strippers make such amazing money.”

“Right,” I say. But really I'm thinking, Don't female astronauts and brain surgeons and senators make way more than strippers? And don't those careers give you health insurance?

“You're torturing yourself over this Tate and Henry thing, aren't you?”

“No,” I lie.

“Go for the one that's available.”

I watch Melka and Henry get up to leave.

“Come by the mall tonight. Chat up Tate. You two need to move it to the next level. And I can help.”

My eyes grow wide. Helping me and Tate move to the next level seems outside of Ruthann's skill set.

“I can't go to the mall tonight,” I say. I stopped going to the mall a few months ago. After I slipped a cheap bracelet into my pocket and got tailed by store security. I put it back before I left. I didn't get approached. But it scared me. It was too close.

“Of course you can come to the mall,” she says. She takes a sip of milk. “Listen, for the following demonstration, let's pretend that Henry no longer exists. Okay. You're here.” She points to her empty plate. “And Tate's here.” She lifts her milk carton high above her head. “That's a lot of distance.” She looks down at the plate and then up to the carton. “And I can totally help you bridge it.”

“I'm patient,” I say. “I think I'll let time do that.”

“No,” she says. “Isn't this the year that you're making your mark?”

I really regret sharing my ultimate game plan with Ruthann.

“Time matters, Molly. The clock never stops ticking. Bam! You're older than you were two seconds ago. Bam! It happened again. Bam! You'll be a dried-up old woman one day.”

I stare at her in disbelief while she yells her final “Bam!”

“Here's my point, Molly.” Ruthann sets her milk carton down, laces her fingers together, and looks at me with enough intensity to grill a steak. “Henry is with Melka. You should focus your energy on Tate. But getting to the next level with Tate isn't a guarantee. You might not get there on your own. Come tonight. Seriously. You need me.”

I'm a little rattled. I have no idea what Ruthann feels the “next level” with Tate would be, and the prospect of finding out with her assistance scares me. But isn't she right about time passing? Should I just go? And if I don't, isn't Ruthann egotistical enough to take away my triangle point or bench me for the game?

“I'll try,” I say.

She smiles. And without further comment, Ruthann Culpepper is up and gone, mingling at a bunch of boy-populated tables. She likes to interact with guys all by herself. I learned this tidbit right away. I also learned that it's my job to dump her tray when she goes rogue like this.

Beep. Beep. Beep.
The intercom sounds that lunch is over. Our school doesn't have a bell. We have a synthetic noise, and I'm not really sure what it's supposed to be. Ruthann says it sounds like a robot belching. Again, another on-point Culpepper observation.

I take Ruthann's tray to a row of big gray garbage cans lined with Hefty bags.

“Molly.”

I look up and see Henry dumping his tray. I look behind him for Melka, but she's not there.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

That sounds like a simple request. But under these circumstances it's really not. I mean, do I want to talk? If I say yes, does that mean we start talking right now?

We stand there, unintentionally blocking the trash can, forcing people to crowd around the other trash cans in the row. Some kids aim napkins and milk cartons around us. It makes me feel conspicuous. If Melka told everybody in homeroom that I made out with Henry, then I must look like an idiot right now. I turn to leave.

“I can't talk right now,” I say. “I've got class.”

“Can I walk you?” he asks.

Is he serious? What about Melka? What's wrong with him? He can't have a girlfriend
and
walk me to class. I glance at him and make a confused face, like I'm responding to an offer to fly me to Jupiter or one of her sixty-four moons. Without answering him, I leave.

He races to catch up with me. “Molly, let me walk you to Health Sciences,” he says.

I only make it a few steps before I realize that I'm still holding my turkey sandwich. I thought I'd already thrown it away. I feel flustered, but I don't want to turn back around. That would mean I'd have to change course and face Henry and a flood of leaving people. I hurry out of the cafeteria and find a trash can near my locker. I can't believe it. Henry follows me to this trash can too. And to get my attention, he gently touches my arm, and being gently touched by Henry Shaw in this hallway does not release similar sensations from last night's make-out session. No. Gone are the feelings of lust, fire, and fun. Instead, in their place, I'm hit with a muddled mixture of panic, uncertainty, and frustration.
Sexual
frustration? I can't tell.

Before anything can move forward I have to know the answer to one question. So I ask it. “What's up with you and Melka? Are you back together?”

I'm hoping for a quick denial followed by an even quicker explanation. Instead, there's a long pause.

“It's complicated,” he says.

Our make-out session flashes through my mind. His face. His room. The floor lamp by my head.
It's compli
cated?
Wrong answer.

“No,” I say, my mind conjuring up an image of Melka. “It's really not.” And then I leave Henry Shaw alone in the hallway at a speed that surprises us both.

Operation Next-Step-With-Tate has hit a snag. My mother is
not
on board with my plans for Joy to drive me to the mall. In fact, my mother's frown grows so intense that her small chin reveals a colony of concerned dents. She's tucked into her favorite corner of our love seat, holding open a half-finished paperback mystery with her thumb. It's almost six o'clock, and I doubt she's even left the house today. Her hair looks like she hasn't brushed it since yesterday, and the only visible makeup on her face is a crooked smear of coral lipstick.

“I worry about Joy's driving instincts,” my mother says. She rubs the dome of her belly and intensifies her frown. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Not really,” I lie.

“I ended up driving behind her once to the mall.”

“Maybe it wasn't her,” I say.

“Of course it was her. She crossed over the center line, and then overcorrected and wandered past the fog line. And at one point, she nearly forced a bicyclist off the road. Plus, she ran a yellow light.”

“What if I drive? I'll buy you a milk shake on the way home.”

I know it's going to be hard for my mother to refuse that. As soon as she entered her second trimester, she became an avid fan of the milk shake.

“Be home by nine. And buy two milk shakes. I'll put one in the freezer for tomorrow.” She leans back and returns the parted paperback to her nose.

Fabulous. Operation Next-Step-With-Tate is off and running. I brush my hair and put on the tightest clean T-shirt I own. I go light on makeup. I don't like the way foundation, mascara, or eyeliner feels.

I call Joy, and she doesn't object to my offer to drive. Deep down I think she knows that she's lousy behind the wheel. People honk and flip her the bird on a pretty regular basis.

With Tate waiting on the horizon, I feel an urgency to get to the mall. As I grab my purse, my cat, Hopkins, weaves between my legs. I try to take a step forward, but he walks beneath my shoe. Using my other leg, I hop over him and nearly fall.

“I could have broken my neck,” I say.

He meows. I think he wants me to play laser mouse with him. When I'm about to leave the house, he often seems to want that.

“I'll play with you when I get back,” I say. “I'll be home at nine o'clock.”

Hopkins lets out a sigh and crumples to the floor. Once, I read in a magazine article that you should always tell your pets what time you're coming home. It reduces their anxiety. I'm pretty sure it works. Animals are tuned in to something. For instance, elephants are never killed in tsunamis. And a horse can usually predict an electrical storm.

As I attempt to leave, Hopkins tries to slink out the door. I reach down and pet him underneath the chin, gently picking him up by the belly and tossing him several feet away from the threshold.

“Nine o'clock,” I repeat. He doesn't like to be touched on the head. It sets off his puma instinct and he becomes all claws.

Pulling into her driveway, I find Joy, thoughtful as usual, waiting for me outside. As I drive us to the mall, she shows me an article that she clipped out of a magazine. “These supplements boost your hair's growth system by sixty percent,” she explains. “At that rate, my bob could be to my bra by February.”

“What's in February?” I ask.

“Western Drill Team Nationals.”

As we exit the car, I think I can actually read Joy's mind. She's picturing herself at nationals with her bra-length hair swept into a fat topknot. She's flipping it back and forth, smiling for the crowd, practically working herself into a state of ecstasy over her ponytail's radiance and girth. I think I hear her moan as we step onto the curb. When she sees me looking at her, her face returns to its usual pleasant and unexcited expression. I think she thinks I think she's weird. But I don't.

My plan at the mall is to avoid entering any store. I'll walk down the center corridor to the nut shop. Chat up Tate. Retrace my steps. And exit the mall without incident. Steering clear of temptation seems like the best strategy.

Joy and I walk through the mall, passing shop after shop. I don't even peek in their windows.

“Ooh!” Joy squeals. “Huge earring sale. Look!”

I don't turn my head. “I'm broke.”

Joy doesn't argue, and we keep walking. Mummy and Frankenstein Halloween decorations are taped on the mall's columns. And that creepy fake spiderweb material is draped along the planters and benches. I bet the stores are decked out too. I'll never know.

“There's a closeout on all sandals,” Joy says, pointing to another store. “Don't you want to take a quick stroll through the inventory?”

“It's October and we live in Idaho. Not interested,” I say.

“God,” Joy says. “You're so focused.”

Was that a compliment? It doesn't matter. I can see the nut house in the distance. And as soon as I spot Tate, my crush feelings return. Forget Henry Shaw. I'll pretend that I never made out with him. I'll trick my heart by placing it in a time machine and maneuvering around the make-out session entirely. I'm in control of which guy I like. And I plan to resettle on my interest on gorgeous, athletic, well-traveled Tate.

“What's wrong?” Joy asks. “Why are you slowing down?”

I stop walking. “I'm excited,” I say.

“Yeah,” Joy says. “Tate's a stud.”

“And he just keeps getting studlier. I mean, he's wearing an apron and hairnet and he still looks hot.”

I fluff my hair and pull my T-shirt down a little, positioning the V-neck closer to the top of my cleavage.

“Speaking of hot, look who's in the food court.”

I look, half expecting to see Henry. Which is weird, because I know Joy doesn't find him hot.

“Roy Ekles,” Joy says. “At that table by the front doors. What's he doing?”

I see Roy leaning back in a chair. He's putting something that resembles french fries into his mouth. “Eating?” I say. Roy is what I'd consider part of the alternative crowd. Until two months ago he had blue hair and wore clothes with an absurd number of zippers. He still wears weird clothes, but with his hair dyed a conservative brown color, at least his head appears more mainstream. Perhaps it's just a phase. Does Joy want to date somebody with blue hair?

“What do you think of him?” Joy leans into me when she asks me this, so much so that I can smell her bubble-gum breath.

“He looks better now that he looks normal.”

Joy leans further into me, so I'm supporting most of her weight. “He looks fantastic.”

She sounds really into him. Which surprises me, because I didn't know she was into anybody. Since we've become friends she hasn't mentioned any guys.

“Are you thinking about asking him to the Sweetheart Ball?” I ask.

She sounds caught off guard by my question and stands up straight. “We're not
there
yet.”

If she's not “there” with Roy, I wonder where exactly she is with him.

We leave him in the food court and keep walking to our destination. We're so close to the nut house now that both Ruthann and Tate spot us. Suddenly I feel underprepared. “I don't even know what we should talk about.”

“Don't show up with an agenda. Just buy a bunch of nuts and see what happens.” Joy squeezes my arm reassuringly. “See you in fifteen.”

“Aren't you coming with me?” I ask. Why am I tracking him down the Thursday before our date? I'm awkward. I should try to have as little contact as possible with him until we make it to our horses in Wyoming.

“Yeah, I'll catch up with you,” she says. “It's not like the nut shop is going anywhere. I want to get my vitamins.”

She doesn't wait for any kind of permission to abandon me. She just does it. So I walk solo up to the nut shop.

“Look who's here,” Ruthann says.

She wipes down the white Formica countertop, while Tate places newly dipped caramel apples on a glass display shelf. Nestled atop small squares of waxed paper, they look delicious.

“Are you here to talk to Tate?” she asks me.

My ear tips burn. Is this an ambush? Because that question does nothing to make me interact with Tate more effectively or move us to the next level. It makes me feel like a moron.

“I came for nuts,” I say.

Ruthann looks amused.

“What kind?” she asks. “Hazelnuts, Brazil nuts, macadamia nuts, cashews, pistachios—”

When she pauses for a breath, I interrupt. “I need a minute,” I say.

“Take a minute,” she says, then looks at the wall clock behind her.

While I survey the nuts, Ruthann rubs the cloth so hard against the countertop that it squeaks.

“Where's Joy?” Tate asks. “I thought I saw her with you.”

“I think she's at the GNC,” I say.

“What for? The only people I ever see in there are middle-aged couples and sometimes a rogue elderly person,” Ruthann says.

Ruthann should not be jumping into my conversation with Tate. This entire situation feels lame.

“She wants hair vitamins,” I explain.

“Like prenatal vitamins?” Ruthann says. “Hey, Tate, did you know Molly's mom is pregnant? She's forty-four. Isn't that wild? It was an oops.”

I'm stunned. Ruthann's idea of taking things with Tate to the next level apparently involves disclosing personal information about my parents' baby-making habits. I can feel myself blushing. It's not that I'm exactly embarrassed that my mother is going to have a baby, it's just that I didn't venture out to the nut shop to discuss her gestation cycle with Tate.

“Hey, Ruthy,” Tate says, handing her a large metal bowl coated in congealed caramel. “Why don't you take this in the back and scrub it down?”

“Oh, I'll do that when we close,” Ruthann says, reaching into the roasted almond bin and popping one in her mouth.

“Why wait?” he asks. “I'll keep an eye on the front.”

She takes the messy bowl in one hand and huffs into the back room.

“Which nuts were you interested in?” he asks.

I look at mound after mound of warm, tumbling nuts.

“Maybe pecans,” I say, tapping my finger on the glass in front of a long heaping row of them.

“Our pecans are good, but have you ever tried our cinnamon peanuts? We roasted them this afternoon, right in the back.”

“Wow, you roast your own nuts.”

“No, that would be painful. We just roast these,” he says, burying the curved tip of a metal scoop deep into a peanut pile.

The burning sensation in my ear tips increases. When I crush on a guy I become such a dweeb.

“You know what I meant,” I say. “I'll take a quarter pound of your pistachios.”

He scoops up a small mound of nuts and pours them into a white paper bag. He doesn't weigh them. He just eyeballs it.

“On the house,” he says. As he hands me the bag, I watch his arms. His skin is so much tanner than mine. He went to Morocco over the summer for a month. That's what I'm looking at. His sexy Moroccan tan.

“I don't mind paying,” I say.

“I'll keep that in mind on our date.”

Again, my ears are so hot they feel like they could fall off. I can't believe I have this much blood in my entire body, let alone in my head region.

“Hey, Tate,” Joy says.

I look up. Saved by Joy.

“Wow,” Ruthann says, emerging from the back room. “You really did come to the mall.”

“Yeah,” Joy says. “I needed some mall stuff.”

“So, did you practice before you came? Are you going to practice after? Or maybe you're going to practice right now? In front of the nut house?” Ruthann says.

Joy looks embarrassed. I try to smooth things over. “We'll get some practice in tonight.” I look at Tate and try to communicate that everything is cool, that girls in drill team sometimes call each other out. It's how we bond.

Ruthann tilts her head with a fierce amount of incredulity. “Listen, Joy. Your round-offs suck. And you've got some sort of compass disorder where you're incapable of either identifying or facing north. And you don't even seem to notice. Or care.”

This feels so harsh. And awkward. And ongoing.

“I care,” Joy says. “I practice all the time.”

That's not really true, but I don't want to say anything to escalate the dustup.

“It's getting late,” I say. “Maybe we should head home.” I am not accomplishing anything at the mall.

“And can we not talk to customers like that?” Tate adds.

“They aren't customers,” Ruthann says.

“Actually,” Joy says, “I might buy some nuts.”

“Whatever,” Ruthann says.

“I'll give you some of mine,” I say. “Let's go.” I turn and look at Joy. “Let's not antagonize the situation.” Which I regret saying after I say it, because I think it means I'm siding with Ruthann. But really I'm siding with myself. I'm ready to leave.