Death of a Kleptomaniac (4 page)

“Oh, Tate, you should let your mother know that we're low on straws,” Ruthann says.

Tate doesn't look at her. “I'll let her know.”

She picks up the rag and starts re-wiping the counters.

“See you guys later,” I say. Even though Ruthann finds it annoying, I decide to wave. Tate waves back and smiles. He looks so cute when he waves. I'm relieved that the girl drama doesn't seem to have driven him off.

Joy strides through the mall's long central hallway without saying a single word. It's like her anger toward Ruthann has spread to me. But that's not fair. I can't control Ruthann's outbursts. Sometimes she's just mean. And it's illogical for Joy to hold that against me. As we turn the corner and approach the exit, Joy's shoulder snags one of those creepy, artificial spiderwebs, tearing ten feet of it from the wall. I watch the tiny threads blow in the breeze behind her while we walk to the car.

“You've got a cobweb on you,” I say.

She doesn't respond or seem to care.

Even when I'm driving, there's complete silence. A mile ticks by.

“You'll have to let me know if those vitamins work,”
I say.

“I don't feel like talking about my hair,” Joy says.

“Well—”

Joy cuts me off. “I don't feel like talking at all.”

I've only driven to her house a few times. As I turn down elm-lined streets, sorting my way through the suburbs, she doesn't help guide me. I just guess through all the turns. When I finally pull into her driveway, she remains quiet. As I turn to say good-bye, I notice that she's crying.

“Don't cry,” I say. “What happened tonight isn't that big a deal.” I try to say what I'd want to hear under similar conditions.

“You don't get it,” Joy says.

“Oh, I get it,” I say. “Ruthann can be volatile.”

Joy laughs like I've said something stupid. “I thought you were going to be a different kind of friend.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. We've only been friends for a little while, and I've been a great friend to her. Sort of.

“I thought you were going to be real,” Joy says. She gets out of my car and shuts the door so lightly that I'm not sure it's totally closed.

I lower my window.

“I
am
real,” I say. Only after the words leave my mouth do I feel a little lame.

Joy turns around. Maybe I got through to her. “No. All you care about is being a stupid apex triangle point.”

I gasp. That is
not
all I care about, though I do think it's pretty cool. I shift the car into park and open up my door.

“You're totally wrong,” I say.

Joy looks at me like she couldn't care less. How did this situation, a simple trip to the nut shop, escalate to the point where my closest friend is sobbing on her front lawn and spitting insults at me? I'm never going to the mall again.

“I'm not wrong. And I'm not dumb either.”

“I never said you were dumb.”

“But you think I am,” she says emphatically.

I do think this. But I don't admit it. “I don't think you're dumb at all.” For some reason I close my eyes while I'm talking.

“You're lying. That's why you closed your eyes!”

I open my eyes. “No.”

“I am so done with this. Ruthann. Tigerettes. You. I'm over it!”

Me?
How did things get here? How can she be over me? “Wait.” But she doesn't wait.

I watch Joy slip behind an ornate white door, her wispy blond hair trailing behind her. Then she's gone, swallowed by her house. I stare at that door, hoping it might swing back open, allowing for a more levelheaded Joy to emerge. But no. She's not coming out.

As I drive home, I feel sad and defeated. Tears burn behind my eyes, and I try hard to push everything to a place deep inside of me, beneath my skin, beneath my bones. High school shouldn't be this hard. Last year sucked because it was boring. Sadie and I sat around as certified outsiders, ridiculing everyone. And now this year sucks even worse. My life feels impossible, and it's only October.

I walk through the front door and both of my parents are seated on the couch. They look up at me as I stride to my bedroom, refusing to make small talk.

“No milk shake?” my mom asks.

“No,” I say. “The mall sucked so bad that I forgot.”

“She's dating,” my mother explains to my father.

I stop walking and turn around. “I'm not dating.”

“Does this mean your horseback trip got canceled?” my father asks.

I turn around. “No.” Why would my father say such a thing? I would be devastated if my date with Tate was canceled.

“Don't you want some dinner?” asks my mom.

I don't feel like eating. I don't feel like talking. I just feel rotten. “Maybe later.”

I walk into my room and open my jewelry box. I take out a pearl ring and slip it on. I crawl into bed and turn it over and over around my finger. This was Sadie's ring. She has no idea that I took it. It's one of the few things I really regret taking. But it happened. I snagged it one day and never knew how to give it back. And it feels wrong to let it rest hidden in a drawer. A ring should be worn. Even if it's just to bed. I turn it over again, thinking of Sadie. And Joy. It's been a long time since I've felt this defeated. But the year of making my mark is still repairable. Life is long. I can fix my friendship with Joy. And probably Sadie too. Deep down, they know I'm a good friend. I just need to show them.

Friday, October 4

I am not a triangle point. I'm clumped in the middle, struggling through practice. In the gymnasium the air feels swampy. And even though it's a brisk temperature outside, inside on the basketball court, where we're going over and over and over our routine, it feels ridiculously hot. Like summer in Florida. Or the Gobi desert. Normally when things get challenging, I have an ally. But Joy didn't even come today. I wonder if she'll quit the Tigerettes. She seemed genuinely hurt. Should she? Should
I
? Ruthann puffs on a whistle, signaling that it's time to form our first position. She puffs on the whistle a second time—urgently—because she thinks we aren't moving fast enough. Oh my god. I think my life would feel better if I quit.

“Let's practice without traveling!” Ruthann barks.

During the learning phase of the routine, I'm always surprised that some girls have a tough time traveling from their first assigned spots to their second assigned spots, and so on, while executing the arm sequences at the same time.

“Five, six, seven, eight!” Ruthann calls.

We unleash our arm moves. Straight out. Straight up. Drop to our sides. Triple clap. Repeat. Double clap. Punch at the crowd. Jab. Jab. Jab.

“I see sloppy arms! Hit those points! Be fierce!”

We slap and clap and jab over and over.

“Now do it while traveling! Make the circle. And rotate!”

Ruthann paces in front of us while Ms. Prufer sits in the stands. How do they choose who's good enough? I am rotating within my circle position and punching the crap out of my jabs. It's time for the kick sequence. I kick with such intensity that my stomach muscles cramp. I will not be cut from my first game. I will not.

“Deidre! Where are you going?” Ruthann calls. “You're making the circle look like a cancer cell. Way too much irregular growth. Come back!”

I can't believe in our final position that Deidre is a triangle point.

“All right! Let's take a break!”

Ruthann flips around and bounces over to sit next to Ms. Prufer. They're talking about us. Judging us and our traveling abilities and our kicks and arms. We haven't even done any tumbling yet. I walk to the sidelines and grab my water. The room is definitely way too hot. I can feel sweat dripping down my back. This is how I spend fourth period now every other day. I don't take a regular gym class. I attend Tigerette practice and receive credit for PE. Our school alternates between A day and B day, four classes each day, eight classes total. It's tough to keep everything straight. Basically, the system sucks.

“Molly!” Ruthann yells. “Can you come here?”

She is in a terrible mood. I was so afraid of talking to her at lunch that I bought a banana and went to the library to eat it, even though food isn't permitted in there.

“Yeah?” I trot across the courts, in her direction.

“Missed you at lunch,” she says, standing up.

“I was studying,” I say, “in the library.”

Ruthann rolls her eyeballs impatiently. “Don't lie to me. I saw you in there trying to eat a banana surreptitiously.”

“I just needed a break,” I say. “Life feels crazy right now.” In order to avoid making eye contact, I play with the hem of my shorts. Her gaze is so powerful.

“Crazy?” Ruthann says, and takes one intimidating step closer to me. “So I take it you've heard the bad news?”

At the word
news
, I look up. Ruthann squints, making her brown eyes appear slanted and venomous. If I were a prairie dog or small rodent, I'd be dead by now.

“Is it about Joy?” I ask. I'm suddenly worried that something “crazy” has happened to her. That must be why she is absent.

“Sort of,” Ruthann says.

I cover my mouth and gasp.

“I know,” Ruthann says. “It's terrible. You and Joy got me fired from the nut shop.” She slowly shakes her head in disbelief. Then she reaches out and grabs my arm. “I've lost my job.”

“Really?” I say, trying to sound surprised, but I'm not that surprised. Ruthann was a total bitch last night.

“Joy won't even take my calls. And she's skipped today. Can you believe that? Just like you said: it's crazy.”

Ruthann is still clamped on to me above the elbow, and I try to shake her grip loose by shrugging several times and lightly swinging my arm.

“Has she talked to you?” she asks.

“No, I think she's pretty upset about how things went down last night.”

Ruthann lets go of my arm and waves her hand around like she's preparing to fence with me without using a sword.

“Her round-offs suck. And so do her toe touches. It's my job to tell her that.”

I take another drink of water and look out at the basketball court. Some of the girls are gathering at our starting positions.

“But I think you hurt her feelings,” I say. Even in Joy's absence, I want to prove to her that I'm not a fake person.

“Am I just supposed to stand back and let her suck?
Great strategy, Molly. I bet the judges will love to see one
member sucking so badly. Maybe we could get a trophy
for that. Do they give a trophy for almost-first-place-except-
you-had-a-member-who-sucked?”

Ruthann needs to get a life. Or keep this life and begin seeking out a career in improving people's flexibility by making them feel like utter crap.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Ruthann asks.

I shrug. “I should probably take my spot.” I watch as Deidre trips and almost falls. And then I hear myself asking a question that I thought I was only thinking. “You're going to give me Deidre's triangle point, right? You're just waiting until the last minute? Making me sweat it out?”

Ruthann snorts. “Is that all you care about? What about the fact that I'm losing a paycheck every week now?”

“I care,” I say. “But there's really nothing I can do.”

“Of course there is,” Ruthann says. “Either you or Joy need to talk to Tate and tell him it was a big misunderstanding. Preferably, both of you should. Okay?”

“Can we discuss this later?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” Ruthann says. “I'll drive you home after school.”

I return to my spot, walking across the cushioned gymnastics mats. My stomach feels knotted.

“Are you sick?” Deidre asks me.

I shake my head. And the world moves double-time.

“You look pale,” Deidre says.

“I don't tan well,” I say.

“I'm not joking,” Deidre says. “I think you need fresh air.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The room is so hot.”

“It's regular temperature,” Deidre says. “I think there's something wrong with you.”

“No,” I say.

I am now looking at two Deidres. And I feel like I might throw up. I don't want to vomit on the court. Then I'll be the day's gossip. I run into the hallway and slam open the bathroom door. I barely make it to the trash can before I hurl up my banana. I always sort of knew that one day Ruthann Culpepper would make me puke.

While my head is still inserted in the trash can, a toilet flushes and Sadie exits one of the stalls. She glances at me. I haven't seen Sadie, I mean, really seen her, in weeks. Her hair is down, and she's wearing a plain gray T-shirt. No jewelry. Sadie hardly ever wears jewelry. When it comes to fashion, she's just so mellow.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I don't really know what to say. I know she's only talking to me because she feels like she's supposed to, not because she actually wants to have a conversation with me.

“I'm puking,” I say.

“I can see that,” Sadie says. “Do you need any help?”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

“It's basically a one-woman job,” I say.

“I'm trying to be nice to you,” Sadie says. “Is dance team practice too intense?”

I'm not on the dance team. I'm on the drill team. And she's aware of that. Our dance team carries weird streamers, wears unitards, and are mocked relentlessly. I know, because Sadie and I used to mock them.

“I'm actually on the drill team and practice is going awesome,” I say. Because I can't admit to her how much it actually sucks.

“Looks like it,” Sadie says.

I lift my head up and really stare at her. And I realize something. That person I used to be. And that person she used to be. They just don't exist anymore. It's just like we learned in Sociology last semester. People are evolving all the time. And Sadie Dobyns and Molly Weller have evolved into completely different people.

“You're so rude,” I say.

“I was actually trying to be nice,” she counters.

“I didn't realize being a decent person required focused effort,” I say.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“I'm sick,” I say. I hurl again. Sadie calmly shuts the water off. I lift my head out of the can in time to see her flick her wet fingers in the sink and pull a paper towel out of the wall unit.

She doesn't say anything else. She wads the towel and sets it in the trash can on top of my puke. She walks out of the bathroom and leaves me alone. The hinges release a sad-sounding creak as the door sweeps closed behind her.

I breathe deeply several times and then splash some cold water on my face. As I lean against the white tiled walls and focus on breathing, I see an earring. It sits on the sink ledge in an indentation intended to restrain a bar of soap. I reach out and finger the cold metal, poking my thumb against the blunt end of the earring's post.
Do I want this?
The door swings open and I pull my hand back. It's Mrs. Pegner, the school nurse.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “We had a report that somebody was sick in here.”

“It's me,” I say. “I'm the one who's sick in here.”

She nods her gray head and walks to me.

“Let's get you to the office and call your mom.”

“Okay,” I say. “Wait. Somebody left this.”

I pick up the gold earring and it dangles from my fingers like a tiny chandelier.

“It's a nice one,” she says. “I'll drop it at the Lost and Found.”

Mrs. Pegner takes it from me and slips it into her pocket. An intense calm sweeps over me. It's a more intense calm than when I realized I hadn't stolen that sophomore's missing watch. I'm elated. Because I wanted that earring and I didn't take it. Right now it's on a journey to a box, where its rightful owner may eventually track it down. Maybe this is my turning point. Mrs. Pegner hooks her arm around my waist and leads me out of the bathroom, around the corner, and down the long, orange, carpeted hallway to the nurse's office.

It smells like spearmint mouthwash in here. I wonder why? I swallow. Actually, my mouth feels like it could use some spearmint mouthwash. I look around the room for a bottle of Listerine. The only bottles in here are two plastic two-liter containers of Pibb Zero.

As I lie on the cot, waiting for my recently phoned mother, I see Tate Arnold. He walks into the room and approaches my cot. With his shirt only half tucked, he looks amazing. And also surprised to see me.

“What's wrong?” he asks. “Did you hurt yourself in practice?”

He crouches down a little. But not enough. I'm basically looking at his knees.

“No. Things got a little overheated in the gym,” I say. I'm worried that he's going to think I'm too sick to go on our date tomorrow. Lying down on a cot during fourth period must make me look ridiculously ill.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks.

“No.”

“I can't hang around and talk. Party in Calculus. We all passed our exam on inverse trigonometric functions. They sent me to collect the Pibb.”

I nod. “You'll need ice,” I say, pointing to the counter. I wish I was at a party. I don't go to enough parties. My school social calendar relies too much on Ruthann and drill team. I need to figure out ways to beef it up. Maybe I should volunteer somewhere and meet a bunch of new people. Do I have time to volunteer somewhere? Would I enjoy spending a few hours a week in a hospital?

Tate picks up the Pibb Zero bottles and acts like he's going to juggle them for me, but he doesn't.

“You're still picking me up at ten tomorrow morning, right?” I ask.

“Are you going to be up for horseback riding?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say.

“Okay,” Tate says. “And there's one other thing I forgot to mention.”

I hate it when people forget to mention things.

“My brother and his girlfriend want to come. Is that cool?”

I've seen Tate's older brother, Wyatt, and his girlfriend, Denise, on multiple occasions at a juice bar near school. They're the closest thing Idaho has to hippies, and I bet I'll like them both fine. I don't care if they come.

“Sure,” I say.

“Hey,” Tate says, lightly tapping the side of my cot with his leg, “I'll call you later.” He carries the soda bottles into the hallway and disappears. He looks even more tan than last night. How is that possible? Does he spray-tan?