Death of a Kleptomaniac (5 page)

I close my eyes. I need to figure out a phenomenal way to ask Tate to the dance. Balloons? No. Not phenomenal. Way too many people use balloons. A funny card? No. Something bigger. A stuffed animal? No. Those aren't sexy. What's a sexy and phenomenal way to ask a guy to a dance? My thoughts are violently interrupted by the sensation of somebody plopping down next to me on the cot.

“I saw him come in here,” Ruthann says. “What did you tell him?”

I blink at her. “I told him where he could find the Pibb.”

“And then? What about my job?” she asks.

“It didn't come up,” I say.

“You can't be that sick,” Ruthann says.

“Actually, I think I am,” I say.

The sound of somebody knocking makes Ruthann stop talking and turn around.

“We need to let our patient rest,” Mrs. Pegner says.

“Yes. I really need rest,” I say.

Ruthann reluctantly gets up. “I'm going to call you later.”

“I hope I'm feeling well enough to talk,” I say.

Ruthann frowns at that. As I rest my head back down, there's a soft knock at the door.

“You are a very popular sick person,” Mrs. Pegner says.

“It's probably somebody looking for more Pibb,” I explain.

“Molly?”

The voice is so distinct that my skin erupts in goose pimples.

“Henry?” I prop myself up on my elbows. “What are you doing here?”

He walks into the office and stands next to me. My heart begins to race. That whole pep talk I gave myself yesterday at the mall that I was completely over Henry and didn't care about him and that my heart had entered a time machine and was now unaffected by our make-out session—all that was a lie. I am so attracted to Henry right now. Even though he's wearing geeky clothes and looks, well, a little geeky.

“I was headed to the attendance office and I saw you through the door,” he says. “Are you okay?”

I ignore his question and ask my own. “Why were you headed to the attendance office?” Because that's where people go to get permission slips for absences. Is he planning on being absent?

He shifts his weight. He looks uncomfortable. “I had to get slips. For Monday.”

He said the word
slips
. That's the plural form of
slip
. Why would he need more than one slip? Is he going away on a long trip? With somebody? My mind leaps to Melka.

“Are you and Melka going somewhere?” I ask. It hurts to even form that question, because I want the answer to be no. And if the answer isn't no, I'm going to feel a little crushed.

He pauses. His eyes look at five or six things in the room. Lamp. Floor. Desk. Light switch. Shoes. Me.

“It's complicated,” Henry says.

My elbows ache from supporting my body weight, so I lie back down on the crunchy pillow. I am so sick of hearing about how complicated things are between Melka and Henry. And why does he keep tracking me down to tell me about how complicated they are? The cafeteria garbage can. My sick cot. I wasn't seeking out a Henry/Melka status check.

“What are you doing in here, Henry? This girl is sick and needs to be left alone. She vomited in the girls' bathroom,” Mrs. Pegner says.

I'm really surprised to hear her divulge this information to Henry, because I thought your medical history, even if it was something that happened five minutes ago in a public bathroom, was strictly confidential.

“Can I call you later?” Henry asks.

I want to say yes. I want to say yes. “I'm sick,” I say.

“Out,” Ms. Pegner says. “With all these interruptions she'll never recover.”

I watch Henry leave, and the pocket of excitement he brought with him drifts out the door as he goes. Melka and Henry. Melka and Henry. How can I still be falling for him?

“Molly?” my mother calls. She's standing in the doorframe, wearing lavender maternity clothes that barely seem to fit. She looks like a blooming lilac bush. “Is it the stomach flu?”

I shake my head.

“I didn't sleep well last night,” I lie. “I think I'm worn down.”

“Do you want anything to eat?”

“I just want my bed.”

I rise from the cot and walk to her. And when she hugs me I almost cry. The feeling comes out of nowhere. But I'm overcome with gratitude. There are a variety of mothers in the world, and I was lucky enough to end up with a dedicated one. She dropped everything to come and get me. “Thanks,” I whisper into her neck. I can feel her stomach pressing against me.

“We can't go straight home. We need to stop by the store first. I need to deliver the payroll to your dad.”

When my father first bought the Thirsty Truck eight years ago, I thought, Cool. I can eat all the candy I want and not have to pay for it. But that's not how things worked out. Running a convenience store is a terrible way to make a living, unless you like being married to a cash-strapped corner shop that overcharges people for bleach, toilet paper, and Ritz crackers. I basically never see my dad, and when I do he's stressed out. Complaining about profit margins. Slacker employees. And the forever malfunctioning shaved-ice machine. My mother does most of his paperwork and calls herself his bookkeeper. In short, the stress is a family affair and it never ends.

As my mother pulls into a parking spot, instead of entering the Thirsty Truck, I decide I'd rather wait in the car.

“Don't you want something to settle your stomach?” she asks as she gathers the folder from under her seat.

“Just air.” I reach beneath my seat for the reclining lever and I lower myself into a position where I can sleep.

“Molly, if you're too sick to enter the store, your father is not going to let you go horseback riding tomorrow.”

I relocate the reclining lever and bring myself to an upright position. She's right. My dad has been looking for an excuse to kill the horseback riding trip ever since he agreed to let me go. I still remember his response when I told him that that trip would take place in Wyoming.

“Can't you date within state lines? Why do you want to ride a horse? And shouldn't Tate ask
me
for
my
permission?”

It's as if my father had fallen out of a television sitcom. “
Your
permission? That's weird. It's not like we're getting married.”

“I've talked to his mother,” my mom offered.

“What does Molly know about horses?” my father asked.

I thought I'd caught him at a good time. He'd looked relaxed, watching a crime drama with my mom. She'd already said it sounded like a fun opportunity. Of course, she said we needed my dad's permission. Of course, as soon as I asked him for it, the scene on the television exploded in gunfire. White pops of light burst from the muzzles of long guns. A botched bank robbery. Half the people fell down dead. I moved to block my parents' view and sat cross-legged in front of them.

“I've been on other dates,” I said. “I'm almost seventeen.”

“Wyoming?” my father asked.

We lived very near the Wyoming/Idaho border. It wasn't much more than an hour's drive. My father was completely overreacting, and my mother knew it.

“Sounds like a great time,” she said. “And they're going as part of a group. It's not like she'll be off on her own in the middle of the wilderness.”

My father didn't want to agree. But he didn't have reasonable grounds left to object.

“Take your cell phone and keep it on,” he said.

“You bet,” I said, though I suspected my mountain date with Tate would be taking me out of range.

The glass doors chime when we walk inside the store. Behind the register, I spot my father, decked out in a red smock, selling a ton of sprinkle doughnuts. We smile at each other. For some reason, our town has gone wild for sprinkle doughnuts. They regularly sell out. The sprinkle colors appear irrelevant to their popularity. I suspect it's their high-sugar content. Whatever it is, our town has become addicted.

I wander to the ice cream section. Doesn't that settle stomachs? As I survey the different pints, one particular flavor catches my eye. Red velvet cake. It's a limited-edition flavor. Oh, that stuff is criminally good. I can't ever say no to it. Which is when one of the best ideas I've had in a long time hits me. This is how I should invite Tate to the Sweetheart Ball. I'll write a note that says, “You'll have to eat it all if you want to go to the Sweetheart Ball with…” And then I'll write a second note and wrap it up in plastic, and it will say, “Molly Weller!” I'll put that at the bottom of the pint. What a cleverly delicious idea. I pull two pints out of the freezer. Because I love the flavor too much to give my only pint away.

“Sadie!” my mother says behind me. “It's been too long.”

I flip around. Why is she here? Why isn't she in school? It doesn't get out for another half hour. I watch my mother hug her. Even though I should approach them, I don't. But then I see them point at me, and I hate the idea of them talking about me behind my back. So I join them.

“Thanks for calling me about Molly,” my mother says.

I blink. “You've been calling my mother?”

“This afternoon,” my mother says. “When you were sick.”

“Oh,” I say. I thought Mrs. Pegner called my mom. I thought Sadie had dried her hands, gone to class, and washed her conscience of me.

“Molly,” Sadie says. Her voice is loud and serious, the tone of voice she assumes when she's about to make an announcement. Is she going to say something loud and serious right in front of my mother? This is so weird.

“I'm glad we ran into each other. I've been meaning to track you down for a while. I think you've got something of mine,” Sadie says.

I am stunned that she would do this to me in my family's store. Her words echo in my head. “You've got something of mine.” It feels like my life is ending. Really? This is how you're going to confront me? At my father's convenience store? Really? I am mad and confused at the same time. Because why did I even steal her ring? Nothing makes sense. So I do what I always planned to do if I were ever caught. I deny everything. Passionately.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I say. “I don't have anything of yours. I'm certain. I live a scarce existence. The only things I have in my life are the things I absolutely need.”

“Like two pints of red velvet ice cream,” Sadie says jokingly.

It's interesting that she would joke with me at the same time she is trying to ruin my life.

“I'm asking Henry to the Sweetheart Ball using the ice cream,” I say. Maybe I can distract her from busting me as a thief in front of my mother by tossing out other interesting news.

“You're asking Henry Shaw to the Sweetheart Ball?” Sadie asks. “Isn't he dating that exchange student?”

Both my mother and Sadie are looking at me. I stop breathing. Did I say Henry? I didn't say Henry.

“You're asking your study partner to the dance?” my mother asked. “Our old neighbor?”

No. No. No. This tongue slip doesn't require any elaboration or comment.

“I meant Tate,” I said. “I'm asking Tate.”

My mother and Sadie are still focused on me. I hate it. I didn't mean to say Henry. I didn't.

“Are you going to the dance?” my mom asks Sadie.

I can't help myself from releasing an obnoxious-sounding snort. That's ninety percent of the reason I'm no longer friends with Sadie, I think. She doesn't give a rip about important high school milestones.

“Yeah, I'm going with a friend. Ansel,” Sadie says.

Who the heck is Ansel, and when did Sadie start going to high school events? I'm blown away.

“Who's Ansel?” my mother asks.

“I met him this summer. When I was staying with my grandparents. We both volunteered at Craters of the Moon.”

I had no idea Sadie was volunteering at Craters of the Moon. That's nuts. That place is for tourists who want to stand on a lava field and take photos that make it look like they're walking on top of the lunar surface. I can't believe Sadie spent ten minutes there, let alone a summer.

“I've always enjoyed Craters of the Moon,” my mother says.

This is too much. Why is my mother sucking up to Sadie Dobyns? On the bright side, this conversation does keep Sadie from ratting me out.

“It was life-changing,” Sadie says.

I can't listen to another word of this. “My ice cream is melting.” I turn to go to the register.

Sadie reaches out and touches me, and an electric shock shoots through me. “Hold on. Back to that item that I left at your house.”

No. Not here. Not now. Can't we talk about this in private? Isn't that where people admit things of this nature? I imagine the conversation going this way. We're alone in a dark room. The confession comes quickly and bluntly.

Sadie: I know you stole my ring.

Me: You're right.

Sadie: Why did you do it?

Me: I don't know. I think I might be a kleptomaniac.

Sadie: That's terrible.

Me: I feel anxious all the time.

Sadie: Is there anything I can do?

Me: Can you forgive me?

Sadie: Yes. Completely.

I can tell by the tone in Sadie's voice that we are not going to have that perfect and magical conversation that concludes with forgiveness at the Thirsty Truck.

“I left a pair of my shoes at your house. My red sandals.”

“I saw those the other day in your room,” my mother says.

“Oh,” I say, relieved and surprised and defensive. “I don't know how they got there.” I need to relax. Breathe. Breathe. “Do you want me to bring them to school for you? Maybe Monday? Now that it's fall, they're probably not in heavy rotation.”

My mind flashes to all of the things, besides the ring, that I've taken from Sadie's house: a hummingbird figurine, a refrigerator magnet from Niagara Falls, one of her mother's knitting needles. I wish I could explain that I didn't set out to take any of these things. Stealing isn't something I choose to do.

“Sure. Monday,” Sadie says. “I better get going. Ansel is in the car.”

“Wow. You cut last class to be with a guy?” I ask.

Behaviorally speaking, I don't even recognize Sadie. She must be going through some sort of gushing hormone spurt.

“There was a bomb threat,” Sadie says. “Everyone was asked to leave. Except some of the kids who were dropped off are still waiting in the football stadium for their parents.”

“That's the third bomb threat this year,” I say. “I wonder who's phoning them in?”

Sadie shrugs. “Probably just some random idiot.”

My mother and Sadie give each other a warm hug. Sadie takes two sodas to the counter and doesn't say good-bye to me.

“Why is Ansel waiting in the car?” I ask. If I was dating a guy I'd expect him to enter stores with me. Especially if I was buying him a soda.

“He sprained his ankle rock climbing. He's not very mobile,” Sadie says.

What on earth has happened to Sadie? She's dating a rock climber? Does she climb rocks? I take a quick look at her fingernails to see if they look beat up. No. They look regular.

“I hope he feels better soon,” my mom says.

“Thanks,” Sadie says.

As we watch Sadie leave, my mother looks almost despondent. She's going to ask me about the Sadie rift again. I haven't been able to give her a satisfying answer yet as to why I terminated our friendship. My mother doesn't understand my newly realized high school ambitions. She thinks of high school as prep time for college. But high school matters. I want to make something of myself here. Before she can probe me with Sadie questions, I take the conversation in a different direction.

“Maybe you should let me drive to school. During bomb threats, I'd be able to drive myself and other innocent students to safety.”

“Sitting in the bleachers isn't the end of the world, Molly.”

Just then, a lightning bolt cracks open the sky and rain begins pouring down in dense, hard-hitting sheets.

“It is if you get struck by lightning,” I say.

She sighs. She can't argue with that.

“I'm going to grab some ice cream too,” my mother says. “Do you want me to snag you an additional pint?”

“I'm set with two,” I say. While pregnant, my mother has become an amazingly reckless eater of frozen dairy products.

I wait for her at the end of an aisle stuffed with odds and ends. Camera film, poker chips, playing cards, lip balm. I look up when I get the feeling that somebody is staring at me. On the other side of the window, Sadie is climbing into her dilapidated Ford Escort. I catch the outline of Ansel. He's blond and seems tall. Rain streams down the window. I can't see his face. Sadie isn't looking at me. Her head is turned so she can see behind her and back out. But I can catch enough of her face to realize that she's laughing. She's happy with Ansel. Happy without me.

Maybe she doesn't want to fix things between us. Maybe my friendship isn't that much of a loss. Sadie pulls out of her spot and onto the road, and I'm not okay. I feel anxious. I look around to see who is watching me. Nobody is paying any attention. Lightning rips through the sky again in a line so thick and jagged that it spawns a dozen branches.

I reach out and grab a package of red Bicycle playing cards. I put them in my coat pocket. I've never stolen from my father's store. Even as I'm doing it, something inside of me feels uncertain. But the act of taking the cards calms me. It feels good to have them.