Death of a Kleptomaniac (6 page)

“Molly, are you ready?” my mother asks. Maybe if she hadn't called to me at this exact moment I would have put them back. But her voice interrupts any further contemplating, and so I take the path of least resistance. I mean, I have the cards, so I keep the cards.

“I'm set,” I say. I go to my mother and surrender my ice-cream pints. My father takes them and sets them in the bag.

“Heard you're not feeling well,” he says.

Concerned about my date, I downplay everything. “I got overheated in practice.”

“Well, cool down and take it slow. I'll try to be home early,” he says.

I doubt that's true. I take our bag so my mother doesn't have to carry it, and we dart out of the Thirsty Truck and flee to the shelter of the green Galant.

“I think it's cute that you want to ask your date with ice cream,” my mom says.

“Don't say it's cute,” I say. “You make me feel like I'm twelve.”

“Time is going by so fast,” my mom says.

“It's going by normal speed,” I say. “It just feels fast because in three months you're having a baby.”

A baby. I can't believe it. Diapers. Colic. Bottles. What will our lives look like then? I reach over and turn on the radio, and a sad and familiar sound floats through the car. A saxophone.

“You want to listen to jazz?” I ask, assuming the radio accidentally ended up on this station. My mom usually enjoys soaking up talk radio shows. People calling in about difficult to diagnose car issues. Smart local people discussing topical events.

“Who doesn't like a little jazz?” my mom says.

I don't argue. I listen to the sweeping melody lines; they meander and march, and I can't help but think of Henry.

“Does your friend ever play shows in town?” my mom asks.

“No, not much,” I say.

There aren't a lot of venues for jazz in Idaho Falls. But Henry has played a few times with two friends in coffee shops. One plays bass. The other drums. Henry says the manager always tells their trio to play more quietly. Sometime soon, if things don't feel too weird between us, I hope to make it to one of their infrequent gigs.

The music ends and the DJ tells us that we just listened to Dizzy Gillespie play a song called “I Remember Clifford,” which was written by Benny Golson for his friend Clifford Brown, a genius trumpet player from the fifties who died at twenty-five in a car crash.

Rain continues to pound down over us, and my mother flips the windshield wipers to a faster speed.

“That's so freaking sad,” I say.

“But it's a beautiful song,” she says.

My window is starting to fog up. I use my finger to wipe a spot clear. “In a sad way.”

“Do you want to change the station?”

I shake my head; we're almost home. “No. I like this.”

Saturday, October 5

When I wake up, it's past eight o'clock, but I still feel tired. Is my life that exhausting? I think back to yesterday. Yes. It is. I hear my mother walking down the hall.

“Are you up yet?” she calls.

“Somewhat,” I say.

She opens my door. She looks like she's been up a while. She's dressed and her hair looks nice, like she's ready to go out.

“If Joy calls, you should put her through,” I say. “And if Tate calls, put him through. But if Ruthann calls, tell her I'm still sleeping.”

“I don't have time for that,” she says. “You need boots for your trip. I'm off to get them right now.”

She walks into my room carrying her purse.

“Can't I just wear normal shoes?” I ask.

“You might run into problems with the stirrups.”

I push off my covers and climb out of bed. “I think I'll be just fine. We're not going extreme horseback riding. We're just walking along a path.”

“I had a dream last night. I gave birth on the bus again,” she says.

My mother has been having weird pregnancy dreams for weeks. But I don't see how this is connected to boots.

“Was I in your dream?” I ask. “And was I wearing boots?

She shakes her head. “I wasn't prepared for the birth. Nobody was. Not me. Not the doctor. Not the bus driver.”

It's unclear what triggers the bus pregnancy dreams. But each one is nearly identical. Except the number of people on board the bus varies with each dream.

“Did anybody help you this time?” I ask.

“Just the doctor,” she says.

There is probably a person capable of psychoanalyzing this scenario. But this early in the morning, I'm in no shape to do it.

“It's just a dream,” I say, trying to reassure her. “You don't even ride the bus.”

She nods. “I know. I'm not actually afraid that I'm going to give birth on a bus. I just wonder if it means anything.”

She can't be serious. “It doesn't,” I say, pointing my finger at her to drive this point home.

“I love having an introspective and intelligent daughter,” my mom says, walking to my door. “My friend Donna has a pair of boots that will fit you. I'm rushing there now.”

How her dream triggered a boot crisis I'm still not quite sure.

The phone rings, but I'm afraid to answer it. “Wait! Before you go, can you answer that? And remember, if it's Ruthann, I'm not here.”

“I'm not going to lie for you,” my mother says. She leaves my room to answer the phone and calls down the hallway, “It's Tate.”

Once I know it's him, I pick up the phone beside my bed.

Me: I've got it, Mom. You can hang up.

Tate: Just making sure that you've recovered.

Me: Yes. Fully.

Tate: Great. We'll swing by at ten.

Me: Should I pack a lunch?

Tate: We've got that covered.

Me: You don't even want me to bring an extra banana or something?

What's wrong with me? Why am I trying to force extra
bananas into the car?

Tate: Feel free to bring a banana if you want a snack for the drive or something.

Me: Um, maybe I'll bring some trail mix.

Tate and I wrap up our awkward conversation and I hang up the phone. I have a talent for adding awkwardness to any situation. My mother has returned to the doorway. It feels like she's judging my telephone abilities with guys.

“Don't be nervous,” she says. “He likes you.”

Those words bring me to life. Because she's right. Tate likes me, and I have an amazing day ahead of me! Why am I worried about being awkward? Then I realize my mother is standing in the room. “I thought you were going to Donna's.”

“I can't find the car keys.”

“All right,” I say. I am always helping my mother find her car keys. “Let me relive where you may have put them.”

As I make my way to the kitchen, I pass the freezer and pull out a pint of the red velvet ice cream. My mother tags behind me.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“After our horse trip I'm going to bring Tate back here and ask him to the dance. I need to get the ice cream ready.”

I set the ice cream on top of the toaster oven and crank it to the medium heat setting.

“Why do you want to melt it?” my mother asks. “Is that some sort of fad these days? Eating melted ice cream?”

When my mother uses words like
fad
it makes her sound so old.

“I need to bury a note in the bottom. That's how he's going to know that I'm asking him to the dance.” I crank the heat even higher. “So I need to scoop it out and repack it.”

“Clever,” my mom says. “But what about the keys?”

My dad enters the kitchen and grabs some bread.

“Wait,” I tell him. “I'm using the toaster to melt my ice cream.”

“You can't eat ice cream for breakfast,” he says.

I spot the keys on the counter tucked behind a pile of our junk mail. I hand them to her. “Mom,” I say, “can you explain the ice cream to him? I need to shower! And thanks for going to Donna's!”

“I'm headed to the store,” my dad says. “Don't you have any equestrian questions for me before I leave?”

My father doesn't know that much about horses. I'm certain. But instead of racing down the hallway like a madwoman to get ready, I give my dad a quick hug and say, “I do. How do you make a horse go blazingly fast?”

My father tenses up a little, and I release him. “You don't,” he says.

In his heart I know he'd rather I stayed home, so I probably shouldn't antagonize him, but I can't help it.

“I'm kidding,” I say.

Then I race to get ready. Why didn't I get up earlier? I want to look perfect and amazing. Also, I want it to look like I didn't try hard at all.

After my shower I start setting out clothes. My focus isn't functionality. I want to look cute. Jeans? No. Too pedestrian. My black pants with all the pockets? They make my legs look so long. And they're tight in the butt in a way I think guys like. Pants decided. Do I need a coat? Yes. Mountains can be frigid. I hear the phone ring. Ugh. I am not going to talk to Ruthann. Considering how things are going, I should quit that stupid squad. High school shouldn't be this much drama. I should be enjoying myself. Being a triangle point isn't that important. So I'd get my picture taken and be featured on a news blog for a day. Am I going to put that on a job application? Will it matter when I'm thirty?

My father stands in the doorway holding the phone. I'm surprised he hasn't left yet. “I am not taking that call,” I say. “I'm avoiding somebody.” I say the last part in a whisper. I'm convinced that it's Ruthann. She wants to sabotage my date. I know it.

My father covers the receiver. “It's some guy named Henry.”

A burst of excitement rushes through me. “Really?” I don't reach out for the phone. I'm not sure I want to talk to him. You can't jerk girls around like that. Melka or me. It's not fair. Henry doesn't deserve my attention right now. I'm doing something else.

“I don't want to take it,” I say. “Can you tell him that I'll call him back?”

“Why? Is he bothering you?” my dad asks.

Oh, no. Did Henry hear my dad say that? “Tell him I'm getting ready to go horseback riding. I'll call him when I get back.”

My father looks suspicious. But I want Henry to be a little disappointed. He should have considered that I might not take his calls before he made out with me and got back together with Melka.

From the hallway I hear my father explaining that I'm getting ready for a day trip to Wyoming. I hope Henry understands that I'm going out with Tate. Let Henry Shaw feel what I felt. He's coming in second. How does that feel? Nobody wants to think of himself as the runner-up.

“I'm officially gone now,” my dad yells from the kitchen. “I love you.”

“Ditto!” I call.

“Uh-oh!” he calls. “We've got a problem. But it's not huge.”

I hope he's joking.

“Hopkins got out,” my dad says.

Traditionally, Hopkins escapes less than five times a year, during spring and summer months, when our neighborhood squirrels are most active. Apart from that, he accepts his indoor imprisonment. I have no idea what inspired him to bolt today. This fall, our neighborhood squirrel population has dropped to nearly nil.

“He'll find his way home,” I yell. He always does. I'm sympathetic toward him. If I were an indoor cat, I think I'd break out every now and again too.

I go back to my room and look at myself in the mirror. I do not love this shirt. But I need layers. Maybe I can cover it up. No. I want a cotton shirt. Pink goes well with black. The shirt I really want is in the basement, draped over my mother's old-fashioned collapsible drying rack.

I don't know why I feel so rushed. It's not like Tate is going to be here in ten minutes. But maybe he'll be early. I quicken my pace and go downstairs. As I'm changing shirts I hear a car tearing up our gravel driveway. Then I hear the sound of footsteps racing up the sidewalk. I stand on a box so I can look out our sunken window. Who's at my house? Is Tate early? Did Henry come over? No way! I can see Ruthann's shoes.

She pounds hard on the metal screen door. Our doorbell is broken, so even if she's trying to ring it, her efforts are futile.

“Molly Weller, open the door!”

How can she possibly know I'm here? I back away from the window and sit down next to the collapsible drying rack.

“When Tate comes by to pick you up, I want to talk to him.”

She's nuts. That's not happening.

She opens the creaky screen and pounds on our wood door. Her fists may be small, but they're very powerful. Once, I saw her crumple a half-full soda can like it was made out of air.

“I just passed your mom and dad on my way over. You weren't in either car. I know you're home. Open up.”

Wow, she's so observant. I want to point out that I could have been in either car, fully reclined or squished inside the trunk, but that would require me to reveal myself. Maybe that's Ruthann's master plan. Maybe she's trying to smoke me out of my hole. I duck my head down.

“Open this door or I will sideline you on the drill team forever!” she says.

I don't move.

“I'm serious!”

I know she's serious, and I consider moving. But then I reconsider.

“Molly Weller, I refuse to be treated this way.”

I figure she'll stick around for a few more minutes, blow off some steam, and then I'll pretend like this never happened.

“God, is that you, Molly? In your basement? Hiding underneath your mom's drying rack?”

I look up. Standing inside my window well, bending over to look through the dirt-crusted glass, is the terrifying face of Ruthann Culpepper.

“What are you doing? Have you lost it? Are you having a breakdown?” Ruthann says.

I don't know what to do. I shake my head. Because I'm not having a breakdown. Not yet.

“Come let me in. We need to talk.”

Oh my god. This is worse than a home invasion. She is not going to ruin my date. It will not happen. I will call whomever I need to prevent this.

“Leave now, or I'll call nine-one-one!” I yell.

Wow, did I actually just yell that? I sound so hard-core.
Too hard-core.
Ruthann smashes her hand against the window, tying to make a clear spot, but it just muddies the glass.

“Are you mental or something? You can't call 911 over this.”

Before I can argue either for or against my terrible idea of calling 911, Ruthann starts screaming. I scream too. For no real reason.

“It's biting me!” she yells.

I stop screaming. Something's biting her? That's weird. Maybe it's my neighbor's dog, Ralph. He's supposed to be on a chain, but he's an American bulldog, and when it comes to escaping fences and collars, that pooch has proven himself to be a regular Houdini. I decide that it's not appropriate to let a fellow human being be mauled by my neighbor's dog, so I hurry upstairs to help. I grab our mop as a defensive weapon and swing open the door.

Once I see what's actually happening, I feel slightly relieved. Hopkins has leaped onto Ruthann's back. He's sunk his claws into her and is trying to bite the nape of her neck. But because of the thick expanse of her hair, there's no way Hopkins can land a good bite.

“Hopkins,” I cry, “stop!”

But Hopkins doesn't release his grip. Finally, Ruthann grabs hold of his gray tail and yanks on it, dislodging him from her back. Hopkins lands hard on the ground. He stands, shakes his stunned head a couple of times, and attempts to trot to me. But Ruthann intercepts him with a quick scoop.

“Your cat is a total animal,” Ruthann says.

“Well, that's not news. All cats are animals.”

“I'm not giving him back.”