Death of a Kleptomaniac (7 page)

“You have to. A cat is considered property. That's theft.”

“He attacked me. I need to take him to get tested. To make sure he didn't give me any diseases.”

I'm tempted to tell her that I consider her a disease. Ruthann turns and walks to her car, keeping Hopkins tucked under her arm.

“Ruthann, if you take my cat, I'll call the police. Seriously.”

She smiles at me, not a happy smile, but a sinister one. She tightens her grip on Hopkins, and he whines.

“Stop it,” I say.

“Yeah, it sucks to have people mess with your life, doesn't it?”

“I never messed with your life. Put down my cat. You're hurting him.”

“No,” she says, whacking him on the head with her open palm.

She shouldn't have done that. Then it happens: Hopkins reacts and becomes a claw-crazy beast. He digs into the pale skin of her arm and sinks his teeth into her thumb.

“You shit!” she screams, flinging him away.

Hopkins darts toward me, and I open the door for him. He rushes inside and doesn't stop running. I can hear his claws clicking across the kitchen's linoleum floor. For caution's sake, I flip the latch and lock the screen door.

“Your cat is a menace to society. I'm going to call the authorities and report this incident.” Ruthann rubs at her scratches.

“You can't do that. You hit him!”

“I'd kiss your mangy beast good-bye. By the time I'm through telling my side, they'll have no choice but to put that cat down.”

“It wasn't Hopkins's fault. I should call PETA. They loathe animal abusers.”

“I'm not afraid of PETA. And animal control will put your cat down. If an animal viciously attacks a person, it's sayonara, pussycat.”

“You won't. You can't.”

“Oh, now that I don't have a job anymore I've got loads of free time. Your cat is as crazy as you are. Its first attack was totally unprovoked.”

She sort of has a point. Why did Hopkins jump her like she was a gargantuan rat? Ruthann tosses her head, and one possibility hits me.

“It was an innocent mistake. Your hair looks like a pack of squirrels.”

She looks back at me and scowls.

“What?”

I realize she has taken that as an insult.

“Game on, Molly Weller. Game on.”

She raises her hand like she's going to flip me the bird, but she doesn't. Bird-flipping must be slightly below her etiquette level. She gets in her car and pulls out of my driveway, and I feel sick. Hopkins slinks back into the room and weaves between my legs. I shut the front door and pick him up. I kiss the top of his head between his ears.

“What were you thinking?” I ask him.

Hopkins lifts his front paw and licks at its underside. He concentrates on a tuft of fur growing between the pads of his third and fourth toes. When he realizes that I'm staring at him, he stops and looks up at me. I'm holding him like a baby and he doesn't like that. He squirms and I let him fall. Hopkins winds around the love seat, taking the long way back to his food dish.

It's hard to savor the joy of Tate and his Moroccan tan's imminent arrival while facing the potential euthanizing of my cat. Love and death don't go together. They just don't. I take the ice cream off the toaster and dump it into a bowl. Then I take a piece of paper and write my name as legibly and sexily as possible:
Molly Weller
. After covering it in clear packing tape, I place it in the bottom of the pint. Using a black pen, I write the instructions on the inside of the lid:
You'll have to eat it all if you want to go to the Sweetheart
Ball with
…I hope after he reads it he doesn't hesitate with his answer. I imagine one word falling out of his mouth over and over:
Yes. Yes. Yes.

After putting the ice cream back in the freezer and reassuring myself eighteen times that Ruthann can't kill my cat, I am still freaked out that this might actually happen. The stress inside me continues to build. Tate will be here any minute and my mother isn't back yet. My mind won't stop, and begins to play a motion picture of my future. After killing Hopkins, Ruthann kicks me off the squad. I'm isolated. Rejected. Alone. I consider dropping out of high school. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. A mountain getaway with my long-term crush should scream ROMANCE, not ANXIETY.

I try my hardest to put the Hopkins fear in a box. Then I go to my bedroom and fluff my hair for the twentieth time and make sure that I've got breath mints in my purse. Some things in life are beyond my control, but my breath is not one of those things. If I do kiss Tate, I want it to be like my kiss with Henry. When his lips met mine, everything in the world dissolved except for us. And then it was as if we were collapsing into each other. It was so amazing. I think about it. And think about it. I really need to stop thinking about it.

When I hear my mother pull into the garage, I'm relieved, but also worried. I don't want to tell her about the Hopkins situation. I return to the kitchen. Addressing the Hopkins situation might unhinge me all over again. I'm not going to bring it up. But when my mother enters the house carrying my boots, she looks upset. She must know.

“I've already heard,” she says. “Judy Culpepper called my cell.”

“Can we talk about it after my date?” I say.

“She claims that Hopkins committed an unprovoked attack against her daughter,” she says.

I guess we are going to talk about it before my date.

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

She sets her purse down on the counter and hands me the boots. They look like they've got cow crap on them.

“I told her we'd pay for any medical expenses.”

I shake my head. “All she has is a few stupid scratches.”

“Really? On the message her mother said that Hopkins severely bit her thumb.”

“She squeezed him too tightly. And then she hit him! And then she tried to steal him. She's crazy!” My face feels hot, and I'm shouting.

“Don't yell at me. This isn't my fault. You're the one who dropped Sadie and picked Ruthann, out of all the possible friends in the area.”

I don't want to talk about Sadie, so I focus on Ruthann. “I didn't know she was crazy,” I say.

“They usually don't wear signs.”

Hopkins doesn't like all this hubbub. He walks into the room and then leaves.

“We'll talk it over with your father.”

“She wants to have him euthanized.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “I doubt it will come to that.”

Except for using the word
doubt
, she sounds pretty certain. This calms me. I sit and slide the boots on one at a time. They're snug, but I think they're supposed to be. My mother reaches down and brushes my bangs off my forehead. This is my chance to open up and tell her a little bit about what's going on with Joy and Ruthann. And fill her in on the nut shop story. The firing. But I don't.

“Thanks,” I say. “These feel great.”

We both hear Tate as he pulls into the driveway.

“Go and enjoy yourself,” my mom says.

“I will,” I say. “And don't let anything happen to the ice cream. The one on the right is the one I'm using to invite him to the dance. It's ready to roll.”

When Tate comes to the door, I am mostly filled with excitement. I can't help but think about Hopkins and Ruthann. It sort of feels like it was all just part of some terrible movie that I barely finished watching.

“Nice boots,” he says.

I look at them again and still think they look a little covered in cow crap.

“Thanks,” I say.

We force some small talk with my mom and then we're finally on our way. I'm on my date. The one I've been looking forward to for weeks. Me. Tate. And a long horse ride through Wyoming. Forget Henry. I've got a better love story unfolding right in front of me.

“I'm Denise,” a petite brunette in the passenger seat says as I climb into the backseat. “I think I've seen you at the juice bar.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm Molly.”

“And I'm Wyatt,” Tate's brother says. “I'm the oldest person in this car, and you should come to me for all factual information.”

“Okay,” I say, laughing a little.

“Don't ask him anything,” Tate says.

“Here's something you might not know,” Wyatt says. “It's a fact that Tate's favorite pizza topping is artichoke hearts.”

“Interesting,” I say. I can't tell if he's kidding or not.

“And it's a fact that Tate wins every potato sack race at family reunions because he cheats.”

“I don't cheat,” Tate says. “I'm fast. Even inside a bag.”

“And it's a fact that his favorite sport is riding a water weenie behind our family boat.”

“That is not my favorite sport,” Tate says. “Football is my favorite sport. Basketball is a close second.”

“But it's so hard to play that game while riding the weenie,” Wyatt says.

“Okay,” Denise says. “Let's stop talking about weenies.”

I am relieved that Denise is here.

“I brought my Magic Eight Ball,” Denise says. “Let's ask it questions.”

My mind leaps to Hopkins. Is it weird to ask a Magic 8 Ball a question about my cat?

“Me first,” Tate says.

Ooh. I'm curious to know what Tate thinks about. “Are we going to skunk Skyline?”

They're the rival football team. Tate is a running back. I guess it makes sense that his mind would be totally preoccupied with sports.

“
Most certainly
!” Denise squeals. “Okay. Me next. Should I go to Belize now or wait until next year, when I have more money?”

“What does it say?” I ask.

“
Without a doubt
,” Denise says. “Does that even make sense?”

I consider telling her that you can't ask a two-part question. But I don't. If she owns a Magic 8 Ball, she should know how it works.

“You go, Molly,” Denise says.

I'm nervous. I don't want to ask a lame question. What I really want to ask is either about the fate of my cat or the fate of my heart, and both of those seem out of bounds, like the exact wrong question to ask in public. Instead, a random question pops out of my mouth.

“What are the chances that I'll fall off my horse?” I say.

“Zero,” Tate says. “If you hold on to the reins.”

“Don't focus on falling,” Wyatt says. “That's a pessimist's game.”

“Don't give her a hard time,” Denise says. “She's allowed to ask the ball anything she wants. It's the rule of the ball.”

Denise turns around and winks at me. She's so friendly. And easy to like. I bet she has a million friends.

“Once I had a dream that I fell off a horse,” she says to me.

“Recently?” I ask.

“Nah. I don't have premonitions,” Denise says. “I think the horse represented my PE teacher. He was such an ass. You can't ignore your dreams. They're unleashing stuff that we suppress all day. They mean shit.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay. That's my question. Um, I want to know if I'll fall off my horse.”

“Expect the good outcome and it will find you,” Wyatt says. “That's an old saying by a famous prophet. Or guru. Or something.”

Denise looks at me again and rolls her eyes. “I'm going to ask it your question. Will Molly fall off her horse?” She lifts the ball and shakes it over her head. “
Outlook not so
good
.”

“Cool,” I say.

“Wait,” Tate says. “I think that means you'll fall off.”

“No,” Denise says. “The outlook is not so good that she will fall off. You have to read the ball correctly.”

“No,” Wyatt says. “I think Tate is right. You played with fate and now you better hold on tight. And not just with your hands. Hug with your thighs.”

Denise laughs and turns toward the backseat. “Don't listen to him. You're going to be fine.”

“I know,” I say. “I'm wearing boots.”

An hour goes by and Denise doesn't get tired of her Magic 8 Ball game. She asks it about China. Tate asks about upcoming NFL games. Wyatt asks it weird questions about tsunamis and volcanoes and alien landings in New Mexico. My mind wanders and I think about what it would be like to marry into this family. I'd be related to Wyatt. And probably Denise. Forever. We'd probably have to play this game all the time.

“We're almost there,” Wyatt says. “You can almost smell that we're at Alpine heights.”

I take a deep breath, but I don't smell that. As we turn off onto the mountain road I decide that I should ask the eight ball about Hopkins. “Will my cat survive his next battle?”

Denise peers into the ball. “
You may rely on it
.”

“Great news!” I feel authentic relief at that answer.

“You know, it's just a toy,” Wyatt says. “If you're professionally fighting your cat, you shouldn't rely on the eight ball for advice.”

“My cat's going through a metaphorical battle,” I say.

“That's deep,” Wyatt says. “I like the way you think.”

Tate looks embarrassed. He bumps his shoulder against my shoulder in a flirty way, and I bump him back. It doesn't feel electric like it did with Henry. But it still feels pretty good. Henry or Tate. Henry or Tate. In a world where Melka doesn't exist and I had a choice, which one would I choose? Who would make the better boyfriend? I sort of want to run this by the Magic 8 Ball.

“We're here!” Denise yells, releasing her seat belt before we stop.

I look out the window. Good lord. Are those our horses? I am overwhelmed by feelings of eagerness, awe, and terror.