More Books by K. J.
Don’t Call Me Kit Kat
Click Date Repeat
Click Date Repeat Again
A Case of Serendipity
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Reader Bonus - Excerpt from Don’t Call Me Kit Kat
Junior high is where things really start to happen. Cliques form and break apart. Couples are made and destroyed. And a reputation is solidified that you won’t ever be able to escape. Everything you do and say, and everyone you spend your time with, matters.
Katie Mills knows that. She gets it. That’s why she tried so hard to get in with the cool girls at school. And why she was so devastated when those efforts found her detained for shoplifting and laughed out of cheer squad tryouts.
But Katie has more to worry about than just fitting in. Her parents are divorced and always fighting. Her sister never has time for her. And her friends all seem to be drifting apart. Even worse? The boy she has a crush on is dating the mean girl at school.
Everything is a mess, and Katie doesn’t feel like she has control over any of it. Certainly not over her weight, which has always topped out at slightly pudgier than normal—at least, according to her mother.
So when she happens to catch one of the popular girls throwing up in the bathroom one day, it sparks an idea. A match that quickly engulfs her life in flames.
Is there any going back once she gets started down this path?
And would she even want to if she could?
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Chapter One
“Are you ready?”
I look down and scan my body as I debate Anica’s question. Sweat drips down the small of my back. I don’t know if the perspiration is a result of the three layers of clothing I’m wearing, or because I’m nervous about getting caught.
“I think so,” I say, certain that she can sense the fear in my voice. But I really don’t care if Anica knows how scared I am because I’m pretty sure we are actually friends. I worry more that she might tell her other friends—the ones whose parents make more money in one year than my mom and stepdad have made in the past five. It is that money that allows them to live in the upscale Orchard Hills neighborhood. They are the friends who shoplift just for fun. They are the cool girls—the ones I secretly wish I could be friends with, the ones I want to look and dress like.
She tilts her head slightly and whispers, “Katie, are you scared?” When I don’t answer, she drops her Forever 21 bag, which contains mostly stolen items, and begins to lift the large sweater swallowing her petite frame. “Let’s just forget it then. If you look all nervous, we’ll get caught for sure.”
For a second, I’m relieved because she’s offering a get-out-of-jail-free card. But during the other half of that second, I picture Amy Bowie—the most envied soon-to-be eighth grade girl at Frank Lloyd Wright Middle School—decked out from head to toe in name brands my mother and stepfather would never be able to afford. I want to do this. I need these new clothes. Plus, Anica and the other Orchard Hills girls have done it a million times and never been caught. “No, Wait. I’m fine.” I take a deep breath and unlatch the dressing room door. “Let’s go.”
It’s not like this is the first time I’ve ever shoplifted. When I was eight, I lifted a Heath bar from Snyder’s Drug Store. While my mother waited at the pharmacy for her allergy pills, I poked around in the candy aisle. I knew she wouldn’t buy the candy for me, mostly because she was always nagging me for being “a little chubby.” She had warned me that I wouldn’t be able to fit into any of the hand-me-down clothes from the neighbor girl if I didn’t slim down. Then I wouldn’t have any “new” clothes for the school year that was beginning in a few weeks. I pocketed the candy bar more out of spite than a desire to eat it. Two years later, I went on to steal nail polish from the same drug store. As I removed the small glass bottle from inside the waistband of my jean shorts, it slipped from my grasp and shattered on the sidewalk outside my house. My eyes welled up with tears as I looked down at my brand new flip-flops, which had been splattered with the pretty, pastel purple polish. I figured the accident was God’s way of punishing me for stealing. And now, as Anica and I exit the Macy’s dressing room, I wonder how I will be punished for walking off with layers of stolen merchandise.
Anica and I make a point of hanging several items in the reject area near the entrance of the dressing room. Then, as we exit, we discuss our disappointment over not finding anything we liked—rehearsed, of course. “Oh well. Let’s go check out the Gap,” Anica says loudly.
I’m supposed to respond, but suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe. My torso is drenched in sweat and my palms are dripping. To make things worse, my shoes suddenly feel as though they are filled with lead. All I can do is focus on the shoe department up ahead, which is the last stretch of ground we need to cover before exiting the store into the hustle and bustle of the mall.
She nervously glances sideways at me. “Maybe we can stop at Auntie Anne’s. You feel like a pretzel?”
“Sure,” I murmur. I know that I am bombing in my role as an innocent, perky, just-hanging-out-at-the-mall thirteen-year-old.
We are so close to freedom when Anica stops to look at a pair of studded flats. “These are so cute!” She picks one up. “Don’t you think?”
I breathe deeply as I pull my anxious eyes away from the relief that waits outside the confines of the store. I know that Anica is still playing her role. She wants to make sure no one is suspicious of us before we leave. I better play along, so I nod and say, “Yeah. I can totally see you in those.”
She hugs the shoe to her chest and lets out an obnoxious groan. “I wish I had enough to buy a pair!” With that, she sets the shoe back in its place and tugs at my sleeve. “C’mon. Let’s get pretzels.”
I hold my breath as we step across the threshold, letting it out only when we are a good distance from the store. We look at each other and smile. Auntie Anne’s is two stores away and we are about to make a beeline when the unthinkable happens: A security guard steps in front of us.
“You girls need to come with me,” he says. Standing behind him is the woman who had been manning the dressing room in the Macy’s Juniors section.
“Why? Is something wrong?” Anica asks, trying to sound confused.
I remain silent. Even if I could think of something to say, it would be impossible for me to form the words right now. The stream of sweat that was starting to dry up is again dripping down the small of my back into the waistband of stolen leggings.
“We know what you did. Let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be. I need to take you to the security office where we will have to call the police and your parents.”
“What are you talking ab—”
“Anica, just give it a rest,” I whisper as a tear—masked by beads of sweat—rolls down my cheek. The tear is not a result of us getting caught; instead, it is due to the fact that my budding friendship with Anica is ruined. After all, this is all my fault.
She purses her lips and glares at me.
“Let’s go, ladies.” The security guard motions for us to follow him.
The room we are in is small, stuffy and musty. I wonder if they put us here as a form of punishment, as if being hauled away in front of dozens of shoppers wasn’t torture enough. I avoid the death glare that Anica is giving me by closing my eyes and trying to imagine that I’m home in bed, curled up under the covers. Instead, I picture Amy Bowie with her long, perfectly shaped legs that make her look at least sixteen even though she’s only thirteen. The Orchard Hills girls are thin in all the right places. But so far, Amy is the only one who has the fully developed Barbie-doll curves that make the boys stare. I open my eyes and look down at myself. Anica and I were forced to strip down to one layer of clothing, so the only thing I am wearing is a gray ribbed tank from The Gap and jeans. It was so embarrassing to have to remove the stolen leggings from under my jeans in front of the dressing room attendant. The
rounded pooch that extends from my midsection makes me blush with embarrassment. I try to sit up as straight as possible, hoping for the fat to flatten out some, but it continues to jut out.
The door opens. “Well, ladies—the good news is that the store manager has decided to give you a break, since this is your first offense. As long as you pay for the merchandise you tried to walk off with. The bad news is that you are banned from shopping here in the future. Now, I could only get in touch with Anica’s parents.” The security guard focuses on me. “Do you have any idea where your parents are?”
“No,” I say, returning my gaze to the floor.
“Can she come with us?” Anica asks.
Surprised, I quickly look up at her. Maybe she isn’t mad at me after all.
“Nope. Sorry. A legal guardian’s signature is required.” He purses his lips and raises his eyebrows as he shrugs his shoulders at her—like this is just another day for him. Then he leaves the room again.
“Hey, Katie,” Anica says.
“What?” I glance up at her.
“Let’s not tell anyone about this. Okay?”
“Well, yeah. Of course I won’t tell anyone,” I say, dumbfounded that she even thinks she has to mention it.
“Hey,” she whispers as she pulls something from the waistband of her leggings. “Looks like I get to keep a souvenir.” She is holding a silver bracelet that still has the price tag affixed.
“Anica!” I whisper. “Are you crazy?”
She rolls her eyes and doesn’t respond as she shoves the dainty piece of jewelry back into the small nylon pouch that is sewn into her pants.
I slowly shake my head and cross my arms. I like Anica. Or, I liked her. She’s one of the nicest girls in the Amy Bowie clique, and I was starting to think I could trust her. Guess not. Although, I did just attempt to shoplift hundreds of dollars of merchandise, so if she’s untrustworthy—what does that make me?
Not wanting to lose my friend, I search for something to say. I am about to ask her what her plans are for the upcoming week—our last week of summer vacation—but the security guard enters, followed by Anica’s parents. The guard heads to a small desk in the corner while Anica’s parents head straight for her. Anica’s mom begins speaking swiftly in Croatian. Her voice is pained and she is near tears. I obviously have no clue what her mother is saying, but based on the way Anica looks up at me and then quickly breaks eye contact, I gather it has something to do with me. Anica responds by bursting into tears, but I can’t decide if they are real. Then her father turns to me and says with a heavy accent, “Anica has never done anything like this before. She is no longer allowed to be your friend.”
My face and chest suddenly feel like they are on fire and the profuse sweating returns. I look to Anica, mouth agape, willing her to make eye contact with me, but she doesn’t. Then it hits me that her tears are, in fact, fake. She is going to let her parents believe that this was all my idea—that I am the serial shoplifter. I want to tell them the truth. I want them to know that their daughter has done this a million times with her other friends. I want to scream at Anica for letting them think that I am the bad influence. Instead, I stare down at the floor again.
The security guard has Anica’s father sign several documents and then she is free. I remain seated, eyes on the stained industrial carpeting, as they leave.
“Well, I suppose I’ll try your folks again,” the security guard says as he grabs my T-shirt and oversized sweatshirt from his desk and hands them to me. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”
Being somewhat of a tomboy, I never really cared about clothes before middle school. Jeans, T-shirts and a pair of flip-flops—off brand, of course—were just fine with my grade school friends and me. But then we mixed with the kids from the more well-off side of town, and that’s when I started noticing that I had no sense of style. Even if I did, my parents couldn’t afford to buy me very many brand new things. In fact, most of my wardrobe still comes from the neighbor girl. Her mom is always giving my mom old clothes. And since Chelsea is three years older than I am, most of the clothes are outdated by the time I get around to wearing them.
I examine the plain, crew neck T-shirt and my sister’s UW-Milwaukee sweatshirt on my lap, thinking to myself that she is going to be pissed if she finds out I borrowed it. Amy Bowie would not be caught dead in either of these items. She prefers more girly things like long tunics with belts, maxi dresses, chunky jewelry and make-up. I hate all of the above. So why do I even want to be friends with her? I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. I just . . . do.
My mind begins to wander back to my first week of seventh grade, when I felt like a very small fish that had been transported to a much bigger pond than I was used to. The pond was full of all kinds of fish, but just like when you are looking at a fish tank, the ones that caught my attention were the prettier, more exotic ones. I guess that was when I started caring more about my appearance.
“Katherine!” My mom rushes into the room, followed by the security guard and then my stepfather. She only uses my full name when she wants to strangle me. “What the hell were you thinking? Are you really this stupid?” She is crouched down in front of me with her face inches from mine.
“Mom, I—”
“You, what? You’d rather go to juvenile hall instead of back to school?!” She stands and turns to face the guard and my stepfather. “So, now what? Will this go on her permanent record?” The guard is about to answer, but she abruptly spins back my direction and wags a finger inches from my face. “And don’t you think for one second that we’re going to pay for the citation! You might as well—”
“Actually, ma’am,” My mom turns her head slightly to glance sideways at the guard, clearly annoyed that he has interrupted her. “The manager on duty has agreed to not press charges, as long as the merchandise gets paid for. Of course—”
Before the guard can finish explaining the terms of the deal, my mom is back to scolding me. “You might as well say goodbye to all of that babysitting money you earned this summer! And you’ll be donating the clothes to Goodwill! Honestly, Katie, I thought you were smarter than this.”
“I know,” I mumble. But she doesn’t hear me because she is already back to talking to the security guard about how stupid teenage girls can be, assuring him there will be even more consequences for me to face at home.
My mother’s reaction doesn’t surprise me. I knew she’d be mad. But the thing is, she gets mad like this all the time. If I don’t finish my dinner, if my room isn’t clean enough, if I forget to take out the garbage—she goes from zero to sixty in an instant, even when minor things irritate her. Everything is a big deal because everything bothers her. Having my mom disappointed in me doesn’t really matter right now, though. What does matter is the fact that I no longer have my foot in the door of the Amy Bowie clique. And I still have nothing new to wear on the first day of school. I know there is nothing adequate in my closet either.
After my mother signs the necessary paperwork, the guard tells me that I can go. As I walk past him, he gives me a look of sympathy, as if he knows that I’m the one who got roped into this. Or maybe he looks at me this way because of what my mother is now saying. “Honestly, Katie, you don’t have the right kind of body to be wearing a tank top in public. Put on your shirt!”
As usual, my stepfather says nothing. He simply holds the door open for my mother and me with a look of exhaustion on his face.
The warmth of embarrassment quickly spreads through my entire body, but I still throw on Kelsie’s sweatshirt in lieu of my T-shirt. My mom is right—I don’t have the right kind of body to be wearing just a tank.
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About the Author
K. J. Farnham was born and raised in a suburb of Milwaukee. She graduated from UW-Milwaukee in 1999 with a bachelor’s degree in elementary education and went on to earn a master’s degree in curriculum and instruction from Carroll University in Waukesha. She then had the privilege of helping
hundreds of children learn to read and write over the course of twelve years. Farnham now lives in western Wisconsin with her husband and three children.
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