Death of a Kleptomaniac

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Death of a Kleptomaniac Page 5

by Kristen Tracy


  “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, o
ne 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.

  “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 trigg
ers 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.

 

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