Death of a Kleptomaniac

by Kristen Tracy

  “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.”

  “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 lea
ves.

  “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.”