“Mo-om! I know this already. You don’t need to keep reminding me.”
“Honey, I’m only telling you these things because I want you to succeed here. If you were more reliable I wouldn’t have to—”
Just then, the door opened and an older woman stood before us, smiling. She was petite with a dyed black, Betty Boop–style hairdo and huge, clear-framed eyeglasses. Her long denim skirt and crisp white blouse looked freshly pressed, but both were covered with multicolored hairs. Probably from the smug-looking calico cat she held to her chest.
“Are these our new summer guests, Mrs. B?” she asked in a singsongy voice.
Mom and I exchanged brief, startled looks. Who the heck was she talking to?
“Yes, I do believe they are,” she went on. “Just look at all the suitcases.”
That’s when it hit me. She was talking to the cat.
“Hi, I’m Agnes Krantz,” she crooned, thrusting her hand toward my mother.
“Laura McAllister,” Mom said, grasping her palm and shaking it. When they let go, Mom studied her hand. It was covered in cat fur.
“Oh, sorry about that. This awful heat’s been making Mrs. B shed like crazy, hasn’t it Missy-tootle?” She lifted her arms and nuzzled her face against the cat’s head.
“Quite all right,” Mom said with a nervous laugh. “May I introduce my daughter, Katie?”
“Hi,” I greeted her with a wave, hoping to avoid the furry handshake.
It worked. Mrs. Krantz nodded and grinned at me. “Hello. I’ve heard so much about you. Would you like to see your place?”
“Sure.”
Mrs. Krantz took a wad of keys out of her skirt pocket and walked next door to number 301. After unlocking the doorknob and two dead bolts, she opened the front door and gestured us inside.
As I stepped across the threshold, I could feel layer upon layer of stress slide off me. It was like the relief you feel when you finally fill your lungs with air after holding your breath a long time. I felt . . . home.
The place was small, much smaller than I’d imagined. But it didn’t matter. I thought it was perfect in spite of the dingy carpeting and odd chicken-soup smell. I could easily imagine myself eating Cocoa Puffs at the green laminated bar that separated the living room from the tiny galley-style kitchen. Or drinking a soda while flopped across the old but comfy-looking flowered sofa.
Mrs. Krantz set down the cat and puttered about, opening blinds and fluffing the cushions on the couch and two flanking armchairs. Rays of light streaming through the windows illuminated swirls of dust in the air.
“Don’t worry. Everything is clean,” Mrs. Krantz remarked, watching my mother run her finger along a built-in bookshelf. “It just needs to be lived in. Isn’t that right, Mrs. B?”
I turned to look at the cat, half expecting her to answer. Mrs. B sauntered over to me, gave my shoes an indifferent sniff, and then jumped into the frayed yellow club chair.
“It’s charming,” Mom said, glancing around and giving an approving nod.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Krantz beamed. “Let me show you my favorite part.”
She pushed aside some vertical blinds to reveal a glass atrium door. Then she opened it up and led us onto a wide concrete balcony overlooking west campus.
“Wow,” I breathed, leaning against the iron railing. There, just a few miles east, stood the UT Tower. This time its western clock face was smiling at me. “What a view! Isn’t it great, Mom?”
Mom walked up beside me and stared out at the sun-drenched panorama. For the first time that day, her expression softened and she actually smiled. “Yes, it’s nice,” she said. She turned and looked at me. “Remember not to squint.”
“Right.” I was way too happy to get annoyed. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I gazed out at the bustling streets, trying to picture myself scurrying along the sidewalk with my backpack slung over my shoulder.
“Yes, Mrs. B and I just love it out here,” Mrs. Krantz said behind us. “That’s our balcony right next door.” I glanced to the right toward the other half of the concrete balcony, separated by another waist-high iron railing. It was crowded with plants and potted palms, and in the corner, two ceramic kittens appeared to chase a ceramic yarn ball.
“I’m glad you’re so close by,” Mom said, pivoting about and leaning back against the rail. “So, how often will you look in on Katie and her roommate?”
Mrs. Krantz tilted her head and pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “I beg your pardon?”
Mom stiffened slightly. I turned around to watch them, sensing trouble.
“I mean,” Mom continued, “you will be chaperoning the girls, won’t you? I assume you will have a set curfew and a strict no-boys-allowed policy?”
“Mrs. McAllister, I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.” Mrs. Krantz’s overly magnified eyes studied my mother cautiously. “I’m afraid my only roles here are that of landlady and neighbor, not chaperone.”
Mom’s mouth bunched up as if yanked by an invisible drawstring. “But in your letter you said you would be offering your guidance as well.”
“I believe my exact words were that I could ‘serve as a guide.’ I’ve lived in Austin over thirty years and can give directions to places all over the city.”
Mom appeared to be in shock. “Well, I just assumed . . . She’s still in high school, after all. . . . She only just turned seventeen.” She took a step toward Mrs. Krantz, clutching her purse in front of her. “Couldn’t we make some sort of arrangement with you? Maybe for an extra fee?”
Mrs. Krantz seemed slightly offended. “I’m sorry, but that wouldn’t be possible. As it is, Mrs. B and I are going out of town tomorrow to visit my sister. I won’t even be here for the first several days.”
“But . . . isn’t there anyone else who could do it?” My mom’s voice was rising steadily. “Shouldn’t the college provide some sort of supervision?”
“The university has no responsibility over students off campus,” Mrs. Krantz answered calmly. “Please don’t worry. I understand how hard this must be, first time away from home and all, but I’m sure everything will be fine.” She stepped toward me and patted my shoulder lightly. “Your daughter seems like a very smart, sweet girl. I’m sure she can look out for herself.”
Mom regarded me closely, as if I were some piece of art she was thinking about buying. And just then, it was like I could read her mind. The breakup with Chuck, the lost sunglasses, the way I gawked at those two frat guys—everything I’d ever done that wasn’t exactly to her specifications. I watched in horror as her head shook back and forth, slowly at first, then gaining speed.
“It’ll be okay, Mom. You can trust me,” I said, trying desperately not to sound desperate while shock waves of panic shuddered through me.
There was no way I could go back home. Not now. I just couldn’t face the fallout. Not with news of my humiliating breakup still making the rounds as the week’s top story. I could just imagine the morbidly curious stares, the phony condolences, the fake excuses as people suddenly became too busy to hang out with me.
“No,” Mom finally proclaimed. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I don’t like this. This is not what I agreed to at all. You are too young and irresponsible to be on your own.”
“But—”
“My decision is final. There’s no way you are staying here without constant adult supervision. Now let’s get your things.” She pivoted on her heel and stalked back through the patio door.
I looked at Mrs. Krantz in the faint hope that she could somehow stop this, but her owl-like eyes only sagged with pity.
All the elation, all the tingly anticipation I’d been feeling now drained out of me. I slowly trudged after Mom, feeling a heavy sense of doom, knowing full well that I was marching toward my own social annihilation.
Back inside I glanced around at the small, sunny condo, the postcard view off the balcony, the distant UT Tower casting a long early-morning shadow our way as if stretching out to me.
All this had been in my reach only to be snatched away at the last minute. I should have known it wouldn’t work out. It was just too good. Too perfect.
“Excuse me. Is this number 301?”
We all turned in unison. A girl my age was standing in the front doorway, which Mrs. Krantz had left open. She was tall, with the most amazing upright, square-shouldered posture. Everything about her was thin and pointy. Squinty brown eyes, a small pinch of a nose, a chin so sharp it could probably puncture tin cans. Two skinny legs stuck out from the bottom of a denim skirt and continued for half a block until they reached long fingery toes poking out of leather flip-flops. Her sleeveless pink top was buttoned all the way to the collar, and two scrawny arms stuck out of either side, her shoulders so knobby they looked like bedposts. But what really got me was her straw sun hat with the matching pink band. The brim was so wide, I wasn’t sure she could fit through the door.
“I’m Christine Hobbes,” she said, stepping into the condo. The hat passed through the frame with just inches to spare.
“Hello, dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Krantz, returning to her previous, singsongy voice. She rushed forward and shook Christine’s hands, leaving fur on her long, tapered fingers. “I’m Mrs. Krantz. And this is Mrs. B,” she added, nodding down at the calico, who was weaving figure-eights around Christine’s legs.
“What a beautiful cat!” Christine cooed, reaching down and scooping Mrs. B into her arms.
Mrs. Krantz beamed proudly. “Oh, and this is Mrs. McAllister and her daughter, Katie. Katie was to be your roommate, but her mother is having some . . . second thoughts.”
“Yes, I understand completely,” Christine said, nodding sympathetically at my mom. Her voice had a certain Zen-master quality to it, deep and oh-so-understanding, like Oprah Winfrey on happy pills. “My parents were also reluctant to let me come here. But they finally decided they didn’t want me to miss out on this great educational opportunity. Besides, my dad will be dropping in all the time, whenever he doesn’t have surgeries scheduled.”
“Your father is a doctor?” Mom asked.
“Yes. A cardiologist. He’s at University Hospital in San Antonio.”
“And where is your mother, dear?” Mrs. Krantz asked. “Is she with you?”
“Unfortunately, no. She’s out of the country doing some missionary work this summer. Which reminds me”—she looked down at a watch hanging loosely on her wrist—“I’m supposed to meet a prayer group later at University Christian. My mother is good friends with the pastor. In fact, he’ll be stopping by a lot, too.” She turned toward me and grinned a happy-pill grin. “It’s too bad you’re not staying, Katie. We could go together and meet some new people.”
“Yeah, too bad,” I said, trying to look glum. Inwardly I sensed a slight uptick in my mood. Maybe there would be one very minor bright side to going home. This girl seemed so goody-goody, living with her would probably be just like living with my mom.
Judging by the smile on Mom’s face, she was thinking the same thing.
“So, you say your parents arranged lots of supervision for you?” Mom asked.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Christine replied in her honey-coated voice. “Mainly because they worry about me, not because they don’t trust me. I’m afraid I’m a hopeless creature of habit. Early to bed, early to rise. I’m probably the dullest person here.” She laughed a birdlike, twittering laugh.
Mrs. Krantz laughed too.
“What about boys?” my mom’s voice cut in. “Have your parents set any limits on having boys over?”
“Boys?” Christine looked surprised by the question. “Well . . . I mean, I’m hoping to host the prayer group here once or twice, and there are probably boy members. But a boy here, alone, with no grown-ups? No. No, no, no. That would not be appropriate.”
My jaw practically came unhinged. I couldn’t believe there existed a girl my age who felt that way about guys. I half expected her to say they were “icky” and “have cooties.”
“Now, see there, Mrs. McAllister?” Mrs. Krantz trilled. “These girls are young, but they’re sensible.”
Mom just stood there, sizing me up again. Only this time I couldn’t read her mind.
Please, please, please, I urged inwardly. I’ll make friends with Christine and go to her dumb prayer group. I’ll eat nothing but brussels sprouts. I’ll wear a stupid pith helmet to protect myself from the sun. Just please let me stay!
“Okay,” Mom finally replied.
I blinked, unable to process it fully. “Really?”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Krantz gushed.
“But let me make the rules clear,” Mom went on. “No late nights. No piles of junk food. And above all, no strange boys up here. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, my entire body nodding.
“And here’s the thing,” Mom added, her voice deepening. Oh great, I thought. I knew there’d be a catch. “I will be calling regularly, and I’ll want to talk to Christine as well. As long as she reports that you are following the rules I’ve laid down, you can continue to stay.”
“What?” I gasped. I couldn’t believe it. Mom had more confidence in a total stranger than she did in me? It was so unfair. I’d never done anything really wrong—other than gab a little too long on the cell phone or date someone she felt wasn’t good enough for me. “You . . . you don’t trust me?” I asked, my voice meek and whispery.
Mom didn’t reply. “Christine, would that be all right with you?”
“Of course,” she replied. “I’ll be glad to help. Although I’m sure Katie will do everything you say.”
“Fine.” Mom looked at her watch. “Well then, if you all will excuse me, I have to get back to San Marcos for an important meeting. Bye, honey.” She kissed my temple, shouldered her purse and headed toward the stairwell.
“I’ll walk you out,” said Mrs. Krantz, trotting behind her, cradling Mrs. B with one arm. In the doorway she swiveled about, whispered, “I’m so glad she changed her mind,” and then shut the door behind her.
I heaved a sigh of relief. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the arrangement I wanted. But at least I didn’t have to go back.
I glanced over at Christine. She was staring at the door with her head cocked slightly. As soon as the sounds of footsteps died away, she turned and met my gaze.
“Good, they’re gone,” she said. She quickly took off her hat and unbuttoned her top. Jagged jet black hair tumbled down her back, and peeking out from beneath her white cami was an elaborate Celtic-looking tattoo. “Now help me unpack all the booze.”
2
“This is a good place,” Christine said, sticking her head into the cupboard beneath the sink. I peered past her shoulder. It was dark and dusty and one dead roach lay on its back in a far corner.
She sat on the floor and began pulling bottles of liquor out of a cardboard box marked Computer Stuff and standing them inside the cabinet.
“What if Mrs. Krantz finds this?” I asked, biting my left thumbnail.
Christine looked at me as if I’d suddenly broken into a hula dance. “Why would she ever look in here?”
“I don’t know. . . . What if the sink needs plumbing?”
“No big deal,” she said. She pushed the hair from her face and went back to lining up the liquor. “It’s not like she’s going to work on the pipes. She’d hire some guy. I’d be more afraid some jerk showing off his butt crack might swipe a bottle.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, nodding. It did make sense. Obviously I had a lot to learn.
I was still trying to find a way to file Christine into my brain. The girl had such a sweet, wholesome face— the type you’d see on a box of biscuit mix. For a while there I’d been afraid I was rooming with Shirley Temple at seventeen. But the minute Mom and Mrs. Krantz left, her demeanor had completely transformed. Her calm, saintly gaze gave way to a keen-eyed stare and wry smile. And her sugary voice was gone, replaced by the perpetually bored monotone of the ultracool set.
�
�You going to help?” she asked.
I sat down beside her and pulled a bottle of rum out of the box. “So, where’d you get all this?” I asked.
“From my dad’s liquor cabinet.”
“Really? Won’t he see that it’s missing?” I knew I sounded like a total thumb sucker, but I didn’t care. I just had to know. In my house I couldn’t roll my eyes without Mom finding out and nagging me about it.
Christine made a little snorting sound. “Yeah, right. Like he’d care. As long as no one touches the scotch. That’s all he drinks. Luckily I hate that crap.”
I nodded as if I totally understood. “I bet you’re glad he had that surgery today, huh?” I said, trying to regain cool points. “You didn’t have to worry he might notice all this stuff.”
She looked at me with both sympathy and amusement. “He didn’t have surgery today. I just made that up.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, he knows I can take care of myself,” she said, frowning. She grabbed another two bottles and noisily plunked them beside the others. “And he had a golf game he didn’t want to miss.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. It was clear she had parent issues, but then so did I. Plus, I was afraid I was making a pathetic first impression. For some reason talking with Christine made me feel about five years younger and short fifty IQ points.
“What about your dad?” she asked. “Where is he today?”
“At work,” I said.
“And I take it your mom doesn’t work and instead runs her kids’ lives?”
“Well . . . yeah.” I guessed that was one way of putting it. “Is it the same with yours?”
She gave me an ironic and slightly scary smile. “Oh no. Not my mumsie. She’s in Costa Rica with her new husband.”
Again I wasn’t sure what to say. I’m sorry seemed too presumptuous. And the standard social courtesies, like I see or Is that so? didn’t really seem to fit here. In fact, I was pretty sure I should never resort to polite society banter with her.
Alpha Dog Page 3