“Show up in court on Monday,” said the cop. “First offense, easy judge, less than ten dollars. You’re lucky. It’s petty theft.”
“There’s nothing petty about this,” said the store manager.
“Jesus, Lionel. She’s just a kid. And she was stealing Thank You cards.”
“I want her prosecuted to the fullest extent,” said Lionel. “She could have burned down the entire store.”
“Get over it,” said the cop. He had obviously dealt with Lionel before. “Call your parents,” he instructed, and before I could dial, all three left, leaving me alone with Lionel.
Lionel didn’t know me, didn’t know who my mother was. I took advantage of this. I called Ronnie. I still don’t know why. He was the last person on earth who would be cavalier about thievery.
“Hi, Dad.”
“What the hell? You’re sick in the head, Tiffany. He’s only been dead for three months.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Knock it off!” Ronnie shouted through the telephone. “You can’t prank call me. I know your voice. I hate your voice.”
As Lionel listened and tapped the Thank You cards with his index finger, I explained things to Ronnie. As soon as I mentioned shoplifting, Ronnie hung up.
He made the drive in less than twenty minutes, and for once, I was thankful that he was so rigid and strange. Lionel didn’t think twice about letting me leave with a man who tucked in his shirt and wore a belt.
I expected a speech, but Ronnie was cold as ice, drove back to Gabardine without a word. Thankfully, he passed the gas station. Out of habit, I looked for my mother’s car, but then I remembered it was still in the parking lot of the Ben Franklin. I started to hyperventilate, just as Ronnie turned off the highway to the trailer park, and eased into our driveway.
“Please don’t tell Mom,” I said. “I’ll figure out how to get the car back. I can hitchhike.”
“You aren’t breaking any more laws today,” he said.
“That’s not even a law,” I said. “It’s like an ordinance or something.”
“I don’t know what to do with you,” he said.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just forget this even happened.”
I reached for the door handle, and he snapped. He reached across and grabbed my hand. “You’re not getting out until I have a plan.”
“What the hell, Ronnie? I’m really sorry, and I won’t do it again.”
“Give me your hand,” he said, and I obeyed. He reached below his seat and removed a fanny pack, always prepared for any kind of emergency. “I can’t just let this go,” he said. “I made an oath.” His face had transformed, I swear to god. He was monstrous. More than anything, he hated being made a fool.
“It was just petty theft,” I said as calmly and softly as I could. “There was a cop there. He didn’t think it was that big of a deal. And he was a real cop.”
That was the wrong choice of words. “Real cop?” He slammed his fist against the windshield, and I watched the safety glass crack and ripple outward, like water, another confluence. “I’m sick and tired of you disrespecting me. Disrespecting what I do!”
He yanked out a handful of zip ties from the fanny pack, and I just stared at him. When I realized he was going to zip-tie my hands together, I reached for the door handle and heard it lock automatically. My brother and his lightning reflexes, my brother the crime fighter. I had reflexes of my own. A fire lit inside of me, one that I knew could quickly blaze out of control.
I glared at him, felt the blaze rise into my chest. “Remember how your pastor disappeared?”
“Kidnapped,” said Ronnie. “We think he was kidnapped.”
“He was a criminal,” I said and relished every word that came from my tongue.
“You are full of sin,” he said. He looped a zip tie, and he dangled the circle in front of me. “You are a liar, and you will burn in hell for your disrespect.”
“He fled town, Ronnie.” I knew more, I knew so much more.
“You are an evil person,” he said. “You are going to atone for your words.”
“You broke worse laws than me, Ronnie. You’re just too much of an idiot to realize it.”
I winced when he screamed, the truck filled with his primal noise, and he slammed his hands on the steering wheel. For the first time, I was genuinely afraid of him.
“Put your hands through,” he said. “Let’s do this the easy way.”
“Unlock the door,” I said, but I knew things were in motion.
When he grabbed me, I didn’t react in my usual way. I didn’t punch him.
I dug into the pocket of my jeans. When I flicked open the pearl-handled knife, he stared at me strangely, like he had always expected this to happen.
I stabbed him once, but that was enough.
Chapter Nineteen
ON JULY 18, I ENTERED city hall, and Mr. Francine’s office was jammed with people. I paused in the doorway and wondered if I had the wrong day, but then I saw they were Sweets, too many to count.
A middle-aged man pounded on Kelly’s door with his fist, wearing the same stupid Confederate flag T-shirt as Jimmy and Phil. Probably their dad. I think Kelly had locked the door from the inside.
Mr. Francine clutched the phone to his ear with white knuckles. I’m sure he was calling 911, even though it was in the same building. A woman next to me was also wearing the T-shirt, but she was old and seemed sober. She looked me up and down, and I was repulsed.
“I know who you are,” she said. I tried to move away from her, but the crowd made it impossible. “You’re that spoiled rich girl.”
“Yes,” I said. It was better just to take it. The Sweets loved explosives, and I didn’t want this siege to end in a mass casualty. I did my best to stay calm and seem friendly. “How’s Lorraine?”
“Fine,” she said. “Fine as can be. We’re keeping that kid, so don’t get any ideas.”
“Ronnie isn’t the father,” I said.
“We’re keeping the kid, and we’re keeping the flat screen. Consider it a dowry.”
Now the man kicked at the door, and demanded that Kelly come out. The room swelled with noise as other Sweets began to shout. The crowd pushed forward, and I was shoved into the old woman.
“You need to respect your elders,” she snarled, spitting out the words. I recoiled when I felt the moisture on my face.
“You are a shriveled little racist,” I said. “And you smell like cat pee.”
I planted my feet in as wide a stance as possible, ready for a brawl.
Thankfully, Sheriff Schrader burst past, rushing into the room in a bulletproof vest that was too small, but carrying an extra-large megaphone. I jumped back and watched as Mr. Francine hung up the phone, and picked up a scented candle, waving it around his desk like a blessing.
The megaphone was raised, right next to my head.
“SWEETS. DISPERSE. I REPEAT. SWEETS. DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY.”
My ears rang. This was not the first time the sheriff had used the megaphone for the Sweets, or uttered those words.
The Sweets pushed me as they swarmed the exits. Sheriff Schrader held up his nightstick, and stopped Jimmy and Phil, and their father.
“You need to apologize,” he said.
“We need riot gear,” said Mr. Francine.
“You never told us she was black,” said the father.
“I’ve also got my gun,” said Sheriff Schrader. He dropped the megaphone on Mr. Francine’s desk and touched his sidearm. He pointed his nightstick at the father: “None of you are allowed on these premises ever again. Tomorrow, you are going to mail a letter of apology.” He pointed at Jimmy and Phil: “And the two of you are going to mail written confessions.”
Before the Sweets could bolt for freedom, Sheriff Schrader dug into his pants pocket and removed a crumpled dol
lar bill. He tossed it at Jimmy, but it fell limply to the floor. “For stamps,” said Sheriff Schrader.
* * *
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER, THE DOOR opened and Kelly summoned me into her office. I knew where she kept her Kleenex. She dabbed at her makeup, but her eyes had barely welled.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with people like that. We’re here to talk about you.”
“I know this town can be cruel,” I said. “Anything different freaks them out.”
“People have that same fear everywhere you go,” she said. “It’s not just Gabardine.”
“I beat the hell out of any kid who made fun of my dad. I made sure they got to know what real fear felt like. I made sure to leave a mark to remind them.”
“Did it change anything, Tiffany? Did acting like a bully make your dad skinny?”
“No,” I said.
“Maybe your dad liked being heavy. Maybe he had his reasons.”
“Why would anybody want to be fat?”
“Protection,” she said. “Comfort. We all want those things.”
I thought about it. I grew up with parents who were obsessed with food. In good ways and bad. Sometimes, I think my dad just went along with my mom’s crazy schemes.
They tried diets. They clung to the rituals, held on with all four hands, all the spells and potions of weight loss. With every diet, there was magic in the first week, but then it stalled out, and then they shouted at the sky and shook their fists. Nothing stuck, except the fat.
My dad was supportive when my mom decided to have the surgery. It was her money. He was the one who kept the calendar, the countdown until she would get the knife, he was the secretary of the fat.
The last month before the surgery, she got crazy, like she was having a baby or something. But the opposite. She shopped for skinny clothes, hung them in her closet.
I sat on her bed and watched her put these things on hangers, and my dad questioned her. It was one of the only times he questioned her.
“How do you know what size you’re going to end up?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Ronald.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “Even skinny women are different sizes.”
“I’m not going to stop until I’m a six.” And then she started crying, and I think she was waiting for my dad to say something corny, like you’ll always be a perfect ten in my eyes. Instead he left the bedroom, and I remained on the bed, surrounded by all the cardboard tags from her new clothes, and the tiny strings of plastic they had been yanked from.
I slid my pages across the table. Kelly had had a hard day, and I would leave her be. I’m sure she wanted to find some protection and comfort of her own.
Chapter Twenty
TWO MONTHS HAD PASSED SINCE we started work on the Quonset Hut, but David and I were still cleaning. The garage floor had been scrubbed, and the insulation had been blown into the framing. However, the office, the place where Bitsy and I shared our first kiss, had been neglected. For a reason.
In November, this would be our backstage and our dressing room. Today, it was still a hoard of moldering newspapers, cans of cigarette butts, and animal feces.
David knew better than to make me do it on my own, but I might as well have been by myself. David chose to wear tennis whites to conduct the deep cleaning, and was scared to touch a thing.
I wore my ragged jean shorts, a bandana tied around my head to keep the sweat from dripping into my eyes. The Quonset hut was boiling hot.
David watched as I poured bleach into a bucket. “You have a boyfriend now,” he said. “You really need to try harder with your personal appearance.”
“I’m cleaning, David.” For once, I wished for his terrible cabal. “Why aren’t your girls helping us?”
“Becky and Caitlyn are supposedly learning how to sew,” he said. “The learning curve is going to kill me.”
“Are they taking a class?”
“No. They went to the public library for the first time in their lives and checked out a book.”
“I’m glad you are supporting literacy, David. But we really need help.” I pointed at a portion of the office wall where, at eye level, five holes cratered the sheetrock. Some teenager had punched completely through. I admired the strength and the accuracy, but I didn’t know if we had enough spackle. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been my teenage mother, freakishly strong from her manual labor at the gas station. Her aim was still lethal, and she proved it whenever she launched her purse at things.
“Kaitlynn is still recovering,” said David. “Your brother could have done permanent damage to her eyes. I keep telling her to sue. It’s been two months, but every time I see her, she still weeps.”
I wasn’t sure if her tears were from the bear spray, but I didn’t want to say anything. I knew why Kaitlynn was the most powerful of the cheerleaders. I’d witnessed it many times. Her fake tears were weapons and as useful as her boobs.
“They are drifting away,” said David sadly. “I can feel it. It’s been happening since we lost the football team.” I said nothing, scooped a pile of phone books into a black garbage bag. David watched me work, leaned against the wall, and sighed. “There is nothing sadder than cheerleaders without a sport to cheer for.”
“Then they shouldn’t exist,” I said. “Disband them. Release them into the wild.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said David. “You can’t have a high school without cheerleaders.” He reached for the broom, and I thought he was going to sweep up rat poop, but instead he held it like a prop. “They don’t see the point in practicing, and I actually have empathy for them. Can you imagine? Empathy. Except for Becky. She needs to lose like ten more pounds, and cheerleading practice is much easier than following her around all day, counting her calories.”
“I don’t care about your cheerleaders, David. Go take over a Girl Scout troop or a beauty pageant or something.”
“That’s homophobic,” he said.
“Really?” I was tired of this conversation. “It’s not homophobic to say that all gay men are clean freaks. It’s a fact.” I knew what his bedroom looked like. “Obviously, you are okay with filth. You haven’t helped at all. I can’t wait to tell my mother you are a confirmed heterosexual.”
This broke him out of his reverie, and he began to push the broom; the rat poop became a pyramid in the corner of the room. He liked getting presents from my mother.
“If I started a new sport, would that be really heterosexual?”
“The most,” I said.
“Damn,” he said. To his credit, he swept for another five minutes before he dropped the broom, and the clatter as it hit the concrete floor startled me. “I’ve got a plan,” he said. He rubbed his hands together, the evil mastermind, and he was method acting as always.
“We don’t need any plans, David. We need to clean this room.”
“This is top secret,” he said.
“It always is.”
“I’ve got a sport, and I think you’re going to like it.”
“I doubt it.”
“Revenge,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “I like revenge, but I don’t think your cheerleaders can find library books about it.”
“They don’t need books,” he said. “Our target is Ronnie.”
I was in. “Do I need a helmet?”
* * *
* * *
I TURNED SIXTEEN THAT TUESDAY. I wasn’t the type of girl to have a sweet sixteen party, and after Dogwood, I expected nothing.
I woke up late on another summer day, already warm as I dragged myself to the gas station to check in, kind of hoping that my mother had done something special this year. The reader board revealed that fuel had climbed another t
wo cents, but my mother had dropped down to 160, and maybe my mother was giddy, so close to the magic number.
Nope.
“There,” she said, and pointed to the shelf underneath the cash register. “I know that’s what you’re looking for.”
A universal remote, still in the box, straight from Shopko, on sale, the price tag halfheartedly removed. “Since your brother has gone on a mission from God, I figured we were never getting the remotes back from him.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I honestly wasn’t expecting anything this year.”
“I know it absolutely kills you to walk across the living room and push the play button,” she said. “Now you know I care.” The universal remote would control the DVD player and our elderly television set, only two things. I wish life were that simple.
“If your brother gets hung on a cross, you’re the only kid I’ve got left.”
“That’s true,” I said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so terrible to you.”
Before she could respond, Kaitlynn’s Geo Metro pulled up in front of the window, and we both could hear a terrible noise emanating from the hood. Inside the car, a bunch of hands waved, but it was Bitsy who emerged. This was bizarre.
He clearly thought so, too. He entered the gas station and nearly tripped on the rubber mat, his eyes looking everywhere but my mother. I clutched the universal remote to my chest. I had this fear that David had sent Bitsy to break up with me on my birthday, just because he felt like it.
Bitsy opened his mouth, and although it was David’s script, it wasn’t a breakup.
“Mrs. Templeton,” he said.
“Tell that girl she needs to change her fan belt,” said my mother, tapping on the window with her finger. “She’d better move it out of the damn parking lot before it dies here.”
The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton Page 15