Death of a Kleptomaniac Read online

  I glance to my left. I can feel my mouth opening in disbelief. Ruthann is right. Henry and Melka exit the cafeteria line together, each holding a plate of fettuccine Alfredo.

  “How fickle. You mouth-maul the guy on Wednesday night, and by Thursday he’s back with the old girl,” Ruthann says. “Carbo-loading! My mother warned me that musicians are like that.”

  I am stunned. I look at my sandwich and try not to notice when Henry and Melka sit several tables away.

  “Are you bummed?” Ruthann asks. Her dark curls fall around her cheeks like she’s a well-primped soap opera diva. She’s beautiful and intense and she knows it.

  “Of course she’s bummed,” Joy says. She reaches over and pats my leg. “Twelve hours ago she was wrapped in Henry’s arms. His mouth on her mouth.” Joy puckers her lips in a pained way. “Now they’re not even speaking.”

  “Whoa,” I say. “We might still be speaking.”

  “No,” Joy says dramatically. “I don’t think you are. This entire situation reeks of tragedy. It’s very Greek.”

  Joy’s frenetic energy escapes her body and lands on me, and I now feel terrible. In my mind, the year of making my mark was so much more fun.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and flip around. Tate? Sadie? Tragic Henry? No. A random sophomore girl I don’t know.

  “Excuse me.” She hands us a flyer with a picture of a watch. “I’m Maddie Colfax. This is a watch I lost last week. Have you seen it? I’m offering a reward.”

  “It’s pretty,” Joy says. She takes the flyer and studies the photo. “Where did you lose it?”

  “Actually, I think somebody took it,” Maddie says. “I left it in my locker and it just vanished.”

  I lean over and squint at the flyer. Fake diamonds. Silver. Head of a snake for the clasp. I didn’t take that. A wave of relief washes over me.

  “We’ll keep an eye out for it,” Ruthann says.

  Maddie wanders off with her flyers, headed in Tate’s direction. I look away as quickly as possible.

  “It feels like there’s a lot of stuff going missing,” Joy says. “Did you see that poster near the office about the lost Chihuahua?”

  I didn’t take that Chihuahua either.

  “Watch thieves, Chihuahua thieves, man thieves,” Ruthann says, shooting me a vicious grin. “The world is an imperfect place.”

  Does she know? She doesn’t know. No way. I’m careful. The sound of Henry’s laugh pulls my attention to him.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Ruthann says. She lowers her fork and gets a really intense look on her face. “Next week’s game. I am so stressed out about the closing round-off sequence.”

  Ruthann is regularly stressed out about our round-offs. Only about half of us can do more than four in a row. Yet so far, all of the routines she’s designed require six. And as it stands now, the routine for next week’s football game only requires twenty-four girls. That means eight of us will be left standing on the sidelines. Tomorrow, Ruthann and Ms. Prufer, our dance coach, will determine who sits out.

  “Are you worried about my round-offs?” I ask. I consider them one of my strengths.

  “No. I’m thinking about making you the apex point in the final triangle formation,” Ruthann says, aiming her fork at me.

  During practice, I’ve never been a point before, let alone during the apex point final formation. I’ve always been clumped in the middle. Tucked away with the midperformers. But the apex point is the glory spot. It means I’ll be the person who stays on the field the longest. It means I’ll be the person who’s front and center in the photo that both our school newspaper and the local news-station blog feature after every game. I thought Ruthann might give it to her cousin Deidre, but no. She’s going to give it to me.

  “I will nail that spot,” I say.

  Joy isn’t told she’ll be given even a minor triangle point. To be honest, she does better tucked away in the middle. I have yet to see her complete an entire routine where she doesn’t confuse right and left at least one time.

  I’ve barely eaten half my sandwich before Joy stands up.

  “I’ve got to get to Mr. Wonder’s class,” she says. “I didn’t finish setting out the starfish.”

  I think I detect a tone of hostility in the way Joy says, “starfish.” She wasn’t supposed to be our science teacher’s aide. Ruthann was. But Ruthann’s mother called and got things switched so Ruthann could be an office aide instead. After that phone call, Joy was promptly transferred from the attendance office to the biology wing.

  “Don’t forget to practice your toe-touches tonight,” Ruthann says. “Repeatedly.”

  Joy nods as she walks off.

  Ruthann never has to remind me to practice. I’m devoted to my squad. Devoted.

  “She does the low-clap, high-clap prep all wrong,” Ruthann says. “And last week she told me that she forgot how to stretch her hip flexors.”

  Poor Joy. She moves swiftly through the cafeteria and is many tables away. She might not be the most coordinated or flexible or powerful or consistent drill team member, but she’s got impeccable posture. You’d never guess she was only five foot three. As she walks up the tiled steps and exits the sunken cafeteria, I’m seized with a weird nostalgic feeling. Even though I’m going to be seeing her again in less than ten minutes, I’m struck by how much I’m going to miss Joy Lowe.

  “Don’t be late for Wood Shop,” I yell, even though she’s probably out of earshot. Joy is my shop buddy. We share the table-saw station.

  Ruthann rolls her eyes at me. Then she switches gears and her face flushes with excitement. “On a scale of one to ten, how excited are you about your Tate date on Saturday?”

  On Saturday, I’ll be traveling with Tate to Wyoming, where we’re scheduled to ride horses on a scenic trail. It took me a solid three days of asking before my parents agreed to let me go.

  “Fourteen. It sounds like a blast,” I say. I don’t know that much about horses, and I’m actually not that comfortable around big animals, but I figure I should focus on the positive. Tate will be there!

  “I wonder what kind of horse you’ll be riding. We should ask him right now.”

  “No,” I say. That feels like an unnecessary thing to do in the cafeteria.

  “Hey, Tate,” Ruthann says. She calls to him twice before he turns around. His blond hair is a gorgeous mess. And he’s several tables away, but I can still see his green eyes. It’s as if he’s lit from the inside. I keep staring. He gives me a quick wave. Even sitting down, Tate has the body of a model. Tall. Athletic. Muscled. It’s perfection. Once, while watching a TV show about boxers, Sadie said there are only two types of athletes who can have perfect bodies: basketball players who aren’t too tall, and hockey players who still have their teeth. I think she was right.

  My attraction delays my reaction time. I give a quick wave back and then glance at the back wall. Because I can’t keep lustily staring at Tate. That would be weird. The back wall is plastered with flyers announcing upcoming events. I should take the time to read that wall. Tate laughs, and my gaze follows his voice. Oh, no. I’m staring again. Some basketball players might be too tall, but he isn’t. He’s amazing-sized. I wonder if he knows he’s good-looking. He must.

  “Nice hat,” Ruthann says.

  She’s talking to Tate, but he’s not wearing a hat. Is this an inside joke? She has a lot of those with guys.

  “The hat joke is dying a slow death, Ruthy,” he says, giving her a nod. Then he winks at me, which I wasn’t expecting, and I quickly glance away again. This time, instead of the back wall, I wind up unintentionally looking at Henry and Melka. They are still eating. I hear Tate’s laugh again, but I don’t turn to look. I feel paralyzed. Like I’m trapped between my two crushes in some sort of doomed crush sandwich. I try to picture happy thoughts. I am in a meadow surrounded by wildflowers.

  “Stop acting weird. You and Tate will make a good couple,” Ruthann says. “Except he has this one problem that yo
u probably don’t know about.”

  I leave my wildflowers, pull myself out of my meadow, and look at Ruthann. She’s staring into a small round mirror and applying lip gloss. She smacks her lips together several times after the second coat.

  “What?” I ask. My mind flips through possible deal-breakers. Does he have a girlfriend at a different school? Is he a closet drinker? Could he be addicted to Internet porn? What is Tate’s hidden problem?

  “He smells,” Ruthann says. “Like baloney.”

  I’m relieved that Tate isn’t a closet drinker with a girlfriend and a porn addiction. “I’ve never noticed a weird odor. And I’ve smelled him a few times.”

  Funky body odor could be a deal-breaker. Tate has always been the guy who caught my attention from afar. So if he does smell, I wouldn’t know. Whereas Henry is a guy I’ve been smelling since fourth grade when he used to live on my street. Why am I thinking about Henry again? Focus on Tate. Focus on Tate.

  Ruthann laughs a little. But it feels like she’s laughing at a joke I didn’t make.

  “Trust me: when we work at the nut house and he has to lean over me to scoop pistachios, his armpits reek. They smell exactly like meat,” she says.

  Tate’s family owns the nut house at the Grand Teton Mall, where Ruthann works part-time. The thought of Tate leaning over her for any reason, scooping pistachios among them, makes me nauseous.

  “Maybe it’s his deodorant,” I say defensively.

  “I don’t think Right Guard has a deli meat scent.”

  Ruthann bites her bottom lip with her two front teeth and slowly shakes her head. “Molly, do you like it when a man smells like meat?”

  “Stop messing with me,” I say.

  “Don’t dodge the question,” Ruthann says. Her tone is far more serious than it needs to be.

  I want to be a triangle point. I don’t want to make waves. I go along with her. “I don’t smell meat that much. When it comes to the cattle industry, my mom has serious beef reservations. She mainly just cooks free-range chicken.”

  “God, your mom has serious beef reservations. That’s hilarious. You’re such a crack-up.”

  “It’s actually the truth,” I say.

  “Statements like that give me insight into why Tate likes you,” Ruthann says.

  “My lack of beef consumption?” I ask.

  “No. You’re quirky. Some guys dig that.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me. Quirky can be limiting. Some guys detest it.”

  “Oh,” I say. I quickly run down my Crush List to figure out if any of my interests detest quirky. Matt Guthrie? He dressed up like a waffle last year for Halloween. Jamie Sands? All his still-life paintings in art are of pineapples. Dane Enzo? He wants to be a professional bowler. Curtis Belnap? He wears green shoes. I think I’m safe.

  “I’ve picked a flirt mode with a broader range,” Ruthann said.

  “Quirky is my flirt mode?” I ask. I didn’t realize I had a flirt mode.

  Ruthann raises her eyebrows and takes a big sip of milk. “I’m a tease.” Two pearls of milk dribble onto her chin.

  “And more guys dig that?” I ask.

  “Molly, all guys dig that.” She dramatically wipes below her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s why strippers make such amazing money.”

  “Right,” I say. But really I’m thinking, Don’t female astronauts and brain surgeons and senators make way more than strippers? And don’t those careers give you health insurance?

  “You’re torturing yourself over this Tate and Henry thing, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Go for the one that’s available.”

  I watch Melka and Henry get up to leave.

  “Come by the mall tonight. Chat up Tate. You two need to move it to the next level. And I can help.”

  My eyes grow wide. Helping me and Tate move to the next level seems outside of Ruthann’s skill set.

  “I can’t go to the mall tonight,” I say. I stopped going to the mall a few months ago. After I slipped a cheap bracelet into my pocket and got tailed by store security. I put it back before I left. I didn’t get approached. But it scared me. It was too close.

  “Of course you can come to the mall,” she says. She takes a sip of milk. “Listen, for the following demonstration, let’s pretend that Henry no longer exists. Okay. You’re here.” She points to her empty plate. “And Tate’s here.” She lifts her milk carton high above her head. “That’s a lot of distance.” She looks down at the plate and then up to the carton. “And I can totally help you bridge it.”

  “I’m patient,” I say. “I think I’ll let time do that.”

  “No,” she says. “Isn’t this the year that you’re making your mark?”

  I really regret sharing my ultimate game plan with Ruthann.

  “Time matters, Molly. The clock never stops ticking. Bam! You’re older than you were two seconds ago. Bam! It happened again. Bam! You’ll be a dried-up old woman one day.”

  I stare at her in disbelief while she yells her final “Bam!”

  “Here’s my point, Molly.” Ruthann sets her milk carton down, laces her fingers together, and looks at me with enough intensity to grill a steak. “Henry is with Melka. You should focus your energy on Tate. But getting to the next level with Tate isn’t a guarantee. You might not get there on your own. Come tonight. Seriously. You need me.”

  I’m a little rattled. I have no idea what Ruthann feels the “next level” with Tate would be, and the prospect of finding out with her assistance scares me. But isn’t she right about time passing? Should I just go? And if I don’t, isn’t Ruthann egotistical enough to take away my triangle point or bench me for the game?

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  She smiles. And without further comment, Ruthann Culpepper is up and gone, mingling at a bunch of boy-populated tables. She likes to interact with guys all by herself. I learned this tidbit right away. I also learned that it’s my job to dump her tray when she goes rogue like this.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. The intercom sounds that lunch is over. Our school doesn’t have a bell. We have a synthetic noise, and I’m not really sure what it’s supposed to be. Ruthann says it sounds like a robot belching. Again, another on-point Culpepper observation.

  I take Ruthann’s tray to a row of big gray garbage cans lined with Hefty bags.

  “Molly.”

  I look up and see Henry dumping his tray. I look behind him for Melka, but she’s not there.

  “Can we talk?” he asks.

  That sounds like a simple request. But under these circumstances it’s really not. I mean, do I want to talk? If I say yes, does that mean we start talking right now?

  We stand there, unintentionally blocking the trash can, forcing people to crowd around the other trash cans in the row. Some kids aim napkins and milk cartons around us. It makes me feel conspicuous. If Melka told everybody in homeroom that I made out with Henry, then I must look like an idiot right now. I turn to leave.

  “I can’t talk right now,” I say. “I’ve got class.”

  “Can I walk you?” he asks.

  Is he serious? What about Melka? What’s wrong with him? He can’t have a girlfriend and walk me to class. I glance at him and make a confused face, like I’m responding to an offer to fly me to Jupiter or one of her sixty-four moons. Without answering him, I leave.

  He races to catch up with me. “Molly, let me walk you to Health Sciences,” he says.

  I only make it a few steps before I realize that I’m still holding my turkey sandwich. I thought I’d already thrown it away. I feel flustered, but I don’t want to turn back around. That would mean I’d have to change course and face Henry and a flood of leaving people. I hurry out of the cafeteria and find a trash can near my locker. I can’t believe it. Henry follows me to this trash can too. And to get my attention, he gently touches my arm, and being gently touched by Henry Shaw in this hallway does not release similar sensations from
last night’s make-out session. No. Gone are the feelings of lust, fire, and fun. Instead, in their place, I’m hit with a muddled mixture of panic, uncertainty, and frustration. Sexual frustration? I can’t tell.

  Before anything can move forward I have to know the answer to one question. So I ask it. “What’s up with you and Melka? Are you back together?”

  I’m hoping for a quick denial followed by an even quicker explanation. Instead, there’s a long pause.

  “It’s complicated,” he says.

  Our make-out session flashes through my mind. His face. His room. The floor lamp by my head. It’s complicated? Wrong answer.

  “No,” I say, my mind conjuring up an image of Melka. “It’s really not.” And then I leave Henry Shaw alone in the hallway at a speed that surprises us both.

  Operation Next-Step-With-Tate has hit a snag. My mother is not on board with my plans for Joy to drive me to the mall. In fact, my mother’s frown grows so intense that her small chin reveals a colony of concerned dents. She’s tucked into her favorite corner of our love seat, holding open a half-finished paperback mystery with her thumb. It’s almost six o’clock, and I doubt she’s even left the house today. Her hair looks like she hasn’t brushed it since yesterday, and the only visible makeup on her face is a crooked smear of coral lipstick.

  “I worry about Joy’s driving instincts,” my mother says. She rubs the dome of her belly and intensifies her frown. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Not really,” I lie.

  “I ended up driving behind her once to the mall.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t her,” I say.

  “Of course it was her. She crossed over the center line, and then overcorrected and wandered past the fog line. And at one point, she nearly forced a bicyclist off the road. Plus, she ran a yellow light.”

  “What if I drive? I’ll buy you a milk shake on the way home.”

  I know it’s going to be hard for my mother to refuse that. As soon as she entered her second trimester, she became an avid fan of the milk shake.

  “Be home by nine. And buy two milk shakes. I’ll put one in the freezer for tomorrow.” She leans back and returns the parted paperback to her nose.