Alma Underwood Is Not A Kleptomaniac

by Lacey Dailey

  “I think you should ignore any whispers that come from that thing. It’s going to lead you toward rice pudding and gingivitis.”

  She tosses it over her shoulder. “See? This trash is helping already. I just crossed one road off my map.” She adjusts the tampons sticking out of her nose. “Maybe if we lay in it, it’ll tell us exactly what to do.”

  “I would not recommend that.”

  “You basically already laid in it. Don’t be a ninny.”

  There’s no time for a protest to leave my lips before she’s falling backward into a trashy bundle of God knows what. She shimmies her upper body, slender shoulders relaxing against an old coffee can. Her lashes dance against her cheekbones, eyelids settling shut and her hands falling into place against her chest.

  “You look like a homicide victim,” I tell her.

  She shushes me.

  I pinch my inner thigh.

  Yes. The sight in front of me is live and in color. My sister, Lenox Underwood, who wears bologna masks and sleeps with mayo in her hair is completely at peace surrounded by the remnants of a dumpster.

  I fear that I’ve lost her to the desperation and desolation high school bestows upon eager young adults with minds that can’t be made up.

  “Get your ass in this trash with me, Alma.” Her demand forces my attention. “Hurry up.”

  “No.”

  “I will drag you in here.”

  She’s not joking, and my choices dwindle down to two.

  1. I run

  2. I snuggle with my sister in a pile of trash.

  My mind is already made up.

  I pop my neck, bouncing on my knees and rolling my shoulders. My warrior cry makes her flinch, and I go for it. I dive into the garbage and wiggle around until I’m comfortable. She seeks my hand and squeezes, something sticky coating our gloves.

  I pretend it’s not there and close my eyes, concentrating on the garbage whispers. I breathe slowly as I wait for the coffee cans and bald caps to tell me which road to drive down. The longer I wait, the heavier my skin becomes as it fills with apprehension.

  I feel compacted by time. Restricted by deadlines.

  The faster we move in life, the less we feel. And I want to feel everything.

  “Is it working?” Lenox asks me. “Do you see visions of the future?”

  “Nope. I’m not sure I want to look just yet.”

  “Why?” Her head turns, something crunching beneath her cheek. “Are you afraid of what you’ll find?”

  “No.” I stare up at the sky, observing the way a cloud morphs into an apple. “I’m afraid of what I’ll miss.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want to choose a road with a high-speed limit and miss out on all the sights to be seen. Eventually, we are going to forget the quadratic formula and what the powerhouse of a cell is called. All that’s going to be left are the pivotal moments in our lives and what we felt during them.” I squeeze her hand. “If we increase our speed, we become numb. We lose the difference between having a life and actually living.”

  “You are wise beyond your years, Alma Underwood.” She whistles. “I think that bald cap is speaking to you.”

  “Reggie gets credit for my wisdom.”

  “Girl, do not tell him you said that.”

  I chuckle, watching the sky shift. “He told me we spend most of our lives treating time like it’s disposable, and then we run out, and we realize what a luxury it is.”

  “You ever wonder if that old fart is like the second coming of Jesus?”

  My body quakes with my laugh. I roll to face her, ignoring the thick matter on my chin. Our noses are almost touching, tampons strings tangling together. “If Jesus is next door, what the hell are we doing laying in a pile of trash?”

  She sighs, pulling a pop bottle from beneath her hip and chucking it. “I don’t like not knowing.”

  “Me neither.”

  Actually, the unknown and lack of answers sort of make me feel like I have ants in my pants. Every once in a while, I have to dance around to shake them out before I’m okay again.

  “I don’t want to graduate high school with no sense of direction,” I say. “But I’m okay with my turtle pace if it means I’ll remember what matters.”

  “You’re sacrificing answers for experiences.”

  “Sure, I suppose. I just know I’m not going to pick a road for the sake of choosing. I want to uncover all the feelings and possibilities before I commit. If it takes me a while, so be it.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have trouble finding the right one.”

  “No?”

  “I think you’ll end up saving people.”

  “Saving people?” A deep V forms between my brows. “Like a doctor?”

  “Maybe. Not necessarily.” She licks her lips. Brave girl. “Just saving people… or helping people might be a better way to put it. Like you did with Rumor.”

  “You think I saved Rumor?”

  “I think he thinks you saved him. You sort of— ” She smiles. “— gave him a road when he didn’t have a map.”

  “He would’ve paved his own road after a while. That’s just who he is.”

  Rumor Rawlings possesses a hidden resilience people twice our age just don’t. Every day, his dark eyes open to find a world that hasn’t been so great to him but he laces his shoes anyway and steps into unknown territory with one foot in front of the other.

  “I believe that.” She scratches at something that dried on her forehead. “But I think he’s better off now that he’s met you. I think a lot of people would be better if they met you, A.” The corners of my eyes start to tingle. “I’m just saying if this trash pile doesn’t work for you, then maybe you should look down those roads.”

  “Roads that lead to helping people?”

  “You said you want to feel things.” Her grin goes wonky. “And Rumor obviously made you feel something.”

  Did he ever.

  Rumor stirs something inside me. The feeling is different now than when I first met him. Sometimes it’s confusing. Like I can’t decide if I want to talk to him or just stare silently at him and memorize every second of the moment. Sometimes I want to hold his hand and other times I’m scared to.

  Our roads are aligned but he’s searching for a new one, and my feelings toward that confuse me too. My butterfly kisses are fleeting. They are rare. Something peculiar I’ve never felt until Rumor Rawlings tried to steal my train car.

  “I think I’d love to figure out a way to help people,” I tell Lenox.

  But it’s here, in this pile of trash with a tampon up my nose, that I discover the absolute truth. As much as I refuse to live my life in increments of time, there are no roads or future careers, no experiences or feelings that will match the butterfly kisses.

  My hand squeezes hers again.

  “I’m better off now that I’ve met him too.”

  14

  Are You My Mother?

  Rumor

  Alma and I have been assigned to the Slytherin group. It makes zero sense. She’s clearly a Hufflepuff. I typically identify as Ravenclaw, though I’d stretch and settle for saying I’m a Ravenpuff. But a Slytherin? No. Just no.

  “I’m gonna rage.” Alma’s upper lip is curled into a snarl. “Who the hell chose these teams?”

  My eyes find Jackson. With fingers loosely curled around a Harry Potter wand, he saunters around the room in a perfect circle, sporting an onyx cloak and hooded eyes. He’s arranged Charlevoix on top of the coffee table and strapped a pair of wings to her back.

  “Alma, please stop pouting.” He props his foot next to the dog. “What did you want me to do? Half of this house is a Hufflepuff.”

  “Does half of this house own the amount of Hufflepuff merch that I do?” Her small body starts to shake. “No! Besides, I’m the one who called this meeting to order. Why did you get to choose the teams?”

  “Because you don’t have a wand and I do.”

  She
mumbles something under her breath, eyes at half-mast and filled with utter annoyance. I can’t help but laugh when she pulls her Hufflepuff pen from the back pocket of her shorts and displays it proudly behind her ear.

  Jackson looks disgusted. “You may only exhibit colors from your assigned house.”

  “Bite me.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Rumor, please control your teammate.”

  She rises to her knees and pounds her chest. “I will not be silenced!”

  I raise my hand. “Is all this really necessary?”

  “Rumor.” The tips of his fingers come to together in front of his face. His eyes roll and he takes a dramatic breath. “If you want to find your runaway mother, this is the only way to do it.”

  I blink. “Alrighty then.”

  “Well, you can all thank me for coming up with this idea.” Alma throws her foot into the side of the couch. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you.” Jackson bows. “But you’re still a Slytherin. The teams have been set. Once our final teammate arrives, we can begin the search.”

  When Alma first revealed the plan she constructed for tonight, I had some reservations. Looking around the room, I have those same reservations and maybe a few more.

  Jackson has divided us into four teams of two, each team claiming a corner of the living room. He assigned us Harry Potter houses he deemed fit. That’s probably why he and Holland are Hufflepuff and Alma’s sitting next to me with steam coming out her ears.

  Lenox and Shepherd are Ravenclaw because Shepherd’s home. Yay me.

  The Gryffindor team consists of Echo and––

  “I’m here! I grabbed some of my dad’s old booze and I have on my best pair of underwear.”

  Arthur.

  He cocks his hip in the open doorway, running his palms down the front of his silk shirt. His eyes find mine almost instantly. “Nice to meet you, Rumor. Do you think I look like Lenny Kravitz?”

  “The dude from the Hunger Games?” I scratch the top of my head. “Uhm, sure.”

  He grins. “And if you were named Spencer would you date me?”

  “Oh, here we go.” Echo mumbles. “Just get in here. We’re team Gryffindor, and you’re late.”

  “I brought you decade old booze to make up for it.” Kicking the door shut behind him, he struts inside and falls gracefully to a cross-legged position, next to Echo.

  “So, Rumor.” His eyes are luminous as he unscrews the cap to what looks like a bottle of Captain Morgan. “Alma told me she’s helping you study for the GED.”

  I nod, running my hand through my hair.

  “What exactly is that code for?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  His eyebrows dance. “Is it like a Netflix and chill sort of thing?”

  “Order!” We all jump when Jackson slams his foot against the coffee table. He picks up the dog and starts walking again. “Now that we’ve all arrived, it’s time to go over the rules.”

  Lenox crawls across the carpet and jacks the bottle of booze.

  Jackson ignores her. “As you can see, each team has a dozen yearbooks and a few Post-It notes in front of them. The object is to find and tag as many women named Alice as possible.”

  Echo clears her throat, tightening the thick ponytail on the top of her head. “Do we know the last name?”

  “That’s a negative.” He lifts his wand. “However, tonight is not about hitting the bullseye but rather finding the correct target. Any other questions?”

  “Yeah.” Shepherd grunts. “What if she’s not in any of these?”

  “I believe you were instructed to leave your pessimism at the door.” Jackson looks less than amused. “We have accumulated enough yearbooks to span across ten years.”

  “That’s if she is even within ten years of our parent’s age.”

  Jackson’s eye twitches. “Are you a team player?”

  Lenox burps and passes the bottle to Shepherd. “Take a swig, Shep. You look like you need it.”

  He takes one hell of a sip.

  “Damn it.” Arthur throws himself in a heap on the faded carpet. “I should’ve brought more booze.”

  “Can we just get started?” Alma grabs a yearbook from our stack and flips it open. “Tonight is about Rumor.”

  That sentence makes me feel itchy.

  “That’s the Slytherin spirit!” Jackson claps his hands. “Everybody begin.”

  Alma snorts. “I am so not a Slytherin.”

  I chuckle and look down at the yearbook in front of me. My fingers fumble when I move to open it, and I’m stuck there, looking at the once glossy cover, dull due to time and improper care. I get caught up in the swirls of yellow and green, my eyes content with what’s on the book rather than what’s inside of it. I add a sheen of moisture to the front by running my thumb across the lettering, sweat transferring from my skin to the hardcover.

  “Rumor?”

  I jerk.

  Alma frowns, glancing at my thumb tapping the edge of the book. “You good?”

  “Gre–" I drop my head, attempting to swallow the baseball that was hit into my throat. “Great.”

  Her gaze feels heavy against my chest, and I wheeze just a little, trying to cover it up with a cough.

  “Rumor.”

  “I’m fine.” I sweep my head up. “This is great, right? There’s probably like fifty yearbooks here.” My laugh is shrill. “I mean, fifty is a lot. That’s like half of one hundred.”

  She blinks slowly.

  I look around the room for the nearest hole to crawl into.

  She leans close to me, talking out of the side of her mouth. “Should I fake a heart attack?”

  “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? Food poising might be a bit more believable.”

  “Yes, but it’s not nearly as dramatic.”

  My lips tug.

  “Just say the word.” She clicks her tongue. “I got an A in theatre class.”

  Her eyes light up with an inner glow of mischief, and it’s impossible not to grin.

  “We can postpone this, Rumor,” she says, placing her hand over mine. “Did I jump the gun planning this? You told me you were ready.”

  I did.

  I took the stairs to her attic two at a time and tossed her bedroom door open, Josh’s name and my phone call confession on the tip of my tongue. ‘I’m ready to find my mother’ came out instead.

  And now I’m here, a rubber band fastened around my lungs and my fingers numb, unable to turn a book page.

  “It may have been a hasty confession.”

  Alma tosses her pack of sticky notes over her shoulder. “Then we won’t do it. You aren’t ready.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Ace.” I bounce the yearbook off my knee. “I don’t think it’s smart to wait until I’m ready. I have this awful, barf in my mouth sort of feeling that I’ll never be ready. I mean, this is why I’m here. I didn’t run away from something. I ran towards it.”

  “You’re the most courageous person I’ve ever met.”

  I snort. “The sweat running down my back right now would disagree with you.”

  “Isn’t that sort of the definition of courage, though? Being scared shitless but doing it anyway?”

  I cock my head.

  “You’re sweaty and a little green, but so what? It’s a lot braver to voice our doubts than to gloss over them and make things look prettier.”

  Her fingertips move in slow motion over my knee. I feel a few pounds lighter just with the touch.

  “You have this way of disregarding your strength because you get a little nervous. Whatever feeling it was that had you announcing you were ready, latch onto that.”

  “It was Josh.”

  “What?” She adjusts her body to face me, her hand slipping off my knee. I grab it and put it back.

  “I called Josh.”

  Her eyebrows fly up to her hairline.

  “Reggie let me use the phone in the motel. I’m really not sure how
it happened. The old goose started spouting stuff about friendships, and I got all dizzy. My shirt felt too tight, I couldn’t move my tongue. Next thing ya know, I have a phone to my ear and a sense of regret so heavy, I worried about upchucking all over his desk.”

  She opens her mouth and slams it shut. Her eyes shrink two sizes, lips flattening.

  I have no idea what to make of the look. I don’t like it.

  “Do you regret coming here?”

  “No. Not at all. I regret not telling Josh.”

  “Well, how’d it go?” She starts picking at her bottom lip. “What’d you say?”

  “Uhm, he was as pissed as I imagined he’d be.”

  He screamed at me, and I let him. I deserved all the f-bombs and the ‘what were you thinkings?’

  The guilt trip he doused me in was thick.

  When he brought up the day he called a bunch of hospitals to make sure I wasn’t hurt or dead, I had to press my face in the crook of my elbow to stop the burn behind my eyes.

  “Well, was he happy to hear that you’re safe? Is he coming to visit?”

  “About that.” My grin is sheepish. “I didn’t tell him where I was.”

  She lifts a finger, halting the conversation as if she needs time to replay my words and make sure she registered them correctly.

  Her fingers curl into a fist. I brace myself.

  “Are you kidding me?” She cuffs me in the head. “You called the guy you consider a brother to tell him you ran away but refused to tell him where you are?”

  “Ah, yes. Basically.”

  “He probably wanted to crawl through the phone and kick your ass.”

  I laugh out loud. “I told him I was in Michigan. I just didn’t get more specific than that.”

  “Why?”

  Because he’d beg me to come back when I just found a home again.

  “I just wasn’t ready to explain everything yet.” I look down to where we’re connected. “And I think part of him knows. He was the only other person I told about my mom and Flat Rock. I’m sure he’s put the pieces together by now.”