The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

by Joe Augustyn

  Felicia heard the thunk of old wood as the window slammed shut. Shit. Now I’m trapped for real. Should have gotten out when I could.

  Without warning a hockey stick shot toward her like a bolt of wooden lightning. But her reflexes were quicker and she leapt straight up like her feet were on pogo springs. The heavy stick swept the air beneath her and slammed into the wall with a vengeance, punching a hole in the old wooden baseboard. Felicia dropped down on top of it, then slid off as Wally yanked the stick back for another murderous attempt. Instead of waiting around to see if she would get lucky again, Felicia darted from under the bed.

  “There he is!”

  “Get him!”

  Belt buckles whizzed past her on all sides banging the floor like hammers. Wally bashed his hockey stick down with a fury.

  Felicia zigged and zagged across the floor miraculously dodging their blows. She ran to the bedroom door but discovered it was closed tight and wouldn’t be nearly as easy to open from this side. She stood on her back paws and scratched at the edge but it was hopeless; she couldn’t budge it an inch.

  Turning back she saw Wally glaring down at her. He raised the hockey stick and spread his legs, planting himself like a goalie. His eyes burned with hatred. Shit, I let myself be cornered.

  “Now I got you, you furry little fuck.”

  Felicia looked past him, assessing her options. The other boys stood behind him, watching in anticipation. Their belts hung loose in their hands, buckles ready to finish her off if she somehow got past Wally. But even if I could, the window is closed. I’m dead meat.

  Wally stomped his foot in her direction, trying to spook her.

  Felicia’s fur stood on end. She hissed and backed into the corner near the door. Wishing she were a tiger who could finish them off without shedding a drop of sweat.

  Her eyes flew around the room again, studying every stick of furniture and possible place to hide.

  Wally swung the hockey stick violently down at her. Felicia sprang to the side just in time and rebounded toward him. Her claws shot out and she buried them in his crotch.

  Wally stumbled backwards, shrieking loud enough to wake the dead. Felicia hung on, swinging from his jeans like a pendulum, claws embedded in his genitals. The hockey stick quivered uncertainly and for an instant the boys thought Wally would smash himself in the nuts in a desperate bid to dislodge her. Instead he threw the stick down and tried to get a grip on the wriggling feline. But she arched her back and kicked at his hands with her strong back claws, fending off his attempt.

  “Ow! Shit!” Wally cried. “Get him the fuck off me! He’s clawing my motherfuckin’ balls!”

  The other boys stood frozen by the spectacle, secretly amused by their bossy leader’s painful predicament.

  Wally swung his fist at Felicia’s head. She ducked but his knuckles glanced off her shoulder and she finally released her grip, dropping to the floor between his legs. Her eyes looked through them to a brass pole lamp that stood in the corner on the far side of the bed. Wally lunged down to grab her but she sprang through his open legs and onto the bed, dodging a furious barrage of belt buckles pummeling the mattress around her.

  She bounced off the bed, hit the wall with all four feet, and caromed like a cue ball toward the tall standing lamp. Crashing into the tarnished brass pole she locked her claws around it and rode it as it started to topple.

  The window exploded in a thousand shards of glass as the top of the lamp crashed through it. Felicia released her grip and was launched like a stone from a catapult. She stretched her legs forward and backward, making herself thin as she rocketed through the hole in the broken windowpane. Holding her breath as jagged daggers of glass brushed her fur with their deadly tips.

  The frantic voices of the boys erupted behind her. She cleared the window without a scratch and spread herself wide like a flying squirrel. Sailing into the brisk night air.

  She soared past the porch roof and saw the ground several meters below. A half-dead clump of marigolds offered the only promising landing pad, surrounded by gravel and hard packed soil.

  Instinctively she fanned her tail wide and shifted it like a rudder. A second later she flopped down hard on the rotting mound of flowers. She lay there breathless, lungs knocked flat by the impact.

  She realized that the voices of the boys had faded from the bedroom then heard their clomping footsteps charging down the stairs like a herd of angry rhinos.

  Tearing herself free from the withered tangle of marigolds she ran for her life. She made it across the front yard and slipped into the woods just as the front door banged open and the angry curses of the gang rang through the night.

  81

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  16

  The cafeteria buzzed with the vibrant energy of high school students on a bright autumn day. Felicia set her tray down at the end of a table and smiled as Ruta took the seat across from her.

  “How’s the tuna?” asked Ruta, eyeing Felicia’s lunch tray doubtfully.

  “I have a craving. Funny, I was never really big on fish before. Now I can’t get enough of it.”

  “Tell me about it. I get the munchies whenever I see those meaty little rats in the biology lab.”

  “Ew.”

  “Relax. I’d never act on it. At least not in my human form, anyway.”

  “When did you…?”

  “Get the power? Elmo found me in the woods a year ago. Elmo the bear,” she smirked, drawing her lips tight in a reptilian grin. “He carried me to Granny Dola’s and my life’s never been the same. But you know all that.”

  “Did you ever tell anyone about the attack? Other than Granny?”

  “I couldn’t. Not the way I was back then. Shy. Weak. Too embarrassed to speak up for myself. Sometimes it really sucks living in a small town, where everyone knows your business. And the creeps knew it. That’s why they picked on me. And you too. That’s how they pick all their victims.”

  “You ever think about getting revenge?”

  “Oh sure. Of course I’ve thought about it. I think about it all the time.” She cast a glance across the aisle, where Wally and his crew were holding court at their usual table. Acting rowdy and loud and obnoxious. Flicking food at students foolish enough to be sitting in range or walking by. “How can you not, when you see their smugly faces day after day?”

  “Why didn’t you?” Felicia asked.

  “I don’t know. I was really hot about it for the first few weeks. But the more I grew into my power, the cooler I became. I kept telling myself that old chestnut about revenge being best served cold. But I’m starting to think it’s just an excuse. I think there’s something in my reptilian nature that keeps me putting it off.”

  “But if nobody does anything, they’ll just keep doing what they did to you and me. And soon they’ll be out of school and out on their own. If they move out of town, it’ll be too late.”

  “I know.”

  A girlish shriek drew their attention towards Wally’s table. Wally’s foot was planted in the aisle—tripping Crystal as she walked by. As Felicia looked over she was already flopping forward, with the contents of her food tray flying skyward.

  The students nearby sat transfixed as Crystal’s white china lunch platter whirled through the air like a flying saucer, about to crash-land and splatter them with applesauce and green beans and spaghetti.

  In a flash Felicia sprang from her seat. She soared several feet and landed gracefully in the aisle, sliding on all fours towards Crystal across the waxed tile floor.

  Her left arm shot up with uncanny precision and she caught the flying dinner plate squarely, not spilling a drop of food. Her right hand grabbed Crystal by the arm and steadied her, saving her from a nasty fall.

  Everyone stared in awe, amazed by the unlikely feat. Then they all erupted in applause, and rose to their feet in a standing ovation.

  Wally scowled. Pissed that his prank had been thwarted.

  By a girl, no le
ss.

  “Dude, did you see that?” whispered Sparrow, suitably impressed.

  Wally poked an angry finger into his ribs. “Shut the fuck up. I’m eating.”

  81

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  17

  “Felicia, where have you been?”

  “Hi, mom. Sorry I’m late. I went shopping with Ruta after school.”

  “Ruta?” Her mother didn’t have to add any qualifiers. The tone of her voice said it all. Everyone knew Ruta by reputation. She was the school weirdo. The one you didn’t want your kids hanging out with.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Ruta, mom. She just has a strong sense of style.”

  “Style? That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Must you be so provincial?”

  Before her mother could sputter out an answer Felicia jogged upstairs. She had plenty to do that evening. She’d start by mixing and matching her new clothes, experiment with her new look.

  A change in her image was long overdue. Her old clothes were positively tragic. She’d pack them up in a Goodwill bag then get caught up on her schoolwork. She had to keep up her grades to keep her parents off her back.

  There was no big urgency to go out on the prowl again. Like Ruta she could bide her time. Wait until the moment was right. Until she had time to plan her move.

  ***

  Felicia’s father sat sipping his coffee, dragging out his morning routine. He was already late for work, but his wife had insisted he hang around until Felicia made her appearance, in case it demanded a parental response. If their daughter was hanging out with Ruta, there was no telling what she might spring on them.

  When Felicia finally made her appearance they stared at her with consternation. Thankfully her head hadn’t been shaved and she wasn’t pierced anywhere, at least no place they could see. But her style had definitely evolved. She looked sinfully delicious in low-cut black skinny jeans that somehow stayed up on her girlish hips topped by a fluffy gray fake fur vest. Her eyes were lined with mascara and her stubby fingernails seemed to have grown half an inch overnight, now perfectly manicured with glossy gray polish.

  “Wow. So that’s the new look you went shopping for?” asked mom, in a tone that danced between mockery and amusement.

  “It’s a start,” Felicia responded nonchalantly.

  “A start?” her father asked nervously, eyeing the racy cut of her leotard. It wasn’t a look he hated. Just not one he’d have picked for his only daughter.

  “Did Ruta pick out those jeans for you?” her mother asked. “If they were cut any lower I could see Timbuktu.”

  “Ruta?” her father asked, trying to place the name.

  “You know,” his wife replied, twirling her fingers around her hairline. “The pretty little blonde girl who shaved half her head and went Goth all of a sudden.”

  “Oh, yeah. The one they’re always whispering about at the market. Did Ruta inspire your new look, Felicia?” her dad asked, sounding vaguely reprimanding.

  “Not really. I just got tired of the Pollyanna look.”

  “Oh I see.”

  “I guess I’m growing up,” Felicia replied with a sweet smile.

  “I guess you are,” said her mother, sounding slightly exasperated.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Oh yes,” said her mother. Determined not to feed whatever bug had crawled up her daughter’s butt. “It’s… different.”

  “Yes,” her father added, following his wife’s lead. “It’s fine. Just don’t get… too…”

  “Sexy?” Felicia couldn’t resist pushing his buttons.

  “Wild.”

  Felicia smiled.

  We’ll see how wild I can get.

  81

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  18

  Marky loitered near the pharmacy counter as old man Jenkins counted out pills for Marcella Evans.

  Marcella, like Sparrow and Marky, was descended from a local family with a long history of questionable characters. Petty fraud, burglary, moonshining and other lowly crimes had been their primary sustenance until the welfare train rolled into town. She’d been bred to avoid an honest day’s work and feel no guilt about it.

  Living off others was as much a part of her genetic make-up as it was for any bedbug. She was the welfare queen of Greenville, collecting a big chunk of the county’s social services budget for her six illegitimate brats. She hadn’t a clue who their daddies were, and no motivation to find out. She could have filled a rolodex with the names of possible suspects. But as long as the taxpayers picked up the tab for their upkeep, she knew she had a better deal than any of her babies’ daddies would ever provide.

  Jenkins looked down his bulbous red drinker’s nose at Marcella, as did most everyone else in the community. But as much as he ranted to his cronies how much he hated her, he did a tidy bit of business off her government-subsidized lifestyle. So like all the other businesses in town who profited from her medicare and foodstamps, he secretly rejoiced in her presence. He even indulged her requests to swap food stamps for cigarettes and liquor, provided no one was around to witness the sleazy transactions.

  As the old man swept Marcella’s pills into a container, he stole a glance in the mirror he’d placed above the countertop to help nab shoplifters. The culprits had been stealing him blind. Cadging rubbers and smokes and other small luxury items when he wasn’t on the alert. But his brain was sluggish with age and the deleterious effects of his non-stop happy hour. With his attention split between Marky and Marcella, both viable suspects, he failed to notice Sparrow stuffing his pockets in the “cold and flu” aisle.

  Distracted for a moment by the green polyester thong sprouting from Marcella’s ample ass crack like a sprig of poison ivy, Marky turned and got an impatient nod from his pock-faced accomplice, who pocketed his score and quietly sauntered toward the door.

  Back at the pharmacist’s booth, Marky slapped a candy bar down on the counter, startling the half-soused proprietor. “How much, pops?” he barked loudly, covering the tinkle of the shop’s bell as Sparrow made his escape out the door. “Come on, old man, I ain’t got all day. And judging from those wrinkles and liver spots on your mug you ain’t got much time to waste either.”

  The old man shot him a frosty look. “You’ll wait your turn like everybody else.”

  “Fuck that,” snapped Marky. “You just lost a sale.”

  Leaving the candy bar on the counter he turned and headed for the door. Mission accomplished, as my man Dubya would say.

  Sparrow was waiting outside, eager to show off his booty. He held up several plastic containers and rattled the gel caps inside. “Check it out, bromeo. The old fart’s too fuckin’ stupid to keep the good shit behind the counter. We be robotrippin’ for weeks.”

  Marky took one of the containers and read the list of ingredients. “And you’re too fuckin’ stupid to read the fuckin’ ingredients on the goddamned fuckin’ label, dumb-ass. This shit is loaded with chlor… what-ever-the-fuck-that-is… and guafa… some other shit that will fuck you up and not in a good way.”

  “Gimme it then, you pussy.” Sparrow snatched the pills back. “If you don’t want to trip out, that’s more party for the rest of us.”

  “More for you stupid farts to get sick and freak out on. Just don’t puke your guts out on me.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Take me home, brainiac,” said Marky, annoyed that he’d wasted half his evening with such a worthless dumb ass.

  “Get on,” said Sparrow as he mounted his ancient trail bike and kickstarted the engine. Marky threw a leg over the rusty rear rack and took hold of Sparrow’s waist. Sparrow twisted the throttle and they sputtered off into the night.

  Ten minutes later they turned down the desolate road leading to Marky’s family’s house in a backwoods clearing.

  The trail bike hummed along with an occasional backfire, swerving dizzily on the bumpy country road. The weak glow of its co
rroded headlamp flickered on and off with each bump in the road. The sun had set nearly an hour earlier and the night air was damp with a threatening storm.

  Despite his thick hoodie and heavy denim jacket, Sparrow felt like he was riding through a cold flowing stream. His eyes were clouded by icy teardrops that rolled freely down his cheeks.

  Hampered by the weight of the boys, which stressed its two-stroke engine, the tired old motorbike was barely breaking twenty when Marky spotted something moving on the road ahead.

  He poked Sparrow in the side and pointed ahead at the object. But Sparrow had already caught sight of it. The back of its bushy tail was full and white, and stood out like a samurai’s banner in the headlight’s dim glare.

  Sparrow slowed the rackety motorbike, afraid the loping critter might be a skunk. But as they pulled closer he saw its gray striped coat and recognized it immediately. The cat! The same damned cat! It was the same cat that had escaped their clutches a few nights before.

  Not one to forego an opportunity to wreak some bloody mischief while scoring brownie points with Wally, Sparrow cranked the throttle and aimed the bike’s front tire at the scurrying animal. But the worn-out engine was already strained to its limits. The whine of its overworked pistons and rotted out muffler gave the cat plenty of advance warning.

  Just as they nearly caught up with it, it darted off into the woods.

  A minute later the boys reached Marky’s front yard. As they slowed to a cautious crawl on the loose gravel driveway they saw the cat emerge from the woods and disappear into the tool shed at the back edge of the property.

  Sparrow pulled up nearby, cutting off his engine so they could glide close to the shed without spooking the animal inside.

  “I can’t believe our luck, dude,” he whispered. “Wally is going to be so proud of us.”