Fabulous. Operation Next-Step-With-Tate is off and running. I brush my hair and put on the tightest clean T-shirt I own. I go light on makeup. I don’t like the way foundation, mascara, or eyeliner feels.
I call Joy, and she doesn’t object to my offer to drive. Deep down I think she knows that she’s lousy behind the wheel. People honk and flip her the bird on a pretty regular basis.
With Tate waiting on the horizon, I feel an urgency to get to the mall. As I grab my purse, my cat, Hopkins, weaves between my legs. I try to take a step forward, but he walks beneath my shoe. Using my other leg, I hop over him and nearly fall.
“I could have broken my neck,” I say.
He meows. I think he wants me to play laser mouse with him. When I’m about to leave the house, he often seems to want that.
“I’ll play with you when I get back,” I say. “I’ll be home at nine o’clock.”
Hopkins lets out a sigh and crumples to the floor. Once, I read in a magazine article that you should always tell your pets what time you’re coming home. It reduces their anxiety. I’m pretty sure it works. Animals are tuned in to something. For instance, elephants are never killed in tsunamis. And a horse can usually predict an electrical storm.
As I attempt to leave, Hopkins tries to slink out the door. I reach down and pet him underneath the chin, gently picking him up by the belly and tossing him several feet away from the threshold.
“Nine o’clock,” I repeat. He doesn’t like to be touched on the head. It sets off his puma instinct and he becomes all claws.
Pulling into her driveway, I find Joy, thoughtful as usual, waiting for me outside. As I drive us to the mall, she shows me an article that she clipped out of a magazine. “These supplements boost your hair’s growth system by sixty percent,” she explains. “At that rate, my bob could be to my bra by February.”
“What’s in February?” I ask.
“Western Drill Team Nationals.”
As we exit the car, I think I can actually read Joy’s mind. She’s picturing herself at nationals with her bra-length hair swept into a fat topknot. She’s flipping it back and forth, smiling for the crowd, practically working herself into a state of ecstasy over her ponytail’s radiance and girth. I think I hear her moan as we step onto the curb. When she sees me looking at her, her face returns to its usual pleasant and unexcited expression. I think she thinks I think she’s weird. But I don’t.
My plan at the mall is to avoid entering any store. I’ll walk down the center corridor to the nut shop. Chat up Tate. Retrace my steps. And exit the mall without incident. Steering clear of temptation seems like the best strategy.
Joy and I walk through the mall, passing shop after shop. I don’t even peek in their windows.
“Ooh!” Joy squeals. “Huge earring sale. Look!”
I don’t turn my head. “I’m broke.”
Joy doesn’t argue, and we keep walking. Mummy and Frankenstein Halloween decorations are taped on the mall’s columns. And that creepy fake spiderweb material is draped along the planters and benches. I bet the stores are decked out too. I’ll never know.
“There’s a closeout on all sandals,” Joy says, pointing to another store. “Don’t you want to take a quick stroll through the inventory?”
“It’s October and we live in Idaho. Not interested,” I say.
“God,” Joy says. “You’re so focused.”
Was that a compliment? It doesn’t matter. I can see the nut house in the distance. And as soon as I spot Tate, my crush feelings return. Forget Henry Shaw. I’ll pretend that I never made out with him. I’ll trick my heart by placing it in a time machine and maneuvering around the make-out session entirely. I’m in control of which guy I like. And I plan to resettle on my interest on gorgeous, athletic, well-traveled Tate.
“What’s wrong?” Joy asks. “Why are you slowing down?”
I stop walking. “I’m excited,” I say.
“Yeah,” Joy says. “Tate’s a stud.”
“And he just keeps getting studlier. I mean, he’s wearing an apron and hairnet and he still looks hot.”
I fluff my hair and pull my T-shirt down a little, positioning the V-neck closer to the top of my cleavage.
“Speaking of hot, look who’s in the food court.”
I look, half expecting to see Henry. Which is weird, because I know Joy doesn’t find him hot.
“Roy Ekles,” Joy says. “At that table by the front doors. What’s he doing?”
I see Roy leaning back in a chair. He’s putting something that resembles french fries into his mouth. “Eating?” I say. Roy is what I’d consider part of the alternative crowd. Until two months ago he had blue hair and wore clothes with an absurd number of zippers. He still wears weird clothes, but with his hair dyed a conservative brown color, at least his head appears more mainstream. Perhaps it’s just a phase. Does Joy want to date somebody with blue hair?
“What do you think of him?” Joy leans into me when she asks me this, so much so that I can smell her bubble-gum breath.
“He looks better now that he looks normal.”
Joy leans further into me, so I’m supporting most of her weight. “He looks fantastic.”
She sounds really into him. Which surprises me, because I didn’t know she was into anybody. Since we’ve become friends she hasn’t mentioned any guys.
“Are you thinking about asking him to the Sweetheart Ball?” I ask.
She sounds caught off guard by my question and stands up straight. “We’re not there yet.”
If she’s not “there” with Roy, I wonder where exactly she is with him.
We leave him in the food court and keep walking to our destination. We’re so close to the nut house now that both Ruthann and Tate spot us. Suddenly I feel underprepared. “I don’t even know what we should talk about.”
“Don’t show up with an agenda. Just buy a bunch of nuts and see what happens.” Joy squeezes my arm reassuringly. “See you in fifteen.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” I ask. Why am I tracking him down the Thursday before our date? I’m awkward. I should try to have as little contact as possible with him until we make it to our horses in Wyoming.
“Yeah, I’ll catch up with you,” she says. “It’s not like the nut shop is going anywhere. I want to get my vitamins.”
She doesn’t wait for any kind of permission to abandon me. She just does it. So I walk solo up to the nut shop.
“Look who’s here,” Ruthann says.
She wipes down the white Formica countertop, while Tate places newly dipped caramel apples on a glass display shelf. Nestled atop small squares of waxed paper, they look delicious.
“Are you here to talk to Tate?” she asks me.
My ear tips burn. Is this an ambush? Because that question does nothing to make me interact with Tate more effectively or move us to the next level. It makes me feel like a moron.
“I came for nuts,” I say.
Ruthann looks amused.
“What kind?” she asks. “Hazelnuts, Brazil nuts, macadamia nuts, cashews, pistachios—”
When she pauses for a breath, I interrupt. “I need a minute,” I say.
“Take a minute,” she says, then looks at the wall clock behind her.
While I survey the nuts, Ruthann rubs the cloth so hard against the countertop that it squeaks.
“Where’s Joy?” Tate asks. “I thought I saw her with you.”
“I think she’s at the GNC,” I say.
“What for? The only people I ever see in there are middle-aged couples and sometimes a rogue elderly person,” Ruthann says.
Ruthann should not be jumping into my conversation with Tate. This entire situation feels lame.
“She wants hair vitamins,” I explain.
“Like prenatal vitamins?” Ruthann says. “Hey, Tate, did you know Molly’s mom is pregnant? She’s forty-four. Isn’t that wild? It was an oops.”
I’m stunned. Ruthann’s idea of taking things with Ta
te to the next level apparently involves disclosing personal information about my parents’ baby-making habits. I can feel myself blushing. It’s not that I’m exactly embarrassed that my mother is going to have a baby, it’s just that I didn’t venture out to the nut shop to discuss her gestation cycle with Tate.
“Hey, Ruthy,” Tate says, handing her a large metal bowl coated in congealed caramel. “Why don’t you take this in the back and scrub it down?”
“Oh, I’ll do that when we close,” Ruthann says, reaching into the roasted almond bin and popping one in her mouth.
“Why wait?” he asks. “I’ll keep an eye on the front.”
She takes the messy bowl in one hand and huffs into the back room.
“Which nuts were you interested in?” he asks.
I look at mound after mound of warm, tumbling nuts.
“Maybe pecans,” I say, tapping my finger on the glass in front of a long heaping row of them.
“Our pecans are good, but have you ever tried our cinnamon peanuts? We roasted them this afternoon, right in the back.”
“Wow, you roast your own nuts.”
“No, that would be painful. We just roast these,” he says, burying the curved tip of a metal scoop deep into a peanut pile.
The burning sensation in my ear tips increases. When I crush on a guy I become such a dweeb.
“You know what I meant,” I say. “I’ll take a quarter pound of your pistachios.”
He scoops up a small mound of nuts and pours them into a white paper bag. He doesn’t weigh them. He just eyeballs it.
“On the house,” he says. As he hands me the bag, I watch his arms. His skin is so much tanner than mine. He went to Morocco over the summer for a month. That’s what I’m looking at. His sexy Moroccan tan.
“I don’t mind paying,” I say.
“I’ll keep that in mind on our date.”
Again, my ears are so hot they feel like they could fall off. I can’t believe I have this much blood in my entire body, let alone in my head region.
“Hey, Tate,” Joy says.
I look up. Saved by Joy.
“Wow,” Ruthann says, emerging from the back room. “You really did come to the mall.”
“Yeah,” Joy says. “I needed some mall stuff.”
“So, did you practice before you came? Are you going to practice after? Or maybe you’re going to practice right now? In front of the nut house?” Ruthann says.
Joy looks embarrassed. I try to smooth things over. “We’ll get some practice in tonight.” I look at Tate and try to communicate that everything is cool, that girls in drill team sometimes call each other out. It’s how we bond.
Ruthann tilts her head with a fierce amount of incredulity. “Listen, Joy. Your round-offs suck. And you’ve got some sort of compass disorder where you’re incapable of either identifying or facing north. And you don’t even seem to notice. Or care.”
This feels so harsh. And awkward. And ongoing.
“I care,” Joy says. “I practice all the time.”
That’s not really true, but I don’t want to say anything to escalate the dustup.
“It’s getting late,” I say. “Maybe we should head home.” I am not accomplishing anything at the mall.
“And can we not talk to customers like that?” Tate adds.
“They aren’t customers,” Ruthann says.
“Actually,” Joy says, “I might buy some nuts.”
“Whatever,” Ruthann says.
“I’ll give you some of mine,” I say. “Let’s go.” I turn and look at Joy. “Let’s not antagonize the situation.” Which I regret saying after I say it, because I think it means I’m siding with Ruthann. But really I’m siding with myself. I’m ready to leave.
“Oh, Tate, you should let your mother know that we’re low on straws,” Ruthann says.
Tate doesn’t look at her. “I’ll let her know.”
She picks up the rag and starts re-wiping the counters.
“See you guys later,” I say. Even though Ruthann finds it annoying, I decide to wave. Tate waves back and smiles. He looks so cute when he waves. I’m relieved that the girl drama doesn’t seem to have driven him off.
Joy strides through the mall’s long central hallway without saying a single word. It’s like her anger toward Ruthann has spread to me. But that’s not fair. I can’t control Ruthann’s outbursts. Sometimes she’s just mean. And it’s illogical for Joy to hold that against me. As we turn the corner and approach the exit, Joy’s shoulder snags one of those creepy, artificial spiderwebs, tearing ten feet of it from the wall. I watch the tiny threads blow in the breeze behind her while we walk to the car.
“You’ve got a cobweb on you,” I say.
She doesn’t respond or seem to care.
Even when I’m driving, there’s complete silence. A mile ticks by.
“You’ll have to let me know if those vitamins work,” I say.
“I don’t feel like talking about my hair,” Joy says.
“Well—”
Joy cuts me off. “I don’t feel like talking at all.”
I’ve only driven to her house a few times. As I turn down elm-lined streets, sorting my way through the suburbs, she doesn’t help guide me. I just guess through all the turns. When I finally pull into her driveway, she remains quiet. As I turn to say good-bye, I notice that she’s crying.
“Don’t cry,” I say. “What happened tonight isn’t that big a deal.” I try to say what I’d want to hear under similar conditions.
“You don’t get it,” Joy says.
“Oh, I get it,” I say. “Ruthann can be volatile.”
Joy laughs like I’ve said something stupid. “I thought you were going to be a different kind of friend.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. We’ve only been friends for a little while, and I’ve been a great friend to her. Sort of.
“I thought you were going to be real,” Joy says. She gets out of my car and shuts the door so lightly that I’m not sure it’s totally closed.
I lower my window.
“I am real,” I say. Only after the words leave my mouth do I feel a little lame.
Joy turns around. Maybe I got through to her. “No. All you care about is being a stupid apex triangle point.”
I gasp. That is not all I care about, though I do think it’s pretty cool. I shift the car into park and open up my door.
“You’re totally wrong,” I say.
Joy looks at me like she couldn’t care less. How did this situation, a simple trip to the nut shop, escalate to the point where my closest friend is sobbing on her front lawn and spitting insults at me? I’m never going to the mall again.
“I’m not wrong. And I’m not dumb either.”
“I never said you were dumb.”
“But you think I am,” she says emphatically.
I do think this. But I don’t admit it. “I don’t think you’re dumb at all.” For some reason I close my eyes while I’m talking.
“You’re lying. That’s why you closed your eyes!”
I open my eyes. “No.”
“I am so done with this. Ruthann. Tigerettes. You. I’m over it!”
Me? How did things get here? How can she be over me? “Wait.” But she doesn’t wait.
I watch Joy slip behind an ornate white door, her wispy blond hair trailing behind her. Then she’s gone, swallowed by her house. I stare at that door, hoping it might swing back open, allowing for a more levelheaded Joy to emerge. But no. She’s not coming out.
As I drive home, I feel sad and defeated. Tears burn behind my eyes, and I try hard to push everything to a place deep inside of me, beneath my skin, beneath my bones. High school shouldn’t be this hard. Last year sucked because it was boring. Sadie and I sat around as certified outsiders, ridiculing everyone. And now this year sucks even worse. My life feels impossible, and it’s only October.
I walk through the front door and both of my parents are seated on the couch. They look up at me
as I stride to my bedroom, refusing to make small talk.
“No milk shake?” my mom asks.
“No,” I say. “The mall sucked so bad that I forgot.”
“She’s dating,” my mother explains to my father.
I stop walking and turn around. “I’m not dating.”
“Does this mean your horseback trip got canceled?” my father asks.
I turn around. “No.” Why would my father say such a thing? I would be devastated if my date with Tate was canceled.
“Don’t you want some dinner?” asks my mom.
I don’t feel like eating. I don’t feel like talking. I just feel rotten. “Maybe later.”
I walk into my room and open my jewelry box. I take out a pearl ring and slip it on. I crawl into bed and turn it over and over around my finger. This was Sadie’s ring. She has no idea that I took it. It’s one of the few things I really regret taking. But it happened. I snagged it one day and never knew how to give it back. And it feels wrong to let it rest hidden in a drawer. A ring should be worn. Even if it’s just to bed. I turn it over again, thinking of Sadie. And Joy. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this defeated. But the year of making my mark is still repairable. Life is long. I can fix my friendship with Joy. And probably Sadie too. Deep down, they know I’m a good friend. I just need to show them.
Friday, October 4
I am not a triangle point. I’m clumped in the middle, struggling through practice. In the gymnasium the air feels swampy. And even though it’s a brisk temperature outside, inside on the basketball court, where we’re going over and over and over our routine, it feels ridiculously hot. Like summer in Florida. Or the Gobi desert. Normally when things get challenging, I have an ally. But Joy didn’t even come today. I wonder if she’ll quit the Tigerettes. She seemed genuinely hurt. Should she? Should I? Ruthann puffs on a whistle, signaling that it’s time to form our first position. She puffs on the whistle a second time—urgently—because she thinks we aren’t moving fast enough. Oh my god. I think my life would feel better if I quit.
“Let’s practice without traveling!” Ruthann barks.
During the learning phase of the routine, I’m always surprised that some girls have a tough time traveling from their first assigned spots to their second assigned spots, and so on, while executing the arm sequences at the same time.
Death of a Kleptomaniac Page 3
