Death of a Kleptomaniac

by Kristen Tracy

  “Five, six, seven, eight!” Ruthann calls.

  We unleash our arm moves. Straight out. Straight up. Drop to our sides. Triple clap. Repeat. Double clap. Punch at the crowd. Jab. Jab. Jab.

  “I see sloppy arms! Hit those points! Be fierce!”

  We slap and clap and jab over and over.

  “Now do it while traveling! Make the circle. And rotate!”

  Ruthann paces in front of us while Ms. Prufer sits in the stands. How do they choose who’s good enough? I am rotating within my circle position and punching the crap out of my jabs. It’s time for the kick sequence. I kick with such intensity that my stomach muscles cramp. I will not be cut from my first game. I will not.

  “Deidre! Where are you going?” Ruthann calls. “You’re making the circle look like a cancer cell. Way too much irregular growth. Come back!”

  I can’t believe in our final position that Deidre is a triangle point.

  “All right! Let’s take a break!”

  Ruthann flips around and bounces over to sit next to Ms. Prufer. They’re talking about us. Judging us and our traveling abilities and our kicks and arms. We haven’t even done any tumbling yet. I walk to the sidelines and grab my water. The room is definitely way too hot. I can feel sweat dripping down my back. This is how I spend fourth period now every other day. I don’t take a regular gym class. I attend Tigerette practice and receive credit for PE. Our school alternates between A day and B day, four classes each day, eight classes total. It’s tough to keep everything straight. Basically, the system sucks.

  “Molly!” Ruthann yells. “Can you come here?”

  She is in a terrible mood. I was so afraid of talking to her at lunch that I bought a banana and went to the library to eat it, even though food isn’t permitted in there.

  “Yeah?” I trot across the courts, in her direction.

  “Missed you at lunch,” she says, standing up.

  “I was studying,” I say, “in the library.”

  Ruthann rolls her eyeballs impatiently. “Don’t lie to me. I saw you in there trying to eat a banana surreptitiously.”

  “I just needed a break,” I say. “Life feels crazy right now.” In order to avoid making eye contact, I play with the hem of my shorts. Her gaze is so powerful.

  “Crazy?” Ruthann says, and takes one intimidating step closer to me. “So I take it you’ve heard the bad news?”

  At the word news, I look up. Ruthann squints, making her brown eyes appear slanted and venomous. If I were a prairie dog or small rodent, I’d be dead by now.

  “Is it about Joy?” I ask. I’m suddenly worried that something “crazy” has happened to her. That must be why she is absent.

  “Sort of,” Ruthann says.

  I cover my mouth and gasp.

  “I know,” Ruthann says. “It’s terrible. You and Joy got me fired from the nut shop.” She slowly shakes her head in disbelief. Then she reaches out and grabs my arm. “I’ve lost my job.”

  “Really?” I say, trying to sound surprised, but I’m not that surprised. Ruthann was a total bitch last night.

  “Joy won’t even take my calls. And she’s skipped today. Can you believe that? Just like you said: it’s crazy.”

  Ruthann is still clamped on to me above the elbow, and I try to shake her grip loose by shrugging several times and lightly swinging my arm.

  “Has she talked to you?” she asks.

  “No, I think she’s pretty upset about how things went down last night.”

  Ruthann lets go of my arm and waves her hand around like she’s preparing to fence with me without using a sword.

  “Her round-offs suck. And so do her toe touches. It’s my job to tell her that.”

  I take another drink of water and look out at the basketball court. Some of the girls are gathering at our starting positions.

  “But I think you hurt her feelings,” I say. Even in Joy’s absence, I want to prove to her that I’m not a fake person.

  “Am I just supposed to stand back and let her suck? Great strategy, Molly. I bet the judges will love to see one member sucking so badly. Maybe we could get a trophy for that. Do they give a trophy for almost-first-place-except- you-had-a-member-who-sucked?”

  Ruthann needs to get a life. Or keep this life and begin seeking out a career in improving people’s flexibility by making them feel like utter crap.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Ruthann asks.

  I shrug. “I should probably take my spot.” I watch as Deidre trips and almost falls. And then I hear myself asking a question that I thought I was only thinking. “You’re going to give me Deidre’s triangle point, right? You’re just waiting until the last minute? Making me sweat it out?”

  Ruthann snorts. “Is that all you care about? What about the fact that I’m losing a paycheck every week now?”

  “I care,” I say. “But there’s really nothing I can do.”

  “Of course there is,” Ruthann says. “Either you or Joy need to talk to Tate and tell him it was a big misunderstanding. Preferably, both of you should. Okay?”

  “Can we discuss this later?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” Ruthann says. “I’ll drive you home after school.”

  I return to my spot, walking across the cushioned gymnastics mats. My stomach feels knotted.

  “Are you sick?” Deidre asks me.

  I shake my head. And the world moves double-time.

  “You look pale,” Deidre says.

  “I don’t tan well,” I say.

  “I’m not joking,” Deidre says. “I think you need fresh air.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “The room is so hot.”

  “It’s regular temperature,” Deidre says. “I think there’s something wrong with you.”

  “No,” I say.

  I am now looking at two Deidres. And I feel like I might throw up. I don’t want to vomit on the court. Then I’ll be the day’s gossip. I run into the hallway and slam open the bathroom door. I barely make it to the trash can before I hurl up my banana. I always sort of knew that one day Ruthann Culpepper would make me puke.

  While my head is still inserted in the trash can, a toilet flushes and Sadie exits one of the stalls. She glances at me. I haven’t seen Sadie, I mean, really seen her, in weeks. Her hair is down, and she’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt. No jewelry. Sadie hardly ever wears jewelry. When it comes to fashion, she’s just so mellow.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I don’t really know what to say. I know she’s only talking to me because she feels like she’s supposed to, not because she actually wants to have a conversation with me.

  “I’m puking,” I say.

  “I can see that,” Sadie says. “Do you need any help?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “It’s basically a one-woman job,” I say.

  “I’m trying to be nice to you,” Sadie says. “Is dance team practice too intense?”

  I’m not on the dance team. I’m on the drill team. And she’s aware of that. Our dance team carries weird streamers, wears unitards, and are mocked relentlessly. I know, because Sadie and I used to mock them.

  “I’m actually on the drill team and practice is going awesome,” I say. Because I can’t admit to her how much it actually sucks.

  “Looks like it,” Sadie says.

  I lift my head up and really stare at her. And I realize something. That person I used to be. And that person she used to be. They just don’t exist anymore. It’s just like we learned in Sociology last semester. People are evolving all the time. And Sadie Dobyns and Molly Weller have evolved into completely different people.

  “You’re so rude,” I say.

  “I was actually trying to be nice,” she counters.

  “I didn’t realize being a decent person required focused effort,” I say.

  “Why are you acting like this?”

  “I’m sick,” I say. I hurl again. Sadie calmly shuts the water off. I lift my head out o
f the can in time to see her flick her wet fingers in the sink and pull a paper towel out of the wall unit.

  She doesn’t say anything else. She wads the towel and sets it in the trash can on top of my puke. She walks out of the bathroom and leaves me alone. The hinges release a sad-sounding creak as the door sweeps closed behind her.

  I breathe deeply several times and then splash some cold water on my face. As I lean against the white tiled walls and focus on breathing, I see an earring. It sits on the sink ledge in an indentation intended to restrain a bar of soap. I reach out and finger the cold metal, poking my thumb against the blunt end of the earring’s post. Do I want this? The door swings open and I pull my hand back. It’s Mrs. Pegner, the school nurse.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. “We had a report that somebody was sick in here.”

  “It’s me,” I say. “I’m the one who’s sick in here.”

  She nods her gray head and walks to me.

  “Let’s get you to the office and call your mom.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Wait. Somebody left this.”

  I pick up the gold earring and it dangles from my fingers like a tiny chandelier.

  “It’s a nice one,” she says. “I’ll drop it at the Lost and Found.”

  Mrs. Pegner takes it from me and slips it into her pocket. An intense calm sweeps over me. It’s a more intense calm than when I realized I hadn’t stolen that sophomore’s missing watch. I’m elated. Because I wanted that earring and I didn’t take it. Right now it’s on a journey to a box, where its rightful owner may eventually track it down. Maybe this is my turning point. Mrs. Pegner hooks her arm around my waist and leads me out of the bathroom, around the corner, and down the long, orange, carpeted hallway to the nurse’s office.

  It smells like spearmint mouthwash in here. I wonder why? I swallow. Actually, my mouth feels like it could use some spearmint mouthwash. I look around the room for a bottle of Listerine. The only bottles in here are two plastic two-liter containers of Pibb Zero.

  As I lie on the cot, waiting for my recently phoned mother, I see Tate Arnold. He walks into the room and approaches my cot. With his shirt only half tucked, he looks amazing. And also surprised to see me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did you hurt yourself in practice?”

  He crouches down a little. But not enough. I’m basically looking at his knees.

  “No. Things got a little overheated in the gym,” I say. I’m worried that he’s going to think I’m too sick to go on our date tomorrow. Lying down on a cot during fourth period must make me look ridiculously ill.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “I can’t hang around and talk. Party in Calculus. We all passed our exam on inverse trigonometric functions. They sent me to collect the Pibb.”

  I nod. “You’ll need ice,” I say, pointing to the counter. I wish I was at a party. I don’t go to enough parties. My school social calendar relies too much on Ruthann and drill team. I need to figure out ways to beef it up. Maybe I should volunteer somewhere and meet a bunch of new people. Do I have time to volunteer somewhere? Would I enjoy spending a few hours a week in a hospital?

  Tate picks up the Pibb Zero bottles and acts like he’s going to juggle them for me, but he doesn’t.

  “You’re still picking me up at ten tomorrow morning, right?” I ask.

  “Are you going to be up for horseback riding?” he asks.

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “Okay,” Tate says. “And there’s one other thing I forgot to mention.”

  I hate it when people forget to mention things.

  “My brother and his girlfriend want to come. Is that cool?”

  I’ve seen Tate’s older brother, Wyatt, and his girlfriend, Denise, on multiple occasions at a juice bar near school. They’re the closest thing Idaho has to hippies, and I bet I’ll like them both fine. I don’t care if they come.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Hey,” Tate says, lightly tapping the side of my cot with his leg, “I’ll call you later.” He carries the soda bottles into the hallway and disappears. He looks even more tan than last night. How is that possible? Does he spray-tan?

  I close my eyes. I need to figure out a phenomenal way to ask Tate to the dance. Balloons? No. Not phenomenal. Way too many people use balloons. A funny card? No. Something bigger. A stuffed animal? No. Those aren’t sexy. What’s a sexy and phenomenal way to ask a guy to a dance? My thoughts are violently interrupted by the sensation of somebody plopping down next to me on the cot.

  “I saw him come in here,” Ruthann says. “What did you tell him?”

  I blink at her. “I told him where he could find the Pibb.”

  “And then? What about my job?” she asks.

  “It didn’t come up,” I say.

  “You can’t be that sick,” Ruthann says.

  “Actually, I think I am,” I say.

  The sound of somebody knocking makes Ruthann stop talking and turn around.

  “We need to let our patient rest,” Mrs. Pegner says.

  “Yes. I really need rest,” I say.

  Ruthann reluctantly gets up. “I’m going to call you later.”

  “I hope I’m feeling well enough to talk,” I say.

  Ruthann frowns at that. As I rest my head back down, there’s a soft knock at the door.

  “You are a very popular sick person,” Mrs. Pegner says.

  “It’s probably somebody looking for more Pibb,” I explain.

  “Molly?”

  The voice is so distinct that my skin erupts in goose pimples.

  “Henry?” I prop myself up on my elbows. “What are you doing here?”

  He walks into the office and stands next to me. My heart begins to race. That whole pep talk I gave myself yesterday at the mall that I was completely over Henry and didn’t care about him and that my heart had entered a time machine and was now unaffected by our make-out session—all that was a lie. I am so attracted to Henry right now. Even though he’s wearing geeky clothes and looks, well, a little geeky.

  “I was headed to the attendance office and I saw you through the door,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  I ignore his question and ask my own. “Why were you headed to the attendance office?” Because that’s where people go to get permission slips for absences. Is he planning on being absent?

  He shifts his weight. He looks uncomfortable. “I had to get slips. For Monday.”

  He said the word slips. That’s the plural form of slip. Why would he need more than one slip? Is he going away on a long trip? With somebody? My mind leaps to Melka.

  “Are you and Melka going somewhere?” I ask. It hurts to even form that question, because I want the answer to be no. And if the answer isn’t no, I’m going to feel a little crushed.

  He pauses. His eyes look at five or six things in the room. Lamp. Floor. Desk. Light switch. Shoes. Me.

  “It’s complicated,” Henry says.

  My elbows ache from supporting my body weight, so I lie back down on the crunchy pillow. I am so sick of hearing about how complicated things are between Melka and Henry. And why does he keep tracking me down to tell me about how complicated they are? The cafeteria garbage can. My sick cot. I wasn’t seeking out a Henry/Melka status check.

  “What are you doing in here, Henry? This girl is sick and needs to be left alone. She vomited in the girls’ bathroom,” Mrs. Pegner says.

  I’m really surprised to hear her divulge this information to Henry, because I thought your medical history, even if it was something that happened five minutes ago in a public bathroom, was strictly confidential.

  “Can I call you later?” Henry asks.

  I want to say yes. I want to say yes. “I’m sick,” I say.

  “Out,” Ms. Pegner says. “With all these interruptions she’ll never recover.”

  I watch Henry leave, and the pocket of excitement he brought with him drifts out the door as he goes. Melka and Henry.
Melka and Henry. How can I still be falling for him?

  “Molly?” my mother calls. She’s standing in the doorframe, wearing lavender maternity clothes that barely seem to fit. She looks like a blooming lilac bush. “Is it the stomach flu?”

  I shake my head.

  “I didn’t sleep well last night,” I lie. “I think I’m worn down.”

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “I just want my bed.”

  I rise from the cot and walk to her. And when she hugs me I almost cry. The feeling comes out of nowhere. But I’m overcome with gratitude. There are a variety of mothers in the world, and I was lucky enough to end up with a dedicated one. She dropped everything to come and get me. “Thanks,” I whisper into her neck. I can feel her stomach pressing against me.

  “We can’t go straight home. We need to stop by the store first. I need to deliver the payroll to your dad.”

  When my father first bought the Thirsty Truck eight years ago, I thought, Cool. I can eat all the candy I want and not have to pay for it. But that’s not how things worked out. Running a convenience store is a terrible way to make a living, unless you like being married to a cash-strapped corner shop that overcharges people for bleach, toilet paper, and Ritz crackers. I basically never see my dad, and when I do he’s stressed out. Complaining about profit margins. Slacker employees. And the forever malfunctioning shaved-ice machine. My mother does most of his paperwork and calls herself his bookkeeper. In short, the stress is a family affair and it never ends.

  As my mother pulls into a parking spot, instead of entering the Thirsty Truck, I decide I’d rather wait in the car.

  “Don’t you want something to settle your stomach?” she asks as she gathers the folder from under her seat.

  “Just air.” I reach beneath my seat for the reclining lever and I lower myself into a position where I can sleep.

  “Molly, if you’re too sick to enter the store, your father is not going to let you go horseback riding tomorrow.”

  I relocate the reclining lever and bring myself to an upright position. She’s right. My dad has been looking for an excuse to kill the horseback riding trip ever since he agreed to let me go. I still remember his response when I told him that that trip would take place in Wyoming.