Death of a Kleptomaniac (2 page)

Thursday, October 3

I slam my locker with such force that a freshman standing nearby flinches. It's not that Trigonometry went exceptionally badly; it's that I'm not ready to navigate my lunch conversation with Ruthann Culpepper.

Reluctantly, I thread my way through the throngs of people, keeping an eye out for Henry and Melka. Nowhere. They are nowhere today. Thank God. What would I say? What if Melka exploded in anger and wanted to fight me? Would I fight an exchange student in the hallway over Henry Shaw? No. Well. Maybe.

Before I descend the stairs into the cafeteria I pause on the top step and look out into the segregated landscape. Last year, I didn't care about my popularity, and I'd sit with my friend Sadie Dobyns at any table near the back. We laughed a lot and nothing mattered. Not school dances, or games, or cliques, or clubs. High school was ridiculous; a joke we didn't care about. But this year is different. It all matters.

I'm a Tigerette now. A member of our school's nationally esteemed drill team. Over the summer I practiced my butt off and acquired dance moves, muscle definition, flexibility, and status. I've traded up. Better clothes. Better friends. Better parties. Better crush interests. Grades are slipping, but there's still time to work on that.

I spot Ruthann and Joy. They don't wave. It's not cool to wave. I learned that the first time we ate lunch and they got up to leave and I waved good-bye and Ruthann said, “It's not like we're going off to fight in a war half a world away.” And after Ruthann sauntered off, Joy added, in case I had an IQ languishing below seventy, “We never wave.”

I join my new friends, placing my lunch sack between them at the table. Ruthann chomps on a salad heavily doused in grated carrots. Joy does the same. I debate whether or not to tell them about making out with Henry. I pull out my turkey sandwich, peel it from its wrapper, and mull over my options. If I tell Ruthann, she'll want every tiny detail. She'll dissect the make-out session until it feels sterile. Then, most likely, she'll judge me. And, inevitably, she'll overstep all boundaries and try to dictate whom I should invite to the Sweetheart Ball. Tate or Henry. She'll want to decide for me. I bet she steers me toward Tate. She's such a steerer. Ugh. Why does our high school even have a girls'-choice dance this early in the year?

Ruthann eyes me knowingly and rakes her fork across her salad, revealing a tomato, which she quickly spears. “I can't believe you didn't call me. You're such a tart.”

A tart?
Does she know about Henry, or is she randomly calling me a pastry? I take a bite of my sandwich and look confused.

“You're what I call a promiscuous woman,” Ruthann says. She smiles at me with her fork still in her mouth. It's frightening.

“Melka told everybody in homeroom,” Joy says. “It spread like gangrene.”

I hold my head in my hands. “Does this mean I've lost my chance with Tate?” I've been so careful with my Tate crush. Careful to catch his eye when I looked good. Always poised to say funny things when he was in earshot. “My budding romance, is it dead?”

Ruthann laughs.
She laughs.
For the first time since I abandoned my best friend Sadie and climbed up a few rungs on the social ladder, I am deeply missing that forsaken connection. She may have been cynical about school, politics, religion, purebred dogs, and national holidays, but she was always so supportive of me.

“These things happen,” Joy says. “That's why I used the gangrene metaphor. Because it's something terrible that just happens too.”

“Please, let's not compare my dating situation to gangrene,” I say.

“I think Melka was hiding in the garage the whole time,” Ruthann says. “I think she's a stalker. You need to start watching yourself.”

“Melka won't hurt me,” I say. But I'm not totally convinced of that.

“Daughters of diplomats have nothing to lose,” Ruthann says. “Watch cable. They off people all the time.”

“I don't know about that, but Melka does feel dangerous,” Joy says.

Joy nods in affirmation of her own comment, sending her bob bouncing around her face. Great. My closest friend at the moment—short, bouncy, sweet, blond Joy—thinks that Melka should be classified as a dangerous woman.

“I can't believe you swooped in and stole him like that. When did you even start liking Henry? Ever since I've known you you've been obsessed with Tate.
Obsessed
,” Joy hisses.

“I know,” Ruthann says. “You're such a thief. Who knew?”

My heart begins to race. I don't want to be called a thief. I don't really think my problem is thievery. I didn't
steal
Henry. And I feel bad when I do steal. The urge is unstoppable. Like a thirst. I know that this is weird. And I don't have the words to explain this weirdness to anybody. Joy and Ruthann stare at me. It's time to respond. I shrug. When did lunch turn into a deposition? “Henry is easy to like.”

“That's an understatement!” Ruthann says. “Look! They're back together!”

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.