Death of a Kleptomaniac by Kristen Tracy Read Free Book Online Page B

five or six things in the room. Lamp. Floor. Desk. Light switch. Shoes. Me.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œCan I call you later?” Henry asks.
    I want to say yes. I want to say yes. “I’m sick,” I say.
    â€œOut,” 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?
    â€œMolly?” 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.
    â€œI didn’t sleep well last night,” I lie. “I think I’m worn down.”
    â€œDo you want anything to eat?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œDon’t you want something to settle your stomach?” she asks as she gathers the folder from under her seat.
    â€œJust air.” I reach beneath my seat for the reclining lever and I lower myself into a position where I can sleep.
    â€œMolly, 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.
    â€œCan’t you date within state lines? Why do you want to ride a horse? And shouldn’t Tate ask me for my permission?”
    It’s as if my father had fallen out of a television sitcom. “ Your permission? That’s weird. It’s not like we’re getting married.”
    â€œI’ve talked to his mother,” my mom offered.
    â€œWhat does Molly know about