Alma Underwood Is Not A Kleptomaniac Read online

  “Rawlings.” I smile. “Rumor Rawlings.”

  She beams. “That's a badass name. Sounds like an announcer at a sporting event.”

  “Well, damn, looks like I just figured out my future career.”

  She laughs again, shifting a little closer to the edge of the bed, towards the side of the room I chose. We stare at each other for a beat or two, sitting in a silence that feels comfortable and not at all awkward for two people who just met.

  I stay slumped against her wall, pulling my knees to my chest, only straightening when I see the light in her eyes start to dim. “Is anyone looking for you?”

  “What?”

  She sits up and averts her gaze. “Is anyone looking for you, Rumor?”

  A hell-like mixture of anger and hurt swell up in my gut and threaten to bubble up in my throat. Insecurity and rage ricochet off the inner walls of my stomach and fight to break free. I swallow lead and ignore all the emotions I can’t make sense of, mumbling a simple, “No.”

  Her lips turn down into the first frown I’ve seen all day, contributing to the anger stirring inside of me.

  “It’s fine, Alma.”

  “But… what about your parents?”

  “My dad is dead,” I say harshly, my eyes stabbing her with a look that says drop it.

  She does, but only long enough for me to shut my eyes and get a handle on the quell of emotions I don’t like dealing with.

  It isn’t long after I’ve shut my eyes and start to breathe through my nose like a boxer coming down from a fight that I hear her soft whisper.

  “What about your mother? Is she dead too?”

  “No.”

  “She might be looking for you.” She offers, her voice so low I almost don’t hear her.

  “She’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  I open my eyes. “Because, Alma, I’m looking for her.”

  5

  An Uneven Ratio

  Rumor

  I’m beginning to understand that Alma Underwood is a girl who likes answers. When I look into her eyes, I see a war inside of them, an internal need to put all of my pieces together. I am the kind of puzzle that takes days to complete. The kind of challenge that comes with turmoil, frustration, and the idea that giving up would be easier than finishing.

  Dread snakes under my skin while I wait for her onslaught of questions to continue, and I neutralize my face. Except, she doesn’t ask about my mother like I expect her to. For many long moments, she offers me nothing but silence and a sad smile. I wonder if I should feel guilty about the relief I feel.

  “Hey, can I borrow your limbs?” She blurts quickly, catapulting herself from her bed with a bounce.

  “My limbs?”

  “Your feet, most specifically.” Her hands fall into place at her hips while she waits for me to answer.

  I struggle to form words and bring my bottom lip between my teeth, only slightly weirded out that her gaze is now solely fixed on the feet poking out from the edge of my quilt.

  “What’s wrong with your own feet?” I gesture towards her bare, tiny toes painted with blue polish.

  “Nothing, but I already used mine.” Her lips pull into a leisurely smile. “What if I say please?”

  “What if I say no?” I tease.

  She sticks her bottom lip out so far a plane could use it as a landing strip. Her wide eyes become cartoon-like and she cups her hands together, shaking them as she speaks. “Pretty please, Rumor?”

  I pretend to think it over by cupping my chin and letting my eyes roam around her room. When they catch sight of her oddly decorated dresser, it dawns on me what she needs my feet for, and I stop stalling for time. “Alright, fine.” I concede. “But then I get to use the shower.”

  Her head bobs eagerly, eyes shining so fiercely, they remind me of the first sun rays pushing through a window in the morning.

  She drops to her knees and wedges half of her petite body underneath her bed.

  My brows arch while I study her thrashing legs and listen to sounds of a struggle. She must’ve moved too harshly, and I flinch when I hear a loud clunk and see the bed jerk. “Uh, Alma? You okay?”

  “One second!” Is her muffled her reply. There are a few more sounds I don’t have time to decipher before she’s wiggling her way free. She emerges unscathed with three small tubes of paint and a sponge looking thing. She sits back on her heels, blowing wild bangs from her face.

  Shuffling over to me on her knees, she extends her hands. “Would you prefer brilliant blue, burnt orange, or forest green?”

  “Forest green.”

  “Good choice.” She sets her paints down and taps the top of my foot. “I’m going to need you to take off your socks and shoes,” she says, and then she’s spinning around and reaching back under her bed.

  I hesitate. "I haven’t showered in almost a week.”

  With a quick glance over her shoulder, she inclines her head and purses her lips. “I grew up with four siblings and no personal space.” She leaves it at that and produces a section of newspaper that’s seen better days. Placing it under my feet, her dark eyebrows rise mischievously and she clears her throat, waiting.

  With a resigned sigh, I push my quilt aside and start untying my shoe. My eyes flutter closed and I quickly say a pray to whoever’s listening that I’m not about to unleash an atomic bomb. I changed my socks every day I could until I ran out of clean pairs. It could be toe-jam central beneath my socks and I’d have no idea.

  When the first shoe is off, I pinch the top of my sock and start to drag it off my dirty foot. I wince slightly when it comes free and spread my toes, holding my breath. My chest expands in a big whoosh when I discover I am toe-jam free.

  Thank you.

  I hurry to undo my other shoe, yanking the sock off and shoving both socks and shoes as far from Alma as I can. Just because I am toe-jam free does not mean there isn’t something growing inside those soiled socks.

  Gross.

  Extending my legs, I rest my feet on the wrinkled newspaper covered in slashes of dried paint and wiggle my toes. “Alright, go for it.”

  She doesn’t move right away. “Are you sure this is cool?”

  I jerk my gaze to hers and find the skin around her eyes wrinkled. “What do you mean? I said yes, my feet are bare, I chose forest green, what more confirmation do you need?”

  “Well, you took forever taking off your shoes.”

  “I was making sure we didn’t both need gas masks to handle the fumes.”

  The side of her mouth twitches. “I think we’ll be fine.”

  I poke her knee with my big toe. “Then get to it, slowpoke.”

  “Me?” She laughs, reaching for the green paint and popping the cap. “You’re the slowpoke. It would’ve gone much faster if you would’ve used both hands to take off your shoes.”

  “Probably.” She’s right, but that isn’t an option for me. It never has been.

  The paint makes a noise resembling a weak fart when she squeezes it onto the porous surface. I watch her slender fingers wrap around my wide ankle and start to lift, positioning the wet sponge.

  “Wait!”

  She drops my ankle.

  Gesturing towards the dresser across the room, I ask her, “Shouldn’t we be doing this process over there? What am I supposed to do once you get the paint on my feet? Stand up and walk?”

  “Of course not.” She grips my ankle again. Before I have a chance to plead my case, thick, cold liquid is slathered up the bottom of my foot. It twitches and Alma tightens her fingers. “You’ll butt scooch.”

  “I’ll–– what?”

  “Butt scooch,” she says again, the tip of her tongue poking out from between her lips. I shiver when she massages the paint into my heel, the strange sensation unfamiliar.

  “Butt scooch.” I am amused by this. “Are you implying you’d like me to use the muscles in my ass to hightail myself over to that dresser?”

  “Exactly, yes.” Setting do
wn my right foot, she reaches for the left one after squeezing more paint onto her sponge. “Haven’t you ever butt scooched before?”

  “I can’t say that I have.” I bite the inside of my cheek and tense my muscles so I don’t kick her in the chin when paint oozes between my toes. “That tickles.”

  I regret admitting that the moment her head lifts and I spot mischief spinning in her eyes. “Your ticklish?”

  “No.”

  “You just said you were.”

  “I lied.”

  Her cheeks pink with her laugh. Setting the sponge aside, she clicks the cap back in place and smacks me on the calf. “Alright, butt scooch. Hurry up before the paint starts to dry.”

  Because I know she’s completely serious, I squeeze my butt cheeks together and propel my hips forward. I feel like a total nut job.

  “You’re not very good at this.” Her voice bounces off my back. “Didn’t you ever have butt scooch races with your siblings?”

  “I don’t have any siblings,” I say over my shoulder, using my right hand to speed up the butt scooching process. It doesn’t exactly feel great on my tailbone.

  “That explains it.” She’s suddenly right next to me, butt scooching like a proud Olympian.

  Fascinated with this girl, my smile is cranked up a small notch. We make it to the dresser at the same time, and I lift my feet, pressing them gently against an open spot on the face of the fourth drawer. I let them sit for a moment, rolling them around gently so the paint will stay.

  My feet leave the piece of furniture with a sticky sound. “There you go.” Looking at her dresser, I find that I positioned one foot a little higher than the other but all the paint seemed to transfer so I consider my first foot painting and butt scooch race a success.

  Carefully resting my heels against her floor, I pick a piece of unwashed hair from my mouth. “Can I shower now?”

  “Not yet.” Propelling herself across the room, she quickly snatches the paint tube. “We have to do your hands.”

  “No.”

  She spins around. “No?”

  “No. You said you needed to borrow my feet. I let you borrow my feet, now I get to shower.”

  “But…" She rolls her head and gazes longingly at her dresser. “Everybody has always done both their feet and their hands.”

  “Not me.” I decide. “Besides, who even is going to notice?”

  “Anybody with at least one fully functioning eyeball will notice the ratio of feet to hands is off.” She forces her lips into a stiff smile and acknowledges me with a sense of determination I now know to be part of her character. “I’m not above begging. In fact, I’m kind of a professional at it.”

  “A professional at begging, huh? I’ll bet you’re pretty stubborn too.”

  “Stubborn as a mule. So give me your hand, Rumor Rawlings.” She orders, voice thick with new authority. “I must make my ratio even.”

  “Well, Alma Underwood, I’m sorry to burst your bubble but your ratio will never be even.”

  She lifts her chin and sniffles, holding up the wet sponge like a weapon, challenging me. “And why is that?”

  I lean forward, close enough to invade her personal space. She stiffens but shows no signs of relenting. Running my tongue across my teeth, I look at her with hard-pressed defiance. “Because it’s physically impossible.”

  “I beg to differ.” She rolls her shoulders back, propelling her confidence upward. “All you have to do is give me your other hand.”

  With a smirk on my lips, I sit back and throw her a curveball. “I don’t have another hand.”

  The long lashes that rest against her cheeks fly up. “I’m sorry?”

  Feeling smug, I raise my left arm. The end of my sweatshirt sleeve hangs limp, flopping over my wrist without anything poking out of the end.

  Her limbs jerk as though someone slapped her awake, and she merely gawks at me, tongue-tied with a slack jaw.

  I chuckle gently. For the first time since meeting Alma Underwood, she is silent. I can’t say I blame her. Most people aren’t sure what to say when they discover what’s under my sleeve, or rather, what’s not under my sleeve.

  I stopped letting my skin crawl with embarrassment about ten years ago. By the time middle school had rolled around, I was fed up with the mockery and feeling ashamed of something I had no say in. Eventually, humiliation turned into raw fury and I started sticking up for myself. Not long after that, I was left alone. Now, I don’t find it awkward to wear short sleeve shirts in public, and I don’t hesitate to make cracks about my missing limb. People still stare and say rude things every once in a while, but people say rude things to people who do have both hands, so I try not to let it bother me.

  Alma’s throat bobs harshly like she’s trying to swallow her tongue but her throat is too dry for it to make it down the passageway. When her cheeks start to drain of color, I wonder if she’s choking on lack of air.

  “It’s okay, Alma. You didn’t know.”

  She snaps out of it with a shake of her head. “I feel like I just shoved your stinky, green foot in my mouth.”

  I bark a laugh. “You didn’t know.”

  “Because you didn’t tell me!” She accuses, her agitated state making me smile. “Why didn’t you tell me? You need to tell me these things, Rumor, or I risk being totally insensitive.”

  “You aren't insensitive. It’s fine. I’m wearing long sleeves. How could you have known?”

  “You still should’ve said something. I would’ve told you if I was missing a hand.” Her tone is laced with a heavy dose of impatience and frustration. Grabbing the used sponge, she steals my only hand and starts painting it. “We will just use this hand twice.”

  I nod. It sounds like a fine compromise to me.

  I feel an odd sense of joy at the little huffs of irritation she's making as she thickens the layer of paint on my palm. It’s kind of adorable the way her slight nose is wrinkled at the top and she’s struggling to keep her bright eyes dark with false anger.

  “Are you mad at me, Alma Underwood?”

  “I don’t know.” She slams my hand against her dresser, putting extra pressure on my fingers to ensure the stick. “I guess I feel like a doofus. Here I am, barking at you to give me a hand you don’t have.”

  “Don’t feel like a doofus, Alma. You couldn’t have known. I was just messing with you.” I let her flip my hand palm side up and apply more paint. “It’s not something I normally hide, or even really can hide, but the last thing I wanted to do when you kidnapped me was admit I was a homeless teen who needs a shower, a haircut, and another hand.”

  Also, I wanted to proceed with caution. As reluctant as I was to follow her home, now that I’m here, I’m excited to shower and wake up with walls surrounding me. I didn’t want to be hasty, show off my nub, and then have to leave or be forced to room with a judgmental twat waffle.

  Though if I’m being fully honest with myself, I knew after ten-seconds of being inside this bedroom that Alma Underwood is not a twat waffle. There is nothing about her that has my alarm bells ringing. The spirit that exudes her is carefully colored in a mixture of neon and soft shades. She’s a vibrant girl with a gentle heart, who feels both anger toward me for not telling her about my missing hand and sympathy while she wonders how it became that way.

  There must be something cautioning her not to ask. I can see her from the corner of my eye, staring at me warily and sheathing the words on the tip of her tongue the same way she did when she brought up my mother.

  But unlike the woman that gave birth to me, my lack of a hand is something I don’t mind talking about. “It’s called congenital amputation,” I tell her, my hand falling against the dresser for the second time. “I was born missing my left hand.”

  She nods gently, pressing my hand to the drawer of her dresser much softer than before, lost in a sea of thoughts and unfiltered questions. “Is it something that just happens?”

  “Basically, yeah. The exact cause isn't rea
lly known." With my hand peeling away from its twin print, her ratio is even again. "It isn’t genetic or something that’s in my DNA, it’s something that just is.”

  “Is it uncommon?”

  “It’s not super uncommon but there also isn’t a large number of us homegrown amputees running around.”

  “Well then, Rumor, I believe that makes you unusual, uncommon, and absolutely remarkable.”

  She offers me a smile so genuine and friendly, my throat constricts. Dipping my chin, I flick an imaginary speck of lint off my sweatshirt and breathe harshly through my nose. There’s a small pull in my chest, a twinge, caused by her warm words and welcoming attitude.

  Not once in my seventeen years did my father, or anyone else, describe me as remarkable. My father was not a bad father. Nothing he did ever made me feel embarrassed or ashamed of what I was lacking, but he also never described my arm as anything but a defect or a problem formed before birth.

  Alma Underwood is the only person I’ve ever encountered who has met me and concluded the strangest piece of my being is to be categorized as something remarkable.

  I’m not sure why her words hit me like a brick in the chest.

  I nibble my lip apprehensively, my body rocking awkwardly while I fight with my mouth to say something to break me out of this thick fog of thanks.

  She reaches out and places her hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. When I sweep my head up and I’m greeted by her easy smile, my reaction toward her immediate acceptance doesn’t feel so strange.

  “How about I show you the bathroom so you can finally take a shower?”

  “That’d be fantastic.” I look down at my painted hand. “You’ll have to get the door for me.”

  She pushes her long fingers through her hair and stands up with a muted laugh. I push off the floor, standing flat on my feet now that the paint between my toes has dried. Gathering my duffle bag, I follow her out of her room and back down the narrow staircase. The creaking is so loud, I wince with every step and cross my fingers one of her siblings doesn’t leave their room to figure out who the second set of footsteps belong to.