Alma Underwood Is Not A Kleptomaniac Read online

  “If you’re friends with them, I don’t doubt it.”

  I throw my hand over my heart and let my lashes flutter playfully. “Rumor Rawlings, are you saying I am a good judge of character?”

  A small, lopsided grin moves across his lips. “I’m saying I think you’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

  My stomach flips.

  “And people like you, people who extend kindness to strangers and find more joy receiving a simple smile in return rather than an actual, tangible prize, would never surround themselves with people who don’t exude that same type of energy.”

  My lips part slightly and then close again. Letting my fingertips graze the spot just below my eyes, I feel the heat there, and the way my skin tingles just below the surface. I shiver with each tickle, his words affecting me the same way endless butterfly kisses across my skin would.

  I wait until my quickened pulse quiets and my smile turns smug before saying, “I typically make any and all people inquiring to be my friend take a personality quiz before I can say for sure. You were the only exception, and I’m still considering it.”

  "Well.” He regards me with a lively expression, tapping his pencil against his textbook. “You may not approve of my results. In fact, you may just paint over my feet on your dresser drawer.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Sure is. I have a terrible personality. I generally communicate in grunts and avoid eye contact. Also, my favorite past time is stealing candy from children and tipping over old people.” He leans forward, inching closer to me but not quite close enough. “You want to know the worst part?”

  “Worse than tipping over old people? I’m not sure I can handle it.”

  He bites his tongue and glances around Mo as if he’s making sure we’re alone. Then he cups his hand around his mouth and speaks in a hushed, vehement tone. “I never, and I mean never, change the toilet paper roll.”

  “No!” I clutch my chest. “I’ve brought home a monster.”

  He shrugs in false resignation. “I tried to tell you when we met but you looked so pleased to be kidnapping me, I didn’t have the heart to tell you what an abomination to society I am.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to have to tell Echo and Arthur they were right about you. What a disappointment you turned out to be.” I let my head shake and strain to keep a despondent look upon my face.

  It’s virtually impossible when he’s flashing me a smile so big, it dazzles against his olive skin, enhancing all of his features. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, making me more aware of his bold face. With his chin held high, and laughter carved in kind lines on his face, I find his compelling, dark eyes dominate the rest of his traits. While there is an innate strength in his face, a strong, firm jawline paired with smooth skin pulled tautly over the slight ridges in his cheekbones, it’s his eyes I believe to be the most alluring.

  There is a story hidden inside of them, a story that isn’t sure it wants to be told, but finds distress in the silence.

  “I’m deeply sorry I turned out to be such a letdown,” Rumor teases. “At least you still have Echo and Arthur. How long have you been friends with them?”

  “We met at eighth-grade orientation and have been glued together ever since.”

  “You didn’t know them in grade school?”

  “No. Arthur had just moved from Minnesota and Echo went to elementary school a few towns over. I wish I would’ve known them back then. It definitely would’ve made the early years more bearable.”

  He’s back to chewing on his pencil. “What about Lenox? I thought you said the two of you were tight.”

  “We are. She’s my number one, but we weren’t always in the same classes and we have different interests. It’s nice to have Echo and Arthur to share hobbies with but still have Lenox in my corner at the end of the day, ya know?”

  “Yeah, I feel you.”

  As he speaks, the corners of his lips flatten and he gazes into Mo, staring wistfully into the distance as though he’s trying to conjure up a memory he previously buried. The more he stares, a film of fog drapes over his eyes, his cheeks hollowing. It makes me wonder who he’s thinking about, and what it is about them that has his hand balled into a fist and bones so stiff they look ready to break. He sits unmoving, captivated by a vision that’s doing more harm than good.

  “Rumor?”

  He startles, slowly dragging himself away from the events playing on repeat in front of his eyes. “Hmm?”

  “You good?”

  “Me? Oh, yeah.” He leans back against the steel wall of the train, fiddling with his pencil in a way that tells me he’s attempting to look nonchalant.

  He’s failing.

  “Do you have a best friend?” I ask cautiously, studiously scanning his features to gauge how close I am to hitting the mark.

  He snorts, mumbling something I can’t make out while looking more uncomfortable than Reginald holding in a fart at church. When his pencil snaps between his fingers, I know I’ve shot a bullseye.

  “What’s their name?”

  His reply is to flick his broken pencil at the wall and start digging in his bag for a new one.

  His silence tells me he’s not ready, so I battle with my personal restraint and put a padlock on my mouth. Turning my attention back to one of the dozen textbooks Rumor checked out, I go back to making notes about the GED’s registration process in my notebook. I’m making a fourth bullet point with my Hufflepuff pen when I hear it.

  A whispered, “Josh” comes from the other side of the train.

  I crane my head just a tad, looking at him through my bangs.

  He’s staring down at his lap. “His name is Josh.”

  I say nothing.

  “We met in second grade when he moved to Chicago from Texas. He made fun of my arm and I made fun of his accent. In some strange way, that made us best friends.”

  His head finally lifts, the fog in his eyes less prominent.

  “After that, we were always a team, beating other kids up each time they made fun of us. He used to knock kids out of their desk if they even snickered at my arm. We spent more time in detention than at recess, but I didn’t care. Josh was my Lenox. He was always in my corner.”

  With the faintest hint of a smile, the fog evaporates entirely, and he can see again.

  “He’s my best friend, the closest thing I have to a brother. He was there for me every second when my dad passed. When things went to shit and I took off, I didn’t stop to say goodbye or offer an explanation. He’s either royally pissed off at me, or I crushed him. Either way, I don’t think I’m ready to face him right now.”

  With a stiffness still present in his shoulders and his smile starting to wobble, I decide Josh is a troubling topic. Similar to his mother and why he’s looking for her. Both people he isn’t ready to face but never truly wanted to turn his back on.

  Focusing my gaze back on the GED prep book Rumor checked out, I change the subject. “It says here you have to be a resident of the state in which you acquire your GED.”

  “Great. So, I either go back to Illinois or I apply for residency here.” He drags his hand down his face and lets his head fall back. “Both expensive options.”

  “Have you considered getting a job? There are a ton of shops and restaurants downtown. Arthur is a waiter at a burger joint. He could probably put in a good word for you.”

  “That’s really cool of you, but I’m not sure that would work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I don’t know what I would do when they give me the tax forms to fill out. I don’t have an address, not to mention I’m a homeless minor. As soon as anybody puts my name in a computer system somewhere, I’ll get pinged.” He slams his textbook shut and clunks it off his forehead. “Maybe I could like mow lawns or something for cash. Do you know any old people who could use some help?”

  I point at him. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. You could probably make
some mad cash in the winter shoveling driveways.” A spectacular idea washes over me, and I want to kick myself for not thinking of it earlier. “You could come work at the motel.”

  “Uhm, what?”

  I jump to my feet. “No, it’s a perfect solution. My parents are always looking for a handyman, more so since my dad found out he has carpal tunnel in both of his wrists.”

  Rumor crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his chin, clearly not understanding how magical my solution is. “Define handyman.”

  “Easy stuff.” I bat my hand as I go down the list. “Painting old trim, filling cracks in the wall, replacing the hose on the washer more than you should have to, refilling the ice machine, pulling weeds out of cracks in the cement. Basically, all the extra stuff my parents dread doing when they could be doing book work.”

  “Alma, I only have one hand.”

  “So?” My nose wrinkles. “Does that make you incapable?”

  “No.” He chuckles and climbs to his feet, walking across the car. “It just makes me slow. Even with my prosthesis, I can’t get things done as fast. Not to mention, I’m a perfectionist, which makes me even slower.”

  “Well, my parents are the exact opposite of perfectionists so you’ll be good for them.” He opens his mouth and I slam my hand over it, ignoring the surprise in his eyes. “Stop making excuses. I’ve seen you do everything and anything with one hand just as fast as I can with two. Just think about how beneficial it would be if you worked at the motel. You wouldn’t have to wait for me to drive you or spend money on bus fare. There is no required uniform to waste money on or a training process to go through, and there’s no long commute so you can go right back to studying as soon as you’re done.”

  I drop my hand but continue rambling to heed any protests. “Don’t you remember that time I convinced you to follow me home and it turned out fantastic?”

  His laugh comes through his nose. “How would we tell them we met?”

  “We can say you just moved here and we met at orientation today. My parents have five children and own a small business, they walk through life half asleep and frazzled unless one of their kids is in danger. They aren’t going to call the school for confirmation.”

  He rolls his head, scratching the back of his neck. “And they’d be cool with paying me in cash?”

  “Definitely. If things change later on, we will re-assess.”

  Putting his arms behind his back, he walks around before mumbling a distinct “what the hell” and then he looks at me as he says, “Alright, where do I fill out an application?”

  I clap my hands and spin around to gather my stuff. “No application needed. Let’s go talk to them right now.”

  He chokes on his tongue. “Right now?”

  “Sure, why not? They are probably just about to clock in for the night. We can walk down and wait for them.” Tucking books under my arm, I gesture for him to follow me outside.

  Throwing his hand up, he retreats back into his dark corner and starts shoving his things into his bag. As I watch him, another realization comes to life and my excitement for this idea grows.

  Due to Clare and Harrison’s parental inclination to check up on me, Rumor’s been keeping himself tucked in Mo’s corner, away from the view of the door so my parents are unable to see him if they peer out the window. Once they know of his existence, he won’t have to stay so hidden.

  “Alright, let’s do this.” Moving past me, he leaps off Mo and looks over his shoulder. “I’m trusting you, Alma Underwood.”

  Scoffing, I follow his lead and we start our steps. “Have I steered you wrong yet?”

  He halts in the grass, rocking forward on his toes and back down on his heels. Fiddling with the bottom of his T-shirt, he gazes at me with a crooked grin. “No. I guess you haven’t.”

  “See?” I reach out to shove his arm. In the same second, his hand flies upward to block my hit and the tips of our fingers share the faintest touch.

  I feel it immediately.

  Rumor shivers and studies his fingers, wiggling them as though he no longer knows what to make of them.

  I feel his small gasp more than I hear it, and I wonder right then if he can feel the butterfly kisses too.

  8

  Madness, Lies, & Tiny Violins

  Rumor

  I feel dizzy and slightly levitated as I stare down at the tips of my fingers, and wonder what the hell was that?

  I was a smart kid. I never once put the tip of my finger in an electrical socket but I assume this is what it would feel like, a lightning bolt being shot straight through my spine while 1,000 tiny violins start to play inside my head somewhere.

  It feels a little like madness.

  “Are you coming or what?”

  I lift my chin to the source of my madness. She has one hand on her cocked hip while she regards me with an animated expression. There’s a flush on her pale cheeks that reminds me of when the sunset makes contact with crystal clear water.

  When she starts tapping her foot against the grass and checks the watch she’s not wearing, I force my feet to move again. “Impatient much?”

  “I’m not going to let you stall.”

  “I’m not stalling.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  She waits for me to catch up to her before moving again. As the seconds go by, the madness starts to fade. My fingers twitch with indecision and frustration. On one hand, I want to reach out and brush my knuckles against the goosebumps that have risen on her arm. On the other hand, I want to run far, far away from the tiny violins.

  My mind is racing when we make it to the enormous glass door stamped with a vinyl sticker of the state of Michigan.

  “Welcome to the Great Lakes Motel!” Alma pulls open the door with a proud smile.

  I take a tentative step inside, still slightly apprehensive this won’t completely blow up and result in the tragic loss of my pizza bed.

  “Would it kill you to smile a little? You look like somebody just ripped off all your toenails and made you eat them.”

  I lift my chin and flash her a noncommittal smile.

  “Wow. Okay. A little less terrible school picture and a little more like you’re actually excited to get this job.”

  “Except I don’t know if I’m excited to get this job, Alma. What if this backfires?”

  She pats my shoulder before shoving me the rest of the way inside of the building, letting the heavy door fall shut behind her. “You worry too much.”

  “You don’t worry enough.”

  A wrinkle between her eyebrows forms. “I try not to let my mind get tangled in outcomes it can’t control. Staying optimistic makes it easier to put one foot in front of the other when walking into unknown territory. You should try it.”

  I snort.

  What an odd pair we make, Alma and I.

  Two personalities so contradictory to one another’s. She is white, and I am gray. She is the bright, blank canvas ready to be covered with brush strokes of vibrancy. I am muted, the color of a cloud-covered sky. A pessimism chaser because I’m not always prepared for what’s behind the clouds.

  Alma is more than prepared. She’s lively and eager–– the type of disposition I normally run from. I can’t ever be too sure if what someone is preaching is disingenuous or if their smile is only pretend.

  Though I haven’t known her for long, I don’t believe Alma’s permanent smile and pretty words to be pretend, but I do wonder if it’s a bandage for any damage that may have been done to her.

  “Alright, I’m going to go check the back office for my parents if you’re good to chill here?”

  I hoist my bag higher on my shoulder. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “Cool. Feel free to wander.” With that, she drops her books on a long desk and scampers away.

  Shoving my hand into the front pocket of my jeans, I move deeper into the building. The walls surrounding me are a deep blue. Not your average beige or other lame, neutral color. Something tells
me that’s just too mainstream for the leaders of the Underwood clan.

  Moving out of the entryway, I find myself greeted by two oversized suede couches. Lying between them is a sheepskin rug, the color you get when mixing chocolate and vanilla ice cream together. It looks so soft, I get an urge to lay on it and wrap myself up like a human burrito with plans to stay a while. Despite its size, it doesn’t feel like it’s here to be a statement, but rather something for people to enjoy. Nothing about this place feels overly opulent or like it was strategically set up to impress. There are no chandeliers or gold framed stock photos. The furniture pieces aren’t carbon copies of one another, and there’s not one ugly throw pillow in sight.

  It’s a welcoming space, built to make guests feel like they are exactly where they belong.

  Coming to stand in front of an old stone fireplace, my chest fills and I feel the way I did when I stepped inside Alma’s attic for the first time. It’s astonishing, really, how a small space can produce such a profound effect.

  “Can I help you, son?”

  Following the sound of a voice, I turn my head to the right and refocus my gaze on a man. He’s parked behind a vast, wooden desk almost comically large in comparison to the slim man who sits behind it.

  “Uhm, hi.” I lift my hand in a lame wave. “I’m just waiting for Alma.”

  Clearing his throat, his aged fingers flex against the glass dome acting as a handle on his cane. “Alma doesn’t work today.”

  “Right.” I push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “She’s talking to her parents. I’m just waiting.”

  “Waiting for Alma?”

  I nod in confirmation. He says nothing. If it weren’t for his finger twitching against the top of the desk, I’d think he’s dozing. Slowly, he lifts his hand and starts rubbing at his jaw, the wrinkles in his skin pulling taut while he looks me over.

  His gaze is like a bag of bricks. I tug at the collar of my shirt, shuffling around myself and peering at the hallway Alma fled down.

  “What’s your name, young man?”

  I clear my throat. “Rumor.”