Alma Underwood Is Not A Kleptomaniac Read online

  A beat of silence goes by.

  “I think you’re a little insane,” he blurts. “And I think it’s really awesome.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Tentatively, he places his hand back on my knee and grants me with a timid smile. “Tell me some of the things you’ve found.”

  “Okay.” I look up, creating a quick list. “Well, some of the more recent finds include ticket stubs to a blue man group concert, the glue for a toupee, a red feather boa, a studded dog collar, a snow globe of the London skyline, and seven earrings of mismatching pigs."

  His smile is quick. “Can I see them?”

  “My treasures?” I place my hand over his. “Sure.”

  “Which one is your favorite?”

  “I don’t have a favorite. I like to say I love them all equally. Somebody has to, you know? Every treasure I’ve kept has been left behind. Like, people decide they don’t want it anymore, set it down, and walk away. I think a lot of times we treat other people this way. Leave them behind when we decide we’re done with them.”

  Turning his hand over, our palms connect, and slowly––so slowly–– our fingers link together. “Maybe I’m one of your lost treasures.”

  “Maybe you are.”

  Our eyes lock, and I see my reflection in his leftover tears. He squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you found me.”

  10

  Somewhere Out There

  Rumor

  “Do you do this often?”

  “Draw on my nub? Yeah.” I cross my ankles and lean back, my upper body immersed in the pillows on her bed. “Usually when my boredom reaches maximum capacity.”

  “I’m sorry.” The marker against my skin stills. “Did you just call your half-arm a nub?”

  “Did you just call it a half arm?”

  She shrugs. “Half arm sounded medically correct.”

  “Medically correct.” What a dork. “Sorry to break it to ya, Ace, half arm isn’t exactly a proper term either. My docs used to call it my stump.”

  “Like a tree? Weird.”

  “Right? Dad and I thought so too. It’s why we renamed it a nub.”

  She grins and dips her chin, drawing swirls and uneven lines on my nub with a red washable marker. “I like that better too.”

  She exchanges her red marker for a pink one, drawing small, circular shapes along her lines. Her chest lifts in even pants while she nibbles on her lip. I watch her with rapt fascination. “What are you drawing?”

  She lifts her head just barely, her cheeks now as pink as the marker between her fingers. “The butterfly kisses.”

  My lips curve. “The… what?”

  “Butterfly kisses,” she says sheepishly, her eyes fixed ambitiously on her design.

  I angle my head, my cheek pillowing against teeny, tiny clouds while I gaze at my artist. As I stare, the lines start to dance against my skin. Circular shapes morph into butterfly wings, getting knotted throughout the strategically woven lines. “I can’t tell if the butterflies made the lines or if they’re trapped in them.”

  “Both.”

  I shiver as the marker drifts across my skin. “How do they get out?”

  We finally make steady eye contact. Her pupils large and glossy, I want to submerge myself beneath their surface and get lost.

  A soft breath falls from her lips. “If they’re lucky, they don’t.”

  My brows dip. “They don’t want to get out?”

  “No.” Right in the crook of my elbow, she fabricates a butterfly much larger than the rest. “The butterflies represent something magnificent, something remarkable we want to hold tight to.”

  “So we trap them?”

  “We try to.”

  A sea of red and pink oscillate against my skin with the movement of her hand. With each stroke, I become a little less muted, as she carefully replaces my gray with a little touch of her color.

  “What’s so special about the butterflies?”

  “Their kisses give us a little tinge of weightlessness.”

  My voice lowers. “Have you felt one?”

  “I’ve felt thousands all at once.”

  “What was it like?”

  The tip of her finger whispers across the butterflies in my skin. “Like I’m walking through a dream I’m not sure will end happily but find myself wishing not to wake up anyway.” Her finger stills. “Would you like to feel one?”

  I can only nod.

  She arranges her body so she’s on her knees beside me. Swaying forward, she places a tentative hand on either side of my head. The arms holding her upright quiver, the hair spanning them vertical and motionless. Her throat bobs, and she’s inclining, her cheek mere centimeters from mine.

  Warm breath moves across my cheek, and she’s right there, her lips a fraction from my skin.

  “Don’t move.”

  I stop breathing.

  The pads of her fingers graze my forehead, riding my face of any loose strands of hair. I hear her swallow and then we are suspended in silence.

  My eyes fall shut, and I grip her bedding tight in my fist.

  I feel it before I’m ready––the soft, cautious flutters of her eyelashes against the top of my cheekbone. I vibrate with each pass of her lashes, my chest swelling. Somewhere in my Alma-induced stupor, the truth registers with me. Her butterfly kisses and my tiny violins are one and the same.

  My eyes fly open.

  Her movements are languid and carefully calculated as she pulls herself away from me. Rather than sitting back on her heels, she stretches her body out beside me, hands below her cheek, our heads sharing a pillow.

  Her breath moves across my lips as she speaks. “I hope one day you’ll feel thousands at once.” Her hand settles on my chest, my heartbeat knocking into her palm.

  “My mom used to do that when we were kids.” Her eyes fall shut. “Even back then I knew it was something special.”

  The pulse in the tip of my finger pounds when it makes contact with her forehead, brushing bangs from her face. Maybe it’s because she has her eyes closed, or maybe it’s the silence begging to be filled but I find myself confessing, “I wish I knew my mom.”

  Her eyes stay closed but the hand on my chest grows heavier. I find it in me to keep talking.

  “I never cared before. I had a great childhood, a mom around wouldn’t have made a difference. My dad worked his ass off to make sure I didn’t want for anything. Even at a young age, I respected that.” I place my hand over hers. “I didn’t ever ask. I had sort of an attitude toward her. Like 'I don’t want to know you if you don’t want to know me' sort of thing.”

  She links our pinky fingers.

  “The first and only time I got curious was when I needed my birth certificate to get my license. He was super strange about it. When I confronted him, he told me her first name and that she grew up in Flat Rock, Michigan. I didn’t ask any more questions after that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It seemed to upset him.” My eyes drift. “He meant more to me than a woman I’d never met, anyway.”

  “Rumor.” She was holding my hand now, squeezing with all she had. “Wondering about your mother doesn’t make you a bad son to your father.”

  “I know, but I never really wondered. Not until he died and made me an orphan.”

  Her eyes peel open, a curtain of moisture against emerald irises. “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what it is you went through.”

  “When I was a kid, I used to wish for a hand so other kids would leave me alone. Now, I’d give up my other hand just to bring him back.”

  Her hand leaves mine and falls against my face, palming my cheek. With a swipe of her thumb, she rids me of a tear I didn’t know escaped. The pain that comes with losing my dad is a silent one. One that comes from cuts and bruises that can’t be seen but are more painful than anything a weapon could do.

  “If I dwell on him for even a fragment of time, I lose it. So I just don’t dwell. Even though I think
that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

  “You lost one of your parents and then jumped on a bus all alone to find the other one. There is no rulebook that says you have to feel a certain thing or react a certain way.”

  “Do you think I’m completely mad for jumping off a cliff without knowing what’s at the bottom?”

  Her smile is soft. “I think you’re filled with buoyancy and courage. You may be a little mad, Rumor Rawlings, but don’t you know your fairytales? All the best people are.”

  I snort. “That’s her name.”

  “Whose?”

  “My mother. Her name is Alice.”

  “Well, maybe she went back to Wonderland and that’s why she’s not here.”

  “That’s wishful thinking.” I rest my hand on her waist, my fingers tangling with the fabric of her shirt. “You think she’s out there?”

  “I do, yeah. I think she’s somewhere out there, and you’ll find her.”

  “I don’t even know how she met my father or how long they were together. He never opened his book to that chapter.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Simon.”

  “Tell me about him.” She brushes my hair back, knotting her fingers in the strands at the nape of my neck. “What was he like?”

  “He was smart. Really smart. He was a software developer and all around amazing with computers. He could fix or re-wire just about any machine. He had a special calculator inside his brain.” My lips twitch, remembering. “I had no idea how he did it. I used to offer him foot rubs to do my math homework. It never worked.”

  “That was a good try.” Her grin grows. “My dad would’ve taken the foot rub and still not helped with the homework.”

  “Oh, he did that.” I laugh. “Plenty of times. He used to have to threaten to leave me at home while he went out and did fun things without me. That got me moving pretty quickly.”

  “Did you spend a lot of time together?”

  “Oh, yeah. Dad and I did just about everything together. He taught me everything I know. Man was fifty-years-old on a skateboard, right beside Josh and I.” My everything aches. “I miss him, Ace.”

  Instead of telling me it will get better or changing the subject, she wipes my cheek again and puts her forehead against mine. “There’s no rulebook, Rumor.”

  My hand against her twitches.

  “Alma!”

  Her bedroom door swings open abruptly.

  The silence convulses around us, the intrusion of another voice shattering the stillness into a thousand pieces that suspend over our heads. The sudden noise makes her jerk, her head connecting with the low ceiling above her.

  “Shit!” I sit up swiftly, reaching for her. “Ace, you okay?”

  Rubbing the back of her head, she mumbles. “This is not going to be good.”

  I look over my shoulder. Two dark eyeballs are glaring at the placement of my hand on Alma’s head. “Who the hell are you?”

  Ah, shit.

  “Shepherd,” Alma groans, wincing as she lifts her head. “What’s up?”

  Shepherd takes a heavy step forward, still staring at me with hooded eyes, probably wishing the gaze would be enough to set me on fire. “What’s up with me?” He smacks his chest and thrusts his hand towards us. “What’s up with you?”

  “Oh, you know.” Alma smiles weakly. “Just the usual.”

  “Alma.” He takes another step. “There’s a man in your bed.”

  “On.” She corrects, coughing nervously. “He’s on my bed. I was just drawing on his nub.”

  His nostrils flare. “You were what?”

  “Christ.” I hold my nub, displaying her artwork. “Nub.”

  He studies me with cold, unblinking eyes.

  Alma sighs and maneuvers around me, slipping off the bed and onto her feet. “Shep, take a breath, you look like you belong caged in a zoo.”

  He crosses his arms over his heaving chest. “Why is there a dude in your bed?”

  “On my bed!” she huffs. “And we were just hanging out. I met him when I was at the school getting my schedule. He just moved to town.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You got a name?”

  “Rumor.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  I lift my chin. “Is Shepherd yours?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Alma grumbles.

  “Where you from?” Shepherd addresses me.

  “Chicago.” I stand from the bed. I kind of want to punch him but I offer him my hand instead. “Alma’s been really cool to me since I moved here.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet she has.”

  “Shepherd!” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “You live in Ann Arbor.”

  He takes my hand in his and gives it a hard shake before confronting his sister. “Class got canceled, figured I’d come home for a long weekend.”

  She nods, still rubbing at her head. I turn my back on Shepherd and move toward her with rapid strides. I wrap my fingers around her slim wrist and tug. “Ace, let me see.” Her hand falls away. With gentle movements, I peel back her short strands of hair and inspect the area.

  “No blood, but it looks like there’s a small bump forming. Say something if you feel dizzy, yeah? That was a hard hit.”

  “I’m fine.” She turns around, my hand slipping from her skin. She grasps it before it can get too far away and gives it a squeeze. “Promise.”

  Shepherd makes a noise. Alma and I both jerk, casting him our gazes. His shoulders seem to have lost some of their tension, and he’s attempting to smile.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Rumor,” he says, and I think he felt true pain with those words.

  “Nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  He runs his hands through the tousled locks on his head, the same color as Alma's. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah. Alma told me all about her family. Congrats on not being named Colon.”

  “Thank you. It’s my greatest relief in life.”

  “See?” Alma beams. “This is great. You guys could be friends.”

  “Sure.” I’ll be friends with the Gingerbread Man if it gets her to smile like that.

  Shepherd gestures toward the door. “I was gonna get the crew together and watch some movies. Kitchen sink night.”

  Alma looks at me. “Want to come?”

  I have no idea what the hell a kitchen sink night is but I nod anyway.

  “Cool. I’ll get the rest of them.” Shepherd rotates, heading for the bedroom door when he stills. “What’s with the pool float on your floor?”

  I track his gaze to my duffel unzipped beside the giant pizza, my clothes spilling out next to a pile of my toiletries. The vein in his neck pulses when he notices the pool float has a sheet draped over it and a pillow resting in the corner.

  “Alma––" His fingers curl into his palms. The storm inside his eyes has just reached its peak.

  “I can explain." Her laugh is flat. "It’s kind of funny, really."

  Shepherd pops his neck. “Family meeting,” he growls. “Downstairs. Now.”

  We both jump when he slams the door. The ceiling rattles like it’s about to cave in. The sounds of his footsteps on the stairs puncture the air. The two of us stay motionless, listening to bedroom doors fly open and Shepherd’s shouts about a family meeting.

  After the creaking ceases and we’re back to the silence, she grips my hand and sighs. “This ought to be good.”

  And then we’re moving.

  11

  Family Meeting

  Rumor

  Alma maintains a vise-like grip on my wrist as she ushers me down the stairs. I feel a little bit like I’m being led to my execution. Judging by the look in Shepherd’s eyes, he’s either going to kill me or send me back to Mo.

  “Alma, wait.” I dig my heels into the ground. Her small body jolts and she pivots. I drop my eyes before she can capture my gaze. “B
efore we go in there, I just want to––" My throat grows thick. “I just, uhm, I want to say thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For––" My stomach knots. “For, ya know––”

  “Not really.”

  Bouncing on my toes, I take a few shaky breaths and look her in the eye. Her big, toothy grin makes my kneecaps wobble. “I’m going to miss you, Ace,” I blurt. “I’m just, uh, really going to miss you.”

  Her eyebrows dip. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Ah, well, Shepherd.” I scratch my neck. “He looked real pissed.”

  She scoffs. “That grizzly bear brother is not about to kick out my best friend.”

  Did she just… “Your best friend?”

  “Let’s not make a thing of it, yeah?” She starts to fidget. “Echo, Arthur, and Lenox all think they have the title.”

  “But it’s me?”

  A flush sweeps her cheeks. “Yes.”

  My grin is massive.

  “Alright, well, now that we know who the real Slim Shady is.” She swipes her palms down the front of her denim shorts. “Let’s go face the firing squad.”

  With her nose high and shoulders pulled back, she strides through her house, determination and purpose in each of her steps. When we emerge into the living room, the hushed conversation ceases, and four sets of eyes fall on me.

  “Okey dokey.” Alma claps her hands and moves to the center of the room. “Let’s get this meeting started.”

  “Hold up.” Shepherd advances on her, abandoning his post by the coffee table. “Why do you get to lead this meeting?”

  “Because Rumor is my friend.”

  “I’m the oldest. I always lead the meetings.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “This is a special circumstance, Shep.” She pats him on the arm. “Now step aside.”

  Smoothing out her shirt, she takes up stance in front of a mantle, a small television perched above it, flanked by two family photos of her entire family in denim I’ll never be able to not see.