Free Death of a Kleptomaniac by Kristen Tracy

always does. I’m sympathetic toward him. If I were an indoor cat, I think I’d break out every now and again too.
    I go back to my room and look at myself in the mirror. I do not love this shirt. But I need layers. Maybe I can cover it up. No. I want a cotton shirt. Pink goes well with black. The shirt I really want is in the basement, draped over my mother’s old-fashioned collapsible drying rack.
    I don’t know why I feel so rushed. It’s not like Tate is going to be here in ten minutes. But maybe he’ll be early. I quicken my pace and go downstairs. As I’m changing shirts I hear a car tearing up our gravel driveway. Then I hear the sound of footsteps racing up the sidewalk. I stand on a box so I can look out our sunken window. Who’s at my house? Is Tate early? Did Henry come over? No way! I can see Ruthann’s shoes.
    She pounds hard on the metal screen door. Our doorbell is broken, so even if she’s trying to ring it, her efforts are futile.
    â€œMolly Weller, open the door!”
    How can she possibly know I’m here? I back away from the window and sit down next to the collapsible drying rack.
    â€œWhen Tate comes by to pick you up, I want to talk to him.”
    She’s nuts. That’s not happening.
    She opens the creaky screen and pounds on our wood door. Her fists may be small, but they’re very powerful. Once, I saw her crumple a half-full soda can like it was made out of air.
    â€œI just passed your mom and dad on my way over. You weren’t in either car. I know you’re home. Open up.”
    Wow, she’s so observant. I want to point out that I could have been in either car, fully reclined or squished inside the trunk, but that would require me to reveal myself. Maybe that’s Ruthann’s master plan. Maybe she’s trying to smoke me out of my hole. I duck my head down.
    â€œOpen this door or I will sideline you on the drill team forever!” she says.
    I don’t move.
    â€œI’m serious!”
    I know she’s serious, and I consider moving. But then I reconsider.
    â€œMolly Weller, I refuse to be treated this way.”
    I figure she’ll stick around for a few more minutes, blow off some steam, and then I’ll pretend like this never happened.
    â€œGod, is that you, Molly? In your basement? Hiding underneath your mom’s drying rack?”
    I look up. Standing inside my window well, bending over to look through the dirt-crusted glass, is the terrifying face of Ruthann Culpepper.
    â€œWhat are you doing? Have you lost it? Are you having a breakdown?” Ruthann says.
    I don’t know what to do. I shake my head. Because I’m not having a breakdown. Not yet.
    â€œCome let me in. We need to talk.”
    Oh my god. This is worse than a home invasion. She is not going to ruin my date. It will not happen. I will call whomever I need to prevent this.
    â€œLeave now, or I’ll call nine-one-one!” I yell.
    Wow, did I actually just yell that? I sound so hard-core. Too hard-core. Ruthann smashes her hand against the window, tying to make a clear spot, but it just muddies the glass.
    â€œAre you mental or something? You can’t call 911 over this.”
    Before I can argue either for or against my terrible idea of calling 911, Ruthann starts screaming. I scream too. For no real reason.
    â€œIt’s biting me!” she yells.
    I stop screaming. Something’s biting her? That’s weird. Maybe it’s my neighbor’s dog, Ralph. He’s supposed to be on a chain, but he’s an American bulldog, and when it comes to escaping fences and collars, that pooch has proven himself to be a regular Houdini. I decide that it’s not appropriate to let a fellow human being be mauled by my neighbor’s dog, so I hurry upstairs to help. I grab our mop as a defensive weapon and swing open the door.
    Once I see what’s actually happening, I feel slightly relieved. Hopkins has leaped