Small Town

M unching on the pepperoni and black olive pizza, I grabbed at the food court. I walk through the mall with Dottie in tow. I convinced the workers at the bubble tea place to sell me some fruit bits in a cup that she’s probably staining my bag with as I speak. Outside of the things I ordered on the ‘Zon, I picked up some socks, a couple pairs of different styles of shoes, and makeup like I’ve never worn before. I figured if I need to lay the edgy look on more, I’ll add the extra layer to my face.

“Dottie, do you think I forgot anything? I mean, they said a lot of things will be provided, but I just don’t know what normal things I should get. I haven’t paid attention to guys since… the thing… unless it’s trying to avoid Blake and Bryce.”

The kinkajou pops her head out a little, looking up at me with her enormous eyes. She has fruit bits in her fur and she looks happy as a pig in shit with her lunch. I arch a brow, waiting for her answer playfully, and she sticks a paw out, pointing.

Son of a bitch.

My unbelievably intelligent animal is pointing towards the discount store at the mall. I should pick up toiletries and underwear, as well as a few little creature comforts I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to take from Allison’s home. I’d like to think that they won’t try to take back all my shit, but who knows what people will do when they’re backed against the wall?

“Good idea, little squeaker. I’m gonna get enough stuff to keep both of us covered until these weirdoes from the university show up. Hopefully, you’ll eat dried fruit if we get in a bind. They should have that in the granola aisle and some energy bars. Who knows if I’ll get caught and grounded?”

Speeding up, I head out the doors and across the parking lot to the Wally World. This will be a much cheaper trip and while I wait in line at the inevitably long lines because they are purposely understaffed, I can call a rideshare to get home. Lifting my bag, I look at it and mutter softly, “This place is definitely one you have to stay hidden in. From the front door to the exit, I could run into upwards of fifty people I know. In fact, give me that beanie.”

I’d stowed it in the bag after I bought it and her tiny hand pokes out with the hat in it. When did I start assuming my weird racoon bear comprehends English? Shaking my head, I take it regardless and slam it on my new hairdo. Covering everything to the tips of my ears means no ‘Nosy Nellies’ will make a phone call to my fosters before I even checkout. All they can say now is that I look like a skinny boy—which I’d take as a compliment now.

After all, that’s what I want.

Drawing in a deep breath as the sliding doors open, I look at the chaos embodied by this store. It’s only eleven am on a Saturday, but it is packed to the gills with elderly people, families full of screaming kids, and employees in blue vests that look as if they’re doing something but are mostly blocking aisles. Of course, if I had to work at this shining example of corporate greed going unchecked, I don’t know if I’d be putting more than a quarter of my ass into it, either.

My bags from the store are getting heavy, so I grab a cart reluctantly. Carefully, I tuck or tie the tops of the bags that are already paid for, then place them in the cart right under a camera. Every teen in Woodlawn knows the lazy ass guards here would take great pleasure in trying to bust you for shoplifting, even when you absolutely could not have gotten the items here. Doing such a purposeful show in front of the cameras ensures they won’t incur the wrath of Sheriff Bob and his deputy Wilbur by calling them down here. They should be in the same diner as Allison and her friends at the moment; interrupting their mid-morning coffee and biscuits would be suicide.

Plus, Wilbur is three years older than the twins, played ball with them, and came back to bully people from behind a badge.

He knows who I am and would make everything more difficult. I’ve met him at school events and that idiot can start an argument in an empty house. I’m not one to back down and if I’m unlucky, he’d end up arresting me. It would blow my plans all to hell and back. Pausing for a moment, I wing a prayer at the universe, hoping that going to school with snooty rich kids is better than judgmental small town sports worshippers. It won’t be, but at least it will be a new challenge.

Pushing the cart across the threshold confidently, I head for the food side first. I need snacks and non-perishables for Dottie and me for the next couple of days. I hope whatever crap the people from Discordia are planning happens when they say, but I don’t want to be unprepared. “Dried fruit, energy bars, granola, jerky, stupid meal bars from diet lands, nuts…” I mutter to myself. “Fake rations in case I get grounded Super Sayian-style.”

I pass by the produce section on my way to the main aisle, snatching a couple grapes with my quick five finger lift and pushing them inside the bag for Dottie. My hands are fairly swift because I got engrossed in a book with a pickpocket and spent weeks learning to not set off bells on the coat hanging from my coat rack. It seemed fun, but now that I’ve gone a little nefarious; it feels like an amazing skill to have already. I can use it for so many things as long as I keep it a secret.

Kat Camponella, you’ve entered your villain era.

I blink, shaking my head. “No, Kit . Kit Camponella, you’ve entered your villain era.”

“Hey, Katarina! What’s this about a villain? Can’t be. You’re the quietest mouse in town!”

My eyes widen as I see the queen of busybodies, Becky Sanderson, in all her bright, fake red 90s hair bumped glory. She’s waving her long bejeweled fingernails and the colors of the outfit she’s got on threaten to blind me for life. It seems like it might be some kind of knock-off Lilly Pulitzer style—except the lizards on it look sickly, not sunny and happy.

“Hi…Becky…” I say with a weak wave. Her brows furrow and I add, “I mean, Mrs. Sanderson.”

This is the worst possible person I could have run into carrying an illegal exotic animal and hiding a forbidden haircut.

As predicted, Becky Sanderson does not take the hint that I’m not interested in a conversation. She immediately walks closer, her brows drawn together as she studies me. I feel Dottie press against my front, probably because she senses the tension building in me. I have far too many secrets to engage with a town gossip—bags of new clothes, a haircut I don’t want her to see, and an animal hiding in my messenger bag. This is not optimal at all.

“I heard your brothers got into their first choice! You must be so proud of them!” she gushes, her bright red nails sparkling with tiny diamonds in the light as she claps.

Nodding, I give her another smile. “Yes, ma’am. They did and everyone is thrilled.”

Her eyes narrow and I have to work not to squirm as she eyes me. Finally, she clucks her tongue. “Don’t worry, dear. If you haven’t heard from your first choice yet, there’s always state school. You’ll be perfectly fine there; no one is depending on you to play professional ball like them.”

Wow. Just… wow.

I press my hand on my bag to keep Dottie from busting out to give this witch a piece of her mind. How I know she’s going to do it, I don’t know, but I’m dead certain the kinkajou wants to scratch Becky’s eyes out for being so insulting. Hell, I kind of do; who says that to a teenager? Licking my lips as I work to clear the red fog of outrage from my mind, I stare at the tacky woman for a moment. When I get a grip on myself, I force a fake smile onto my face.

“That’s exactly what I overheard someone telling Patricia,” I reply in a sweet tone. “She seemed upset on early decision day and I was passing by her locker when one of her friends was consoling her.”

Insulting her mean-spirited cheerleader daughter isn’t my finest moment, but come on. I’m being nicer than I have to as it is.

Becky’s face turns bright red, and she makes a strangled sound before she schools her features into the official ‘polite society woman,’ expression the moms make when they don’t want to make a scene in public. “Yes, well, I have it on good authority that there was a mistake in the acceptance notification system. She should get her email soon, according to Jim’s friend at Dartmouth.”

That’s beyond debatable—Patricia isn’t stupid, but she doesn’t have the grades or money to force an acceptance at that level of university. She’s spent most of the time I’ve been here focused on the football team and dating every wealthy boy she can get her hooks into at the nearby prep school. I couldn't care less if she’s boinking the Royal Navy, but it’s obvious to anyone with a brain that she’s looking for a rich husband, so she doesn’t even have to go to college.

“That’s great, Mrs. Sanderson. Uh, it was nice talking to you. I really have to get moving, though. I’ve got a lot of studying to do today.” I let her bullshit ride because I really want out of this situation and I need to get home in time to stow my shit before the twins come back from films.

For a second, I think she won’t let go, but she eventually gives in. “Have a nice day, Katarina. I will let your mom know I saw you today. She’s always worried you don’t get out enough.”

Fuck. Me. Sideways.

“Thanks,” I mutter before walking away. I have to control my posture and speed because I know that wasn’t said to be helpful. She’s going to call Allison and squeal on me, hoping I’ll get in trouble for something. That’s her passive aggressive way of getting back at me for the dig at Patricia—which I should have known better than to do.

Sometimes, I really think my temper is going to get me in real trouble. I’ve worked hard to curb all the anger and rage over my childhood and the incident with my therapist, but I can’t always hold back. It’s another reason I stayed as under the radar as possible this year. All I want to do is get away and start a life where I can be in control of my own decisions without worrying about what some random idiot is going to use against me. That’s likely a pipe dream, I know, but a girl can hope.

When I get out of her view, I rush to a self-checkout and pay for my haul. Balancing the copious amount of bags in my hands isn’t easy, but I carry huge piles of books. I can do this. I waddle over to a bench at the front of the market and sit them down while I call a rideshare. I have a lot of shit, so I may even have to bring it upstairs via the secret system I built when I first moved in. It’s rarely used, but that’s because I don’t want anyone to find it.

Hiding a pulley contraption attached to the tree by my window wasn’t easy, and the twins would dime me out in a New York minute.

All I have to do now is get home, get this stuff squirreled away, and survive until tomorrow. That original letter said they’d whisk me away pretty quickly; I just hope my online order arrives first. I don’t want to start my new life worried that my boobs will be my downfall.

By the time my car shows up, my anxiety has taken the wheel in my head, but at least it’s not Lurch. I let out a sigh of relief as I re-gather my bags and head to the compact sedan. I just wasn’t made for high stress, high stakes situations like sneaking around with two terrorists and nosy fosters peeping over my shoulder all the time.

Hopefully, I do better with this when I get to Discordia or I might be screwed.