Wild Cat (8 page)

Fourteen

When I’m sure I’m done, when there’s nothing left inside of me, I still keep my head down, hanging over my coffee can. It helps the dizziness stay away.

Besides, I can’t bear to look up. The classroom is silent. I know they’re staring.

“Are you okay?” Alex kneels beside me, but somehow he’s still towering over me.

“Oh, man,” I mutter. I feel in my bag for a tissue and wipe my mouth.
I’m disgusting.

“Is she okay, Alex?” Rice asks, still at the board. “Katharine, can we call someone?”

“Tell him I’m okay,” I whisper, still not looking up.

“She’s all right,” Alex relays.

“Thanks,” I whisper. “I don’t want to leave class.” I put the lid on the coffee can. For all that noise and effort, there’s not much in it.

Alex takes the can from me. Then he gets to his feet and helps me up. I see that he’s already repacked my book bag. “She was just kidding. She didn’t really hurl. She’s trying out for the theater.”

There’s a little laughter from somewhere.

“Oh, she hurled, all right,” Cassie says. Her chair is the closest to me. She scoots it even farther away than she already had. “Trust me. She hurled.”

Father
,
You promised that when I’m weak, You’re strong. Well, I’m weak now.

I stand up straight and look at Cassie. “
Hur
l
? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“What are you talking about?” Cassie frowns at me, then makes a face to the guy next to her, like I’m a lunatic.

Maybe I am. But Wes’s idea is making its way into my brain, and I’ve got nothing to lose. “I’m talking about
hurling
, since that seems to be the only word you have for it.”

“What? You want another word for . . . for what you did? Fine.
Puke
. Like that?” Cassie looks to the guy next to her for support. He shrugs.

“That’s all you got?” I ask, like I’m disappointed.

She doesn’t answer.

I turn to the rest of the class. “Anybody? What’s another word for
hurl
and
puke
?”

Nobody says anything.

For a second, I think about running out of the room and never coming back.
When I’m weak, You’re strong.

“Um . . .
vomit
?” Alex offers.

I smile at him and hope he knows how grateful I am for that answer. “We’re getting there.”

I walk toward the front of the classroom. My legs tremble, but I don’t think it shows. “Mr. Rice, do you suppose I could take a few minutes and share some specialized vocabulary with the class?”

He grins. It’s a great grin, like his whole body relaxes into it. “It would be the greatest of pleasures.” He hands me a marker for the board. “The floor is yours.” He takes a seat on the edge of his desk and waves me to the board.

All or nothing,
I think. In big letters, I print:
VOMIT VOCABULARY
.

Laughter ripples across the room.

“Yeah, man!” someone says.

Under my heading, I write
vomit
,
hurl
, and 
puke
.

“Hey, I’m starting to like seventh grade!” somebody shouts.

A girl’s voice asks, “Mr. Rice, will this be on the test?”

He quiets the class, and I turn around. “What else? Who knows another way to say
vomit
?”

“Does
throwing up
count?” Margaret asks. I almost didn’t recognize her because she cut her hair really short over the summer.

“You bet, Margaret.”

She looks surprised that I know her name. We were in fourth grade together.

“Don’t want to neglect the obvious,” I say while I write
throw up
on the board. “Come on. Don’t tell me this is it for you guys?”

“
Blowing chunks
!” somebody shouts from the back. Everybody groans.

“I know.
Bar
f
!” hollers a girl named Sarah. “That’s what my dad calls it.”

I write the words on the board, and they keep ’em coming.

“
Lose your lunch
?”

“
Retch
.”

I’m caught up writing, so I wait. “Are you done?” I ask.

“Oooh! Oooh!
Upchuck
!” Danita shouts. She laughs, then adds. “Sounds like rap, don’t you think?
Oooh! Oooh! Upchuck
!
” The way she says it, it does sound like rap.

This time when I ask for more, I’m met with silence. I wait a minute longer. Then it’s my turn. “Not bad. But as you might imagine after today’s performance, my family and I know many ways to vomit.”

This is met with nervous laughter from a few kids.

“So, first, let me take this opportunity to apologize to the class for not quite making it to drive the porcelain bus.”

“The what?” Rice asks.

But a few of the kids are cracking up.

“Porcelain bus, get it?” Michael shouts. “Like, as in the toilet?
Driving
the porcelain bus?”

“Gross!” Cassie says. But it’s a different “gross” than the one she said a few minutes ago.

I press on, writing as I go. “Then we’ve got
hugging the porcelain nurse
,
bowing at the porcelain throne
,
talking to Ralph and Bertha on the porcelain phone
. And so on. Eventually you can even make up your own vocabulary.”

“Which,” Rice chimes in, “is how our language expands. Proceed.”

“I believe we forgot
spew
, a concise vocabulary word, for you guys still taking notes.”

There’s real laughter for that one.

“
Doing the bulimic boogaloo
, which sounds funny but isn’t. So don’t do it.”

The bell rings. A couple of people say, “Aw,” like they’re disappointed.

I turn to face them. “I’ll leave you with a few words to help when you travel. In England, particularly in Birmingham, you will be
currying cufflinks
or maybe
giving a technicolour yawn
. And finally I’ll close with a word you can use on your next trip to Scotland, especially if you get seasick. If you’re hanging over the side of your boat, grossing out the other passengers, you’re probably
honking
.”

* * *

When school’s over, kids are still coming up to congratulate me on my terrific vomit vocab. I wait in the loading zone for Hank, and I replay the instant Alex came to the rescue after the coffee can disaster and the moment I asked God to be strong because I was so weak.

It’s hot in the sun, but I smell rain waiting behind gray, bottom-heavy clouds. What a day. I’ll have volumes of firsts to write Catman about. First time teaching. Maybe the first time anybody ever has taught vomit vocab.

I watch cars back out of spots in the parking lot and pace the loading zone. I don’t see how Hank will ever get through this parking lot mess to pick me up.

“I caught you.” Fiona walks up. I think her ride must be here waiting on her because a black car honks, and she holds up a wait-one-minute finger.

“Hey, Fiona.” I wonder if she’s heard about English class. I wish she’d been there to see it—not the hurling incident but the vocab lesson.

“Waiting on your ride?” she asks.

“Yeah. I think it will be a while. Parking lot’s crazy.”

“I wanted to touch base on our project,” she says. The black car honks again. So does the car behind it. Fiona shouts, “Be right there!” Then she says to me, “Just so you know, I don’t like cats. You’re going to have to do the training thing without me.”

“People can’t actually
train
cats,” I explain.

“Whatever.” Her gaze darts around the parking lot. “I’ll write things up and give the final class presentation and everything. But you’ve got to do all the cat stuff.”

This is sounding better and better to me. “Great. So you really think it’s going to work?”

“Better than that,” she says. “That pizza sale idea of Cassie’s was like half the projects in our class. Make money and give it somewhere. Big deal. But this project? I think it could be the best one if we do it right. Listen, Kat, are you busy tomorrow? ’Cause we ought to get going on this. I could come out to the Rescue.”

“
Our
Rescue? Starlight Animal Rescue?”

She laughs. “Makes sense, doesn’t it. We’re going to
rescue
all the cats, right?”

“Sure.” I know I should check with Mom and Dad first. At least, I think I should. I’ve never had a friend come over before.

Fiona stands on tiptoes and gazes across the parking lot. It’s thinning out some. The black car honks. Other cars pull around it and pick up their passengers. Fiona ignores all of them. “So, will Hank be there tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Probably. He rescued eight horses from a trail ride place that got shut down because they abused the animals. I’m sure he’ll be working with them all day tomorrow.”

“Poor Hank,” Fiona says.

“He’ll be okay. He’s really good with horses.”

“He must be a great guy. You’re so lucky, Kat.”

“I know.”

“And his parents must be really nice people too. I mean, how many people take on problem kids and fosters like that? Extra work when you’ve already got so much to do? You’d think they’d at least get kids who could help out with the Rescue.”

I want to tell her that we help, that we all help. Only
not
helping is what’s been nagging at me ever since we got the final court adoption date. Fiona isn’t saying anything I haven’t been saying to myself.

“And Hank’s willing to drop you off and pick you up every day. That’s pretty cool of him. Not everybody would do that.”

The black car’s horn honks again, loud and long. This time, Fiona strolls over to it and gets in.

By the time Hank drives up, all I want to do is get home as fast as possible. Hank and Dakota fire questions at me about my first day in junior high, but I’m too tired to go into details. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be much to tell. My big “success” in English class feels about as dumb as my big “success” giving the pony his medicine. Neither one amounted to anything worth mentioning.

Fifteen

Saturday morning I sleep in. I don’t get out of bed until I hear the dogs going crazy downstairs. The night before, Dad kept talking about the big court date, and Mom spent the evening on the phone with Gram, planning the “Kat Coolidge birthday party.”

The whole time, I watched Lion hop on three legs around the kitchen. The dog does fine. Wes rescued the three-legged Pomeranian from Nice Animal Shelter, but he couldn’t find a home for him. Now he’s saving Lion for his mom, when she gets out of rehab and has a place of her own.

But what I thought as I watched the little dog was how he’d been tossed from home to home, returned because he was too much trouble. And I know that’s what would have happened to me if the Coolidges weren’t the kind of people they are.
I’d
be the one returned to sender.

The dogs are still barking downstairs. I walk to the banister and peer down.
Fiona!
She and Hank are standing on the front porch.

I dash back to my room and pull on clothes and my wig, brush my teeth, and get downstairs as fast as I can.

“Kat!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I was just coming to get you. Your friend’s out on the front porch with Hank.”

I can see them talking, so I slip around to the kitchen. “Sorry I didn’t ask if Fiona could come over, Mom. I kind of forgot. I was so tired after school.”

“Nonsense. I’m thrilled you have a friend to invite over.” Mom smooths my hair. It’s the black wig again.

When I walk out to the porch, Fiona’s laughing at something Hank said. “Hank, I had no idea you were so funny.”

Then I see she’s holding a beautiful white cat. “Fiona, hi. Is this your cat?”

“My sister’s cat,” Fiona answers.

“Where’s Wes?” Hank asks. “He should take these dogs on another walk. Maybe they’d stop barking at this poor cat.”

“Princess doesn’t care,” Fiona says, holding out the cat for me to take.

“Anyway,” Hank says, one hand on the screen door, “nice to see you again, Fiona. I’ve got to get back to the barn.”

Fiona watches Hank leave, then brushes off her blue silk shirt. “That cat sheds.”

“She’s beautiful.” I stroke her where Kitten loves to be scratched. The cat doesn’t make a sound. “How do you get her to purr?”

“Are you kidding?” Fiona says. “That cat hasn’t purred since we got it. She doesn’t do anything. I told you.”

“Doesn’t she meow when she’s hungry?” I ask, thinking that this cat’s eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen.

“Nope. My sister has to pick her up and carry her to the food dish. That’s how stupid this cat is. You’ll see. All she does is sleep.” Fiona walks past me into the living room. “Shouldn’t we get to work?” Her head rotates as she takes in what she can see of our house. “You guys sure like animals,” she observes.

I try to see the room through Fiona’s eyes. Cat throws on the big chair. Dog throws on the couch. Horse wallpaper, cat curtains. “You can come in and sit down.”

“Would you girls like something to eat? Or a milk shake?” Mom asks.

“No thanks, Mrs. Coolidge,” Fiona answers.

“I better go get dressed,” Mom says, not correcting Fiona for calling her “Mrs.” instead of “Dr.” Mom’s probably been up for hours, but she’s still in her fuzzy blue robe and red slippers. “I’m driving out to check on Mrs. Wilson. See how she’s faring after her surgery. You girls have fun.”

We sit at the table and Fiona pulls out a notebook. Princess settles on my lap. “I’ve already drawn up a plan,” Fiona begins, opening her notebook. “Basically, Princess here will be your main client. It would be great if you could train her to do something. Anything. You know, like come when we call her, even. Or a trick?”

I still don’t like the idea of “training” cats, but I don’t want to be negative. Fiona’s already put in a lot of work on this project, and I’m lucky to have her as a partner. It’s my fault we’re getting such a late start on it.

“I don’t know how much I can do in one day,” I explain.

“You can keep Princess all week. That’s all the time we have, remember? So during the week you can have cat shrink appointments. Then we’ll have, like, this fantastic grand finale at my house. People will bring their cured cats. And you can tell them more about cats or whatever. And show them what Princess can do and everything. My mother’s ordered cat-shaped cakes, and we’ll get cat plates and napkins. I’m inviting Buffenmyer for that part so we get credit.”

“When?” I have a million questions, but this is the first one that pops out.

“Saturday.”

“I’m not sure how much I can do in a week,” I admit.

“I thought you’d be excited about this, Kat. I’ve put in a lot of work on it already.” Fiona sounds crushed.

“It’s a great plan, Fiona. Thanks for working on it without me. It’s just . . . well, whose cats am I supposed to work with?” I stroke Princess, who’s been sleeping so soundly on my lap that I check her pulse and make sure she’s still breathing.

Fiona doesn’t answer. She’s staring out the window. I stare too. Hank gets something—a halter, I think—out of the truck and walks back to the barn.

“Where do we find problem cats?” I ask again, trying not to sound desperate.

“The cats? I don’t know. The humane society? That shelter where Alex got his? They’re loaded with cats. You said so yourself. We could take them back when we’re finished with them.”

“We can’t do that!”

“Fine,” she says. “Then you come up with the cats. I’m doing everything else.”

I’d love to use cats from the shelter. But no way I’m working with cats and sending them back. And I could never find homes for them that fast. “Okay. We’ve got Princess.”

“Big deal,” Fiona says, still staring out the window. “One cat won’t get us an A.”

She’s right. “Alex is having trouble with his cat. Maybe he could bring his.” I’m thinking as I talk. “You know, I’ll bet a lot of kids in our class have cats. I think Meagan does. The Brewsters have two cats. Don’t the Thompsons have a tabby who just had kittens?”

“How should I know?” Fiona says.

“I’m just saying, I’ll bet there are plenty of cat owners in seventh grade who wish their cats were better behaved. Maybe we could ask them to bring their cats.”

“Works for me,” Fiona says, finally facing me again. “You could set up cat appointments after school every day next week. I can work on the big finale for Saturday.”

I feel bad that the excitement is gone from her voice. I know it’s my fault. “Sure. Good idea.”

“On second thought,” she says, “I should be the one to set up the appointments. I know more people in our class than you do. They won’t tell
me
no. I know. I’ll let them bring the cats to
my
house. That’ll get them to come for sure. You could come home with me after school and do the cat stuff there. Everybody knows where I live. We can’t expect them to drive way out here anyway.”

“Would your mother mind having people and cats in her house?” I ask.

“We have tons of room. You could use one of the screened-in porches. But seriously, Kat, you can’t miss school. And you’ll need to stay in town every day after school too. All week. Monday through Friday. Can you do that?” She stares at me like she’s trying to see for herself if I could last all week.

“Sure. Not a problem. I can stay in town after school.” I’m trying to sound confident, but problems are crushing in at tiger-force. I have to stay well. And if I pull that off, I still need to find a way home. I can’t ask Hank to wait around for me. Not when he’s got the horses to see to.

“I can bring you home with me when you’re done, Kat,” Mom says from the kitchen, like she’s been reading my mind. Or eavesdropping. She’s dressed in her khaki pants and a white shirt.

Fiona’s expression says Mom’s been eavesdropping, and Fiona doesn’t like it.

“Thanks, Mom,” I call.

“Well, I’m off,” Mom says. “Your dad’s outside playing with that lawn mower. Fair warning. He’s got a fistful of new jokes about cats.” She searches for her purse. Then her keys. Then she kisses me good-bye and leaves.

Fiona waits until Mom and Dad say their good-byes and Mom drives off. Then she asks, “Is your foster mother really a doctor?”

I nod. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought of Mom as my foster mother. But that’s the reality.

Thinking about this brings back my determination to do something that will make me feel like I’m a good fit in the Coolidge family. Maybe this whole cat clinic is what I’ve been waiting for. Maybe this is the way to finally be helpful instead of being the one who always needs help.

Kitten scratches at my pant leg, then climbs up the back of the chair until she’s on my shoulders. From there, she stares at Princess and hisses at the intruder.

“Be nice, Kitten,” I say, trying to pet them both. Kitten keeps hissing. But Princess barely looks at my cat.

“I’ve written everything down in here, Kat,” Fiona says, standing. “Just read through it. You really don’t need me anymore. Why don’t I leave you with Princess? You can get started working on her.” She moves toward the door. “Dad won’t be back for me for another hour. Maybe Hank can show me how he trains horses.”

Fiona leaves, and I don’t see her until her dad’s car drives up and honks. I recognize the black car from the loading zone yesterday.

After a couple more honks, Fiona strolls out of the barn, turning backward twice to wave at Hank.

“Bye, Fiona!” I shout out the window.

But I guess she doesn’t hear me because she doesn’t tell Princess or me good-bye.