Read Online Death of a Kleptomaniac by Kristen Tracy - Free Book Online

mother asks. Maybe if she hadn’t called to me at this exact moment I would have put them back. But her voice interrupts any further contemplating, and so I take the path of least resistance. I mean, I have the cards, so I keep the cards.
    â€œI’m set,” I say. I go to my mother and surrender my ice-cream pints. My father takes them and sets them in the bag.
    â€œHeard you’re not feeling well,” he says.
    Concerned about my date, I downplay everything. “I got overheated in practice.”
    â€œWell, cool down and take it slow. I’ll try to be home early,” he says.
    I doubt that’s true. I take our bag so my mother doesn’t have to carry it, and we dart out of the Thirsty Truck and flee to the shelter of the green Galant.
    â€œI think it’s cute that you want to ask your date with ice cream,” my mom says.
    â€œDon’t say it’s cute,” I say. “You make me feel like I’m twelve.”
    â€œTime is going by so fast,” my mom says.
    â€œIt’s going by normal speed,” I say. “It just feels fast because in three months you’re having a baby.”
    A baby. I can’t believe it. Diapers. Colic. Bottles. What will our lives look like then? I reach over and turn on the radio, and a sad and familiar sound floats through the car. A saxophone.
    â€œYou want to listen to jazz?” I ask, assuming the radio accidentally ended up on this station. My mom usually enjoys soaking up talk radio shows. People calling in about difficult to diagnose car issues. Smart local people discussing topical events.
    â€œWho doesn’t like a little jazz?” my mom says.
    I don’t argue. I listen to the sweeping melody lines; they meander and march, and I can’t help but think of Henry.
    â€œDoes your friend ever play shows in town?” my mom asks.
    â€œNo, not much,” I say.
    There aren’t a lot of venues for jazz in Idaho Falls. But Henry has played a few times with two friends in coffee shops. One plays bass. The other drums. Henry says the manager always tells their trio to play more quietly. Sometime soon, if things don’t feel too weird between us, I hope to make it to one of their infrequent gigs.
    The music ends and the DJ tells us that we just listened to Dizzy Gillespie play a song called “I Remember Clifford,” which was written by Benny Golson for his friend Clifford Brown, a genius trumpet player from the fifties who died at twenty-five in a car crash.
    Rain continues to pound down over us, and my mother flips the windshield wipers to a faster speed.
    â€œThat’s so freaking sad,” I say.
    â€œBut it’s a beautiful song,” she says.
    My window is starting to fog up. I use my finger to wipe a spot clear. “In a sad way.”
    â€œDo you want to change the station?”
    I shake my head; we’re almost home. “No. I like this.”

Saturday, October 5
    When I wake up, it’s past eight o’clock, but I still feel tired. Is my life that exhausting? I think back to yesterday. Yes. It is. I hear my mother walking down the hall.
    â€œAre you up yet?” she calls.
    â€œSomewhat,” I say.
    She opens my door. She looks like she’s been up a while. She’s dressed and her hair looks nice, like she’s ready to go out.
    â€œIf Joy calls, you should put her through,” I say. “And if Tate calls, put him through. But if Ruthann calls, tell her I’m still sleeping.”
    â€œI don’t have time for that,” she says. “You need boots for your trip. I’m off to get them right now.”
    She walks into my room carrying her purse.
    â€œCan’t I just wear normal shoes?” I ask.
    â€œYou might run into problems with the stirrups.”
    I push off my covers and climb out of bed. “I think I’ll be just fine. We’re not going extreme horseback riding. We’re just walking along a