The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller (10 page)

“Get the power? Elmo found me in the woods a year ago. Elmo the bear,” she smirked, drawing her lips tight in a reptilian grin. “He carried me to Granny Dola’s and my life’s never been the same. But you know all that.”

“Did you ever tell anyone about the attack? Other than Granny?”

“I couldn’t. Not the way I was back then. Shy. Weak. Too embarrassed to speak up for myself. Sometimes it really sucks living in a small town, where everyone knows your business. And the creeps knew it. That’s why they picked on me. And you too. That’s how they pick all their victims.”

“You ever think about getting revenge?”

“Oh sure. Of course I’ve thought about it. I think about it all the time.” She cast a glance across the aisle, where Wally and his crew were holding court at their usual table. Acting rowdy and loud and obnoxious. Flicking food at students foolish enough to be sitting in range or walking by. “How can you not, when you see their smugly faces day after day?”

“Why didn’t you?” Felicia asked.

“I don’t know. I was really hot about it for the first few weeks. But the more I grew into my power, the cooler I became. I kept telling myself that old chestnut about revenge being best served cold. But I’m starting to think it’s just an excuse. I think there’s something in my reptilian nature that keeps me putting it off.”

“But if nobody does anything, they’ll just keep doing what they did to you and me. And soon they’ll be out of school and out on their own. If they move out of town, it’ll be too late.”

“I know.”

A girlish shriek drew their attention towards Wally’s table. Wally’s foot was planted in the aisle—tripping Crystal as she walked by. As Felicia looked over she was already flopping forward, with the contents of her food tray flying skyward.

The students nearby sat transfixed as Crystal’s white china lunch platter whirled through the air like a flying saucer, about to crash-land and splatter them with applesauce and green beans and spaghetti.

In a flash Felicia sprang from her seat. She soared several feet and landed gracefully in the aisle, sliding on all fours towards Crystal across the waxed tile floor.

Her left arm shot up with uncanny precision and she caught the flying dinner plate squarely, not spilling a drop of food. Her right hand grabbed Crystal by the arm and steadied her,
saving her from a nasty fall.

Everyone stared in awe, amazed by the unlikely feat. Then they all erupted in applause, and rose to their feet in a standing ovation.

Wally scowled. Pissed that his prank had been thwarted.

By a girl, no less.

“Dude, did you see that?” whispered Sparrow, suitably impressed.

Wally poked an angry finger into his ribs. “Shut the fuck up. I’m eating.”

81

“Felicia, where have you been?”

“Hi, mom. Sorry I’m late. I went shopping with Ruta after school.”

“Ruta?” Her mother didn’t have to add any qualifiers. The tone of her voice said it all. Everyone knew Ruta by reputation. She was the school weirdo. The one you didn’t want your kids hanging out with.

“There’s nothing wrong with Ruta, mom. She just has a strong sense of style.”

“Style? That’s one way to look at it.”

“Must you be so provincial?”

Before her mother could sputter out an answer Felicia jogged upstairs. She had plenty to do that evening. She’d start by mixing and matching her new clothes, experiment with her new look.

A change in her image was long overdue. Her old clothes were positively tragic. She’d pack them up in a Goodwill bag then get caught up on her schoolwork. She had to keep up her grades to keep her parents off her back.

There was no big urgency to go out on the prowl again. Like Ruta she could bide her time. Wait until the moment was right. Until she had time to plan her move.

***

Felicia’s father sat sipping his coffee, dragging out his morning routine. He was already late for work, but his wife had insisted he hang around until Felicia made her appearance, in case it demanded a parental response. If their daughter was hanging out with Ruta, there was no telling what she might spring on them.

When Felicia finally made her appearance they stared at her with consternation. Thankfully her head hadn’t been shaved and she wasn’t pierced anywhere, at least no place they could see. But her style had definitely evolved. She looked sinfully delicious in low-cut black skinny jeans that somehow stayed up on her girlish hips topped by a fluffy gray fake fur vest. Her eyes were lined with mascara and her stubby fingernails seemed to have grown half an inch overnight, now perfectly manicured with glossy gray polish.

“Wow. So that’s the new look you went shopping for?” asked mom, in a tone that danced between mockery and amusement.

“It’s a start,” Felicia responded nonchalantly.

“A start?” her father asked nervously, eyeing the racy cut of her leotard. It wasn’t a look he hated. Just not one he’d have picked for his only daughter.

“Did Ruta pick out those jeans for you?” her mother asked. “If they were cut any lower I could see Timbuktu.”

“Ruta?” her father asked, trying to place the name.

“You know,” his wife replied, twirling her fingers around her hairline. “The pretty little blonde girl who shaved half her head and went Goth all of a sudden.”

“Oh, yeah. The one they’re always whispering about at the market. Did Ruta inspire your new look, Felicia?” her dad asked, sounding vaguely reprimanding.

“Not really. I just got tired of the Pollyanna look.”

“Oh I see.”

“I guess I’m growing up,” Felicia replied with a sweet smile.

“I guess you are,” said her mother, sounding slightly exasperated.

“Don’t you like it?”

“Oh yes,” said her mother. Determined not to feed whatever bug had crawled up her daughter’s butt. “It’s… different.”

“Yes,” her father added, following his wife’s lead. “It’s fine. Just don’t get… too…”

“Sexy?” Felicia couldn’t resist pushing his buttons.

“Wild.”

Felicia smiled.

We’ll see how wild I can get.

81

Marky loitered near the pharmacy counter as old man Jenkins counted out pills for Marcella Evans.

Marcella, like Sparrow and Marky, was descended from a local family with a long history of questionable characters. Petty fraud, burglary, moonshining and other lowly crimes had been their primary sustenance until the welfare train rolled into town. She’d been bred to avoid an honest day’s work and feel no guilt about it.

Living off others was as much a part of her genetic make-up as it was for any bedbug. She was the welfare queen of Greenville, collecting a big chunk of the county’s social services budget for her six illegitimate brats. She hadn’t a clue who their daddies were, and no motivation to find out. She could have filled a rolodex with the names of possible suspects. But as long as the taxpayers picked up the tab for their upkeep, she knew she had a better deal than any of her babies’ daddies would ever provide.

Jenkins looked down his bulbous red drinker’s nose at Marcella, as did most everyone else in the community. But as much as he ranted to his cronies how much he hated her, he did a tidy bit of business off her government-subsidized lifestyle. So like all the other businesses in town who profited from her medicare and foodstamps, he secretly rejoiced in her presence. He even indulged her requests to swap food stamps for cigarettes and liquor, provided no one was around to witness the sleazy transactions.

As the old man swept Marcella’s pills into a container, he stole a glance in the mirror he’d placed above the countertop to help nab shoplifters. The culprits had been stealing him blind. Cadging rubbers and smokes and other small luxury items when he wasn’t on the alert. But his brain was sluggish with age and the deleterious effects of his non-stop happy hour. With his attention split between Marky and Marcella, both viable suspects, he failed to notice Sparrow stuffing his pockets in the “cold and flu” aisle.

Distracted for a moment by the green polyester thong sprouting from Marcella’s ample ass crack like a sprig of poison ivy, Marky turned and got an impatient nod from his pock-faced accomplice, who pocketed his score and quietly sauntered toward the door.

Back at the pharmacist’s booth, Marky slapped a candy bar down on the counter, startling the half-soused proprietor. “How much, pops?” he barked loudly, covering the tinkle of the shop’s bell as Sparrow made his escape out the door. “Come on, old man, I ain’t got all day. And judging from those wrinkles and liver spots on your mug you ain’t got much time to waste either.”

The old man shot him a frosty look. “You’ll wait your turn like everybody else.”

“Fuck that,” snapped Marky. “You just lost a sale.”

Leaving the candy bar on the counter he turned and headed for the door.
Mission accomplished, as my man Dubya would say.

Sparrow was waiting outside, eager to show off his booty. He held up several plastic containers and rattled the gel caps inside. “Check it out, bromeo. The old fart’s too fuckin’ stupid to keep the good shit behind the counter. We be robotrippin’ for weeks.”

Marky took one of the containers and read the list of ingredients. “And you’re too fuckin’ stupid to read the fuckin’ ingredients on the goddamned fuckin’ label, dumb-ass. This shit is loaded with chlor… what-ever-the-fuck-that-is… and guafa… some other shit that will fuck you up and not in a good way.”

“Gimme it then, you pussy.” Sparrow snatched the pills back. “If you don’t want to trip out, that’s more party for the rest of us.”

“More for you stupid farts to get sick and freak out on. Just don’t puke your guts out on me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Take me home, brainiac,” said Marky, annoyed that he’d wasted half his evening with such a worthless dumb ass.

“Get on,” said Sparrow as he mounted his ancient trail bike and kickstarted the engine. Marky threw a leg over the rusty rear rack and took hold of Sparrow’s waist. Sparrow twisted the throttle and they sputtered off into the night.

Ten minutes later they turned down the desolate road leading to Marky’s family’s house in a backwoods clearing.

The trail bike hummed along with an occasional backfire, swerving dizzily on the bumpy country road. The weak glow of its corroded headlamp flickered on and off with each bump in the road. The sun had set nearly an hour earlier and the night air was damp with a threatening storm.

Despite his thick hoodie and heavy denim jacket, Sparrow felt like he was riding through a cold flowing stream. His eyes were clouded by icy teardrops that rolled freely down his cheeks.

Hampered by the weight of the boys, which stressed its two-stroke engine, the tired old motorbike was barely breaking twenty when Marky spotted something moving on the road ahead.

He poked Sparrow in the side and pointed ahead at the object. But Sparrow had already caught sight of it. The back of its bushy tail was full and white, and stood out like a samurai’s banner in the headlight’s dim glare.

Sparrow slowed the rackety motorbike, afraid the loping critter might be a skunk. But as they pulled closer he saw its gray striped coat and recognized it immediately.
The cat! The same damned cat!
It was the same cat that had escaped their clutches a few nights before.

Not one to forego an opportunity to wreak some bloody mischief while scoring brownie points with Wally, Sparrow cranked the throttle and aimed the bike’s front tire at the scurrying animal. But the worn-out engine was already strained to its limits. The whine of its overworked pistons and rotted out muffler gave the cat plenty of advance warning.

Just as they nearly caught up with it, it darted off into the woods.

A minute later the boys reached Marky’s front yard. As they slowed to a cautious crawl on the loose gravel driveway they saw the cat emerge from the woods and disappear into the tool shed at the back edge of the property.

Sparrow pulled up nearby, cutting off his engine so they could glide close to the shed without spooking the animal inside.

“I can’t believe our luck, dude,” he whispered. “Wally is going to be so proud of us.”

“No, he’ll be pissed if we don’t bring the little shit to him so he can get his own revenge.”

“You’re right. Fuck. We need to catch the little fucker. You got an old sack or something we can use?”

Marky thought for a moment. “Yeah, you bet. There’s a fishing net in the shed. It’ll be perfect. Got a long handle so we won’t get scratched. It’s up in the rafters with the fishing rods.”

“Cool.”

“I’ll get it. You stay out here in case the little bastard slips past me. And whatever you do, don’t let it get away. Break its fucking back if you have to. Even with a broken spine, we can keep it alive ‘til we get it to Wally.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan.”