Wild Cat (7 page)

Twelve

“I guess we better get going on this, huh?” I suggest. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything we could sell.”

“We don’t have to sell anything,” Fiona says. Her eyes dart around the room while she talks. “It could be a do-gooder project or a service or something.” She waves at a guy I don’t recognize. He waves back.

Behind us, Alex and Michael are getting pretty loud. Alex scoots up and asks, “Hey, Katharine. You still like being called Kat?”

I nod. I’m too surprised he’s talking to me, and not Fiona, to say anything.

“Are you still running that animal rescue out in the country?” he asks.

“Yep.” This is crazy. I’ve never had trouble talking to Alex before. Last year in youth group we were partners for a scavenger hunt. I puked halfway through the hunt. We lost.

“How’d you like another cat?” Alex asks.

“
I
would. I always want another cat. But I promised I wouldn’t take on any more until I find homes for the ones we have.”

What I don’t tell him is that I know Mom made this rule because I’ve been sick so much I haven’t kept up my end of the work, even with the cats, especially the barn cats. Dakota has had to cover for me. That’s why I didn’t try to fight the ruling. I hate making extra work for anybody.

“Too bad,” Alex says.

“Why?”

“We’ve got the stupidest cat in the whole world. My mom’s going to make me get rid of it if it doesn’t come around.”

“No way,” Fiona says. “
I’ve
got the stupidest cat in the world.”

“I’m serious,” Alex insists. “This cat, Bozo—he isn’t normal, even for a cat. He pukes all over the furniture. Mom’s convinced he does it on purpose.”

“He wouldn’t do it on purpose,” I assure him. “What do you feed Bozo?”

“I don’t know. Milk. He likes eggs.”

“Well, there you go,” I say. “Cats like a lot of things that aren’t good for them.”

“Just like us girls,” Fiona chimes in.

“Milk’s not good for a cat?” Alex asks.

I shake my head. “Milk can make a lot of cats sick. Try not giving Bozo milk or eggs. I’ll bet he stops puking on the furniture.”

“That’s great, Kat,” Alex says. “But Bozo’s got worse problems than that. Like, he licks us all the time.” He shudders. “Gives me the creeps.”

“Eew,” Fiona says, shuddering too.

“You should be flattered, Alex,” I assure him. “Do you ever watch cats together? Our barn cats won’t let anybody near them except for me. But they lick each other all the time. It’s part grooming and part bonding. That’s why they lick people, too.”

“So Alex’s cat thinks he needs to be groomed?” Fiona says, giggling.

“More like his cat really likes him.”

“Well, our cat hates us,” Fiona says.

“Are you talking about the cat you think is dumber than my cat?” Alex asks.

“Oh, she’s dumber all right. I guarantee it.” Fiona tugs a strand of her hair. “Mom and I picked out this cat for my little sister for her birthday. It was the prettiest cat in the pet store—long white hair and big blue eyes. That’s why we got it.”

“So what’s wrong with her?” Alex asks.

“She won’t listen. She’s too stupid to get out of the way of the car. Dad almost ran over the thing twice. Oh, and she gets lost. What kind of a cat gets lost when it goes outside? And we have to carry her to her food dish. She never comes when we call her. We phoned the pet store and complained. The guy finally admitted the cat’s already been returned twice! They won’t take her back again.”

“There’s got to be a reason your cat acts like that,” I suggest.

“Yeah,” Fiona says. “There is. She’s dumb as dirt. I’ll bet even Catman couldn’t help this cat.”

“You know Catman?” I can’t imagine Fiona and Catman together. I’m not sure why that is.

“I’ve never met him. But I know he’s Hank’s cousin, and he’s supposed to be great with cats.” A big smile passes over her face. “So how
is
Hank, anyway?”

“Fine, I think.” I glance at the clock and know we’re running out of time. I don’t have time to talk about Hank. And I shouldn’t be using up time talking about cats either. But I worry when people don’t like their cats. I’m already wondering if Mom would change her mind and let me take on these two cats.

“Your sister loves her cat though, doesn’t she?” I ask Fiona.

“Are you kidding? She hates it. She and Mom are taking the thing to the animal shelter over the weekend.”

“You can’t, Fiona!”

“Why not?” Alex asks. “We’re thinking of doing the same thing. Maybe they can find a family the cat will like better than us.”

I wheel on him. “Alex, don’t let them take your cat there,” I plead. “The shelter’s overloaded. They’ll never find a home for your cat. Seventy percent of the cats that go into shelters don’t come out.”

“Man, I didn’t know that.” Alex taps his pencil on his desk like he’s thinking it over. “Maybe I can talk Mom out of it. Do you think you could train Bozo not to claw the furniture? That’s the other thing that drives Mom over the edge.”

“I don’t know.” Catman says you don’t train cats. You train people. But I did get Ketchup to quit scratching the table legs. I just got him hooked on a scratching post. “Maybe.”

“Five minutes left, people,” Ms. Buffenmyer announces.

“Fiona, what are we going to do?” I can’t believe we haven’t even come up with a single idea.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” She doesn’t sound panicked though. “I could sure use an A in this class. My parents are expecting me to be on the honor roll again.”

Alex and Michael get busy writing down their ideas for their project. From what I can hear, it’s a garage sale.

Ms. Buffenmyer is making her way toward us. I get the feeling she’s been watching us the whole time. “You girls certainly did a lot of talking with the boys this hour. I hope it was about your project.”

“Of course, Ms. Buffenmyer,” Fiona says. “Alex and I were discussing our projects.”

Ms. Buffenmyer raises an eyebrow. It’s a skill they must train teachers in teacher school. Every teacher I’ve had could do it. “Katharine, have you come up with a good idea for your project then?”

“Not really,” I admit.

Alex interrupts. “Sorry. My bad. I kept bugging Kat for advice.”

“Advice?” Ms. Buffenmyer asks.

“About my cat.”

“Your cat?” Ms. Buffenmyer sounds unimpressed.

“Yeah,” Alex says. He grins at me. “Kat’s a terrific cat shrink.”

“I’m sure that’s really helpful,” Ms. Buffenmyer says, “but not in social studies.” She turns to Fiona. “So, Fiona, would you like to tell me what you meant when you assured me you and Alex were talking about your social studies project, when you were actually discussing his
cat
?”

I hear Alex gulp.

But Fiona doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, Ms. Buffenmyer. Because Alex’s cat is part of our project. Kat and I will be putting on a cat clinic.”

Thirteen

“I have no idea how I pulled that off,” Fiona brags to the lunch table full of girls.

I’m sitting across from Fiona. I’m not totally sure how I ended up here. I walked into the cafeteria alone. The smell of hot dogs and pizza, mixed with sweat, made me turn to leave. But Fiona was there. And I guess I got swept along with her.

“Seriously,” she continues. “Buffenmyer had me, back to the wall, for goofing off with Alex the whole hour. We were talking about his crazy cat and my stupid cat. So when she pressed me for a project, there it was. Cats! Stroke of genius.” Fiona glances at my plate. “Kat, you haven’t touched your lunch. Eat up, girl! We need our strength to pull off the best project in junior high, right?”

“Guess I’m not that hungry.” I poke my fork at the pork and beans on my plate. The thought of eating this stuff makes my stomach flip.

“You need ketchup?” Fiona tears open a tiny packet from her tray and squirts red on my untouched hot dog. She tears off one end of the dog that’s wrapped in a soggy bun and hands it to me. “There. Eat.”

I take a bite and try to smile while I chew. I know better. The smells here are enough to make me sick. The hot dog tastes like rubber.

“That’s better.” She turns back to her friends. They’ve waited through the entire hot dog scene. “Anyway, nobody else will have a cat clinic, right? I think we might even ace this thing. My parents would love that. Don’t you think it sounds sweet?”

The heads at the table nod like those bobblehead dolls. I think they’d agree with anything Fiona said. Not that I’m complaining. Most of the girls in this room, even the eighth graders, would love to sit at Fiona’s table.

Chew, chew, chew.
My stomach’s shouting at me, warning me not to send this stuff down there.

Fiona turns to me. “I hope you’ve got tomorrow free.”

I nod. And swallow. And swallow again. Chewed-up dog lodges in my throat. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Fiona puts her hand on my arm. “You’re a big girl now. You can wait until we’re done.”

I’m done. She could stick that whole dog in my mouth and I wouldn’t eat it. But I don’t leave. This is the first time—
first
—I’ve been asked to sit at a table filled with girls from my class.

My forehead breaks into a cold sweat. The room tilts. The taste of hot dog rises from my stomach and pushes through my nostrils. My head’s light. The table spins.

“Kat?”

I look up. “Wes?” I can’t believe he’s talking to me. Not that Wes doesn’t love me, but high schoolers don’t want to be caught dead with the junior high kids. Especially not seventh graders who are about to lose their lunch. I’m not even sure it’s okay for him to cross over into our side of the cafeteria. But, man, I’m glad he did.

“You’ve got a call,” he says.

“A call?” My heart speeds up. “Why didn’t they call my cell?”

“Don’t make ’em wait,” he warns.

I stand. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Everybody’s fine. Are you going to take the call or not?”

“I’m coming.” I scurry from the table and hurry to catch Wes, who’s halfway out of the cafeteria already. When I’m in range, I call out, “Wes, who is it?”

“There’s no call,” he says. “And the closest bathroom is right down there.” He points down the hall.

“Thanks, Wes.” I dash to the girls’ bathroom and make it in the nick of time. I’m loud, retching and retching, the echo four times as loud as at home in my own bathroom, thanks to these gray cement walls.

“Let’s get out of here.” Footsteps of two or three girls shuffle out. They can’t get away fast enough. I can’t blame them.

I’m sick again. I can’t believe there’s anything left inside me. After another minute, I leave the stall and splash water on my face. I lean on the sink, careful not to look in the mirror.

When I finally come out, Wes is at the drinking fountain.

“You’re still here?” I can’t believe I’m this glad to see him.

Wes wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good thing you came out when you did. If I drank any more water from this fountain, I’d have to run in there and hurl myself.”

I laugh a little. “How did you know, Wes?”

“Good guess. That’s all.”

“It could have gotten pretty ugly in the cafeteria if you hadn’t come to my rescue like that,” I admit.

He shrugs. “Don’t mention it.
Please
don’t mention it. You want me to call Popeye to come get you? Or Hank?”

I shake my head. “No. Please don’t tell them. It wouldn’t help anything.”

“Maybe. But you’re looking whiter than usual, Kat,” he says.

“All I want is to get through the whole day. I can do it. I know I can.”

“What do you have next hour?”

“English. Wes, what if I hurl in English class?” I picture it, and the thought almost makes me want to run back to the bathroom.

“Then you give them an English lesson,” Wes says.

“An English lesson?”

“Sure. Vocabulary. Vomit vocab. I guarantee you know more words for
vomit
than anybody in that class, including your teacher.”

I laugh, but my laugh cuts off when the bell rings.

Wes heads back toward the high school. The halls fill with students pouring in from every classroom door.

“Thanks!” I yell. I can’t see him any longer. He’s not tall in this crowd.

Then I see a dark-skinned arm rise above the masses, and Wes gives me the thumbs-up sign. Wes may not have the Coolidge name, but he’s a Coolidge through and through.

I let myself be swept through the hall to the stairs. Then I make my way to my English classroom.

“Do you have English now?”

I turn to see Alex. He’s a lot taller than I thought he was when he was sitting in social studies. Man, that kid has grown. “Yeah. English. Do you?”

He nods. “I’ve heard Rice is cool.”

“Rice? Our English teacher?”

“No. Rice, our lunch.” He grins, and I’m pretty sure he’s not laughing at me. In fact, I like that he’s treating me like a regular person. “So, you going in or watching from out here?”

“I’m going in. And taking
your
seat.” It’s not that clever, but he laughs anyway.

“Yo! Alexandro! This way!” Michael waves Alex toward an empty seat near the back of the room.

Alex shrugs and takes off to sit with his buddies.

I glance around the room. The good seats, close to the door, are taken. I have to go to the far side of the room and crawl over three kids.

Rice calls roll and dives straight into the romantic poets.

I’m taking notes as fast as I can when the room dips. I look up, half expecting everybody else to be holding on to desks or at least trying to figure out what’s happening to us. But they’re all writing in notebooks as if nothing’s happened.

The wave comes again, bringing full-blown nausea with it. I shove my fist into my mouth and bite.

I have to get out of here.

Rice is writing on the board. “Pay attention to new words in the sonnets. We’ll be learning specialized vocabulary. Vocabulary tests will make up 10 percent of your grade.”

I need fresh air. Or a toilet.

I get to my feet and start shoving my way out of the row. Then I remember my book bag. I go back for it and climb over desks and people again to get out to the aisle. My head is so light I can’t see well. I’m wobbling.

I am not going to make it.

Bile rises to my throat. I burp it back.

“What’s the matter with her?” someone asks.

I go down to my knees before I fall. And still my stomach lurches. Frantically I reach into my book bag. My can. I can’t find my emergency can. It’s got to be here.

I dump my bag out in the middle of the aisle. Chairs near me squeak as people scoot back. Away from me. The can’s right there in front of me. The empty coffee can I take with me everywhere. For emergencies. Like this.

No time to be embarrassed. I pull off the lid and stick my mouth over the can. Then I hurl. The sound echoes in the metal can.

“Gross!”

“Eew!”

Groans and disgusted noises surround me.

And still I hurl. And hurl. Everything disappears except the spasms in my stomach. And in my throat. My shoulders heave. My hands shake. I couldn’t stand up if I wanted to. And it keeps going until I empty my stomach, my guts, and my heart.