Without another glance at the cat, 1 walked into the clinic and explained, in a surprisingly coherent manner, the situation to the receptionist.
She shrugged sympathetically, but didn’t move away from the desk. “We don’t have a ladder here, but usually cats will come down if you coax them long enough.”
Right. I was supposed to stand out on the sidewalk for who knew how long, looking like an idiot, while I tried to reason with a cat.
I walked back outside. Frisky was calmly surveying the parking lot from her rain gutter, with no apparent intention of ever coming down. I uttered a few more threats at her, then pulled my phone from my purse and called home. Let Mom deal with the cat crisis. I just wanted to go somewhere where I could wipe the cat spit off my jeans. Besides, she needed to come pick me up anyway, since Brad had left me stranded at the vet’s office.
Jerk.
Mom answered the phone. I wanted her to be sorry—no, mortified—for what had happened, for what she’d caused to happen. Instead, she just sounded irritated.
“Frisky is on the roof? Why did you let her do that?”
“I didn’t let her. I didn’t give her my permission. Not once did I ever tell her it was a good idea. You should try catching a neurotic, terrified cat.”
Mom sighed. “I’ll be right down.” Then she hung up.
I waited for her on the sidewalk, arms crossed, every once in a while glancing up at Frisky. I wanted to yell at her some more, but didn’t dare. One can only endure so many strangers thinking you’re insane, and I’d already passed my quota.
Finally Mom pulled up in our minivan. She stepped out, ignored me, and strode over to the side of the building. “Frisky, it’s dinnertime.”
The cat meowed once—one of her normal myerts, not the possessed-sounding kind she’d been using on me, then leaped down from the roof.
Mom scooped her up and gave her a scratch underneath the chin. “Sorry to lie,” she told the cat, “but you can’t have anything to eat until after your surgery.” Then Mom turned to me. “See, that wasn’t really so hard, was it?”
I stared at her, just stared at her for a long moment. “Mom, you know how every once in a while when you want to point out how grateful I ought to be to have you as a mother, you tell me about how you were in labor for eighteen hours with me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think I can trump that now. The next time you tell me all about childbirth pains, I’m going to tell you about the time you made me take the cat to the vet, and I was hu -
miliated, clawed, drooled on, and spent a portion of the car ride wearing a rabid cat on my head.”
“Frisky can’t be rabid, dear. She’s had her shots.”
“I don’t care!” I yelled. “I hate her anyway!”
Mom stroked the cat gently, as though realizing for the first time what a traumatic experience Frisky must have had. I stomped off to the van, but I still heard her anyway, softly telling the cat, “Don’t be too upset about the procedure, Frisky. Trust me, you don’t want children. Sure, they’re cute when they’re babies, but they grow up to be teenagers.”
CHAPTER 3
When we got back home, I went straight to the bathroom and put antiseptic on my cat scratches. I wished I had something to put on my other wounds, but they don’t bottle anything to put on humiliation. Or disappointment. Or fear that a guy is going to tell all of his friends you spent the evening covered in cat drool.
The vet told us as he slipped Frisky into a cage that cats often foam at the mouth when they’re nervous. Which was a cat fact I hadn’t previously known. What an informative day it had turned out to be. I’d tell Brad about it if I ever spoke to him again.
Why was it every time I started to like a guy things always turned out miserably? Was it really so much to ask that a guy act considerate? Understanding? Responsible enough not to drive his car like it was an airborne vehicle?
I expected Brad to call me sometime over the weekend. He didn’t. No calls, no texts.
I wish guys would let you know why they don’t call. It would have made my life so much easier if I knew whether he hadn’t called because (a) he’d decided that even the ch ance of spending any more time in the vicinity of me or my upchucking cat was too risky; (b) he was ashamed of the way he’d yelled at me, cursed my pet, and left me stranded at the animal clinic, and was now thinking of the perfect way to beg my forgiveness; or (c) there were some really good games on ESPN he had to watch.
By the time Monday came, I still didn’t know how to feel about him or us and couldn’t think about anything else.
I drove to school earlier than normal to make sure I had plenty of time to discuss the matter of Brad with my friends. Every morning before classes started, I got together with Rachel, Chelsea, and Aubrie. We had all been cheerleading together since our freshman year, and even though basketball season was over, we still got together every morning by the main landing to watch people go by.
Rachel insisted on it, in fact. She had to get her senior-stud ogling in for the day.
Rachel was beautiful, brunette, and had a way of tilting her head to just the right angle to make her all come-hithery. Guys couldn't resist her.
Chelsea specialized in ogling too, but she watched everyone so she could critique their outfits. She was blonde, sophisticated, and planned on becoming a fashion designer, so studying people's fashion choices was good professional practice for her.
Aubrie and I just stood on the landing for the company. Aubrie was the perky sort who knew everyone in the school on a first name basis. She usually scrolled through a multitude of texts while I helped Chelsea with her fashion critiques.
“Olivia's striped shirt is bold," Chelsea would say, "and the nautical pants definitely make a statement.”
“Yes," I would add, "but that statement is ‘Please throw me overboard.'"
“Although Ashley’s shirt is the right color for her skin tone, it’s about two sizes too tight.”
“But on the plus side, if she’s ever bleeding to death, it can double as a tourniquet.”
Generally we’d end up laughing so hard people would start looking at us suspiciously as they went by, and then we’d have to do our critiques in a whisper.
I wasn't trying to be mean. My comments were just a game I played to make it through all the fashion commentary.
Today as we leaned against the banister in the lobby, my friends debated whether guys or pets were easier to handle.
“Pets are more loyal,” Rachel said.
“But you don’t have to worry about guys throwing up in your car,” Aubrie countered.
“Unless they’ve been drinking,” Chelsea said.
“Yeah," Rachel said. "Do you remember when Darren drank like half a keg and then got sick at the homecoming dance?” She let out a shudder. “I wish he’d been in his car instead of trying to run off the dance floor.”
“Another point in pets’ favor,” Aubrie said. “They know how to hold their liquor.”
“Back to the subject of Brad,” I said. “We’re supposed to go to the prom, but I don’t even know if we’re still on speaking terms. I mean, what am I going to do about that?”
Chelsea frowned. “It’s a little late to find another date. The dance is less than three weeks away. You’ll just have to swallow your pride and make up with him.”
Aubrie nodded. “You can still have a good time. Just don’t bring your cat along.”
I smirked as I imagined Frisky wedged between Brad and me in our prom pictures.
“Guys smell better than animals,” Chelsea said.
“Not always. It depends on the guy,” Rachel said.
“Guys are better kissers.”
“That also depends on the guy,” Rachel said.