White Cat

“Is that when I get to do my part?” Sam asks. I’m sick with nerves. This part is delicate and if it doesn’t work, my only backup plan is recruiting homeless guys to try and adopt the cat.

“I can handle it,” I say.

He gives me a hurt look. “I want to come watch you work your magic.”

I feel bad for dragging him out here on a Saturday for no reason. “Okay,” I say finally. “Just follow my lead.”

We wait an hour and a half, drinking coffee and hot chocolate until my skin feels jumpy. Finally I take a bracelet out of a Claire’s bag, put it in my pocket, and pull out a bunch of flyers from my bag. Daneca’s eating a package of chocolate-covered coffee beans and looking at me strangely. I wonder if I can ever go back to Wallingford or if I’ve already revealed too much of myself.

I wonder if I should tell her that her part’s over and she can go home, but if I was going to tell her that, I should have told her more than an hour ago, so I decide that I better not do it now.

“What are those for?” Sam asks, pointing to the flyers.

“You’ll see,” I say. We cross the highway, which involves running across two lanes of traffic when the light changes, and then walk down a side street until we get to the shelter. There’s a lot of people there on a Saturday, most of them in a cat room where giant carpet-covered trees are perched upon by dozens and dozens of hissing, dozing, and clawing felines. I feel my heart drop when I see that Lila is not in there. The possibility that she’s been taken home with a family already stutters my heart.

Lila.

I’m not pretending or considering anymore when I think it.

The white cat is Lila.

Sam looks at me like he’s just realized that I have no idea what I’m doing. I clear my throat. The guy at the desk looks up. His face is a mess of pimples.

“Hey, can I hang this here?” I say, and hold up a flyer.

It’s on bright white paper, and there’s a photograph I downloaded off the Internet of the cutest fluffy white Persian cat I could find without a collar. A dead ringer for our description of Coconut. Above it is the word “FOUND” and then a phone number. I put the flyer on the desk in front of the guy.

“Sure,” he says.

He’s a perfect mark. Young enough to want the money and the glory of helping out a pretty girl. I’m suddenly very glad Daneca decided to be part of the plan.

I start tacking another copy to the board, praying that in the chaos the desk guy looks at the flyer I left for him. An older woman starts asking him about a pit bull mix, distracting him. Sam is fidgeting next to me like he has no idea what’s going on. I drop the copy as if it’s an accident and pick it up again.

Finally the woman leaves.

“Thanks for letting me post this,” I say to get the guy’s attention, and he finally looks down at the flyer. I can see the gears move behind his eyes.

“Hey, you found this cat?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m hoping to keep her.” People love to help. It makes them feel good. Greed is the icing on the cake. “My little sister is super excited. She’s been wanting a cat for a while.”

Sam gives me a look when I say “super.” He’s probably right; I need to tone it down.

I slip my hand into my pocket and take out the bracelet. It shines in the fluorescent lights. “Look at this gaudy collar.” I laugh. “Who puts a cat in something like this?”

“I think I might know the owner,” the guy says slowly. His eyes sparkle like the stones.

As convincers go, I’ve seen worse.

“Man, my sister’s going to be disappointed.” I take a breath, let it out again. “Well, tell your friend to call me.”

This is the moment of truth, and when I look into the face of the mark at the counter, I can tell that I’ve got him. He’s probably not a bad guy, but that five hundred dollars is quite a lure. Plus the collar.

Plus, he’d have an excuse to call Daneca.

“Wait,” he says. “Maybe you could bring the cat here. I’m sure I know the owner. The cat’s name is Coconut.”

I turn toward the door and then back to him. “I was stupid to tell my sister, but now she’s all excited and—well, I don’t suppose you have a white cat here? All I told her about it was the color.”

He looks eager. “We do. Sure.”

I let out my breath. I’m not faking the relief that I know floods my face. “Oh, great. I’d love to have a white cat to take home to her.”

He grins. Like I said, people love to help, especially when they can help themselves in doing so.

“Cool,” I say. “Let me fill out the paperwork and we’ll take the cat. Your friend’s fluffy kitty is at this guy’s house, so we’ll go get her and bring her right to you.” I gesture toward Sam.

“The thing’s probably giving fleas to my mother’s couch,” Sam says, which is perfect. I wish I could tell him that, but all I can do is give him a grateful glance.

The mark hands me the form, and this time I know what to do. I write down my age as nineteen, specify a veterinarian, and make up a name that’s not even close to my own.

“Do you have any ID?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, and reach into my back pocket for my wallet. I flip it open and touch the place where driver’s licenses go. Mine’s not there.

“Oh, man,” I say. “This isn’t my day.”

“Where’d you leave it?” the guy asks.

I shake my head. “No idea. Look, I totally understand if that breaks the rules or whatever. I have one other place to hang up fliers, then I’ll go look for my license. Maybe your friend can give me a call and I can just drop the cat with her. My sister will understand.”

The guy gives me a long evaluating look.

“You have the adoption fee?” he asks.

I look down at the paper, but I already know what it says. “Fifty bucks, sure.”

The door rings, and some people walk through it, but the man behind the desk keeps his eyes on me. He licks his lips.

I take out the cash and set it down on the counter in front of him. I’ve blown through a chunk of my savings in the last few days, between bad bets and spending. I’m going to have to be careful if Lila and I wind up living on the rest.

“Okay, I’ll hook you up,” the mark says, taking the money.

“Oh,” I say. “Cool. Thanks.” I know better than to overplay it.

“So, this long-haired cat,” Sam says, and I freeze, willing him not to stick his foot in it. He’s looking at the guy behind the counter. “Do you need to call your friend or anything?”

“I will,” he says, and I can see the red creeping up his neck. “I want to surprise her.”

A woman walks up to the desk, a filled out form clutched in her hand. She looks impatient. I have to push.

“Can we take the cat now?” I ask. I put the bracelet down on the counter. “Oh, your friend will probably want her collar back too.”

He looks at the woman and then at me. Then his hand closes over the bracelet and he heads into the back and comes back a few minutes later swinging a cardboard pet carrier.

My hand shakes when I take it. Sam grins at me in amazement, but all I can think of is that I have her. I did it. She’s right here in my hands. I look through the air holes and I can see her, prowling back and forth. Lila. A cold jolt of terror runs through me at the wrongness of her imprisoned in that tiny body.

“Be back in an hour,” I tell the guy, hoping I never see him again.

I hate this part.

I always hate the part where I know they are going to wait, their hope souring into shame at their own gullibility.

But I clench my jaw, take the cat carrier with Lila in it, and walk out the door.

When I open it up in the parking lot of the coffeehouse, the first thing she does is bite me hard on the heel of my hand. The next thing she does is purr.

Mom says that because she can make people feel what she wants them to, she knows how they think. She says that if I was like her, I’d have the instinct too. Maybe being a worker tempts you to be all mystical, but I think mom knows about people because she watches faces very closely. There’re these looks people get that last less than a second—micro-expressions, they call them, fleeting clues that reveal a lot more than we wish. I think my mother sees those without even noticing. I see them too.

Like, walking back toward the coffee shop with the cat in my arms, I can tell that Sam is freaked out by the con, by his part in it, by my planning it. I can tell. No matter how much he smiles.

I’m not my mother, though. I’m no emotion worker. Knowing that he’s freaked out doesn’t help me. I can’t make him feel any different.

I dump the cat onto one of the café tables and grab some napkins to wipe the blood off my wrist. My hand’s throbbing. Daneca is smiling down at the cat like she’s a full set of Gorham silver recently fallen off a truck.

Lila cries, and the barista looks over from behind the espresso machine. The cat cries again, then takes a lick of the foam on the edge of Daneca’s paper cup.

I just stare at Lila the cat, utterly incapable of doing more than smothering the strange keening sound that’s crawling up the back of my throat.

“Don’t,” Daneca says, waving the cat off. The cat hisses and then slumps down on the tabletop. She starts licking her leg.

“You won’t believe how he did it,” Sam tells Daneca, leaning forward eagerly.

I look at the barista, at the other customers, and then back at him. Everyone’s already paying us too much attention. The cat starts chewing on the end of a claw.

“Sam,” I say, cautioning.

“You know, Sharpe,” he says, looking at me and then around. “You’ve got some interesting skills. And some interesting paranoia.”

I smile in acknowledgment of his words, but it hurts. I’ve been so careful not to let anyone at school see the other side of me, to see what I am, and now I’ve blown that in a half hour.

Daneca tilts her head. “It’s sweet. All this trouble for a kitty.” She brushes the top of the cat’s head, rubbing behind her ears.

My cell rings in my pocket, vibrating. I stand up, dropping the bloody napkins into the trash can, and answer the phone. “Hey.”

“You better get over here with my car,” Grandad says. “Before I call the cops and tell them you stole it.”

“Sorry,” I say contritely. Then the rest of what he said sinks in and I laugh. “Wait, did you just threaten me with calling the police? Because that I’d like to see.”

Grandad grunts, and I think maybe he’s laughing too. “Drive on over to Philip’s—he wants to have some kind of dinner with us. He says Maura’s going to cook. You think she’s a good cook?”

“How about I pick up a pizza?” I say, looking at the cat. She’s rubbing against Daneca’s hand. “Let’s just chill out at the house.” I don’t think I’m ready to see Philip and not spit in his face.

“Too late, you little slacker. He already picked me up and you’re my ride home, so get your ass over to your brother’s apartment.”

I start to say something back, but the line goes dead.

“You in trouble?” Sam asks. The way he says it, I wonder if he’s thinking about how to get out of here if I am.

I shake my head. “Family dinner. I’m late.” I want to tell them how grateful I am, how sorry I feel that they had to get dragged into my mess, but none of it’s true. I’m just sorry for myself. Sorry that now they know something I didn’t want them to. I wish I could make them forget. For a moment I understand that memory working impulse right down to my bones.

“Uh,” I say. “Can either one of you hold on to the cat for a few hours?”

Sam groans. “Come on, Sharpe. What’s really going on here?”

“I’ll take her,” Daneca volunteers. “On one condition.”

“Maybe I could keep her in the car,” I say. Mostly I want to stare into her strange cat eyes and look at her tiny paws and ask her if she’s Lila. Even though I’ve already decided. I want to decide again.

“You can’t keep a cat in a car,” she says. “She’ll get too hot.”

“Of course. You’re right.” I smile, but it feels like a rictus. Then I shake my head, like I’m trying to shake off my expression. I’m way off my stride. I’m rattled. “Could you hold on to her overnight?”

The cat growls deep in her throat.

“Trust me,” I say to the cat. “I have a plan.” Daneca and Sam look at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I don’t want to be away from her, but I’m going to need a little time to get the rest of my money out of the library and get a hold of a car. Then we can leave town. That’s the only way she’s going to stay safe.

Daneca shrugs. “I guess, but I’m going to the dorm tonight. My parents have some conference, so they’re driving up to Vermont after dinner. My roommate’s not allergic or anything, though, and I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to hide her. I think it will be okay.”

Lila hisses, but I get up anyway, imagining them having a sleepover party together. I wonder what kind of dreams Daneca is going to have.

“Thanks,” I say mechanically. My mind is racing with plans.

“Wait,” she says. “I told you there was a condition.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”

“I want you to give me a ride home.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">