Текст книги "Confessions of a Kleptomaniac"

Автор книги: Jessica Sorensen

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Confessions of a Kleptomaniac

Jessica Sorensen

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2015 by Jessica Sorensen

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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For information: jessicasorensen.com

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Table of Contents

Confessions of a Kleptomaniac

Confession #1

Confession #2

Confession #3

Confession #4

Confession #5

Confession #6

Confession #7

Confession #8

Confession #9

Confession #10

Confession #11

Confession #12

Confession #13

Confession #14

Confession #15

Confession #16

Confession #17

Confession #18

Confession #19

Confession #20

Confession #21

Confession #22

Coming Soon

About the Author

Books by Jessica Sorensen

“I want you to light it on fire,” my mom urges me, urging the matches and lighter fluid toward me. “You should be the one to do this. It was your mistake.”

I tuck my hands behind my back, looking down at my clothes, jewelry, and a few pairs of heels piled on the back lawn just a few feet away. “I can’t.”

“Luna, this isn’t up for debate. You will burn these clothes. They’re too immodest, and you never should’ve worn them. I can’t believe you bought them. Those shorts are way too short, and don’t even get me started on the skirts. They don’t even go to your knees. The rules are no skirts unless they go to your knees, Luna. You know that, so why would you break the rules? What is wrong with you?” She shakes her head when I don’t respond, utterly disgusted with me. “Your father and I taught you to be better than this.” She scans the skinny jeans and black T-shirt I’m wearing. “Maybe we should burn those jeans, too. They look tight.”

“These jeans are fine,” I mutter, wishing I was stronger and could stand up to her for once in my life.

I wish I could say a lot of things to my mother. That her standards are too high. That I don’t think I’ll ever be the perfect, proper, church going daughter they want me to be. That I’m nowhere close to being perfect. That some of the stuff I’ve done . . . It’d probably kill them if they knew everything about me.

Just open your mouth and tell her you don’t want to burn your clothes, that you like the shorts and skirts that are in that pile.

My mouth opens, but no sound leaves me lips. I shake my head, disappointed that, even at eighteen years old, I still feel like a child whenever I’m around either of parents.

“I don’t want any more arguing from you.” She smoothes invisible wrinkles from the turtleneck sweater. It’s eighty degrees outside; she has to be sweating to death. But that’s how she always dresses, afraid to show even an inch of skin. “After what you did last weekend, you’re lucky you’re getting off this easy.”

Easy? Is she kidding me?

Gritting my teeth, I grab the lighter fluid and box of matches from her hand before turning to the pile of clothes. The smell of the lighter fluid makes me gag as I douse my beautiful skirts and shorts that I’ve secretly been wearing over the last year.

I was always so careful never to wear them any place my mom might see me. I would change into the outfits at school or at one of my friends’ houses then make sure to get back into my other clothes before I returned home. But last weekend I was at one of the few parties I’ve managed to make it to when the cops showed up and forced everyone to call their parents. I didn’t have an extra set of clothes with me, so not only did my parents have to come pick me up from a party, but they saw me in the above-the-knee, black dress I had on. It was a side of me they’d never seen before, a side they never wanted to see.

Burning my clothes is my punishment, and my mom also put a tracking app on my phone so she can keep track of my every movement. It’s not the first time she’s done this, and I’m guessing it probably won’t be the last.

“Now the match,” my mom says after I’ve soaked the clothes with lighter fluid.

Tears burn my eyes as I pluck a match out of the box, strike the tip against the side, and then drop it onto the pile. The clothes erupt in flames as I stare down at the scars on my hands, struggling not to cry. Burn scars from when I was younger and our house caught on fire. I can’t remember much about what happened, but sometimes, when I’m dreaming, I see myself in my bedroom, about to be burned alive.

“This is for the best.” Her expression sharpens when she notes I’m staring at my scars. “Luna, get over it. It’s just a fire outside, in the backyard. The house isn’t going to burn down.” She huffs an aggravated breath when I don’t look up and cups my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. “You’ve been going through a phase where you feel like you need to fit in with everyone else, but fitting in isn’t what’s important. As long as you live under my roof, you will be the person I raised you to be. You will wear the clothes I pick out for you. You will never, ever wear a dress or any outfit like that again.”

I smash my lips together. She doesn’t get it. Changing the way I dress isn’t about fitting in. It’s about being myself.

My parents have always been strict with me. They’re religious and have hardcore beliefs about how people should behave and dress, and I’m expected to live up to those standards. But their beliefs aren’t the only reason they’re so strict. A lot of it has to do with how they were raised. My grandparents on both sides are extremely intense, to the point where it’s scary being around them. They frequently lecture my mom and dad on ways they need to improve not only themselves, but me too. My parents act just like their parents do and have similar rules. There is no cursing allowed, only PG movies are permitted, and Sunday’s are spent at church. I have to wear the clothes my mom picks out; no makeup ever, and no dating, unless she approves of the guy, which were the same rules she had when growing up. My mom’s only ever approved of one guy. He goes to our church and is about as boring as watching paint dry.

I went out on one date with him and was completely miserable. When I came home and told my mom I didn’t want to see him again, she said, “You’re expecting too much. Dating isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be an opportunity to find the person you’ll marry and start a family with. That’s how things worked with your father and me.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I’m only a senior in high school, and marriage and starting a family is the last thing on my mind. What about graduating? And college? Of course, these were things I thought but didn’t dare say aloud. I knew if I did, she’d give me a lecture about how I’m not going away to college, not if they have any part of it. Then would come the punishment, their way of trying to mold my mind to be more like theirs.

Things have been this way for as long as I can remember. I’ve never had control over my life, never had the chance to be my own person. I’ve never had the freedom to explore who I am, what I like, what I want. But what I do know about myself is that I sure as hell don’t want to stay home after I graduate and wait for a future husband my parents approve of to put a ring on my finger and knock me up. I want to finally be able to explore who I am.

The outfits burning on the lawn were a step in the direction of self-discovery, my way to find out what I like. But in the back of my mind when I was wearing each outfit, there was a voice whispering that what I was doing was wrong. I heard it every time I did something rebellious, and the voice sounded like my mother’s.

“You don’t want to turn out like your aunt Ashlynn, do you?” she asks as the fire simmers and hisses.

Whenever I screw up, she always throws Aunt Ashlynn into the mix. She’s what the Harveys consider the bad seed of the family. I haven’t seen her since I was four years old—hardly remember anything about her—yet I feel like I know her since she’s constantly used as an example.

I almost reply yes, that I want to be like Aunt Ashlynn, shunned from the family, free from this lifestyle. But the fear that I might get kicked out stops me. While I want to escape the house eventually, my parents won’t allow me to get a job, because again, it gives me too much control over my own life. So, I have no money of my own, no place to live, no nothing.

“No,” I mumble, watching the flames blaze higher.

“Good, because after the stunts you’ve been pulling, I was beginning to wonder if maybe it was time to give up on you,” she says coldly. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s time.”

Maybe it’s because I don’t think I can do this anymore.

Silence settles in as the fire crackles, singeing the clothes and melting the jewelry.

I look down at my hands again, at the jagged, elevated scars that cover my palms. Considering my history with fires, you’d think she’d have picked a different punishment. But nope. That’s not my mom’s style. She likes to punish to the max, making me as uncomfortable as she can.

Finally, I can’t bare it anymore.

“I need to go to the store to pick up a few things for a school project,” I lie, backing away from the fire.

“That’s fine, but take your phone with you so I can see where you are at all times,” my mother shouts as I slide open the back door to the house. “You’re on thin ice, Luna. If you keep heading in this direction, then . . .” She trails off, turning back to the fire. “This punishment will be the least of your problems.”

I step inside the house and shut the door, wanting to scream until my lungs explode. Scream that I’m not a bad person, that I behave better than most of the people I know. Scream that I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment.

Instead, I go out to the car and drive to the store, just like I told my mother I was going to.

By the time I pull up to Benny and Gale’s Corner Store, the sun is setting behind the shallow hills. Soon, the entire town will close up shop for the evening. That’s how things work in Ridgefield. It has that ’50’s, small town, homey, good neighbor vibe to it. Once the sun begins to set, every store and gas station locks up for the night so everyone can return home.

Tourists who drive through here during the summertime always beam about what a fantastic place it is and how wonderful the people are, but I’ve grown up here, and not everything is how it seems. Exactly like every other place in the world, the people in Ridgefield have secrets, things kept hidden behind locked doors. Sometimes the occasional secret slips out and ends up printed in the news, like the time Mable Marleinton got arrested for drug possession and assault.

I have secrets, too. Mine have remained a secret, though, thank God. Otherwise, I’d already be living on the streets.

“Hey, Luna,” Benny, the owner of the pharmacy, greets me as I enter the store. “What are you doing out this late?”

I hold back a sigh. It’s not even six o’clock yet.

“My mom needs me to pick up some last minute stuff for a brunch party she’s having tomorrow,” I lie.

His warm smile makes me feel a pang of guilt over what I’m about to do.

“Tell her I said hi, would you?” he asks as he punches a few buttons on the register. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.”

“I will,” I say then hurry down the nearest aisle, tying my hoodie around my waist.

I wander up and down the aisles, trying to figure out what I’m going to buy for the fake brunch party I just made up. I decide on some paper plates and cups with silly smiley face hearts on them. Then I turn down the makeup aisle and study the section of brightly colored nail polish.

My mom would lose her mind if I painted my nails a bold color like luscious purple or seductive red. I don’t even like red or purple that much, but just thinking about her telling me I can’t paint my nails makes me want to. What if I did it? What if I said to hell with her rules and did whatever I wanted to? What would she do? Probably get rid of me like she did Mr. Buttons, a puppy I brought home with me when I was eight. My mom thought he was the cutest puppy in the entire world until he was still pooping on the carpet and chewing up a favorite pair of shoes after weeks of trying to train him. Then it was bye-bye Mr. Buttons.

Is that where I’m heading? Is my mom going to kick my ass out the door like she did with Mr. Buttons?

Do I care?

Anger, frustration, and guilt blaze through me like the fire did with my clothes. Why can’t she simply accept me for who I am? Why can’t I just be who I want to be without feeling guilty?

As my lungs constrict, I snatch up bottles of nail polish and stuff them inside the pocket of my hoodie that’s around my waist. For a second, I feel calm, like I have control over something. Then the images of my clothes on fire flash through my mind, and those invisible fingers always wrapped around my neck tighten their hold. Struggling not to scream, I start stuffing random items into my pocket, one after the other. I’m not even paying attention to what I’m picking up. Usually, I’m more careful, but today has been overwhelming, and I can barely think past the fact that I just burned most of my clothes.

They’re just clothes, I keep telling myself. But they weren’t just clothes and items—materialistic objects. They represented the time I’ve spent finding my place in the world, who I am when I’m not under my parents’ control. And now that’s gone. Where does that leave me? Back to being my mom and dad’s puppet? Back to dressing how they want, only listening to music they approve, going to church, spending at least three hours a day on homework even when I don’t have anything to work on.

I might have been doing most of those things already, but being able to dress how I wanted gave me a bit of room to breathe. It gave me air. Now the air is gone again, and I’m going to spend every day feeling as though I’m slowly drowning.

I add more items into my pocket, growing more furious by the second. But as I’m stuffing a bag of rubber bands into my pocket, I realize I’ve messed up big time. Because standing down the aisle with his eyes trained on me is Grey Sawyer.

I freeze, mid-pocket stuff, gaping at him with a hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look on my face.

Grey is one of those guys who is perfectly put together. His brown hair always looks so soft, and he has these incredibly blue eyes. Plus, he’s taller than me, which is rare considering I’m almost five foot eleven. I used to have a crush on him—still do when I’m being honest with myself. Normally, I’d be dancing up and down that he’s staring at me so intently. Right now, though, I wish he’d go away.

Instead, he keeps looking at me as he cocks a brow.

Panic pulsates through me. How long has he been watching me? Maybe I should ask. Just say, hey did you just see me jack like ten items from sweet old Benny? But on top of that conversation being extremely awkward, Grey and I aren’t in the same social circles in our high school, and I don’t know him well enough to guess how he’d react. All I really do know about him, aside from the fact that he was blessed with the gorgeous gene, is that he’s popular and has a bunch of friends who are constantly making fun of people. He sometimes joins in with them and acts like an asshole, but he has been quieter this school year.

It’s difficult to see him as the more reserved guy he’s pretending to be, though. I’ve witnessed him act like a cocky jerk several times before, including once to me during sophomore year when I asked him to go to the Girl’s Choice Dance. It took all of my courage to walk up to him and ask. He gave me a once-over and told me no fucking way, but then, two days later, said yes to Cindy Pepperson, a cheerleader who was a year older than us and had huge boobs. I realized he had a type, and I didn’t fit the criteria.

The worst part was he told the entire school about the dorky, prude girl who asked him out, and I was mocked for the entire school year. Back then, I was different, though. Back then, I still wore outfits approved by my mom . . . okay, which I guess I kind of am now.

My gut churns. I don’t want to go back to that girl.

I start to back away from Grey, figuring it might be better just to make a run for it. His head slants to the side as a mixture of curiosity and concern rises in his expression.

My heart thuds in my chest. What the heck is that look for?

“Did you find everything you needed for your mom’s party?” Benny appears at the end of the aisle right beside me.

I swallow the lump wedged in my throat. “Yep, I think so.” I hold up the paper cups and plates I’m carrying and show him as I peek over at Grey, wondering if he’ll out me to Benny.

Grey’s expression is neutral and completely unreadable, and my discomfort amplifies.

“Luna, I think we need to talk.” He throws a swift glance in Grey’s direction, and then his eyes land on me. “Could you come to the front of the store with me, please?”

Oh. My. God. He knows.

God. No. No. No. This can’t be happening.

Vomit burns at the back of my throat as I nod.

Benny motions for me to follow him as he heads for the register near the front door.

I follow him with my adrenaline soaring. What am I going to do? My parents are going to kick me to the street if they find out. Do I have time to empty out everything from my pocket?

As I’m squeezing past Grey, he reaches out and discreetly but quickly tugs my jacket off my waist.

“What are you doing?” I whisper as he puts on the oversized grey jacket like it’s his own.

Before Grey can answer me, Benny twists around with a stern look on his face. “Luna, I need to see you now, please.”

Nodding, I hurry away from Grey, but I can feel his eyes boring a hole into the side of my head. Once we make it up front to the register, Benny instructs me to empty out my pockets, and I do what he asks, taking out my cell phone, a pack of gum, and a ten-dollar bill.

Puzzlement etches his face as he sorts through my stuff then looks down at my waist, his confusion deepening.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something.

“I’m so sorry, Luna,” he says, running his hand over his bald head. “I thought maybe . . . You know what, never mind. I think I’m losing my mind in my old age.”

“It’s okay.” I feel so sick with guilt my stomach burns.

I hurry and pay for the paper plates and cups then bolt out the door and back to my car. By the time I turn on the engine, my heart is pounding so hard I swear it’s going to give out on me, and my guilt is choking me.

I’m the worst person that’s ever existed. I really am. And now Grey knows that. Even my closest friends don’t know I’ve been shoplifting for years. Not because I need stuff, but because for some messed up reason it gives me a sense of control.

I consider waiting until Grey comes out of the store to get my jacket back. I could ask him why he did what he did—why he helped me out—and if he has plans of telling anyone what happened. But when I see him exit the store with my jacket on, I chicken out and hide in my car.

“This is so messed up. What the hell am I going to do?” I crank up the music. “Breathing Underwater” by Metric blasting through the speakers as I let out a deafening scream that swallows up the answer.

F lames blaze against the walls, melting the paint and wallpaper away. Smoke funnels the air so thickly I can’t see straight. I gasp for air as I roll out of bed and get down on all fours. The floor is hot against my palms as I crawl in the direction of my bedroom door.

“Mommy!” I cry as I blindly try to find my way out of my room. “Mommy, help me!”

The bright fire crackles as it sweeps across the room, singeing the floor, the ceiling, everywhere. My eyes burn against the brightness, and my skin feels like melting wax.

“Mommy!” I shout, turning in the opposite direction as the fire blocks my path.

So much smoke. I can’t breathe.

No one’s coming for me because I’m a bad girl. No one helps bad girls. My mom’s words echo in my head, and I realize in horror that it must be true. No one’s going to rescue me. The fire is going to kill me.

I fall flat on the floor as smoke circles around me. I gasp for air, but with every breath, my lungs feel smaller, like they’re shrinking.

“I can’t breathe . . .” I choke out as my eyelids drift shut.

Pain, so much pain. Just let me die.

Suddenly, I’m lifted from the floor.

“Hang on, Luna. I’m going to get you out of here.” The voice is so familiar, so comforting.

I open my eyes as I’m carried away and search through the smoke, trying to see their face, but all I see is smoke and flames.

Everywhere.

My eyes snap open, and I bolt upright in bed, dripping with sweat. It takes me a second to process that my room isn’t on fire, that I’m safe. Then I flop back down in my bed and stare up at my ceiling. I haven’t dreamt about the fire in a while. My bet is that the sudden recurrence has to do with the fire my mom made me light in the backyard.

I hate that the nightmares have resurfaced. I don’t like being reminded of that night almost fourteen years ago when I thought I was going to die until a fireman carried me out of the house. Or, at least that’s what my parents tell me. I’m not so sure. Whenever I dream about what happened, it feels like I knew the person who rescued me. I have no clue why my parents would lie about something like that, though.

I try to go back to sleep, but my mind is too wired, and I end up staying awake until the sun rises. It’s fall break, so I don’t have school for an entire week. I hate when we get long breaks because it means staying home with my mom. She won’t let me out of the house, so I have no choice except to spend time with her, cooking, cleaning, and listening to her lectures on why I need to be a better person and how disappointed she is that she even has to tell me this, that I should just know. She won’t let me have my phone, either, so I lose all communication with my friends. Thankfully, I managed to send them a text before I handed the phone over, so at least they know what’s up.

Toward the weekend, she brings out the photos of her sister, Aunt Ashlynn, during her rebellious days. In most of them, she looks around the same age as I am and resembles a younger version of my mom. She has freckles on her nose like I do, and for some crazy reason, I find comfort that I share a trait with the rebel of our extended family.

“See these, Luna?” My mom sits down beside me on the sofa and starts flipping through the photo album, scrutinizing each page. “Look at how she’s dressed. Look at the people she’s hanging out with. Don’t they look horrible? Doesn’t she look miserable?”

I nod, but I don’t agree at all. If you ask me, Aunt Ashlynn looks pretty damn happy in most of the photos, smiling and laughing with people I assume are her friends. I wonder if she’s still happy now or happier even.

“What happened to her?” I stare at a photo of her on the beach with a group of friends. She’s wearing cutoffs and a bikini top, her head thrown back in laughter. She looks so happy, so carefree, like she’s saying to hell with her parents and their rules.

My mom’s jaw ticks as she slams the album shut. “How would I know? I haven’t spoken to her for almost fourteen years.”

“Don’t you ever miss her, though?” I ask. “And wonder where she is? If she’s okay?”

“No one misses Ashlynn. No one misses those who choose to go against their family’s values.” She rises to her feet then shoves the album back onto the shelf beside the mantle. “I’m going to go cook dinner. Go work on your homework until it’s time to set the table.”

“But I already did my homework.”

“Well, do extra credit, then,” she snaps then leaves the room.

I steal the album off the shelf, take it to my room, and spend the rest of the night pretending to do my homework while I flip through the album some more. I’ve never had a chance to look at it alone. Usually, it’s a punishment tool for my mom. Being by myself with plenty of time to absorb each moment captured in the photos, I get a sense of peace looking through it.

Right before I put the album back on the shelf, I remove the photo of my aunt Ashlynn at the beach and hide it under my mattress. As I fall asleep, I vow to myself that one day I’ll get over my fear of my parents and live my life the way that I want to. Be as happy as Aunt Ashlynn was in the photos.

The next day, I attend church with my family then return home and help my dad clean out the garage. We don’t talk. My father and I rarely do. I used to think it was because he was a man of few words, but when he’s around other adults, he can be quite chatty.

The lengthy, dragged-out week gives me plenty of time to overanalyze what’s going to happen with Grey when school starts up again. What is he going to say to me about what happened? Maybe I’ll luck out, and he won’t say anything at all.

By the time Monday rolls around, I’m forced to face the inevitable. I have to go to school and face Grey, and I’ll be wearing an outfit pre-selected by my mom when I do.

When the sun comes up, she bursts into my room and picks out a pair of tan slacks two sizes too big for me along with a cardigan that buttons up to the neck. She even searches my bag to make sure I’m not trying to sneak any clothes with me.

“Remember to come straight home after school,” my mom reminds me as I grab the car keys from the wall hook. “And I don’t want you leave the campus until school gets out, even for lunch. I’ll be checking your phone to make sure you don’t. And I’ve called the principal, as well, to let him know you’re not allowed off campus.”

I grind my teeth until my jaw aches.

“You did this to yourself.” She stops stirring the pot to yank on my sleeves and unroll them. “I don’t even want to know how you got ahold of clothes like that, but I’m guessing it’s from those friends of yours.”

She often puts the blame on my friends whenever I do something wrong, as if I’ve fallen in with the wrong crowd. But I’ve been friends with the same people since elementary school, and she knows this.

“It wasn’t my friends.” I get a granola bar and a bottle of juice to take with me, so I don’t have to stick around and eat breakfast with her. “I bought those clothes myself.”

“That makes it worse.” She crosses her arms and stares me down. “That means you made bad choices on your own, that you’re the bad person. You can’t blame that on anyone else.”

“I don’t since I’m my own person,” I mutter quietly enough that she can’t hear me.

“What did you say?” she asks as she reaches into the pocket of her apron.

“I said I’m going to be late for school if I don’t get going.”

“Fine.” She withdraws her hand from her pocket, and her fingers are enclosed around my phone. “I’m only giving you this back so we can keep an eye on you. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t let you have it.”

“Thanks.” I snatch the phone from her and make an escape for the door.

“Remember who you are, Luna!” she shouts.

She’s said the same thing to me every day for the last five years. I want to tell her that I don’t know who I am, but I’m definitely not the daughter she wants. Like always, though, I remain silent and nod before I close the front door.

Once I climb into the car, I text Wynter, one of my best friends on the planet, has been since second grade. We were the first two members of our group of five friends. It all started with us, a bottle of nail polish, and Wynter coaxing me into rebelling for the day. Although, it didn’t take that much effort on her part.

“We can use fingernail polish remover before you go home,” she said as she painted my nails a bright pink shade as we sat under the slide at our school playground.

I was awestruck by the color. It was the first time I’d ever felt pretty in my life. “This is fun. And it looks so pretty. Like princess-worthy pretty.”

“It’s totally princess worthy,” she said with a huge grin on her face.

I smiled, but then my happiness faltered. “I just wish my clothes matched.”

“One day they will,” she promised me.

And she made good on that promise the day I turned seventeen, and she bought me a new wardrobe, which now is nothing but ashes.

Me: Can u bring me some clothes please?

Wynter: Oh, my God! She gave u your phone back!

Me: Yep. But only so she could keep track of me.

Wynter: She’s so crazy. And FYI, I was already planning on bringing u some clothes.

Me: Ur the best. I feel so bad that u gave me all those nice clothes and now they’re gone. It was such a waste.

Wynter: It’s not your fault your parents are cray-cray.

Me: I know, but I wish they weren’t. Their punishments aren’t even in the realms of normalcy.

Wynter: Ur telling me. Remember that one time they made you write I Will Not Color On My Walls a thousand times?

Me: That one was pretty bad . . . I hated that u were there and had to see me do it.

Wynter: I felt so bad for you. And it never made any sense to me. I mean, they made you write it on the wall and then paint over it. I was like, seriously, wth? Why would u have her write on the wall about not writing on the wall?

Me: I never understood it, either. But I still don’t think it’s as bad as burning an entire wardrobe. And now she’s got that stupid tracking app on my phone.

Wynter: Ari’s on that. Give him a few days, and I’m sure he’ll have some kind of way that we can get around it.

I smile for the first time in three days.

Ari is one of my close friends, has been since sixth grade when his family first moved to Ridgefield. Since his family didn’t grow up here, a lot of people treated him as an outsider. My friends and I, being outsiders ourselves, took him in and showed him the inner workings of our middle school.