The Memory Giver (#Wattys2014)

Chapter 9

                                                          Chapter nine

                                                             Rita

        He was different.

        Rita was reading to the cats—Wifey, by Judy Blume.  Elena would have thrown a tantrum if she’d tried reading the book while she lived with them.  Sam, I will not have your sister reading this smut while living under my roof. Hint, hint.This was Rita’s rebellion read.  I’m not under your roof anymore, Elena.  She was finding the book quite enjoyable, and it seemed to be one of the cats’ favorites.

        Today, however, she was having a hard time concentrating on the words because her mind kept finding its way to Theo. He seemed different lately, and she couldn’t put her finger on why. It was as if she were tasting something sweet, yet there was another spice underneath, a flavor she knew but couldn’t quite place.  She ran her encounters with Theo through her mind, like a football coach reviewing game film.

        He was so sweet and shy the afternoon she’d rescued him.  Our first date. He was even sweeter the following day when he opened up to her about his dead brother at The Lots.  And just as sweet the next day, as well, yet at the same time, he seemed distant.  He didn’t shun her, not outwardly anyway.  And isn’t it just like a boy to ask for your phone number and then never call.

        That was the start of it, the afternoon he’d asked for her phone number.  I couldn’t get to sleep last night.  At the time, she’d taken what he’d said at face value.  Now, she was having her doubts.

        Rita sighed audibly.  Boys were so confounding. She liked Theo, though, with his cherubic face, wiry hair and unsure way of speaking.  She found his shyness endearing, and envisioned them spending more time together. She could see herself telling him all about her abuela and the cats during a summer picnic at The Lots.  She’d tell him why she lied about where she lived (I was ashamed), and they’d laugh (No need to be). One day he’d hold her hand, and perhaps, they’d even kiss. 

        I’m not here for a boyfriend.  I’m here to take care of my abuela. The thought rained onto her imaginings, and she scolded herself for being so silly.  She tried pushing the questions aside.

        Can he smell the cats on me? Yet, try as she might, all roads led back to Theo.

        Don Juan, the big orange tabby, nudged her hand.  He wanted her to turn the page. “Sorry, Don.  I haven’t finished this page yet.”  She moved her hand to her nose and sniffed it.

        Don Juan was the ruler of the roost.  Abuela said that when papi Tito died, Don Juan considered himself the man of the house and started acting accordingly.  Two nights after papi died he came into her bedroom and tried getting into bed with her.  As lonely as she felt, Abuela worried that if she let Don Juan into her bed she’d eventually have a bed filled with cats.  When Tito was alive, the bed—at least at night—had always been off limits to the cats.  That was his one rule about the cats.

        She attempted to set Don Juan back in his box in the breakfast nook, where he usually slept, but he would not have it.  Abuela laughed as she told Rita about the battle of wills between her and a cat.  No sooner than she’d take Don Juan out of her bed and return him to his box, then he’d return to her room with a soft, chastising mew, and climb back into bed with her.