Alpha Dog (4 page)

Back inside I glanced around at the small, sunny condo, the postcard view off the balcony, the distant UT Tower casting a long early-morning shadow our way as if stretching out to me. All this had been in my reach only to be snatched away at the last minute. I should have known it wouldn’t work out. It was just too good. Too perfect.

“Excuse me. Is this number 301?”

We all turned in unison. A girl my age was standing in the front doorway, which Mrs. Krantz had left open. She was tall, with the most amazing upright, square-shouldered posture. Everything about her was thin and pointy. Squinty brown eyes, a small pinch of a nose, a chin so sharp it could probably puncture tin cans. Two skinny legs stuck out from the bottom of a denim skirt and continued for half a block until they reached long fingery toes poking out of leather flip-flops. Her sleeveless pink top was buttoned all the way to the collar, and two scrawny arms stuck out of either side, her shoulders so knobby they looked like bedposts. But what really got me was her straw sun hat with the matching pink band. The brim was so wide, I wasn’t sure she could fit through the door.

“I’m Christine Hobbes,” she said, stepping into the condo. The hat passed through the frame with just inches to spare.

“Hello, dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Krantz, returning to her previous, singsongy voice. She rushed forward and shook Christine’s hands, leaving fur on her long, tapered fingers. “I’m Mrs. Krantz. And this is Mrs. B,” she added, nodding down at the calico, who was weaving figure-eights around Christine’s legs.

“What a beautiful cat!” Christine cooed, reaching down and scooping Mrs. B into her arms.

Mrs. Krantz beamed proudly. “Oh, and this is Mrs. McAllister and her daughter, Katie. Katie was to be your roommate, but her mother is having some . . . second thoughts.”

“Yes, I understand completely,” Christine said, nodding sympathetically at my mom. Her voice had a certain Zen-master quality to it, deep and oh-so-understanding, like Oprah Winfrey on happy pills. “My parents were also reluctant to let me come here. But they finally decided they didn’t want me to miss out on this great educational opportunity. Besides, my dad will be dropping in all the time, whenever he doesn’t have surgeries scheduled.”

“Your father is a doctor?” Mom asked.

“Yes. A cardiologist. He’s at University Hospital in San Antonio.”

“And where is your mother, dear?” Mrs. Krantz asked. “Is she with you?”

“Unfortunately, no. She’s out of the country doing some missionary work this summer. Which reminds me”—she looked down at a watch hanging loosely on her wrist—“I’m supposed to meet a prayer group later at University Christian. My mother is good friends with the pastor. In fact, he’ll be stopping by a lot, too.” She turned toward me and grinned a happy-pill grin. “It’s too bad you’re not staying, Katie. We could go together and meet some new people.”

“Yeah, too bad,” I said, trying to look glum. Inwardly I sensed a slight uptick in my mood. Maybe there would be one very minor bright side to going home. This girl seemed so goody-goody, living with her would probably be just like living with my mom.

Judging by the smile on Mom’s face, she was thinking the same thing.

“So, you say your parents arranged lots of supervision for you?” Mom asked.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Christine replied in her honey-coated voice. “Mainly because they worry about me, not because they don’t trust me. I’m afraid I’m a hopeless creature of habit. Early to bed, early to rise. I’m probably the dullest person here.” She laughed a birdlike, twittering laugh.

Mrs. Krantz laughed too.

“What about boys?” my mom’s voice cut in. “Have your parents set any limits on having boys over?”

“Boys?” Christine looked surprised by the question. “Well . . . I mean, I’m hoping to host the prayer group here once or twice, and there are probably boy members. But a boy here, alone, with no grown-ups? No. No, no, no. That would not be appropriate.”

My jaw practically came unhinged. I couldn’t believe there existed a girl my age who felt that way about guys. I half expected her to say they were “icky” and “have cooties.”

“Now, see there, Mrs. McAllister?” Mrs. Krantz trilled. “These girls are young, but they’re sensible.”

Mom just stood there, sizing me up again. Only this time I couldn’t read her mind.

Please, please, please,
I urged inwardly.
I’ll make
friends with Christine and go to her dumb prayer group.
I’ll eat nothing but brussels sprouts. I’ll wear a stupid
pith helmet to protect myself from the sun. Just please let
me stay!

“Okay,” Mom finally replied.

I blinked, unable to process it fully. “Really?”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Krantz gushed.

“But let me make the rules clear,” Mom went on. “No late nights. No piles of junk food. And above all, no strange boys up here. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, my entire body nodding.

“And here’s the thing,” Mom added, her voice deepening.
Oh great,
I thought. I knew there’d be a catch. “I will be calling regularly, and I’ll want to talk to Christine as well. As long as she reports that you are following the rules I’ve laid down, you can continue to stay.”

“What?” I gasped. I couldn’t believe it. Mom had more confidence in a total stranger than she did in me? It was so unfair. I’d never done anything really wrong—other than gab a little too long on the cell phone or date someone she felt wasn’t good enough for me. “You . . . you don’t trust me?” I asked, my voice meek and whispery.

Mom didn’t reply. “Christine, would that be all right with you?”

“Of course,” she replied. “I’ll be glad to help. Although I’m sure Katie will do everything you say.”

“Fine.” Mom looked at her watch. “Well then, if you all will excuse me, I have to get back to San Marcos for an important meeting. Bye, honey.” She kissed my temple, shouldered her purse and headed toward the stairwell.

“I’ll walk you out,” said Mrs. Krantz, trotting behind her, cradling Mrs. B with one arm. In the doorway she swiveled about, whispered, “I’m so glad she changed her mind,” and then shut the door behind her.

I heaved a sigh of relief. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the arrangement I wanted. But at least I didn’t have to go back.

I glanced over at Christine. She was staring at the door with her head cocked slightly. As soon as the sounds of footsteps died away, she turned and met my gaze.

“Good, they’re gone,” she said. She quickly took off her hat and unbuttoned her top. Jagged jet black hair tumbled down her back, and peeking out from beneath her white cami was an elaborate Celtic-looking tattoo. “Now help me unpack all the booze.”

2

“T
his is a good place,” Christine said, sticking her head into the cupboard beneath the sink. I peered past her shoulder. It was dark and dusty and one dead roach lay on its back in a far corner.

She sat on the floor and began pulling bottles of liquor out of a cardboard box marked Computer Stuff and standing them inside the cabinet.

“What if Mrs. Krantz finds this?” I asked, biting my left thumbnail.

Christine looked at me as if I’d suddenly broken into a hula dance. “Why would she ever look in here?”

“I don’t know. . . . What if the sink needs plumbing?”

“No big deal,” she said. She pushed the hair from her face and went back to lining up the liquor. “It’s not like
she’s
going to work on the pipes. She’d hire some guy. I’d be more afraid some jerk showing off his butt crack might swipe a bottle.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, nodding. It did make sense. Obviously I had a lot to learn.

I was still trying to find a way to file Christine into my brain. The girl had such a sweet, wholesome face— the type you’d see on a box of biscuit mix. For a while there I’d been afraid I was rooming with Shirley Temple at seventeen. But the minute Mom and Mrs. Krantz left, her demeanor had completely transformed. Her calm, saintly gaze gave way to a keen-eyed stare and wry smile. And her sugary voice was gone, replaced by the perpetually bored monotone of the ultracool set.

“You going to help?” she asked.

I sat down beside her and pulled a bottle of rum out of the box. “So, where’d you get all this?” I asked.

“From my dad’s liquor cabinet.”

“Really? Won’t he see that it’s missing?” I knew I sounded like a total thumb sucker, but I didn’t care. I just had to know. In my house I couldn’t roll my eyes without Mom finding out and nagging me about it.

Christine made a little snorting sound. “Yeah, right. Like he’d care. As long as no one touches the scotch. That’s all he drinks. Luckily I hate that crap.”

I nodded as if I totally understood. “I bet you’re glad he had that surgery today, huh?” I said, trying to regain cool points. “You didn’t have to worry he might notice all this stuff.”

She looked at me with both sympathy and amusement. “He didn’t have surgery today. I just made that up.”

“Oh.”

“Besides, he knows I can take care of myself,” she said, frowning. She grabbed another two bottles and noisily plunked them beside the others. “
And
he had a golf game he didn’t want to miss.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. It was clear she had parent issues, but then so did I. Plus, I was afraid I was making a pathetic first impression. For some reason talking with Christine made me feel about five years younger and short fifty IQ points.

“What about
your
dad?” she asked. “Where is he today?”

“At work,” I said.

“And I take it your mom doesn’t work and instead runs her kids’ lives?”

“Well . . . yeah.” I guessed that was one way of putting it. “Is it the same with yours?”

She gave me an ironic and slightly scary smile. “Oh no. Not my mumsie. She’s in Costa Rica with her new husband.”

Again I wasn’t sure what to say.
I’m sorry
seemed too presumptuous. And the standard social courtesies, like
I see
or
Is that so?
didn’t really seem to fit here. In fact, I was pretty sure I should never resort to polite society banter with her.

Luckily we finished unpacking the booze at that point and Christine announced it was time for a break. She mixed up a couple of drinks, some sort of juice with a little bit of rum, and we sat down in the living room—me on the big flowered sofa and Christine in the harvest gold armchair.

“Okay, questions,” she said, setting her drink on the coffee table. “Where do you go to school? Who do you hang out with? And what do you do for fun?”

I swished my drink and watched the ice cubes whirl around the glass. I was used to these sorts of inquiries—these half-cloaked attempts to figure out my worth as a human being. In my circle, they were more along the lines of “Who’s your boyfriend and what does he drive?” I could answer the question of my school, but not the others. Mainly because I didn’t know anymore.

I must have taken too long to answer because Christine made a little exasperated noise. “Man, I should have made coffee instead. Are you stoned or something?”

“Sorry.”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me. You miss your boyfriend, right?”

I stared at her in alarm. “What makes you say that? Why do you think I have a boyfriend?”

“Please. Pretty trendies like you always have boyfriends. It’s like those Barbie sets where you get two for the price of one. You date all through high school and college. Then you get married. You quit teaching to raise the kids, and you all live happily ever after in a big plastic dream home with your painted smiles, perfect hair, and expensive tans.”

My eyes narrowed in a stern glare. What a judgmental bitch! How could she make so many cynical assumptions after knowing me only half an hour? But I was also a little spooked. She’d just described my dad and mom to the last detail—except for the tanning part. Mom was too terrified of wrinkles and cancer. “Well, you’re wrong! Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. I was so eager to shoot down her theory, I sounded almost boastful. “I used to, but he dumped me. Just yesterday, in fact . . . On my birthday . . .” My voice died away. Once again my insides felt swollen and bruised.

“Man, I’m sorry.” Christine’s smug expression dropped from her face. “What a loser.”

“Yeah,” I said tentatively. I wasn’t sure if she meant Chuck or me.

For the first time since she arrived, Christine seemed speechless. I decided to take the focus off me and ask her a few questions.

“What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “We’ve been going out for about a year now. He’s older. Just graduated.”

She softened as she talked about him, like any other girl who’s crushing majorly over someone—just like I probably used to. She tried to hide it, but it was there. In the glow of her eyes and the unconscious way she smoothed her hair. I felt a stab of envy.

“Where’d you meet him?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.

“At a club in San Antonio. He’s in a band.”

Figures,
I thought, taking a long swig of my drink. She seemed like the clubbing type.

“Do you play an instrument too?” I asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.

She shook her head. “I love music, but I’m not good at it. I’m in theater.”

“You’re
definitely
good at that,” I said. “You had my mom and Mrs. Krantz totally fooled. Me too. I thought you’d be making me say grace anytime I grabbed a potato chip.”

She started laughing. “It really helps when dealing with adults.”

“I imagine.”

Christine sat back in the chair and pushed a few strands of hair out of her face. “Hey, um . . . I know I was kind of bitchy before, but I didn’t mean it. I tend to do that sometimes. I don’t really know why.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“You know what?” she said, lifting her glass toward me. “I think it’s going to work out, you and I living together. Here’s to blowing our parents off and having fun.”

“To fun,” I echoed.

We clinked our glasses together and Christine downed the rest of her drink in one gulp.

“All right,” she said, slamming her glass down on the coffee table. “I call dibs on the biggest closet.”

I followed her down to her car (a restored candy-apple red Karmann Ghia) and helped her carry the rest of her bags and boxes into the creaky service elevator, onto the landing, and down the hall to her room. Christine took the north bedroom, since it had the bigger closet and was farther away from the noise of the living room. I didn’t really care. My east-facing bedroom had the better view. If I stood in the far left corner of my window and got on the tips of my toes, I could see the top of the UT Tower peeking up over the giant live oak tree across the street.

Christine asked me to keep her company while she unpacked. Maybe it was the rum, or maybe I was tipsy just being away from Mom, but for some reason, I really liked Christine a lot—even though she’d been kind of mean to me before. Christine was someone who probably never got dumped, and never would. She was far too savvy to ever get blindsided the way I had been. I found myself really wanting her to like me. If nothing else, I figured I could study her over the summer and pick up pointers on how to win Chuck back. Or, more realistically, how to win back my reputation.

“So what’s with your mom?” Christine asked as she tossed a pair of what could only be described as army boots into the floor of her closet. “Why is she on your ass so much? Do you have a history of holding up liquor stores or something?”

“You’d think,” I mumbled, staring down at my ragged nails—another one of Mom’s favorite nagging topics. “It’s just that she’s a big go-getter and my dad is super successful and I’m not all that special.”

Christine looked at me in disbelief. “Come on. You’re a total yuppie princess.”

“No, I’m not. I’m no good at that super achievement stuff. Dad says I’m too much of a thinker and Mom thinks I’m lazy—either that or purposefully rebelling just to make her mad.”

“You mean you aren’t?” Christine raised her eyebrows. “Hell, I do that all the time to my dad. I figure it’s our basic right.”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her that it wasn’t pure teenage rebellion that made me go against my mom’s plans for me. Truth was, I knew I’d fail at them. I was too klutzy and cynical for the beauty pageants, too shy for the speeches and protests. And I had no leadership qualities whatsoever. In our entire family, probably only Grandma Hattie, who had a tendency to go places in her slippers and still thought Nixon was President, was a bigger embarrassment to Mom.

I watched Christine hang up an itty-bitty dress that seemed to be made out of black rubber. The girl even had her own unique style. Obviously, she’d only worn the church mouse ensemble in order to make a strong first impression on Mrs. Krantz. The real Christine, I could see, was more retro punk meets shabby chic meets urban cool.

“Okay. I’m done,” she announced as she set a three-tiered chrome makeup case on the wooden dresser. “Let’s unpack your stuff.”

After watching her unload her vintage dresses, hard-core rock tees, and loads of black leather you-name-its, my own clothes seemed horribly boring and safe (especially the ruffly underwear from Grandma, which I tossed into a dark corner of the closet floor when Christine wasn’t looking). I was kind of embarrassed and kept shoving things into drawers and onto hangers at a frenzied pace, so I wasn’t really paying attention when I pulled out the Scooby Doo alarm clock from the bottom of the box.

“Is that a clock?” she asked from her cross-legged position on my mattress.

I looked down, surprised to see Scooby’s goofy face in my grasp. “Uh . . . yeah.”

Christine rose up onto her knees and held out her hands. “Can I see?”

“Sure.” As I gave it to her, my mind raced to come up with some sort of excuse as to why I had a cartoon character alarm clock. Let’s see. . . . She already knew I didn’t have any younger siblings. She’d never believe it was a family heirloom. . . .

“This is cool,” she said, turning it around. “Makes sense you would have it. You look just like Daphne,” she added, handing it back to me. “I absolutely love dogs. You want to see my collection?”

“Sure!” I exclaimed, happy to throw the focus off me.

She hopped off the bed and headed back to her room, returning with one of the cardboard boxes. I watched as she pulled back the flaps and began lifting out wiener dogs, one by one. There were several small stuffed ones, a couple of dachshund-shaped pillows, a pair of dachshund oven mitts, a few framed photos of dachshunds wearing costumes, a dachshund finger puppet, and a giant beach towel with a big blown-up photo of a dachshund’s face and the words
Lord of the Wiens
written in bold across the bottom.

“I even have some wiener dog earrings,” Christine added. “And look at this.” She lifted her skirt to reveal a tattoo of a dachshund on her upper thigh.