The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller by Joe Augustyn Page A

been thwarted.
    By a girl, no less.
    “Dude, did you see that?” whispered Sparrow, suitably impressed.
    Wally poked an angry finger into his ribs. “Shut the fuck up. I’m eating.”
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    The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

17
 
    “Felicia, where have you been?”
    “Hi, mom. Sorry I’m late. I went shopping with Ruta after school.”
    “Ruta?” Her mother didn’t have to add any qualifiers. The tone of her voice said it all. Everyone knew Ruta by reputation. She was the school weirdo. The one you didn’t want your kids hanging out with.
    “There’s nothing wrong with Ruta, mom. She just has a strong sense of style.”
    “Style? That’s one way to look at it.”
    “Must you be so provincial?”
    Before her mother could sputter out an answer Felicia jogged upstairs. She had plenty to do that evening. She’d start by mixing and matching her new clothes, experiment with her new look.
    A change in her image was long overdue. Her old clothes were positively tragic. She’d pack them up in a Goodwill bag then get caught up on her schoolwork. She had to keep up her grades to keep her parents off her back.
    There was no big urgency to go out on the prowl again. Like Ruta she could bide her time. Wait until the moment was right. Until she had time to plan her move.
     
    ***
     
    Felicia’s father sat sipping his coffee, dragging out his morning routine. He was already late for work, but his wife had insisted he hang around until Felicia made her appearance, in case it demanded a parental response. If their daughter was hanging out with Ruta, there was no telling what she might spring on them.
    When Felicia finally made her appearance they stared at her with consternation. Thankfully her head hadn’t been shaved and she wasn’t pierced anywhere, at least no place they could see. But her style had definitely evolved. She looked sinfully delicious in low-cut black skinny jeans that somehow stayed up on her girlish hips topped by a fluffy gray fake fur vest. Her eyes were lined with mascara and her stubby fingernails seemed to have grown half an inch overnight, now perfectly manicured with glossy gray polish.
    “Wow. So that’s the new look you went shopping for?” asked mom, in a tone that danced between mockery and amusement.
    “It’s a start,” Felicia responded nonchalantly.
    “A start?” her father asked nervously, eyeing the racy cut of her leotard. It wasn’t a look he hated. Just not one he’d have picked for his only daughter.
    “Did Ruta pick out those jeans for you?” her mother asked. “If they were cut any lower I could see Timbuktu.”
    “Ruta?” her father asked, trying to place the name.
    “You know,” his wife replied, twirling her fingers around her hairline. “The pretty little blonde girl who shaved half her head and went Goth all of a sudden.”
    “Oh, yeah. The one they’re always whispering about at the market. Did Ruta inspire your new look, Felicia?” her dad asked, sounding vaguely reprimanding.
    “Not really. I just got tired of the Pollyanna look.”
    “Oh I see.”
    “I guess I’m growing up,” Felicia replied with a sweet smile.
    “I guess you are,” said her mother, sounding slightly exasperated.
    “Don’t you like it?”
    “Oh yes,” said her mother. Determined not to feed whatever bug had crawled up her daughter’s butt. “It’s… different.”
    “Yes,” her father added, following his wife’s lead. “It’s fine. Just don’t get… too…”
    “Sexy?” Felicia couldn’t resist pushing his buttons.
    “Wild.”
    Felicia smiled.
    We’ll see how wild I can get.
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    The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

18
 
    Marky loitered near the pharmacy counter as old man Jenkins counted out pills for Marcella Evans.
    Marcella, like Sparrow and Marky, was descended from a local family with a long history of questionable characters. Petty fraud, burglary, moonshining and other lowly crimes had been their primary sustenance until the welfare train