Confessions of a Kleptomaniac Read online

  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.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  For information: jessicasorensen.com

  Cover Design and Photo by Mae I Design

  www.maeidesign.com

  Interior Formatting and Design by Christine Borgford

  www.perfectlypublishable.com

  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.<
br />
  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 k
now 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.