Chapter Four
When Blood Smells Like Ketchup
(Cats Don't Always Land on Their Feet)

"You're preoccupied." Cat noticed. "I can tell." They both sat together at that same lonely table. The lunchroom seemed to spin around them.

"Just thinking." Chris said.

"About what?"

"Rachel." He answered and she looked away. "I mean, she was acting strange yesterday. Have you noticed anything?"

She didn't answer the question. The gears inside her mind were working, trying to put the words together, carving a mask to hide the truth. She knew what she wanted to say, and what she didn't want to say, but somehow, at that moment, both seemed the same. She replied with the only thing she could think of. "You want to go for a walk?"

The air outside was cooler than usual, cooler than a few minutes ago. It seemed to him that only when they were marching on the black pavement does the sun decide to watch. Otherwise, it's as cool as spring morning. The school was abandoned; the entire marching band was busy inhaling their lunches. His ears took a welcomed break from the blaring trumpets and screeching piccolos and listened to the melody of birds and the harmony of the trees. "I should go on walks more often," he said, smiling.

"Shhhh…" She put a finger across her lips, and led him to the courtyard, to the base of a tree and there, entwined in its roots, they took their seats. "Just listen."

He fell into a dream, counted every flutter of wings, dissected each pigment of sunlight, heard each leaf's individual voice, absorbed, tasted, and grabbed all he could. When Cat finally spoke, it wasn't an interruption. It was only an added instrument in nature's symphony.

"Tell me about your home," she said. He smiled.

"It was a small house. Not even really well kept either. We tried. My parents tried; I helped them I mean. But the grass was always burnt, and the trees overgrown. But it was home."

"Backyard?"

"We had a huge back yard. I remember chasing my dog when I was younger. I was naive enough to think that I could beat her in races. My mother would count us off. To the tree and back. It was a long run. And my dog turned the fastest corners ever seen for a fat little Dalmatian."

She laughed. "How was your room?"

"I had a little room. The dungeon I called it. The window never let in a lot of light. The floor was cold. I wanted carpet. I remember coming home from my elementary school. Shoes thick with sand from the playground. I would spill the sand on my floor. A course little slide. Almost unbearable to walk on."

He turned to face her. She lay completely still, a dead body, molded by the roots, leaves in her hair, dirt on her hands, and a sad, envious smile brushing her lips. "Tell me about your home." he said. It was only a slight pause before she answered.

"I spent most of my time in our small living room. We had a collection of pillows my mother kept along the walls. I would bring them together. Form my own stories. Make my own action scenes. I would always come up with the most spectacular battles. I remember getting carpet burns from spinning around so much. Punching every pillow. Kicking every one, too. I would imagine I was a power ranger. I would spin away while the TV was on or while my parents were trying to watch the news. It was a funny sight, pillows crossing in front of the screen."

She leaned back on the roots, stared upwards through the canopy, and let her eyes trace the sky. There was that sad smile again. She spoke as if recalling a lost paradise, and smiled as if she knew it she could never find it again. "My mother died five years ago," she said. "Ever since then, everything's changed. My father closed himself up. The only people he talks to now is my sister, and me, but every time it's like he's trying to pull us down with him. My sister fights it, though. All she does is fight him, and I hate her for it. She's the only one that didn't change. She just kept going on and left us behind." Her eyes narrowed and her fingers sunk into the dirt. "Rachel's such a bastard. She was supposed to take me home yesterday. But she left. She left her own freaking sister."

She eased her hands on the ground, squeezed her eyes shut, and let out a quick breath. Nature's symphony abruptly stopped. She opened her eyes, and locked them on the lunchroom, toward Rachel. "I hate her. She's the smart, attractive one. She's the popular section leader. She's the reason I practice the flute." She tore her eyes away, and flashed him a pitiful glance. "It's all I have. I can still beat her in one thing." She tried to hide a crooked smile, but she was a bad actor, and the sunlight filled out every curve of her face. "All I have is a flute. She left me with nothing but a damn flute." She pulled a handful of grass and threw it into the wind.