Page 47 of Saint Céline
“God damn,” Katherine said, the words slipping out before she remembered she was supposed to sound elegant in front of her parents.
Mrs. Montgomery laughed softly. “Language, sweetheart.”
Katherine ignored her completely and dropped to her knees beside the carrier, her pale brown hair falling forward over her shoulders as she stared inside like someone had handed her a living miracle.
“She’s beautiful,” she whispered, voice full of wonder that made her sound younger than fourteen.
Mr. Montgomery looked pleased with himself in the way wealthy men often did after solving a problem with money. “She’s purebred,” he said, swirling the last of his wine. “Apparently, one of the best bloodlines in New England.”
I remember thinking that sounded like something people said about racehorses or maybe about children who went to the right schools. Katherine opened the carrier door carefully. The kitten stepped out with startling confidence, tiny white paws sinking into the thick Persian rug while the whole room watched in silence. She walked straight past Mrs. Montgomery, ignored Mr. Montgomery entirely, and stopped right beside my chair. Then she sat on my foot like she had made up her mind about me.
The room went quiet for half a second. Katherine blinked.
“Oh,” she said softly, almost hurt.
I looked down at the kitten. “I think she likes me.”
“That’s rude,” Katherine told the cat, though her voice stayed light, the way it did when she was pretending to be annoyed but really wanted to laugh.
Mrs. Montgomery laughed again. “Maybe she recognizes another stray.”
My mother stiffened beside the wall where she stood waiting to clear the dessert plates. The joke had been harmless on the surface, but rich people rarely understood when they were cruel.
I reached down slowly and touched the kitten’s head with one finger. She felt soft and warmer than I expected. The kitten immediately climbed into my lap like the decision had already been settled.
Katherine stared at her in open betrayal. “You were supposed to love me first.”
“She probably will,” I said, stroking the kitten’s back while it purred against my school skirt.
“She better.”
Mr. Montgomery picked up his wineglass again. “Have you thought of a name?”
Katherine looked down at the kitten curled against my leg. Then, with complete seriousness, she said, “Miss Astoria.”
Her father nearly choked on his wine. Mrs. Montgomery closed her eyes briefly. “Katherine.”
“What? She looks expensive.”
“That is not a personality trait.”
“It can be.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. Katherine looked at me immediately, pleased in that quiet little way she always was when she managed to make me laugh first.
“Miss Astoria,” she repeated firmly. The kitten sneezed. “See? She agrees.”
That should have been the end of it.
But three days later Katherine’s eyes swelled nearly shut during our math tutoring session. Mrs. Montgomery panicked and started talking about calling the breeder. Mr. Montgomery threatened to sue. My mother calmly handed Katherine an antihistamine and asked whether anyone had remembered thechildhood allergy tests. No one had. Apparently, Katherine had tested mildly allergic to cats when she was seven.
“It’s mild,” Katherine insisted through watery eyes while Miss Astoria slept in her lap completely unbothered by the chaos she had caused. “And I already love her.”
Mrs. Montgomery looked exhausted.
“Sweetheart, love does not prevent histamine responses.”
“It should.”
