The van door gives a mournful creak as it shuts, and Mrs. Smartly starts the reluctant ignition. The van, my green van, slowly backs out of the driveway. I would give in to my urge to chase the vehicle down the driveway, but I’m sure Rocky the Wonder Dog would join the chase and come after me like I’m his latest dog biscuit. Mrs. Smartly slowly brakes the van and rolls down the window. “I will miss you, Miss Katie,” she calls. “You’re one of my favorites.”
“I’ll miss you too.” I’m just blubbering now.
“And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll be bringing your new sister, Trina, out here.” And with the engine choking and hacking, Iola Smartly, director of the Sunny Haven Home for Girls, drives off, leaving me standing in the middle of the drive, more miserable than I’ve ever been in all my sixteen years.
Chapter 4
“Katie, would you like to come in?” Mrs. Scott stops a few feet away from me, clearly uncertain how close is too close. “You’ve been standing out here over an hour.”
I guess time flies when your whole world drives away.
“Dinner is going to be ready in about an hour. And I have some chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen if you’d like some. You probably already sniffed those out though, right?” Mrs. Scott’s grin is a clear invitation for casual banter.
“Cookies? No, I hadn’t noticed.”
Mrs. Scott looks around the yard, probably trying to figure out what I’ve been staring at for the last hour. I did find the shapes of the Alamo and Justin Timberlake in the clouds, but they rolled on by about thirty minutes ago. Other than that, I’ve just been stationed in one spot out here in case Mrs. Smartly changed her mind and decided she couldn’t face Sunny without me. I’m guessing I’d probably stand out here and weather a lot of bird poop and other elements and that still wouldn’t happen.
“Katie, are you afraid to come inside the house?”
Afraid? Is she talking to me?
“No, ma’am, I told my boyfriend I was moving, and he said he’d probably hop on his hog and come by.” Where did that come from?
“Oh.” Mrs. Scott picks a weed from the yard. “You have a boyfriend then?”
“Yeah.” I wait a few seconds, acting like I’m not going to say anything more. More suspense, you know. “I got a boyfriend. His name is . . . um, Snake.”
“Snake. What an . . . interesting name.”
“Yeah, well, the shorter the name, the easier to get it tattooed on your—”
“Okay, why don’t we go see about those cookies now.” Mrs. Scott paints on a smile. “And you can tell me all about it. I have a few boyfriend stories of my own.”
I lift a brow.
“Not current ones. What I mean to say is, when I was your age I had lots of boyfriends. No, I don’t mean lots, I mean a couple. You know, I didn’t have boys lined up at the door or anything.”
My new mom is unraveling right in front of me. Maybe I should show her some deep breathing exercises I learned in PE last year.
“I wasn’t that type of girl. Not that it’s not okay to be that type of girl, well, I mean, it’s not okay, but I would never judge someone if she . . . if she . . . Um, will you be drinking skim or whole milk with those cookies?”
Dinner is a quiet affair. At least on my end. Mr. and Mrs. Scott do all the talking, and I do all the eating. Actually I don’t really eat. I just shove things around on my plate until I finally discover a use for Rocky the horse. It seems he’s mighty fond of Mrs. Scott’s pot roast with the potato-and-carrot medley. Part of my brain is marveling over the food before me, the taste and appearance, as well as the care that went into making it. My own mother thought variety in your diet meant eating a different Hot Pocket than you did the night before. But the dinner table scene is just too awkward and foreign for me to be able to do anything but sit here with a stomach full of nerves. I sneak a glance under the table at Rocky making a big production of licking the gravy off his mammoth chops.
First off, Mr. Scott began the meal with a prayer and thanked God for me. Mrs. Scott chimed into this brief prayer with a few quiet “Yes, Lords.” I’m not real up on my prayers, so if this was supposed to have been a three-part harmony, I wasn’t prepared. Then Mr. and Mrs. Scott proceeded to make small talk between themselves, giving me many opportunities to jump in. I remained mum, instead using the time to build little forts out of all available vegetables.
“So, Katie,”—Mr. Scott clears his throat, as if to communicate the small talk is over, and now it’s time to get down to business—“you’ll be going to school Monday. Are you nervous about a new school?”
How about scared spineless.
I shrug my left shoulder. “I dunno.” Maybe the Scotts will want to return me to Sunny when they realize the kid they got didn’t pack her personality.
He tries again. “What’s your favorite subject?”
I pretend to think about it for a second. “Shop class I guess.”
“Really?” Mr. Scott leans in. “Do you enjoy working with your hands? Making something out of nothing? Maybe putting your hard work into something and having the satisfaction of completing a project?”
“Nah, I just like working with sharp objects.” I feel some small measure of satisfaction as Mrs. Scott looks at my meat knife, and I know she is making herself a mental note to keep the cutlery out of my reach.
The truth is I don’t know why I’m baiting the Scotts. Just habit, I guess. This is what they expect of me, so this is what they will get. It’s always been this way. People look at me, look at my scholastic record (or lack of it), look at my mom’s rap sheet, and see who they want to see. It’s like a coat I have to put on every day, even though it doesn’t fit. I’m the poor, homeless kid with a druggie mom from the worst neighborhood in Texas. I must be stupid. Surely I’m a deviant. No doubt I’m a troublemaker.
I’ve found it’s much easier to go with the flow and play the part than to try and prove none of that is me—or none of that should be me. I just want to grow up, get out of foster care, and be on my own. I want to go where no one knows me or where I came from. I can’t wait to start over and be whoever I want to be. I might even change my name. You know, like Madonna did when she went all Kabbalah.
“Katie, I thought we’d go shopping tomorrow for some school clothes and maybe some clothes to wear for church Sunday.”
Mrs. Scott is hoping this will be the golden ticket, I can tell. She’s hoping the word shopping will make this poor girl come alive.
“Thanks, but I have clothes.” Oh, that one hurt. I hate my clothes! My clothes hate me right back. We’re terrible together.
“Well, sure you do, honey, but you would be doing me a favor by letting me buy you a few things. Our daughter, Amy, is all grown up now, so I haven’t had the pleasure of buying for a young lady like yourself in a long time.”
Now Mrs. Scott is shoving her potatoes around. Maybe I could let her buy me a shirt or two.
“I guess we could look around if you really wanted to.” I think I just broke my record for most words in a sentence since arriving. “But I don’t need no church clothes.” Yes, yes, I know that was a double negative and horrible English, but I’m wearing the coat right now. Remember the coat? Mr. and Mrs. Scott exchange a look.
“Katie, you do know we work for a church, right?”
“I did read something about that,” I deadpan, with a pointed look at his shirt. No, Mrs. Smartly left that detail out, bless her. I take a drink of milk, hoping someone will change the topic.
“Mrs. Smartly told you all about us, didn’t she? You know I’m the senior pastor at In Between Community Church, right?”
A spray of milk flies out of my mouth, jetting across the table. Rocky takes two giant leaps, and he’s out of the room, instantly fearful of the girl spewing the two percent.
Did Mr. Scott just say pastor? You have got to be kidding me!
9-1-1, I’d like to report a murder.
The dearly departed goes by the name of Iola Smartl
y.
Chapter 5
After a fitful night of staring at the ceiling, I am awakened by the sound of Mr. Scott downstairs yodeling “Oh My Darlin’,” as Rocky, dog in residence, howls along. Rocky’s attempts at singing sound more like he’s trying to communicate the depth of some inner pain, like a spleen hanging out or the discomfort of swallowing the neighbor’s cat whole. And Mr. Scott is no melodious treat either.
I roll over. 7:00 a.m. I don’t think I fell asleep until 6:59.
I sigh and rub my eyes, then scan the room. Am I really here? And how can I not be here? I have got to get out of this place. The Scotts and I are so different; it’s just a matter of time before they send me back.
Throwing the covers aside, I slink out of bed, and dread unsettles my stomach. My black suitcase sits on the floor, and I open it and get a clean pair of jeans. They’re my favorite ones. The knee is ripped out but not in a cool, Abercrombie and Fitch sort of way. I grab some other things and head for the bathroom.
I take a quick shower, wondering how long I can stay in there before someone comes to get me. Have I mentioned I don’t want to be here?
My hair still damp, I inch my way down the stairs into the kitchen. The dog is still howling, and his shrill outbursts rock my sleep-deprived head.
Mrs. Scott sees my grimace and greets me with a big smile. “Good morning, Katie!”
Mr. Scott sticks his head around the corner from the living room. “Morning, Katie!”
Great. My foster parents are morning people. Could this get any worse?
“Oh!” I jump at the intrusion of a wet dog nose.
“Rocky, get back. He’s just smelling your clothes, trying to get to know you.” Mrs. Scott gives the dog a command, and he charges back into the living room with his duet partner.
That dog’s way of getting to know me is totally scandalous. If I greeted people like that at school, I’d be arrested.
“Take a seat, sweetie, and I’ll get you something to eat.” Mrs. Scott guides me to the breakfast nook table and puts silverware in front of me. “Did you sleep well?”
Choosing to ignore her question, I barely hold onto a smart remark about my lack of sleep. First of all, I don’t do mornings. And second of all, I don’t function well on zero sleep. I just don’t feel I’m at my best when the bags under my eyes are beyond the power of foundation, concealer, or spackle.
Mrs. Scott brings me my breakfast—a giant stack of smiley faced pancakes. Okay, not bad. I like pancakes. At least it’s not lumpy oatmeal or some cereal with the word fiber in the name.
My new foster mom flutters all around me, handing me more pancakes, plus fruit, hot chocolate, and juice. Milk is noticeably absent. I guess no one trusts me with that drink anymore. In between handing me syrup every few minutes and refilling my juice, she talks nonstop of where we’ll shop and what we’ll hunt for. Mrs. Scott is just a ball of uncontained energy this morning.
I can hardly hear her chatter for the torturous sounds of her two favorite guys in the next room. I do catch snippets, such as “I hear tall boots are out,” “pink is the new black,” “cashing in the 401K for name-brand jeans,” and “fun, fun, fun.” It’s a crying shame to have a headache before you’ve even had a chance to brush your teeth.
I hold my ears like I’m four. “Could you please ask them to stop?”
Mrs. Scott rambles on, sharing what she discovered while flipping through a Seventeen last night. A full minute passes before it registers I’ve spoken.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever Mr. Scott and Rocky are doing. Please make it stop.”
“Oh, James works with Rocky every day on a new trick or command. He really is a brilliant dog.”
Mr. Scott and Rocky reach a shrill crescendo that makes my eyes cross.
“Oh my daaaarlin’ Clementine!”
Millie drops her own breakfast of a grapefruit onto her plate. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Sorry.”
My faux mom speeds out of the kitchen, and I hear her say something to Mr. Scott about scaring me with his shenanigans. Okay, I know shenanigans. Shenanigans is sticking two hundred plastic forks in your neighbor’s yard or shaking up someone’s canned pop so it will explode when he opens it. What I’m experiencing now is called torture. Pure and simple. Mr. Scott could use that tactic during war interrogations.
Mrs. Scott breezes back into the room with a serene smile upon her face.
“Sorry, Katie!” Mr. Scott bellows from the living room.
“Okay, so where were we?” Mrs. Scott continues, picking at her grapefruit.
I think we were at the point where ear plugs were to be placed on the shopping list.
“Ah, yes, then after we go to the shoe stores on Fourth and Main, we’ll head to the mall and do some damage there. And then, of course, it’s on to Macy’s.”
“As in the Macy’s department store?”
“As in Betty Macy’s clothing store.”
I roll my eyes, so not impressed.
“But she has some really unique handbags in there.”
Oh, sure she does. They’re probably made of doilies.
“Are you finished with your breakfast?” Mrs. Scott is eyeing the clock, and I can tell she is beyond excited to get this shopping frenzy started. She barely even touched her grapefruit. No wonder she is so cheerleader skinny. “It will take us about an hour to get to the mall.”
Great. An hour alone in the car with Mrs. Scott. Nothing like having to travel to an entirely different county to find an Old Navy.
“Who needs the mall?” My eyes widen, all innocence. “Maybe I could find a new T-shirt or two at Gus’s Getcher Gas?”
“I don’t think a Monster Trucks Rev Me Up T-shirt is what all the girls in your class will be sporting Monday morning.” Mrs. Scott winks, and I am fleetingly impressed by her early morning wit. “Now, unless you want something else to eat, go upstairs and get ready. We have miles to cover today. I have a stack of teen and style magazines for you to look at on the way.”
I slink off the kitchen barstool and drag myself up the stairs. There isn’t enough pancake batter in the world to fortify me for this day.
“I even have a few pages marked of items I thought you might like!” she calls after me.
Great.
My new mother works for the fashion police.
Chapter 6
“If you look on page sixteen of the October issue of Teen Scene, I believe you will find this exact shirt on that cute little pop star from that one band.”
As Millie Scott cross-references her teen magazines, I try on the millionth shirt she has handed over the dressing-room door. This is torture in the extreme. I’d rather have my finger nails pulled out one by one. I’d rather suffer one million paper cuts, then jump in a pool of lemon juice. I’d rather watch anime. In Japanese.
I’m tired.
I’m cranky.
And if I have to strip down again for “one more shirt” or “last pair of jeans, I promise,” I am going to scream my head off.
We have been at it for over six hours, and while my haul has been substantial, let’s be real. These are things that will just be left hanging in that nice big closet when the Scotts send me packing. It’s hard to get too excited about buying new clothes, most of which I will never get around to wearing.
I am not going to get attached to any of these clothes Mrs. Scott throws at me. Not the five pairs of jeans, including the ones that make me look like I actually have a butt. Not the hoodie with the extremely obvious, but beautiful brand name on the back of it. Not even the new winter coat the sales girl said makes me look like a smart, yet chic college student.
Though the two new padded bras will be with me forever. Now that I have found you, my pretties, we shall never separate. Show the orphan girl a Wonderbra, and suddenly life is worth living.
“Oh, my goodness!” Millie cries.
Super, she probably realized there are still some jeans left in Texas that we have yet to try on.
“It’s after three o’clock! We’ve forgotten to eat lunch!”
Forgot to eat lunch? This girl does not forget about meals, Ms. Half-a-grapefruit-for-breakfast. Lady, around noon I ate a pair of those Mary Janes you pushed on me. Of course I’m hungry! I’m a growing child! Well, except in the bra area, but I think we’ve already established my great shortcoming.
“I’m so sorry, Katie. I’ve only had you one day, and I’ve already managed to starve you. I got so caught up in all of this, I just lost track of time.”
I know she is envisioning me tattling to Mrs. Smartly. Like I would. I’m a lot of things, but I’m no snitch. Those kinds of girls get beaten up.
“Well, Mrs. Smartly doesn’t like it when I skip meals. She believes my nutritional health is directly proportional to my mental, physical, and emotional development.” I have no idea what I just said, but I know it was on a test I took in health class last year.
I fling open the dressing room door, and Millie Scott is before me, surrounded by a sea of bags and packages, wringing her hands.
“I had no idea it was so late. We’ll leave right now and go get something to eat. Anything you want. You name it.” Millie looks so distraught I can’t help but try and use it to my advantage.
“I wondered why I was feeling so faint this last hour. Food would be very nice, ma’am.”
“Anything.”
“And dessert.”
“You got it.”
“Appetizers too?” I’m reeling her in.
“Of course.”
“And a strawberry virgin daiquiri with a little pink umbrella floating in it?”
Millie Scott’s brow furrows. Too much? But if I don’t get at least a hot fudge sundae out of this, I’m going to be thoroughly put out. I tried on everything ever hung on a rack! I deserve chocolate!
As I strike a pathetic pose, I realize I have never addressed Mrs. Scott by her name aloud. What do I call her? Millie? Mrs. Scott? Woman Who Is Not My Mother?
“You must be starving. What was I thinking?”
In Between Page 3