Maxine’s friends from the old folks home roll in (some literally), and she forgets all about Frances and me.
The service begins, and it goes on just like it did the previous week. The music director leads the congregation and the choir in a few songs, the words displayed on a screen for all of us to follow, much like in youth. The songs are kind of lame, but the instrumentalists set up beside the choir do add some pizzazz. Granted, I’ve not had much church experience in my life, but who would expect a small town conservative church to have a guy rocking out on drums during a hymn? Okay, maybe not rocking out, but definitely getting with it.
The choir sings a final song, and James takes his place at the pulpit. He opens with prayer, asking for God to be present and to move among us. I bow my head, too, and use the time to ask God to let us out early. Hey, as long as we’re offering up requests here.
James opens with a few humorous stories, which tear his congregation up, and then he moves into his sermon.
I look around at the good people of In Between Community Church. They are totally absorbing their pastor’s message. Some are taking notes. A handful shout out amens or some other affirmation, while many are doing some serious head nodding.
Then I focus again on James. My foster father.
And I wonder how they don’t see it.
How can his church not see how totally disconnected he is? With their heads nodding and pens scribbling, they are so into his message. How can they not see that their pastor isn’t?
When I heard Pastor Mike today in Sunday school, I saw a guy lit up with excitement. He couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. It was so real I could almost reach out and touch it.
Now, I’m no psychic, but I’m not getting the same vibes from James Scott. Sure, he’s a good speaker. He’s got it all—humor, good story-telling skills, intensity, a commanding presence. But then I look at those eyes behind his studious oval glasses, and I don’t see the same fire and determination I saw in Pastor Mike. Or that I see in my English teacher when she’s telling us about the power of poetry. Or even that I saw in Mrs. Smartly the day she left me and told me I was important in the world.
My brain searches for words and ideas to make sense of my theory, but I come up with nothing.
The service closes in prayer, and we’re dismissed.
Thank goodness. I’m starving and my butt is numb from that pew.
“Katie, I’m so glad you came today.” Frances’s evil alter ego has apparently left her body, and she is back to being her normal, overly bubbly self.
“It’s not like I had a choice.”
“Well, anyway, I hope you’ll come back Wednesday night.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I deadpan.
“Yeah?”
Frances beams, and I don’t have the heart to tell her if I didn’t show up Wednesday night the Scotts would throw me on the first bus back to the group home.
“The Scotts must be really great parents, but I’m really sorry about . . .” She juts her chin toward Mad Maxine, who is schmoozing and giggling it up with a few of her lady friends. “I’m here for you if you need someone, you know, to talk to.”
I’m oddly touched by Frances’s concern. There’s no reason she should even be talking to me, let alone offering me a comforting shoulder. If the roles were reversed, I would probably think suffering Mad Maxine was poetic justice for the crimes of Friday night.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay.” I run a hand down my new skirt, smoothing it out and trying to appear cool and confident. Inside, I’m already quaking over the thought of spending an afternoon with the old battle-ax. I’m seconds away from wrapping myself around Frances’s ankles and pleading for her to take me home with her.
“Maxine and I are cool.”
Cool like the iceberg that sank the Titanic.
Frances raises a single eyebrow. “Well, okay. I guess I’ll see you Monday at school.”
“Yeah, sure.” If I live through lunch with one psychotic senior citizen. “See you then.”
Frances flashes her megawatt smile and leaves the pew.
“Frances—” I stop her.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. You know, for sitting with me and all.” Okay, insert awkward silence here. “And, um . . . yeah, see you on Monday.”
And I bolt out of the pew.
Chapter 24
“Now we’ll only be gone a couple of hours, okay?”
I sit in the backseat on the way to Maxine’s. The drive of doom. Millie has been giving me random dos and don’ts for my afternoon. I can’t keep it all straight in my head, so I stare out the window at the passing landscape and occasionally nod like I’m absorbing her every word. Something about if Maxine asks to play rummy, watch out for an ace card with a bent corner. And how she likes to talk about her Vegas showgirl days, but don’t let her try on her old costumes or I’ll be picking up feathers for hours. Then there was some detail about if Maxine asks if I want to see her latest tap-dance routine, I’m to say no because there could be a flaming baton.
“Here we are.” James catches my eye in the rearview mirror. He gives me a hearty wink, like he’s trying to bolster my courage. Or maybe it’s just a parting sign of affection in case I’m never heard from again.
The three of us walk up to Mad Maxine’s door, where we find her watering a pitiful looking mum. She wears mud-caked work gloves, and a small gardening spade hangs in the canvas tool belt tied around her waist. Pushing the brim of her massive sun hat up with two fingers, Millie’s mother stops her task and sets her gaze on me.
Much like a cobra would before spewing poisonous venom.
“Hey, Mom.” Millie approaches her mother, kissing her on the cheek, but avoiding a muddy embrace.
Maxine holds her arms out wide to James for a hug. Brown sludge drips off her gloves. “Come here, you big lug.”
James shakes his head and laughs. There’s probably nothing she could pull out of her bag of tricks that he hasn’t already seen.
Maxine peels off her nasty gloves. “Just tending to my botanical garden here.”
We all take a moment to survey the single mum and the skeletal remains of what might have been a fern.
Millie gets down to business. “Okay, now you’re going to feed Katie, right?”
“Well”—Maxine’s predatory eyes meet mine—“sure. I thought I’d rustle us up some burgers and fries. You like burgers, dontcha?”
“Yes, ma’am.” With my eyes, I’m pleading with James and Millie not to leave me. I would scrub their toilets for the rest of my life if they would scratch the Maxine visits off my punishment list.
James smiles and pats my shoulder. “We’d better go, Katie. You have my cell phone number if you need anything.” He leans in closer and whispers near my ear. “If she offers you any fruitcake, just say no. Learn from my mistakes; don’t repeat them.”
With a look that conveys “May the force be with you,” James takes his wife by the elbow, and off they go.
Leaving me alone. With Maxine.
“Well, come on.” She opens the door for me to follow her inside. “Let’s get you something to eat. You’re surely starving. I know I am, and I had a bag of Cheetos and some Twizzlers during church.”
Maxine leaves me in her little living room area, then walks back into the hall that leads to her bedroom. She comes back with a pair of high-top tennis shoes in hand. Plopping herself on her couch, she props one foot at a time on the coffee table and laces each high-top up tightly.
I stand in helpless confusion as Maxine grabs a giant silver purse, something more closely related to luggage than a handbag, and digs around until she finds a tube of lipstick and a compact. Powder flies everywhere as she fluffs the stuff on her nose, then making a pouty face, artfully applies her lipstick until her mouth is a bold, glossy red.
With a smack of her lips, she throws it all back in her bag and jumps up from the couch like an explosion. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
I’ve only been here a few times, but anytime I’m in Maxine’s senior apartment, I step into an alternate universe where things only make sense to her and her kind.
“Where are we going?” I dare to ask.
She reaches under the couch, her tail end straight in the air, and pulls out a pink helmet.
“We’re going to get something to eat.”
My eyes widen.
“You didn’t think I was going to cook for you, did you?” Maxine laughs. “Girlie, I haven’t cooked for anyone since 1978, and I’m sure not going to give it a whirl today.” She shoves the pink helmet down over her head and fumbles with the chin strap.
What in the world? I don’t know what’s going on, but it reeks of wrong, and I cannot afford to get in any more trouble. “Mrs. Simmons, I think this might be a bad idea—”
“Well, fine!” Maxine huffs. “Then you wear the helmet.” And before I know what hits me, the helmet is crammed on top of my head and Maxine is strapping me in.
“No, Mrs. Simmons, I was saying we shouldn’t—”
“Look, I’m in the mood for burgers and fries, and I’m in charge here.” She yanks the apartment door open.
“What exactly are we doing?”
I’m talking to myself.
Maxine is already outside, leaving me standing in the middle of her living room.
I cautiously walk to the doorway and peer out to see where the crazy lady has gone to.
“Get on.”
Maxine sits on her bicycle built for two, grinning like she’s the queen on her royal throne. Balancing on one toe, she throws the kickstand with her other foot, then pats the seat behind her.
I close my eyes and count to five. (I know I’ll never make it to ten.) “Now, Mrs. Simmons—”
“Call me Maxine and get on this bicycle, girl. That’s an order.”
“Mrs. Simmons—”
“Maxine! Don’t address me like I’m so old I drool and need to be spoon fed.”
My mouth snaps shut.
I cannot get on that bicycle. This woman hates me. She would not think twice about finding another chicken truck to run into with me riding shotgun.
“Look, here, Sweet Pea, you have until the count of five to get your backside on this seat. You are at my house; you will obey my rules. And I say get your tushie on my ride, or I’m leaving without you.”
I look at Maxine—an odd mix of trendy and tragic in biking gloves, high tops, and a Nike reflective running jacket. Her teeth are clenched, and her lips form a single glossy line.
I do not trust this woman.
“Five.”
She’s insane.
“Four.”
My life is at stake here.
“Three”
She knows what I’ve done. She didn’t like me before, and there probably aren’t words for what she feels for me now.
“Two.”
My picture will probably be on the back of a milk carton. Katie Parker, last seen in the Shady Acres Retirement Community wearing a biking helmet the color of Pepto-Bismol.
“One!”
Maxine puts the black high-tops to work and pedals her bike down her sidewalk. As soon as she hits the parking lot, I begin chasing her.
“W-a-a-a-a-a-i-t!”
I catch up enough to grab the back seat, close my eyes, leap frog onto the back of her bicycle, and hold on for dear life.
“Where are we going?”
She hollers back, but I can’t hear her over the flapping of the plastic ribbons coming out of her handlebars and the constant honking of her horn.
“What?”
“The Burger Barn.”
I catch my breath and begin to help her pedal. Maxine veers off Central Avenue, and when we hit Olive Lane, she leads us onto the sidewalk. Along the way, we meet a few joggers, two speed walkers, and the occasional mother pushing a stroller. But Maxine owns the sidewalk, and she lets it be known by standing up on her pedals as we fly by, honking her obnoxious horn all the way.
We hang a mean right and two more lefts, coming out on First Street. I’m thoroughly out of breath, but Maxine maintains her frantic pace. From First Street we turn on Maple, then Persimmon; we cross through someone’s well-kept yard, ducking under a string of unmentionables on a clothesline, shoot out onto Main Street, and upon Maxine’s shouted command, we lean into a right curve before sailing into the Burger Barn parking lot, coming to a stop so abruptly that my face slams into her back.
“Oomph!” I remove her Nike jacket from my mouth and arise to see we are in the drive-thru.
Maxine taps on the drive-thru window.
“Helewww! Maxine Simmons come a calling. Open up!”
She slaps her palm on the glass a few more times before a teenager, an upperclassman I recognize from In Between High, opens the window and takes in the sight before him.
“Well, Ms. Maxine, how’s it going today? Don’t you look extra fine?”
Chapter 25
“Hello, yourself, Bryant,” Maxine coos, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s batting her eyelashes.
I’m going to be sick.
“You sure look lovely today, Ms. Maxine.” The guy in the drive-thru window winks at her like she has prom-queen potential or something.
I want to say, “Hey, Burger Boy, drop the routine. She has bunions older than you.”
Maxine flips her wild hair. “Oh, my . . . really? The wind is up a little, so I’m sure I’m just a mess after our leisurely bike ride through town.”
Leisurely? I’ve seen Hell’s Angels bike slower than Maxine.
“Looks like you have company today. And it’s not Mr. Sam either.”
“Mr. Sam?” I lean in closer so I can get in view of Bryant. “Who’s Sam?”
Maxine turns around quickly, shoots me a withering look, and shoves me out of her way with a pointy elbow. “Never mind, Señorita Nosy.”
Maxine returns her attention to Bryant, her face instantly a vision of sweetness. “Bryant, this is Katie Parker. She goes to In Between High too. Maybe you’ve seen her around?”
Bryant leans out of the window and gives me the once-over. “Nope, don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new?”
I nod, thoroughly humiliated to be on a bicycle built for two in the drive-thru lane of Burger Barn, wearing a stupid pink helmet.
“Well, she’s a cutie, our Katie. Dontcha think, Bryant? Now you and Katie here can chitty chat all you like at school, but right now we are in some serious need for cheeseburgers.”
“Coming right up. You just tell me what you want.”
This guy is falling all over himself trying to kiss up. It’s enough to make a girl lose her appetite.
“You’re the sweetest.” Maxine reaches out and playfully slaps his hand resting on the window. “Okay, I will take a number two, a number seven, an extra cheeseburger, hold the pickles, and two chocolate shakes.”
Bryant scribbles her massive order. Are we feeding just the two of us, or is the rest of Shady Acres going to join us too?
“Okay, Mrs. Simmons. That’s a number two, number seven, extra cheeseburger, and two chocolate shakes,” Bryant from Burger Barn repeats. “And for Katie?”
“Well, tell him what you want,” Maxine says impatiently.
“Uh . . . um . . .” I hadn’t even looked at the menu. “I guess a cheeseburger.”
Maxine chortles like I’ve just committed a Burger Barn faux pas. “You’re such an amateur. She’ll take a number three, extra cheese, and throw in two more chocolate shakes, and don’t be stingy with the chocolate.”
Bryant and Maxine swap a few more pleasantries before he shuts the window, leaving us to wait for our order. An order that could feed a small nation.
Maxine rotates on her mammoth bike seat, and we are uncomfortably face to face. Great. Here it comes. Our big talk. This is where she tells me I am a disgrace, she knew it all along, and she wants me to leave her family alone forever.
“You mention anything about Sam to Millie, and I will
be all over you like stink on a dog. Are we clear?”
What? Who? I don’t even know this Sam person, for crying out loud. “Um, yes, ma’am.”
Isn’t she going to say anything about my crimes? My misdemeanors? My outlaw ways?
“Sam is . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Just keep your yapper shut, and we’ll get along like peas and carrots, you follow?” Maxine moves in closer. We are forehead to helmet.
I swallow. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Mrs. Simm—”
“Maxine,” she barks, her breath hot on my wind-burned face.
Bryant flings open the window, putting an end to yet another painfully weird moment.
“Here you go.” He holds out our food in a sack nearly as big as a trash bag.
Maxine hands Bryant the money before setting the food, with much maneuvering and readjusting, in the giant basket on the front of her bike.
“Thanks so much, Bryant. A pleasure doing business with you, as always. Tell your momma I said hi, and here’s a little something for all your hard work.”
Maxine puts a five dollar bill in Bryant’s hand, and suddenly all his pathetic fussing over her makes sense. That rascal.
“Thanks, Maxine. See you Tuesday for half-price night.”
Millie waves bye-bye at Bryant like she’s fresh out of junior high, then pedals us out of the parking lot. I look back and see Bryant still waving. And a trail of at least five cars in line, waiting to be served.
The ride back to Maxine’s is much easier, as I now know when to lean, when to pedal harder, and when to duck in time to avoid hanging brassieres.
Exactly seven point two minutes later, we climb off the bike. I barely resist the temptation to kiss the pavement. Maxine grabs the food, and I meekly follow her into her apartment. Her lair.
“Put the helmet under the couch, would you? I don’t like to risk someone stealing it.” Maxine points toward her scarlet couch, and I peel the headwear off and obediently place it underneath, where it joins a baseball bat, a giant box of beef jerky, a yoga mat, two wigs, a signed and framed picture of Justin Timberlake, and a neon hula hoop.
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