Pastor Mike prays over us then introduces the band. “Give it up for the God Wads!”
Frances and I pick a seat next to Hannah and some other girls from school. “Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh. There he is.”
I follow the path of Frances’s laser stare. Right to Nash, bass guitar player for the Wads.
“Don’t do anything crazy like throw your bra onstage.”
The band pounds into their opening number, and everyone jumps to their feet. Hands go up, some sing along. Frances drools. I stand there and watch the whole scene, still feeling a bit like an outsider. What’s it like to just throw your hands in the air and become one with the music? To totally worship and not care what anyone thinks? At what point does this all get comfortable?
After six or seven songs, the God Wads exit the stage. Frances leans over my way to watch them go. She’s all but in my lap.
Pastor Mike grabs a microphone as the lights come up some.
“I have a brief announcement. The spring break mission trip to Florida has been cancelled.”
A chorus of “Awwwws” drowns out whatever he’s saying next.
Frances and I exchange pained looks. I was gonna get to go too. That totally blows. I’ve never been to Florida.
Stupid tornado.
“I know, it stinks. But listen.” Pastor Mike pauses until the room quiets again. “Why drive for over seventeen hours to do mission work when we have people who could use our help right here? Guys, I’ve prayed about it a lot, and I know the right thing to do is stay in In Between. I’ll bring you more details later, but you better believe it will still be fun. You know I’m gonna make sure of that.”
He’s echoed by a few hoots and hollers. Most of us remain quiet, watching our dreams of sandy beaches and clam bakes disappear. And yes, I know that’s not what the mission trip is about, but it sure was a nice bonus. Helping a poor neighborhood and getting a tan.
“All right, more on that later. Let’s go ahead and dive into the Word.”
Pastor Mike has a student pray for us (I would die if he ever picked me) then opens his worn Bible.
“Guys, tonight we’re gonna talk about faith. Who here has got some faith?”
Hands shoot to the ceiling.
“I mean real faith.” Pastor Mike’s bald head glistens in the dimmed lights. “It’s easy to have faith when things are going well. But what about when a boyfriend dumps you? What about when a parent leaves? What about when someone you love is sick?”
My ears perk at that. He’s on staff here. Does he know something about Millie?
“Hebrews 11:1 says faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. If I was a betting person, I would put in some serious cash and bet many of you are hoping for something. Are you strong enough to believe it?” His eyes sweep over the crowd. “Are you willing to let this go and allow God to be in control?”
As the pastor gets into some examples, my mind once again goes back to Millie.
God, I’m not totally there yet. I just need some more time. I do know you’re real though. But God, Millie needs you. She’s a total believer. She’s a sold-out, fish-sticker-on-her-car Christian. She can’t have cancer. It’s not fair. Give it to someone who deserves it. Give it to someone who doesn’t have a foster kid. Until my mom gets her stuff straight—if ever—I need James and Millie. You can’t just drop me here and then toss me right back out.
“We’re gonna make a commitment here tonight.” Pastor Mike puts down his Bible. “Whatever it is that’s on your heart. Whatever it is you’re struggling with, that you’re praying for. Give it up. Let God have it. And have faith.” A candle sputters beside the pastor. “Right now, where you’re at. Let’s take a moment and pray silently. Ask God to take this issue over for you.”
Heads drop. No one stirs.
All right, God. I’m trusting you to take care of Millie. No cancer, all right? I can’t handle anymore craziness. Can’t handle any more disappointments. I am stepping out on faith tonight. And believing that Millie is cancer-free.
Chapter 10
Thursday’s are great, aren’t they? By the time Thursday rolls around, you can say to yourself, yes, I can do this. Because when I get through this day, it will be Friday.
I’m standing next to Frances’s locker waiting for the 7:55 bell to ring for biology. Frances’s locker is unfortunately located next to Chelsea’s. As in Charlie’s Chelsea.
Chelsea currently has her arms roaming up Charlie’s chest toward his neck. Who needs police officers on security duty at this school? What we need is some PDA police. Maybe I should make a citizen’s arrest.
To his credit, Charlie intercepts Chelsea’s predator hands and holds them in his own.
“Katie? Hello?” Frances waves her hand in front of my face.
“What?”
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
I shake my head to clear the images. “Sorry. Gross displays of affection (hey, they should be called GDA!) are like car wrecks. They’re so heinous; it’s hard to turn away sometimes.”
“Hey, guys!” Hannah limps toward us, her ponytail swishing behind her.
“What’s up with the leg?” I ask.
Hannah shrugs. “PE injury.”
We all nod in total understanding.
“Hi, Charlie. Hey, Chelsea.” Hannah waves happily.
Their cocoon of love now disturbed, the couple moves apart. “Hey, guys. Didn’t see you there.” Charlie smiles warmly.
Yeah, I’ll bet you didn’t. You were too busy making out with Handsy McHands-A-Lot.
Chelsea snaps her gum a few times. Her look of disdain reminds me of Angel. “Hi.” Her attention goes back to Charlie.
“Did you enjoy church last night, Chelsea?” Frances asks, her eyes already going all dreamy. No doubt remembering Nash playing his heart out.
Chelsea does a partial eye roll. The type that is so small she could deny it, but it’s there all the same. “Yeah. The band was . . . okay.”
“Okay?” Frances slams her locker shut. “The band was fabulous. The band was out of this world.” She sucks in air. “The band was . . . was the best of any band I have ever seen on that stage.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Chelsea grabs Charlie’s hand and leads him down the hall. Much like one would lead a cow.
“How can he stand that girl?” I ask when the duo is absorbed by the masses.
“I think she’s nice.”
I pat Hannah on the back. “You think everyone is nice.”
“That’s not true!”
Frances pulls a breakfast bar out of her backpack. “Hannah, last week you said you felt sorry for the Al-Qaeda.”
“Well, I just think they need some love and understanding.” She pinches off a bite of Frances’s breakfast. “And maybe some fiber in their diet.”
I shut my own locker, and that’s when I see Nash. “Frances! Where are you supposed to be?”
Her brows lower in thought. “Biology class?”
“No! Strategic hall placement! Remember?” Ugh! All my efforts are being wasted!
Frances shoves the rest of the breakfast bar in her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. Or too much granola.
“You missed your chance. Here he comes. You were supposed to be near his locker this morning.”
Frances squares her shoulders. “Not too late.” She continues to chew. “Ah can do dis.”
Oh, no. Here we go. “You have a giant granola bar in your mouth, for Pete’s sake. Stop while you can and don’t do this. This is not in our plan.”
“Ha, Nosh.” Smack, smack.
Part of me wants to turn away so I don’t have to look at this.
“Hey, Frances.” Nash takes off his hat and bows like he’s a knight in the queen’s service. “Ladies.” He rises with a wicked grin.
“We saw you at church last night. Great job.” Maybe if I dominate conversation, Frances won’t be able to get a word in.
“Tota-wee awthome.”
&nb
sp; Mini chocolate chips shoot out my friend’s mouth.
Hannah wipes her cheek. “Ew.”
Nash frowns. “Thanks.”
“Wadda wook on our scieths far projeck?”
My eyes implore Frances to give it up. Abort mission! Abort mission!
“Huh?” Nash shakes his head.
I move in front of my friend, who now has oats hanging from her upper lip. “She said we’ll see you in biology!” A Chelsea-like giggle bubbles out of my mouth. Tee. Hee. Yes, so, so funny. We all smile like cheerleaders until Nash is gone.
“Wow. I didn’t know you liked . . .” Hannah twists her hair with a ringed finger. “Granola bars.”
I grab Frances and lead her to biology class. “What happened to sticking with the plan?”
“I’m giving up, Katie. Seriously. It’s over.”
“What’s over?” Someone’s breath tickles my neck.
I settle my backpack on the lab table and turn around.
Charlie Benson.
What’s over? Your girlfriend’s lipstick—all over your face.
Okay, it’s really not.
As if I care anyway.
“What’s over?” He sits on his own lab stool and crosses his arms, patiently waiting for our story like he’s Dr. Phil.
“Your ego, Charlie. It’s overrated.”
“I think you mean overinflated.”
He has the nerve to smirk.
“Whatever.” I turn my back to him.
“What’s not working is your scheme to hook up Frances and Nash.”
Frances gasps.
“Yeah, I saw you in the hall.” Charlie grimaces. “Train wreck.”
“Frances is doing just fine, thanks.” If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be in the next county.
Charlie lifts his muscled frame from his lab stool. The leather of his letterman’s jacket squeaks as he leans onto our table. “I think I can help you.”
I sniff with disdain. And get a nose full of his woodsy cologne. “You can take your offer of help and stick it where the quarterbacks don’t—”
“We’ll take it,” Frances interrupts. “Your help, that is.”
“Wait a minute.” I am so onto him. “What do you want in return?”
Charlie runs a hand through his honey-colored hair. “Well, you see—”
“Whatever it is, we’ll do it.” Frances’s words come out in a rush. Her eyes nervously skitter across the classroom, checking for the absent Nash.
“So it’s a deal?” Charlie extends his hand out to Frances.
Before I can throw myself between them, their hands connect, and Frances shakes on it.
“It’s a deal.”
Great. Über–good girl Frances just made a deal. With the devil. Probably his help in exchange for her beating heart.
“What do you want, Charlie?” I cannot believe he took advantage of my friend. In her most vulnerable state.
Charlie hesitates then moves in closer. “I need you to be Chelsea’s friend.”
My obnoxious laughter has the class swiveling in their seats. “Whew! That’s a good one.” I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Yeah, we’ll go hang out with her at cheerleading practice today after school. And then maybe this weekend we can go shopping for eight-hundred-dollar handbags together.” Oh, the jokes this guy tells.
Charlie frowns. “I’m serious. And you have the wrong idea about Chelsea. There’s more to her than that.”
Yes, but the fact that she’s a good kisser and has no need for Wonder Bras still does not redeem her.
“What did you have in mind?” Frances is totally serious. She grabs a pen to take notes.
“I need you to hang out with her at church. Show her around. Introduce her to people. She’s so shy—”
My cheeks make fart noises as the contained laughter bursts out. “Oh, you gotta stop. Seriously.”
“Can you focus?” Frances jabs me in the ribs. She scribbles something in her notebook.
Probably coming up with chemical formula for a personality transplant for Chelsea. If that girl’s shy then I’m the Chihuahua valedictorian.
“I thought if she felt more welcome at church then . . .” Charlie glances at the door as Nash walks in. Mr. Hughes shuts the door behind him.
“Good morning, class. Let’s get started.”
“We’ll talk about this later.”
“Get Nash and meet us at the public library after school. We’ll talk about our projects then.” I groan. “And Chelsea.”
“I don’t know if I can.” He ambles back to his seat.
“Make it happen, Benson.” I jab my finger towards him. “Or no deal.”
In drama class I sink into a plush theater seat. And openly stare at Trevor. He’s onstage chatting with Mrs. Hall, whose whole body is in the conversation. Sometimes I don’t know if she’s talking. Or doing an interpretive dance.
The russet tones (natural, of course) in Trevor’s dark hair shine under the spotlight. Today he’s sporting some faded jeans, a button-down polo, and his totally hot smile.
Very nice.
“Actors! Actresses!” Mrs. Hall claps her hands. “Today I have two things to tell you.” With a black-polished finger she swabs some lipstick off her teeth. “Number one, my soon-to-be ex-husband is a lying snake who has moved in with his girlfriend Buffy.” She leans in toward her audience. “For future reference, never let your husband hire a secretary named after a color of fingernail polish.”
Trevor looks out into the audience. He absently winks toward the crowd. Three girls beside me sigh.
“Item number two, today we are going to practice scenes from Cinderella. This is to prepare you for auditions, which are tomorrow. I know it’s soon, but Trevor will be helping you with these vignettes and will be on hand to answer any remaining questions you have about audition procedures.”
More giggling from behind.
Mrs. Hall throws her orange silk scarf across her neck. “Trevor will specifically be working with those trying out for the part of Cinderella. Raise your hand if this applies to you.”
Hands go to the ceiling like a church revival.
Great. Look at all my competition. All my simpering, giggling, too cute for words competition. And that’s just this class. There are still two other classes of Drama I that I’ll be auditioning with.
As the girls rush the stage and fight for Trevor’s attention, I hang back, choosing instead to work with my friend Jeremy.
Jeremy’s pretty cool. When I came into this class after bombing a few other electives, he was my first friend. On day one I discovered we both love the movie The Princess Bride and neither one of us gets mime. And Jeremy has connections. His third cousin’s sister has a boyfriend whose stepsister’s aunt knows the neighbor of Reese Witherspoon. He’s hoping to meet her one day. (Reese, that is.)
I help Jeremy with his scenes for the first forty-five minutes. He wants to be the king. The male roles are pretty limited in this play. It’s either the prince, king, or guys who blow bugles.
“Now it’s your turn. We’ve practiced so much I have the king’s lines memorized.”
“Memorized already? That’s really good, Jeremy.”
His face falls. “There are only five lines.”
“But you get to wear a crown.”
His smile returns.
I give Cinderella my best for the next thirty minutes. Jeremy and I are waltzing (more like swaying with an occasional leg spasm movement), and I’m practicing my “Oh, no it’s midnight” face, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“May I cut in?”
I know that voice. I hear it in my dreams.
I swallow hard. And turn around.
Nodding weakly, I am swept into the arms of Trevor Jackson, the fairest guy in all the land.
At my look of dismay Trevor laughs. “I thought you might want to learn how to waltz.” His eyes meet mine. “The right way.”
I plaster a smile on my face, trying to buy some time until I can fin
d my tongue.
“How . . . how do you know how to waltz?” Is this just a pre-req for guys at In Between?
His grin reveals brilliantly white teeth. Mmm . . . and fresh, minty breath too. “Drama II. You’ll learn it next year.” He pulls me closer. “But why wait ’til then when you can learn now?”
Sighhh.
Only Trevor Jackson can make words like “one, two, three” sound romantic as he teaches me the waltz. Tucked close to his chest, the rest of the class period flies. By the time the bell rings I’ve stepped on his feet six times, tripped myself twice, actually achieved witty banter three times, and been tempted to hand him my heart about one hundred times.
I look at the clock just to make sure it’s really three. It is.
Trevor lifts my hand. “As an Elizabethan gentleman, this is where I bow over your hand.” And he does. He really does. “And you curtsy.” His smile sends butterflies rappelling off my stomach. “But remember . . . Cinderella is totally captured by Prince Charming. So when she curtsies, her eyes never leave his.”
At Trevor’s nod, I sweep into a low curtsey. Just like I saw on Pride and Prejudice last weekend. Yes, okay, I was watching public television with Maxine.
When my hand is released, I cradle it to my chest.
“Take care, Katie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He’ll see me tomorrow? Trevor plans to see me? When? Why? I need to get my hair done!
He winks. At me. “At auditions.”
Oh, right. I knew that. Auditions.
I didn’t think he was asking me out or anything. Noooo.
Well.
Maybe for a second.
Chapter 11
Meet at my house after school. CU there.
This was the text message Frances and I got from Charlie during eighth period.
After a call to Millie, in which I assured her of my safety and promised not to do anything stupid, I hopped in the car with Frances. Frances drives a station wagon. And aside from the fact she calls it Sally Ann (for no apparent reason), there is nothing cool about it. Her mom says if Frances is gonna drive, it’s going to be something that can haul all three of her siblings. This wagon could probably carry all the siblings in the state of Texas.
On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production) Page 8