On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production)

by Jenny B. Jones

  My car door creaks shut, and Sally Ann sputters to life.

  “What’s our strategy?” Frances’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

  “Does it matter?” I fasten my seatbelt. “You’ve totally ignored every strategic plan we’ve had.”

  “No! Don’t give up on me. I need more strategy. Strategy is the only way.”

  “Fine,” I say on a sigh. “Here’s what I think we should do. We’ll all have some small talk for a few minutes. I assume Charlie will probably get us something to drink or eat. This will probably take about fifteen minutes. You can handle that. Charlie and I will be there for interference. Then I’ll suggest we break up into our respective partners so we can work on our projects.”

  “Uh-huh, okay, yeah.” A drop of sweat beads on Frances’s brow.

  Not a good sign.

  “So then you will suggest to Nash that the two of you adjourn to the dining room. Charlie and I will take the living room.”

  “Why do you get the living room?”

  “Because if you get the living room then you’ll seat yourself as far away from Nash as you can get. I know you.”

  Frances nods rapidly, her eyes glued to the road.

  “So you’ll go to the dining room. Let Nash sit down first, and then you will sit directly across from him.”

  Frances chews on a fingernail. “What will we talk about?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but Frances’s squealing muzzles my thoughts.

  She grabs my hand. “Oh, my gosh. We’re here. What do we talk about? Help me, Katie!”

  I grab my stuff and open the door. “In this order: compliment his performance at church, discuss today’s disgusting meat loaf casserole in the cafeteria, and ask him where he’s going for Spring Break. If there’s any time left, declare your undying devotion and break out into Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You.’”

  “Hey, girls. Welcome to the casa.”

  Charlie walks out to greet us, and I look right through him to the house. Casa? More like El Mansion.

  It’s gigantic. It looks like the White House or something.

  What am I doing here? And why do I have Richie Rich for my science fair partner?

  “Frances,” I whisper, ducking my head back into the car, “if you need help the code will be ‘I’d like a glass of water.’ Can you remember that?”

  Her smile wobbles on her face as she faces our host. “Hola, Charlie.”

  I follow the two into Charlie’s foyer. He has an entire room just for the front door. A giant chandelier hangs overhead. I take a step to my left. I’ve seen enough scary movies to know what can happen to teenage girls directly beneath giant light fixtures with spiky glass things hanging down.

  “Come on in. Nash is in the kitchen.”

  Yeah, he’s probably in there hanging out with the maid and butler.

  Charlie escorts us into his kitchen, which is surprisingly . . . cozy. The walls are a sunny yellow and remind me of Millie’s favorite Italian restaurant. Dark brown cabinets surround the walls and ceramic roosters perch on the counter tops.

  The smell of chocolate chip cookies attacks my senses, and I immediately quit my decorative analysis and scan the room for the baked goods.

  A short, plump woman enters the kitchen. “Hello! Come on in. I have some cookies that will be coming out of the oven in about five minutes.” Her cheeks are pink with color, and her oversized mouth is pulled into a smile.

  “I’m Donna.” She holds out a hand for me to shake.

  I take in her simple white t-shirt and khaki pants, which have seen better days.

  “Are you the maid?” I ask, picturing Charlie’s mom upstairs, reclining on a chaise lounge eating bonbons.

  Donna’s smile vanishes. “What?”

  “Katie, this is my mom.”

  Somewhere in the kitchen a clock ticks.

  “Would you like a glass of water?” Frances whispers behind me.

  “It’s quite all right, dear. I do look a mess. I’ve been outside all day mowing.”

  Charlie’s mom puts her arm around my shoulders. Her stubby fingernails are in serious need of a manicure.

  “I’m so sorry.” And I thought Frances was going to be the one to blow it today.

  “I guess in a way, I am the maid. This one,” she points to Charlie, “refuses to pick his underwear off the floor.”

  Ew. Okay, things I don’t need to know about Charlie Benson.

  “Now, you kids go on into the living room, and I’ll bring you some cookies and fresh lemonade in a few minutes.”

  Are you the maid? I am such an idiot. She’ll probably spit in my lemonade.

  I land on an oversized couch, propping my feet up on a matching ottoman. Frances parks herself right beside me. As in cheek to cheek.

  I shoot her a look, but she’s too busy chewing her thumbnail to notice my glare or the fact that her butt is crossing some boundary lines.

  Nash sits in a chair, playing the drums on his knees. He does this a lot. It’s like he can’t sit still.

  Charlie grabs the remote and turns it to some music channel. “So I thought we could discuss our science fair projects. I figured it would be more fun if we hung out together . . . when we did discuss our projects.”

  Maybe Frances and Charlie should be a couple. They both are so eloquent in times like these.

  “Nash, would you dining room like to go with me?”

  I shake my head violently at Frances. No! Not yet. She’s going off-script.

  She tries again. “I mean would the dining room like to work on the science fair project. No, what I mean to say is—”

  “Cookies are served!” Charlie’s mom carries in a tray loaded down with frosty lemonade and a small mountain of chocolate chip cookies.

  With quick hands, I make the universal signal for “zip your lip” and hand Frances a glass.

  Charlie and Nash share a laugh over the day’s math class then segue into discussing fantasy football, which leads to a lengthy conversation on ESPN.

  Frances and I are left with nothing to do but eat cookies. Which isn’t such a bad predicament to be in. But it doesn’t get Frances any closer to a date with Nash.

  “So I guess we should get started on our projects.” At my declaration Frances freezes mid-bite. “We’d probably get more done if we went to separate rooms.”

  Take your cue, Frances.

  She takes another cookie instead.

  Must I do everything? “So Charlie and I will stay in here, and Nash, you and Frances can talk shop in the dining room.”

  Frances’s only response is a croaking noise.

  “Sounds good to me.” Nash stands up.

  “Water . . . need glass of water.” Frances tugs on the collar of her vintage eighties t-shirt.

  “You want a glass of water?” Charlie jumps to his feet.

  “No. She doesn’t.”

  Charlie eyeballs me with confusion. “Katie, if she wants some water, it’s not a problem.”

  Frances nods her head frantically.

  “She’s fine. Aren’t you, Frances? I don’t think you need any water . . . yet.”

  “Hey, I think she’s choking.” Nash nearly trips over his own baggy pants as he hurdles the ottoman and grabs Frances. “Can you breathe?”

  My friend makes wheezing noises and clutches her throat. Nash’s arms snake around her and he locks a fist under her chest. He clutches Frances tightly, and gives two forceful pushes on her stomach.

  A wad of cookie the size of a golf ball shoots out of her mouth and across the room. On Charlie.

  Frances collapses against Nash, sucking in air like she’s been held underwater.

  “Oh, my gosh! Frances, are you okay?” I shove Nash aside and move closer to my friend.

  Her breath is labored, but her color is going back to normal. “I said I wanted water.”

  “But choking really wasn’t covered under the code,” I mumble.

  Frances leans in close to
my ear. “Maybe next time you can go over the exceptions before I’m forced to call my own ambulance?”

  The next ten minutes are spent making sure Frances is well enough to proceed with our science work. It also gives me time for my heart to slide from my throat back down to my chest. I have Frances recite the preamble from the Constitution to double check that all her systems are go.

  Charlie finally pitches in and helps by escorting Frances and Nash into the dining room down the hall.

  When Charlie returns I’m checking out his expansive DVD collection in the entertainment center. His family seems to enjoy a broad range of flicks from VeggieTales to Scarface.

  “Do you and Chelsea watch movies a lot?” Augh! Where did that come from?

  He collapses into the couch, opposite end of where I was sitting. “Sometimes. But if it doesn’t have Tatum Channing in it, she’s not too interested.”

  I turn my face to hide a smirk. In the months I’ve spent in church, I’ve learned we’re supposed to live like Christ and be good and kind. And not trash someone’s shallow girlfriend.

  I fail on a regular basis.

  Charlie and I had a text conversation a few nights ago about our project, so we really don’t have anything significant to discuss.

  “Now about Chelsea . . .” Charlie begins.

  Like I said, nothing significant to discuss.

  Oh, behave, Katie. Be kind, be kind, be kind. Think positive.

  Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the . . .

  Charlie’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Katie, did you hear me?”

  What in the world? Is that supposed to happen? How did I remember that? Did I know I knew that verse? Oh, my gosh. What if this is a sign of insanity? I must Google spiritual overexposure when I get home.

  “Katie?”

  “What?” My voice comes out too loud. Resuming my seat on the couch, I take a deep breath and contort my face into a look of serenity. I will be calm. I will not scare my classmate.

  “So you were saying about Chelsea . . .?”

  Charlie closes some distance between us, and I fight the urge to jump into a nearby leather recliner.

  “I just don’t understand why the girls at church ignore her.”

  I study his tan face. Yup, he’s serious.

  “Well . . . um . . .” How do I put this? “She’s a little—”

  “Shy. Yeah, I know.”

  Shy wasn’t what I was going for. “I don’t know, Charlie. I’ll do all I can, but the reality is I’m still pretty new to Target Teen myself. It’s not like I have an inside track into all things cool at church.”

  “But you’ll start hanging out with her on Wednesday nights, right? I mean, that was the deal? And when you girls get together for church socials, you’ll ask her?”

  My eye twitches spastically as I ponder the many joys of hanging out with Chelsea.

  “Katie, you agreed to help me in return for helping Frances.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” I protest. “Frances agreed. I never agreed to this. I stand to gain nothing here.”

  “I did make a one hundred and two percent on my science project last year.”

  Well, now you’re talking.

  When I came to In Between, let’s just say I didn’t come with the prettiest scholastic record you’ve ever seen. Until I got here, I never cared. But good grades must be like what drugs were to my mom—once you taste it, you want more.

  “Can you assure me we’ll make at least an A on this project?” The sigh that escapes is beyond dramatic.

  Charlie grins. “At least a ninety-five.”

  My eyes are drawn to the dimple that appears on his left cheek. Does Trevor have a dimple?

  “Fine. I will welcome her next Wednesday night like she’s my long-lost sister.”

  “And you’ll talk to the other girls at church?”

  “We’ll be her new best friends.” I suddenly feel a little queasy.

  “Great. Thank you.” Charlie runs a hand through his toffee-colored hair. “It’s really important to me that Chelsea likes church.”

  “Because you only date church girls?”

  He shrugs. “I only date Christians.”

  “And Chelsea is a Christian?” Is there a denomination for snobs?

  “Well, yeah.” Charlie reaches for his lemonade. But he’s frowning.

  “Are you sure?”

  He takes a drink. “Are you? A Christian?”

  I now hear the NIV translation in my head. Does that count for anything?

  “I guess . . . not . . . yet.” At his look of disappointment, my words come out in a rush. “But I do believe in God, and I understand about Jesus, and though sometimes I’m overwhelmed by all these rules you have, and some Sundays I really do enjoy church, except for when Hannah’s great-grandmother sings solos because she’s tone-deaf, but no one has ever told her, but I kind of think that’s deceitful, and she sings the same verse over and over and—”

  Slam!

  I stop mid-rant, leap up, and race to the front door. “What was that?”

  Nash scratches his head and looking out toward the front yard. “That . . . was Frances.”

  “What happened?” I stick my finger in Nash’s grunge t-shirt covered chest.

  “I think she just asked me out.”

  Chapter 12

  “Frances! Frances, where are you?”

  No response. I search the yard for an annoying three minutes until I finally get the idea to pull out my phone and call her.

  Her ringtone, the school fight song, plays loudly from the direction of the station wagon.

  By the time it gets to the trumpet solo, I’m staring at my friend, who is lying down in the backseat. On the floor.

  I open the car door and peer down.

  “Oh, hey, Katie.” Frances chews on her lip. “What’s new?” She then promptly bursts into tears. “Oh, my gosh! Can you believe I just ran out of the house? I’m freaking out here.” She pulls a stray napkin off of the floor and blows her nose. “And when I meant to say, ‘Want to study the effects of soy beans on s-s-skin health,” instead . . . instead I said, ‘Do you want go with me to . . .’”

  The rest of her sentence is indecipherable due to much sniveling and some unladylike nose blowing.

  “Did you ask him out?”

  Frances responds by covering her face and howling.

  I pat her leg. “This is fixable.”

  “My dad.” Sniff. “He’s gonna kill me.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Well, then he’ll lock me up in my room and never let me come out until I’m really, really old. Like twenty-five.”

  “What exactly did you say to Nash?”

  “I think I asked him to my cousin Esther’s quinceañera.” Frances hits her head against the door a few times. “My father is going to flip when he hears I asked a boy out. Girls don’t do that. Not in my house.”

  I flick a stale cookie off the seat and gather my thoughts. “So . . . how can we use this?”

  “Huh?”

  “Frances, I think you should tell Nash you want him to accompany you to your cousin’s birthday party in order to do research for the project.”

  She sits up. “Katie, that’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you were too busy hiding in the car.”

  “And how do I explain running out of there?”

  I chance a smile. “Invisible killer bees?”

  So how do you cover up these psycho moments in life we all have?

  Easy. You get someone else to do it.

  I send one final text, mostly satisfied with the results. I simply asked Charlie to take care of the matter. After all, he’s close friends with Nash. And if I’m going to suffer through being Chelsea’s new BFF at church, then her boyfriend can start helping.

  “Should I wear the pink stilettos or the black ones?”

  Maxine
preens and primps in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom. Our bedroom.

  I assess the outfit she’s modeling. “This is a simple family dinner at home. Not Sex in the City. What’s wrong with the jeans and flip-flops you had on earlier?”

  It’s reckoning time at the Scott house. James and Millie are cooking dinner for Maxine and Sam Dayberry. It should be interesting. Because I don’t think Sam’s been asked over so my foster parents can praise his bird calling abilities.

  And my roommate is nervous. Like throw yourself in the station wagon floorboard nervous.

  Maxine grabs a bottle of perfume and sprays it until I start choking.

  “What is that stuff? Ick. Haven’t you ever heard less is more?”

  “Sweets, when you’re my age all you’ve got is more. Now . . .” Maxine applies a tart red lipstick. “Do we need to go over hand signals again?”

  I turn the next page in my algebra book. “No. For the last time, I’ve got it.”

  She turns her attention on me. “When I pick my teeth?”

  “I’m to change the subject.”

  “And if I run a hand through my hair?”

  “I’m to provide a distraction.”

  “Put the book down and focus. There are more important things in life than homework.”

  Normally I would agree.

  “Final challenge, so pay attention. If I wiggle in my seat and raise my eyebrows it means . . .?”

  “You ate too many beans at dinner?”

  “No! It means that—”

  “It means I’m supposed to ask God for a holy miracle, such as stopping time or a call for Armageddon so you will not have to endure another moment of your daughter’s disrespectful . . .” I search my memory for the rest of Maxine’s command.

  “My daughter’s disrespectful inquisition into her mother’s personal affairs.” Maxine nods in satisfaction. She does a full turn in front of the mirror, and her short, black skirt swings around her. “How do I look?”

  “Like you belong on America’s Next Top Model.”

  Maxine holds my chin and smiles into my face. “Good answer. I think I’ll keep you.”

  “Keep me? Um, need I remind you that you are currently residing in my room?”