On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production)

by Jenny B. Jones

“Yes, because who wouldn’t want to date a girl who calls you and says, ‘A cow squirts about 200,000 glasses of milk in her lifetime.’ Or ‘Seven hundred million people have blood sucking hookworms and don’t even know it.’”

  Maybe that’s Maxine’s problem.

  “And that’s not even the worst of it. Do you want to know the worst part?”

  “I would love to.” I smile, content for now things are somewhat back to normal. Millie and James are home. Maxine is in the den watching her DVR’d soaps. Amy’s gone, and Frances is . . . well, Frances.

  “He said . . .” She looks to the ceiling, like she’s about to call on God for help. “He said he couldn’t talk to me, that he had band practice.”

  “So?”

  “So? So! The band was practicing because they have a new member. A girl. It’s Jessi White. She’s in my Pre-AP English class. She’s tall, skinny, dark hair, perfect skin.”

  “So she’s basically your twin?”

  “Are you kidding? She’s like viper hot. The girl dresses like a biker chick. Wears these grungy, nasty old t-shirts.” Frances shakes her head. “She’s so cool.”

  I sigh. Frances’s life would be so much easier if she’d choose someone else to like. One of her math club nerds, for instance. “So this girl’s in his band. That doesn’t mean they’re making out in between sessions.”

  “Don’t you get it? I could’ve been in his band. I could’ve been their ultra-cool band chick.”

  I laugh so hard I snort. “Frances, come on. You play the flute.”

  “Are you saying I can’t totally rock out?”

  “Yes.”

  Maxine explodes into the room. “Good news, ladies!”

  I watch the dog tromp in behind her. “The circus is leaving town, and they want you to go with them?”

  “Very funny. I am here to inform you the tea party will begin in forty-five minutes. Everything is set. The silver is polished. The china is waiting. The tea is brewing. And James and Millie have taken a long Saturday drive.” Maxine squints at Frances. “What’s wrong with you? Did you make an A-minus at school last week?”

  My friend rolls her eyes. “No. Boy troubles.”

  With eyes aglow, Maxine settles next to me. “Do tell.”

  Frances relays the chronicles of Nash while my foster grandmother nods at all the right moments and inserts the occasional, “Yes, yes, I see.”

  “I’m not making any progress,” Frances concludes.

  Maxine studies my friend. “I said I would help you, and help I will. I know just what you need to do.”

  I smell the trouble like week old bean burritos, but Frances walks right into it. “What should I do?”

  Kneeling on the floor, Maxine sticks a hand under her bed, rummages around, and produces the second ugliest hat I’ve seen today. “You drink tea!” She plops the monstrosity on Frances’s head.

  “She’s not going to your tea party, Maxine.” Especially with something dead riding on top of her head.

  Maxine quirks an eyebrow. “Frances, here’s the situation. What you are doing isn’t working. In a little over thirty minutes, the living room will be filled with ten ladies of distinction. Of experience. Ladies who have lived full lives. Who have been around the block.”

  “In their walkers,” I mumble.

  “Zip it!” Maxine puts a hand over my mouth and pulls me toward her. “As I was saying, what do you have to lose?” Her hand tightens. “Believe me, we know men.”

  I break loose. “I think you meant to say, ‘We know Depends.’”

  Frances considers her invitation. “I don’t know . . .”

  Maxine levels me with her evil eye. “Katie’s going. Tell her how much fun it’s going to be, snookums.” At my silence she adds, “Katie loves tea parties. In fact she loves all sorts of parties, don’t you, Sweet Pea?”

  “It will be loads of fun.” My teeth are going to snap from clenching so tight. “You should go.”

  “Well, of course she’s going!” Maxine pats Frances on both cheeks. “Now I’ll just lay out some hats, and you two can pick the ones you want to wear. Dress code is hats, gloves, and no pants of any sort.” She smiles and I feel my blood boil under my skin. “We’ll let you get by without the gloves. This once.”

  Thirty minutes later Frances and I stand in front of my dresser mirror. We both wear similar looks of shock and disgust.

  “I think I look like a pilgrim,” Frances mutters.

  “My hat looks like an Easter bunny threw up all over it.”

  “Thanks for letting me borrow your skirt.” Frances’s hem nearly drags the floor. I have a good five inches on her. “You ready?”

  My cell phone chirps. Text message from Maxine.

  GET UR BUNS DOWN HERE NOW.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “We’ve stalled all we can.”

  Our heels click on the hardwood floor as we enter the living room. Maxine, dressed in a frilly pink concoction, rises from her seat.

  “Ladies! Attention, please. I would like to introduce you to the girls I was telling you about. This is Katie.” I force a smile. “And this, my dears, is the lovelorn Frances Vega.”

  The silver headed crowd erupts in a singular, sympathetic ooohhh.

  “Take a seat, girls. I will bring you your tea and scones.”

  I nudge Frances. “Scones?”

  Maxine returns bearing china cups of hot tea. I should’ve told her to put Diet Coke in mine. The dainty cups rest in saucers rimmed with Oreos.

  “I was fresh out of scones today.” Maxine says when I bite into a cookie.

  The elderly ladies chat amongst themselves for a few minutes. Rocky is nowhere to be found, I note. Probably scared away by all the fashion violations in this room.

  Maxine shushes the room. “All rightie, let’s get started, shall we? Today’s topic of discussion is romance.”

  The women nod in appreciation.

  “Specifically, Frances Vega wants some romance in her life, but the object of her affection is not cooperating. Though I have no experience with that, I’m sure all the rest of you ladies can relate to her pain.” Maxine paces the length of the living room. “Now here’s the skinny. Frances likes this boy. He’s in a band.” The women nod again. One gives Frances a thumbs up. “They go to school together and are partners for the science fair.”

  A woman in lilac raises her hand. “How about a project on kissing?”

  Frances blushes. “Um . . . um, er, uh, no. We—we already have our project. But thank you.” She looks to me for help. I cross my arms and shrug. I could’ve told her this would be painful.

  “Let’s start with the basics.” Maxine ticks each item off on her hand. “Interests, lingo, and clothing. First item, interests. Who wants to take this one? Marge?”

  A plump woman with jet black hair (minus the two-inch white roots) speaks up. “Interests. You need to determine his interests. If he likes to fish, then you learn about fishing. If he likes to whittle, then you buy a knife. If your man likes to sit on the porch, then you buy yourself a rocking chair.”

  I cover my grin with my tea cup.

  Maxine nods. “Simple as that. All right, next is lingo. How ’bout it, Betty Lou?”

  “Lingo is indeed important.” Betty Lou pats her scalp-tight perm. “You gotta learn to speak their language, young lady. If he says he’s too tired to go to the mall, then that means there’s a ballgame on. When your man says he’s going to get some milk, that means he’s headed strait for Gus’s Getcher Gas to have coffee and donuts with the boys. And if he says his arthritis is acting up, then that means call the neighbor boy, ’cause he ain’t gonna mow the lawn.”

  Maxine pats her friend. “Wise words, Betty Lou. Wise words. Now, let us discuss clothing, a very important aspect in attracting one of the opposite sex. Who shall take this one?”

  “Ew! Me! Me!”

  “Um . . . All right, Mabel. Sure, you give us your best pointers on clothing.”

  Mabel, the shortest woman I
have ever laid eyes on, stands up and straightens the folds of her yellow and green plaid skirt. It is a horrific contrast to her blue silk blouse.

  Maxine coughs into her hand. “Ahem! Color blind. Ahem!”

  “Your clothing choices are so important.” Mabel’s volume could wake the dead. “You have got to glam it up, young lady. A man likes a woman in hosiery.” Mabel raises her skirt to show her knee highs, ten shades darker than her skin tone and drooping toward her ankles. “And wear quality clothing. I myself like a nice polyester with an expandable elastic waistband.”

  Frances looks like she’s ready to cry. I eat another cookie and press my ear into the side of the chair to give it a break from Mabel’s yelling.

  “And jewelry. I like to color coordinate, of course. If I’m wearing purple, as I am today, I will wear purple beads.” Mabel holds up her necklace, a stand of multiple shades of brown. “Boys notice the details, you know. And finally, your crowning jewel.”

  “My hair?” Frances asks.

  “No, your shoes.” Again, Mabel hoists up a leg. “If you’re going to be chasing that boy all day long, you gotta have shoes that can keep up.”

  Frances looks down. “Orthopedic comfort shoes?”

  Mabel nods. “With Velcro closure. That’s important.”

  Beside me, Frances sighs.

  And Maxine sneaks a smile. “Excellent information, ladies. Bravo. I think Frances has a lot to ponder, a lot to absorb from all your wisdom.” She bites into a cookie, black crumbs hanging on her lip. “Or. . . you could just try being yourself.”

  Frances shakes her head. “That only works in Disney movies.”

  “All right, then we’ll continue. Gladys. You said you had something to add?”

  A nearly bald woman holds up a bright orange. “We will now move on to the kissing lesson.”

  Chapter 28

  “You can get up now. We’re here.”

  From my slumped position in Frances’s car, I close my eyes and groan. “I can’t face them yet. All those people will know I ruined their party. It will be all over school. Katie Parker is a party ruiner. Invite her and watch her psycho granny single handedly destroy the evening.”

  Frances shrugs. “Yup. Probably so.”

  Wow. Thanks for the sympathy. Why don’t you just sky write I told you so, so there will be no doubt how you really feel.

  She opens her door and steps out. “You can’t hide on my floorboard forever. Besides, there’s that history quiz you gotta make up. And then you have play rehearsals.”

  “No. I’m quitting the play. Then I’m dropping out of school. I think I’ll work at McDonald’s the rest of my life. I’ll be the invisible voice you hear in the drive-thru.”

  “Whatever. Oh, hey, Charlie. Hey, Chelsea.”

  Just when you think it couldn’t get any worse.

  “Is that Katie down there?” Though my head is now covered, I hear Charlie loud and clear. “What are you doing?”

  I lift my head. “Praying?”

  He sticks his face in Frances’s open door. “Very holy.”

  I slink back into a sitting position and grab my backpack. “I just wanted some reflection time.”

  “Oh, time to reflect on the party you invited your foster grandmother to this weekend?” Chelsea’s snooty voice sings.

  I get out and slam my door shut. “I did not invite Maxine.”

  Charlie levels his eyes on me. “Guess you shouldn’t have been at the party in the first place.”

  Frances sniffs. “I totally agree.”

  “Well, thanks. Thanks for your support.” I heave my backpack over my shoulder and fall into step behind them. “Frances, could you move over a little to the left? Thanks.” Gotta make sure I’m totally covered and out of sight.

  I shuffle behind them through the front doors and into the main hall. Almost to the lockers. A little bit further . . .

  “Hey, Trev.” And Chelsea splits from the group huddle and leaves me wide open. For all to see.

  Trevor stands with a group of guys. They all smile at Chelsea.

  Then Trevor spots me. And so do his friends.

  “Hey, it’s the girl who brought her granny to the party. Check it out, Trevor.”

  “Hey, Katie, can I get my money back on that keg I paid for?”

  “Yeah, I need a ride after school today. Do you know anyone who could pick me up—on a bicycle?”

  Soon the hall is filled with Katie jokes, peppered with some name-calling and insults. I speed away from Frances’s side and make a beeline for the bathroom. I hear Frances call out for me, but I just keep running down the hall.

  I round the corner and shove my way past the door. Three girls at the mirrors stop mid-lipstick and stare.

  I fling open a stall. “Yes, I’m the girl whose grandma crashed the party.” And I slam the door shut and take a seat. I think this is the bathroom where I had lunch on my first day of school. Nothing like a special bond with a toilet.

  Ten minutes pass. I sit Indian-style with my chin resting in my hands. How much longer ’til the tardy bell? When it rings, I’ll go get my books and go to class. But not until then.

  The bathroom door opens again. This sure is a high-traffic room.

  “Katie?”

  Oh, no. Frances.

  “I know you’re in here.”

  I watch her feet pace the length of the stalls. She pauses to search under each one. She comes to the last stall, where I sit. Her head pops under the door.

  “Hey.”

  “Can’t a girl get some privacy?”

  Frances’s face smiles back at me. “You can’t stay in here forever.”

  “I’m ruined. I’m the joke of the school. You heard those guys. Trevor didn’t even take up for me.”

  “No, but Charlie did.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, he warned them all to quit harassing you. Then one of Trevor’s friends said, ‘You and what army?’ And Charlie said, ‘No army. Just the football team.’ And that pretty much took care of it.”

  He did that? For me?

  “It really doesn’t change anything.” I bang my head against the metal wall. “This is a disaster.”

  “You don’t need somebody like Trevor.”

  “Frances?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think he’ll still might ask me to the spring dance?”

  I somehow survive English class and with a binder covering my face, I walk to history. I slink into my desk in front of Frances.

  The tardy bell rings, and an older guy shuts the door. Another day of history, another sub. Can’t wait to see what this guy’s issues are.

  The man stands up at the podium. His too-dark hair is neatly parted to the side. He wears a creased pair of khakis with some trendy leather lace-up shoes.

  Wait a minute . . . Is that? I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again.

  Mr. Patton?

  “Good morning, students. So good to return to class today. I took a small medical leave, but I hope education continued in my absence.” Mr. Patton, his pink skin pulled taut, smiles. For once I can see his eyes, no longer hidden by saggy lids. His grin reveals new pearly white teeth, all shaped to perfection.

  Frances taps me on the shoulder. “Somebody had a little vacation at the plastic surgeons.”

  I turn around. “He looks twenty years younger. Well, minus the bad dye job. But the goatee is a nice touch. He’s a totally different person.”

  At that moment my ears fill with the familiar high-pitched whine of two hearing aids.

  Frances laughs. “Well, maybe not completely different.”

  Next to me a trio of girls giggle loudly. Thinking they’re finding the nipped and tucked Mr. Patton amusing as well, I turn my head towards them, my face stretched in a smile.

  But they’re not looking at our history teacher. They’re looking at me. And pointing.

  I hate my life. The only bright spot to this day is that it couldn’t possibly get worse.

/>   “Katie Parker to the office. Katie Parker to the office.”

  The overhead intercom blasts my name for all the school to hear. Great, what now? Does the principal want to see me so he can laugh in my face too? Maybe give me detention for tackiest party moment ever?

  I shrug my shoulders at Frances, gather my stuff, and head out the door.

  I hope everything’s okay. What if Millie’s sick and they need me to come home? What if Maxine got pulled over for disturbing the peace with her bike horn again?

  In the office the front desk secretary stuffs envelopes while smacking on gum. “Take a seat, hon.” She continues to stuff without even sparing me a glance.

  “Um . . . I was called to the office. I’m Katie Parker.” Loser Extraordinaire. Most Unpopular. Least Likely to Get a Future Prom Date.

  “Principal Wayman will be with you in a bit. He’s busy yelling at someone right now.”

  Oh. How nice. Glad I caught him on a good day.

  Ten minutes later (just enough time for me to imagine every possible horrible reason for being here), a lanky junior boy leaves Mr. Wayman’s office, followed by the principal himself.

  “Katie Parker?”

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  The principal runs a hand under his tie then crooks a finger. “In my office.”

  That was not a happy face. Apparently I am not here to receive the coveted student-of-the-month award.

  I step into the man’s office with heavy dread resting on my gut. The interior does nothing to soothe my stomach. Total time warp. I think I just walked into 1985. Nice cracked “wood” paneling. The metal office furniture has more dents in it than my mom’s last car. And the peach and country-blue rug under his desk is the pièce de résistance. He just needs a Prince poster to hang on the wall.

  Mrs. Whipple, the counselor, sits under a mallard duck print. She is the last person who should be in the position to help and advise people. I think she eats kids for dinner.

  Mr. Wayman gestures toward the chair next to the counselor. “Take a seat.”

  “I like your vest,” I say to the gray-headed woman. Her collection of quilted vests and matching denim skirts is beyond compare.

  “We’re not here to trade niceties.” She holds up a pair of shoes. Angel’s. “Do you want to explain to us how these got into your gym locker?”