“Believe me,” he growls, “I’ve been tempted daily to bring out some big guns.”
A chuckle bubbles out of my mouth. Sam stops pacing and his eyes narrow.
“This funny to you? You think you’re an expert on love?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t get mad at me.” I smile at this man who has become like a grandpa. “Sam, I want to see you and Maxine work this out. You two belong together.” Number one, because I love this guy. And two, because no one else will take her.
Sam slowly shakes his head. “It’s over. I can’t fight this battle or play her games. I am what I am. And I can’t be some Romeo for her.”
“Maybe she’s just scared. Have you ever thought of that?”
Sam’s barking laughter echoes through the theatre. “Maxine isn’t scared of anything.” He laughs some more. “I thought you knew her.”
“Every girl’s afraid of something.” My list of fears could circle the globe at least twice.
He stills and seems to consider this. “Nahhh.” Then walks away.
I jump down and go into the office, where I find Millie hunched over the computer, chewing on a pencil.
“Is that an organic, pesticide-free pencil?”
She starts and makes a grab for her wig resting on the desk. “Hey, kiddo.”
“You don’t have to put that on for me.”
She smiles sheepishly. “It was itchy.” She places it on her head anyway then holds out an arm. I step into her hug and give her a squeeze. “Good day at school?”
“Yeah.” Minus the Charlie drama. Minus the English project hanging over my head. “Can you take me back up to the school in a bit though? We’re going to get signatures for Bubba’s Big Picture.”
Millie clucks her tongue. “That mayor. He has no sense of tradition.”
“Let’s go toilet paper his house!”
“Ah, no.” She pats my hip. “You know I only do that on weekends, and today, my dear, is only Monday.”
“Tucker’s Grocery has a great deal on some double rolls.”
“So tempting, but — ”
Fergie sings from my back pocket, and I grab my cell phone. “Hello? Oh . . . hi, Mom.”
Millie stands up, mouths something, points toward the door, then leaves.
“Um . . . yeah, I’m okay. How are you?” This is the first time my mom’s called me since I landed in In Between. I should probably write this down somewhere. A calendar, a journal. Guinness World Records.
“Yeah, that’s great. James told me you passed the test. What?” My heart thunders in my chest. “What do you mean I’ll be home in a month?” I sit down in Millie’s rollie-chair. “Oh, really. No, I guess the Scotts forgot to mention they’d talked to you again.” Or kept it from me. What is up with that? I thought we had worked all this stuff out — I am not to be kept in the dark about anything that goes on in this family anymore. Especially when it has to do with me. The Scotts are tight-lipped people, but they promised me they wouldn’t shut me out anymore.
“No, of course I think that’s . . . good. You know, it will just be sad to leave the Scotts and everyone.” I have a life here, Mom. Because you bailed on me. Remember that? “Yes, I know you’re my mother.” Believe me, I’ve tried to blot it from my memory many times, but it never worked. Like that time I had to go throw clothes on her when she was passed out, spread-eagle in her skivvies on hole number four at the local putt-putt course. Just my mom in her underwear and bra under a three-foot windmill, as “Wild Thing” piped out of some fake rock. She was too heavy to move, so all I could do was cover her up until the police got there and did their thing.
“Yeah, I know you’re having to make big adjustments too. What? You met a guy at your addiction meeting?” How romantic. My love life, or lack of, is all starting to make sense now. I clearly inherited a bad relationship gene. “Um . . . don’t you think that’s moving a little fast?” And couldn’t you find a boyfriend somewhere a bit safer? Like at a Star Trek convention or something? Who gets out of prison and dates a fellow recovering addict? I thought there were rules against that.
“I realize you’re the mother and I’m the daughter. Right, you know best.” I would laugh at this, but she really believes it. “Look, Mom, I gotta go. Be careful, okay? Just focus on getting back on your feet.” We exchange some final good-byes, and I hang up the phone.
And sit there.
Unmoving.
My days at In Between are numbered. I mean, I knew they were, but now, they really are. Unless my mom screws this up, I have about a month left here. The Scotts had to know about this.
“Millie!” I rush out of the office and run into the theatre.
My foster mom stops her conversation with Sam and turns around, her brow furrowed. “What is it?”
“My mom says I’m going home in a month.”
Millie sends Sam a meaningful look. “Will you excuse us, please?”
Sam gathers his tools and leaves us alone.
“Katie, we didn’t want you to — ”
“Worry. Yeah, I know the line. I’ve heard it a few dozen times.” I stomp my foot like I’m five. “When you hid Amy and her crazy life from me, you said that was the end of secrets. When you hid the breast cancer from me, you said that was the end of secrets. Why do you do this to me?” My words are broken on a sob. “I deserved to know this.”
“Honey — ” Millie reaches out, but I step away. “This time was different, really.”
“How?” I’m practically yelling.
Millie just shakes her head, looking at the ground like she’s searching for words. “It wasn’t about keeping things from you. It was about protecting you.”
I give her my best whatever face.
“Katie, James and I have been keeping track of your mother ever since you came to stay with us.”
My eyes widen. What?
“We had no reason to think she’d be released from prison. And honestly, no reason to think, given her track record, she would . . .”
“Come back for me?” I swipe away a tear.
“That she would pass her drug tests or be given custody so soon. For most people it doesn’t work that way, but your mother’s case got bungled up, and the evidence couldn’t be used. Bobbie Ann started the process of regaining custody as soon as she got out apparently.”
“And you didn’t think I, of all people, needed to know that?”
“She never contacted you until a couple weeks ago.” Millie’s eyes fill with her own unshed tears. I look away, unable to witness her — and with pity. “I just couldn’t believe a mother would never pick up the phone and call her child. Couldn’t believe a mother who was serious about getting her daughter back would miss out on seeing you onstage.” Millie pulls a Kleenex out of her pocket and dabs her nose. “I guess I didn’t want to believe.”
Her words are like Kryptonite, and I’m almost powerless against them. But still, this was my future, my entire world we’re talking about. I deserved to know what was going on in it.
“I need to go to the school now,” I whisper. “Can we please just go?”
Chapter thirteen
IT’S EVERYTHING I CAN DO not to slam Millie’s car door. The hurting brat in me just wants to have a total Veruca Salt meltdown.
I watch her sedan drive away, and I stand in the school parking lot, feeling totally alone, even though I seem to have an overabundance of parents these days.
“Katie?”
Charlie comes up behind me, and with a hand on my shoulder, he turns me toward him. His gray eyes seem to assess every detail of my face.
“What? Is Chelsea the only girl who gets to have a bad day?” And I stomp off to stand next to Frances and Nash.
Frances, whose nose is buried in a clipboard, briefly glances my way. Her head drops then immediately shoots back up. “What happened to you?”
“What?”
“Your face. It’s all splotchy. And you have mascara . . .” She trails her fingers under her eyes.
<
br /> I wipe at my face. “It’s nothing. Let’s just get this over with, okay? The sooner we get started, the less likely we’ll get rained out. A storm is moving in later tonight.” I feel like one’s already hit. A stinkin’ tsunami.
I ignore Charlie as we wait an additional ten minutes for Hannah and about ten other classmates to show up.
“This is it?” Frances asks, surveying our group. “I invited practically the whole school. Where is their Chihuahua pride? Where is their loyalty to Bubba’s? Where is their heart, their — ”
“Um, Frances?” I tap my watch. “Burning daylight.”
“Right.” She sighs. “All right, while we would cover more ground by traveling solo, my dad will kill me if we don’t use the buddy system, so I will partner you off.”
She consults her hot pink clipboard and assigns pairs. “Bowen and Elmore. Valentine and Marshall. Parker and Benson.”
I grit my teeth. Charlie and I together in his truck? Fabulous. Less than five hours ago I watched this boy wrap his long arms around skinny little Chelsea as she sobbed into his shoulder, and now I have to ride with him?
I approach my friend. “Frances, I — ”
“It’s an order, Parker.”
I shut my mouth. “Okay.” I’m too tired to fight anyway.
She leans in, her voice low. “That was my Coach Nelson impression. How’d I do?”
“Pretty convincing.”
“You okay?”
My smile wobbles. “Fine.”
Her eyes narrow behind her glasses. “That wasn’t convincing.”
“Let’s just get going. I’ll explain everything later. And I will be plotting my revenge later too.”
She smiles. “For what?”
I jerk my head toward Charlie Benson.
As he unlocks my door, Charlie casts a cautious glance in my direction. “I know you’re mad at me.”
I climb in and stretch for my seatbelt. “Actually, Charlie, though it may bruise your ego, you’re pretty low on my list of concerns right now.” And this door I slam.
We drive to the first street Frances has highlighted for us on our map of In Between. When Charlie puts the car in park at the first house, I bail out, leaving him in my dust. I knock on the door, and it swings open, revealing a small old woman in a muumuu. She looks like someone’s grandma who bakes cookies and mends socks.
“Hello, I’m Katie Parker, and I wanted to — ”
Slam!
Hmm. So that’s what it feels like.
“No luck?”
Charlie steps up behind me.
“Did you see me get a signature?”
With hands on my shoulders, he stops me from stepping off the porch. “I didn’t see anything except your tail running out of my truck. We’re a team here, Parker. Don’t go off by yourself.”
“Whatever.”
“You either work with me, or I’m taking you back home. It’s not safe to be running up to doors by yourself.”
My mouth hangs open like a hooked catfish. “What did you just say?”
“I said, you either — ”
“I heard you! I cannot believe you are pulling this gentleman crap on me. Next you’ll be throwing your jacket over a puddle for me to step over.” Okay, now I’m babbling. Seriously, I probably do need to just go home, but Frances would kill me. Not to mention that wouldn’t help Bubba’s Big Picture in the least.
I brush Charlie’s hands off. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Look, if you’re mad at me, just say it. We have work to do, and I don’t want to disappoint everyone. Let’s just clear the air. You’re mad because of today at lunch.”
“I don’t care about today at lunch. You’re like underwear to my Britney Spears — I don’t need you.”
“Well, if you don’t care, then why are you so mad?”
“Because I have PMS?”
“Because you care about me.”
I throw up my hands. “Because I’m upset over the Middle East?”
“Because you’re so jealous you can’t stand it!”
I match his raised volume. “Because girls don’t need a reason to be mad!”
“Or because you can’t get me out of your mind!”
“Oh, you wish, don’t you? You’d love that. Well, too bad, big boy. You are so out of my mind that — ”
“I haven’t left your mind, and you know it! And that’s what’s driving you crazy because — ”
“My mom is coming to get me!” I yell.
A raindrop plinks on my nose.
For what seems like hours, but must only be seconds, we don’t move. The only sound is our worn-out breathing.
And the sound of a door. Granny Rudeness pokes her head out. “You two are really entertaining and all, but I’m trying to watch CSI in here.”
“Right then.” I nod.
“Off we go.” Charlie’s hand at the small of my back guides me to his truck.
“When are you moving?” Charlie’s truck crawls down the road.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“But — ”
I pin him with a fierce look. “Drop it.”
Thirty minutes later we finish up the street and head for our next neighborhood.
And the bottom falls out of the sky. Charlie’s windshield wipers race back and forth, but it does little good.
I lean my head back on the seat and sigh. He pulls his truck off to the side of the street and puts it in park.
Silently, we both stare straight ahead, watching the pelting rain and the darkening sky.
“You ready?” I pick up my clipboard.
“It’s practically flooding out there.”
“Then I guess we’d better run fast.” I jerk open the door and jump out.
Charlie and I race to the first house. The rain beats at my skin, and I clutch the clipboard to my chest, trying to keep the signatures as dry as possible. My shoes and pants are instantly soaked through, and my feet squish with every quick step. Ew. I hate that feeling. Where your feet are swimming in your socks.
A woman I recognize from church opens the door before we make it to the final step. I shove the clipboard and pen in her hand.
“Petition. Drive-in. Sign!” I yell over the weather. Without asking questions, she grips the pen and scribbles her name. “Thanks!” I yank my clipboard back, and Charlie and I run to the next house.
We manage to get signatures from ten houses on the street before the rain picks up even more and lightning cracks across the sky.
“Katie,” Charlie yells as we leave 112 Sycamore. “We have to go back. This is pointless!” Thunder reverberates around us, and we take off running again — back to the truck.
My feet are slow moving as I seem to hit every water-filled pothole in the street. I’m mad at my mom, mad at the Scotts, disgusted with Charlie, and we barely have any signatures. Yet all I can think is I’m so glad I’m not wearing a white T-shirt.
I giggle the rest of the way to the truck, even as rain beats my skin.
I jump in place (which makes me very aware of the wet padding in my Wonderbra), as Charlie fumbles with his keys to unlock my door.
“It won’t work!”
I shake my head. “What?” I yell.
“The lock. It’s been sticking lately. You’ll have to get in on my side and climb over.”
We jog around to the other side, and in three wet seconds, Charlie is holding the door open. I step in and leapfrog over his seat and the console, trailing water everywhere. Please don’t let my underwear be visible through my wet capris! Today would be the day I wear my retro Hello Kitty panties.
Charlie shuts the door, starts the truck, and cranks on the heat.
“Do you have a blanket in here?” My teeth chatter.
He runs a hand through his sopping hair. “Yeah, I keep blankets in the truck. For all those times I get caught in rainstorms.” He adjusts the temperature. “Nice hair, by the way.”
“Nice . . . uh
— ” I can’t think of a comeback.
“Yeah?” He knows I’ve got nothing. A corner of his mouth lifts.
I smile. Then laugh.
Soon we’re both laughing.
“We look like drowned rats.”
“Yeah, but now I can go back to school and say I steamed up the windows with Katie Parker.” He turns the defrost on. “If I get pneumonia, I am so blaming you.” He lays his hand on my headrest.
“I’ll send you a box of Kleenex.”
His eyes lower to my lips, and I feel my stomach flutter. “If I’m gonna get pneumonia with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”
Our eyes meet, and I’m powerless to look away.
He leans in.
I lean in.
Why am I leaning in? Stop leaning! Stop leaning!
With his hand, he lifts a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind my ear.
“We didn’t get many signatures,” I blurt out, breaking our spell. “And some of them are smeared off.”
He nods his dark head slowly. I notice his hair is curling at the ends. “Some things just don’t work out. Even though we want them to.”
Um . . . are we talking the petition drive or us?
“Some things are worth fighting for, Charlie. And I’m not giving up. Some people give in too easily, but I’m not one of them.” I flip my hair for effect, but it only sticks to my ear.
“No, you’re not.” His voice is deep and low.
I tilt my head and look at him. “Are you really ready to give up?” On the drive-in? On me?
He grabs my hand. “No, I’m not. I’m not ready to give this up — er, give Bubba’s up.”
His thumb rubs over my wet palm, moving in lazy circles, lulling me —
I jerk my hand back. “I can’t do this anymore! One minute you’re hot, one minute you’re cold.” And one minute you’re soaking wet, and I can see the outline of your six-pack beneath your clinging shirt.
“Can’t you just be patient with me? Have I ever purposely hurt you? I don’t think asking for a little trust is too much.”
“No. This isn’t fair to me. Don’t jerk me around and then make me the bad guy by saying I’m not trusting you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It can be.”
The Big Picture Page 9