Lightning cracks and illuminates his face in the darkened truck. “You don’t understand.”
I grit my chattering teeth. “Try me.”
Silence.
“Is it because of where I come from? Who I am?” Hello, Insecurity just climbed in the truck.
He scowls. “No.”
No as in sorta? As in no way? Or no as in I love girls with shady pasts?
“Is it because I’m probably leaving?” Sooner than I thought. I feel a lump forming in my throat at the thought and try to breathe it away.
“I have to admit that doesn’t help matters, but no.”
“I know I don’t fit in with your country-club life. My mom has a reputation a mile wide, and I know it’s not the coolest that I’ll be in summer school.” I feel my temper rise along with the heat in the truck. “But I’m not trash, Charlie. And there’s nothing wrong with coming from a trailer park just because you — ”
“Chelsea’s dad embezzled a lot of money.”
“And yeah, my mom’s done time, but don’t judge me before you walk a mile in my — ”
“He’s probably going to prison.”
“ — shoes, and . . . What?” Lightning cracks. “What did you say?”
Charlie rubs a hand over his damp face. “Chelsea’s about to lose everything. They will probably lose their house, most of their possessions, and every friend they’ve ever had.”
They have friends?
“There will be an indictment; it’s going to be all over the news; it’s going to be messy, and she just has no one.”
I suck in my breath. “You’re telling me Chelsea has a parent who has committed a crime, he’s going to prison, and they’re broke.”
“Exactly.”
I close my eyes and rub my temples.
Dear God, it’s a scary, scary day when Chelsea Blake, my nemesis, my opposite in every way, has a life story that sounds tragically . . . just like mine.
We could be twins.
Except I’m not a size zero.
Chapter fourteen
I SNAP MY PHONE SHUT.
“Frances says we’re to meet them at the mayor’s office in five minutes.” I glance at my watch. Ten ’til seven, and the rain is just now letting up enough to see the road. Charlie and I have spent the last hour in awkward silence, him refusing to talk any more about Chelsea. And me counting raindrops, regrets, and what ifs. All endless.
“We only have twenty-five signatures. It’s not going to be enough.” Charlie starts up his truck, his windshield wipers lurching into action. “Did she say how many she or the others had?”
“No, but she wasn’t happy.” Join the crowd.
We cruise downtown, and Charlie pulls into a spot next to Frances’s station wagon. Before I get out, my eyes meet Frances’s and she just shakes her head. We didn’t do it. We didn’t get enough. Frances jumps out of her car, her umbrella bucking in the wind, and she stomps across the street into city hall.
We all follow. Sad. Wet. Defeated.
The mayor’s assistant lets us into the office and shoos us inside, watching our muddy feet leave tracks on her carpet.
“Right this way, children,” she says primly. Children. What is that about? I wear a bra and buy Clearasil. You cannot call me a child.
Frances grabs my clipboard, does a brief count, and treads on down the hall.
“Mr. Mayor? Your visitors are here.”
We all file in as Mayor Crowley removes his boots from his mahogany desk. “Well, now. I see you made it by the deadline. Did you get all your signatures?” The smirk under his handlebar mustache tells me he knows we weren’t able to pull it off.
“No. Sir.” Frances’s words shoot out like bullets. “We tried, but then the rain . . . We couldn’t even drive in it for a while. Most of us have spent most of the evening in our cars, waiting out the weather.”
“Aw, that’s a real shame. Just a shame.” He grabs his mouse and continues a solitaire game. “So if this little project is over, it’s past my dinner time. And it’s pot roast night at Ida Mae’s House of Vittles.”
Frances moves in front of his desk. “No, it’s not over. We just need seventy-five more names on this petition.”
“Not my problem, darlin’.” The squatty mayor reaches for his cowboy hat and places it on his balding head.
“But it is,” Frances sputters. “The closing of an In Between institution is everyone’s problem. You’re going to deny us the opportunity to save it on seventy-five measly signatures? Why would you do that?”
He leans over his desk. “Two words. Strip. Mall.”
“What about Buford Hollis’s career?”
The mayor throws back his head and hoots with laughter. “Miss Vega, the man operates a rundown drive-in. He pops popcorn two nights a week. You call that a career? This” — he holds his arms out, indicating his office — “is a career. Selling tickets to Top Gun is not.”
Hannah stands beside Frances. “This isn’t fair.”
“Then not only have I settled this ordeal for you tonight, but I’ve also taught you a lesson. Because life isn’t fair, girl. So get used to disappointment.” The mayor stands up, drawing himself to his full five-foot-four glory, his paunchy belly stressing the pearl buttons of his western shirt. “Now, I agreed to stay until seven o’clock for you kids. I’ve been more than accommodating, but it’s time we all went home.”
Frances dashes to the door, her arms planted inside the frame. “No! We can’t. You can’t!”
Charlie and I exchange worried looks. I glare at Nash. Do something.
Nash shrugs.
Ugh, boys. Useless!
“Can’t we have one more day, Mr., um . . . Mayor?” I ease my way to Frances, where I whisper, “You are not blocking the mayor in his own office. Move!”
“No. You may not. Bubba’s Big Picture will come down. We cannot get in the way of progress.” He shuts his briefcase and maneuvers out from behind his desk. His beady brown eyes narrow on Frances.
“Young lady, you’d better remove yourself from my doorway.”
“Not until you give us another chance.”
The mayor’s face reddens. “I’ll have you know I’ve been giving Buford Hollis second chances for the last decade! Enough is enough! Now there is nothing you can do, so I suggest you get out of my way.”
“Or what?” Frances demands. “You’ll hit me?”
The mayor does a double take. “Of course not.”
“You’ll swear at me?”
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
Frances frowns. “You’ll charge through and mow me down?”
Mayor Crowley reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’ll just call the police.” His voice drops sarcastically low. “I sign their checks, you know. We’re rather tight.”
“Come on, Frances. Let’s go home. We’ll talk to an attorney or something for Mr. Hollis.” Charlie steps closer, but she only increases the tension in her arms, as if her strength is all that’s holding up the doorframe.
“Please, Frances. We’ll figure something out.” I’m just plain worn out. The whole day has been one battle after another. “I’ve got to get home and write a paper.”
“Miss Vega,” the mayor waves his phone, “you have five seconds to leave my office, or else I’m calling the police.”
I turn to Nash. “You know what you have to do.”
He nods, walks toward the door, and without missing a stride, scoops up a screaming Frances, and doesn’t let her down until we’re all back in the parking lot.
“How could you do that?” Frances yells at Nash but sends accusing stares at all of her friends. “We could’ve had a sit-in protest. Started a picket line. Burned our bras. Something!”
Nash rubs his neck. “Because I think your dad would get a little mad if he had to pick you up from jail.”
Yeah, been there. Not a good time.
“We can’t just give up.” Frances’s glasses slide down her nose unnoticed. “We can’t, guy
s.”
“Let’s just go home,” I say quietly. “And pray about it.” That really just came out of my mouth again, didn’t it? I’m an official churchie now, aren’t I? I sound like Millie. I sound like Frances (well, minus the hysterics). But it’s all we’ve got. The reality is we are a group of teenagers going up against a strip mall and an overinflated poser cowboy. God is all we’re gonna have. Unless we can come up with fifteen thousand dollars. And last time I checked my piggy bank, I think I was at least a few dimes short.
“I guess.” Frances mopes the rest of the way to her car. “Good work, team.”
“What’s our next move?” someone calls out.
Frances stops. “Get a miracle.” And she shuts herself in her car, her boyfriend jumping in just before she peels out and tears down the road.
Everyone disperses to their own vehicles, grumbling and rain-drenched.
Charlie opens my door, but when I go to close it, he doesn’t budge. Just stands there next to me, filling up the space.
I look up, a question in my eyes.
“Katie, I’m not into Chelsea.”
I study his expression, desperate to find some truth there. “Okay.” My voice is neutral, but my heart ever hopeful. Like an idiot.
“And I can’t stand this weird tension between us. If you’re not willing to hang in there with me and try to make this work, we should at least continue to be friends.”
I twirl the big silver ring on my left hand. “Friends . . .” Awful, detestable, dirty word! Did Romeo ever say, “Hey, girl, let’s be friends”? No, he downed some Grade A poison! Did Spider-Man say, “Mary Jane, let’s be buds”? Nope, he said, “Wanna go for a cobweb ride and make out?” What if Adam had asked Eve to be his friend? Um, I’m thinking civilization would’ve ceased to exist. No good can come from Charlie and I being friends, I tell you. None!
“Yeah, I’d like for us to be friends.”
“Sure. Friends would be . . . great.” My plastic smile hangs heavy on my face.
And I watch in horror as this boy who only a few weeks ago was holding my hand now offers his hand again — to shake. Like you would shake someone’s hand at church. Like you would shake someone’s hand upon first meeting him. Not as in my next step is to smash my lips onto yours.
And yet I put my hand in his and pretend like just being friends is the niftiest idea ever.
“So you’re leaving In Between?” Charlie asks as he starts his truck.
“Yeah.” Pal. Amigo. BFF.
“When?”
“Not sure.” I glance his way to see if I can find any hint of sadness, desperation, or signs of a boy on the verge of begging me not to go.
His face is annoyingly passive, a blank mask. “Are you okay with it?”
Are you kidding me? I’m about as okay as I’d be with crashing into a semi right now. And it would probably feel about the same. “I’m fine.”
“Seriously, Katie.” He touches my arm for a moment, and I just want to yell, We’re friends! Don’t touch me!
“Is your mom able to take care of you?” He turns his windshield wipers back on as a light mist covers the glass.
“I guess.” Who knows. She has passed a few drug tests. That’s a serious accomplishment for her.
“I know the Scotts will miss you.”
I close my eyes to block out the image of a Scott-free life. “Yeah, I’ll miss them too.” I wonder if they’ll really visit like they said. Or will they forget me as soon as I’m out the door? Will they just get a new foster kid? They can replace me, but I can’t replace them.
“I’ll miss you too.” His voice is so low I’m not sure if I hear him right.
“What?”
“I’ll miss you too.” And then he smiles, making me doubt his intensity. “You’re the best actress the Valiant’s ever seen.”
I release a reluctant laugh. “I don’t know about that.” Tell me more.
“No, seriously.” His lopsided grin has me reminding myself to breathe. “I don’t know if I ever mentioned this, but I was in the audience for your first play.”
“Get out.”
“No, I was. Romeo and Juliet, right?”
I nod my head, remembering that magical night. The night I learned my life was possible. I had talent, I had a purpose, and I was genuinely good at something.
“And you were Juliet. And you did an amazing job.”
Charlie wheels the truck into my driveway, and I sigh, wishing we were still miles away from home. I want to keep driving. Keep talking. If we could just stay in this bubble, we wouldn’t have to settle for being just friends. We could be Katie and Charlie.
But outside this truck lies the real world. And that world includes Chelsea. And my one-way road trip back home.
I stare at the front porch, where the light has been burning for me since last September. A reminder that a family lives in that house, one who cares about me and loves me. And who will hopefully wait a respectable amount of time before they get a newer model of foster kid or turn my room into a place for crafts and scrapbook supplies.
Charlie puts the truck in park. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“No.” I ease the door open. “I’ll see you later.”
“Katie?”
I turn around, forcing all traces of hope off my face.
“I mean it — we’re going to do this friend thing right.”
“Great.” Sounds fabulous.
“We’re not going to lose touch when you leave. That’s not going to happen.”
“Right. Okay.” And Charlie drives off, leaving me standing there staring at the spot where his truck was.
Wondering if my life could possibly stink any more than it does right now.
Chapter fifteen
“PICK UP YOUR LIP. IT’S dragging the floor. You know what else drags that floor?” Maxine turns a magazine page. “The dog’s butt.”
I walk into the living room, where my foster parents and Maxine sit. Each one with a book or magazine, yet I get the distinct impression they’ve been waiting for me. If Millie’s posture got any straighter, her spine would snap.
“Just wanted to tell you I’m home.” I sail through and head toward the kitchen.
“Katie, wait.”
I stop at James’s voice.
“We want to talk to you.”
I knew it. Something’s up. Or maybe they just want to talk about the fact I’m mad at them, and they totally dropped the informational ball again.
I plop myself on the couch next to Maxine, who smells like pickles, but I probably don’t even want to know why.
James rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “I know you’re upset right now.”
Oh, an eensy, weensy bit.
“But we haven’t been keeping things from you. We’ve talked to you lately about everything we know about Millie’s cancer and treatments. About Amy. We just didn’t have a whole lot of information ourselves about your mom’s situation.”
“You had more than I did.” I cross my arms and stare at my flip-flops.
“When we knew something definite, we fully intended to tell you,” Millie says, her tired eyes intense. “We’ve had to watch you suffer through disappointment after disappointment with your mom in the last year. James and I wanted to be sure this wasn’t another opportunity to get your hopes up then be let down.”
“Is that what you think? That the idea of going home is something I’d be hoping for?”
Millie blinks. “Well, isn’t it?”
“It’s not even home. It’s just another new town, a different trailer, and possibly the same mom.” My eyes fill like the rain gauge outside. I put my head in my hands. “I don’t know!”
Maxine’s arms surround me, and she pulls me to her. “It’s okay, sweet pea.”
“It stinks!”
“I know. But things will get better.”
I lift my head. “No, your shirt. You smell like a giant dill pickle.”
Maxine’s eyes dart to the left
and right, then down. “Er . . .”
“What did you do?” I move to the opposite end of the couch and breathe through my mouth.
“Might’ve had a little accident at Tucker’s Grocery Store today.”
“Mom, what kind of accident?”
Maxine clears her throat. “The kind where you stand on a barrel of homemade pickles in order to see who your ex-fiancé is strolling with down aisle four.”
James rolls his eyes. “And?”
“And the lid gives and you fall in. But back to Katie and her desperation — ”
The three of us stare at Maxine, trying to make sense of her.
Millie busts into laughter first, her cheeks puffing as she loses her struggle to contain it. Then James. And then I’m laughing — holding my nose and laughing.
“You are so not sleeping in my room tonight.”
“What?” Maxine cries. “I’m clean. I’ve had two showers already. It’s just going to take a little while for the vinegar smell to wear off. It’s good for you — cleans out your sinuses.”
“Katie — ” Millie recovers her composure and leans forward in her chair, back to the original subject. “If you don’t think your mother is capable of taking care of you, if you think your well-being is endangered in any way, we’ll fight for you.”
We’ll fight for you. Magic words if I ever heard them. Even though I know I have to go back with my mom, maybe it’s enough the Scotts would be willing to do everything they could to keep me.
“I want to stay here. But part of me wants to go live with my mom too.” Either way, I’m hurting someone’s feelings it seems. If I willingly go with my mom, will the Scotts think I don’t care? And if I ask to stay with the Scotts, my mom would be devastated. And I can’t live with the idea I might cause a relapse, and she’d go back to drugs or back to prison. Or worse — end up on the streets.
Millie and James look at each other, their eyes meeting and some silent communication takes place. Some of that husband-wife telepathy stuff.
“What?” I ask, dread sinking deep in my stomach. “Did my mom call again?”
Millie looks at her hands, but James meets my steady gaze. “Iola Smartly called an hour ago.” No.
It’s happening. It’s really happening. Iola Smartly, director of the girls’ home I lived at before the Scotts, doesn’t just make calls to ask about the weather or if I happen to know anyone who smells like pickles.
The Big Picture Page 10