The Big Picture

by Jenny B. Jones

  I hoist myself out and walk toward the building that’s just crying for a new coat of white paint. Men in suits stand on either side of the walkway, greeting everyone who passes them by name. Sometimes it’s a huge comfort how friendly church people can be. This is not one of those moments. I just want to slip inside, find a seat, and —

  “Oops, dropped your Bible. Let me get that.”

  Before I can contemplate the challenge of bending over, a blond-haired guy jumps in front of me, reaches for my leather-bound NIV, and hands it to me with a Johnny Depp grin and a twinkle in his eye.

  “You’re new here.”

  “How’d you guess?” Boys. I’m so over them.

  “I’m Tate Matthews.” He continues to hold my Bible.

  “I’m Katie. Katie Parker.” He looks a little older than me, but I can’t be sure. He doesn’t dress as GQ as Charlie, but not too shabby. Better than Nash.

  “Just visiting or is Middleton home for you?”

  My chest constricts, and I have to look away. “Something like that.” Will this place ever feel like home?

  “Will you be going to Middleton High? Let me guess . . .” Eyes as blue as the ocean squint as he studies me. “A senior?”

  At this I do laugh. “No, a junior.”

  “Ah, well, as a member of the Middleton Student Council, let me be the first to officially welcome you. We’re the home of the Muskrat.” His voice drops. “Our mascot gets beaten up a lot.”

  My mouth tips upward, despite my sad mood. His student council status reminds me of Frances, and his easygoing demeanor brings my drama buddy Jeremy to mind. So he can’t be all that bad.

  “Are you meeting someone in here?”

  I shake my head and move toward the door. “No.”

  “And if I said I had a seat saved just for Katie Parker?”

  “I’d say Tate Matthews was full of it.” But I let him walk me through the doorway and hold onto my Bible as I greet the men at the door.

  “Look . . . Katie.” Tate slows as we reach the sanctuary. “If you don’t take me up on my offer of a seat — just a seat — all my friends will laugh at me. You don’t want to shoot me down and ruin my reputation, do you?” He lifts a brow and strikes a barely tragic pose.

  I pretend to scan the perimeter. “I don’t exactly see friends flocking around you. Unless you count that lady over there giving you the eye.” I point to a woman who has poured her Rosie O’Donnell figure into a tube top, even though she could pass for somebody’s grandmother.

  Tate winces. “Old girlfriend. She’ll get over me one day. Anyway, I happen to have a number of friends, which I’m guessing you are in short supply of as the new girl.”

  His words sting, even though I know he doesn’t mean them to. “If you sit in my pew, I’ll introduce you.”

  I chew on my lip and consider it. “Okay,” I sigh. “But for the record, I think you might be trouble.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “My mom would agree, but you would both be wrong.” His hand rests lightly at my back. “This way, Muskrat newbie.”

  Crutches and pews do not go together, so I let Tate take my hands and help me into my seat. He high-fives some people around us then introduces them to me. As Tate’s friends make small talk with me, my eyes drift to the door, half expecting James to march through and take the pulpit. But this isn’t his church. I just hope God shows up.

  Across the aisle, I spot John, and I hold up a hand in greeting. He starts to get out of his pew, but the choir files in, and the pianist lights into the first few bars of a hymn.

  Without asking, Tate helps me rise as the congregation comes to their feet for the opening song. His touch isn’t creepy or intrusive. It’s efficient and quick. Friendly. Reluctantly, I must admit I like this guy. As a friend. Totally as a friend. No dating for me. Not for a long time. My heart still howls for Charlie Benson. But I guess my heart wants a lot of things it can’t have. Like a mom. And Keira Knightley’s hair.

  We sing “Amazing Grace” with a Chris Tomlin contemporary flare, and I’m reminded of the moment I walked down to accept Christ. I was surrounded by my friends at church, as well as victims of the tornado that had hit town, and we were singing this song. The words, older than me and my friends put together, were so fresh and new to me that evening. That was the night I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I was a child of God. That he had created me with a purpose. And I was in In Between for a reason. And now I have to suck it up and remember I’m in Middleton with my mom for a reason.

  So here I am, God. Keep me focused. Keep me on your path. And just keep me sane.

  The same man who leads the choir walks to a microphone and welcomes the church. He reminds me of an older version of our youth pastor, Pastor Mike — muscular, bald, and his enthusiastic words twanging with their deep-South roots.

  “That’s our preacher, Brother Jamie. He’s really good.” Tate points to the man as he returns to direct the choir.

  And Brother Jamie is good. At least he passes the keep-my-attention test. His sermon is over, and I realize I didn’t look at my watch one time or draw hearts and deformed flowers all over my bulletin. He leads the church in a closing prayer, then dismisses us with a final serenade by the Maple Street Chapel choir.

  “So . . .” Tate passes me the crutches and takes the Bible from my hands. “A group of us are going to Brother Jamie’s house for pizza and volleyball. I dare you to join us.”

  “Let me guess, Brother Jamie is also the youth minister?”

  “You’re dodging my challenge, but yes.”

  “I don’t think so, but thanks.”

  “Why? Are you allergic to pizza?”

  I shake my head.

  “Pastors? A good time?”

  “No.” I laugh. “I’m not exactly up for volleyball.”

  He glances at my Aircast. “Right. You’re probably more of a tackle football girl, anyway. But I still think you should come with us. You’re not going to get to know anyone if you only share a hymnal every Sunday. Come hang out. I promise you you’ll have fun.”

  Everything in me says no — everything except this small voice whispering in a distant corner of my brain. “I . . .” I can’t believe I’m going to do this. “Okay.”

  Tate sticks his fist out, and I tap my knuckles to his. “I do want to warn you though — not everyone will be as cool as me. You’re at a disadvantage since you happened to have met me first. The bar is now sky-high, but — ”

  “Tate?”

  “Yeah?” His smile melts a little of the frost on my mood.

  “I’m armed with crutches, and I know how to use them.”

  He shrugs and takes a step away. “Right then.”

  Outside, I call Mom. She doesn’t answer, so after five more tries, I leave a message.

  “Katie, hi.” John walks my way. “I’m glad you came. Couldn’t get your mother to join you, huh?”

  “No. Maybe next week.” And maybe my mom will sprout wings and fly like a 747 too. “Did you see her last night? After you left?”

  John’s puzzled expression unsettles me. “No. I went home after dinner and didn’t hear from her all evening. Why?”

  “Nothing.” Tate moves away to talk to some friends nearby, so I decide to give the full court press to John. “Mom was out really late, so I thought maybe she was with you. She wouldn’t tell me where she was all night.”

  John only stares then shakes his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. Things have been going really well the past few months. Your mom has been doing great. But” — his eyes search the Middleton horizon — “lately she has been acting strange. She has a sponsor — a support person who she should be checking in with. I’ll see your mom gets a phone call from her. I think things are basically all right. I mean, I don’t think your mom is using again. But it’s important we not let up on encouraging her and making sure she’s supported.”

  “Okay.” I think you could be wrong and totally in denial. “Good to see you
.” So if my mom couldn’t have been at work the whole night and she wasn’t with John — where was she? What had she been doing?

  “Hey, you ready to eat pizza and watch me spike it like a champ?” Tate returns to my side, still holding my Bible. The noon breeze catches his sun-streaked blond hair. “Did you get in touch with your mom?”

  I laugh to myself. I could not be more out of touch with Bobbie Ann Parker. “Let’s go.” I paint on a semi-interested face and follow him and a few of his friends toward the parking lot.

  “I hear all that unbridled enthusiasm in your voice, Katie, and I’m going to have to ask you to tone it down. This is a church event, and it requires maturity and composure. So in case you were on the verge of squealing for joy at the prospect of hanging out with us, and I suspect you were, rein it in.” He takes my purse and hangs it over his shoulder. “Our coach awaits.”

  Tate and his friends Tyler and Ashley talk and laugh as they fill me in on previous youth group events, all punctuated with some tragically funny event involving banana peels, sleepless camping trips, or someone losing his shorts.

  Tate’s old Explorer pulls up to a brick home much like Frances’s, except the yard is larger, and the nearest neighbor is a good half-mile away. He opens my door and helps me down. Tyler and Ashley run on ahead, still reminiscing over their last tale.

  “Are you hungry?” His eyes connect with mine.

  “Sure.” Not really. More like stressed. Numb. Sad. Hollowed out. Like PMS on steroids.

  “That wasn’t very convincing. An actress you’re not.”

  “Actually I am.” And I kick butt at it, thank you very much.

  “Oh, really?” We walk around the house to the backyard, following the sound of voices. “What have you done?”

  I give him my acting credentials, and he nods in approval when I mention my run as Juliet.

  He stops and extends his arms. “Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops.”

  “O, swear not by the moon” — the words trickle out of me, like I’ve found a long lost friend — “the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”

  He gasps with all the melodrama of Maxine, and I laugh at his mockery of Romeo. “What shall I swear by?”

  “Do not swear at all; or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and I’ll believe thee.”

  And we stand that way for a few moments — gaze to gaze, wordless, and me wrapped up in the love of the familiar words.

  He inches closer, his face serious, thoughtful. “Let the record show . . . that Katie Parker just said I was gracious and she idolized me.”

  My mouth flies open. “That is not what I said! I was reciting — ”

  “Totally what you just said.” He laughs and walks ahead of me, moving toward one of the picnic tables in the middle of the backyard.

  About fifteen teens are gathered around, not nearly the numbers we’d have at Target Teen, but still not a bad turnout for such a small church. I look at the group and feel very . . . tired. Do I have the energy to make new friends? What if my mom just picks up and moves us again like she usually does? We never stayed anywhere for too long. I’m tired of being the new girl. Frances isn’t in this group. And yes, maybe a new best friend is, but I don’t want a new best friend.

  “Are you coming?” Tate turns around, way ahead of me. My crutches dig into the grass, and I catch up. “Hey, Katie?”

  I roll my eyes and look up, ready for more of his pseudo Shakespeare. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know where you come from or what you have going on, but I know this isn’t where you want to be. I just wanted to tell you I’m glad you came. And I think if you let yourself, you’d have a good time.” The intensity leaves his face. “The preacher’s son is a little nuts, but the rest of the guys in the group — they’re pretty cool.”

  We share a slow smile, and I nod. “Okay.” And with a heavy heart, I join him and the others at the tables.

  Tate introduces me to more of his friends, and I’m bowled over by their instant acceptance and kindness. I scan the group, trying to find the Chelsea in the mix — every group has one. But nobody stands out as the resident snob.

  “What kind of pizza can I get you?” Brother Jamie reaches for a paper plate. “We have every kind — including pepperoni with anchovies.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “That’s my son’s favorite. You probably want to avoid him and his fish breath.”

  A tall blonde woman, who introduces herself as Lisa, Jamie’s wife, takes my drink order. “Here’s a Diet Dr Pepper for you, hon. And Tate, what can I get for you?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual.”

  The pastor’s wife shakes her head then mixes a drink concoction, pouring from a variety of two-liters like she’s a cocktail waitress. “One root beer–Dr Pepper–orange–Sprite.”

  The preacher holds up a plate. “And three slices of pizza.”

  We thank them then take a seat with some others under a massive shade tree. Tate helps me to the grass and hands me my plate. And that’s when I take a glance at his plate.

  Anchovies.

  “You’re the crazy pastor’s son?”

  His eyes dance in the sunlight. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of breathing on you.” He steals a chip from my plate. “At least not today.”

  Chapter twenty - six

  THE PASTOR’S SON IS CRAZY.

  Two hours later, I sit in the Middleton heat, watching the last game of volleyball — or, as Tate calls it, extreme volleyball. The girls have long since surrendered and sit around me. Basically all rules are off in this game, and anything goes, including body slams, vicious spikes, wrapping friends in the net, and too many chest bumps to be appropriate for my taste.

  The game is finally called on account of Mrs. Matthews’ running out of Band-Aids and Gatorade, and the sweaty boys join our circle in the grass.

  Tate sits beside me. “Our ladies are wusses. I know you would’ve been out there with us if it weren’t for that cast.”

  “Right.” Though I did learn some cutthroat moves in Coach Nelson’s PE class this past year. He might be surprised. Tate slaps the guy next to us on the butt. Okay, then again, maybe not.

  Tate’s eyes fall to the phone in my hand. “Did you ever get ahold of your mom?”

  “No. Still no answer.” I feel my cheeks flush with heat. “I hate to ask, but do you think — ”

  “Let me grab a water, and we’ll go.”

  I say good-bye to the girls who’ve kept me company the past thirty minutes, promise to call Ashley, and wave to the guys. I survived this. I did it. There’s no replacing my In Between friends, but I know I gotta have people here, too. My mom’s not the only one who needs a support system.

  Mrs. Matthews gives me a side-hug, and the pastor invites me to the Sunday night service. But I know I’ve had all the church I can handle today. If I went to the evening service and my mom didn’t pick me up, I’d have to spend the night in a pew.

  “You did a great job today.” Tate shuts his door and starts the engine.

  I shrug my shoulders. “A good job being a benchwarmer?”

  He steals a quick glance. “You know what I mean. I know it was hard for you today — not knowing any of us. Not getting all the private jokes and the inside scoop. But everyone really liked you.”

  For lack of originality, I shrug again, like I care . . . but I do. “Your friends were nice.” I shoot him a grin. “That guy who eats the fish pizza is a whack-job, but the rest of them are okay.”

  I give him directions for getting to the trailer as we drive, and within minutes he’s cruising past the Happy Meadows sign. I push down the old shame of people seeing where I live. This place ain’t Buckingham Palace, but it’s where my mom is starting over. And it’s where God planted me. So if this guy so much as curls a lip at Number 16 Wingard Street, then I will show him a super-convenie
nt spot for a crutch.

  We pull into the dirt drive, but my mom’s Cougar is gone. I sigh and lean my head on the window. Where is she?

  “Thanks for the ride.” My hand stills on the door handle. “And for today. I did have a good time.”

  He props an elbow on the steering wheel and faces me. “And you didn’t expect to.”

  “Right.” I look toward the front steps, where Mom’s cat collection lounges.

  “Coming back tonight? I could swing by and get you.”

  “No. But thanks. Maybe next week. I’ve only been in Middleton a little over twenty-four hours.”

  “And you don’t want to overdose on church. I totally understand.” His grin is back, and I match it with one of my own and open the door. “I can manage it,” I say as he starts to get out to help.

  “Katie?”

  I pivot on a crutch.

  “You’ve got a friend in Middleton. Just wanted you to know that.”

  I reach for my purse and Bible. “Tell that friend I said thanks.” And I shut the door.

  I spy the cats eyeing me from the door, like they’re thinking, Her odds of doing a face plant coming up the steps are pretty good. Let’s stay and watch. I throw one last wave to Tate then hike it around the back of the trailer. Yes, I’m doing a lap until he’s gone. My armpits will hate me for it, but my dignity will say thank you. My method of getting up the thin wooden steps is not attractive, so I will just wait ’til he’s gone.

  Two minutes later I shoo the strays away and unlock the front door. Aside from a loud-mouthed woman selling life-changing blenders on TV, the trailer is still.

  I go back to my room, shut the door, and crash on the bed.

  And then my phone rings. The screen displays Millie’s name, and my heart thrills.

  “Hey!”

  “Hi, sweetie.” I snuggle back into my pillow and let the sound of her voice work its soothing magic. “How’s it going?” I hear James holler something in the background. “James wants to know if you went to church today and if you miss him yet.” She laughs.

  “Yes to both. Mom dropped me off at a small church here in town, and I actually stayed and had lunch with their youth group.”