Frances jabbers the whole way to my trailer, and my heart is already so heavy with missing her, I can’t even focus on the thread of conversation. When she pulls into my drive, I blink at the pressure behind my eyes.
“Can we come in? I’d love to meet your mom.” Frances throws Sally Ann in park.
“Er . . .” I glance toward the trailer, painfully aware that Mom’s car is gone. Where has she gone? Maybe it’s just to the store. We do need groceries. But then again, maybe it’s not the store. Maybe it’s to a dealer’s house. Or to an exploding meth house, and I’ll see her on the evening news. Or —
“Katie?”
I blink at Frances’s voice. “Um . . . Mom’s not even here, and I’m sure the trailer’s a wreck. Next time?” I echo Charlie’s words and brave a glance at the boy beside me. The boy who was my science partner. Then my friend. Then something more . . . then nothing.
He rests his hand over mine — just for a second. “Next time then.”
I take turns hugging my friends, nearly losing it as I pull Frances to me. “We’ll see you soon,” she says, and I can only nod. “Oh! Before I forget, the Scotts and Maxine each sent you a care package.”
Joy shoots through my heart, and I clap with childlike glee. “Lemme see!”
She goes around, opens the back hatch, and hands me a box. “From James and Millie.”
I dive into it. Some Gap tank tops, a new pair of flip-flops, some books, a new CD, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. Not even her soy tofu weirdo cookies — real cookies! Though I’m stuffed, I stick one in my mouth anyway. Ohhh . . . they taste like home.
“And this is from Maxine.”
I stick my hand in the Hello Kitty gift bag and pull out . . . a signed picture of Brad Pitt? I lift questioning eyes to Frances.
She shrugs. “We were told not to ask any questions.”
Fair enough. I rifle through the rest of the bag and find French truffles, a new People magazine, a pen that writes in disappearing ink, and a hundred dollar bill — wrapped up in five new pairs of Victoria’s Secret panties.
“She said they were the latest and guaranteed not to crawl.”
“Oh, it’s great.” I hug Frances to me again. “You guys are all great.”
Charlie takes my packages and walks me up the steps. Swallowing back dread, I pull my house key from my purse.
“Thanks for coming, Charlie. It means a lot to me.”
He hugs me again. Briefly. An altogether wimpy embrace. “That’s what friends are for.”
Friends. Right. Thank you, Charlie Vagueness.
I wave toward the car and say good-bye to Charlie again. Then step into the trailer, closing the door on my In Between friends. I peel back a curtain and watch their car from the living room window. Then I run to my mom’s bedroom and peek through her window, staying there until there is nothing left of my friends to see.
They are gone.
Leaving me here.
In Middleton.
Because I am Katie Parker — a girl just born to say good-bye.
Chapter thirty - two
“DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE that.”
I put the remote down as my mother walks through the front door. “Where’ve you been?”
“Do you know how sick I am of that question?” She pokes her chest. “I’m the mother. You’re the daughter.”
“Hmm. So you do know that. I wasn’t sure.”
“Don’t smart off to me!” she roars, planting herself right in front of the TV.
“Did you get any groceries?”
“Get ’em yourself.”
“Yeah, I’ll just walk to the store.” Fury courses through my every cell. “Maybe I could’ve, had you taken me to the doctor instead of going MIA every time I had an appointment.”
“Just shut up.”
Though I’ve heard it a million times, I still close my eyes at her words. Millie and James would never talk to me like that.
She rubs her temples. “My head hurts. Get me some aspirin.”
“Get it yourself.”
“This is my house. You will do what I tell you to so long as you live here.”
I stand up, throwing the remote on the couch. “Which won’t be very long. At some point the child services lady is going to come back — and not to talk to you. But to take me. Is that what you want? You ripped me out of the Scotts’ house just to throw me somewhere else?”
“You’ve never wanted to be here. Admit it!”
I bite my lip and shake my head. “I wanted my mom back. I wanted things to work. I wanted you to have a job like a normal person. I wanted — ”
“You are so judgmental. You get that from them, you know. Those people you lived with.”
“Why?” I yell. “Because I expect you to have a job? As soon as I get rid of this cast, I’m getting a job. It’s what people do — people who want to eat. Have you paid that electricity bill yet? The water?”
“It’s about time you thought about helping out around here. Take, take, take, that’s all you do. I can’t do this alone.”
“You can’t do this period, Mom.”
She jumps around the scarred coffee table, halting inches from my face. I smell the alcohol on her breath and automatically breathe through my mouth. “What do you want from me? I’m not perfect.”
“I want you to be the mom who can at least remember a doctor’s appointment. I want you to be able to get yourself to work so I don’t have to pull out my old list of excuses for the landlord. I want you — ” my voice breaks, and some of the anger seeps away, leaving mostly sadness. “I want you to love yourself and me enough to stay clean.” I blink away the wetness pooling in my eyes. “Please love me enough to not send me back into the system. You don’t know what it’s like. I deserve better.” I hear the whine in my voice, and it’s like acid in my stomach. “I can’t go back, Mom,” I whisper. “I can’t go back to a group home for a single day.”
My mom’s body trembles, her breathing ragged. “I will try and find a job tomorrow.”
“What have you been doing all this week?”
“Trying to find a job!” Her voice shakes the thin walls.
“You have to call the lady from the state. I can’t put her off any longer. She left a message on the door Friday that you missed a drug test. You have to go take that.”
Mom steps around me and sinks into the couch, her head in her hands. “I can’t.”
I swallow hard. “Why?”
“Because I just can’t.”
“You’ve got to start going to your support group meetings again. And talk to your sponsor. You have to get help. You’re sabotaging your life.” And mine.
“Just like that, huh?” She raises her face and laughs. “You got it all figured out, dontcha, kid? You’ve got all the answers. Well, you don’t know what it’s like to be me.”
I stare at her shaking hands, her red face. “No, I don’t. I can’t imagine. But you know what? This past year I learned what it is to be a kid — to be taken care of. To be loved and provided for. To not have to worry if I’d have anything for dinner or where I was going to get lunch money. To really be a kid and not the adult. Why can’t we be like that? Why can’t you just be the mom? My mom.”
Mom digs into her pocket and pulls out her keys.
“No, don’t go anywhere. Please. Just stay here tonight. I can’t handle this anymore — this wondering where you are and if you’re alive.”
“Then don’t worry about it. Did I ask you to worry?” She stands to her feet.
“Please don’t go. We’ll work on your résumé. We’ll search the want ads for a job.”
“I don’t need your help,” she sneers, glaring down at me. “I’m going to John’s. I won’t be back tonight, so don’t stay up and ‘worry’ about me.”
“You’re picking everything over me. John, the drugs . . .” I pull myself up and latch onto her shoulders. “When do I get to be a priority?”
“I don’t know.” She pushes past me. “But it
ain’t tonight.”
“Please — ”
My pleading voice stops her halfway out the door.
“Do this one thing for me. Don’t leave me tonight.” I see her eyes focus a bit more and know she’s considering it. “I won’t ask anything else of you. I’ll make us some popcorn. We can watch some Lifetime.” I smile weakly. “There’s a new Tori Spelling movie on tonight.”
My mom takes one step back into the living room.
Then her cell phone rings. She rips it out of her back pocket and checks the call.
“Don’t answer it.” I don’t know who it is, but it can’t be good. I’m sure it’s someone who could never understand the value of a good Lifetime movie. Or a drug-free life.
“Uh-huh. Really?” Mom sticks her head back outside and waves. “I’ll be right out.” She stares at her phone. “Dang. Battery’s going dead. Can I borrow yours?” A horn honks from the driveway.
“Who’s out there?” I look outside. Some guy sits behind the wheel of an old Ford truck. I can’t see his face, but I can tell he hasn’t shaved in this decade and he has hair longer than mine. “Who is that?” ’Cause it sure isn’t John.
“Just a friend. We go way back.”
Like back to prison?
“Katie, I gotta go.” She sticks her hand out and waits for my phone. “Come on.” She sees the protest in my face. “I just need some air. I’ll have your phone back to you tonight. I’ll try to be home by nine. I will.”
I have absolutely no reason to believe her. No reason to trust her anymore. Yet I hand my cell to her anyway. “Don’t go through my saved numbers and crank call anyone.”
Mom rolls her eyes then gives me a quick peck on my cheek. “Thanks.”
“Mom?” She’s pulling the door closed. “I love you.”
The lines between her brows deepen. “Uh-huh. You too, kid. I’ll see you later.” But she winks as the door shuts, and I know it’s the closest to “Daughter, you are the light in my life and the reason I draw breath” I’m going to get.
I return to the couch, as worn out as if I’d just finished a marathon and with my nerves in shreds. I offer up a quick prayer for my mom’s safety.
Three hours later I am mourning the loss of my phone. I have people to text! Family to call! Games to play. Could my life get any more miserable?
Yes, it could.
And it does.
The house goes dark.
And silent.
I curl my legs up on the couch and pound my head on my knees. No, no, no! This is not happening. I knew she hadn’t paid that electricity bill.
Feeling my way to the kitchen, I locate a flashlight in a drawer. I hate the dark. I would never make it on Survivor. I would be the first one they voted off. In fact, I’d volunteer to be kicked off. I like my creature comforts too much. Like electricity, a soft bed, and food that doesn’t make you want to grab a can of Raid.
I raise all the dusty blinds to let in the remaining light from outside.
Headlights set the living room all aglow, and I peer out the window over the sink.
Tate.
My heart picks up the pace. Do I let him in? He’ll know we can’t afford electricity. He’ll know my mom is a total loser. But I’m bored. And I don’t know when or if she’ll be back. Total humiliation versus human contact. I don’t know!
He raps on the door. I stay in my spot, motionless. Frozen. I can’t let him in. I can’t let him see me like this.
The small knocks turn into pounds. I close my eyes against the noise.
“Katie?” he bellows, his fists heavy on the door. “Katie, are you in there? Mrs. Parker?”
Oh, no. He’s worried about me. Go away! Shoo! I have attack cats. Don’t make me sic them on you.
I hear him descend the steps. Whew. I exhale my pent-up breath and take another peek.
Wait. What’s he doing? He reaches into the back of his Explorer and pulls out a box. A cooler. He’s getting out a cooler? Um, not exactly a good time to tailgate, Tate.
I move away from the window as he draws closer to the trailer again, still calling out my name. My neighbors are gonna be so ticked.
I hear the cooler hit the ground, and I frown.
Stepping away from the sink, I press myself to the back wall of cabinets. There’s no way he can see me.
I gasp.
And my eyes connect with Tate Matthews — who stands on his Coleman and spots me with his flashlight.
“Katie?” His voice spikes with fear.
“I’m okay!” I yell. “Drop your weapon.” Okay, so now is not the time for flashlight humor.
“Open this door!”
Dear God, what in the world have I ever done to make you mad at me? I clearly am being punished for something. Because I was born to Bobbie Ann Parker? Frankly, I think you owe me for that one. I would be willing to not hold it against you, if you’d just perform an eensy-weensy miracle and let this trailer floor swallow me whole.
I wait.
Not gonna happen, is it?
With a cry of frustration, I propel myself into the living room, nearly tripping over my mom’s shoes, and open the front door. But not the screen.
“Yes?” I say, all calm, as if I’m not standing there with all the lights off, and Tate hasn’t been shouting my name out like a war cry for the past minute and a half. “Were you just in the neighborhood?”
“Let me in.” He shines his light into the living room. The beam zooms right and left.
“There are laws for that, you know.” I gesture to his flashlight. “You can’t just peek into a girl’s house. People will think you’re a perv.”
“You have three seconds to open that door or I’m calling the police.”
In one motion I unlatch the screen and fling it open. “No police.”
He slips by me and steps into the living room, his flashlight still roaming. “Is everything okay? I’ve been texting and calling you for hours.”
I shrug a shoulder and watch the light dance on the worn walls. “Things are great. Why wouldn’t they be?” Just because it’s one hundred degrees in here since I’m too afraid to open the windows? And I’m nearly seventeen, and I’m still convinced the boogeyman exists and has waited all my life for the perfect opportunity to pay me a visit?
“Is your electricity out?” He shines the light in my face, and I swat it away.
“Ow! I’m blind! Watch the eyes, would you?”
“Answer me. What’s going on?”
“Yes, my electricity is out.”
“I didn’t notice anyone else on your street in the dark.”
Shame settles on me like a heavy coat. “Yeah . . . um . . . not sure what the problem is.” As in I’m not sure what the problem is with my mom not being able to hold down a job and pay one stinkin’ bill.
“Is your mother here?”
“Nope. She’s out for a bit.” Must get this boy out of here. “Hey, I’m really glad you stopped by, but I have things to do.” I roll my eyes to the ceiling. I have things to do? Am I an idiot? Clearly unless it’s things to do in Braille, I have nothing to do!
“Wait right here.” And before I can work up a good objection, Tate is out the door and back again. “I still had my lantern in the back from last week at the cliff.” He settles it on the coffee table and lights it up. “I’m just going to open some windows.”
“Tate!” I must gain control of the situation. “It’s okay. I’m perfectly comfortable in here.” A bead of sweat drips down my cheek. “It’s very . . . cozy.”
“I could roast hotdogs in your living room.” He flings open the living room windows, and a breeze swirls through. Okay, so it might have been a little bit stifling.
Tate opens more windows then strides to stand in front of me. His hands clamp my shoulders. “Are you okay? What happened?” He peels a limp piece of hair off my forehead.
I stare into his fierce eyes. Then drop my head. “Momdidnotpaythebill.”
“Take your hand off your
mouth. I didn’t understand a word of that.”
“I said — ” I hate my life. Can I be someone else? Just for one day? I want to be Hilary Duff or that girl from Hannah Montana. Except her dad totally needs a haircut. “My mom didn’t . . .”
His grip tightens. “What? Pay the bill?”
I sigh and stare at the peeling linoleum. “Uh-huh.” My head springs up. “But it’s okay. I’m fine. No need to stay. It will be on tomorrow probably. We’ll get it straightened out. She probably just forgot. I’ll get it taken care of. I don’t need lights. And sure, I’m missing a good Lifetime movie, but they show them over and over until you get sick of them and you’re, like, could you please quit showing that same movie? I don’t care if they do call it an ‘encore presentation,’ it’s still a rerun, and I can only handle so much of the old cast from 90210, and — ”
“Katie!” Tate gives me a little shake, and for the first time I see the beginning of a smile. “Come home with me.”
“I’m not really that kind of girl.”
He laughs and drops his hands. “I mean come have dessert with my family. Hang out with me and my sisters. We’ll invite some other friends over. You can’t stay here. You’ll be completely in the dark soon.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. I do. But I need to stay close and wait for my mom.” I don’t know why, but I can’t shake the feeling I need to be here when she gets back. And I want to see if she really is home by nine. “Was there a reason you stopped by — besides a really bad attempt at stalking me?”
Tate moves to the couch and sits down. I settle on the other end. “I started calling hours ago to see if you wanted a ride to church.”
Oh. Sunday night church. Funny how a lack of electricity can make a girl forget these things. “I guess I’m not going.”
“It’s already over.”
So’s my life. “Well, it was nice of you to stop by, but — ”
“Have you eaten dinner?”
Nope, haven’t eaten since lunch. But since we’re down to old candy, crackers, and juice, there’s really not any point in having an appetite.
“You can’t stay here in the heat. Come back to my house. You can leave your mom a note, and I’ll bring you back in a couple hours. She wouldn’t want you to sit alone in the dark.”
The Big Picture Page 24