The Big Picture

by Jenny B. Jones

  Oh, you’d be surprised.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Katie — ” He scoots closer to me on the couch. “Clearly things aren’t getting better with your mom. I’m worried about you. You can’t live like this. Please let me call someone.”

  “No!” I clutch my hands in my lap. “You can’t. You promised me. You have no idea what my life would be like if I get taken out of my mom’s custody.”

  Tate nods, his jaw set. “I’m giving it one more week.” He holds up a hand at my look of outrage. “If things don’t get better, I’ll talk to my dad. Not the police or anything — just my dad. He’ll know what to do. If nothing else, you can bunk with my sister, Kari.” A smile spreads on his face. “She’s ten and likes to play Barbies. And she forces it on everyone she encounters.”

  “Well, as fun as the Barbies sound, it doesn’t exactly work that way. I can’t just go live with someone. You have to keep this to yourself.”

  “One week. That’s all I can do. You’re not safe here.” He palms my right knee and gives it a shake. “Now, back to my original question, have you had dinner?” I raise a noncommittal shoulder. “Then if you won’t leave the house, I’ll have to fix you something here.”

  “You can’t. My mom should be home in about fifteen minutes.”

  “So? Then I’ll make both of you dinner.” He gives me a nudge. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The store.”

  “What for?”

  Tate’s eyes sparkle in the dim light. “Katie Parker, I’m going to prove to you there’s more up my sleeve than bologna sandwiches and big biceps.”

  I smile at the crazy boy on my couch. “I always thought there might be.”

  Chapter thirty - three

  “CAN I INTEREST YOU IN a drink, madam?” Two plastic cups hang from his fingers. “I have a lovely vintage here that I think is just the thing.” He pours Diet Dr Pepper into my cup, swirls it, then holds it beneath his nose. “It’s dark, it’s bubbly, and best of all, should we decide to have a burping contest later, this could push you to victory.”

  I stifle a giggle and take the drink.

  And chug like there’s no tomorrow. He lifts a brow, but says nothing. Only refills my cup.

  “For myself, I’m more of a traditional guy.” He pours himself Coke and takes a drink. “Ahhh. A very fine year.” His skin glows in the light of the candles on the dining table.

  It’s nearly ten o’clock. Yet instead of worrying about my mother or counting the minutes, I’m totally caught up in this dinner. I’ve already reminded myself half a dozen times Tate only likes me as a friend — that was made painfully obvious. And I like Charlie Benson.

  Don’t I?

  “Would you like some salad?” Using two plastic forks, he throws some in a bowl before I respond. “And for your dressing? You can have ranch?” He holds up a lone bottle. “Or ranch.”

  “Oh, I must have the ranch.”

  “A very good choice.” With absolutely no finesse, he squirts some onto my salad then places it before me. “Before we eat our greens, a toast.” He lifts his Coke. “To . . .” He chews on his lip as he considers his words. “Good friends. A good meal. And my sincere hope the chicken doesn’t make either one of us sick.”

  I clink my drink to his, savoring his playful smile and the burn of the Diet Dr Pepper sliding down my throat.

  After our salads, Tate brings me a plate of chicken, a baked potato, and a small loaf of bread.

  He gestures for me to take the first bite. “If you keel over, I’ll know not to eat my own cooking.”

  With one eye on the chef, I cut into the chicken and lift a hesitant bite to my mouth. “Mmm. It’s actually good.”

  He beams with pride. “All thanks to my super handy camping equipment — a grill and a little propane stove. Perfect for weekends at the lake, power outages, or when your mom won’t let you get near the kitchen anymore.” He leans over the table. “I’ve had a few mishaps.”

  That would make two of us. I tell him about my hamburgers that nearly brought the trailer down.

  Thirty minutes later, still no mom. But I do have dessert.

  “Whipped cream?” Tate holds a can of Reddi-Wip over my bowl of strawberries and store-bought pound cake. “Don’t answer that. You’re a girl who appreciates the finer things in life. I can tell.” He swirls the white stuff all over my bowl until it’s piled high enough to lean. He places another strawberry on top. “Perfect.”

  “Have I thanked you for this yet?” I watch him over my fluffy concoction.

  Tate stabs a piece of cake with his plastic fork and takes a bite. “No thanks needed.” His hair is damp with the heat.

  I set my fork down. “Yes, it is necessary.” I watch him until I have his full attention. “I don’t know what’s going to happen in my life, Tate. I have no idea where I’ll be this time next month — or even in a few days.” I lower my head and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “But I hope you know your friendship has meant a lot to me. It’s hard being the new kid, and I don’t know that I’ve ever made a friend so fast as when I met you.” All this honesty stuff is so embarrassing. I feel my face grow even hotter. “Anyway . . . thank you.”

  Tate’s hand reaches out across the table. I stare at it. Once not kissed, twice shy.

  He wiggles his fingers in invitation, and I slowly place my hand in his. His fingers close over mine. My heart flutters, but I will the feeling away. He’s a friend. Only a friend.

  “I know things are going to work out for you. And no matter what,” he squeezes my hand, “I’m here, okay? I want to be on the top of your call list when you need something.” The candlelight dances on the wick and casts funny shadows on our outstretched arms. “You’re an important friend to me.”

  Did he put the stress on the word friend or important?

  “I’m going back” — I almost say home — “to In Between in a couple weeks.” Maybe. If I can escape. “You should go with me.”

  His expression doesn’t change.

  “Er . . . and Ashley and Jake. You know, the whole gang could go.” That sounded a lot better in my head.

  “Yeah, that would be fun. We’ll see.” Does he know he hasn’t let go of my hand yet? Maybe the heat’s getting to him. “So you’ll keep me updated on your mom, right? I want you to call me tonight when she gets in.”

  “It’s going to be late.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I pull away and stack his paper plate on mine. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing this for years.”

  “Well, that needs to stop.” My head jerks up at his sharp tone. “One week. That’s all I can do. And I want you to call me every day. And pick up any time I call.” His features soften. “Katie, this is not a good situation.”

  “I know. But it’s temporary. She’ll get back on track.” But as the words come out, I know I don’t believe it.

  “My dad has — ”

  “No.”

  Tate’s eyes widen. “I was going to say my dad helps people out all the time with utility bills and other living expenses. It’s part of the church budget.”

  “You can’t tell your dad, Tate.” Urgent fear pounds in my chest. “You can’t. You know that will lead to other things — like my being sent away.” I have no guarantee I’d get to go to the Scotts. It’s just not worth it.

  “But if I could swing it another way?”

  “No.” I cross my arms over my chest and pin him with my stare. “Absolutely not. I will take care of it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Tate scoots back his chair. “Let’s talk about happier things for a while.” I follow him into the kitchen as we toss everything into the trash. “How about I tell you about the time I snuck in the back-seat of the car on my oldest sister’s first date?” Tate leads me to the living room, and we settle back into the couch. “I was only ten.”

  At midnight, I cover a yawn, and my weighted eyes flutter. “You
have to go home.”

  “I’m boring you into a coma, aren’t I?” But he looks tired too.

  I laugh and shake my head. “No, your stories are great. Especially the one about setting the frogs loose in kindergarten. But it’s late. I know you have to be home. The pastor’s son cannot be hanging out alone with a girl in a candle-lit trailer at this hour. The deacons will have a fit.”

  “The deacons are my uncles.”

  “Go, Tate.” I point toward the door with a tired grin. “Go home.”

  “I can’t convince you to come back with me?” He holds up his hands. “Your virtue is safe. I won’t stow you away in my bedroom or anything.”

  “Leave my house. I’m tired. As soon as I lock you out, I’m going straight to bed.”

  He stands up, and I follow him to the door. “You’ll call me as soon as your mom gets home?”

  I rub a knot in my neck and nod. “Yep. See ya.”

  “Okay. I know when I’m not wanted. I’m out.” With one hand on the door, Tate stops. His eyes lock onto mine, and he pulls me close. Then closer.

  I hold my breath.

  His hand reaches out and eases toward my face. I’m frozen to the spot.

  “You have just a little bit of whipped cream there.” He flicks my nose. “Got it.” And he shuts the door. “Call me!” he yells.

  Chapter thirty - four

  BY TUESDAY NIGHT, BOBBIE ANN Parker has lost any chance of getting a Mother’s Day present out of me ever again.

  She is still not home. It’s been over forty-eight hours since she left, taking my cell phone and, I discovered, the credit card the Scotts gave me.

  I’m starving, I’m tired, and I’m furious. I’ve been eating stale graham crackers and rock-hard marshmallows. But at noon today, something good happened. The electricity came back on. I know Tate is responsible. But when he came earlier to check on me, he acted as if he knew nothing about it. I can just tell by the look in his eyes he hasn’t said anything to his dad (okay, I can tell by the fact that child services hasn’t swooped in to get me), so Tate must’ve paid for our electric bill himself.

  But I would cut out my tongue before I admitted we have no food in the house, and of course, I have no way to get to the store even if I did have my credit card.

  By the time dark falls, I’m settled into a good movie on TV. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I haven’t slept in days, and I need a good run for the border. As I watch the murder mystery, I keep one ear open for the door.

  By the first commercial, someone pulls into the drive. Probably Tate again.

  I don’t bother getting up. I’m just too tired. And it’s really hot in the house, even though the air has been blowing nonstop.

  Then someone pounds on the door. “Katie?”

  I frown and jerk to a seated position. I don’t recognize that voice. Maybe it’s someone with news of Mom. But what if it’s child services?

  I shuffle to the kitchen window and look out.

  Rolling my eyes, I go to open the door.

  And there stands John. He looks almost as bad as I do. His hair is a mess, and he’s shaking.

  “Where’s my mom?”

  He charges past me. “Turn the TV on.”

  “It is on.” Einstein.

  “Turn it on a local channel. Try channel five.”

  I fumble with the remote, the hair standing on the back of my neck. “What’s going on?” Please don’t kill me. I hope this isn’t his way of gaining entry into unsuspecting girls’ houses. I will be so ticked if they find my dead body tomorrow all because I fell for the line turn the TV to channel five.

  A commercial for peanut butter blares to life, and a chubby kid smacks his lips and extols the virtues of a great PB&J sandwich.

  “Turn it. Turn it!” John rips the remote out of my hands.

  “Hey! Back off. What’s happened? Tell me now.”

  “Just watch.” He flips the channels until a live news report catches his attention. “Watch.”

  Dread swirls in my stomach as I see a young journalist standing in front of the downtown pharmacy. “The two broke into the Middleton Pharmacy at nine o’clock this evening. They took petty cash, and a variety of pharmaceuticals such as Sudafed and cough syrup. Police have just released this surveillance camera shot of the event. If you recognize the man and woman or have any information, please call . . .”

  The rest is a roar in my head. I struggle to focus as panic consumes me.

  “Police say the woman has on a tank top that reads Born to Be Wild and a pair of cutoff shorts. Her face was covered with a pair of pantyhose.”

  I will never live this down. I know that’s my mom. I know it. Not only did she rob a pharmacy, but she didn’t even do it with class. She had hosiery on her head!

  “The man, who looks to be in his forties, has long hair, tied back in a ponytail. He, too, had his face covered with a stocking.”

  Jesus, take me now. Just call me on home. My life has just been reduced to a bad episode of Cops.

  The woman’s rushed voice breaks through my tangled, swirling thoughts. “The man in question is considered armed and dangerous. As you can tell from the last frame of the security footage, he does have a weapon.”

  John shuts the TV off. The silence is deafening.

  “Turn it back on.”

  “It’s her, Katie.” He paces the length of the living room. “Have you heard from her?”

  “Have I heard from her?” No, I’m her daughter. Why would I hear from her?

  “When’s the last time you talked to her?”

  I explain my last conversation with my mother on Sunday afternoon. “She left with some guy. Some long-haired guy.” Like the freak on the news. I clutch my head in my hands. I cannot believe this.

  “I know that guy. He came to our meeting two . . . maybe three times.”

  I raise my head, my eyes wide. “Are you going to the police?” Because I’m going to need to pack a bag. The state will come for me. And I’ll spend the night, the week, the month with total strangers.

  John runs his fingers through his hair. “No. I can’t.”

  I feel a strange twist of relief, but at the same time, who wouldn’t call the police?

  “I can’t go to the police. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t.” He seats himself beside me on the couch. “I love your mother.”

  Make me gag. Do I really have to listen to this crap on an empty stomach?

  “I thought she would rebound.”

  “Oh, she did,” I quip. “Right back into her old lifestyle.”

  “I thought she could do it.”

  “Well, excuse me for throwing around blame, because it is all Mom’s, but you didn’t exactly make it hard on her to go back.”

  He shakes his head and stares at his hands. “I know.” John jumps to his feet. “But I’m done. I have to look out for me now.”

  Yeah, I know the feeling. Stinks, doesn’t it? I reach for the remote, and with a click, the news fills the screen again.

  “Again, they are considered armed and dangerous. If you have any information, please call the police or this station immediately.”

  “Katie, you have to get out of here. They have to be so out of their heads. You can’t be here if they come back. It’s not safe.” His tired eyes meet mine. “Do you have somewhere to go — someone to stay with?”

  AN HOUR LATER, I THROW MY last suitcase in the back seat of Mom’s old Cougar. The door creaks as I slam it shut, and I turn the key in the ignition.

  God, help me. I have had just enough driving experience to pass my test, and we know that didn’t go so smoothly. Please help me get safely down the road. I have to get out of here. I can’t stay here anymore. Oh . . . and help my mom. I guess.

  With Maxine’s hundred bucks stuffed in my bra (sadly, there’s still plenty of room), I crank up the air conditioner to max and crawl out of the driveway.

  A half-mile down the road, I pull off to the side, open the door, and chuck my Aircast into
a ditch. If Peter could walk on water, surely I can at least drive with this bum ankle. I cruise through a Mickie D’s drive-thru and get a large Diet Dr Pepper — no time to eat — and ease the Cougar back onto the open road.

  And drive away from Middleton.

  My eyes water, and I try to blink to ease the dryness. So tired. I am exhausted. I wonder if they’ve caught my mom. I left a note in the trailer so when the police do show, they won’t think Bobbie Ann and her long-haired hippie have taken me.

  I squint as I read road signs and send up a prayer with each turn and exit ramp I take. Some of these signs are just unnecessarily difficult. Like it’s a big scam. They want you to get lost so you’ll pull into a convenience store and ask directions — and load up on drinks, candy bars, chips, and nachos drenched in plastic cheese sauce.

  Occasionally I see a landmark that looks familiar. Or maybe I just think it does. I pray it does. But what if I’m just driving in one big circle? I’m an hour and a half into this trip. What if on hour two, I take a turn and I’m at Middleton again? I will die. Just throw myself in the center of the four-way stop and let traffic have its way with me.

  Except I think the Middleton four-way only sees about one vehicle an hour.

  Which would be a little anticlimactic.

  I rest my elbow on the door. Then my head bobs.

  No! Must stay awake. Not much further. Maybe two hours or so, as slow as I’m driving.

  With shaky fingers, I turn a knob and the radio blasts at full volume. I skip through some Clay Aiken, pass on some twangy country song about beer and tractors, and stop at the sound of Fallout Boy.

  The miles stretch out in front of me, and the dark of night — or morning — threatens to swallow up me and my car. My brain spins like a scratched CD, and the thoughts slam into one another. What if the car breaks down? What will I do? What if they don’t find my mom? What if the state comes looking for me? What if my mom comes looking for me? Will Tate worry about me tomorrow? What if he hears about my mom, and I’m gone? What if I lose this radio station and I have to listen to Frances’s favorite — KPOK, nonstop polka?