“Yep.” Tate grins. “And that’s the girl he bid on.”
Hannah walks toward Brian and hands him a water. Her eyes are just as starry as her new skirted friend’s.
Tate leads me to a large oak tree, and we stand beneath it, under the glow of paper lanterns. “I heard about your mom. Are you okay?”
That is just the question of the night. I’ve heard it a hundred times. “Yeah, I’m totally okay.” He slants me a look. “Okay, not totally okay, but I’ll be fine.”
His hands move to my shoulders, and he guides me under a light. “Is that a bruise on your face?” His thumb brushes over it.
“It’s nothing.” I blush and shrug.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” His voice is warmer than hot caramel topping on ice cream.
“It happens.” That was totally lame.
“But it shouldn’t happen to you.”
“Tate, thanks for coming tonight. It was an incredibly nice thing to do. I really appreciate the donation. It will help Buford Hollis a lot.”
“I didn’t do it for the drive-in.”
“You didn’t?”
“That night on the cliff — ”
Oh, you just had to bring that up, didn’t you? “I’m really sorry. It was the stars and the moonlight, and I’m all confused. Or I was confused. But now I’m not because I told Charlie he should bid on Chelsea, and then he did because deep down he wanted to anyway, and I — ”
“Katie?” Tate’s hands frame my face. His gaze roams over the blue and purple spot on my cheek then back to my eyes.
“Yes?” I breathe.
“You started something that night on the cliff.” He pulls me to him. “And I’d like to finish it.” Then his lips lightly brush mine, and I surrender to his kiss as a bagpipe honks in the distance.
“Tate?” He raises his head and smiles down at me. “How are we going to make this work?”
He tweaks my nose. “If a guy likes a girl, distance doesn’t matter. I’m game if you are.” Tate releases me only to hold his arms out. “I think they’re playing our song.”
I glance toward the stage, where Brian Diamatti is getting down on his bagpipes, playing something that sounds like a John Mayer tune.
One hand goes to my waist and the other intertwines with my fingers. “Totally my favorite song.” And he hums along, with his chin resting on my head.
“What is it?”
“I have no idea.”
Chapter forty-three
THE END OF CHIHUAHUA DAYS is signaled by Brian Diamatti’s rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Or maybe it was “Fergalicious.” Hard to tell.
The mayor takes the stage. “My fellow In Betweenites.”
I prefer In Betweenies.
“The time is now eleven p.m., and our celebration must come to an end for yet another year. It has been a grand time. One of fellowship and good memories.”
And a disgusting number of dog-shaped funnel cakes.
“As you know, citizens, tonight was the end of the deadline I so graciously extended for Buford T. Hollis and the Big Picture Drive-in. Miss Vega, if you would, please take the stage and announce the grand total of our fund-raising efforts.”
Frances climbs the stairs to the stage, a somber expression on her face. This is not good.
She grabs the microphone and it squeals in response. “Good evening.” She sighs and it resounds through the large speakers. “We needed to raise approximately twelve thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two dollars tonight. The town really came together. The Big Picture is more than just an old drive-in. It’s a piece of our history. Some of you have grandparents and parents who saw movies in the Big Picture’s glory days.” Frances opens a piece of paper. “I am sad to say we didn’t raise enough money.”
The crowd groans.
“But I would like to present the money tonight to Buford Hollis, and if he chooses, he can add to it and hopefully keep the drive-in open.”
Buford, in old bib overalls and a wife beater T-shirt, lumbers onstage and joins his little champion. He smothers her in a bear hug and wipes away a tear with a meaty hand.
“Buford, tonight we present you with a token of this town’s love and support — seven thousand dollars.”
After a polite but disappointed round of applause, Buford presses his face a little too closely to the mic and speaks. “Y’all are my friends and my neighbors. And I’ve enjoyed the last fifteen years of running the Big Picture. But I’m sad to say it’s not enough. I will surrender the property tonight to the mayor and the money will be donated to the school.”
The audience mumbles and begins to move away from the stage. The night is over. The life of the drive-in — over.
“Wait!” Sam Dayberry shoves through to the front. “Wait.” The crowd stills and turns to the Valiant caretaker. “Could a person buy the Big Picture?”
The mayor barks. “No, it’s too late. It’s — ”
“Yes!” Buford nods his head, his Cowboys cap bobbing. “It’s been for sale for years. Never even had a looker.”
“We are minutes away from closing this deal.” The mayor jerks the microphone from Buford. “I have been more than patient. More than lenient. It’s time to embrace progress!”
“What would it take to buy that drive-in?” Sam calls out.
Buford throws out a number that makes my eyes bulge. The people of In Between prepare to walk away.
“Sold!”
The air stills. The cicadas even stop to listen.
“What?” the mayor croaks.
“Sold.” Sam joins them onstage. Using Buford’s back, he scribbles out a check and rips it out. “You’ll need to wait ’til tomorrow to cash that,” he whispers. Then Sam turns toward the shocked stares of the people of In Between. “What? I used to work for a little company called IBM.”
And the night air fills with shouts and cheers. Backs are slapped, babies are kissed, and good friends are hugged. My eyes tear up as I see the joy radiating from Frances’s face. Her dream came true. The Big Picture will be saved.
“I . . . um . . .” Sam adjusts the microphone to his height. “I will need a business partner for this though. I’m just the backer. I don’t know how to operate a drive-in.” He searches the crowd until he finds just the face he’s looking for. “Maxine Simmons . . . I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
My foster parents push Maxine toward the front. Her mouth is frozen in an O.
“I don’t want to go into any more ventures without you,” Sam continues, taking his hat off his head. “I need your help for the Big Picture. It will need your woman’s touch. Your way with . . . popcorn. Well, no . . .” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “The truth is I don’t know anything about . . . er, ticket sales. Dagnabbit! I love you woman, and I want you to marry me.”
Sam descends the stage steps two at a time and walks toward my foster grandmother, who still stands in a stupor likes she’s been hit by lightning.
We all surround them, desperate to hear the rest. Tate takes me by the hand, and we inch in close.
“Maxine, the drive-in isn’t the only thing I won’t know how to do without you. I don’t know how to do life without you. I’ve been a mess. And though you drive me nuts, and you get into trouble — and I mean big trouble — ”
“Amen!” someone shouts.
“Me and my chicken truck can testify!”
Brian Diamatti begins to softly play “I Will Always Love You” on his bagpipes as Sam bends to one knee. “Though you are trouble with a capital T, and the entire police force in In Between and the surrounding counties know you by name and Social Security number — ”
“Get on with it, baldie.” Maxine pops her gum, her expression bored. But her telltale hands shake.
“I want to know if you’d do me the honor of marrying me and running my snack bar for the rest of my life.”
Maxine throws herself at Sam, planting kisses on each of his scruffy cheeks. “I do! I will! I shall!” She hugs him close
. “I think this moment calls for some poetry.”
A FEW HOURS LATER, I FIRE up my computer and sit my tired body down.
And I complete my long-expired extra credit assignment for Ms. Dillon. Six pages later I come to my finale.
I don’t know where I’ll be ten years from now. But I know I will be loved by the family God created for me. And maybe they are a little crazy. But they’re mine.
In a decade Millie will be cancer free and hopefully tofu free, as well. James will still be a rock star of the pulpit and a closet American Idol fan. And I hope by that time their daughter, Amy, has realized what amazing parents she has and has cleaned up her life. I look forward to Christmas dinners where every chair is filled.
Sam will no doubt be tired and worn from chasing after Maxine and keeping her out of trouble. Or jail.
And me? Millie says I’m going to college, and I think she just might be onto something. But James says Broadway might be calling my name. He might be right too.
My youth pastor once said that God has a plan for me, a plan bigger than anything I could ever come up with . . .
“Sweet pea, turn off that light. We have a wedding to plan tomorrow. Gonna get me one of those Vera Wanger dresses.” I smile at my foster grandma. She fluffs her pillow and grins back.
My eyes scan my computer screen, and I highlight the document — every word of my future.
And I hit Delete.
Because you know what? I don’t know what’s in store for me. But God’s done pretty good by me so far. I think I’ll just let him write the rest of my pages.
Chapter forty-four
MAXINE FASTENS THE LAST OF the thirty buttons on the back of my maid of honor dress. “You look smashing, toots.”
I glare at my foster grandmother in Bubba’s bathroom mirror. “I look like an overstuffed prom queen from 1986. You promised me there wouldn’t be a butt bow.”
Maxine cackles and swats me on the tush. “Don’t think of it as tacky. Think of it as a highlight on one of your finer features.”
“I still think it would look better in the trash can.”
The bathroom door swings open and Millie pops in. Her straw hat bobbles sideways, revealing a bald but healthy head. “Come on, ladies. It’s time.”
Maxine shivers like a wet dog. “Oh, glory! I’m so nervous. I am so pee-my-pants nervous.” She clutches me. “I don’t think I can do this. I’m too young to get married.”
“Mad Maxine, there’s no one else on this planet who could get me in a lima bean–colored poufy dress but you. Just you.” I place my hands on hers. “You are my grandmother, and I love you.” I watch a tear trickle down her cheek, and I lean in, touching my nose to hers. “But if you don’t march yourself down the aisle to where Sam is waiting for you beneath one big movie screen, I will drag you out myself. By your overly processed, bleached-blonde roots.”
She inhales deeply. “Do you really think I can do this? This marriage stuff?”
“By the GOG, baby.” I smile and pat her too-smooth cheek. “The GOG.”
About the Author
JENNY B. JONES is the author of A KATIE PARKER PRODUCTION series, including the books In Between and On the Loose. Though now an adult, she still relates to the trauma and drama of teen life. Jenny is thrilled to see her writing dreams come true, as her previous claim to fame was singing the national anthem at a mule-jumping championship. The author and high school teacher resides in Arkansas.
CHAPTER ONE
I changed my look this morning. I straightened my curls into poker-straight, shiny locks. I like it. It’s sleek. The only problem is, without my curls my headband is too loose and keeps slipping off my head. I had to fix it in the girls’ room between classes. So now I bolt toward English with seconds to spare.
As I scurry toward the door, I run smack into Noah Hornung. He’s about twice as tall as me. He’s running his fingers through his dark hair that seems to naturally spike up in a messy kind of way. He probably can’t even see me from up there.
“Man, I am so sorry, Lindsey,” he says in a rich voice that reminds me of the dark brown suede vest I splurged on last week.
“No problem.” I crane my neck to look at him. How did he know my name, and has he always been that hot? I mean he’s always been here. Noah goes to youth group with us at my best friend Emma’s church. But so do a ton of other kids. And he always sits with a bunch of guys I hardly know. He lives in my sprawling subdivision, but on the other end. He’s a junior, so even when we were kids and played in the neighborhood, he hung out with kids a year older than me. Noah’s dark green eyes, topped by thick, dark eyebrows, lock with mine. I feel my cheeks turning as pink as my headband.
Brrriinnngg!
The class bell, announcing that I am officially late, echoes through the vacant hallways.
“We’re late,” he laughs.
“Yeah, see ya.” I cock my head and smile as I duck into my doorway.
Mrs. Pearson shoots me a dirty look as I try to sneak into my row.
I slide into my seat. My books softly thud on the desk. I lift my head to see Noah in the doorway winking at me before disappearing down the hall. Lights dance in my head, like flashbulbs of the paparazzi. His eyes are so big and my fingers itch to touch that messy hair. I don’t know much about him, but I feel all tingly and freezing and burning at the same time, like my hand feels when I’ve held my hair dryer for too long. Slow down, I tell myself. This is the first time he’s ever spoken to you.
I should relax, anyway. Boys and I put together have always been a “Fashion Don’t.” I’ve been asked on plenty of dates, but the boys all seem to want one thing: something physical. Nobody wants to listen to me or talk to me or even watch a movie with me. Sometimes I curse the fact that I’m pretty. I know it doesn’t seem to make sense. I can’t say that out loud to any of my friends. Who would understand?
I was so gawky when I was younger. I remember wishing I could look like my sister, Kristine, so that boys would notice me. Then, in eighth grade, I had eye surgery and said good-bye to my glasses. The orthodontist removed my braces. Kristine gave me a full makeover before I entered high school so I wouldn’t embarrass her by being her “nerdy little sister.” Now it seems like overnight, I’m not the geeky girl anymore, but I’ve evolved into the pretty girl I dreamed of being. It’s so ironic. Now that I got my wish and people do think I’m pretty, I’m wishing for something else, that boys would be interested in me — what kind of music I listen to and what my thoughts on God are and how I feel about my family — instead of what I look like.
Tommy Bayer invited me to his house to watch a movie with his family. That seemed innocent enough. But it turned out his family wasn’t even home. So about ten minutes into Shrek the Third, he leaned over and tried to stick his tongue down my throat. When I turned my face away from his, he turned from “Tommy Bayer” into “Tommy Bear” and tried to grab every part of my body he could with his grubby paws.
To prevent that from happening again, when Warren Adler asked me out, I suggested he come to my house. Wrong! He came over and kept trying to slide his hand in between my legs under the kitchen table. I squeezed my knees together so tight, my thighs ached by the time his mom came to take him home.
A beautiful boy named Brock invited me to our Christmas dance, the Sugarplum Stomp, last year. Mom bought me this amazing dress with a fitted waist. We had a seamstress take it in to fit perfectly, and it had a skirt that flared out just enough to swoosh while I was dancing. I told my friends I ended it with him because he popped his gum. The truth is, Brock tried to slip his hands into that gorgeous gown anywhere he thought they could fit.
Maybe I’ve just been interested in the wrong boys. The underclass guys seem unsure of themselves. They get all nervous and fidgety when they talk to me. Most of the upperclassmen seem so full of themselves. They act like they’re doing me a favor if they speak to me.
Which brings me back to Noah. How did he even know my name? I still can’t fig
ure that out.
The fifty-minute class takes an eternity. Each second rigidly ticks on the black and white circular clock affixed above the door. I look out the door, half expecting to see Noah winking. I must be going crazy. Clearly, he’s gone to class. I struggle to remain still. I have lots of practice from dance team. We are supposed to be like puppets, completely immobile until we’re brought to life by music.
Mrs. Pearson lectures about the symbolism of Shakespeare and his description of Queen Mab. I doodle swirly designs on the borders of my spiral-bound notebook with my favorite aqua blue pen. My swirls are like the dreams described in the Shakespeare passage, hard to follow but seemingly purposeful.
At lunch my right foot nervously taps up and down by my plastic chair as I sit with my plate of French fries and a chocolate shake — about the only two things the cafeteria serves that I trust. I wait for my girlfriends to find their way to our table. The cafeteria smells like the old gum that’s stuck under the tables and the mysterious gravy the cafeteria ladies ladle over suspiciously bright yellow mashed potatoes. I sip thick, frothy chocolate to avoid looking like a loser as I sit by myself and wait. One by one my friends plop their trays on the table.
“Hey, Linds,” Raven says. Today, her thick, dark hair is coaxed into a sixties flip. With her is Emma, who never lost her baby fat, but has gorgeous fiery hair and the eyes of a cat.
“Ladies.” Gracie nods. She is the classic beauty. With straight black hair and flawless skin, she’s one of the few girls in school I don’t have an urge to make over.
With her is Melissa, my partner from dance team, towering over me. “Hi, guys,” she says between crunches of the golden apple she’s holding.
Emma and I have known each other forever. Melissa and Gracie have been friends since grade school too. Freshman year, Raven moved here from Atlanta, and she plays on the JV soccer team with Gracie. That’s how we all got connected.
Once they’re settled, I try to sound as casual as possible.
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