In Between (13 page)

F
ind me a
bridge. I will gladly dive off.

I sit in the back of the police car, handcuffed (handcuffed!) and shaking like a bobble-head. The police radio barks commands and dispatches as we pass through the darkened town. I don’t know when I’ll get to make a phone call to the Scotts. I don’t know when I’ll get to go home or how long I’ll be in the slammer (or pokey, as my mom calls it). And I don’t know what happened to all my “friends.”

I do know two things: The theatre has never been haunted, and I’m in serious trouble.

I tried explaining everything to the police, but they didn’t want to hear any of it. They just grabbed me and threw me in the squad car, which stinks. Literally. I don’t think whoever was in here before me made hygiene a top priority. At least I’m a clean prisoner. I even floss regularly. That ought to count for something.

My wrists ache from these stupid handcuffs. My pride is battered from being such an idiot. But my heart hurts for what I know is coming.

I can handle being sent back. It was just a matter of time. I never even took the tags off most of the clothes Millie bought for me. What is really gonna blow is the disappointment I’m going to see on the Scotts’ faces. And their horrible look of “I told you so.” They were right, and I was wrong. Wrong to the tenth power. Wrong times pi. Wrong to infinity.

And what if they don’t believe me? What if they think I knew about this all along, and that’s why I wanted to go over to Angel’s? I can just hear Mad Maxine. “I knew that girl was a bad seed from the beginning.” Maybe I am. Trouble does seem to follow me wherever I go. Was it inevitable I walked into this tonight?

I hope I never see Angel, Vince, Desiree—or Danielle or whatever—and those people again. Going to see a ghost? Hah. The ghost of breaking and entering? And then they run off and leave me to take the blame, which I’m not going to do. At one time I might have out of loyalty, but not anymore. I’m through taking the fall for people like Angel and Vincent.

I’m not like them.

I can’t be like them.

I don’t
want
to be like them.

Why wasn’t I born with the instinct for right and wrong like other people? Why do I avoid all the good kids to hang out with and gravitate toward everyone I
shouldn’t
be friends with?

I need Dr. Phil.

The cruiser comes to a halt in front of the In Between police station, and my gut clenches. I think I’m going to be sick; I’ve got butterflies slam-dancing in my stomach. This is where I have to face it all—the Scotts, the theatre owners, and probably some fat guy policeman who’ll want to interrogate me in a concrete room with a two-way mirror.

“Time to go.” A man whose name tag reads
L. Brinkley
grabs my arm, and I duck out of the car.

The officer and a fellow deputy usher me into the police station, and I’m seated on a hard wooden chair in front of a desk. I read the name plate on it. Chief Harvey Hoover. Under different circumstances, I would comment on his unfortunate name, but tonight is not the time. Maybe in a few decades.

The station is deathly quiet, and I can tell this kind of excitement doesn’t come along every night for the IBPD. Glad I could spice up their night.

A large man with a badge pinned on his rumpled polo slides behind the desk and glares. What little hair he has is standing on end, so he hasn’t been out of bed long.

“The owners of the theatre will be here shortly. I’ll need to get some information first, then we’ll be calling your parents.”

I know they are referring to the Scotts, but I have a vision of them trying to contact my mother in the up-state pen. Wouldn’t she be proud? Chip off the old block. My eyes cloud, and I blink away tears.

Chief Hoover paces and yells his questions at me. I answer him and try to include every detail. I am not going to the big house for those morons.

“So you’re telling me they said there was a ghost”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“a ghost in the theatre, and you thought to yourself ‘Sure, I’ll go check that out.’” The last part he says in a girly falsetto, like it’s supposed to sound like me—which it totally doesn’t. Unless I sound like Barbie on helium.

“Yes, that’s right. They told me everyone in town knew about this haunted theatre, and it was all shut down. But everybody visited it, like it was just the thing to do if you lived here.” Okay, so now that I’m rehashing it for the policeman, it does sound farfetched. This is exactly what I was talking about though—I seriously wasn’t born with the kind of judgment and instinct everyone else was. Blame it on genetics.

“And this list of names here, these are the people who were with you?”

I check his list again, shifting in my uncomfortable seat. “Yes, those are the people who took me to the theatre. They are the ones who did the damage. I was in the orchestra pit the entire time.”

“Who are your parents, girl?” The policeman scratches a stubbly cheek. “I know they are going to be so proud to get this early-morning phone call.”

“James and Millie Scott.” I am ashamed to even tell him, to sully their good name.

“As in Pastor Scott?”

“Yes, sir. You know him?”

“You’re Pastor Scott’s kid?”

“No . . . I’m their foster daughter. I’ve been with them for a week now.”

“I’m a deacon at the In Between Community Church.” The officer leans in closer. “That’s
my
pastor.”

I have clearly offended him. Yes, I know. I am the shame of the town.

Hey, where’s my one phone call? I want to call Iola Smartly. Not that she could pick me up tonight. But if I have to stay in a cell tonight anyway, she could be here for tomorrow. I cannot believe I got handcuffed before Trina did. It’s so unfair. She’s probably moved on to packing foreign-made semi-automatic weapons, and I’m going to get arrested for my stupid choice of friends.

“Well, we will be calling your—”

The chief is interrupted by another uniformed man who quietly relays a message, then points to something in a file. Chief Hoover frowns and looks at me.

“Well, get them on the phone.” And with a “Yes, sir,” the other man is gone.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes, you were telling me about how you broke the law tonight and you are my pastor’s foster daughter.”

“Right. I mean, no. Yes, I am his foster daughter, but I did not break the law. I didn’t do any of the vandalism. I told you it was the others. I didn’t even know they were going to do it.”

“You do realize this sounds completely unbelievable, don’t you?”

“Yes.” In a world that obviously just wants to chew me up and spit me out, why do I even try? If I ever did get a break in this life, I’d probably be in the bathroom and miss the call.

“So you didn’t notice these other kids had brought spray paint with them?”

“No.” I had noticed Vince looked a little bulked up, but with the way PE is handled around here, a person could double the size of his biceps overnight.

“And need I remind you that breaking into private property is against the law? Or did you not know that? Did you think it was okay to go into a locked building not belonging to you?”

“But they told me—”

“Do you own that property?”

“No.”

“Did you have a key to the property?”

“No, but I—”

“Did you have the owners’ permission to go onto that property?”

I shake my head.

“Then why in the world did you think—” The portly chief notices we’re not alone. “Yes, Deputy Smith?”

“The owners of the theatre are here.”

My back is to the office door, and I can’t make myself turn around. I am frozen to the spot. My heart goes into rapid-fire mode, and I’m almost certain the chief can hear it pounding.

I blink back the tears. I don’t want to be the bad girl all the time. I want to be the girl who does something right, who doesn’t find herself in these situations. How would it feel to just be someone else? A Frances? I would give anything to freeze this moment and step out of it, to disappear and avoid the anger and condemnation of the theatre owners forever. Their beautiful theatre is graffitied and shattered to pieces. And I was there when it happened.

“Ms. Katie Parker, it’s time you met the owners of the Valiant theatre. You can explain to them how you came to be on their property.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat, drop my head, and take a deep breath. God help me.

I turn around slowly and raise my eyes.

And meet the hollow stares of James and Millie Scott.

T
he moment I’ve
been dreading is upon me. Millie is at the door. She knocks three times, then steps into my pink domain. I’m curled up in the window seat, which looks out onto the yard, and I hold a book, making a useless attempt to do some homework. Just as I can’t focus on my literature assignment, I can’t seem to do anything but worry and fight nausea. After we got home last night, I crawled in bed, clothes on, and just stared at the ceiling for hours, sleep being totally impossible. During this time with myself, I came to two conclusions: One, I am an idiot. And two: Things have got to change. Even if I’m on a Greyhound back to Sunny Haven today, I have
got
to get it together.

The ride home early this morning was torture. The police chief talked to James and Millie last night when they came in, James all rumpled and sleepy looking, and Millie, her makeup on and not a hair out of place. No matter the hour, Millie is ready for her close up, always made up, always poised and perfect. What she sees in me, I’ll never know.

After signing some forms, the chief released me to the Scotts, and I followed them out to the car. No one said a word. James opened the door to the back seat for me, and I got in.

Silently.

James started the car and still nothing. I expected there to be yelling, finger pointing, condemnation. All I got was quiet. Eerie, heavy, make-me-want-to-hurl quiet.

We walked through the front door this morning around five thirty, and I had thought maybe that would be when the fireworks would start, when I’d see bared teeth and hear full decibel yelling.

Nothing.

Millie hung her coat in the closet, then went directly to the kitchen and put on a kettle of tea. James looked at me briefly before addressing a spot near my feet and simply said, “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

I stood there, my feet glued to the floor.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” I couldn’t let this go.

James shook his head slowly, in a way that was worse than any curse word, worse than any fist. “Go to bed, Katie.” As in,
Leave my presence, I can’t stand the sight of you.

And now it’s time to face the music. And time, no doubt, to pack my bags. I just hope Mrs. Smartly will take me back. But I’ll have to worry about her when the time comes. Right now, I have my foster mother, whose property I broke into, standing in my room, waiting for my full attention.

Millie clears her throat. “I see you’re awake.”

I have got to play this cool. I want them to know I’m deeply sorry, but I have to leave with my dignity too.

Big inhale . . . and exhale. All right, here we go. To the point and dignified.

I launch myself into Millie’s arms.

“Oh, Millie, I’m so sorry! I thought Angel was a friend—I thought they were all friends, but they weren’t, Millie, they weren’t! But I’m just so dumb about those things, and I don’t want to be, but I am—and then they told me the theatre was just a cool place everyone in town goes to, and I should have been honored they were letting me in on something—like it would make me one of them and one of you, but it didn’t—and when I was in the orchestra pit, they started tearing up the theatre—and I promise, Millie, I promise they never told me they were going to do that. I had no idea—you have to believe me! And then the police show up, and I’m all alone—and they left me—and then I was handcuffed—and then there was yelling—and then you two show up. And . . . I haven’t slept a wink.”

I am bawling. Full-on, snot-galore, puffy-eyed, splotchy-skin, wet-face bawling. Millie awkwardly pats me, then sets me away from her.

I wipe at my face and nose. She probably can’t stand to touch me. Probably can’t even stand to be in the same room as me.

“Katie, I’ve got some breakfast for you downstairs, and then James and I would like to talk to you.”

“Millie, you have to know I—”

“You have five minutes. Then I want you dressed and downstairs.” She turns on her small, fashionable heels and leaves my bedroom.

I have five minutes. Five minutes before I am told I’m a disappointing failure. Five minutes before I’m told to pack up my clothes—the ones I came in—and hit the door. Five minutes before my glimpse of a life I didn’t even know was possible is over. No more steak dinners around a dinner table. No more shopping trips. No more pink, fluffy bedroom. No more parents, no home, no In Between.

James and Millie are seated in the breakfast nook, the morning sun shining on them and highlighting the signs of their own lack of sleep. Even Rocky looks worn out. Spotting me at the bottom of the stairs, Millie gets up and goes to the stove to deal with my breakfast.