In Between (27 page)

“And Jeremiah warned them and warned them. And you know, eventually it wore on him. He got sick of being around people not living right. He got fed up with the people who didn’t care about him, didn’t care about God. He was disgusted with life as it was, and he tried to tell everyone, ‘Hey, there’s more out there. There’s more to life than this. If you’d just surrender to it, life could be so much better.’”

Pastor Mike pauses to let his words sink in, and his gaze travels across every one of us in the room. And when his eyes meet mine, I feel a slight tug. Like he’s watching me closer—reading my thoughts, like everything I’m thinking is scrolling across my forehead.

Holding up his Bible, Pastor Mike moves about the stage. “Because who could create a better life for you than the Creator of life, God? Guys, tonight God wants the chance to get his hands on your life. He wants you to hand the keys over and let him drive.” The preacher holds his Bible to his chest. “I haven’t even gotten to the most important verse in this chapter tonight. And you know what? I’m not going to. Your homework, your assignment from me—from God—is to read Jeremiah 29, verses 11 through 13. It’s God’s personal message to you, and I don’t want to give it to you. He does.”

I shut my Bible. But not before wedging the attached piece of ribbon in Jeremiah twenty-nine.

Pastor Mike’s voice softens. “I challenge you. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, read that passage. Imprint it on your heart. Tattoo it on your brain. This is God’s road map for your life, his promise of hope for you. He wants to pull you up from the pit you’re in and give you so much more. Let’s pray. Dear Heavenly Father . . .”

Kind of deep tonight. I don’t know. I just don’t know about any of this.

God, if you are out there, I just want to put in my request for things to be okay between Millie and James. I’ll probably survive if I have to go to another foster home, but frankly, the thought turns my stomach. So, yeah. That’s all I wanted to say.

“Amen.”

Amen.

“A
ll rightie, I’m
going to partner you up. It says here you are to do the weighted ball toss until . . . let me get my glasses . . . hmm, is that right? Yes, that’s what it says . . . it says do the weighted ball toss until your little pansy arms fall off.” The PE substitute tugs up a droopy knee high and begins to number us off.

Coach Nelson is blissfully absent today. And even though she left a list of horrendous activities no human being could physically accomplish, it’s a relief the Queen of Mean and Lean is gone. If only she had taken her daughter with her.

“Now, if your number is fourteen, raise your hand. Good. You two ladies will be together.” The sub pushes up her bifocals. “Fifteen?”

I raise my hand.

And so does Angel.

“Congratulations, you’re partners. Sixteen . . .”

I have successfully avoided Angel and her friends for sixteen days, five hours, and nine minutes. Her militant mom has had some sort of twisted mercy on me ever since the “incident” and made sure we were never anywhere near each other in PE.

How sad is it that I’m missing Coach Nelson right now?

I chance a look Angel’s way.

She sneaks a peek in my direction.

Do I walk over there? Or does she walk over here? Do I suck it up and be the mature one?

Maturity’s kind of overrated, you know?

Oh, okay. I stretch one foot out and plant it on the hardwood floor. I drag my other foot to meet it. Look there, a whole step. I’m reeking of maturity.

Ah, forget it. I close the space between the two of us, grabbing a weighted ball as I go.

I’m going to think of something profound and life changing to say to her.

“Hey.” Simple is good too. I like simple.

“Hey.” Angel’s eyes flit to me then return to focus on her scuffed Nikes.

I hold the ball in my arms and think of what I’d really like to do with it.

Tweeeet!
Our sub, Mrs. Droopy Stockings, blows on the whistle so hard something drops. Off her shirt? Was it a necklace maybe? Her hair clip?

She bends over to retrieve her lost possession and her glasses fall. I watch as the older woman helplessly feels around on the gym floor for her lost possessions.

“Let’s go help the poor lady.” I sigh and wave a reluctant Angel to follow me. “Come on.”

Angel and I approach the befuddled PE replacement and swoop in to retrieve the objects of her search. We resurface, holding our treasure.

Angel presents the sub with her glasses.

I open my hand, only to realize my fingers had been tightly wrapped around . . .

Dentures.

Ew! I throw the teeth at the woman like they’re a hand grenade.

Angel bites on her lip, but her giggles explode. Watching her face, I lose any ground I’ve gained on maturity and give in to bubbling laughter.

“Totally sick.” Angel catches her breath as we walk back to our spot.

“I held that woman’s teeth in my hand.” I suppress a shiver.

The whistle trills again, and Angel and I share another laugh as we heave the weighted ball back and forth.

“I’m not even looking over there to see if she dropped her teeth this time.” Angel hurls the ball my way.

“If she did, it’s your turn to pick up the dentures. I get the glasses.” I smile hesitantly, bending deeper to take the weight.

Except for our labored breathing, the next few minutes pass by in semi-comfortable silence as Angel and I focus on staying upright and keeping the million pound ball going—without dislocating anything important.

“I see you found new—
oomph
—friends.” Angel wipes her sweaty face with her T-shirt.

I’m dying here.

Want.

Water.

And a stretcher.

“Yeah—
ow
—I guess.” I gasp in air, grateful for the seconds the torture device is not in my arms.

“Those people . . . think they’re better . . . than everyone else.”

My noodle-like arms barely secure the ball. “No . . . they don’t . . . Been really nice to me.” I have to stop and catch my breath. I hold out my hand for her to give me a moment. Oxygen. I need oxygen.

Afraid of the whistle, I risk a look at our substitute and see her slumped over in a seat, mouth wide open, snoozing away. I point her out to Angel, then crawl my way to the nearest bleacher, gasping for breath.

“I just think . . . you’re out of your league, that’s all.” Angel spills onto the seat next to me.

I take a few moments to let my heart rate slow. “What’s my league then, Angel?” I push my dripping hair out of my eyes. “You guys are on the wrong track, and I can’t get pulled down in all that.”

“Whatever.”

My face burns but not so much from the workout. “‘Whatever’? Angel, wake up. We were an inch away from wearing stripes and posing for mug shots. Hanging out with you nearly got me arrested. Do you even
get
that?”

“It was a mistake, okay?” Angel swears, and it sounds wrong to my ears, ears that have grown accustomed to the G-rated life at the Scotts.

“You know”—I drag in a breath—“I’ve learned a lot since I’ve been here. And I’m finally getting it. There are mistakes, and then there are choices. Tearing up the Valiant—that was a choice.” I shake my head, seeing the destruction in my mind, recalling Millie’s hurt.

“Oh, so I guess your new friends are perfect?”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re so angry about. I don’t know if I’ll be having sleepover and pedicure nights with these people anytime soon, but I do know, so far, Frances and her friends aren’t out to spray paint the town or do things that result in a police escort.” It’s like I’m talking to a wall.

“Katie, I actually feel sorry for you.” Angel’s disdainful laugh sounds forced. “If you think you have anything in common with Frances and her type, you are so totally blind. They don’t care about you. And when they get up close and catch a glimpse of where you really come from, they’ll drop you faster than a pair of false teeth. But don’t come crying to us.”

I digest her words and find I can’t completely discount them. I’ve never hung out with the “good” kids before. Never been in the “in” crowd. I
am
way out of my league. But at the same time, I feel defensive on their behalf.

“You know, you could come to church with me Sunday and check them out for yourself.” The words escape my mouth before I can wrangle them back. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Angel rolls her eyes and stands up. “Yeah, you save me a seat. I’ll be there. That’s all I need—the perfect kids and Jesus. Then life would be wonderful, right? Everything would magically be fixed?”

Uh . . . shaky ground here. Not my area of expertise. “That’s not what I’m getting at—”

What am I getting at?

“Those people don’t deal in reality. They don’t know life like we do.” Angel’s eyes lose some of their hostility. “But when you find yourself back to ground zero, and all your little friends have disappeared, don’t come crawling back to me.” With a final, dismissive smirk, she heads to the locker room.

The three o’clock bell rings just as I’m stepping out of the gym shower. The steam did nothing to clear my head—or the nasty drain. Seriously, how hard is it to clean a shower? Is it just part of the health code that locker room showers must have clogged, disgusting, bacteria breeding showers?

The longer Angel’s words occupy space in my head, the more confused I get. Leaving her and her group
had
to be the right thing to do. Like I told her, I can’t get caught up in that. Living on the wrong side of the law is my mom’s style, not mine. It can’t be mine. But what if Angel is right about the churchies and Frances? When they really get to know me, when they see what I come from, when they realize my mama sure ain’t staying at the Hilton, will they still be kind to me? Still offer to save me a seat at lunch? Still offer me gum in Sunday services?

I throw on my clothes and all but run out to the buses, just in time to escape the driver closing the door. I take the only remaining seat—next to the kid I’ve come to know as “Bucky the BO Wonder.” I inhale his offensive aroma all the way to the Valiant, where I torpedo off the bus, desperate for air that doesn’t smell like gym socks and armpits.

As I step into the lobby, I find Sam hunched over the concession stand counter, inspecting some newly applied wood trim.

“Good afternoon, little missy. Ready to do some sanding today?”

Moving in, I examine what I suppose will be my work area. “Yes, sir. I was just thinking to myself, the only way this day could get any better was if it involved sanding. How do you do it, Sam? How is it I walk in here and you know just what I need?”

Sam smacks his Juicy Fruit, and I have a flashback to projectile teeth. Let’s hope his teeth stay where they belong.

“Don’t go worrying about your pretty little manicure.” Sam runs his weathered hand over the trim and grins. “We’ll get you some work gloves and get you started. Pretty soon, you’ll be begging me to let you sand.”

I readjust my backpack. “I’m gonna put this in the office. Be right back.”

He waves me off.

“Don’t start without me,” I yell, finding my way to Millie’s office space in the back.

I settle my bag on the floor, and curiosity gets the best of me. I listen for a few seconds for anyone in the vicinity, then make my way over to Millie’s desk. I’m not gonna rifle through the desk (though the old me probably would have), but as long as I’m here, my eyes might
accidentally
roam over her workspace in search of sticky notes with information on Amy, important memos, copies of phone messages, or evidence of any more outgoing care packages.

And if I find any chocolate or candy, I’ll probably have to confiscate it. For evidence.

Searching . . .

Searching . . .

And nothing.

Nothing but Millie’s giant calendar, which has the grand opening date circled a few times in bright red marker. I can’t believe we are now only weeks away. Weeks away from possible disaster. The theatre isn’t ready and Juliet is being played by a department store mannequin. Something’s got to give. Today I’m going to talk to Sam about what we can do to speed up the renovation.

An outburst of girlish laughter makes me jump away from the desk and hold my hands in the air like I’m in a stick-up. My heart gallops in my chest, but I let my exhale in relief when I realize the ultrafeminine giggles are coming from the lobby.

I leave the office and follow a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

Right to Maxine.

“Oh, Sam, please, have a cookie.”

Maxine leans over the concession counter, plying a google-eyed Sam with bottled water and snickerdoodles.

“Hey, Maxine.”

The two star-crossed love birds jump apart.

Maxine does not look thrilled to see me. “Well, well, well, if it’s not our favorite school girl. Don’t you have some homework to do?”

“Nope.” I move in between them, picking up my gloves. “I’m here to work. You can’t say Katie Parker shirks her responsibilities. No way.” There has to be a halo above my head, I’m radiating so much innocence.