Authors: Jenny B. Jones
This is the life story of Katie Parker.
This is the story of Katie Parker. Guaranteed to put you to sleep or make you want to read something more entertaining. Like a cell phone manual. Or the instructions that come with a box of tampons.
I fall back into my pillows and sigh like the stage diva I am.
“Problems, snookums?” Maxine doesn’t even open an eye.
“I’m supposed to write my life story.”
“Write mine instead.”
“I thought I’d write something that
wasn’t
rated R.” Or C for crazy. “I just don’t know what to say. It’s not like I have a lot of warm-fuzzy Christmas memories to share. Or fun family vacations. My life isn’t exactly the stuff of sweet Hallmark movies.”
My foster grandma lifts her head. “Write your truth, girl. You should be proud of your story, proud of how far you’ve come. Though we both know I alone am personally responsible for your no longer being a street hoodlum, you could give yourself a little credit too, I suppose. Talk about the things you’ve overcome.”
“Like the time I overcame hypothermia after crashing into a pool last year when you made me spy on Sam?”
“Not really what I meant.”
“Or the time you made me pedal fifteen miles to the hospital to see Millie after her surgery?”
“You needed the exercise.”
“Or how about a few weeks ago when we were taking care of the toddlers in the church nursery, and I spent an hour soothing that kid whose juice box you swiped?”
“Borrowed.”
With a fresh sheet of paper, I roll my shoulders back and give it another shot.
Last year I sat in church, one of the few times in my life at that point.
And a bald-headed youth pastor told me God had a purpose for my life. I had hoped that might include fewer zits, more time with the Scotts, and cute boys.
I was so wrong.
I rip the paper out of my notebook, crumble it up, and give it a toss.
The assignment sinks into the trash.
Kinda like my life.
Chapter sixteen
I SPEND WHAT’S LEFT OF May in a daze — mad, hopeful, scared.
And as I sit in English class and count the hours until school is over (six hours and fifty-one minutes), it’s totally bittersweet. In three weeks I will go live with my mom. We have an official date and everything. And I have yet to figure out how I feel about that. I wish I could live with my mom
and
the Scotts. Sounds like the makings of a really bad reality show.
“All right, students, pass your autobiographies forward. Since this is your final, you get the privilege of sitting here and entertaining yourselves while I begin the fun task of grading them.” Ms. Dillon stands at the front of my row and waits.
As I wait for my classmates to pass their essays forward, I study the papers in my hand. My life story. My own
Odyssey
. The Declaration of Katie. The Magna Parker.
“Thank you.” Ms. Dillon takes the stack out of my hands. She smiles then leans down. “I’m looking forward to reading this.”
As she tucks the essays close, I feel some relief at the giant assignment being over. “You didn’t do the extra credit and write about where
you’d be ten years from now?” Ms. Dillon flips through my work.
“Um . . . no.” I lower my voice. “See I have this top secret plan for world domination, and telling you would really throw a kink in things.”
She bestows her famous wry grin upon me, then moves on to the next row.
I almost call her back, just so I can look at her kind face one more time, tell her I’m going to miss her, miss our literature conversations, miss our poetry slams, even miss her research papers and her obsession with MLA format. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t go that far. But still, she’s tutored me, she’s always written encouraging notes on my writing, and she usually let me read the juicy parts when we got to the drama portion of our lit book. It’s kind of cool having a teacher on your side, on your team. Team In Between.
During lunch the tater tots never tasted so good. I savor each bite, knowing they are my last bite of deep-fried, overly processed, saturated-fatty goodness here. I skip the ketchup, just so nothing will stand between my tongue and the potato crispiness.
“What are you wearing tonight, Katie?” Frances takes a bite of her sandwich.
I think of the new outfit Millie got me for tonight’s last-ever movie at the drive-in. “A totally cool skirt and this eighties-retro shirt. I love it.” Probably the last new clothing I’ll have for a long time.
“Have you talked to Charlie lately?”
My eyes automatically scan the cafeteria at the mention of his name.
“No, he’s been really busy with Chelsea.” I say the name without choking on it. If that doesn’t get me a treasure in heaven, I don’t know what will.
“He asked about you yesterday.”
I drop a tot. “What? When? Where?”
“Nash and I saw him in the parking lot. He wanted to know how you were doing, if finals were going well.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” Charlie and I e-mail a few times a week, but the
phone calls have stopped, and other than church and biology class, we really don’t see much of one another.
Frances adjusts the chopsticks in her hair, a messy updo that probably took her an hour to create. “I think he still likes you.”
“You do? Er, I mean . . . no, he doesn’t. He’s got Chelsea.” The jerk made his choice.
“Katie, he watches you all the time. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Guess I’m too busy not watching him, because I haven’t noticed.” I wipe the grease off my fingers. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. I’ll be living four hours away, so there’s no point in getting anything started.”
“But it’s not going to change the fact that we’re best friends. So why couldn’t you have a long distance boyfriend too?”
I stick a few grapes in my mouth to avoid a response. Frances has mapped out a whole strategy she calls “friendship maintenance.” It involves a certain number of phone calls per week, daily e-mails, and continuing our mutual TV viewing habits of
Gilmore Girls
reruns and
Oprah
. But I’ve moved a lot in my life. I know how it usually works. You hang on to that distant friend because until you really settle in, she’s all you’ve got. But then your old friend still has all of her other friends, so she doesn’t need you nearly as much, and eventually the calls and e-mails stop. I know one day Frances won’t call to remind me of the new Johnny Depp movie. Or e-mail me when Judge Judy blows a gasket on a particularly good episode. Life will go on for her. Without me.
When Millie’s car pulls up to the school at three o’clock, I’m surprised to see James behind the wheel.
He leans over and opens my door. “Hop in, kid.”
“What’s up?”
He lifts a conspiratorial brow. “We’re going to take the driver’s test today.”
I gulp. “
We?
”
“As in you.”
“
Today?
”
“As in now.”
“No! I can’t. I can’t suffer that humiliation again. Those people laugh when I walk in. They point and stare. They talk about me on their CBs. There’s a poster of me in the office so they automatically know to fail me.”
“You’ve been hanging out with Maxine too much.”
“Yeah? How’d I do?”
“Oscar-worthy. But seriously, there’s no shame in failing the driver’s portion of the test twice. You were just stressed out last time.”
“I pulled out in front of a man on a horse.”
“He should’ve heard you coming. They had four ears between them.”
“I — ”
“Katie — ” James pulls the car out of the parking lot. “It’s important to me that you leave here with your driver’s license.”
It’s like everything now relates to my leaving. All conversations go back to it. Last night Millie gave me a lecture on making my mom buy organic fruits and vegetables. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. And when we shopped for tonight’s outfit, Millie ended up buying me a suitcase full of new clothes to take with me when I leave. If my mom doesn’t have a washing machine, I’ll still have enough clean undies to last me through next Christmas.
Fifteen freak-out-worthy minutes later, we’re at the Department of Public Safety. James rests his hand on mine and prays over me. He should probably pray over everyone in the opposite lane. Or on the sidewalks.
Officer Willy Sampson puts down his paper as we walk in the office.
“You here to take your test?”
No, I’m here to hang out. “Yes, sir. The driving portion.” I finally passed the written last month — proof that miracles still happen today. See atheists, God exists because Katie Parker passed her written, thank you very much.
His eyes narrow. “You look familiar.”
Yes, I’m the kid who let you see your life flash before your eyes
. “I’ve already taken it once.” And twice. “And I’m ready now.” Ready to throw up.
Officer Sampson wallers a big piece of gum in his mouth. “All right.” He sighs as he stands. “Let’s go.”
James gives me two thumbs up as we leave him waiting and walk outside.
I climb into Millie’s Honda and pull the seatbelt across my shoulder, singing under my breath. “Jesus, take the wheel. Take it from my hands . . .”
“Start the car.” Smack, smack, pop.
Maybe I should try breaking the ice. Get to know Officer Smacks-A-Lot. Appeal to his human side. “Would you like to listen to the radio, sir? Some pop hits? Some uplifting Christian music?”
He stares at me and cracks his gum.
“You like some gangsta rap. Am I right?”
He pulls out his clipboard.
“It’s okay. I can appreciate some Snoop Dogg every once in a while. Of course, not his drug references. Because drugs are illegal, and I am a law abiding citizen and — ”
“Quit stalling.” Smack. “Either start the car or I’m leaving. I have a crossword puzzle to finish.”
Okay then.
I twist the key until the car rumbles to life.
“Pull out of the . . .”
Parking lot and take a left at Smith Street. I’ve taken this thing so many times, I could administer it myself. I’d tell him his presence isn’t really necessary, but I don’t think he’d appreciate it.
I turn down Smith and offer up a brief prayer.
Dear God. I’m not gonna close my eyes like I did last time. I’m pretty sure I got points taken off.
Lord, please put compassion and mercy in this man’s heart. And give me wisdom and skill.
And the ability to avoid all pot holes, red lights, fender benders, and kamikaze squirrels.
“Turn right at the four-way.”
I turn my blinker on early, then plaster a smile on my face. I want to give the illusion that I’m calm and tranquil. That my heart isn’t hammering like a drum in the Chihuahua marching band and my sweaty palms aren’t slipping off the wheel.
Officer Sampson jots down a few notes.
I wonder if now would be a good time to offer some fashion advice. He could write down my tips instead of his little driving criticisms. I sneak a peek at his hand. No wedding ring. Well, duh. Not dressed like that!
Ten minutes later, I’m still sweating, but I’m still driving — with no casualties! The fact I haven’t run over anyone and the front bumper is still intact says “driver’s license” to me.
“Pull into this driveway with the red mailbox.” The officer scratches his chin stubble. “Good. Now back out onto the street.”
With a shaky breath, I put my foot on the brake and the gear in reverse. I check the rearview and the side mirrors. I look over each shoulder. All clear.
I repeat the process two more times, stopping only when my copilot clears his throat.
“Any day now.”
I force air into my lungs, inhaling deeply (and I think I smell my own armpits). I lift my foot off the brake . . . slowly . . . slowly . . .
So far so good. I can almost taste that driver’s license. How should I wear my hair for the picture? Definitely I will need to flatiron my —
“Look out!”
I catch a blur out of my peripheral vision and hit the brakes. Officer Sampson covers his head as we screech to a car-shaking halt.
“Oh, my gosh! Wh-what was that? It looked like — ”
“A crazy lady pedaling like a demon on a bike?” He pops another piece of gum in his mouth.
“Yes.”
And then I catch sight of the hot pink helmet in the blur as it sails into the distance.
Maxine.
She honks her bike horn as she continues to tear through yards, plowing through flower beds and waylaying a few gnomes. Through the trees I can see her goal — the next street over. She stands on her pedals as she gains speed, breaking through the neighborhood and onto Persimmon Lane.
Right as Sam Dayberry’s truck goes by.
That lunatic. That nut! She’s chasing Sam — during
my
driver’s test!
I grip the steering wheel and face Officer Sampson. “It was clear. There was nobody coming. You had to see that, right? I mean, you saw me checking my mirrors. I all but pulled out a telescope. She exploded out of that yard, and I — ”
“Kid?”
Inhale.
Ahhhh
. Exhale.
Whewwww
. “Yes?”
“You pass.”
“I what?” I shake my head. Maybe I did hit her. Maybe we had a seriously bad wreck and I’m in the hospital, but I’m dreaming or in a coma. Maybe I’m fighting for my life right now and this is just a dream.
I’m not walking toward any light, God. Do you hear me?
“I said you passed.” Officer Sampson scribbles something at the bottom of the clipboard. “That lady ought to be locked up. She’s caused more accidents than the time the circus broke down off Highway 12. That was some good defensive driving on your part.”
“I passed?” I’m not dreaming? “I passed!” I grab the officer in a hug.
“Hey, now. Don’t smudge the badge. Okay, that’s enough. Very nice. Just back off now. . . .
Let me go, kid!
”
I clap my hands in glee and grin.
Thank you, God!
First Moses parted the Red Sea. Then Jesus turned water into wine. And now let it
be known Katie Parker passed her driver’s test!