Authors: Jenny B. Jones
“A group of us — most you met Sunday — are going to the creek over in Tuckerville. It’s about a thirty-minute ride. Thought you might want to go.”
“Um . . . I can’t. I have a lot to do here.” I cover a yawn with my hand.
“You just got up, didn’t you?” He consults his watch. “It’s almost eleven.”
So sue me. I haven’t slept a lot lately. “I’m on summer vacation. Who cares?”
“Exactly — summer vacation. A time of fun, sun, and eating a disgusting amount of junk food. Come on out with us. I have a cooler packed and a few Diet Dr Peppers with your name on them.”
I smile at that. Met me less than twenty-four hours ago, and he already knows my drink preference. I wonder if he’d be interested in my friend Hannah. Of course, he may have a girlfriend already. Who knows.
“I’m not in any shape to swim right now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have this cast . . .”
His bronzed face startles. “Oh, I just thought you had a mutant foot. Come on, you can work on your tan on the bank, read a book, talk, listen to your iPod. I promise you’ll have fun.”
“You said that last time.”
“And you did, right?”
I bite my lip. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as an ‘Absolutely, it was the best day of my life. Don’t you dare leave this house without me.’”
“I don’t want to trip on the rocks and mess up my ankle.” It’s not exactly in tip-top shape after the gymnastics I did on it last night.
“Then I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”
I blow out a loud breath and stand up. “I need to change.”
“I can help with that too.”
I laugh. “I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later we’re on our way to pick up some of his friends and head to the creek. I left my mom a note, but I’m not worried about my lack of permission. She’s not really into curfews and schedule approval. Millie, on the other hand, would want to know the life history of everyone I’m with, their contact numbers, and copies of their parents’ Social Security cards.
“Okay, gang, lunch will be served in an hour.” Tate sets down a monstrous red cooler when we arrive at the creek bed. “Only the best for my friends — fifty-nine-cent bologna with cheese-substitute slices.” Everyone groans. “Work up some appetites. I made dessert too.”
“And that is?” Ashley walks next to me as I slowly descend the rocky hill to the creek bed.
“Fruit Roll-Ups.”
“I’m glad you came out here with us, Katie.” Ashley sets up two lawn chairs, one for each of us. “Tate usually chases off the new people in town.” She leans in for a loud whisper. “They fear him.”
Ashley looks a lot like Chelsea — tall, slender, blonde, ridiculously cute. But there’s nothing about her to dislike. Kindness radiates from her blue eyes. And I’ve yet to hear her utter the word
Prada
.
At Tate’s war cry, the seven other people with us tear off T-shirts, kick off shoes, and jump into the water.
“That creek is always freezing.” Ashley laughs as she watches the group yell and splash around. “But it’s some of the clearest water you’ll ever see.”
I slather on some sunscreen and roll up my shorts a few inches. I wasn’t ready to strip down to my bathing suit for these people, so I just went with some cute denim shorts and a tank. I figured the combination of a two-piece and my cast was too hot for anyone to handle.
I’m halfway through my second
People
magazine when Tate climbs up the bank, stands over me, and shakes off like Rocky after a bath.
Knowing he’s expecting a girly shriek, I continue my reading. “Thanks. I was getting a little hot.” I grin over the magazine.
He rests his arm around Ashley. “Hey, Ash, it’s now the portion of the day in which I work on my tan, so I’m going to need that chair.” She gets up without protest and heads straight for the group at the river.
“That was nice of you to relieve her, but I don’t need a babysitter. I’m perfectly content up here watching you guys.”
He shakes his head and sighs. “You were watching me? I knew it. I try, Katie. I
do
try not to attract the ladies. But I can’t help myself. What
can I do to make myself less . . . irresistible?”
I hold my laugh. “I totally relate. I get so sick of the constant stares, the boys begging for my number. I’m more than just a pretty face, you know?”
“It’s a burden, indeed.” He reaches into a cooler, opens a water, then puts it in my hand. “Prayer is all that gets me by. God gave me this cross to bear, so I know he will see me through.”
“I knew you’d understand.” My phone sings, and I check the display. Charlie. I glance at Tate then answer.
“Hey, Katie. How’s it going?”
I smile at his voice. Ugh! Why does he still do this to me? Charlie could call and read the
Sports Illustrated
table of contents, and my heart would still do flips.
“It’s going.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Okay.” Not even going to discuss it. The day is too nice to ruin with talk of the anti-parent. “I heard you guys are getting ready for a date auction. That sounds fun.”
Beside me Tate puts on his headphones and rocks out.
“Yeah, wish you were here to help.”
What does that mean? He wishes I were there so we could be together? Or he wishes I were there because I could help hang up fliers in town?
“Frances mentioned Chelsea’s been having a hard time.” Hint, hint.
This is your opening to tell me once and for all where you stand with her
.
“Um . . . yeah. Things are . . . interesting, I guess.”
Interesting? What does that mean? Are lips involved in interesting?
“So . . . we got disconnected yesterday when I called. I really wanted to talk to you about some things.”
“I wish they all could be California girls!” Tate belts out a summer tune loud enough to scare the birds.
“Who was that?”
“Huh?” I focus on the phone call. “Oh, nothing. Er, no one. Charlie,
I’ve really been thinking about our last conversation too. I wasn’t sure if — ”
“Hey, guys! You about ready for lunch?” Tate yells out toward the water.
“Who is that, Katie? Where are you?”
“Um . . . I’m at the river. With some new friends — church friends.”
“You ready for my special bologna sandwich specialty? The secret is the corn chips under the — oops.” Tate notices the phone and gives me some space.
“Who’s that?” Charlie’s tone is as friendly as a pit bull.
“That’s my friend Tate. He’s the pastor’s son.”
“Your friend? Wow, you work fast.”
No, God does. “He’s a friend, Charlie. Am I supposed to stay holed up in my mom’s trailer and not make a life for myself here?”
“No . . . no, of course not. That’s . . . um, great you’re making friends. Yeah. Well, anyway, I guess now’s not really a good time to talk.”
I can tell even if it were, he’s done. “No. Can I call you later?”
“Yeah. And Katie . . . I’m sorry. Things have just been kind of wild here.”
Like flaming kitchen wild? No, I don’t think so.
“Everyone misses you.” Charlie’s voice deepens.
“I miss everyone too.” Could we be any more vague?
“Do you think — never mind. I gotta go. Have a good time with your new friends. Just don’t forget your old ones.” And the line is dead.
I sigh and snap my phone shut.
“Let me guess — boys are stupid?” Tate hands me a sandwich, and I inspect the contents.
“Something like that.”
He waves his own sandwich as he sits back down. “It’s okay. I’m not offended. We’re genetically destined to screw things up — especially with the ladies.” He stops talking, his eyes intense on mine until I take a bite.
“
Mmmm
.” Was that convincing? If she were here, Millie would rip
this processed meat sandwich out of my hand.
“It’s the Fritos. My special touch.”
I crunch and nod.
“So you have a boyfriend?”
I look out toward the water. “I don’t — um, no. Actually, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“That was good — all that certainty. One of
those
relationships, huh?”
I take another bite. “I think we’re just friends. We live too far away from each other anyway.”
“
Nahh
. If a guy likes a girl, distance doesn’t matter.”
I consider this. “Really?” I shift in my seat to face him better. “Tate, do you think a guy can like two girls at the same time?”
“Only on
The Bachelor
.” He grabs a Coke out of the cooler. “Not that I watch it.” He hides a smirk behind the can. “The guy in me wants to say what a lucky dude, but no . . . I don’t actually think you can like two people at once. It’s not fair to the ladies, and it’s a jerk thing to do.”
I take a drink of my water and replay his words in my head.
“But you’re not the type of girl who would let a guy play you, right? I totally don’t see that. You’ve got too much fire for that.”
Yeah, I’m all about the fire.
Tate shakes his curly mop. “Wow, getting deep over here. Anyway, remember yesterday when you mentioned you were a drama queen?”
I laugh, grateful for the lighter subject. “Yeah?”
“My dad has me teaching Sunday school now. I’ve been trying to spice it up. You know, make it more exciting, but it’s not working. So I had this idea. I wondered about you and me putting our heads together and writing some skits.”
“Like Bible stories?”
“Yeah, and acting them out. You know, some Jonah and the whale. Or maybe the story of Jesus walking on water — I’d play our Lord and Savior, of course.”
“Of course.”
“What do you think?” He sees my reluctance. “Come on. God gave you those talents for a reason. Use them.”
It does sound kind of fun. And my theatre muscles do need a good stretch. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Cool.” He nods and smiles. “Maybe we could start with a little Adam and Eve, Garden of Eden business? I’m all about realism, so for a costume I thought maybe you could — ”
I douse him in my water.
“Or not. Totally okay. Clothes are good too. I’m game for both of us wearing clothes.”
DESPITE MY PROTESTS, TATE HELPS ME up the steps, around the cats, and to the door of the trailer. Mom’s car is parked out front, so when I step into the living room, I expect to see her there. But the room is empty.
I walk back to her room and find her sprawled out on top of her bed. I guess when you only sleep a few hours a night, a nap might be in order. I definitely relate.
In the kitchen I mix up some tuna salad, and breathing through my mouth so not to ingest the nasty fish fumes, I stick it in the fridge to chill for Mom. Then I go to my room and pull out my Bible. My finger traces over my name embossed in gold. I open the cover and read the inscription from James and Millie, written when I first came to live with them.
I turn to the book of Matthew and read through some chapters like Tate asked me to do. So Peter walked on water to Jesus? I jot down a few notes and skit ideas.
“Katie?”
I glance up, my finger marking my spot, as my mom comes in. She sees what I’m reading, but says nothing.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “There’s some tuna salad for you in the refrigerator. And no kitchens were harmed in the making of your dinner.”
She smiles and lounges by me on the bed. “That’s nice of you.” Her
hand plays with a loose thread on my comforter. “I forgot your doctor appointment, didn’t I?”
“Yep.” I gauge her expression for anything revealing. Did she really forget? Was she on something and out of it? Was she wrapped up in work?
“Mrs. Scott is gonna have my hide. But I called and the doctor can see you next Monday.” She rubs a parched hand over her face. “Remember when we lived in that one-bedroom apartment near Austin? And we’d watch
Gilmore Girls
together?”
“Yeah, those were good days.” Minus the parties, the cracked-out strangers, the nights I’d spend alone.
She leans back and props her head on her hand. “We were kind of like them, huh?”
Yeah, except Lorelai wasn’t psycho. Or on drugs.
“Katie, I would like things to work here. I’m trying . . . I really am.”
“I know, Mom.” I want to reach out for her hand. But I don’t.
“I’m figuring this stuff out as I go. And I’m going to mess up a lot. I’m not the soccer mom type.”
“I don’t exactly see you in a minivan anyway.”
Car lights flash into my room, and Mom jumps up. “That would be John. He’s coming over to watch some stupid baseball game. He doesn’t have cable.”
No, but he has a job, and that makes him a winner compared to all the others.
As Mom gets the door, I get out the bread and tuna for them and PB&J for myself.
“What happened in here?” John points to the peeling and singed wallpaper around the stove. My eyes dart to Mom.
She joins me in the kitchen, wraps her arm around me, then pops a chip in her mouth. “Katie and I were just thinking about decorating.” Her grip tightens. “It’s about time some things around here get a makeover.”
Chapter twenty - eight
I DON’T JUST HAVE BUTTERFLIES in my stomach. I have acrobatic moths or bungee-jumping bees.
Tate picks me up for church the next Sunday, and my mom waves good-bye from the door. Though I am confident in my acting abilities — and let’s face it, I can command a stage — I have never had something I’ve written on display, up for public opinion. Or in this case, the judgment of twenty or so kids of the glue-eating age.
“Hey — ” Tate swats my knee. “Don’t look so stressed. We had a good run-through last night. Everything’s going to be great. We’ve written a great script, and I’m a fabulous actor, so — ”
I clear my throat.
“All right, and you’re not too bad an actor yourself.”
“That’s
actress
, thank you very much.”
“Katie, you really are talented. I like how you brought some comedy to a passage that really isn’t funny. The kids are going to eat that up.”
I feel my cheeks warm and fix my gaze out the window, staring at pieces of this small town that still seems so foreign.
“So what do you want to do when you graduate? Study theatre?”