In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  You and I will be discussing this church business soon, Mrs. Smartly. Isn’t this infringing on my rights? My First Amendment rights? My Constitutional rights? My rights as a Texan? Didn’t they fight over the Alamo to secure my right to choose? I choose to not go to church! Remember the Alamo! Okay, so maybe I have the wrong battle in mind, but there has got to be some historical event or law that backs me up. This was never part of the deal. But of course, neither was a drooling, two-hundred-pound dog, but we will address him another day.

  So tomorrow is school. Can’t wait. You have got to know I’m eaten up with excitement over Monday morning. You can’t contain this kind of enthusiasm. This kind of spirit belongs on the Chihuahua cheerleading squad.

  What if everyone hates me? What if someone shoves my head in a toilet and gives me a swirly?

  Mrs. Smartly, I think I just want to come back. I don’t think I can do this. Maybe tomorrow will be such a catastrophe they will send me back. You know deep in your heart you want us to be reunited.

  Okay, maybe you don’t, but I still would like to get out of here.

  Did I mention Millie Scott has been pretty cool? You would like her. And frankly, she could teach you a thing or two about fashion. She knows it all. She has my wardrobe completely trendy. But I did find out for sure those cushy-soled lace up shoes you wear are definitely not in this year. Thought you should know in case you’d like to update. I say that because I look out for you, Mrs. Smartly.

  Just like you should look out for me and get me out of here.

  So Millie Scott is okay so far and has been sticking pretty close. But Mr. Scott (you know, the preacher), he doesn’t really have too much to say to me. I guess he’s just really busy, but we women know when we’re getting the brush-off.

  Well, I’m getting tired. This is more writing than I did all last year in school. I thought I should update you on everything though. I figured you’d probably had some sleepless nights, being worried about me and all, so I wanted to let you know how it was, and also let you know I can be packed and at the end of the driveway in two minutes and seven seconds. I’ve timed it.

  I will let you know how my first day of school goes. If I survive it. I do have something special picked out to wear to school tomorrow. I want to make quite an impression.

  Okay, so hugs and kisses to Trina and her knife set.

  Counting the seconds until I see your polyester dress again,

  Katie Parker

  Chapter 10

  Morning. Ugh. My alarm clock is so loud it sounds like the town’s tornado siren is in my room. I was awake most of the night. Again. I did a lot of tossing and turning, as well as a good amount of thinking and worrying. My first day at In Between High.

  With a big sigh, I heave my body out of bed and grab my new fluffy pink robe. Maybe I could fake a fever? How hard would it be to conjure up a case of chicken pox? I think I could do a fine imitation of a whooping cough.

  My slippers go whish, whish as I drag my feet across the hardwood floor to my closet. It’s time to mentally prepare for my clothing selection for today. Ah, there’s that white shirt with the cool sleeves that look so chic. And the short plaid skirt is just calling my name. “Katie! Put me on, Katie! I show off your calves and accentuate your waist!” Oh, and what about the jeans with the recognizable design on the pocket that just shouts “Even though I was probably made by a five-year-old in a third-world country, I am ultra trendy and super expensive!”

  I run my hands along the rows of clothes hanging proudly in my closet. Not today, pretty things. There is work to be done. If my goal is to leave, it’s time to kick start Project: I Want to Go Back. (It was all I could come up with at 3:30 a.m.)

  I bypass the many hangers of new clothes, move toward the back of the closet and pull out today’s uniform. Black shirt, black skirt, and a black trench coat. I step over my new running shoes, my funky flats, and the cutest leather sandals ever and pick up a sturdy, although mighty ugly pair of black lace-up boots.

  In the bathroom adjoining my room, I quickly get dressed, hoping Millie won’t check on me before I get myself all ready. The look I am going with today is one you must take in all at once and not in stages.

  I spend another twenty minutes crafting my hairstyle for my Monday premiere. I straighten my hair as flat as it will possibly go, so it falls limp and clings to my face. My bangs hang over my eyes like a curtain, and it isn’t lost on me that I resemble a sheep dog. I hope I don’t walk into walls or accidentally venture into the men’s room with this hairdo. Reaching into my cosmetic bag, I take out some purple cream hair tint, and run it through sections of my hair, creating a few obnoxiously bold stripes.

  Now for the pièce de résistance. My makeup is my medium, my face the canvas. I paint black eye shadow over my eyelids, outlining with ebony kohl eyeliner, and adding layers of cakey, dark mascara. With a swipe of some extremely dark lipstick in a color somewhere between gross and disturbing, I survey my finished product.

  I look absolutely horrible.

  The boys will not be flocking to this girl. But that’s okay. I am not here to think about boys. The plan is to get out of this Taco-Bell-less town. Today I am Goth Girl. Like a superhero gone bad, I will roam the halls, looking for people to intimidate and striking a scary pose here and there.

  When Millie and James Scott see this, they will be so scared they will have me packed up before my spiked dog collar is fastened.

  “Katie! Time for breakfast! Are you awake?”

  Speaking of the wonder parents, there’s my cue. For a second I hesitate. Would it be so bad to roll with it and play nice? I could have all those clothes and a home for a while. But I know it’s only a matter of time before they change their minds and send me back anyway. I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories from girls at the home—girls who are moved from one foster home to another, never allowed to stay in one place. Yeah, well, not Katie Parker. I won’t travel from town to town like some sort of concert roadie. (Unless I could actually be a concert roadie. Totally different.)

  My boots make loud thuds on the stairs as I charge down to the kitchen. Propelling off the last step, I hold back on my impulse to yell out “ta-da!” and land right in the doorway of the room. Smack in front of the awaiting Scotts.

  Mrs. Scott’s mouth opens, and her coffee mug hangs mid-sip.

  Mr. Scott squeezes his eyes shut then peels them open again.

  Rocky yelps and scampers behind Mr. Scott, peeking between his legs.

  Mrs. Scott clears her throat. “Um, Katie . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. Scott?” I fasten the last buckle on the dog collar. Ouch, how do people wear these things?

  “I . . . um . . .” My foster mom takes one more absorbing glance at me then shakes her head, as if to clear the new Queen-of-the-Night-Katie image out of her brain.

  “Katie.” Now her voice is back to normal. Now that’s not right.

  “First of all, you must call us by our first names. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so no need for formalities. And second . . .”

  Yes? Here is comes. The yelling. The disappointment. The realization I’m too much for you.

  “Do you want sausage or bacon with your waffles?”

  What? You’re supposed to tell me I can’t wear this; and then I will yell back, oh yes I can; and then you will call Mrs. Smartly and tell her to come and pick her goth kid up!

  I take a deep breath. (Wow, it really does smell awesome in here. Those waffles must have blueberries in them.) Okay, this isn’t working. Time to kick it up a notch.

  “Oh, I don’t care which. Bacon or sausage, it all comes from the pig. The dead pig. Death . . . that’s so cool.”

  Mr. Scott raises a single eyebrow. “Death is cool?”

  “Yes, death. I write poetry about it all the time. My people celebrate it.”

  “Your people?”

  Mrs. Scott doesn’t look scared, only confused.

  “I’m what you call goth. See, my
people know life is just a celebration of loneliness, heartache, darkness, and . . .” Think! Think of another adjective! “Other dark things.”

  Mrs. Scott plops bacon and sausage on my plate. She fills my glass with grape juice, which I grab like an inspiration piece.

  “This grape juice—I like it. It resembles blood, like the blood that seeps out of our souls during a lifetime of wandering and searching.” I have no idea what I said, but I’m losing my grip on this situation. Mr. Scott is back to reading his paper, and Mrs. Scott returns to the kitchen counter to cut some fruit.

  “Well, maybe you can do some searching at school today. Like searching for your classes and searching for some new friends.” Mr. Scott doesn’t even drop the sports section when he says this. Kind of rude not to at least look at me when you’re brushing me off.

  “I don’t need friends. Loneliness and pain are my friends.”

  Wow, these waffles are excellent.

  No! Focus, Katie! Focus!

  “Katie, where is all of this coming from?” Mrs. Scott asks. “This is the first I’ve heard of any interest in the goth culture and, um, dark stuff.”

  Mr. Scott lets a corner of his paper drop. “I thought goth had been replaced by emo. And then emo went out and was—”

  “People like me don’t need labels.”

  Mrs. Scott cuts a grapefruit into sections and carries it over to her husband. I would swear the two exchanged a look. You know, a meaningful look. And not the kind that says, “You get the car. I’ll get her bags.”

  “Mrs. Smartly told me to behave or I’d be sent back. So I tried to be on good behavior these last few days. But I just can’t deny who I am any longer. This”—I sweep my hand over my black garb—“is who I am. It’s what I am. When we deny who we are, we . . . aren’t who we . . . really, uh, are.”

  This is not how the script in my head went at four o’clock this morning.

  And now to close the deal. “So, Mrs. Scott, I—”

  “It’s Millie.”

  “What?”

  “Call us by our first names.”

  “Uh-huh.” Whatever. “Well, as I was saying, I guess now that you know the dark, dark truth, you’ll want to send me back. I’m sorry this didn’t work out, Mr. and Mrs., er, I mean James and Millie.”

  “Katie, we have no intention of sending you anywhere. We’re here for you, and we support you.”

  No, you don’t! You can’t! Project: I Want to Go Back is disintegrating right in front of me, faster than Rocky can make bacon disappear.

  “Okay, now go get your jacket and let’s get you to school!” Millie grabs my shoulders in a brief hug and heads toward the living room.

  “Right.” I stand in a frozen stupor.

  “Oh, and Katie?” My foster mom stops at the edge of the kitchen, the morning sun accenting her perfect highlights.

  “Yes?”

  “You have lipstick on your teeth.”

  Chapter 11

  “Katie, we’ve sat here for five minutes. You don’t want to be late on your first day, do you?”

  Millie Scott pats my knee as we sit in the car outside my new school. Do I want to be late? No, I want to be absent. There was no way to get out of wearing this black monstrosity I just had to call an outfit this morning, so I’m stuck looking like a tragically attired vampire. Add that to the list of reasons I want to hurl.

  When I walk through those doors I will become two things: the new kid and a Chihuahua. Neither prospect pleases me. Yet I taste my defeat. “Okay, let’s go.”

  We exit the car, but not before I trip over my own feet. I just had to wear the combat boots. I right myself in time to see about twenty-five kids hanging out outside the building.

  Staring.

  At me.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Millie places a hand on my back and guides me into the building.

  “Well, Ms. Parker, you come with quite a personal file. Light on academic achievement and heavy on the behavior issues,” the counselor says sharply, as Millie and I take a seat.

  It’s true. I have quite the rap sheet. But mostly it’s instances of being with the wrong crowd at the wrong time. I don’t really cause trouble, but it seems like the people I choose to hang out with do. Kids like me, kids who have been tossed around some, we just want to be accepted. And who is the most accepting group on a school campus? The troublemakers. It may not be right, but sometimes it’s as close to right as we can find. But as Mrs. Whipple, the counselor, pointed out, it doesn’t make for an impressive personal file. (But it does make for good reading.)

  “We do not tolerate misbehavior at In Between High, Ms. Parker. Understand that right now.” Mrs. Whipple glares at me over harsh bifocals.

  Millie tenses beside me. “Mrs. Whipple.” My foster mom scoots to the edge of her seat, her posture like that of a cat on the verge of a good pounce. “Katie has traveled a long way, geographically and emotionally, to get here. She starts today with a clean slate and without any judgment placed upon her, no matter what her personal file says. Are we clear?”

  Mrs. Whipple and I both turn to stare at Millie in stunned silence. My black mouth forms an O.

  “Mrs. Scott, please understand it is my job to make sure Katie is clear on our rules and most importantly, our expectations. We run a tight ship here at In Between High, and we want all of our Chihuahuas to be as safe and successful as possible.”

  There’s a quote for the yearbook.

  Millie reaches over and grabs my hand, her glossy, manicured nails a stark contrast to my own polish, straight out of a Halloween kit.

  “We all want that for our children,” my foster mom says. “But I want Katie to know she is supported here. I want her to begin at this high school with every opportunity to succeed. She is a beautiful, intelligent girl, and she is not here to cause any trouble or be a disturbance.” Millie gives my hand a squeeze. And I don’t even mind.

  Mrs. Whipple takes a slow perusal of my attire, her buzzard-like eyes absorbing every black detail. Yeah, okay, so my outfit is a disturbance. A fashion disturbance.

  Mrs. Whipple clears her throat. “Well, of course, we will do everything to make sure Katie is acclimated to our school. I am here to help. But that doesn’t change the fact that Katie comes with a list of past offenses. Like this one, ‘food fight in the cafeteria.’”

  I remember that one. I learned a lot that day. Like it’s dumb to tell the principal you were involved just to get the real instigators to like you. I also learned that if you are going to have a food fight, pick chicken-nugget Tuesday. Not meatloaf Monday.

  “And it says here that in the eighth grade you and a group of kids were caught throwing water balloons off the top of the school building and hitting students.”

  In my defense, Luke Hardy told me we were getting an early start on our science project. Lessons learned that day: Luke Hardy lies—he has never gotten an early start on any school project ever (or ever turned one in, for that matter)—and should a water balloon happen to drop from your hands while you’re on the roof of the school, make sure the principal’s son isn’t standing directly beneath you.

  “At the end of the seventh grade you were sent to the office for turning a bird loose in class.”

  Now that one I did. I will defend that action until my last breath. Mr. Feathers, our class pet, wasn’t happy in that cage. He was sad and he never sang. So I set him free. Of course, I didn’t realize he wouldn’t know the window I left open for him was his exit. Is it really my fault he dive-bombed the room for thirty minutes before he finally found the window? I’ve taken a lot of heat for that bird. Mr. Feathers owes me big.

  Does Millie know the full extent of all my misdeeds? Maybe after having all of my dirty laundry aired in front of her, she will go home and convince Mr. Scott I need a one-way Greyhound ticket back to Iola Smartly and the girls. I sneak a look at my foster mom, but she isn’t paying attention to me. Her eyes are fixed on the counselor, and she looks mad again. This really is
interesting.

  “And I see here last April you were among a group of students who—”

  “That will be quite enough, thank you, Mrs. Whipple. I am sure you will give Katie every benefit of the doubt. You and I don’t know the circumstances surrounding each of those items you so graciously regaled us with, so neither of us will hold that against Katie, correct? I have every confidence you will be fair and open minded and reserve all judgment unless she actually does something to deserve any harsh opinions. Now, if you could go over her schedule for this semester, Katie is ready to get her day started.”

  Millie rolls her shoulders back and her small chin lifts. My new foster mom is not one to be trifled with. And she took up for me. I don’t know if she meant any of it or if she truly doesn’t care about my long list of mistakes, but she sure sounded sincere.

  I must be in a parallel universe. These things just don’t happen in my world.

  Mrs. Whipple prints a draft of my schedule. I have a full load. All core classes, except for one elective, which I get to choose.

  “There’s band, basketball, debate, newspaper, drama, choir. What are your interests, Katie?” Millie reads off more choices from a pamphlet.

  My interests? Well, I like to eat. I’m interested in clean clothes. Recently, at Sunny Haven, I’ve been into self-defense. I’ve been so busy majoring in survival the past few years I really haven’t gotten to broaden my list of hobbies.

  “How about we put you in band? Have you ever wanted to play an instrument? Our band director can turn anyone into a musician. I think that would be very good for you.”

  Millie looks so pleased with this idea I find myself nodding. I mean, come on, the woman really went to bat for me today. I would probably agree to rappelling off the water tower for her right now.

  So, band it is. I guess I will be a marching Chihuahua.