In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Katie, we’re going. You can stay here or you can go with us. We thought you’d feel grateful we included you, but whatever.” And with that, Angel, Danielle, and three other girls I had met that night file out the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room.

  “I guess this is what we get for trying to be your friend,” Danielle says in parting, pulling the door shut.

  Well.

  This is awkward.

  Grabbing my shoes and the phone the Scotts gave me, I run out the door and race to the waiting car.

  “Come on, Katie! Get in!” Vincent is holding open the door to his Honda Civic. The spinners on the wheels reflect the streetlights.

  Here goes nothing.

  We drive for about five minutes. Five very uncomfortable minutes. Vincent is a smoker. A generous one—he shares his lit cigarette with nearly everyone in the car. I decline. There are a lot of ways I don’t fit the poor-orphaned-girl stereotype, and this is definitely one of them. Don’t these people ever listen in health class? Don’t they know what’s in those things? I’m not inhaling asbestos and antifreeze, thank you very much. Well, actually right now, I am inhaling them, but not by choice.

  Besides the air being contaminated in here, my rear end is asleep. The Civic is one small car, and somehow there are seven of us in here. We’re all packed in like sardines, completely disregarding the seat-belt laws. In fact, I’m pretty sure one of the seat belts is wedged tightly in my nether-regions.

  The car slows and Vincent turns his headlights off. “We’re here. Everybody out.”

  Vincent directs everyone out of the car and toward the structure I assume is the theatre. I’m already a little creeped out.

  While everyone runs around to the back of the building, I stand out front, rooted to the spot. I shine the flashlight I was given, illuminating large wooden doors, a glass box office trimmed in brass, and an old-time marquis at the tip top that says “Valiant” in Art Deco letters. I don’t want to look away; it’s so pretty. I run my hands over the glass panes of the box office and imagine someone taking money from a flapper or a dude in a fancy hat. This theatre has seen a lot of years. I wonder if anybody famous has ever been here.

  “Katie!”

  I heave a sigh. I guess I can admire the architecture later. Maybe in the daylight like a normal person.

  “Come on, we don’t have all night.”

  Angel grabs me by the jacket sleeve, and we run around the building to where the others disappeared. Angel points to a window above us. “Come on, give me a boost, then me and Vinnie’ll pull you in.”

  “What? I thought we weren’t breaking in?”

  “Would you relax? Quit making this a big deal. This is just the easiest way to get in. Now put your hands like this so you can lift me up.” Angel interlocks her fingers and motions for me to do the same.

  Fine. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get back to the house.

  Angel goes up and over with no problem. Now it’s my turn. Vincent and Angel both appear in the window. I jump up, arms raised; they each grab an arm (a little roughly I might add), and I’m jerked through the window, my knees scraping and bumping the wall.

  Inside, I see the glow of seven other flashlights as the others have already gotten to the business of looking for this legendary spirit.

  It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. Old velvet curtains drape from the ceiling over the stage area. Accents of brass line the stage and the trim above it. There are seating boxes suspended off the far walls, a few on either side of the stage, and I imagine that’s where the wealthy or the town dignitaries would have watched the performances. Old lights hang from the top of the stage, many of them rusty and broken. “So. . . how do we find this ghost?”

  Vincent comes to stand by me. “What are you talking about? What ghost?”

  I look at Vincent.

  Vincent looks at Angel.

  “I told Katie about how everyone comes to see the ghost who haunts this place. You know, it’s like a tradition. And we didn’t want Katie to miss out on it. I knew it would make her feel like she’s really part of In Between.”

  Vincent and Angel continue to talk, their voices becoming inaudible as I walk toward center stage and discover the orchestra pit. A real orchestra pit. Like in Phantom of the Opera.

  “You can go down there, you know.” Angel’s voice startles me as I peer down into the pit.

  “You scared me.”

  “There’s a door off to the left of the stage. It will take you to some stairs that go underneath the stage to the pit. It’s pretty cool.”

  “Want to go with me?”

  “Nah, I’ve seen it hundreds of times. You should go check it out.”

  “Yeah, maybe later.”

  “Scared?” Angel’s taunts are getting a little old.

  “No, I’m not scared. I’ll go down there. It’s no big deal. You go find your ghost.” I stomp off toward the stage and find the door that must lead to the orchestra pit.

  The sign on it that said Orchestra Pit was a big help.

  The door creaks open, and I shine my light down a set of stairs. I ease onto the first one and let go of the door, and the spring slams it shut. I check my pocket for the cell phone just in case Vincent’s gang decides to get cute and lock me in here, then carefully make my way down the wooden steps. Turning a corner, I find the opening to the pit and go in.

  There’s not much down here. A few old chairs, some yellowed sheet music, dated 1946, and a couple of beat-up music stands.

  I move in closer to see if I can find anything else when I hear it. A sound that doesn’t belong. And it’s definitely not a ghostly sound.

  A hammer.

  I yell out the pit opening. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Nothing. Just more hammering. Then laughing.

  Maybe they did find the ghost, and they’re doing some arts and crafts projects with him.

  At the sound of breaking glass, I go into full panic mode. This is definitely not good. Now I hear a symphony above of shattering glass, curtains being ripped, the unmistakable hiss of spray paint, and the crash of unidentifiable things being thrown.

  My heart pounding, I race up the steps and pull on the door. It won’t budge.

  Propping my foot on the door, I put my whole body weight into pushing on it. I bang and shove, yelling for someone, anyone to let me out. A thought skitters through my brain: What would Frances Vega do? And then I remember the cell phone in my pocket. I’ll call the Scotts.

  It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay—oomph!

  The door. It’s open! I fly through the doorway and out into the theatre in time to see blue lights flashing outside and four police officers inside.

  Staring right at me.

  Chapter 19

  Find 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 l
ook 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.

  Chapter 20

  The 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.