In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  Millie stirs something into her coffee. “Sunday school, hmm? The youth service isn’t really Sunday school as usual. But I’m glad you’re so eager this morning. James has already left, of course.” She blows on her java, then takes a sip. “Tell me, Katie, what do you know about Sunday school?”

  I widen my giant, fake smile. “Not a thing.”

  Millie walks into the kitchen and starts her typical busy morning routine. “I think Pastor Mike makes it more of a worship service for our youth. But you’ll still need that Bible we got you.”

  “Right.” I bob my head. “Bring it on. Yay, Bible!”

  Millie’s head comes out of the refrigerator, checking to see if it’s me that’s talking.

  What would Frances say? How would she respond? I try again. “I mean, an in-depth study of the Scriptures in pursuit of life connections would be quite stimulating.”

  Millie grabs the milk and sets it on the counter with a thud. “Katie, I . . .” Millie stops, her face contorted, I hope in deep thought and not pain. “I . . . oh, never mind. Look”—she sighs deeply and runs a well-manicured hand through her blonde bob—“while we are making you go to church every time we’re there, we’re not pushing any expectations on you. We can’t make you trust in God any more than you can make us trust you right now. It has to be earned, not forced.” Millie whips up her waffle batter, stirring fiercely. “I just want you to go with an open mind. That’s all we ask. I’m not asking you to come back knowing how to quote some psalms, okay?”

  My foster mother could easily get biceps Coach Nelson would be proud of if she keeps stirring that batter with such a vengeance.

  “Millie, I just wanted to say I’m sorry and—”

  “I know.” She ladles batter into the waiting waffle iron. “I know. You’ve said you’re sorry. You’re just going to have to give me some time. I’m not quite ready to talk about all of this.” Millie gives me a thin smile I can’t quite decipher, but my heart senses a burden beyond any crime I’ve committed. I miss grinning, laughing, fashion-mag-reading Millie.

  We eat our waffles in strained silence, punctuated by the occasional overly polite comment. I insist on doing the breakfast dishes before going up to my room to finish getting ready.

  And faster than you can spell WWJD, nine thirty has arrived and it’s time for church.

  The parking lot is full of people—families, kids, old people. These are all James and Millie’s people. Their flock, their posse. Even though most of them probably don’t know about my night of crimes and misdemeanors yet, I feel like they are all staring at me, judging me. It’s like I have Shameful Loser branded on my forehead.

  Millie leads me into the church, hugging and helloing all the way (I luckily escape all the PDA, having to suffer through only one hug), and she takes me right to the large Sunday school classroom for teens.

  Millie tells me good-bye at the door. “Okay, I’ll see you after church. I’m sitting with the choir today, so sit with the other teens or Mother.”

  Wow. What a seating choice. I can sit with Mad Maxine or the teen churchies. That’s like saying I can either swim with sharks or piranhas. I can eat worms or bugs.

  I push my way through the door and walk into a room full of teens.

  Teens that immediately quit talking.

  And stare at me.

  Okay, their parents may not be up on the latest town news, but these kids obviously are. The silence transitions into whispers, and I don’t have to hear a word to know what they are saying. My face is flaming hot, and I just want to turn around and run.

  I look at the door behind me.

  Then at the whispering teens.

  And back at the door.

  I can’t do it. I can’t stay here.

  I’ve got to make it to the door before I start hyperventilating. I spin on my heel and all but sprint for the exit.

  “Katie, wait!”

  Nope, nope, gotta keep moving. Almost there.

  “Katie, please. Stop!” It’s Frances Vega. Frances, the girl I was going to watch and observe today, to learn from like she’s my sensei.

  A million thoughts zoom through my mind. Millie’s broken-hearted looks, my goal of acting more normal, the way I felt when the Scotts told me they weren’t sending me back. I close my eyes and try to muster strength. With forced determination, I face Frances, the wonder child.

  “Hey, Frances. Funny meeting you here.”

  “You saw me here last week.”

  “Right.” Okay, maybe I should’ve pursued the leaving idea a little more.

  “I’m so glad you came. Come on back in. Please?”

  I look over my shoulder. People are still staring and talking, but now they are at least pretending not to.

  “Frances,” I whisper. “Did you hear about Friday night? About the theatre?”

  She probably was so busy doing her homework, practicing her marching band routines, and perfecting her chess moves that she hasn’t heard about my crimes. Otherwise she wouldn’t be so eager for me to join her.

  “Well, duh. Who hasn’t?” Frances looks at me like I’m from a different planet. “Now, come on. You can sit by me.” She grabs my hand and drags me a few steps before I put on the brakes.

  “No, wait.” My face burns. My hands quiver. I look into the sea of my peers. “I can’t stay here. Everyone knows, and they’re talking about me. I’m blacklisted. I’m persona non grata. I’m Lindsay Lohan.”

  Frances leans in close. “We’re not like that, really. People are gonna talk, sure. This is In Between. The last newsworthy thing to happen around here was when Mr. Spinks had a pig that could oink the ‘Star Spangled Banner.’” Frances’s ebony hair sways as she laughs. “Here’s the deal. You need friends—good friends. You might as well start making allies today, right? If people think badly of you, then prove them wrong. You can’t do that hiding at home or in the church bathroom.”

  “I wasn’t going to hide in the bathroom.” Mostly because I hadn’t thought of that yet.

  “Come on, meet some of my friends.”

  I let Frances drag me around and introduce me to a few people. All of them are very polite, some of them even genuinely nice.

  A giant of a man in a polo and khakis grabs my hand in a death grip and shakes it till my shoulder nearly disconnects. “I’m Mike, the youth pastor here. Welcome.” His grin is mischievous. Welcoming.

  It’s then I notice his earring, and when he high-fives a kid passing, I glimpse what looks like a Mother tattoo peeking out beneath his short-sleeve shirt.

  “You’re not the first to make a mistake, kid.” Pastor Mike looks out at his youth group. “Every single one of us has done some stupid stuff. Some of us are smart enough to move on, am I right?” His eyes sparkle with humor—and something else I can’t identify.

  I shoot him my most doubtful gaze. “I don’t know.”

  He opens his mouth to deliver what I’m sure will be a theology driven, pop-psychology laden response with sprinkles of judgment on top. “We have snacks.”

  Oh.

  “I’ll stay.”

  Chapter 22

  Drumming my hands on my knees, I sit next to Frances in one of the cold metal folding chairs. And I thought pews were uncomfortable.

  Pastor Mike opens the service by jumping on a makeshift stage and grabbing his acoustic guitar. He begins playing something everyone else instantly recognizes. Voices join, and an occasional hand is raised as the entire room sings.

  Except for me.

  Though the words are flashed on a screen in front, I’ve never heard these songs and don’t want to participate. Their singing makes me feel uncomfortable, like an outsider. I wish I knew the songs, but in another way, I really don’t. I’m more of a pop or indie type of girl. I can’t say I’m into Pastor Mike unplugged.

  After the music portion of the morning wraps up, we all sit down, and Pastor Mike gets his Bible out and rests it on a small music stand near him.

  “Welcome everyone. It
’s a great day in the house of the Lord, and I’m glad to see you.” The big guy is grinning from ear to ear like it’s his birthday.

  I barely contain an eye roll.

  “If you’re here, it’s not by chance, but by purpose.”

  Yeah, it’s called I got myself in big-o-trouble.

  “No matter where you’re at in life, God meets you. Wherever you are.”

  I wish he’d meet me in the parking lot. Or maybe at IHOP.

  “Today we’re going to talk about a guy named Paul. Now this was a bad, bad dude.”

  I probably dated him in junior high.

  “I mean, he lived a horrible life. If you can think it, he did it. He was despised. He ran with a tough crowd.”

  Well, preach on. You’re telling my story now.

  “Paul even murdered.”

  Okay, I’m not that bad. Aside from an incident I had in the first grade involving a goldfish and a toilet bowl, I have not achieved that kind of criminal status.

  And then the oddest thing happens.

  Pastor Mike gets my attention. As he dives into the details of his story, his face contorts into a hundred expressions, his voice changes like he’s five or six different characters, and he’s all over the stage. It’s like I’m there, really there, witnessing the story of this rough guy, Paul.

  When the tale ends, I’m sitting straight in my seat, body tensed, like I’m watching an action movie.

  Church or not, this dude can tell a good story. Somebody should write this stuff down.

  “And the crazy thing is,” Pastor Mike concludes, his voice a dramatic whisper. “The crazy thing is, Jesus said, ‘You’re forgiven. Your old life is gone. You’re one of mine now . . .’ and Paul walked away a new man.”

  Like he got a life transplant. Sign me up for one of those.

  “Where are you at today, guys?” The youth minister takes a long moment to meet the eyes of every person in the room.

  When he gets to me, I look down.

  “Are you ready to leave it all behind and pick up the new life Jesus is holding out for you—waiting for you to take?”

  Jesus, if you’re up there, I’d like a new life. Preferably one that doesn’t involve a life of crime and mug shots.

  “Let’s pray.”

  Pastor Mike bows his head, along with everyone else in the room, and begins his prayer.

  Deciding I’ve given this guy more attention than I intended to, I tune him out. With my head bowed, I raise my eyes and peak at Frances.

  She’s totally into this.

  She’s nodding in response to whatever the pastor is saying, her eyes shut, concentrating. Frances is so committed. I mean she’s involved in everything, but she takes it all so seriously. She never lets up. How can I imitate that? She works hard at everything, is good at everything. Am I good at anything? Frances seems so comfortable with who she is and her place in this world. Last week, Mr. Morton gave up on me getting even a basic sound out of any instrument he had. When I couldn’t even handle playing the triangle correctly, I was asked to consider another elective class. I’m not even good at playing the stinkin’ triangle!

  Frances is a champion chess player, a student council leader, president of the science club, a trophy-winning flute player, blah, blah, blah. What am I? I’m just a non-triangle-playing girl.

  I’ve got to find my talent. My strength. Maybe I’m a computer genius, and I don’t even know it. Or what if I’m brilliant at cooking and sewing? Perhaps I’m an undiscovered vocal talent. When I get back to school it’s time to investigate my options.

  “Amen.”

  Amen. Oh, yes, the magic word, like “the end.” Heads shoot up and a low chatter begins.

  “Before you go, remember to come back Wednesday night when we kick it up a notch,” Pastor Mike’s booming voice carries over the rising noise.

  Frances turns in her seat to face me. “Hey, what did you think?”

  It was uncomfortable, intense, occasionally entertaining, and not as bad as I thought. “S’okay. I mean I got some donuts out of it.”

  Her face falls a bit, but I can tell the fight is not out of her yet. “Come on, it’s time for church. If we hurry, we can beat the senior citizens. They always try and steal our seats.”

  And like we’re old friends, Frances reaches for my hand again and leads me out into the hallway and toward the worship center. “We’ve got to get there before she does.” Frances picks up her pace and begins to speed walk.

  “Who? What are you talking about?” And do I really care? I just want a nice seat in the back, right under the exit sign.

  Frances jerks me around a corner, her grip like a vice. “You don’t understand, Katie. She does it just to spite us. I’ve heard she pays the bus driver to pick her and her friends up early. Well, not today. Today we are gonna beat her. We’re claiming our pew.”

  We whip through the entry doors of the sanctuary, and Frances drops my hand like I’m suddenly plagued.

  “Oh, no, she doesn’t.” Frances shoots down the left aisle. For a second, I think she’s going to hurdle some pews and slide into one like it’s home plate.

  When I catch up to her, she’s standing behind an occupied pew, shoulders slumped, hands shaking. What has gotten into her? Perfect Frances doesn’t get angry, does she? What could possibly set her off like this?

  “I so like to get here early.” The voice comes from the woman occupying the pew in front of Frances.

  “You . . . you . . .” Frances clenches her fists. “You couldn’t have gotten here on the church bus. I checked its departure time, and it would have left exactly three minutes ago.” Frances’s voice cracks as she addresses the back of the woman’s head.

  “Why, Frances, dear. It’s such a lovely day. I rode my bike.” The blonde-haired woman quits her inspection of her church bulletin, lays it in her lap, and ever so slowly swivels all the way around to face her accuser.

  I gasp.

  And stare at Mad Maxine.

  Chapter 23

  “Well, well, well. I see you have a new friend, Frances.” Millie’s mom clickity-clacks her long nails on the back of the wooden pew and eyes me like a tiger ready to pounce on its prey.

  I gulp.

  “You know we like to sit here, Mrs. Simmons.” Frances is clearly not going to let this go.

  “Now Frances, this church is plenty big enough for all of us. You and your little friends sit in that pew, and my companions and I will occupy this one.” Maxine tsk-tsks. “This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

  Beside me, Frances is radiating heat. “You know the youth group needs both pews if we all want to sit together. Can’t you and your companions go sit over with the other”—Frances clears her throat—“elderly members of the congregation?”

  Maxine’s eyes flash wide, then shrink to narrow slits. “Look, Miss Vega, you and the other tiny tots will just have to find somewhere else to sit, because I’m sitting here, and as you can see from the church bulletins I’ve strewn about, the rest of the seats in this row are saved. Now run along and leave me alone, if you please.” Maxine is now composed and cool as a cucumber. She turns back to face the front. “I need some quiet alone time with the Lord.”

  Frances growls and stares at the back of Maxine’s head.

  I’m all about Maxine’s idea to go and sit somewhere else. Getting as far away from her as possible seems like a smart move to me. The last thing I want to do is put myself in Mad Maxine’s path so she can look down her long nose at me.

  “Come on. Let’s go sit somewhere else,” I whisper to the fuming Frances.

  She shakes her head. “No way. We’re staying here.” Frances plops herself down right behind Maxine.

  Super.

  With little choice, I too sit down. Of all the pews in this joint, Frances has to pick this one.

  “Katie, there you are.” Millie breezes in, her royal blue choir robe billowing behind her. “I see you found a seat okay. Oh, hello, Mother. Did you see Katie back here
? And Frances?”

  Maxine angles her head toward us, her face a mask of innocence. “Yes, dear. The girls and I have already exchanged greetings, haven’t we?” Maxine chuckles, like she’s the angel of good humor and congeniality. “Well, I didn’t want to intrude on the girls too much. I’ll get plenty of time to chat with Katie this afternoon when you drop her off at my house. No point in talking her sweet little ear off now, is there?”

  My mouth falls open. Did she just say I’d be seeing her this afternoon? Isn’t Sunday a day of rest? That’s not restful. If Sunday were a day of torture, I’d say, sure, how about a visit with Maxine?

  Millie eyes her mother, then me, then back to her mother. “Ah, well, I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to Katie about it yet.” I don’t miss Millie’s slight grimace. “Katie, this afternoon James and I are going to get some things straightened out at the theatre. We thought we’d drop you off at Mother’s, and you two could spend some time together.”

  Heavy dread settles in my gut.

  “Uh, but I’d love to go to the theatre with you. I could get to work right away, you know? Do a little painting, a little cleaning . . . anything?” I desperately search for a task, but Millie shakes her head.

  “We want to get some glass and other things cleaned up before we let anyone work on it. Mother can feed you lunch and you two can . . . oh, they’re motioning for me to take my seat in the choir loft.” Millie pats me on the shoulder.

  It doesn’t help.

  “But Millie, I—”

  “I’ll see you after church.” Millie rushes off and takes her seat on stage with the rest of the choir.

  No! I’m not ready to spend time with her mother. She’ll eat me alive.

  In fact, I can’t believe Maxine hasn’t already taken the opportunity to publicly humiliate me, to rake me over the coals about Friday night. She must be sick. Because the woman has had ample opportunity to say something loud and catty about my run-in with the local law. Or maybe she’s saving it. During the altar call, she’ll probably stand on the pew and declare my disgrace for all to hear.

  “See you about one o’clock, snookums.” Maxine’s sugarless voice drops a decibel. A chill dances up my spine.