In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  Maxine motions for me to follow her into the kitchen, where she hands me plates to set on the table in her little dining area. She unpacks the carryout sack, burger by burger, with one eye on her task and one eye on me. A little chill skitters up my spine. There is no denying it: I’m scared of this woman. With the way she’s looking at me, this could very well be my last meal.

  “So . . .” She tosses two cheeseburgers and a bag of fries on my plate.

  My eyes reluctantly meet hers. It’s time we get to it and address the elephant in the room.

  “So”—Maxine’s voice is low and dangerous like one of those cops on TV—“I’m quite ashamed of you, you know that, right?”

  I nod. “Yes, ma’am.” I have shamed her and her family, and she no doubt does not want me living under the same roof as her daughter and son-in-law.

  “Yes, indeed. I could not believe it.” Maxine shakes her head dramatically, then tears into her first cheeseburger.

  I roll a pickle around on my plate, my head hanging low.

  “I know I let you down. I know you think I’m no good.”

  Mad Maxine slurps her shake. “Yeah”—she smacks—“you did let me down. Let me down in a big, big way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’m ready with the offense. “I know it was a mistake, but I’m through making those kinds of bad choices. And I just want to point out, although I was there, I wasn’t the one who did the real damage.”

  Maxine’s eyes narrow to slits. “If you’re with the guilty, then you are guilty, little missy.”

  My eyes are on my plate. “Yes, Mrs. Simmons . . . er, Maxine.”

  Maxine grabs her shake and punches it in the air. “And to think you would be a party to Frances Vega trying to kick a woman of my seasoning out of her pew. What were you thinking? But no, here you go and side up with Frances, whose sole mission in this life is to write her name on my seat in church.”

  I raise my head. My eyes fly to Maxine, who is sucking on her straw so hard her cheeks are caving in.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, here we are, practically family,” she spits, like the words we and family leave a bad taste in her mouth. “And you have the nerve to stand by Frances as she tries to boot me out of my pew. You didn’t even take up for me. Did nothing to defend me. What kind of foster granddaughter are you, anyway?”

  A really confused one.

  I broke into her daughter’s theatre, it got totally trashed, and this is what she has to say to me?

  “Maxine, I think you’ve been wearing your helmet a little too tight,” I mutter under my breath.

  “I heard that sass.” Maxine talks around a mouthful of fries.

  I’m just going to go for it. Address the real issue. “Look, I know you know about the—”

  “Pass the ketchup—”

  “—break in. I guess everyone in town knows about—”

  “And the salt.” She reaches across the table, totally ignoring my efforts at a real conversation.

  “What I’m trying to say is I—”

  “Oops, I’m going to need your napkin there.” Maxine grabs my last napkin and dabs at a spot on her jacket.

  “Maxine, I’m trying to tell you—”

  “They never get the right mustard to ketchup ratio on here.” Maxine does an intense study of her bun.

  I try again. “I know I wasn’t supposed to be—”

  She lifts up my cup for inspection. “Your shake’s melting.”

  “If you would just hear me out for a—”

  “Where is the other cheeseburger?” Maxine rifles through discarded bags, wrappers, and napkins with a focused urgency.

  “Are you listening to me at all?”

  “Girl, if you know the whereabouts of my other cheeseburger you’d better speak up now.”

  Oh, that’s it.

  I slam my shake down and spill my guts in a single breath. “I broke into the Valiant Theatre. It was a stupid thing, but I had no idea they were going to vandalize it, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you and hurt your family, and I’m sorry you were right about me.” And inhale.

  Maxine raises a quizzical brow.

  “You think I’m a total loser. You’ve thought that since you first laid eyes on me. You think I’m trash, I come from trash, and I will always be—”

  “Now hold on just a hairy pickled minute there!” Maxine points her manicured finger my way. “You’re trash, huh? Tell me, do I think this, or do you?”

  I swallow. “You do.”

  “Really.” She holds my gaze for a few painful seconds. “Have I ever told you that you were trash?”

  “No, but you might as well by the way you act.” Millie is going to kill me for talking to her mom like this.

  “Look, you little spring chicken, if I thought you belonged in the compost heap, I would tell you.” Maxine nods her head once. Like case closed. Enough said. End of story.

  A weird silence settles over the little kitchen, magnifying every noise. The clock ticking, a car passing by, the ice settling in the freezer.

  Maxine meditates on her meal, but I break into her deep burger thoughts anyway. “I don’t understand. Aren’t you mad? Don’t you want to tell me off?”

  The cheeseburger is dropped, and Maxine focuses on me. “Yeah, I’ll tell you off.” Smack, smack, swallow. “You let that shake melt, tootsie, and you’re going to see me go from zero to ugly in a matter of seconds. Now drink your shake and eat those fries. I can’t stand to see a girl who doesn’t appreciate her trans fats.”

  “Maxine . . .” Why can’t I let this go? Am I still talking? “What those others did—Angel and them—I’m not like that.”

  “That’s between you and God, sister.” Maxine attends to some mustard on her upper lip. “Not you and me.”

  “I am sorry.” And I am. I want her to know that—no matter what she thinks of me.

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what Bill Clinton told me. Are you gonna eat those onion rings or play with them?”

  I push all the onion rings and fries her way.

  “So you believe me?” I brave a smile.

  She takes another bite. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “And you trust me?”

  Maxine swats my elbows off the table. “Girl, I keep my ATM card in my bra.” She pats her ample chest. “I’ve got a very short list of people I trust…I’ll let you know when you make the cut.”

  Chapter 26

  Rrrrr! Rrrrr! Rrrrr! Rrrrr!

  Alarm clocks are evil. Evil, I tell you. I’d hit snooze again, but I’ve already done that six times.

  I do not want to go to school. I think I’d rather face a hundred Mad Maxines than everyone at school. There will be people pointing and staring and talking about me. That will be all sorts of zip-a-dee-doo-dah fun. Then there will be Angel and her crew. Will they be mad at me for turning them in? Will they be groveling at my feet for bailing on me and leaving me to deal with the police? I just want them to stay away. Angel’s mom will probably take it out on me in PE. I can’t imagine how that class could get worse, though. What’s she gonna do, make me bench press her SUV? Do a thousand push-ups—with the Chihuahua football team on my back?

  Knock. Knock.

  “Katie?” Millie peeks her head in. “Katie, aren’t you up yet?”

  I pull the covers over my head. “I don’t feel good.” Well, it’s mostly true. I don’t feel at all good about going to school today.

  “What?” Millie stands next to my bed and gives the blankets a tug. She places her hand on my forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.”

  I cough. Twice. “Are you sure? We should probably check.”

  “What are your symptoms?” Millie runs a hand over my hair.

  “My symptoms?” Let’s see, fear, embarrassment, regret, and the strong desire to morph into someone else.

  “Yes, tell me how you don’t feel good.”

  I cough again. “Millie, the symptoms . . . um, they’re just too many to
name.”

  My Florence Nightingale of a foster mom sits down on the bed. “Well, enlighten me.”

  I make a pained face. “Millie, it’s not good. You might want to sit down for this . . . oh, you are. Sorry, my eyes are so blurry I can barely make out a thing.” My hands strike out, searching. “Where are you, Millie? Are you there?” I flail my arms some more.

  Millie grabs my hands and rests them in her lap. “Ah, yes. I’m right here, Katie. You were telling me about your symptoms?”

  Do I hear sarcasm in her voice? In my time of need?

  Sniff. “I think my system might be shutting down. I feel terrible. I hate to break this to you, but I have . . .” I have the what? A virus? No, it has to be something serious. Ebola? Oh, what about that bird flu? Millie’s studying me closely, waiting for an answer. Think, Katie! “I, uh, have the Ebola bird flu virus.” Cough. Cough.

  “You have the Ebola—”

  “Yes, I have the Ebola bird flu virus. I know, it’s probably fatal. There’s not much modern science can do for me.” I swipe at my eyes, hoping I’m creating a tender moment. “Try to carry on without me. You can have my T-shirt collection.” Through my squinted eyes I see Millie’s face drawn into a sincere frown.

  “Oh, Katie, I could never take your favorite T-shirts.”

  Aw, how sweet. Millie does care.

  “You can leave those to Rocky. I never told you, but he usually likes to sleep on your clothes after I’ve taken them out of the dryer.”

  Ew. Sick. Tender moment over.

  “Well, remember me fondly, Millie. Tell James thanks for the memories.” My voice is all despair and tragedy—but tastefully so. “Just a pine box, if you please. Nothing fancy. I am just an orphan, after all.”

  Millie shakes her head solemnly. “I guess if this is it, then I could just go ahead and take the iPod you got last week. You won’t be needing it now. Your ears will probably be the next thing to go—with this Ebola bird flu virus.”

  What?

  “No, no. That’s okay. I want to go out with the gift of music in my ears.”

  “Oh, no, you’ll probably be comatose in the very end.” Millie’s tone is sadness personified as she tucks the quilt around my shoulders. “I’ll just keep the iPod. You know, in fact, I should probably take your computer, too. You’ll be too busy being quarantined when the Center for Disease Control gets here. I should probably go call them. And how do you feel about spending your last days in a plastic bubble?”

  “No, just stay with me just a little bit longer. I’m cold . . . so, so cold. Like death has its very hand upon me. Oh, look at the pretty white light. . . .” My voice trails off, and I close my eyes.

  “Oh, speaking of light, Katie, I should probably get your TV.” Millie stands up. “Yes, I want to make your room as peaceful and relaxing as possible for you. I know, I’ll call Rocky. He’s been waiting a very long time for the opportunity to snuggle with you.”

  I open an eye. Millie has left my bed and is at the door.

  “Well, look who’s right here, sitting in the hall. Come here, boy,” she coos. “You’ve been waiting weeks for this moment, and now your big day is here. Rocky, jump on the bed with Katie. She needs a big, sloppy kiss.”

  Oh, my gosh. Oh, my—no! Before I can yank the covers back over my head, Rocky the Wonder Dog—all five hundred pounds of him—jumps on me, his nose digging around for my face, which I try in vain to cover with my hands.

  “No! Rocky, off. Ew, no, gross, stop! Stop it, Rocky. I said get off! Ew, not on my face. That is so sick!”

  Rocky sniffs and snorts and licks, his nose and tongue are everywhere at once. He paws at the hands sheltering my face. Can’t . . . take . . . this . . . much . . . more.

  “Get off of me, you freak!” In one swift motion, I grab a quilt and bound off the bed, landing on the other side of the room.

  Millie adjusts her earring, her face bland. “Wow, that was an amazing recovery from the . . . what was it you said you had again?”

  Rocky leaps off the bed and heads my way, clearly thinking this is some grand new game.

  “The . . . the . . .” I’m unable to form any thought besides gross.

  “Oh, yes, the Ebola bird flu virus.” Millie’s voice is dry as toast, but she’s biting her lip like she’s trying not to smile. Of all the nerve.

  Rocky noses around, searching for my hands under the quilt I have wrapped around me. The stupid dog thinks the only function of hands is to pet, to feed, or to throw a ball.

  “Call him off.” I clench my teeth and refuse to make eye contact with the mutt.

  “Oh, I will,” Millie says slowly, like she’s got all the time in the world. She takes a leisurely seat on my bed. “But first you have to tell me what you’d hoped to achieve with this sick routine—and a very bad one at that.”

  Rocky finds my hand and starts to bathe it with his big, nasty dog tongue.

  “I’m waiting, Katie.”

  Lick, lick.

  “Okay, okay! Just call him off.”

  “Rocky, come here.” Millie snaps her fingers, and the dog is by her side in an instant.

  I sigh. “You know what this is about. I don’t want to go to school.”

  Millie nods, petting her dog. “Uh-huh. And . . .”

  “And I’ve been thinking homeschooling would be a great option for me.”

  “No.”

  “Come on! One-on-one time with me. Think how close we’d become. Don’t you want to build our relationship?” I give Millie a cherubic smile. I’ve got innocence and charm coming out my pores (and doggy germs, too, no doubt).

  “Yes, I do. And I also want you to build your education, and that is going to happen at In Between High.”

  “Millie, I don’t want to go to school. Please, just let me have today off.”

  “You faced church okay. Now it’s time to deal with everyone at school. You have to face the consequences—all of them.” Millie holds her arm out, and I find myself gravitating toward her, sitting on the bed, and letting her put her arm around me.

  “I know this is tough, kiddo, but you gotta do it.” She rests her head on mine. “You’re going to go to school, hold your head up high, and go about your day.”

  “And what if Angel or Vincent or those guys approach me?”

  “Then you turn around and walk the other way. You have nothing to say to them.”

  I inhale a big gulp of air then let it out. “Can’t I stay home just one day? I could help you out at the theatre.”

  “Nope. Your job is to go to school. Besides, I’m going in to do some work at the church. I’ll be at the theatre this afternoon when you get there.”

  “But, Millie, what if I just—”

  “No.”

  “Okay, but maybe I could—”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I know, what about—”

  “No, no, and no.” Millie laughs, then playfully shoves me away from her. “Get up, get dressed, and meet me downstairs in twenty minutes. We’re running late.”

  “You’re going to send me to school on an empty stomach?”

  “I’ve got a bagel downstairs with your name on it, but if you’re tardy, I’m leaving you to face that counselor all on your own.”

  “Oh, now that’s just cruel.” I toss a pillow at Millie as she heads out the door.

  Her head pops back into view. “Well, you can just tell her all about your Ebola bird flu virus.”

  Millie’s laugh travels all the way to my room as she marches downstairs.

  Woof!

  Oh, no. No way. “Millie! You forgot your dog!”

  More laughter from the stairway. “No, I didn’t!”

  Chapter 27

  Dear Mrs. Smartly,

  Hey, long time no see. Or hear. Thanks for your last letter, even though it was very short. It was so newsy. I was just riveted by the news that you got a new goldfish for your desk. And yes, I do think Stan is a fine name for your new gilled friend.

  Today wa
s my first day back at school since “the incident.” I like to say that out loud so I can do quotey fingers. I find it kind of odd you didn’t call me to bawl me out about “the incident.” I pulled a Trina, and you have nothing to say to me? No yelling? No threats? I guess you’re too busy with your new pet goldfish to work up a good lecture.

  What a day. Longest day of my life. (Well, maybe except for the time the electricity went out at Sunny for twenty-four hours, and we were without air conditioning and television, and you made us play I-Spy for like twelve hours straight.)

  So after a bit of a slow start this morning, Millie took me to school. The weatherman had predicted clear, sunny skies for this morning and a crisp fall temperature of fifty-nine degrees. The thermometer on Millie’s rearview mirror said forty degrees, and the rain spitting down had me wishing I hadn’t bothered with the straightening iron. My own forecast? How about stressful with a hundred percent chance of freaking out.

  English class started out fine. I really like that class. We’ve just started reading a play out loud. It’s Julius Caesar. I haven’t read much from ol’ Bill Shakespeare, but he’s still kinda cool. Ms. Dillon, my teacher, says it’s about this dude who thinks he has all these friends, but then they turn on him and stab him. I so relate. Well, minus the death part.

  But about twenty minutes into the class, in walk Angel and Vincent—you know, the stabbers. They handed Ms. Dillon a note, like they had been in the principal’s office, and then took their seats. Close to me. Vincent didn’t even acknowledge me, but Angel watched me from the time she gave the teacher the note to the moment she sat down in her seat. She looked at me like I was some sort of parasite. Definitely not in a “Hey let’s do another sleepover really soon okay?” way. I just stared right back, like “Don’t even think you can intimidate me, Angel, Ms. I-Have-the-Most-Ironic-Name-in-the-World.”

  It’s like our staring needed a soundtrack and subtitles.

  So after class I go to my locker, put my books away, and slam the locker shut.

  And there was Angel.

  “You better have a good reason why you ratted on us this weekend,” she hissed.