In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  Oh, no she didn’t. No way I was letting her put this on me. “Oh, right, I should’ve taken up for you? Why? To thank you for the cool way you left me there with the cops? Or maybe because you have been such a good friend to me? I don’t think so.”

  “We didn’t mean for you to take the fall.”

  “Really? My mistake then. I guess I got the wrong idea when I walked out of the orchestra pit and I was surrounded by graffiti, broken glass, and the police! And you guys were nowhere to be found!” I stepped closer to her. “I must’ve gotten a little bit mixed up when the police pointed their cute little flashlights and guns at me. And the moment when the police put the handcuffs on me—only me—might have given me the idea that I was supposed to take the blame—alone. But now that you’re here to explain it all, Angel, it makes so much sense.”

  Angel could see I wasn’t backing down, and some of her bravado slipped. “Look, Katie, it’s just—”

  “No, you look. That was my foster parents’ theatre. And you knew it. You took me to the Valiant expecting me to help you guys destroy the place. And then you left me there to take the blame and deal with the police all by myself.”

  “We took you in. When no one else would hang out with you here, we let you be a part of our group. We thought you could handle it. We thought you were one of us. But obviously you’re not. Real friends stick together. So before you go pointing fingers, you think about that.”

  I laughed in her face. “I was seconds away from getting my first mug shot. A mug shot with bed head, to top it off. Wow, Angel, I’ve never had friends as good as you. I know it’s my loss. I may never have the opportunity for such friendship again. And five years from now when I’m watching the evening news, and I see you and your ‘friends’ (and I did the quotey fingers here) on TV being arrested for jewelry heists or grand theft auto, I’ll say, ‘oh, if only I could have stuck by them and been lucky enough to be their “friend.”’”

  Angel opened her mouth to counterstrike, but I hugged my books to my chest and nudged past her. And in the spirit of Trina, I might have purposefully bumped into her shoulder just for drama’s sake.

  After English, I went to world history. The man who teaches that class probably knew your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather. He’s that old. And the whine of his hearing aid always makes me think there’s a cat being tortured somewhere in the room. But aside from Mr. Patton falling asleep twice during his own lecture, history came and went without a problem.

  Ditto for algebra.

  But next . . . was lunch.

  I grabbed my lunch bag and went in search of a seat. In a different bathroom where Frances Vega wouldn’t find me. I vaguely remembered a bathroom in the gym wing and took off in that direction.

  I turned down the corridor and hit bathroom pay dirt. Taking a deep breath (because you never know what the air quality will be like), I opened the door and claimed my stall. Digging into the lunch bag Millie packed for me, I pulled out two homemade chocolate chip cookies. This day called for dessert first.

  I decided I would take a bite every time I had a pitiful thought, every time I felt sorry for myself.

  The cookies were gone in five seconds.

  I half-heartedly reached for my turkey sandwich, and there on the sandwich bag was a sticky note. It said:

  Katie, have a great day! Remember, keep your chin up and go make some new friends. (Ones who don’t carry spray paint on them.) I’m praying for you.

  Love,

  Millie

  So what did I do? I stuffed my lunch back in the bag. I squared my shoulders. I lifted my chin. And walked out of that bathroom.

  With toilet paper on my shoe.

  (Some kid pointed it out on my way down the hall. Real cool.)

  Okay, so I was off in pursuit of friends. No problem. I mean, should’ve been easy, right? Simply walk into the cafeteria, pick a table, sit down next to someone, and say, “Hey, I’ll bet you want to be my friend. Well, today just happens to be your lucky day.” Mrs. Smartly, I know you think you have it rough being the director of Sunny Haven, but this teenage business—it makes your job look like a day at the pool.

  I opened the cafeteria doors. Two hundred heads swiveled in my direction. All eyes were on me. (Okay, maybe five or six people stopped eating their burritos long enough to look my way, but it felt like two hundred.)

  I spied Frances and her gang of non-troublemakers over in a far corner. Nope, I wasn’t gonna sit there. I knew Frances would let me eat lunch with her, but I don’t think I’m ready to go from wannabe cons like Angel to Frances and her squeaky-clean group of valedictorians.

  I scanned the cafeteria, aware of how incredibly awkward it was to be alone in the cafeteria, searching for a single friendly face to connect to. Being a dork is quite uncomfortable. I know you can relate, Mrs. Smartly.

  I surveyed the room. There were the computer and techie kids. The gamers (they show up to school wearing big hoodie sweatshirts every day and pull their gaming devices out of their pockets when they think no one is looking). The cheerleaders (can you even imagine me approaching them?). The jocks (seated right next to the cheerleaders, of course). There was the table of agri students (the farm kids), the preps, another table of Goths, the band people (easy to spot because there is usually someone among them tapping out the latest marching song with a pair of spoons). I could go on and on (and I should just to get you back for the six-line letter you sent me last week), but I finally decided to pick the table the farthest away from both Frances and Angel.

  I approached the table and stood there. Totally awkward.

  An upperclassman wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with some unknown symbol noticed me first. “Dude, is there something you want?” Sir Righteous talks like the turtle off of Finding Nemo.

  Here goes, I thought to myself. “Um, yeah, I’m kind of new here. Do you mind if I sit with you guys?”

  The table was full of guys and girls, none of which I would label preps, but not exactly on the Goth side either. Their clothes were a bit rough, but in a very deliberate way.

  The group looked to one another, a few shrugged, a few nodded, and finally their spokesperson nodded. “Yeah, I guess. The more the merrier, I suppose.”

  We exchanged a few pleasantries, such as where I’m from, what my name is (which raised a few eyebrows—clearly they’d heard about my little jaunt to the theater), and briefly discussed the neutral topic of our feelings on cafeteria food. Then the group returned to the conversation I had interrupted.

  “Okay, so dude, I was at my dad’s last night, and I did this 360 pop shovit into a backside 50-50 grind.” This from a tenth grader who dared to wear a hat in the cafeteria.

  A girl sitting next to me spoke up in a heavy Texan drawl. “Oh, dude, I’ve totally been working on that too. But check it, yesterday I tried a nollie boneless on my new board and landed on my hand. Today I’m gonna try an inverted handplant.”

  I picked at my sandwich, wondering what alternate universe I had stepped into. When we were discussing cafeteria food, the pros and cons of the school pizza, the value in checking milk expiration dates, and the importance of avoiding school meat loaf at all costs, things had seemed so normal. But pop shovits? Handplants? Three-sixties? If this was gang lingo, I was in so much trouble.

  “So I did a wall ride, right, and I’m on the vert, then I totally run into Principal Wayman. I was so busted.” This from a guy who introduced himself as Jeff.

  “No way.” I don’t know whether to act shocked or impressed. I attempt an expression somewhere in between.

  “Totally.”

  “Hey, Katie, do you skate goofy or regular?”

  Mrs. Smartly, I had just about decided these people were making illicit drug references when Frances Vega appeared at the table.

  “Hey, dudes,” she threw out, like she was down with their slang.

  “Frances! What up, yo? How’s that manual coming?”

  At this poi
nt my head was about to explode.

  “Totally killer, Jason. Thanks for helping me with it. I’m definitely getting better.”

  Frances turned a very definite shade of pink. Our little Frances Vega was blushing!

  “As soon as you’re ready to hit the skate park, you let me know, okay?” Jason’s eyes never left Frances.

  “Yeah, well, you know, it will be a while. I’m still not very stable on the board, and my parents aren’t too big on the skate park.” Frances shuffled from one foot to the other. Very interesting.

  Skaters. These people were skaters—not drug dealers, not gang members. Still, I was totally out of my element. I don’t know a wallie from a wheel.

  I stayed at the table long enough to finish my lunch, and it actually helped that Frances ended up sitting down by me and joining in the conversation. The skaters moved on to different topics which I could contribute to, thanks to Frances and her brilliant conversation skills.

  When the bell rang signaling lunch had ended, Frances followed me out the door.

  “Were the bathroom stalls all taken today?”

  “I’m not a total chicken, Frances.” No, I didn’t bother to tell her I had begun my lunch on a toilet seat again. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. And there’s a very short list of things Frances Vega doesn’t know.

  “You could have sat with me and my friends. I looked for you, but couldn’t find you.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks. I made it fine. Look, I’ve got to go. I have P.E. next.” Just couldn’t wait to get to P.E., you know?

  Now, Mrs. Smartly, I will tell you about my day in physical education.

  Oh, wait, here’s Millie. I’m writing this letter at the Valiant, waiting on her. This letter writing is for the birds. If we were emailing right now, I’d tell you something funny. And then you would email back and say something like my email had you ROTFL. And I would email back and say LOL! Wouldn’t that be GR8?

  Okay, it’s time for me to get to work. But you owe me a letter—a good one. I don’t want to hear about how you cleaned out the dryer lint screen again, okay? CUL8R!

  LUV,

  KT

  Chapter 28

  As per instructions, I took the school bus to the theatre after school.

  The public school bus.

  It’s something everyone should experience at least once. Today on my ride, a first-grader shared my seat. She proudly showed me her artwork, a blob of red paint she said was a pony, and then talked herself into a sleepy coma. Her head bobbed until it landed on my shoulder and her paste-crusted hands rested on my jeans. The kid in seat number twenty picked his nose when he thought no one was looking. Spit wads sailed overhead. The gnome sitting behind me kicked my seat to the beat of the bus driver’s George Strait music the entire ride. If that brat does it again tomorrow, I’m going to have to show him who’s boss—and it ain’t him. Across the aisle, a group of middle schoolers gathered, trying to burp out “All My Ex’s Live in Texas.”

  Standing in the foyer of the Valiant, I shudder at the memory.

  From here I can see Millie sitting in her car in the parking lot. She appears to be in a serious conversation on her cell phone, and she doesn’t look happy. After a few more minutes she ends the call, runs a hand through her hair, brushes on some lip gloss, and makes her way to the theatre. She looks stressed, but I decide not to mention it as she breezes into the foyer where I’m waiting.

  “Hey, Millie.” I proceed with care. Not only is Millie worked up over something, but I’m anxious too. My first day on the job at the Valiant. Who knows what awaits me inside. Like a scaredy-cat, I’ve been standing in the entryway, putting off going into the theatre for as long as possible. It’s not easy to return to the scene of the crime. And now I have to look at it with Millie, see it through her eyes.

  “Hey, kiddo, how was your day?” Millie puts a smile on her face, and gives me a quick hug. She knows the hugging thing still doesn’t have the total Katie Parker seal of approval. But if anybody can get away with it, it’s my foster mom.

  “Oh, you know, the usual.” Ugh. I eye the giant double doors leading into the theatre lobby. Don’t feel so good.

  “No, seriously, how did it go?” Millie stops and gives me her full attention.

  I sigh and make a figure eight on the floor with the toe of a new, but vintage-looking Nike. “Well, I went to English, faced off with Angel.”

  Millie’s eyebrows rise.

  “But no blood was shed. No WMDs were fired.” I wave it off. “It was a fairly peaceful meeting.”

  “Okay.” Millie nods. “Go on.”

  It’s kind of odd to have an adult listen to you. I mean really listen.

  “So then I went to history.”

  “And Mr. Patton fell asleep,” Millie finishes.

  “Right. Oh, and on the second time he nodded off, this guy Steven went up to him and tapped him on the shoulder to wake him up. That didn’t work, so Steven dropped a history book on the floor right next to him.”

  “And he slept right through it?” Apparently everyone in town is familiar with Mr. Patton’s teaching style.

  “No, he shot out of his chair, yelling, ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’”

  Millie’s face softens, and her warm laughter fills the foyer.

  And my face falls as she swings the giant doors open, leading the way into the lobby.

  I stand horrified at the sight. Graffiti everywhere. Antique counters smashed. An old popcorn machine, probably an original, in pieces. Lights broken. Carpet ripped. Scarlet fabric, which had been artfully draped here and there, now torn and strewn about the floor.

  And this is just the lobby.

  They accomplished so much destruction in so little time. I guess that night I was so lost in my own little world, so in awe of the theatre and exploring the orchestra pit that I didn’t hear most of their noise.

  Either that or I need to borrow Mr. Patton’s hearing aides.

  I reach my hand out to Millie. “I—I don’t know what to say.” I shake my head in disbelief. In disgust. There is nothing I can say to make this any better. “I promise I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.”

  My stomach rolls. I’m not like Angel and Vincent. I may have a questionable past and, undeniably, a questionable future, but I could never do something like this.

  Looking at Millie’s face, though she’s trying to wear a smile, I can tell she’s hurt.

  “Millie, I—”

  “I know.” Again, the plastic smile. “I know, Katie. Look, we have a lot to do today, so let’s get started, okay?”

  She moves away from me and opens the theatre’s black lacquered doors.

  I gulp.

  “Sam!” Millie hollers into the theatre. “Sam, we’re here!”

  Sam?

  “Sam’s a caretaker of sorts here. And now that—well, all of this happened, he’s overseeing the repairs.” Millie props the door with her foot and scans the theatre for the missing Sam. I remain far enough behind the door that I don’t have to see inside—yet.

  “Ah, here he is. Come here! I want you to meet Katie.”

  I’ll just bet this Sam is on the edge of his seat, filled with excitement to meet me. Me, the girl who was with the kids who did all of this. If this guy yells at me or uses some choice expletives, I will probably start crying on the spot.

  “Come on.” Millie pulls me through the doorway. I hesitate, but when Millie shoots me a warning look, I step forward into the theatre.

  The inside looks even worse than the lobby. Some of the old seats, which look like they had just been redone, are ripped, cushioning hanging out, material shredded. Images and words I can’t even bear to look at cover various places on the Art Deco tile. Curtains hang in tatters, and broken windows are boarded up. Sawhorses are set up in random spots, as people I don’t recognize deal with the repairs needed on all the wood in the theatre.

  “Sam got a crew of volunteers from the church to help us out.” Millie points
to a group of men measuring and conferring over something on the balcony.

  A man who looks to be in his seventies walks our way up the center aisle. He’s dressed in blue-and-white striped overalls, and his heavy brown work boots are flecked with mint-green paint.

  Wiping his hands on his bibs, he smiles at Millie, then me. His face crinkles in multiple places, and his white, bushy eyebrows lift with his grin. “Hello, there, ladies. I’ve just brewed a hot pot of coffee. Can I get you some?”

  Millie politely declines. “None for me thanks.”

  I do not. “One cup, two sugars, and three shakes of cream, thanks.” A fresh cup of Joe. Perfect for the nerves or whatever ails you.

  Millie rolls her eyes. “Katie will have a water, but I’ll get it. I’m going back to the theatre office to get her a snack. Sam, this is Katie. You’ve probably met her at church.”

  Sam sticks a gold-splattered hand out, and I shake it. So far this man hasn’t shown a single sign of wanting to stone me for my misdeeds and poor choice of friends, so what’s a little paint on my hand?

  “Nice to meet you, Katie. I don’t believe I was there the day you were introduced in church. I was in Kansas visiting my sister.”

  Millie checks her watch and takes a few steps away from us. “Sam, I’ll leave you with Katie. Start showing her around and maybe get her started on the project we talked about. Katie, I’ll be back with some snacks.”

  “No carrot sticks!”

  Sam chuckles. “Yesterday she fed me celery. I’m seventy-five years old, most of my own teeth are long gone, and she forces celery sticks on me.”

  “Millie’s pretty serious about her veggies.” I like this man already.

  “Serious? Girl, she’s on a one-woman mission to promote the food pyramid.”

  Girl. Just like Maxine called me—

  Sam. Maxine. Oh, hold on.

  Looks like you have company today. And it’s not Mr. Sam either. That’s what Burger Barn boy said to Maxine last Sunday. Well, my, my.

  “Are you friends with Maxine Simmons—Millie’s mom?”

  Sam’s eyes bulge at my question. Bull’s-eye!