In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Millie, I love Amy. I want our daughter back, too. But we’ve been fighting this battle for too long. I’m tired of it—tired of it all. I’m fed up with my wife sneaking off to the post office to mail care packages and wire money like I don’t know what she’s doing. I’m tired of getting Amy’s two-sentence postcards from a different town every few months.” James lowers his voice, and I can hear him walk across the carpet.

  I ease back a few steps, as his tired voice continues.

  “Don’t you think I’m sick of you being upset all the time? Tensing up every time the phone rings?”

  “I can’t change the opening night.” Millie blows her nose. “I won’t change it.”

  “This theatre is about the town, too. And it’s about us . . . and all our hard work. Do you really want to open when we’re not even close to being ready?”

  “Do you want to take the chance of our daughter being there and the theatre being closed? I’m not willing to risk that.”

  I hear the faraway sound of the choir practicing. Their up-tempo praise song seeps through the walls.

  “When is it time to stop chasing her?” my foster dad asks. “We’ve done all we can. Sending her more money isn’t going to make a difference. Writing one more letter isn’t going to make a difference. And renovating that theatre isn’t going to make a—”

  “Forget it. You’re not even listening. I have to get to choir.”

  I plaster myself to the wall and slink back around the corner. Please go straight down the hall, Millie. Maybe she’ll be so distracted she won’t notice me out of her peripheral vision.

  “Millie, I think we need to talk about this. You—”

  I hear the door slam, and Millie escapes out of the office. She’s racing my way.

  Think of an excuse. Why would I be standing here? I’ll just tell her I was looking for her. It’s the truth. Granted, I’m flattened to the wall like Spider-Man, but that’s of no matter.

  Here she comes. Her heels catch on the carpet with every step.

  Closer. And closer.

  In a haze of beige silk, Millie sails right past the hallway I’m cowering in, not slowing for a second. I hear her sniffing and digging in her purse, but she continues her march down the corridor and exits the office wing.

  My breath escapes in a whooosh.

  Wow.

  Majorly intense. I’ve never seen those two fight like that. Didn’t know they had it in them. I have got to do something. What if they get a divorce? Can preachers divorce? If they split up, I’m back in Sunny Haven for sure.

  There must be a way to get the theatre open on time. They need money and they need more workers. Maybe Sam would know some more people to recruit.

  I speed walk out of the office area, and with my mind spinning with ideas and what-ifs, I quickly navigate my way around the halls until I find the youth room.

  Sigh.

  I guess I’d rather be here, my first night of Target Teen, than eavesdropping on another argument between my foster parents. I open the doors and find the Sunday school room has been transformed. I do a frantic search for Frances, afraid I’ve stumbled into the wrong room. The lights are slightly dimmed, with candles and lamps everywhere, like I’m no longer at church, but at a coffee house. The room vibrates with talking and laughter. Music blasts out of speakers on the stage, and I have to stop for a second and listen in appreciation. Who doesn’t love the hard banging of a drum and the steely whine of a few guitars?

  “Hey, welcome! Come on in. Katie, right?”

  I’m high-fived by the youth pastor, who tonight is even more casual in jeans, worn and faded, and a brown T-shirt that says I Love Disco. Only a man with a pirate’s face and biceps bigger than tractor tires could get away with that shirt.

  “We are so glad you decided to join us tonight. It’s gonna be a great night.” He pats me on the back with his giant hands. “You won’t be sorry.”

  Judging from the gleam in his eye, I suspect he knows Wednesday night church was definitely not my idea.

  “Katie, meet my wife.” Pastor Mike calls for his missus over the pounding of the music. “Laura, this is Katie.”

  A slender blonde woman wearing a ponytail and a generous smile grabs Pastor Mike’s outstretched hand and joins us. “Katie, so good to see you here! We met the Sunday you were introduced to the church, but you were shaking so many hands you probably don’t remember.”

  No, I don’t remember. I think I was too traumatized by all the hugging that went down that day. “Nice to meet you again—”

  “Laura.” She laughs, her blue eyes glowing. “Call me Laura.”

  Like Pastor Mike, she must be in her late twenties, but there is something about the two of them that makes you think they could be your friends. Like they might get you—a highly unusual quality to find in adults.

  “Have you been to Target Teen before?” Laura has to practically yell above the noise.

  “No. This is the first Wednesday night I’ve been at church.” Ever.

  “You’re gonna love it. As you can tell it’s very relaxed. Very contemporary. We’ll have some music and then Mike will talk.”

  “Katie! Over here!”

  Frances waves me over to where she’s standing among a group of other kids our age. Some I recognize from school. They all wear smiles and look friendly, but you never know. I’m still very much aware of how different I am from everyone here. They’re, like, from another civilization. I still don’t know their ways, their songs, their jokes, their lingo. And their Bible? Until Nicholas Sparks puts out a version, I don’t know that I’ll ever get through that thing.

  Laura waves at Frances and her group. “Looks like your friends are waiting for you.”

  Are they? I take a brief scan of the room. Are these the type of people I could ever be friends with?

  “Katie, come on. I like to be close to the front.” Frances reaches for my arm and pulls me alongside her and her friends, who are walking toward the stage.

  “Oh, hey, Frances . . . I don’t know. Isn’t this kind of close? I don’t want to be looking up the pastor’s nose or anything.”

  Frances ignores me and introduces me to some more of her friends.

  “Great sweater, Katie.” Jessica, a girl from my history class, smiles warmly.

  “Thanks.” I wrack my brain for something to say with a few more syllables.

  “I love pink. Don’t you? Last year everything in my closet was totally black, but this year, I think almost everything I own is pink.” This from Belinda, a girl I met last Sunday.

  Soon the conversation revolves around the topics of clothing, shoes, and boys. I even add a comment or two myself and find it’s not so bad talking to them. Almost normal. Like I’m just one of the girls. I look over at Frances and she’s smiling at me. I grin back, knowing I wouldn’t have made it through the doors of this room had she not been here tonight.

  “All right, welcome! I’m Pastor Mike, and I am glad you’re here tonight.”

  Conversations stop and the churchies break out into yelling and applause.

  “If you’re here for the first time tonight, you don’t know what you’ve been missing. But you’re about to find out. We are here to praise the living God. We don’t take that lightly . . . but sometimes we do take that loudly.”

  Cheers erupt again. Frances and her friends yell and clap like they’re at a Cowboys game.

  “As the band takes the stage, find a comfortable spot. And get ready to worship like you mean it.”

  And the crowd goes wild.

  Everyone in the room moves closer to the front, remaining standing, eyes fixed on the teenage band members strapping on guitars and adjusting microphones. Well, this is interesting. Don’t tell me the churchies are gonna rock out.

  The room darkens even more, and stage lights, suspended above the band, begin to glow as the musicians rip into their opening chords, electric guitars and percussion exploding into sounds that I have never heard in a church. My mout
h involuntarily forms an O, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Pastor Mike watching me. I turn my head in his direction, and he grins his pirate grin and gives me a double thumbs-up. Okay, so the music is pretty incredible. I’ll give him that.

  The band, fellow students at In Between High, transitions into another number, more acoustical, but still loud and pulsating. I love that feeling, when music rumbles in your chest and soaks all the way through, like it’s a part of you.

  I don’t know the lyrics, but Frances and her friends do, and a few of them raise their hands up in the air. The girls close their eyes, as do others across the room, and continue singing, hands reaching toward the ceiling. Frances, I can tell, is praying, and I feel foreign and awkward, like they all speak a language I don’t understand.

  I make myself quit staring and force my attention back to the band. They, too, have their eyes closed as they begin singing a quieter, slower song consisting of two acoustic guitars and the lead singer. The words jump out at me, and I take in their lyrics of sacrifice and hope. I can totally relate to the lines about searching for hope. Yeah, send me some of that. Does God even know I’m here? Does he see me, surrounded by his people, totally uncertain of my future, even of where I’ll be next month?

  How can I buy into all of this when I’ve never seen him? Where was he when I had to put myself to bed most nights? Where was he when I got hauled off to Sunny Haven?

  How do you dig out of that and come out with hope?

  The final notes of the song evaporate, and Pastor Mike takes center stage, his worn-out Bible in hand.

  “Guys, let’s pray. Dear Heavenly Father, God, we love you and we praise you. We sing out to you tonight, acknowledging we do have hope in you. Without you, we are empty and lost, and . . .”

  Empty and lost. Okay, I kind of relate there. So is this guy saying if I don’t believe in God, then things are never going to get better? I mean, I don’t know that I’m empty really. Do these people think I’m empty? Because I’m not empty. So not empty.

  Partially drained perhaps.

  “Father, we ask you to open our hearts and ears tonight. Let us be sensitive to what you have to say to us . . .”

  And how am I going to know when God is talking to me? What if I don’t hear him? Mr. Morton, the band director, had to yell at me through a bullhorn to get my attention, and that still didn’t work. What if God’s talking to me now?

  God . . . are you talking to me now?

  Nope. Not getting anything.

  Well, maybe he only talks to people like Frances, who make straight As and run around with the right people and concentrate really hard when they sing in church.

  “Lord, we thank you for sending your son to die on the cross for our sins . . .”

  And what does that mean? I need a glossary here. We ask that your Spirit be in this place . . .”

  Your what?

  “And we pray you would speak through me as I bring the message . . .”

  What would happen if he prayed for Justin Timberlake to speak through him during the message?

  “Amen.”

  As if on cue, everyone sits down and reaches for their Bibles. I pull mine out of the backpack I had to bring in with me, and seeing the smooth leather cover with my name on it gives me a happy little charge.

  “Turn in your Bibles to Jeremiah, chapter 29.” The room fills with the sound of the thin pages turning.

  Jeremiah . . . Jeremiah . . . Jeremiah. I flip through my Bible like I know what I’m doing. Why can’t this thing be alphabetized? The books starting with J should be together, and they should come before the ones that start with K. Maybe I could tell James and Millie my idea, then they could invent these new, easier to use Bibles and make tons of money and be able to open the theatre on time.

  In his booming voice, Pastor Mike begins his story about this prophet dude named Jeremiah. With his enthusiasm and facial expressions, the guy once again brings his tale to life, his words wrapping around me and pulling me in.

  “So Jeremiah was this really smart guy. And God spoke to him.”

  Because unlike me, Jeremiah didn’t need remedial church, right?

  “And Jeremiah had a lot to say because the people in the land were not acting right. They weren’t following God’s orders. They weren’t obeying Scripture. And Jeremiah would say, ‘Hey, something big is about to go down. You guys are gonna be so sorry you’re living this way.’ But no one would listen to him . . . no one would obey God.”

  Across the room, guys and girls are scribbling notes, copying down bits and pieces of the message. I consider reaching for a notebook and pen, but decide to let the words empty into my head and not on paper.

  “And Jeremiah warned them and warned them. And you know, eventually it wore on him. He got sick of being around people not living right. He got fed up with the people who didn’t care about him, didn’t care about God. He was disgusted with life as it was, and he tried to tell everyone, ‘Hey, there’s more out there. There’s more to life than this. If you’d just surrender to it, life could be so much better.’”

  Pastor Mike pauses to let his words sink in, and his gaze travels across every one of us in the room. And when his eyes meet mine, I feel a slight tug. Like he’s watching me closer—reading my thoughts, like everything I’m thinking is scrolling across my forehead.

  Holding up his Bible, Pastor Mike moves about the stage. “Because who could create a better life for you than the Creator of life, God? Guys, tonight God wants the chance to get his hands on your life. He wants you to hand the keys over and let him drive.” The preacher holds his Bible to his chest. “I haven’t even gotten to the most important verse in this chapter tonight. And you know what? I’m not going to. Your homework, your assignment from me—from God—is to read Jeremiah 29, verses 11 through 13. It’s God’s personal message to you, and I don’t want to give it to you. He does.”

  I shut my Bible. But not before wedging the attached piece of ribbon in Jeremiah twenty-nine.

  Pastor Mike’s voice softens. “I challenge you. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, read that passage. Imprint it on your heart. Tattoo it on your brain. This is God’s road map for your life, his promise of hope for you. He wants to pull you up from the pit you’re in and give you so much more. Let’s pray. Dear Heavenly Father . . .”

  Kind of deep tonight. I don’t know. I just don’t know about any of this.

  God, if you are out there, I just want to put in my request for things to be okay between Millie and James. I’ll probably survive if I have to go to another foster home, but frankly, the thought turns my stomach. So, yeah. That’s all I wanted to say.

  “Amen.”

  Amen.

  Chapter 34

  “All rightie, I’m going to partner you up. It says here you are to do the weighted ball toss until . . . let me get my glasses . . . hmm, is that right? Yes, that’s what it says . . . it says do the weighted ball toss until your little pansy arms fall off.” The PE substitute tugs up a droopy knee high and begins to number us off.

  Coach Nelson is blissfully absent today. And even though she left a list of horrendous activities no human being could physically accomplish, it’s a relief the Queen of Mean and Lean is gone. If only she had taken her daughter with her.

  “Now, if your number is fourteen, raise your hand. Good. You two ladies will be together.” The sub pushes up her bifocals. “Fifteen?”

  I raise my hand.

  And so does Angel.

  “Congratulations, you’re partners. Sixteen . . .”

  I have successfully avoided Angel and her friends for sixteen days, five hours, and nine minutes. Her militant mom has had some sort of twisted mercy on me ever since the “incident” and made sure we were never anywhere near each other in PE.

  How sad is it that I’m missing Coach Nelson right now?

  I chance a look Angel’s way.

  She sneaks a peek in my direction.

  Do I walk over there?
Or does she walk over here? Do I suck it up and be the mature one?

  Maturity’s kind of overrated, you know?

  Oh, okay. I stretch one foot out and plant it on the hardwood floor. I drag my other foot to meet it. Look there, a whole step. I’m reeking of maturity.

  Ah, forget it. I close the space between the two of us, grabbing a weighted ball as I go.

  I’m going to think of something profound and life changing to say to her.

  “Hey.” Simple is good too. I like simple.

  “Hey.” Angel’s eyes flit to me then return to focus on her scuffed Nikes.

  I hold the ball in my arms and think of what I’d really like to do with it.

  Tweeeet! Our sub, Mrs. Droopy Stockings, blows on the whistle so hard something drops. Off her shirt? Was it a necklace maybe? Her hair clip?

  She bends over to retrieve her lost possession and her glasses fall. I watch as the older woman helplessly feels around on the gym floor for her lost possessions.

  “Let’s go help the poor lady.” I sigh and wave a reluctant Angel to follow me. “Come on.”

  Angel and I approach the befuddled PE replacement and swoop in to retrieve the objects of her search. We resurface, holding our treasure.

  Angel presents the sub with her glasses.

  I open my hand, only to realize my fingers had been tightly wrapped around . . .

  Dentures.

  Ew! I throw the teeth at the woman like they’re a hand grenade.

  Angel bites on her lip, but her giggles explode. Watching her face, I lose any ground I’ve gained on maturity and give in to bubbling laughter.

  “Totally sick.” Angel catches her breath as we walk back to our spot.

  “I held that woman’s teeth in my hand.” I suppress a shiver.

  The whistle trills again, and Angel and I share another laugh as we heave the weighted ball back and forth.

  “I’m not even looking over there to see if she dropped her teeth this time.” Angel hurls the ball my way.

  “If she did, it’s your turn to pick up the dentures. I get the glasses.” I smile hesitantly, bending deeper to take the weight.