In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  Except for our labored breathing, the next few minutes pass by in semi-comfortable silence as Angel and I focus on staying upright and keeping the million pound ball going—without dislocating anything important.

  “I see you found new—oomph—friends.” Angel wipes her sweaty face with her T-shirt.

  I’m dying here.

  Want.

  Water.

  And a stretcher.

  “Yeah—ow—I guess.” I gasp in air, grateful for the seconds the torture device is not in my arms.

  “Those people . . . think they’re better . . . than everyone else.”

  My noodle-like arms barely secure the ball. “No . . . they don’t . . . Been really nice to me.” I have to stop and catch my breath. I hold out my hand for her to give me a moment. Oxygen. I need oxygen.

  Afraid of the whistle, I risk a look at our substitute and see her slumped over in a seat, mouth wide open, snoozing away. I point her out to Angel, then crawl my way to the nearest bleacher, gasping for breath.

  “I just think . . . you’re out of your league, that’s all.” Angel spills onto the seat next to me.

  I take a few moments to let my heart rate slow. “What’s my league then, Angel?” I push my dripping hair out of my eyes. “You guys are on the wrong track, and I can’t get pulled down in all that.”

  “Whatever.”

  My face burns but not so much from the workout. “‘Whatever’? Angel, wake up. We were an inch away from wearing stripes and posing for mug shots. Hanging out with you nearly got me arrested. Do you even get that?”

  “It was a mistake, okay?” Angel swears, and it sounds wrong to my ears, ears that have grown accustomed to the G-rated life at the Scotts.

  “You know”—I drag in a breath—“I’ve learned a lot since I’ve been here. And I’m finally getting it. There are mistakes, and then there are choices. Tearing up the Valiant—that was a choice.” I shake my head, seeing the destruction in my mind, recalling Millie’s hurt.

  “Oh, so I guess your new friends are perfect?”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re so angry about. I don’t know if I’ll be having sleepover and pedicure nights with these people anytime soon, but I do know, so far, Frances and her friends aren’t out to spray paint the town or do things that result in a police escort.” It’s like I’m talking to a wall.

  “Katie, I actually feel sorry for you.” Angel’s disdainful laugh sounds forced. “If you think you have anything in common with Frances and her type, you are so totally blind. They don’t care about you. And when they get up close and catch a glimpse of where you really come from, they’ll drop you faster than a pair of false teeth. But don’t come crying to us.”

  I digest her words and find I can’t completely discount them. I’ve never hung out with the “good” kids before. Never been in the “in” crowd. I am way out of my league. But at the same time, I feel defensive on their behalf.

  “You know, you could come to church with me Sunday and check them out for yourself.” The words escape my mouth before I can wrangle them back. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Angel rolls her eyes and stands up. “Yeah, you save me a seat. I’ll be there. That’s all I need—the perfect kids and Jesus. Then life would be wonderful, right? Everything would magically be fixed?”

  Uh . . . shaky ground here. Not my area of expertise. “That’s not what I’m getting at—”

  What am I getting at?

  “Those people don’t deal in reality. They don’t know life like we do.” Angel’s eyes lose some of their hostility. “But when you find yourself back to ground zero, and all your little friends have disappeared, don’t come crawling back to me.” With a final, dismissive smirk, she heads to the locker room.

  The three o’clock bell rings just as I’m stepping out of the gym shower. The steam did nothing to clear my head—or the nasty drain. Seriously, how hard is it to clean a shower? Is it just part of the health code that locker room showers must have clogged, disgusting, bacteria breeding showers?

  The longer Angel’s words occupy space in my head, the more confused I get. Leaving her and her group had to be the right thing to do. Like I told her, I can’t get caught up in that. Living on the wrong side of the law is my mom’s style, not mine. It can’t be mine. But what if Angel is right about the churchies and Frances? When they really get to know me, when they see what I come from, when they realize my mama sure ain’t staying at the Hilton, will they still be kind to me? Still offer to save me a seat at lunch? Still offer me gum in Sunday services?

  I throw on my clothes and all but run out to the buses, just in time to escape the driver closing the door. I take the only remaining seat—next to the kid I’ve come to know as “Bucky the BO Wonder.” I inhale his offensive aroma all the way to the Valiant, where I torpedo off the bus, desperate for air that doesn’t smell like gym socks and armpits.

  As I step into the lobby, I find Sam hunched over the concession stand counter, inspecting some newly applied wood trim.

  “Good afternoon, little missy. Ready to do some sanding today?”

  Moving in, I examine what I suppose will be my work area. “Yes, sir. I was just thinking to myself, the only way this day could get any better was if it involved sanding. How do you do it, Sam? How is it I walk in here and you know just what I need?”

  Sam smacks his Juicy Fruit, and I have a flashback to projectile teeth. Let’s hope his teeth stay where they belong.

  “Don’t go worrying about your pretty little manicure.” Sam runs his weathered hand over the trim and grins. “We’ll get you some work gloves and get you started. Pretty soon, you’ll be begging me to let you sand.”

  I readjust my backpack. “I’m gonna put this in the office. Be right back.”

  He waves me off.

  “Don’t start without me,” I yell, finding my way to Millie’s office space in the back.

  I settle my bag on the floor, and curiosity gets the best of me. I listen for a few seconds for anyone in the vicinity, then make my way over to Millie’s desk. I’m not gonna rifle through the desk (though the old me probably would have), but as long as I’m here, my eyes might accidentally roam over her workspace in search of sticky notes with information on Amy, important memos, copies of phone messages, or evidence of any more outgoing care packages.

  And if I find any chocolate or candy, I’ll probably have to confiscate it. For evidence.

  Searching . . .

  Searching . . .

  And nothing.

  Nothing but Millie’s giant calendar, which has the grand opening date circled a few times in bright red marker. I can’t believe we are now only weeks away. Weeks away from possible disaster. The theatre isn’t ready and Juliet is being played by a department store mannequin. Something’s got to give. Today I’m going to talk to Sam about what we can do to speed up the renovation.

  An outburst of girlish laughter makes me jump away from the desk and hold my hands in the air like I’m in a stick-up. My heart gallops in my chest, but I let my exhale in relief when I realize the ultrafeminine giggles are coming from the lobby.

  I leave the office and follow a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

  Right to Maxine.

  “Oh, Sam, please, have a cookie.”

  Maxine leans over the concession counter, plying a google-eyed Sam with bottled water and snickerdoodles.

  “Hey, Maxine.”

  The two star-crossed love birds jump apart.

  Maxine does not look thrilled to see me. “Well, well, well, if it’s not our favorite school girl. Don’t you have some homework to do?”

  “Nope.” I move in between them, picking up my gloves. “I’m here to work. You can’t say Katie Parker shirks her responsibilities. No way.” There has to be a halo above my head, I’m radiating so much innocence.

  Sam clears his throat. “Um . . . er, uh . . . Maxine here was just bringing us some cookies. Weren’t you?”

  Maxine proudly holds out a plate of cooki
es, partially covered by foil. “These just came out of the oven. Take one now, everyone. I insist!”

  Sam looks at me. “Ladies first.”

  “No, no. Age before . . . reformed, rebellious foster kid.”

  Maxine shoves the plate closer to Sam. “Come on now, fresh, warm cookies.” She bats her mascara coated eyelashes.

  “Katie’s worked so hard lately, I want her to have the first one, Maxine.”

  “No, thank you.” I’m not risking my life with that woman’s baking.

  Maxine sniffs indignantly. “I didn’t say they came out of my oven.”

  Oh. That changes everything.

  My hand collides with Sam’s as we make a dive for the goods.

  “Who made these?” I ask, my mouth full.

  “Patricia Rigglebottom. As you may or may not know, I am the coordinator for the Shady Acres Harvest Ball, and Patricia is a member of the food committee. We are considering her cookies for the event, and she brought over a sample, which I wanted to share.” Maxine’s cheeks glow pink. “Share with Millie, of course. To get her opinion. She said she’d help me with the ball, and I thought she might be here.”

  “Yes, imagine running into Sam here instead. Crazy, crazy coincidence, huh?”

  Maxine jerks the cookie out of my hand midbite. “Go scrub some toilets or something, would you?”

  “Well, I am pleased to see you, Maxine,” Sam says, his evident hope making the man look almost silly.

  “Thank you, Samuel. Good to see you. I didn’t know you’d be here.” Maxine elbows me in the ribs. “But I would appreciate a man’s opinion of these snickerdoodles. Tell me, is there enough sugar?”

  “He definitely needs more sugar, Maxine.”

  I’m rewarded with a heel stamped on my toe.

  Sam takes off his hat, as I’ve found he does in times of stress, and wipes his nearly bald head. “These cookies are fine. Just fine. God bless the hands that made them. And the hands that brought them.”

  “Well now, isn’t that nice?” Maxine giggles. “Isn’t that just the sweetest, Katie?”

  Stay down, cookies. Stay down.

  “I guess there will be some fine eats at the Harvest Ball this year—with you in charge, Maxine.”

  “Sam, you are such the gentleman. Yes, I think we’ll have some wonderful food there.”

  “If you would like . . . well, I was wondering . . .”

  “Yes?” Maxine coos, and she and I both lean in.

  “Er . . . if no one else has asked you . . .” Sam swallows. “Would you like, um . . . Oh, shoot! I gotta go! How did the time get away from me? Oh, no, I . . . uh . . .”

  I don’t know if you can freak out when you’re a senior citizen, but that’s definitely what I would call what Sam is doing. Maxine looks to me for help, but I just shrug.

  Sam takes off his hat, this time to tip it like an English gent, “I must . . . run an errand.”

  And the white-haired carpenter jets out like his overalls are on fire.

  Again.

  Hmm, very interesting indeed.

  Maxine clutches her cookie plate to her ample bosom and her eyes narrow. “What, pray tell, just happened?”

  “I don’t know. He did the same thing a few days ago.”

  “Left? Left at this particular time?” She consults her rhinestone-crusted watch. “At four thirty?”

  I pause. How much do I tell? I don’t want to get poor Sam in trouble. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Something doesn’t smell right here.”

  “I totally agree.” I sniff my foster granny. “I think you have on way too much perfume.”

  “No! I mean with Sam.”

  Oh. Right.

  “Well, for one thing, the poor guy was trying to ask you out for the Harvest Ball, and—”

  “Shh!” Maxine waves her hands in front of my face. “I think I hear Millie.”

  Sure enough, my foster mom, juggling bags of supplies from the hardware store, appears at the door and knocks on it with her foot to get our attention.

  Maxine puts the clutch of death on my arm. “Don’t say a word. You got me, Sweet Pea?”

  Bang! Bang!

  “Not a single word.” Maxine’s voice sizzles as she backs up and opens the door for her daughter. “Millie, dear! What a wonderful surprise to see you!”

  I intercept Millie and take some of the bags out of her hands. She catches my eye, waiting for me to translate her mother’s odd behavior. Yeah, that’ll be the day. There isn’t a decoder ring in existence that could explain that woman.

  “This is my theatre, Mother. Of course I’d be here. What are you doing here?”

  Maxine falters, but she plods on. “You were going to help me with the Harvest Ball, remember? I have so many decisions I have to make by tomorrow, and I desperately need your help.”

  “Okay, sure.” Millie runs a hand through her hair. “Katie, I don’t know what Sam wants you doing today. Is he around?”

  “He had to go, but he didn’t get to show me exactly what to do. He needed to run an errand.”

  “Again?”

  Maxine’s eye twitches, and I rub a hand over my grinning mouth.

  Millie sighs. “I don’t have a clue what he wanted you to do, so why don’t we all take a seat in the theatre and watch the rehearsals, discuss the gala.”

  We enter the theatre to find the cast gathering their belongings.

  “See you tomorrow. And Stephanie, make sure you let us know next time you have a hair appointment.” Bev turns away from the actors and holds her script over her face, rambling incoherently.

  Millie rushes to the flustered director and puts a gentle arm around her. “Bev, is everything okay here?”

  “I don’t know, Millie. To be honest, I don’t know if we’re going to be ready for the opening.”

  “But you have to be.” Millie’s voice rises in pitch.

  “We need practice, practice, and more practice, but Romeo is often late due to baseball practice, our Nurse had to be out last week when her son had the chicken pox, and today Stephanie is leaving to take care of her split ends. It’s just not coming together.”

  “Here, Katie.” Maxine scoots in, grabs Bev’s script and shoves it into my hands. “Here’s your job for today—Juliet.”

  “Wh-wh-what? No way! I can’t go up there. I—”

  “Oh, it would be such a help.” Relief softens Millie’s face. “You can read her lines, can’t you?”

  “Oh, this girl reads like a dream. Millie, have I not been telling you what a beautiful job she does for me on Tuesdays? When she reads, the story just comes to—”

  “Hey, Millie,” I say. “Did you know Maxine brought cookies for S—” Maxine shoves a snickerdoodle between my teeth. “Oomph. Nebbermindh.”

  “We could really use your help.”

  Bev nods in agreement with my foster mom, and I embrace the inevitable. The unavoidable.

  “All right. Let me see the script.”

  Bev squeals and returns to the stage to stop her cast from leaving.

  “Come on, Millie. Let’s park it in a seat and discuss the Harvest Ball.”

  Maxine wraps a bangled arm around her daughter and steers her away from where I’m standing. And fuming. My foster grandmother takes one final look and winks in ornery satisfaction.

  “Break a leg, Toots.”

  Chapter 35

  “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

  “I have no idea what you just said, but Rocky seems entranced by it.”

  Startled at the sound of James’s voice behind me, I fling my script across the room in a spastic motion and nearly fall off the bed.

  “Oh, my gosh.” I hold my racing heart. “James, you scared me.”

  On this early Sunday morning, my foster dad takes in the scene before him: me standing on my bed, a silk flower tucked in my hair. And Rocky, a shirt tied around him like a cape, sitting at atten
tion, waiting for his next command.

  “You’re kinda scaring me too. I did knock, but I guess you didn’t hear me.” He pats his dog on the head and walks across my bedroom to pick up my projectile script.

  James reads the cover. “Ah, Romeo and Juliet. Of course. Great stuff.”

  I know if I looked in the mirror right now my cheeks would be feverishly red, and my neck would probably be broken out in weird splotches like it does when I experience total, utter humiliation.

  I sit down on the bed, very aware of how ridiculous I look (not to mention how I’ve shamed the family dog). “I . . . um, still have the script Bev gave me when I stepped in for Stephanie at rehearsal last week.”

  And I like to dress up your dog and call him Romeo, and together we put on plays.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” James pulls out my desk chair and sits down, like he has all the time in the world. Like he doesn’t have to leave for church soon. “I heard you were some kind of wonderful on that stage.”

  My blush intensifies. “I was wonderful?”

  James smiles wide. “That’s the report I was given. I hear you can ‘wherefore art thou’ with the best of them. And you saved the practice.”

  I was wonderful.

  “Katie?”

  “Oh. Right. Well, it was no big deal. You know, just glad to help out.”

  James rolls his chair closer to me, his face serious. “Even Maxine was bragging on you, and she’s a hard sell—believe me. I’ve been trying to win her over for thirty years.”

  We share a smile, and I begin to relax.

  “Maybe next semester you can see about getting out of art and into drama. You’d probably enjoy that.” James taps his fingers on his knees. “And maybe you could talk the teacher into letting Rocky audition for a play too.

  I launch from my seat on the bed and pull on the shirt until Rocky is free of it. “No animals were harmed in the reading of this script.”

  James shakes his head and grins. “Katie, I . . .” He clears his throat. “I want to tell you how proud I am, how proud Millie and I both are of the job you’ve been doing at the Valiant. I know it’s a lot of work, and you haven’t complained a bit.”