In Between

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Yeah, God picks them. And you want to know something cool?” His mouth turns up in a smile. “We requested a boy foster child.” He laughs at my face. “Millie and I specifically asked for a boy to be placed in our home. But when the call came, we knew we couldn’t walk away from you. You’ve been one of the best surprises of our lives.”

  I clear my throat and stare at the floor, not wanting James to see the tears gathering.

  “That, Katie, is God.”

  When I reach my bedroom, I shut the door and settle onto my bed. Bowing my head, I close my eyes and try to think of all the prayers I’ve heard since I hit In Between. All the pretty words. All the churchie phrases.

  But nothing comes to me. Nothing that sounds right.

  I stink at this talking to God stuff.

  I jump off the bed and move to my desk. Reaching into a drawer, I drag out the stationery from Mrs. Smartly and lay it out. With pen in hand, I stare at an empty sheet of paper for a full ten minutes.

  Dear Most Gracious Heavenly Father,

  Lord, I praise you and thank you

  Um . . . no. So not working. I crumple up the paper and try again.

  Dear Heavenly Father,

  Lord, I come to thee today and offer thou

  Definitely not. Sounds like Shakespeare just invaded my body.

  Life would be a lot easier if I could just shoot the Big G-Man an e-mail. God seriously needs some Gmail.

  Dear God,

  It’s me, Katie.

  Look, I don’t have all the fancy words for this, so I’m just gonna spit it out. We really need your help. I know I haven’t been the model child here, but I have really been trying. Somehow, some way, the Valiant needs to be ready for the opening. I know it’s all impossible, but well, you do have that whole God thing going for you.

  Millie and James need this. And I guess so do I. These people are important to me.

  Please help. You’re my last shot.

  Later.

  Amen.

  Chapter 39

  “Are you sure Sam said he would be here?” I wring my hands and eye Frances.

  “Yes, he promised me. You should’ve seen me. I deserve an Oscar for that performance. I told him with both of my grandfathers living so far away, I thought of him like a grandpa.”

  “And then you told him you would be here helping out.”

  “Right.” Frances’s face glows as she reenacts the story. “I said, ‘Sam, it would mean the world to me if you would come to the Harvest Ball and dance with me.’”

  “And what did he say?”

  Frances’s voice goes deep. “He said, ‘I don’t know, girl. I think I’m going to be busy that night.’ So I gave him the face.” Her expression changes to a tragic pout. “And I said, ‘If my grandfathers were here, they would be at the ball to dance with me. Sarah Jane Patterson always dances with her grandfather at the Harvest Ball.’”

  I frown. “Kind of a weak story. I was hoping you’d be a little more original. Like tell him Julia Roberts was going to be here. Or how it was one of the residents’ dying wish he come tonight. Maybe tell him they were giving away door prizes—overalls and tool belts.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s gonna work. I had him in the palm of my hand.”

  Suddenly we’re surrounded by a haze of heavy perfume.

  “Well, Sweet Peas, you’re not being paid to stand there and chitty-chat.” Maxine, in a silky lilac formal, joins us at the refreshment table.

  “We’re not being paid for anything. We’re volunteers.” I arrange the napkins in a fan, resisting the urge to fold them into swans.

  Maxine digs in her beaded clutch and pulls out her lipstick. “What do you think about our theme?”

  I read the banner over the entry of the activities room. A Night of Fall Foliage.

  “Yup.” Maxine blots her lips on a napkin. “I voted for All Dried Up, but nobody went for it.”

  “You look very pretty, Mrs. Simmons.”

  “Thank you, Frances. I wasn’t sure about the color, but old Cecil Tucker just told me I look like Jessica Simpson.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t say Bart Simpson?”

  Maxine whacks me on the shoulder with her purse. “I don’t need your sass. Now get back to work. Ask people if they need anything—cake, punch, hearing aid batteries.” Maxine walks away in her purple stilettos, mumbling something about a disco ball.

  I clean up some crumbs and stray trash on the table. “Nice music.”

  Frances and I pause to listen to the twenty-piece orchestra.

  “What’s up with the bubbles?” I pop one with my finger.

  “It’s setting the mood.”

  “When you have an eighty-five-year-old saxophone player tooting out some Kanye West, setting the mood is the least of your worries.”

  The orchestra transitions into a number that sounds like an old Mariah Carey song, and the lights dim. A man in a navy suit walks past me, closing in on the pigs in a blanket.

  “Sir, can I get you some punch?” I fill his glass. And then nearly drop it. “Sam?”

  Sam Dayberry tugs on his collar and his eyes shift nervously. “Hello, Katie. Frances.”

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s like some makeover crew got a hold of him. “I didn’t recognize you without your hat.”

  His face turns as red as the watered-down punch. “You’ve seen me without my hat. At church.”

  “But not like this. Not with a suit and tie.”

  “You look so GQ.” Frances gives me a pointed look when the disco ball flickers to life.

  It’s go time.

  “Um, Sam . . . this is my favorite song. Would you like to dance?” Frances looks longingly at the dance floor.

  “I don’t know. I just got here. Maybe I could have some of these hot dog thingies here first.”

  I jump into action, placing myself between Sam and the appetizer table. “No, you guys go ahead. Frances has been looking forward to a dance all evening.”

  Totally defeated, Sam grabs a cup of punch and throws it back. He reaches for another.

  “You don’t want Frances to miss her favorite song.”

  “Oh, all right.” Sam offers Frances his hand, and the two step onto the floor.

  I search frantically for Maxine. Where is she? I know Sam isn’t going to stay long. With no time to lose, I run into the kitchen calling out Maxine’s name.

  No sign of her.

  I check the ladies’ room, the men’s room, the parking lot, and the outer hallways of Shady Acres. I sprint back into the dance hall, catching Frances’s attention, signing to keep him dancing.

  A blur of lavender whizzes by and heads for the orchestra.

  “Maxine!”

  She continues her pursuit of the conductor.

  “Young man, I specifically told you I didn’t want to hear any eighties music tonight. It was just brought to my attention you played Bon Jovi in that last set.”

  “Maxine!”

  My foster grandmother halts, her finger poking the conductor in the chest. “What is it? I’m handling some urgent business here.”

  “Maxine, Sam’s here.”

  She contemplates this. “Katie, my dear, I really don’t care. I let that man go like a stretched-out girdle.”

  “I saw him dancing with someone.”

  Her lips twitch, and she bares her teeth like a pit bull. If Maxine were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of her ears.

  Satisfied the bait is taken, I make a beeline for the dance floor and give Frances a thumbs up. Frances stops her waltz with Sam, grabs a woman from a swaying couple nearby, and pushes her into Sam’s arms. With some magical words to the poor woman’s partner, Frances takes the guy’s hand and leads him away.

  That. Was brilliant.

  I hear the clicking of Maxine’s heels before I see her come tearing through the crowd. Her eyes lock onto Sam and the lady in his arms.

  I tap Maxine on the shoulder. “Cecil Tucker looks like he could
use a dance.”

  Maxine follows the direction of my pointing finger, marches over, and grabs a dazed Cecil by the collar. She charges onto the dance floor, her friend limping behind her. Despite the slow, drifting chords of the violins, Maxine jerks Cecil to her, chest to chest. She stomps a purple shoe to the floor and leads a helpless Cecil into a tango.

  This calls for snacks. Grabbing some nuts and punch from the refreshment table, I settle into a chair, ready to watch the drama unfold.

  I don’t know who’s the worst dancer: Cecil or Sam. Both look like they took lessons from The Tin Man.

  Maxine bends herself backward over Cecil’s arm, and he’s forced to dip her. Right into Sam.

  “Oops, excuse us.” Maxine giggles. “I thought Cecil and I were the only ones in the room.”

  The band brings the song to a close, and Sam says something to his partner and she glides away.

  I drop my plate of nuts and leap into action, desperate to catch Sam before it’s too late.

  Dodging a walker and an old lady breaking out some rap video moves, I rush the dance floor and plant myself in front of Sam.

  “Don’t go.” I have to catch my breath.

  “What?”

  “I said, don’t go.” I plaster a smile on my face. “I saw you cutting a rug with Frances. And . . . it’s my turn!”

  My entire dancing experience consists of square dancing lessons in fourth grade PE. I’m afraid it’s all I’ve got. I hook my arm through his and reel him into a very awkward Cotton-Eyed Joe.

  “Katie, I don’t know anything about dancing, but this doesn’t seem to go along with the music.”

  Kick and step two, three, four.

  “Sam, you have to talk to Maxine. She’s miserable without you.”

  The orchestra continues their rendition of some slow Elvis song. I keep one eye on Maxine, who is still holding Cecil hostage with the tango.

  “She’s not miserable without me. She doesn’t need anybody.” Sam stumbles over my fast-moving feet.

  “No, she’s devastated. Just look at her.” Maxine is cheek-to-cheek with Cecil. “Well, maybe look at her later . . .”

  “Katie, I’m not in Cecil Tucker’s league. He’s a war vet. The guy only has one leg. He gave up a limb for our country. I can’t compete with that.”

  “You’re not even trying.” I spot Frances and shake my head, letting her know things are not going well.

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I took dance lessons from a sixteen-year-old boy, didn’t I?”

  “Good point.”

  “If she wants me, she’s gonna have to come and get me. I’m tired of dating in secret, and I’m sick of chasing Maxine Simmons around like a lost puppy. I have my pride, and I’m done.”

  That man loves Maxine. I know it.

  With a little modified two-step, I pivot Sam around so I can connect with Frances again. With my eyes bulging and my head jerking, I send out a mayday and motion her over.

  “Oh, look. Here’s Frances, ready for another dance.” And I pass Sam off to my friend. I follow the sound of Cecil Tucker’s labored breathing and tap his shoulder. “May I cut in?”

  Cecil’s eyes light up at the opportunity for escape, and he quickly disappears into the sea of senior citizens.

  “What did you do a thing like that for? I was just getting warmed up.”

  I grab Maxine’s hands and lead us in a terrible imitation of a slow dance. “Maxine, you are being ridiculous! What do you think you’re doing cha-cha-ing all over the place with that man? Do you realize you’re just hurting Sam? Not to mention, I seriously doubt Cecil Tucker will even be able to get out of bed tomorrow.”

  Maxine takes the lead and spins me under her raised hand. “Hurting Sam? I’m the victim here. Me!”

  “You should try talking to him.” I roll up in Maxine’s arm, only to be spun out and released.

  “I don’t want to talk to him. I have nothing to say.”

  “You’re just afraid he won’t talk to you.”

  A bubble lands on her nose. “There is that.”

  “Just go ask him to dance.”

  She gasps and throws me into a fierce dip. “I will do no such thing! I am a lady.”

  I’m going to have whiplash. “It’s the twenty-first century. It’s okay for a lady to ask a man for a dance.”

  She pulls me upright. “Not for one of my generation.”

  I try to regain the lead and steer us a few steps closer to Sam and Frances. “You carry an iPod and have U2 as your cell ringtone. I think you’re a little more advanced than the rest.”

  “I am too delicate and refined.”

  “I’ve seen you pick a wedgie in public.”

  Closer. Closer. Just a couple more feet and Maxine and Sam will be back to back.

  “Frances, now!”

  Frances and I throw our partners at each other. Maxine stumbles into Sam, who catches her with open arms. The two stand in a loose embrace. And just stare at one another.

  Then Sam pulls Maxine closer and whispers near her ear.

  Clutching her hero, my foster grandmother gives me the stink eye, but the two begin to move to the waltz. With Maxine leading.

  “Look, they’re talking.” Frances sighs and collapses into a seat.

  “We were brilliant.” Our hands meet in a high five, and we sit and watch all of our hard work pay off.

  Sam and Maxine tear up the floor for another hour until the orchestra calls last song, and the two glide across the floor in not-so-perfect rhythm.

  “Never thought about ending ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ in the splits.” Frances tilts her head to get a better look at Maxine.

  “There they go.” I watch Sam hold out a hand and lead his lady off the floor. I hope when I’m old and gray I’ll have someone to help me out of the splits.

  “Sam said to tell you he’s walking Maxine to her door and not to worry about her.”

  I stare at Frances. “When did he tell you that?”

  “The last time I went out there and snuck him some punch. I guess a guy gets thirsty keeping up with a broad like that.”

  Frances and I bus some tables, pausing now and then to raid the leftovers on the hors d’oeuvres table.

  “Whew, is it over?” Millie appears at my side, untying a stained apron.

  My eyes dart through the room, but Sam and Maxine are gone. “Where’ve you been, Millie? You missed a good party.”

  She laughs and blows a few strands of hair out of her eyes. “I’ve been in the kitchen all night. I kept thinking I’d get to come out and watch the dancing, but just as soon as I’d get to a stopping place, there would be another food crisis.

  Millie lays a tired arm across my shoulders. “I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

  Frances and I share a tired look, and I look away to avoid a giggling fit.

  “No, nothing.” Frances puts on her poker face.

  “Did Mother get a chance to dance with anyone tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “Maxine got her chance.”

  Chapter 40

  “These tests are terrible.”

  Mr. Walker throws his stack of Algebra II exams on his desk. He shakes his head. The only thing worse than a Monday is getting a big fat F on a Monday.

  I doodle little hearts on my notebook and swallow bitter disappointment. I studied my buns off for that test. Frances drilled me for hours like she was the Coach Nelson of quadratic equations. I didn’t expect to set the curve or anything, but I thought I got at least a letter grade above failing. Studying is so overrated.

  “Apparently, you don’t think algebra is important. Obviously it doesn’t matter to you people that you need this math credit to graduate.”

  Hey, I’m all about those credits that lead to a diploma.

  “Reviewing was just a waste of class time. Half of you didn’t even take notes when I discussed what would be on the test.”

  The class is so quiet I can hear myself breathe.

  Mr. Walker passes the
tests back, walking through the aisles and slapping exams on desktops.

  “When I review, I expect it to be taken seriously.”

  Other than tattooing the answers on my forearm, I couldn’t have been any more prepared.

  “I want to praise one student for investing the time and effort into studying. This person is to be commended for making the highest grade, a B+.”

  Gotta be Simon Pensky, the one who always pulls the highest grade and is totally obnoxious about it. Last week he offered to help me study for a quiz: “I can tutor you, Katie. I’d be glad to show you what I know.” And then he made these hubba-hubba eyebrows. I nearly barfed on him. I thought about showing him what I knew—courtesy of Trina.

  Mr. Walker tosses a test on my desk, face down, and my stomach turns.

  “This person could teach the rest of you a thing or two about studying.”

  I flip my test over. My heart stops.

  “Congratulations, Katie. You earned the highest grade.”

  It’s me? He was talking about me! I think I’m going to hyperventilate. The shock—it’s too much. This has to be a miracle. They’ll want to put me on the evening news, like those people who see Jesus in tortillas.

  The red B+ leaps off the page, and I can’t take my eyes off of it. I must be dreaming. These things don’t happen to me. Katie Parker does not set the curve. I flip through the exam, almost certain it’s a mistake.

  But it’s not. I made a B+. Oh, my gosh—I am smart! I can’t wait to tell Frances and the Scotts. This baby’s going on the fridge.

  The bell rings, and Simon, the dethroned math whiz follows me out. “Hey, good job on the math test.”

  He stands a little too close, and I give him my best Stephanie-as-Juliet smile. “Thanks. I guess I don’t need you to show me all you know—about math.” I waggle my brows.

  I breeze past him, resisting the urge to stomp on his foot as I go. Trucking it down the corridor, I push my way through the crowded hall and hold onto my test like it’s a winning lottery ticket. I walk past my locker and take a right. There’s a stop I need to make before I head off to lunch. It’s something I’ve been trying to scrounge up the courage to do, and now I feel like I could do anything.