On the Loose
A Katie Parker Production (Act II)
Jenny B. Jones
On the Loose
Six months into her stay with her foster parents, Katie Parker is finally adjusting to her new family. But after a tornado rips through the town of In Between, nothing is ever the same. When her foster mom, Millie, is diagnosed with cancer, Katie begins to doubt if God really does care. What will happen to Katie? Could she possibly have to leave In Between and the family she’s come to depend on? Things spiral even further out of control when Katie juggles a malfunctioning best friend, Spring Break plans, and holding the attention of her own Prince Charming. It’s going to take more than a glass slipper and some fairy dust to fix Katie Parker’s problems. But will help come in time?
A Katie Parker Production Series
In Between
On the Loose
The Big Picture
Can’t Let You Go (Summer 2014)
Other Books by Jenny B. Jones
Save the Date
Just Between You and Me
So Not Happening
I’m So Sure
So Over My Head
There You’ll Find Me
Copyright © 2014 Jenny B. Jones
Kindle Edition
Sweet Pea Productions
Originally published by NavPress, 2007.
Some of the anecdotal illustrations in this book are true to life and are included with the permission of the persons involved. All other illustrations are composites of real situations, and any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
Unless otherwise identified, all Scripture quotations in this publication are taken from the New American Standard Bible (nasb), © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995.
On the Loose: a Katie Parker Production (Act 2)/Jenny B. Jones.
Cover Design: Natasha Brown
[1. Foster home care—fiction 2. Theater—fiction 3. High schools—fiction 4. Schools—fiction 5. Texas—fiction]
This book is dedicated to my brother, Michael. I love you, and you mean the world to me. We went from screaming, biting, hitting brats to good friends. Life has been crazy, but I would’ve been insane had I not had a big brother to hold my hand. Or give me noogies.
This book is also dedicated to you because you told me if I didn’t acknowledge you, you would tell the world that you are the ghost writer behind all my books.
Once again—I have the last word.
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Katie Parker Production Series
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
About Can’t Let You Go
About the Author
Chapter 1
Another advertisement for feminine products. Is it just a universal law that if you sit down to watch TV with a guy, you are guaranteed at least two tampon commercials?
I sigh with relief when American Idol comes back on and focus my attention on the contestant.
“Get off the stage! You can’t sing. Girl, your mother’s been lying to you.”
James, my foster dad, rips the remote control out of my hands. He collapses back into his leather recliner and shouts another piece of artistic advice to the contestant on TV. I watch this fifty-five-year-old pastor howling along to an old Kelly Clarkson hit, and wish I had a mute button for his singing voice.
“How did she get into the top ten?” His intense gaze seeks mine. “Have you ever heard anyone so bad?”
Is this a rhetorical question—like when we girls ask if we look fat?
As the painful song ends, James shouts more criticism and comments at the TV. If his congregation could only see him now, preaching his Simon-like truth to the contestants on American Idol, they would drop their NIVs and run. It’s like the evil spirit of pop, rock, and disco takes over his body. So not pretty.
I eyeball the remote in his hands, clutched in a death grip. Ah, remote, we used to be so close. Once upon a time we had such good times together. So much of my life has changed since coming to live with James and Millie Scott. Most of it for the good, but their firm control of my viewing habits still totally bites. I’m used to free reign, trolling through the cable channels to my heart’s content. I mean my own mother’s rules during prime-time viewing hours were that I didn’t interrupt her illegal drug sales. She was all for HBO if it kept me occupied. Those days are so over.
“James, are you watching the weather?”
Millie walks into the living room, a frown on her face. She opens the blinds and looks outside.
“Yeah, the weather. Uh-huh.” He turns up the volume. “Oh, did you hear that judge? That’s exactly what I would’ve said.”
“Honey, switch it to a local channel for a second, would you? Mother just called and said there’re some weather alerts.”
“Millie, this is the last contestant for the night. We’ve got to see this. The theme is Justin Timberlake songs, and I’ve been waiting all week for this.”
My foster mom and I freeze. And stare at James.
With a final glance out the window, Millie plops down on the couch beside me. “This is all your fault, Katie. Last night he asked me if he was too old to try out for the show.”
James laughs and passes me some popcorn. “I could show Justin a thing or two.”
Yes, but we would all need intense therapy afterwards.
Rocky, the family dog, follows the food and parks his large body on my feet. I try to shove him away, but it’s no use. Just one of the many things I’m getting used to around here.
“Okay, commercial break. Now flip it over to channel seven.” Millie throws a pillow at her husband to get his attention.
“Just a sec.” James pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “We’re still going with that voting strategy we talked about at dinner, right?”
My foster dad has a whole system going. He’s got spread sheets, bar graphs, and occasionally he even watches Entertainment Tonight to get some inside scoop on the singers. I’m just waiting for the day he starts his own Idol blog.
Millie lifts herself off the couch and grabs the remote out of James’s hand.
“Come on. We’re gonna miss the first part of the judge’s comments. If you could wait ten more minutes and—”
A loud siren fr
om outside stops James mid-sentence. It sounds like a much angrier version of a school fire alarm. My eyes go wide, and I look back and forth between my foster parents.
“What’s that?” The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“The tornado siren.”
Millie changes the station and a map of our county is on the screen. It’s covered in red.
James loses all interest in our TV show, as he grabs his glasses and reads the messages scrolling on the bottom of the television. “A tornado’s been spotted. It says we need to take shelter immediately.”
The loud wail grows more insistent. Rocky whimpers and buries his nose under the couch.
“Let’s get to the bathroom.”
Millie grabs the couch cushions and hands me some to carry with us.
I have never been in a tornado before. I’m from Texas, but where I come from, drought is the biggest weather disaster you have to deal with. Living with the Scotts has been one new experience after another, but this is a moment I could definitely do without. Who has a tornado in February, I ask you?
“I’m still calling American Idol,” James mutters. “Come on, Rocky.”
We speed walk into the Scott’s master bath. Having a bathroom of my own, I’m never in here, but now is not exactly the time to study the nautical theme Millie has going on in her powder room.
“Get in.” Millie steps into the large Jacuzzi tub and holds out her hand. “Put the couch cushion over your head.”
Great. So in addition to worrying about being sucked up by a funnel cloud, I’m going to have really bad hair too.
I climb in next to Millie and squat low. The TV blasts the weather report in the other room, and all I can hear is ‘Take cover. Go to your safe place.’ I scoot closer to my foster mom.
“James, come on. Shut the door.” Millie raises the khaki cushion over my head.
Shoving the dog into the bathroom (which is no easy task; that Lab is about as big as a buffalo), James swings his legs over the Jacuzzi and sits on Millie’s other side.
“Excuse me.” I clear my throat. “Shouldn’t I be in the middle? I am the child here. You know, the one you two should be protecting at all costs. My left side is totally unprotected, and—oomph!”
Rocky throws his body in to join us, his monstrous frame crashing into my side.
Well, who cares about the tornado? I’m pretty sure I’m gonna die under the weight of this overfed mutt.
“Good boy, Rocky.” Millie reaches around and gives her dog a pat. “Feel better, sweetie?”
“Oh, much.”
Rocky’s whining is louder than both the siren and the TV. His big dog mouth is near my ear, and his breath is more of a natural disaster than any twister. I try to shove the dog off me with an elbow, but he’s rock solid.
“Doing okay?” James curls an arm around me and Millie.
My teeth chatter and my body quakes. No, I’m not okay. I’m petrified! I’ve watched the Discovery Channel. I’ve seen what random chaos a tornado is capable of. I know perfectly well in a few hours it could be me, a few cows, and a stray toilet stuck in a tree on the other side of town.
“Everything’s going to be fine. It’s tornado season. Nothing to be afraid of. We’re just taking some precautions.”
Millie’s voice does little to comfort me. Precautions? A precaution is wearing your seatbelt in case you might have a wreck. Or carrying an umbrella because it may rain. Three people and a dog huddling in a tub with parts of a couch balanced on their heads is not a precaution. It’s what you do when the weatherman says a tornado is going to sail over your house and rip through your town.
“I’ll pray for us.”
With our heads already bowed, James leads us in prayer, asking God for safety and protection.
Even though I’m living with a pastor, and I’m at church a million times a week, I’m not a Christian. Shocking, I know. I’m still on the fence. I’m new to church and God, and I’m only now getting to the point where I can go to the youth services on Wednesday nights without wanting to hide in a broom closet all night. This life of faith the Scotts lead has been a huge adjustment for me.
That being said, I hope we don’t get wiped out tonight because I’m just not ready. Should we meet with untimely deaths, I know where the Scotts would go. They’d waltz right into the pearly gates of heaven. Me . . . now that’s another matter. Not tonight, God. I’m not exactly in the believers club yet . . . And besides, I can’t die without getting my driver’s license. It would be so embarrassing.
Rocky’s ears perk up and he sniffs the air. Maybe he got a whiff of his own breath.
The lights flicker a few times, and James’s arm tightens around my shoulders. This is not good.
The trees outside beat on the house, and rain pelts the roof. Isn’t it supposed to be really quiet before a tornado? Maybe the threat is over. We’ll probably be back in front of the TV in a few minutes.
Then the room goes black.
No lights. No noise from the TV. Nothing but the sound of the wind howling in the rain and the house shaking at the force of it.
The dog growls and paws at the tub.
I scratch his ear. “Rocky, calm down.” But who can blame him? I’m about to pee my pants myself.
The walls begin to vibrate, and Rocky catapults out of the bathtub, barking at a new noise.
“Got that cushion over you, Katie?” Millie’s voice is higher-pitched than usual, and our huddle gets tighter.
The dog scratches at the door, whining and yelping.
“You shut the door, right?” Millie whispers to her husband. “Rocky, come here. Come on.”
An eerie sound like a distant jet plane has me holding my breath in fear.
The door creaks open then crashes against the wall, as the dog frees himself from the bathroom.
“Rocky!” We all call out in unison.
The jet sound grows louder.
And closer.
I can hear things flying against the house. Or maybe it’s hail.
“I’ll get the dog.”
“No, James. Rocky’s more likely to come to me. He’s got to be under the bed. I’ll run out really quick and get him.”
“Millie, no.”
Ignoring her husband, Millie makes a dash for the door, calling for the dog.
Just as the bedroom window explodes.
My ears fill with the pounding of my pulse. The alarm can no longer be heard, and the jet sound is now more like a train—coming for our house at mach speed.
“Stay here!” James flies into the bedroom, calling his wife’s name.
“I’m over here! Just got a little scratched.”
I can’t see a thing, except for the bedroom occasionally illuminated through the doorway by lightning. My eyes don’t leave the door, and I only release my pent-up breath when the shapes of my foster parents are back in front of me.
James shuts us in the bathroom, and we gather close again.
The wind roars, and the Scotts cocoon around me. James is talking, but I can’t hear him. Tears slip down my face, and I grit my teeth and bury my head into Millie’s shoulder.
The house shakes and sways, as if it’s fighting to stay in place. Glass shatters somewhere else in the house. I hold on for dear life.
And then it stops.
My breathing is the loudest thing in the room as the locomotive sounds fade away.
“Is everybody all right?”
The calm timbre of James’s voice fills me with relief. We’re okay. We made it.
“Katie?” And now Millie’s voice.
My body sags against her.
“I’m good.” Though my head is spinning. I can’t believe I just sat through a tornado. Maybe the Weather Channel will want to interview us.
“I’m going to get a flashlight. Everybody just stay put for now. I think we lost a few windows, so there’s probably glass everywhere.”
James returns in a moment, the beam of his light illuminating the ba
throom. “Millie, you said you were okay.”
“I am.” She tenses beside me. “Oh . . . I see what you mean.”
My eyes follow the path of the light, and I see Millie’s white shirt.
Covered in blood.
Chapter 2
I don’t know what smells worse, me or the emergency room. I’m rain-soaked from the run in, I’ve got Millie’s blood on my shirt, and on the way here a wet dog decided he wanted to cuddle.
The clock in the waiting room says it’s almost eleven. The Scotts and I sat here for two hours before Millie’s name was called. Apparently the tornado really did a number on the town, and there were injuries, some much more serious than Millie’s.
I take another sip of my coffee. My foster parents don’t like for me to drink the stuff at night, but it’s an old habit from my days with my mom. Living with the Scotts, I’ve learned to appreciate some of the finer things in life, like a safe place to sleep and food in the cabinets. Equally as important, I have developed a taste for mochas and iced lattes, but the courtesy coffee in the waiting room doesn’t even include creamer.
I’m holding onto Millie’s purse and cell phone. Maxine, Millie’s mom, has texted about every five minutes since we’ve been here.
ANY WORD YET?
Totally bored, I’m grateful for the distraction. I punch in my reply.
NO. STILL WAITING. WILL LET U KNOW.
Just as I hit send, Millie and James come up the hall and enter into the waiting room.
“Do they have to amputate?” I joke.
Millie smiles, but James acts as if he didn’t even hear me. It has been a long night though.
“The doctor removed a few small pieces of glass out of my chest. No big deal. A few stitches, some ibuprofen, and I’m good as new.” Millie’s eyes land on my coffee cup, and she raises an eyebrow.
“What? I was so worried about you, I had to Millie. I didn’t want to drink it, really. But in a moment of weakness and despair, the coffee pot called out to me, and I gave in.” I bow my head in mock shame. “If you want to send me back to Sunny Haven, I’ll understand.”
On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production) Page 1
