Frances and I grab our shower gear and begin our walk.
Maxine catches up to us, her sandals flip-flopping all the way. “Nothing like an invigorating shower to revive us, eh, girls?”
I look over my shoulder. “You just wanted to get out of potato peeling duty.”
Maxine pops her bubble gum. “Yeah, that too.”
We make it to the bottom of the hill and are ready to start our upward trek, when a familiar voice shouts a hello.
“Hey, girls!” The object of Frances’s crush, with a towel wrapped around his neck, strolls our way.
“Hi, Nash.” I’m the only one who offers a greeting. Maxine stops to openly stare at him, while Frances makes like a statue, frozen and totally blank.
“If you’re headed for the showers, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.” He runs a hand through his wet, sandy-blond hair.
I can almost feel Frances melting.
“The hot water was pretty much nonexistent when I was in there, so be prepared.”
“I like water.” This from Frances.
Maxine does a double take at my befuddled friend. Then shoots her blue eyes at me.
I shrug as if to say, I know. I think she’s possessed by aliens too.
Nash only laughs. “Yeah, water is pretty . . . um, cool. Kind of necessary for a shower, I guess.” Silence follows his comment—because really, how do you continue this line of conversation? So Nash politely tells us good-bye, and on down the hill he goes.
Frances pivots to watch his every step away from her.
“I did it again,” she says.
“Girl, did you hit your head or something before we came?” Maxine shifts her bag on her shoulder and continues walking. “Because that was just pitiful to watch.”
Frances falls in behind us, her feet stomping on the pavement. “I know, all right? I don’t think you need to point out the obvious. I get tongue-tied when he’s around. My brain just malfunctions.”
“Don’t worry, Frances. We’ll help you. We’ll have Nash Griffin writing you love sonnets yet.” I offer an encouraging smile.
“I don’t know that I want love sonnets.”
“Okay, sharing his lunchtime tater tots.” Now that’s something a girl can appreciate.
Later in the evening, after the steaks have been devoured and the dishes cleared away, Frances and I zip ourselves into our tent for the night. Dread settles in my stomach as I look at my sleeping bag. If I put myself in that, it’s like I’m a human hotdog, all nicely wrapped up for some grizzly bear’s convenience.
I toss and turn for what seems like hours. Despite the padding beneath me, rocks nudge me in the most inconvenient places. On the other side of the tent, Frances sleeps soundly, her mouth slightly open.
Forget it. I can’t sleep.
Grabbing my flip-flops and a flashlight, I unzip the tent flap and ease myself out. The campfire is still going strong, and even though it’s after one a.m., Maxine, Millie, and James lounge in chairs, still sipping coffee.
“Did we wake you?” Millie wraps her jacket tighter around her.
I slump into a chair. “No. I can’t sleep.”
“Look, Katie, Bigfoot’s only been spotted a few times around here, so there’s really nothing to be afraid of. Well, not too much.” Maxine hides her wicked grin behind her coffee mug.
“So what were you guys talking about?”
Millie smiles wistfully. “We were just remembering some old camping trips. Amy used to love to come out here.”
I nod my head, pretending to be interested. Great. Kooky daughter can handle the outdoor life, but I can’t.
“Millie, do you remember the time your father took us to Yellowstone National—”
Maxine’s story stops short as a bird calls loudly into the night. Hooooo! Hoooo-eeee-ewwww!
She clears her throat and continues. “. . . The time your father took us to Yellowstone, and I forgot everyone’s clothes but mine, and—”
Again the loud warble of a bird. Hooooo! Hoooo-eeee-ewwww!
James looks behind him. “That is some birdcall. He must be really close.” He turns his attention back to the storyteller. “You were saying . . .”
Maxine’s beady eyes search the dark campground. “. . . Um . . . I was saying I had forgotten all of . . . hootie, hootie, hoo-hoo! . . . our clothes, and your father was so . . .” Her eyes widen in a panic.
“Mother, did you just answer that bird?”
Maxine gasps. “Um . . . no, no, I . . . um . . . Boy, Millie, you gotta cut me off from that Animal Planet, eh? No more Discovery Channel for me! Next thing you know I’ll be charming snakes.” She laughs nervously and gets to her feet. “I think I need to take a walk to the ladies room.” Maxine holds up her mug. “I drank way too much coffee. Hard on the bladder.”
“Hold it right there.” Millie ejects from her seat and blocks Maxine’s path. “Do it again.”
Maxine swallows. “Do what again, sweetie pie, sugar bunch?”
Millie lifts her chin. “Call that bird.”
“Millie, it was an accident. It’s like a bird took over my body or something. You know nature does weird things to—”
“Call the bird, Mom.”
Maxine nods, cups her mouth and whispers. “Ca-caw! Tweet-tweet! Chirp-chirp!”
She makes a show of listening for the bird then shrugs a shoulder. “Well, I guess he’s gone, so I’ll just be—”
“Hootie, hootie, hoo-hoo!” James’s voice echoes in the camp.
Hooooo! Hoooo-eeee-ewwww! comes the reply.
“Do it again, James.” Millie shoots her mother an exasperated look, then takes off in the direction of the bird.
“Hootie, hootie, hoo-hoo!”
Hooooo! Hoooo-eeee-ewwww
Millie tears into some shrubbery, James and Maxine both at her heels. I am content to sit back in my chair, awaiting the fun that is sure to unfold.
“Who’s there? I see you. Get out here.” Then a squeal. “Sam Dayberry! What in the world are you doing skulking about in the bushes?”
I take a sip of Millie’s coffee and grin. Nope, I’m definitely not ready for bed.
Chapter 7
This morning I’ve got bags under my eyes. Bags so big a Hollywood socialite could easily carry a small dog in them.
As if Mondays don’t reek anyway, on this particular morning I am suffering from extreme sleep deprivation. Again. Something’s gotta give. Last night I had a dream I pushed a snoring Maxine out my second-story window.
To make matters worse, I’m listening to Millie grill her mother about Sam Dayberry for the zillionth time.
“But Mom, I still don’t understand how you could hide this from me.”
My bagel pops up from the toaster, but Millie pushes it back down again. For the second time.
“Well, actually it was pretty easy. I simply made sure Sam and I—”
“No, I mean how as in why. Why did you think deception was the best way to handle this? I just find this situation totally unacceptable.” Millie shakes her head.
Maxine slurps out of her coffee mug. “I don’t like the word deception. I prefer discreet. I am not someone who is interested in becoming the gossip of the town. Unlike some people, I value privacy.”
I choke on my juice. “I caught you going through my backpack just last night.”
“Stay out of this, cupcake.” Maxine glares at me over her java. “I thought I had dropped an earring.”
In every zipped compartment of my bag? Um, yeah.
My bagel shoots out again. Totally charred. Millie doesn’t even look at it when she retrieves it from the toaster and plops it on my plate.
I pick up the skeletal remains of what once was a cinnamon raisin baked good.
Millie puts her arm on mine. “Not yet. I’ll pray for our breakfast.”
Too late. It’s already dead.
“Dear Heavenly Father . . . thank you for this fine morning. Thank you for a . . . revealing weekend together camping
. God, we pray you would forgive us of our sins—sins like deception, lying, sneakiness—”
“Sneakiness is not a sin,” Maxine blurts out.
“—I pray you would put a burden on our hearts to walk in your will—your truthful, honest will. Father, we know we disappoint you when we act like idiots . . .”
I lift my eyes to see Maxine’s face. She’s pinches the bridge of her nose and drums her fire-engine red fingernails on the table.
“We know you look down on our stupid choices and shake your head and . . .” Millie exhales loudly. “And just sigh. Lord, no matter how much we hide our sin—in our hearts, in the bushes . . . wherever—we know you can see it all. I pray for righteousness in this family.” She clears her throat. “And I pray that craziness isn’t genetic. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
Maxine purses her lips. “Well, that was . . . inspirational.”
Millie hands me the butter. “Eat your breakfast. We have to leave a little earlier for school today.”
“Do you think traffic is going to be bad the first day back to school?” I dump globs of jelly out onto my bagel and take a hesitant bite.
“No, I have an appointment this morning.”
I swallow the blackened bread in my mouth, its bitter taste leaving a trail down my throat. Under the table I try to hand the rest off to Rocky, my usual food disposal, but he takes one sniff and runs into the living room.
“What kind of appointment? Did you hear from the doctor while we were gone?” Maxine’s voice is sharp.
My foster mom hesitates. “Yes. We’re just going to discuss the results of the mammogram today.” Millie sees my fallen face before I can change my expression. “There’s still no reason to worry at this point. Women get mammograms all the time, Katie.”
I shove my plate away. I could have had an omelet soufflé or a plate of chocolate donuts in front of me, and I’d still be losing my appetite.
And I feel like I’m being left out. Surely Millie and James know more than they’re letting on. Talk to the doctor? About what? And why can’t I just ask her? Instead I’m nodding my head like I understand what she’s telling me. Like it’s all okay. Like I’m not sitting here with black crumbs on my mouth wondering if my foster mother is gonna die.
“Mother, we’ll continue this discussion another time. I know you have a karate lesson to get to this morning.”
“My study of the martial arts can wait. I’m going with you and James to the appointment.”
Millie clears the table, including Maxine’s still full coffee cup. “No, you need to go about your normal day. This is just a simple appointment, and there is no reason for you to go.”
“I said I was sorry, Millie.” Maxine’s bottom lip pooches out.
I smile and refill my juice glass. For once the trouble has nothing to do with me. It’s a nice feeling, I must say.
The ride to school is a quiet one. Millie makes occasional small talk, but her mind is somewhere else. I want to bring up the C-word, but then again part of me doesn’t even want to know.
“So . . . are you nervous about your appointment with the doctor?” There. I said it. It’s out there.
She looks at me quickly then her focus returns to the road. A slow smile spreads across her face. “I’m not worried. It’s all in God’s hands. You believe that, don’t you?”
Let’s say I do believe it. Is that a good thing? Do we want this in God’s hands? I personally want this in the hands of some brilliant, Harvard-trained doctor. Some guy who won the Nobel Peace Prize for Medicine. That’s who I want in charge of this cancer business.
“Katie?” Millie takes one hand from the wheel and rests it on top of mine. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m gonna be okay.”
Okay as in I’m gonna be here thirty years from now, or okay as in six months from now I’m gonna be having my morning coffee with John the Baptist and Mother Teresa?
“Do you have any questions, Katie?”
No.
Yes.
I mean, no.
Well, just a million.
I try to talk around the lump in my throat. “I guess I don’t get why this is happening.” Katie, do not sound pitiful.
“Hey, nothing is happening yet.” She puts her signal on, then turns into the school parking lot. “But you can pray for me. Will you do that?”
I lift my chin and slowly bob my head in agreement.
“You know what else you need to think about?” Millie puts her car in park and turns toward me.
“No.” Like I need one more thing to think about.
“Learning to drive.”
I meet Millie’s gaze, and we share a smile.
All around me kids are getting out of cars. Their own cars.
“But I like having a personal chauffeur, Millie.”
I know. It’s weird. I’m sixteen, and I don’t drive. No driver’s license—is there any greater shame for a sixteen-year-old? I’ve looked through the driver’s manual a few times, though. But that thing is so boring. Why can’t they spice it up? Maybe Harlequin could rewrite it. Jackson turned to Avery, kissed her, and said, “Do you know you are the love of my life? And furthermore, when driving in fog you should use your low beams?”
“Give it some thought. James has upped our collision insurance and is ready to take you driving.” Millie winks then gives me a sideways hug. “Have a great day.”
My mouth lifts in a grin, and I step outside.
“Oh, and Katie?”
“Yeah?”
“God’s in control.”
I shut the door and wave as she drives off. God’s in control.
Fine. For now, I’ll just go along with that. I mean it’s totally possible. I’m inclined to believe God saved the Valiant Theater. He knew that theater was valuable to me and the Scotts, and it came out of the tornado with hardly a scratch. And Millie is even more important to me than that building, so she’s gotta be okay, too, right?
“Hey, Katie!”
I wave at Frances as she runs across the sidewalk to meet me. We head inside to our lockers, talking about our weekend, and I fill her in on the latest with Maxine.
“Hi, Katie. Hi, Frances.”
Hannah Wilkerson, one of the many friends who comes with Frances as a package deal, smiles in greeting. As it is everyday, her brown hair is tied back and waving down her back. When Hannah is doing some deep thinking, she’ll twist that ponytail around her fingers.
She taps me on the shoulder. “So did you hear some of the school’s roof was blown off? I wonder where it went to.” Hannah shrugs. “Since we’re back today, I guess they found it.”
Okay, so she doesn’t do deep thinking often.
Hannah and I walk to English together, while Frances goes the opposite way to her English for Brilliant Kids class. It’s not really called that, but it might as well be.
During first hour my eyes are glued on the clock. I’m aware of every instant, every movement of the second hand. I just want this day to be over so I can get home and see what the doctor told Millie. After doing some grammar work (do I really need to know what a gerund phrase is?), some vocab exercises (I must find a way to work the word verisimilitude into lunchtime conversation), and reading a short story (it wasn’t short enough), the bell finally rings.
I bid farewell to Hannah and meet Frances at the door to history class. A forty-something woman in a denim jumper stands at the front of the room frowning.
“Students, take your seats. I . . . I mean, please . . .
World history is taught by Mr. Patton, a history relic himself. He’s so old he belongs in the Smithsonian, right there with the first flag and the Constitution. And his classroom smells like mothballs.
The teacher claps her hands. “I’m Mrs. Vanderhoover. I’m your sub for a few weeks.” She smiles weakly and writes her name on the board—dropping the marker twice.
Oh, no. Don’t subs know we can smell fear instantly? And some students are like sharks—when they smell the prey, th
ey have no choice but to attack.
Frances takes her seat and up goes her hand. “Where is Mr. Patton?”
The sub raises her voice above the escalating chatter. “Mr. Patton will be out for a while. He has had surgery and will not be back for a few weeks.”
“Probably a hip replacement,” I whisper to Frances, who sits in front of me.
“Now, take out your history books.” A paper airplane goes sailing past the sub. Two more follow.
This is not good.
Mrs. Vanderhoover’s voice cracks. “All right, enough of the airplanes. I . . . I . . . now, sir, you need to sit down. What? Well, yes, you may go to the bathroom if it’s an emergency.”
I flip open my world history book as Wes Gregory, school skipper extraordinaire, charms the sub into a bathroom pass. Five more students leave, complaining of sickness or bathroom issues. Rhonda Darby, co-captain of the cheerleading squad approaches the teacher.
Frances turns in her seat and rolls her eyes. “Here it comes.”
“The only girl who enjoys PMS.” I watch Rhonda with annoyance.
“Mrs. Vanderhoover, may I go to the restroom, too, please?” The cheerleader pouts artfully.
The sub’s beady eyes survey the room. “I think you can wait. Please?”
Rhonda leans in close. “I’m having female problems.”
Frances and I swap disgusted looks.
“Er, you may go,” Mrs. Vanderpool relents.
“She has cramps every day,” Frances mutters.
Mrs. Vanderhoover asks the rest of the class to open our books and begin reading the chapter on the Industrial Revolution. From there, the class dissolves into further chaos.
“Students, if you please. I would like your attention.” Her quiet, mousy voice is no match for the roar of twenty totally bored students. “I really need you to . . . um, if you would please listen. The Industrial Revolution can be a fascinating bit of—”
And then Mrs. Vanderpool finally gets our attention.
By throwing herself in her seat, laying her head on the desk, and silently crying. Some people are just not cut out to be subs.
We watch this scene for the next few minutes in rapt silence. It’s like reality TV, only live. Mrs. Vanderhoover suddenly stands up, grabs her purse, and walks to the door.
On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production) Page 5
