On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production)

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Katie Parker, you’re slacking. Pick those knees up!” Coach Nelson blows her ever-present whistle as I run by her. This is my seventeenth lap around the gym.

  And this is just the warm-up.

  Coach Nelson sports a new hairdo reminiscent of a mullet. Mullets always make me grin, but there’s nothing funny about this woman. She’s evil. She’s a tool of the devil. Coach Nelson is also the mother of Angel (ironic name, no?), somebody who quickly befriended me last semester, only to get me into some major trouble. Angel and I still hiss at each other like old farm cats from time to time, but mostly we’ve managed to leave each other alone since “the incident.” Leaving each other alone can be hard, though. Especially when you’re in PE together.

  “All right, you sissies. Line up for drills!” Tweeeeet! Tweeeeet!

  Line drills. What a great way to start a class. I love to begin the period with an activity that can induce puking.

  I swipe my arm across my forehead, pulling off as much sweat as I can.

  “Go!”

  My legs propel my body down the court, stopping long enough to touch the floor and hustle back for more. My side throbs after five minutes of this, but I continue the sprints like I’m a Kardashian being chased by the paparazzi. At the seven-minute mark, girls begin dropping to the ground moaning in pain, grabbing their stomachs or some other injured body part. Ten minutes into the drill, and my guts are on fire. My legs scream for surrender. Three more girls quit, leaving only two of us.

  Angel. And me.

  Our eyes connect.

  Her expression is clear. I’m gonna run you into the ground.

  I grunt in her general direction. You gotta catch me first.

  I take the lead, smelling victory (or is it just my b.o.?) and hoping Coach Nelson will blow the whistle to end this. Soon. While I’m still ahead.

  I catch sight of Angel’s spiky purple hair in my peripheral vision, and I will my legs to push harder. My lungs constrict painfully as I drag in air. Angel’s arm shoots out and latches onto mine, then with a jerk, I’m propelled backwards. My nemesis darts in front and touches the floor. Just as the whistle sounds.

  I glare at Angel, letting her know without words (like I could speak now anyway) what I think of her cheater tactics. Coming to a stop, I lean over, grabbing my knees. My breathing is ragged and harsh. The little kid in me wants to point my sweaty finger at Angel and ask Coach Nelson if she needs new glasses. Because she would have to be blind to not see her daughter’s manhandling of me.

  But I shake it off. Like line drills, starting trouble with Angel is pointless.

  “Hit the floor, ladies. Time for abs.” Coach Nelson forgoes her whistle and opts for yelling instead. “Move it!” It’s a nice variation.

  I grab a mat and settle in next to Hannah. She and I have gotten closer, sharing in the pain and agony of PE. Initially Hannah was too goody-goody for me. Too sweet and syrupy. And, honestly, too dense. But she’s grown on me a lot. And she leaves her overly kind nature in the locker room in PE. Nobody—not even Hannah—can endure this class and still come out smiling.

  “Give me one hundred crunches, and I want to hear you count!”

  I scoot closer to Hannah. “Wow, Coach Nelson’s new mullet is making her nicer. Normally it’s a hundred and fifty crunches.”

  “My stomach is already killing me,” she groans.

  Hannah is a little on the plump side. Just one of the many reasons I’ve grown to like her. A lot of the girls around here are into the Hollywood anorexic look, but I know I can depend on Hannah to share a pint of Ben and Jerry’s with me.

  At the coach’s next bark, we turn over onto all fours and do planks, which basically means you hold the push-up position until your arms start shaking and your shoulders and abs burn like someone’s holding a blowtorch to them.

  “Now I want to see tricep dips from the floor. As soon as you get to one hundred, you can hit the showers. Count it!”

  My body hurts so bad I could cry. This class should be illegal. I push through the pain, though, and set my mind on hurrying. The first one to the locker room gets the shower with the curtain that doesn’t have black mold and peep holes.

  “Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.” I heave myself up one . . . last . . . time. “One hundred.” And collapse onto the floor, my body quivering.

  I drag myself up, throwing my mat into a stack and shuffle into the locker room.

  The rough spray of the shower is a welcome rest, and I take a moment to just let the water work its magic.

  The sweat washes away as I stand there, lost in thought.

  Last night Millie acted weird. When I showed them my preview script for Cinderella and told them about auditions, it was like they were forcing their enthusiasm. I know they are really into my drama efforts, so it was totally out of place. What if they got news yesterday? News they didn’t share with me. When I first arrived in their home, they were very secretive about their MIA daughter. Maybe Millie got bad news, and they’re hiding that from me too.

  “Where are my shoes?”

  Rinsing off the last of the soap, I stick my head out the shower.

  Angel tosses things out of her locker. Shirts and shorts fly everywhere. Her face is red from class. And from anger.

  “Somebody in here took my shoes!” She turns on Hannah. “Have you seen them? The ones I had on earlier?”

  Hannah collapses onto a bench. She mutely shakes her head.

  I towel off as Angel confronts every girl in the locker room. My t-shirt slides on just as Angel plants herself in front of me.

  “You.” Her nostrils flare.

  I stare at her for a few seconds. My face is totally blank. I will not let her think she is intimidating me.

  Which she is.

  “Do you know anything about the whereabouts of my shoes? My brown leather ones?”

  “Nope.” I grab my socks and take a seat.

  “They were here at the beginning of class, and now they’re gone.” Perspiration still clings to her skin.

  I concentrate on tying my shoelaces and don’t bother making eye contact with Angel. “Haven’t seen them.”

  She picks up a gym bag and throws it against the wall. Its contents spill out. “One of you lifted my shoes. I will find out who did it.” Angel’s eyes scan the room before her gaze lands on me. “And you will be sorry.”

  The cool air outside is like a big Band-Aid to my aching bones. James waves at me from his truck in the school parking lot. That’s odd. Millie usually picks me up.

  “Hey. How was your day?”

  I collapse into the passenger seat. “It was a PE day. Need I say more?” James smiles in response, but his attention seems elsewhere. Something is up.

  “I brought you some clothes. I’m gonna take you over to Frances’s house. You can study and eat dinner at her house, then ride with her family to church.”

  “Where’s Millie?”

  James hesitates. “We . . . ah, had a doctor’s appointment this morning. She had a little in-patient surgery.” He sees my thunderous expression. “It’s okay, Katie. She had a biopsy so we can get a better idea of what’s going on.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? She had surgery and you just forgot to mention it?”

  “No, we didn’t forget. We didn’t want to upset you.”

  “That plan worked well.”

  He rests his hand on my arm. “It was a quick procedure. She’s been home all afternoon. Even been baking cookies—well, with Maxine’s ‘help.’”

  I turn away from him and look out the window. “When will you find anything out?” Or have you already, and you’re just keeping me in the dark? Again.

  “Soon.”

  “I could’ve gotten a ride with Frances, you know.” Unlike me, Frances is in the elite club of student drivers.

  “Millie sent your makeup because she knew you’d want it after PE.” He turns down Frances’s street. “And I wanted you to have your Bible.”

  “I do like to
be hot and holy.” No, stop talking! I’m supposed to be mad. James and Millie are shutting me out of all of this, and I cannot act like it’s OK.

  James stops in the Vega driveway. “We’ll see you at church. And Katie . . .” James gives my hair a little tug. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  My foster dad drops me off with a wave. His cell phone is to his ear before he’s out of the driveway.

  What if he’s talking to Iola Smartly? Saying, hey, Millie’s got cancer, so come get this girl off our hands.

  No, think positive. Millie is one of the nicest, godliest people I know. God’s not gonna mess with someone like her. How totally unfair would that be? To her. To me.

  I walk past the small koi pond and as soon as I’m on the porch, Frances swings the door open.

  “Hey!” Her hair is piled on top of her head, anchored by some hand painted hair sticks her grandmother sent her from China.

  “Guess you’re stuck with me tonight.”

  “Where did James and Millie have to go?” Frances’s dog takes advantage of the open door and shoots outside. “Ming Yu, get the dog!”

  “I don’t know.” I watch her twelve-year-old brother chase their cocker spaniel into the neighbor’s yard. “Millie had a biopsy today.” My friend’s mouth drops. “Yeah, I know. They didn’t even tell me about it.” I shake my head. This is not sounding good.

  I follow Frances inside. I have yet to adjust to the zoo that her house is. It’s like a circus sideshow. People would pay money to step inside this home. Her father, a pediatrician, is from Mexico. Frances’s mother, a tiny woman with a loud voice, is from China. Together they over-decorate, overcook, and overdo the home with their dual cultures. It makes Frances miserable. The walls are covered with cultural art, historical photos, and generations of family portraits. There is no space left untouched.

  “Hello, Katie!” Ling Vega enters the living room, carrying baby Maria on her hip. “Are you hungry? Tonight we’re having an old recipe handed down to me from my great-grandmother.” Mrs. Vega’s black eyes sparkle.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m starved. I could eat anything.”

  “Tonight I’m preparing spicy fish and cabbage soup.”

  Anything but that. I force an enthusiastic smile, but Frances sees right through it.

  “Mom, you’re the only one who likes that. I bet great-great-Grandmother didn’t even eat it. Why can’t we have burgers? Grill some hotdogs?” She throws her hands in the air and heads upstairs. “Steaks? Something normal for once.”

  “Zhen Mei Vega, there are children starving in the world!” Mrs. Vega calls out after us. “Most of your friends are probably eating frozen chicken nuggets tonight! Or bologna!”

  Frances grumbles all the way up the staircase.

  “So what’s the latest? Did you see Nash after lunch today?” I flop myself into Frances’s lime-green beanbag chair.

  Frances shuts her door and sighs. “No.”

  “What did we talk about on the phone last night? Strategic hall placement.”

  “I know! But after lunch he was talking to some friends. And then after seventh hour he disappeared into the boys’ bathroom.” She grabs her biology book. “I didn’t think I should follow him in there.” It comes out like a question.

  “No! Of course you don’t follow him into the john.” Where has this girl’s brain gone?

  “So where do we start? What do I do?”

  I grab a pen and notebook out of my backpack. Time to make a list. “You’re gonna continue to work on strategic placement in the hallways. Drop a book near his locker. Speak to people in his proximity. Be in his path.”

  “Right.”

  “Step two. It’s time for you to ask Nash to get together and work on the science fair project. You need to talk to him in biology tomorrow.” I scribble this down.

  Frances hangs her head. Strands of her black hair escape from her knot. “I can’t, Katie.”

  “Frances, sometimes we do things we don’t want to do.” Oh, my gosh. Did Millie just jump into my body? I sounded like an . . . adult.

  “Can’t you help me with that?” Oh, how the mighty have fallen. This brainy, future fashion model/nuclear physicist has gone from happy and confident to melodramatic and suffering from an inferiority complex. It’s driving me nuts. I have bigger things to worry about.

  “Hmmm . . .” I tap my pen to my chin, trying to focus. “What about we see if Nash and Charlie want to meet us at the public library after school tomorrow to get started on our projects? I’ll ask them both.” This could work.

  Frances throws herself onto her bed and covers her face with a white and black comforter. “I don’t know!”

  “Frances.”

  Her face reappears.

  “Do you like Nash or not?”

  Her eyes go all dreamy. “Yes. Nash is . . . is . . . awesome.” She sighs.

  “Well, then you can do—”

  Suddenly Luis, Frances’s six-year-old brother, rockets out from under her bed. “Nash is awesome! Nash is awesome!” He flies out of the room. “Mawwww-Meeee! Frances has a boyfriennnnnd!”

  Frances makes a grab for her brother, but it’s too late. Frances has just been outed.

  “Maybe your mom didn’t hear.” I offer weakly. With Luis’s volume, I think Nash himself possibly could’ve heard it.

  Frances and I spend the next hour and a half rehearsing how she will act tomorrow in biology. We make a list of safe topics for her to discuss with Nash and possible replies. Mrs. Vega calls us to dinner, but before we go downstairs, I make Frances pinkie-swear she will practice.

  It’s at step ten that it hits me. The smell of stew. Fish stew at that. Wow. Potent.

  “Hello, girls!” Mr. Vega, newly home from work, kisses his daughter’s cheek and gives me a big bear hug. I’m not much of a hugger, but these I’ve gotten used to. There’s something very comforting and genuine about this family’s enthusiasm for me. Like I’m an extension of their household.

  After grace, we pass the food one dish at a time.

  Mrs. Vega hands Frances some bread. “Do you have something to tell us?”

  “We’re the only people I know who put cod in liquid, drown it in cabbage, and call it dinner?” Frances hands me the bread basket.

  Mr. Vega chuckles. He’s all about international cooking, too, though. When it comes from Mexico. “See, I told you we should have eaten the carne asada tonight.”

  Mrs. Vega swats at her husband with her napkin then returns her attention to Frances. “Do you have a boyfriend, Zeng Mai?” Only Frances’s parents call her by her first two names. Like all things cultural or fishy, Frances rejects it.

  “Luis! Don’t you ever step foot in my room again!” Frances bestows her best evil eye on her little brother. Who promptly opens his mouth and shows her his chewed food.

  “Zeng Mai, you have a boyfriend, and you did not tell us?” Cesar Vega’s smile disappears. “You know you must ask permission to date anyone. Why have we not been introduced to this young man?” He looks to his wife who only shrugs.

  “Nash is awesome! Nash is awesome!”

  “Luis, be quiet! Mom, tell him to be quiet!”

  “So Nash is this young man’s name?” Mrs. Vega ladles out soup for herself.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend, okay? I’m boyfriendless. Totally without a boyfriend. Sans boy. No tengo un novio. There? Are you happy?”

  The soup goes to Frances. Who passes it to me. I drop some in my bowl, not wanting to be rude. Ugh. Stin-kee.

  “Do you like this boy then?” Mr. Vega tears his bread in two.

  “He’s my science fair partner, Dad. No big deal.”

  “Katie is not your science fair partner? Don’t you both have biology?”

  “Well, Mrs. Vega, I wanted to work with someone else.” It’s kind of true.

  The rest of the meal passes by with the Vegas quizzing Frances about Nash. The more they ask, the madder she gets. Eventually I tune them all out as thoughts of Millie cons
ume me. They don’t just do a biopsy for the fun of it. They must suspect it’s cancer.

  After dinner Frances and I do the dishes, then we follow the family into the minivan and head to church.

  Target Teen is the Wednesday night church service for junior high and high schoolers. Initially it was punishment for me to come here, but now it’s not too bad. The youth pastor, Mike, is a pretty funny guy, and I find myself sucked into his lessons. But it’s the music that always speaks to me and has me coming back for more. There’s a full band, made up of fellow Chihuahuas who go to our church, and it’s like MTV meets Jesus. Electric guitars, drums, dimmed lights, rockin’ harmonies. It’s the best.

  “Hey, Katie. Hey, Frances.” Charlie, who has recently started coming on Wednesday nights, greets us in the doorway, flanked by his girlfriend Chelsea.

  Two words about Chelsea: Total. Snob.

  Seriously, she’s tall and blonde, and she just screams out “I’m simply lost without a boyfriend.” She’s the type who’s had a boyfriend every day since kindergarten. Her dad works for some major corporation, so she’s loaded. Like dripping with money. She carries a Prada bag. And I don’t mean the kind that upon closer inspection really says Rada.

  “Hi, Charlie. Hey, Chelsea.” Frances, having calmed down some, is back to her old polite self.

  “Hey, guys.” I try not to notice Chelsea’s jeans look just like the pair I saw in InStyle magazine this week.

  In the uncomfortable silence that follows, Charlie makes at attempt at conversation. “Katie is my partner for the science fair.”

  “Great.” Chelsea looks me up and down before finally dismissing me as both harmless and useless.

  “Hey, Chels, why don’t you stay here with Katie and Frances while I go talk to the guys?”

  Chelsea’s shiny pink lips pucker. “You’re not gonna leave me . . . here, are you?” She clings to his arm.

  I can’t stand clingers.

  Charlie says good-bye sheepishly and pulls his girlfriend along with him to greet some other people.

  “Take your seats everybody.” Pastor Mike takes the stage. His diamond earring blinks in the spotlight. “We’re gonna open up with prayer then we have a special treat for you tonight. The God Wads are here to lead worship. So make them feel welcome.”