“There is a person here tonight who thinks you don’t exist. You can’t be real.”
Now this is just creepy. Do I have a sign over my head or something?
“God, we know those are doubts Satan has placed in this person’s heart. And it takes a stronger person to not listen to that. It takes a stronger person to run to you even when things don’t make sense. When we’re hurting. When there is no happy ending.”
Warm tears slowly slip down my cheeks. Pictures of Millie, James, and my time with them pass through my mind like a slide show. Millie cooking dinner. Millie taking me shopping for a new wardrobe when I first came to stay with them. My bedroom—decorated by Millie.
God, I don’t want to lose Millie. I don’t want to be taken away from this family. Where are you? Why are you doing this? How can you just let these things happen? Death. Cancer. My life before the Scotts.
I just don’t know. I was so close to buying all of this—to believing in you. And then everything stopped making sense. And now Laura’s dad? Is Millie next? You didn’t protect her father. Why should I believe you’re going to save Millie?
“You don’t promise us you’ll make sense. You only promise us you’re in control. And you will take care of us. If anyone knows sacrifice, it’s you. If anyone knows the pain of watching a loved one suffer, it’s you. Deal with our doubts. Help us get past those fears. So we can run into your waiting arms.”
Pastor Mike closes up his prayer amidst a symphony of sniffles and broken cries. I wipe my own eyes, desperately wanting to erase all traces of a reaction. Silly, I know. The whole room is sniveling, but I don’t want to be a part of that. I want to be dry-eyed. Unaffected.
The pastor opens up the area in front of the stage like an altar. The band begins to play softly as people pray individually and in small groups.
“Katie?” Frances whispers beside me. “Do you want us to pray with you? For Millie?”
It’s like the room stops. The noise all fades away. Charlie and Chelsea lean in for my answer. I feel like God himself holds his breath, waiting for my response.
“No.” I look away. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’m gonna pray for her anyway.” Frances scoots past me. “And for you.”
Embarrassed at Frances’s not-so-subtle display of faith, I cross my arms and silently watch my friend pray. On one hand, I want to grab Frances and tell her she’s wasting her time. But yet I wonder what it feels like to be that secure in something. To have that much faith, that much conviction. There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t believe God is gonna heal my foster mom. And right now Frances isn’t letting a single one of those reasons hold her back.
The music winds down as Pastor Mike grabs the microphone again. “Guys, I appreciate the prayers. Keep ’em up. My family’s really gonna need them. Speaking of families in need, it’s time to talk about spring break. We have the details ironed out. Are you ready?”
Oh, can’t wait. He’s already told us our trip to Florida is cancelled and we’re staying in In Between.
“There’s a lot of work to be done in this town. The tornado wreaked havoc on a lot of neighborhoods around here. You guys know the area churches have been housing families in any way they could. The local apartments are full. Our church even has families staying in our gym. You guys are gonna get your socks blessed off in two weeks. We are going to show these families what Christ looks like.”
I’d like to know what Christ looks like. Maybe he could stop by my house and heal Millie!
“We’ll camp out on the church grounds. During the day we’ll help rebuild homes.” Rebuild? Um, I was gonna have to practice my sand castles before I went to Florida. There’s no way I can do actual house construction. “In the evening we’ll cook for the displaced families and have church services for them. It’s gonna be great.” His eyes twinkle with enthusiasm as I let go of my vision of sunbathing on the Florida beaches. “There will be four people to a tent, so choose wisely. Pick your friends who smell the least.”
The mood lightens a bit, and the room fills with Spring Break chatter.
“Four in a tent,” Frances says. “That’s you, Hannah, and me . . .”
“Guess you’re gonna need another person.” Charlie’s eyes bore into mine.
I force the words out of my mouth. “Chelsea, would you like to be in our tent?”
A smile spreads across Charlie’s tanned face. I wait for Chelsea’s own joyful display.
“I don’t know.” She pops her gum. “I’ll let you know.”
Before I get the chance to tell Chelsea where she can pitch her tent, Charlie stops me. “Hey, congratulations on your role in Cinderella.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Hall posted the cast list on the school website right before we left for church.”
My heart pounds. “I . . . I got the part?”
Charlie nods. “Yeah, good job.”
I grab Frances and pull her into a fierce hug. We share a moment of senseless, high-pitched girl shrieks.
“I got it!” I yell. “I’m Cinderella.” Frances and I jump up and down.
“Cinderella?” Charlie shakes his head anxiously. “Katie, no.”
No more squealing.
No more jumping.
“What do you mean no? You said I got the part.”
Charlie clears his throat; his face glows red. “The part of Drizella.”
“Drizella? The ugly stepsister?” Can’t. Breathe. I think I’m gonna be sick. I can’t be the ugly sibling of Cinderella. I’m supposed to be Cinderella. There has to be a mistake.
Frances moves in close. “Who’s Cinderella?”
Chelsea twines her arm around Charlie’s and smiles. “That would be me.” Her blue eyes laugh at me. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the part, Katie. Maybe you just need some more practice. I could help you sometime.”
I grab my Bible, desperate to escape. “I’ll let you know.”
Chapter 18
“Maxine, get out of the shower!”
I bang on the door with my fist. From the other side of the bathroom door comes the shrill off-pitch warbling of my foster grandmother. She’s butchering a country song—something about a rhinestone cowboy—and my head is about to split open.
I think I slept a total of five minutes last night. And I woke up furious. I cannot believe I am Drizella, Ugly Stepsister Number One. The sister whose name nearly rhymes with Godzilla. I’m not even the sister that has a bit of kindness. I’m the full-on hag sister. Where am I going to find the inspiration for that?
“What do you want?” The door swings open, and Maxine pokes her turbaned head out.
“I want a shower.” And the role I deserve. And something strong to drink—like a Diet Dr. Pepper. And some fairness. Can I have a thimbleful of fairness? A smidgeon? Just a skootch?
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” She unwraps her towel and blots her hair.
“I woke up thirty minutes ago. And that’s exactly how long I’ve been waiting for you to get out of the shower.”
“Guess you better start getting up earlier if you want to shower first.”
I push my way into the bathroom. “You have all day to do nothing. I, on the other hand, have school. A schedule to keep. Places to be.”
“Hmph. I do nothing? Today, little missy, I have ballroom dancing at noon, bridge at two, and snorkeling lessons at four. Come talk to me when you can compete with that.”
Mutely, I stare at Maxine in the mirror.
She smirks. “That’s what I thought.”
I quickly shower and blow-dry my hair. I skip makeup. I figure it’s the ugly stepsister thing to do.
“There’s our girl.” Millie greets me with a smile the size of Texas as I slink off the last step and into the kitchen. “I made you a special breakfast today.”
Joining Maxine at the table in the breakfast nook, I watch Millie proudly set a plate in front of me. She rips off the napkin drap
ed over it.
“Ta-dah!” A stack of pancakes with strawberries arranged in a smiley face. “Made with all organic ingredients,” Millie says.
“She’s still got her knickers in a knot. Guess I’ll have to eat her pancakes.”
I smack Maxine’s outstretched hand with a fork. “Touch my pancakes and you’ll draw back a nub.”
With Rocky at her heels, Millie brings me fresh orange juice. “Katie, I know you’re still upset about the play, but honey, we’re really proud of you.”
I drown my misery and pancakes in syrup. “But I don’t want to be the stepsister. I want to be Cinderella.” My whiny voices makes the dog’s ears twitch.
Millie sits next to me, sipping hot tea. “I think it’s great you got a part. Not everyone did, right?”
I nod my head. “I was born to be Cinderella.”
“I always thought I was born to be Brad Pitt’s next wife.” Maxine pours her own juice. “Reality’s a bitter pill, isn’t it?”
With a frown at my plate, Millie pulls the syrup bottle out of my reach. “Katie, I know it’s not what you wanted. But you’re going to be great in that role. And I’ll be seeing you in the afternoons at the Valiant Theater.”
“And I’ll see you there—when I drop by and visit Sam.”
I glare at Maxine. “Perfect. I was just thinking we don’t get to spend nearly enough time together.”
“Millie, I think Katie’s juice must be bad. As in bitter.”
“Maybe if my new roommate wouldn’t wake me up at five in the morning singing disco hits and—”
“Disco hits? Disco hits? I’ll have you know today’s selection was a medley of commercial jingles.” Maxine swabs her lip with a napkin. “And that constipation ditty was just for you.”
“I am so tired of waiting an hour for you to get out of the shower. And then to be subjected to your nasally, out of tune—”
“Nasally? You wouldn’t know quality music if it hit you in the—”
“Mother! Katie!” Millie stands up. “Please.”
I just want to go back to bed. And dream pretty, glass-slippery dreams.
“Now that I have your attention, I have a bit of news.” Millie blows on her tea, her eyes thoughtful. “I’ll be having my surgery Wednesday morning—the mastectomy, the reconstruction, and I’ll be as good as new.”
I shove my plate away. “Why are you just now telling us?”
Maxine crosses her arms. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“James and I didn’t feel like there was any need to tell you sooner—just so you’d worry sooner.”
“I would have liked to have known,” I say. “And what is reconstruction?”
“Millie gets a new booby.” Maxine slurps her coffee.
A corner of Millie’s mouth lifts. “Now, I’ll be staying a few nights at the hospital after the surgery, so you can either spend the night with Frances.” She looks doubtfully at her mother. “Or stay here with Mom.”
Maxine wiggles her eyebrows. “We could have a wild party. Think of it, Katie—dancing, loud music, a keg of Metamucil.”
Millie ignores her mother. “You’ll need to have Frances pick you up after school. Sam has offered to drive you and Mother to the hospital after he gets off at the theater.”
“What?” My temper, which was already on simmer, is climbing towards boiling. “I’m not going to school Wednesday.”
“Yes,” Millie says evenly. “You are.”
“I want to be at the hospital.”
“Give it up, Sweet Pea. I’ve already lost this argument. We’ll have Sam take us Wednesday evening.” Maxine’s face is calm and serene. She must be up to something.
“I don’t want to go that night. I want to be there during the surgery. Why can’t I?”
Millie sets her tea down and begins clearing the table. “Because you’ll get behind in school. And there’s nothing for you to do at the hospital. This isn’t up for debate. I will rest better knowing you are at school.”
What if something happens and I’m not there? I need to be at the hospital.
“Am I not family enough to be there?” My voice quivers.
Millie flinches. “Of course you’re family.”
“Then quit treating me like a houseguest. Is that all I am? This is a big deal, and you’re expecting me to treat it like another day. Like this doesn’t matter to me.”
Millie exhales deeply. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I’m going in for a surgery, I’m spending two nights, and then I’ll be back home. And you are going to school.” She throws the last fork in the sink. It lands with a clank. “End of discussion.”
My mind races with a fury. I’m desperate for some profound, cutting words. “Whatever.” I toss my napkin on the table and run up the stairs. I’ll be profound later.
A few hours later I’m sitting in history class. Still furious. My brain still buzzing with things I could’ve said. Should’ve said.
“Class, I’m Miss Smeltzer. The lesson plans Mr. Patton left say we are having a test. Clear your desks.” The sub swipes at her face where sweat is pooling.
Test? Aw, man. I totally forgot about the history test. Who needs to know about ancient Chinese rulers anyway? I can barely remember the name of America’s vice president. I am so gonna flunk this.
And what is up with today’s sub? She calls herself “Miss,” but I don’t know many ladies with fully developed side burns and chin stubble.
On tree trunk legs Miss Smeltzer walks by me and tosses a test on my desk. She reeks of cigarette smoke. Not oh-I-just-had-a-quick-cig-before-I-came-to-school, but the kind of smell that belongs to someone who’s smoked a few packs a day her whole life, and her every pore emits a nicotine odor.
She smells like my mom.
But my mom doesn’t have a five o’clock shadow.
My hand inches toward the exam. I scan the first page and see few questions I know. I flip to the second page. Third page. Fourth page. Sixth page.
I raise my hand. “Can I go to the nurse?”
“No.” The sub’s voice is deeper than James’s.
She’s gonna be sorry if I puke.
How does one make oneself throw up? I know. I’ll think gross thoughts. I think of being trapped in a coffin of insects. Eating live roaches on Survivor. Drinking out of Rocky’s water bowl.
Oh, it’s no use.
I answer as many of the questions as I can. And fill in C for the rest. It’s possible ninety percent of the answers are C. Looking down at my bubbled answer sheet, I see a shape taking form.
A tiara.
If you turn the paper sideways it’s a tiara of penciled in bubbles. My body slumps in the seat, and I rest my chin on my desk.
God, this is so unfair. Yes, I know I’ve said the word unfair like a million times in the last week. But seriously, am I living a joke? I don’t get the part, Charlie is acting all weird, his snob girlfriend gets my role, Millie has cancer, I’m not allowed to go to the hospital, and now I’m about to turn in a test that will make my history grade take a dramatic leap south.
Are you there?
Do you even see me? Hear me?
“Are you done?”
My head shoots off my desk. “Huh? What?”
The stinky sub reaches for my test. “I said are you done?”
“Yes.” I slowly nod. “I’m finished.”
Coach Nelson blows her whistle until her cheeks balloon and her eyes bulge.
“Listen up! Today we’re starting something new. I think you’re gonna like it. It’s current. It’s trendy. And it’s popular.”
Hannah and I exchange a hopeful look. Pilates? Yoga? Hip-hop aerobics?
“Wrestling.”
Everyone groans. Coach lays on the whistle again. “Stop your complaining. This is going to be fun.”
That’s what she said about water polo last semester. I’m just lucky I wasn’t one of the fifteen girls who got sent to the ER for stitches or broken bones.
; “First I will go over some basics. Next I will be pairing you off by size.” Coach Nelson rubs her hands together. “Then we’ll have some matches.”
Just when I thought my day couldn’t get worse. If she asks us to buy spandex outfits and go by names like Shazaam or Electra, I am so out of this class.
Coach Nelson explains a few moves. I tune her out until I hear the words crotch lift. Um, there better not be any lifting of my crotch.
“So, in review, you can use the following moves today: the grapevine, the pin, the crotch lift, the cradle, and the gut wrench. The three important parts of the match are the takedown, breakdown, and, finally, the pin. Any questions?”
The class stares blankly.
“I need two volunteers.” She searches the class for a few willing victims. As usual, she finds none. “Parker, Angel, front and center.”
No way.
Hannah pats me on the back. I roll my shoulders, take a deep breath, and try to muster up some courage.
“Break a leg,” Hannah says, her smile weak.
“Hannah . . . Never mind. Thanks.”
“Let’s go, Parker. On the mat.”
As I stand, I meet Angel’s stare. She doesn’t try to disguise her hatred for me. Any lingering fears I have evaporate, leaving me ticked and insulted by Angel’s attitude. What does she have to be mad about? I’m the one with real problems.
I stand next to her, perhaps a little too close. Oh, let’s see what you’ve got, Angel. Because you’re not the only one who woke up angry today. You don’t have the exclusive rights to being mad at the world. There’s a new bad attitude in town.
And it belongs to me.
“When I blow my whistle, begin. Ready?”
Angel nods once, already in attack mode.
Tweeeeeeet!
My heart gallops in my chest as my opponent moves in closer. We circle each other, Angel out of pursuit, and me out of a sheer lack of creativity. I wasn’t exactly paying close attention during the tutorial.
Angel lunges for my shoulders. Her fingernails pierce my skin. Now that can’t be legal.
I check for Coach Nelson, but the rest of the girls have circled around the mat to get a closer look. Coach Nelson stands behind them talking into a cell phone. Great. We’re about to have bloodshed, and she’s probably on the phone with Dominos.
On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production) Page 14
