In Between (11 page)

“Will your mom be home?” I know the Scotts will be checking. If Coach Freakazoid isn’t going to be at home with us, I might as well not even ask to go.

“Well, yeah.” Angel’s snotty reply makes me feel stupid, but you never know. Not that I had friends over all the time back home, but if I had, there’s a good chance Bobbie Ann Parker wouldn’t have been home to greet them.

“So we’re just going to hang out at your house?” I need information if I’m going to sell this to the Scotts. Those two will be like bloodhounds sniffing up the details.

“Sure. We do this all the time, don’t we, Danielle?”

Danielle
. I was so close.

“We’re all about slumber parties, and we thought it would give you a chance to get to know the girls better.” Danielle chimes in like a backup singer.

“Pizza, movies, gossip. You know, girl stuff.”

Funny, I hadn’t pegged Angel as the type to eat pizza and paint fingernails on a Friday night.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see what I can do. I’d better get to class.” I don’t tell them the class I’m nearly late for is band. They might take back their invitation.

“See you at lunch,” Angel calls over her shoulder, and I head for my first band experience.

Band is a
total flop. I can tell this is so not my thing. The band director stuck a trumpet in my hands and sent me out the door to learn the halftime show with the other Marching Chihuahuas. So far I’ve dropped the horn six times, stepped on the piccolo player, and I won’t even go into what happened when I tried to get the spit out of my trumpet for the first time. Let’s just say I haven’t made any friends yet.

We are supposed to be doing this marching thing as we play. Since I can’t play yet, I’m just holding my trumpet up and trying to get the routine down. It’s really hard. Who knew band was so difficult? I’m really regretting making fun of these people.

The band plays their song, an old hit from the fifties, but the steps keep getting jumbled in my head. Maybe they could just let me freestyle? I can’t seem to keep the beat. Maybe I’m beatless. Or beat illiterate. I mean, sure I can count to four, but my legs don’t seem to be in sync with my brain. And then there’s this fancy-schmancy turn thing we have to do. Okay, it’s just a simple pivot to these professionals surrounding me, but I can’t get it.

“Miss Parker! It’s step two, three, and pivot and turn on four.” The portly band director is trying with me, he really is. But every time he comes over and shows me the moves again, I get distracted by his bad comb-over. It would make Donald Trump jealous. Seriously. This man stands next to me, and I find myself mesmerized by the intricacies of his hair strands. There are probably secret military strategies that don’t attain the same level of difficulty as this guy’s comb-over.

“Did you get that, Miss Parker?” Mr. Morton looks at me with a little less patience this time.

“Yes, sir. Pivot and turn on four.”

“Right. Excellent. And make sure you keep your horn up, like you would if you were playing it.” He smiles and returns to his post at the front of the band.

“One, two, ready, play!” And at the sweep of his arms, the band begins to play. I just kind of hum. Initially, Mr. Morton had me blowing into the trumpet, but when that only produced duck-calling honks, followed by dying-moose squawks, he politely asked me to stop trying.

“March, two, three, four! March, two, three, four!”

Oh, look, it’s a grasshopper. I don’t want to smash it. I’ll just step over here a bit more to the left and—

“Oomph!”

Crash!
Right into the trumpet player beside me, who falls backward into the percussion line behind him, who tumble over like dominos.

And I hadn’t even gotten to the big turn yet.

“I’m sorry,” I call out to the group around me. My face has to be flaming red.

Twenty marching Chihuahuas stare at me. Hard.

Mr. Morton signals for the entire band to stop, and the rest of the group lower their horns and check out the ruckus. Oh, no.

“I’m so sorry. See, there was this grasshopper and . . .” From their expressions I can tell these band people are not going to be sympathetic to the plight of the insect life I just saved. “Okay, never mind. Sorry.”

“Katie, maybe you should sit out today and just watch. Perhaps I threw you in too soon.”

Oh, you think?

Mr. Morton sends me over to the sidelines. My career as a marching trumpet player is officially over.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s your first day.” Frances Vega, as in first-chair-flute Frances, approaches me after class. I was so busy counting in my head and trying to stay upright I didn’t notice her too much in practice.

“Yeah, thanks. I think I’m not cut out for band.”

“No, no! You don’t know that! Don’t give up yet, Katie. We all have to start somewhere, and I think you did well for your first day. Maybe you can get some private lessons when you decide for sure what instrument you want, and you’ll be marching and playing with us in no time!”

Frances looks so hopeful. Is there anything she’s not positive about? I just took out the entire drum line, and she’s telling me she thinks I had a successful first day?

“Hey, want to join me and my friends for lunch? We’re heading to the caf right now.”

You have to admire Frances for her persistence.

“No. But thanks, Frances.” And I do mean it. I do appreciate her trying. No one has ever made this much effort to make me feel welcome at a school before. “I’m going to sit with Angel Nelson today.”

“Oh.”

Just “oh.”

I think I just found something Super Teen Frances isn’t keen on: Angel. These people around here are so shortsighted! Just because someone looks like a troublemaker doesn’t mean she is. You don’t see me breaking into the Piggly Wiggly in my spare time, do you?

“Well, I’d better go. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, Katie.” Frances stops me. “Are you going to church Wednesday night?” She pushes her shiny, model-quality hair out of her face. “Pastor Scott may have already told you, but we have something called Target Teen. There’s a time of worship, the youth pastor teaches, and then we just hang out.”

“No.”

“It’s lots of fun.”

For who? The people who call
that
fun are probably the same weirdos who would enjoy PE—Coach Nelson style.

“The Scotts haven’t said anything about it, and it really doesn’t sound like something I’d be into.”

Things I’m currently not into: vacationing in the Middle East, being attacked by brain-sucking aliens, the planet blowing up in a fiery inferno, and spending a few hours at church with the local youth.

Frances opens her mouth, clearly not done with her pitch. Time to hustle out of here.

“See you later.”

And I do a perfect pivot and turn on the count of four.

“M
other, sit down.
You’re not having dessert first.”

Maxine rolls her eyes like a thirteen-year-old and sits herself back down in the chair at the table. “Just admiring the broccoli,” she mumbles.

My foster grandmother has returned from her cruise, tanned and with a suitcase full of stories and incredibly tacky souvenirs. Millie decided to celebrate her safe return (Translation: the fact that they didn’t throw her overboard) with a family dinner. Tonight’s selection is shrimp and steak, compliments of James at the grill. I notice he’s still out tending to the grill, even though he brought the food in about fifteen minutes ago. He must be cleaning that thing really good. Or he’s afraid he’ll have to try on his
Caribbean Cutie
T-shirt.

“We had shrimp on the cruise. It was simply marvelous. There’s nothing like Caribbean shrimp, I always say.”

Millie winks at me as she gets up and heads to the back patio.

Wait a minute. Where does she think
she’s
going? She can’t leave me alone with her mother. Is she mad? I can’t talk to this woman. I accidentally got stuck on the phone with her right before she left for her cruise, and she went on for ten minutes straight about the importance of exfoliation before I threw the phone to Millie like a hot potato.

Maxine taps her long red nails on the table, beating out a rhythm that would make Mr. Morton proud. The clock in the kitchen ticks loudly. The refrigerator hums and whirs. I hear the answer and call of crickets outside. Bullfrogs croak, and a distant bird chirps.

Oh, for crying out loud, I can’t take it!

Fine. I’ll break the awkward silence!

“So . . . the Caribbean, huh?”

Maxine’s eyes zero in on me, and she looks at me like she’s just noticed I’m in the room—never mind the fact that I’m sitting right next to her.

“Who are your people, Katie Parker?” Her voice is raspy and reminds me of a jazz singer I learned about in Music Appreciation last year.

“My people? Um, the poor kind?”

“Don’t try your sass on me, Sweet Pea.”

I look around the room. No Millie in sight. I’d even settle for James. I’d really be up for some ESPN about now.

“I meant where did you come from?”

“Didn’t Millie tell you I’m from a girl’s home upstate?” What does she want here, my social security number and prints for a background check?

“Where’s your mama?”

Oh, I love this question. Well, who cares? I’m just gonna give her the truth. I’m sure she knows it anyway, and she’s making me spill all this for torture purposes. I have a feeling she likes inflicting pain. Well, Maxine, you scab picker, you asked for it.

“My mama’s in prison. Not jail, prison. She sold drugs and got busted by an undercover cop. It wasn’t her first offense, so she’ll be gone for a long, long time. She left me alone in our two bedroom trailer house most nights, so I learned to fend for myself. You learn a lot of stuff on your own.” I give her a meaningful look that speaks volumes. Volumes of what, I don’t know, but I hope it’s intimidating.

Fear this, Grandma.

Maxine laughs, the sound rusty and deep in her throat. “Girl, let’s get one thing straight right here and now. You’re not so tough. If you can think it, I’ve done it. I lived a life before I married Mr. Simmons that would probably make your momma look like a choir girl. It’s by the GOG I’m here, baby, the GOG.” She nods once.

Do I even ask?

“The GOG?”

Maxine leans in close, our noses almost touching. “The grace of God. You know what I’m saying?”

Now I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t.”

“Sweet Pea, you can’t outrun him, so you might as well not even try.”

I’ve read fortune cookies that made more sense. “I really don’t intend to run anywhere, Mrs. Simmons.” Except upstairs to my room—away from you.

“No, you’re running. I know that look. I’ve lived it. He’ll get your attention one way or another.”

Oh, Millie. Where are you? Isn’t our food getting cold?

“Look, Mrs. Simmons, I don’t mean to be disrespectful—”

Maxine throws her yellow-blonde head back and laughs like I’ve just delivered the best punch line ever.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I’m here and that’s all I know. I’ll admit, when I first got here, I did come up with a few ideas to blow this town, but right now, I’m staying. If you’d seen me in PE today you’d know I’m not exactly someone whose gift is running, so I plan to stick this out as long as I can . . . or until I’m sent back.”

“Well, maybe I see someone who’s out to prove something. You can’t escape who you are, Katie Parker.”

Maxine’s eyes bore into mine. This woman is the queen of uncomfortable moments.

“Who I am? You think because my mom ended up in prison, it’s just a matter of time before that’s where I’ll be? So that’s who I am?” My voice punches with sarcasm, but the tears are building, pushing at my eyes. Who does this woman think she is? I’m getting life coaching from a nearly eighty-year-old woman wearing flip flops, a tank top, and a skirt that looks like a bunch of shredded palm trees?

She sniffs. “Is that what I said?”

“Here we are! Who’s hungry?” Millie and James Scott breeze in, and Mad Maxine quits her crazy talk. I inhale deeply and get up to refill my tea glass. And to put some space between me and Chief Speaks Riddles.

“I think everything’s still warm. Fill your plates everyone.”

While I’m not excited to dine with the Caribbean goddess, I am interested in the food. Steak wasn’t a regular feature on the menu in the Parker house, and I’ve never even had shrimp before. What exactly is shrimp? And where are their heads?

“So Katie, you were telling us you found out more about Angel’s sleepover?”

I smile at Millie, I’m so grateful for a new topic. One that doesn’t make me feel like I’m a prime candidate for America’s Most Wanted. “Yeah, so like I said, her mom is gonna be home.”

“Yes, I called Audrey Nelson.”

Did I see that one coming or what?

“You’re going to spend the night with Audrey Nelson’s girl?” This from the grandmother I never asked for.

Millie answers for me. “Yes, she is.”

“That girl is trouble.”

And I’m mad all over again. “Why? Because she looks different? Because of her hair?”

Maxine looks at me like I’m the one that’s mental. “Who cares about her hair? Millie, are you sure about this?”