In Between (19 page)

“And what if Angel or Vincent or those guys approach me?”

“Then you turn around and walk the other way. You have nothing to say to them.”

I inhale a big gulp of air then let it out. “Can’t I stay home just one day? I could help you out at the theatre.”

“Nope. Your job is to go to school. Besides, I’m going in to do some work at the church. I’ll be at the theatre this afternoon when you get there.”

“But, Millie, what if I just—”

“No.”

“Okay, but maybe I could—”

“No.”

“Oh, I know, what about—”

“No, no, and no.” Millie laughs, then playfully shoves me away from her. “Get up, get dressed, and meet me downstairs in twenty minutes. We’re running late.”

“You’re going to send me to school on an empty stomach?”

“I’ve got a bagel downstairs with your name on it, but if you’re tardy, I’m leaving you to face that counselor all on your own.”

“Oh, now that’s just cruel.” I toss a pillow at Millie as she heads out the door.

Her head pops back into view. “Well, you can just tell her all about your Ebola bird flu virus.”

Millie’s laugh travels all the way to my room as she marches downstairs.

Woof!

Oh, no. No way. “Millie! You forgot your dog!”

More laughter from the stairway. “No, I didn’t!”

Dear Mrs. Smartly,

Hey, long time no see. Or hear. Thanks for your last letter, even though it was very short. It was so newsy. I was just riveted by the news that you got a new goldfish for your desk. And yes, I do think Stan is a fine name for your new gilled friend.

Today was my first day back at school since “the incident.” I like to say that out loud so I can do quotey fingers. I find it kind of odd you didn’t call me to bawl me out about “the incident.” I pulled a Trina, and you have nothing to say to me? No yelling? No threats? I guess you’re too busy with your new pet goldfish to work up a good lecture.

What a day. Longest day of my life. (Well, maybe except for the time the electricity went out at Sunny for twenty-four hours, and we were without air conditioning and television, and you made us play I-Spy for like twelve hours straight.)

So after a bit of a slow start this morning, Millie took me to school. The weatherman had predicted clear, sunny skies for this morning and a crisp fall temperature of fifty-nine degrees. The thermometer on Millie’s rearview mirror said forty degrees, and the rain spitting down had me wishing I hadn’t bothered with the straightening iron. My own forecast? How about stressful with a hundred percent chance of freaking out.

English class started out fine. I really like that class. We’ve just started reading a play out loud. It’s Julius Caesar. I haven’t read much from ol’ Bill Shakespeare, but he’s still kinda cool. Ms. Dillon, my teacher, says it’s about this dude who thinks he has all these friends, but then they turn on him and stab him. I so relate. Well, minus the death part.

But about twenty minutes into the class, in walk Angel and Vincent—you know, the stabbers. They handed Ms. Dillon a note, like they had been in the principal’s office, and then took their seats. Close to me. Vincent didn’t even acknowledge me, but Angel watched me from the time she gave the teacher the note to the moment she sat down in her seat. She looked at me like I was some sort of parasite. Definitely not in a “Hey let’s do another sleepover really soon okay?” way. I just stared right back, like “Don’t even think you can intimidate me, Angel, Ms. I-Have-the-Most-Ironic-Name-in-the-World.”

It’s like our staring needed a soundtrack and subtitles.

So after class I go to my locker, put my books away, and slam the locker shut.

And there was Angel.

“You better have a good reason why you ratted on us this weekend,” she hissed.

Oh, no she didn’t. No way I was letting her put this on me. “Oh, right, I should’ve taken up for you? Why? To thank you for the cool way you left me there with the cops? Or maybe because you have been such a good friend to me? I don’t think so.”

“We didn’t mean for you to take the fall.”

“Really? My mistake then. I guess I got the wrong idea when I walked out of the orchestra pit and I was surrounded by graffiti, broken glass, and the police! And you guys were nowhere to be found!” I stepped closer to her. “I must’ve gotten a little bit mixed up when the police pointed their cute little flashlights and guns at me. And the moment when the police put the handcuffs on me—only me—might have given me the idea that I was supposed to take the blame—alone. But now that you’re here to explain it all, Angel, it makes so much sense.”

Angel could see I wasn’t backing down, and some of her bravado slipped. “Look, Katie, it’s just—”

“No, you look. That was my foster parents’ theatre. And you knew it. You took me to the Valiant expecting me to help you guys destroy the place. And then you left me there to take the blame and deal with the police all by myself.”

“We took you in. When no one else would hang out with you here, we let you be a part of our group. We thought you could handle it. We thought you were one of us. But obviously you’re not. Real friends stick together. So before you go pointing fingers, you think about that.”

I laughed in her face. “I was seconds away from getting my first mug shot. A mug shot with bed head, to top it off. Wow, Angel, I’ve never had friends as good as you. I know it’s my loss. I may never have the opportunity for such friendship again. And five years from now when I’m watching the evening news, and I see you and your ‘friends’ (and I did the quotey fingers here) on TV being arrested for jewelry heists or grand theft auto, I’ll say, ‘oh, if only I could have stuck by them and been lucky enough to be their “friend.”’”

Angel opened her mouth to counterstrike, but I hugged my books to my chest and nudged past her. And in the spirit of Trina, I might have purposefully bumped into her shoulder just for drama’s sake.

After English, I went to world history. The man who teaches that class probably knew your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather. He’s that old. And the whine of his hearing aid always makes me think there’s a cat being tortured somewhere in the room. But aside from Mr. Patton falling asleep twice during his own lecture, history came and went without a problem.

Ditto for algebra.

But next . . . was lunch.

I grabbed my lunch bag and went in search of a seat. In a different bathroom where Frances Vega wouldn’t find me. I vaguely remembered a bathroom in the gym wing and took off in that direction.

I turned down the corridor and hit bathroom pay dirt. Taking a deep breath (because you never know what the air quality will be like), I opened the door and claimed my stall. Digging into the lunch bag Millie packed for me, I pulled out two homemade chocolate chip cookies. This day called for dessert first.

I decided I would take a bite every time I had a pitiful thought, every time I felt sorry for myself.

The cookies were gone in five seconds.

I half-heartedly reached for my turkey sandwich, and there on the sandwich bag was a sticky note. It said:

Katie, have a great day! Remember, keep your chin up and go make some new friends. (Ones who don’t carry spray paint on them.) I’m praying for you.

Love,

Millie

So what did I do? I stuffed my lunch back in the bag. I squared my shoulders. I lifted my chin. And walked out of that bathroom.

With toilet paper on my shoe.

(Some kid pointed it out on my way down the hall. Real cool.)

Okay, so I was off in pursuit of friends. No problem. I mean, should’ve been easy, right? Simply walk into the cafeteria, pick a table, sit down next to someone, and say, “Hey, I’ll bet you want to be my friend. Well, today just happens to be your lucky day.” Mrs. Smartly, I know you think you have it rough being the director of Sunny Haven, but this teenage business—it makes your job look like a day at the pool.

I opened the cafeteria doors. Two hundred heads swiveled in my direction. All eyes were on me. (Okay, maybe five or six people stopped eating their burritos long enough to look my way, but it felt like two hundred.)

I spied Frances and her gang of non-troublemakers over in a far corner. Nope, I wasn’t gonna sit there. I knew Frances would let me eat lunch with her, but I don’t think I’m ready to go from wannabe cons like Angel to Frances and her squeaky-clean group of valedictorians.

I scanned the cafeteria, aware of how incredibly awkward it was to be alone in the cafeteria, searching for a single friendly face to connect to. Being a dork is quite uncomfortable. I know you can relate, Mrs. Smartly.

I surveyed the room. There were the computer and techie kids. The gamers (they show up to school wearing big hoodie sweatshirts every day and pull their gaming devices out of their pockets when they think no one is looking). The cheerleaders (can you even imagine me approaching them?). The jocks (seated right next to the cheerleaders, of course). There was the table of agri students (the farm kids), the preps, another table of Goths, the band people (easy to spot because there is usually someone among them tapping out the latest marching song with a pair of spoons). I could go on and on (and I should just to get you back for the six-line letter you sent me last week), but I finally decided to pick the table the farthest away from both Frances and Angel.

I approached the table and stood there. Totally awkward.

An upperclassman wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with some unknown symbol noticed me first. “Dude, is there something you want?” Sir Righteous talks like the turtle off of
Finding Nemo
.

Here goes, I thought to myself. “Um, yeah, I’m kind of new here. Do you mind if I sit with you guys?”

The table was full of guys and girls, none of which I would label preps, but not exactly on the Goth side either. Their clothes were a bit rough, but in a very deliberate way.

The group looked to one another, a few shrugged, a few nodded, and finally their spokesperson nodded. “Yeah, I guess. The more the merrier, I suppose.”

We exchanged a few pleasantries, such as where I’m from, what my name is (which raised a few eyebrows—clearly they’d heard about my little jaunt to the theater), and briefly discussed the neutral topic of our feelings on cafeteria food. Then the group returned to the conversation I had interrupted.

“Okay, so dude, I was at my dad’s last night, and I did this 360 pop shovit into a backside 50-50 grind.” This from a tenth grader who dared to wear a hat in the cafeteria.

A girl sitting next to me spoke up in a heavy Texan drawl. “Oh, dude, I’ve totally been working on that too. But check it, yesterday I tried a nollie boneless on my new board and landed on my hand. Today I’m gonna try an inverted handplant.”

I picked at my sandwich, wondering what alternate universe I had stepped into. When we were discussing cafeteria food, the pros and cons of the school pizza, the value in checking milk expiration dates, and the importance of avoiding school meat loaf at all costs, things had seemed so normal. But pop shovits? Handplants? Three-sixties? If this was gang lingo, I was in so much trouble.

“So I did a wall ride, right, and I’m on the vert, then I totally run into Principal Wayman. I was so busted.” This from a guy who introduced himself as Jeff.

“No way.” I don’t know whether to act shocked or impressed. I attempt an expression somewhere in between.

“Totally.”

“Hey, Katie, do you skate goofy or regular?”

Mrs. Smartly, I had just about decided these people were making illicit drug references when Frances Vega appeared at the table.

“Hey, dudes,” she threw out, like she was down with their slang.

“Frances! What up, yo? How’s that manual coming?”

At this point my head was about to explode.

“Totally killer, Jason. Thanks for helping me with it. I’m definitely getting better.”

Frances turned a very definite shade of pink. Our little Frances Vega was blushing!

“As soon as you’re ready to hit the skate park, you let me know, okay?” Jason’s eyes never left Frances.

“Yeah, well, you know, it will be a while. I’m still not very stable on the board, and my parents aren’t too big on the skate park.” Frances shuffled from one foot to the other. Very interesting.

Skaters. These people were skaters—not drug dealers, not gang members. Still, I was totally out of my element. I don’t know a wallie from a wheel.