In Between (2 page)

She turns the radio up a few notches and begins to sing.

I lurch out of the seat and punch buttons until the music is off. “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “First, Mr. and Mrs. Scott could be total lunatics. Kooks. They could be scary, scary people with evil, evil plans.” All right, let’s not even delve into that line of thought.

I keep on babbling. “Next, there is the idea they only get foster children for slave labor. I mean, I am their temporary kid, and since they will be my temporary parents, I am expected to obey their every command. Like ‘No dinner for you until you’ve cleaned the refrigerator!’ Or how about ‘No water for you until you’ve filed our taxes, waxed our vehicles, washed the dog, patched the roof, and given Grandma Scott her pedicure.’

“Or maybe they are do-gooders who think
I’m
the evil one, and they’ll try to mold me into some goody-goody freak of nature, who never stops smiling, sings show tunes, and says crazy stuff like, ‘Yes, ma’am, I’d love to watch more public television tonight.’”

The possibilities are endless.

“Are you done?” With one hand Mrs. Smartly turns her tunes back up, then reaches into her purse between the seats and grabs a pack of gum. She holds the package out to me.

I shake my head, refusing her pity gum.

I close my eyes for a moment, embarrassed at my little outburst. Inhale . . . and exhale. Okay, I’m better. No more freak outs from this point on.

Maybe when I wake up this car ride will be over, and the sight of Mrs. Smartly shaking her bon-bon in her bucket seat will be just a dim memory.

“Katie,” a voice
calls from the driver’s seat.

I’m ignoring this voice.

“Katie, wake up. We’re almost to the Scotts’ house.”

The fog in my head clears as I wake up, and I remember I’m in a shabby minivan bound for a life of sheer bliss and sunshine at my new “parents” house in Wacko, Texas. Mrs. Smartly nudges my leg, trying to wake the sleeping beauty I am. I give her my possum routine. Plus, I’ve been asleep in the same position so long I can’t seem to move my head.

“Katie Parker, you’re drooling on your seat belt. Now wake up.”

Ew. Gross.

After I readjust my neck, which got stuck in that awkward sleeping-in-the-car position, I arise to see we are zooming past a big red sign indicating we have arrived in In Between, Texas. It says,
Welcome to In Between
.
At the center, you’ll find we’re all heart.
They may be all heart, but they’re certainly not all brainiacs. Did a first-grader come up with that slogan?

“Well, Ms. Parker, what do you think?”

What do I think? I think Mrs. Smartly has some ketchup on her chin from her lunch value meal, that’s what I think.

“Are you excited? Nervous? Scared?”

She looks at me with genuine interest and concern. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m probably gonna be right back at Sunny Haven within six weeks, I would miss Iola Smartly. The poor woman was given the job of operating a run-down orphanage in a building that hasn’t seen improvements since a guy named Abe Lincoln was in office. Mrs. Smartly had to contend with one ornery building, plus make sure none of us girls skipped school, ran away, or robbed any convenience stores. No wonder she has so much gray in that dark hair she keeps piled up on top of her head.

“Katie. I’m talking to you.”

I search my brain for a response and give her what I’ve got.

All I’ve got.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Smartly. I just don’t know.”

We pass a park where children are playing and running. I try not to think how lucky those children are. Moms to push their swings. Dads to wipe the dirt off scraped knees.

Beyond the park there’s a water tower just suffering for a paint job. Mrs. Smartly and I eye the tower and can’t help but simultaneously read aloud the poorly painted lettering,
Home of the In Between Chihuahuas
. Oh, this is getting worse by the minute. Their school mascot is the Chihuahua?

“Well, Katie, you’ll be a Chihuahua, it seems,” Mrs. Smartly says with a friendly smirk. The last school I was at, their mascot was a tiger. Tigers eat Chihuahuas.

“Maybe my foster parents will be into homeschooling.”

“No such luck, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll adjust.”

City hall. May’s Quilt Shop. Gus’s Getcher Gas. Tucker’s Grocery and More. In Between Public Library. Bright Mornings Daycare. Micky’s Diner. I’m in a small town nightmare. Can you call it a town if there isn’t even a McDonald’s? How does a person survive without easy access to chicken nuggets?

Mrs. Smartly squints hard at her directions and passing street signs, making lefts and rights with her prized minivan. As we wind through the town, my panic builds with every new sight. Are we going too fast for me to jump out of the van? I think I could live with a broken arm. But on second thought, what if she’s going at the speed just prime for a broken neck?

Deciding I like my neck right where it is, I resign myself to the fact that In Between is where I’m at.

Where I’m staying.

Ready or not.

A
s we pull
into the driveway, the gravel path crunches under the tires of the green machine. Suddenly I do not want to get out. I want to stay in the minivan and drive and drive forever. Mrs. Smartly will be the pilot and I, her trusty navigator. We can see the world from our vinyl seats, and nothing can stop us from our life of adventure—and many, many convenience store hot dogs.

My Cruisin’-America dreams come to a screeching halt as I spot what must be the Scotts standing at the end of the drive.

Waiting for me.

The green beast lurches then shimmies to a stop, as does my stomach. Mrs. Smartly looks at me, shoving her Hollywood sunglasses (circa 1985) on top of her teased updo. Oh, no. She’s giving me the sympathy. I can’t stand the sympathy. But her heart is in her eyes, and it’s like I’m receiving her telepathic messages. She feels sorry for me. She’ll miss me. She believes in me. I am the wind beneath her wings.

“Katie?”

Here it comes.

I sigh. “Yes, Mrs. Smartly.” Tell me what’s on your heart. Just get the gooshy stuff over with.

“You have a French fry stuck to your leg.”

I swat it off. Couldn’t she at least manage one tear? One measly tear?

“Out you go. Time to meet the Scotts.”

I peel my legs off the vinyl seat and prepare to take my first step out of the vehicle and into who knows what.

“We could’ve been so good together,” I utter miserably to the van, giving the seat a final parting pat.

“Welcome! Welcome!” The woman who must be Mrs. Scott yells, waving her hands like she’s trying to signal a B-52 in for landing.

“Behave, Katie. Put your sweet-girl face on,” Mrs. Smartly whispers in my ear. So little time spent with her, yet she knows me so well.

Taking Mrs. Smartly’s cue to ignore my bags, I dutifully walk toward the waiting couple. They appear trim and tan and look to be in their forties, but I know from sneaking a peak at their paperwork that James and Millie Scott are both in their fifties. They are probably counting the days until they get their senior citizen discount at Gus’s Getcher Gas. Millie’s chin-length, highlighted blonde hair spirals and curls in various directions, and the slight breeze makes her hair dance all over her head. She is thin and slight, and her brown eyes look at me—expectant, hopeful. Like I’m a big surprise package unwrapping before her layer by layer.
Don’t get too excited
, I want to tell her.
Katie Parker is just passing through.

This woman before me, who exudes kindness, has me wrapped up in her delicate arms before I know what hits me, before I can inform her of the Katie Parker no-hugging policy. My temporary mom smells of potting soil and fabric softener, and for a moment I allow myself the luxury of breathing it in.

“Your picture didn’t do you justice. You are just as cute as you can be. Isn’t she, James?”

Millie Scott takes a step away from me, keeps her hands on my shoulders, and holds me out for further scrutiny. I have to wonder what my new mom and dad (insert sarcasm here) are thinking about me. I’m not so unsightly that I need to wear a Tucker’s Grocery bag over my head, but I also don’t presume to be Miss Teen USA material, either. As I stand there in all my sixteen-year-old glory, I hope they see my overly-processed hair as strawberry blonde and not an unfortunate battle between red and yellow (with no clear winner). My Madonna T-shirt is vintage, not garage-sale castoff. I hope they know this morning I had some decent looking makeup on, but now it’s probably streaking down my face, all Gothic-like. I want them to look at my five-foot-nine frame and see potential, and I don’t mean for the Chihuahua basketball team.

Her husband smiles at me and luckily opts for a shoulder pat instead of a hug. James Scott stands at least a foot taller than his little wife and looks like the football player to her cheerleader. He is broad and solid, and there is something about him that gets your attention. I notice he has khakis on, and I’m proud to say he doesn’t have them pulled up and belted below his armpits. His short-sleeve polo shirt has an insignia over the left pocket, and I read
In Between Community Church
.

Mrs. Smartly mentioned he worked for a church in some capacity.
Nice uniform
, I want to say.

As he smiles at me, I notice his dark gray hair, eyes settled behind oval glasses, leather shoes that scream out “I’m comfortable, but stylish too.” But mostly I notice his caution. As I quit my assessment of my would-be dad, I stare straight into his face. His blue peepers meet mine, and in this moment I know. I know that, number one, James Scott is carrying around some hurt of his own; and number two, he’s not really sure he wants me around to see it.

“Hey, let’s get your bags, young lady, and we’ll show you around, get you all settled in.” James drops his hand from my shoulder and walks to the van to collect all my worldly possessions.

Mrs. Scott’s arm snakes around me as I’m led toward the house. We walk up a cobblestone path with flowers on either side. The house in which I am now to live looms before me. It doesn’t look scary, but my stomach does a triple flip anyway. The cream-colored house is anything but new. My new digs have obviously been around for a long time and have seen much TLC and restoration, unlike a certain girl’s home, which will go unnamed.

Aside from some pretty scary looking yard gnomes, my own mother never really got into home maintenance, so I am reluctantly impressed by the Scotts’ curb appeal. Black shutters hang at every window, and the two-story abode is topped off by a tall brick chimney. I’m sick at the thought of staying here, but I’ve been in the system long enough to know things could be worse.

“We’re so excited you’re here, Katie.” Mrs. Scott gushes with enthusiasm, and I wait for her to add a sporty “Yay!” I offer the woman a weak smile but find I don’t really have anything substantial to say.

With a brief look at Iola Smartly, Mrs. Scott tries again. “We have a room for you all set up, but it needs a teenager’s touch. So later in the week we can go shopping for things to make you feel more at home, okay?”

She’s trying really hard. I’ve got to give her that.

Mrs. Smartly clears her throat and jerks her head, signaling me to acknowledge Mrs. Scott.

I shrug a shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Mrs. Smartly’s eyes roll around and she shakes her big, poofy head.

Look, until I know the Scotts’ motivation, until I know I’m here for upright reasons and not to clip their dog’s toenails on a daily basis or be the resident toilet scrubber, I have got to play it cool. Sure James and Millie look like nice people, but I hear a lot of psychopathic serial killers are quite charming, too. If there is one thing I learned from Trina, the Knife Wielder, it’s always be on your guard.

We enter the house, and I instantly get a whiff of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Do these people think they can woo me with cookies? Do they really think I’m that weak?

I hope they don’t have nuts in them.

Various antiques surround me, but surprisingly not in a “don’t touch me” sort of way. The Scott home is cozy, with overstuffed furniture, walls adorned with decorative plates, the occasional botanical print, and family pictures spanning decades. I scan the perimeter to make sure the heart of any home is here—the television. Luckily, it’s not an antique, but it’s not exactly a sixty-inch flat-screen either. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for premium cable.

Mrs. Smartly is looking this place over like she’s committing it to memory. I hope she’s doing this for caution’s sake and not with the thought that I’m gonna steal that blue and white platter hanging over the fireplace.

“So, Miss Katie, you’re awfully quiet. How are you feeling about all of this?” Millie Scott asks.

Mrs. Smartly looks at me with such intensity I’m afraid her eyes are going to laser through mine.

With a bored (yet artfully haughty) glance at the house I mutter, “It’s okay.”

I know my face is speaking volumes, though. I know my face is saying, “You people don’t impress me. I don’t want to be here. Your efforts are useless.” Apparently, I need to come up with a “Yes, I will take milk with my chocolate chip cookies” expression too. I mean, seriously, when is the woman going to break out the baked goods?