The Big Picture (12 page)

My mouth hangs open like a hooked catfish. “What did you just say?”

“I said, you either — ”

“I heard you! I cannot
believe
you are pulling this gentleman crap on me. Next you’ll be throwing your jacket over a puddle for me to step over.” Okay, now I’m babbling. Seriously, I probably do need to just go home, but Frances would kill me. Not to mention that wouldn’t help Bubba’s Big Picture in the least.

I brush Charlie’s hands off. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Look, if you’re mad at me, just say it. We have work to do, and I don’t want to disappoint everyone. Let’s just clear the air. You’re mad because of today at lunch.”

“I don’t care about today at lunch. You’re like underwear to my Britney Spears — I don’t
need
you.”

“Well, if you don’t care, then why are you so mad?”

“Because I have PMS?”

“Because you care about me.”

I throw up my hands. “Because I’m upset over the Middle East?”

“Because you’re so jealous you can’t stand it!”

I match his raised volume. “Because girls don’t need a reason to be mad!”

“Or because you can’t get me out of your mind!”

“Oh, you wish, don’t you? You’d love that. Well, too bad, big boy. You are so out of my mind that — ”

“I haven’t left your mind, and you know it! And that’s what’s driving you crazy because — ”

“My mom is coming to get me!” I yell.

A raindrop plinks on my nose.

For what seems like hours, but must only be seconds, we don’t move. The only sound is our worn-out breathing.

And the sound of a door. Granny Rudeness pokes her head out. “You two are really entertaining and all, but I’m trying to watch
CSI
in here.”

“Right then.” I nod.

“Off we go.” Charlie’s hand at the small of my back guides me to his truck.

“When are you moving?” Charlie’s truck crawls down the road.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“But — ”

I pin him with a fierce look. “Drop it.”

Thirty minutes later we finish up the street and head for our next neighborhood.

And the bottom falls out of the sky. Charlie’s windshield wipers race back and forth, but it does little good.

I lean my head back on the seat and sigh. He pulls his truck off to the side of the street and puts it in park.

Silently, we both stare straight ahead, watching the pelting rain and the darkening sky.

“You ready?” I pick up my clipboard.

“It’s practically flooding out there.”

“Then I guess we’d better run fast.” I jerk open the door and jump out.

Charlie and I race to the first house. The rain beats at my skin, and I clutch the clipboard to my chest, trying to keep the signatures as dry as possible. My shoes and pants are instantly soaked through, and my feet squish with every quick step.
Ew
. I hate that feeling. Where your feet are swimming in your socks.

A woman I recognize from church opens the door before we make it to the final step. I shove the clipboard and pen in her hand.

“Petition. Drive-in. Sign!” I yell over the weather. Without asking questions, she grips the pen and scribbles her name. “Thanks!” I yank my clipboard back, and Charlie and I run to the next house.

We manage to get signatures from ten houses on the street before the rain picks up even more and lightning cracks across the sky.

“Katie,” Charlie yells as we leave 112 Sycamore. “We have to go back. This is pointless!” Thunder reverberates around us, and we take off running again — back to the truck.

My feet are slow moving as I seem to hit every water-filled pothole in the street. I’m mad at my mom, mad at the Scotts, disgusted with Charlie, and we barely have any signatures. Yet all I can think is
I’m so glad I’m not wearing a white T-shirt.

I giggle the rest of the way to the truck, even as rain beats my skin.

I jump in place (which makes me very aware of the wet padding in my Wonderbra), as Charlie fumbles with his keys to unlock my door.

“It won’t work!”

I shake my head. “What?” I yell.

“The lock. It’s been sticking lately. You’ll have to get in on my side and climb over.”

We jog around to the other side, and in three wet seconds, Charlie is holding the door open. I step in and leapfrog over his seat and the console, trailing water everywhere.
Please don’t let my underwear be visible through my wet capris! Today
would
be the day I wear my retro Hello Kitty panties.

Charlie shuts the door, starts the truck, and cranks on the heat.

“Do you have a blanket in here?” My teeth chatter.

He runs a hand through his sopping hair. “Yeah, I keep blankets in the truck. For all those times I get caught in rainstorms.” He adjusts the temperature. “Nice hair, by the way.”

“Nice . . . uh — ” I can’t think of a comeback.

“Yeah?” He knows I’ve got nothing. A corner of his mouth lifts.

I smile. Then laugh.

Soon we’re both laughing.

“We look like drowned rats.”

“Yeah, but now I can go back to school and say I steamed up the windows with Katie Parker.” He turns the defrost on. “If I get pneumonia, I am so blaming you.” He lays his hand on my headrest.

“I’ll send you a box of Kleenex.”

His eyes lower to my lips, and I feel my stomach flutter. “If I’m gonna get pneumonia with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”

Our eyes meet, and I’m powerless to look away.

He leans in.

I lean in.

Why
am I leaning in? Stop leaning!
Stop
leaning!

With his hand, he lifts a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind my ear.

“We didn’t get many signatures,” I blurt out, breaking our spell. “And some of them are smeared off.”

He nods his dark head slowly. I notice his hair is curling at the ends. “Some things just don’t work out. Even though we want them to.”

Um . . . are we talking the petition drive or us?

“Some things are worth fighting for, Charlie. And I’m not giving up. Some people give in too easily, but I’m not one of them.” I flip my hair for effect, but it only sticks to my ear.

“No, you’re not.” His voice is deep and low.

I tilt my head and look at him. “Are you really ready to give up?” On the drive-in? On me?

He grabs my hand. “No, I’m not. I’m not ready to give this up — er, give Bubba’s up.”

His thumb rubs over my wet palm, moving in lazy circles, lulling me —

I jerk my hand back. “I can’t do this anymore! One minute you’re hot, one minute you’re cold.”
And one minute you’re soaking wet, and I can see the outline of your six-pack beneath your clinging shirt.

“Can’t you just be patient with me? Have I ever purposely hurt you? I don’t think asking for a little trust is too much.”

“No. This isn’t fair to me. Don’t jerk me around and then make me the bad guy by saying I’m not trusting you.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It can be.”

Lightning cracks and illuminates his face in the darkened truck. “You don’t understand.”

I grit my chattering teeth. “Try me.”

Silence.

“Is it because of where I come from? Who I am?” Hello, Insecurity just climbed in the truck.

He scowls. “No.”

No as in sorta? As in no way? Or no as in I love girls with shady pasts?

“Is it because I’m probably leaving?” Sooner than I thought. I feel a lump forming in my throat at the thought and try to breathe it away.

“I have to admit that doesn’t help matters, but no.”

“I know I don’t fit in with your country-club life. My mom has a reputation a mile wide, and I know it’s not the coolest that I’ll be in summer school.” I feel my temper rise along with the heat in the truck. “But I’m not trash, Charlie. And there’s nothing wrong with coming from a trailer park just because you — ”

“Chelsea’s dad embezzled a lot of money.”

“And yeah, my mom’s done time, but don’t judge me before you walk a mile in my — ”

“He’s probably going to prison.”

“ — shoes, and . . . What?” Lightning cracks. “What did you say?”

Charlie rubs a hand over his damp face. “Chelsea’s about to lose everything. They will probably lose their house, most of their possessions, and every friend they’ve ever had.”

They have friends?

“There will be an indictment; it’s going to be all over the news; it’s going to be messy, and she just has no one.”

I suck in my breath. “You’re telling me Chelsea has a parent who has committed a crime, he’s going to prison, and they’re broke.”

“Exactly.”

I close my eyes and rub my temples.

Dear God, it’s a scary, scary day when Chelsea Blake, my nemesis, my opposite in every way, has a life story that sounds tragically . . . just like mine.

We could be twins.

Except I’m not a size zero.

Chapter fourteen

I SNAP MY PHONE SHUT.

“Frances says we’re to meet them at the mayor’s office in five minutes.” I glance at my watch. Ten ’til seven, and the rain is just now letting up enough to see the road. Charlie and I have spent the last hour in awkward silence, him refusing to talk any more about Chelsea. And me counting raindrops, regrets, and what ifs. All endless.

“We only have twenty-five signatures. It’s not going to be enough.” Charlie starts up his truck, his windshield wipers lurching into action. “Did she say how many she or the others had?”

“No, but she wasn’t happy.” Join the crowd.

We cruise downtown, and Charlie pulls into a spot next to Frances’s station wagon. Before I get out, my eyes meet Frances’s and she just shakes her head. We didn’t do it. We didn’t get enough. Frances jumps out of her car, her umbrella bucking in the wind, and she stomps across the street into city hall.

We all follow. Sad. Wet. Defeated.

The mayor’s assistant lets us into the office and shoos us inside, watching our muddy feet leave tracks on her carpet.

“Right this way, children,” she says primly.
Children
. What is
that
about? I wear a bra and buy Clearasil. You cannot call me a child.

Frances grabs my clipboard, does a brief count, and treads on down the hall.

“Mr. Mayor? Your visitors are here.”

We all file in as Mayor Crowley removes his boots from his mahogany desk. “Well, now. I see you made it by the deadline. Did you get all your signatures?” The smirk under his handlebar mustache tells me he
knows
we weren’t able to pull it off.

“No. Sir.” Frances’s words shoot out like bullets. “We tried, but then the rain . . . We couldn’t even drive in it for a while. Most of us have spent most of the evening in our cars, waiting out the weather.”

“Aw, that’s a real shame. Just a shame.” He grabs his mouse and continues a solitaire game. “So if this little project is over, it’s past my dinner time. And it’s pot roast night at Ida Mae’s House of Vittles.”

Frances moves in front of his desk. “No, it’s not over. We just need seventy-five more names on this petition.”

“Not my problem, darlin’.” The squatty mayor reaches for his cowboy hat and places it on his balding head.

“But it is,” Frances sputters. “The closing of an In Between institution is everyone’s problem. You’re going to deny us the opportunity to save it on seventy-five measly signatures? Why would you do that?”

He leans over his desk. “Two words. Strip. Mall.”

“What about Buford Hollis’s career?”

The mayor throws back his head and hoots with laughter. “Miss Vega, the man operates a rundown drive-in. He pops popcorn two nights a week. You call
that
a career? This” — he holds his arms out, indicating his office — “is a career. Selling tickets to
Top Gun
is not.”

Hannah stands beside Frances. “This isn’t fair.”

“Then not only have I settled this ordeal for you tonight, but I’ve also taught you a lesson. Because life
isn’t
fair, girl. So get used to disappointment.” The mayor stands up, drawing himself to his full five-foot-four glory, his paunchy belly stressing the pearl buttons of his western shirt. “Now, I agreed to stay until seven o’clock for you kids. I’ve been
more than accommodating, but it’s time we all went home.”

Frances dashes to the door, her arms planted inside the frame. “No! We can’t. You can’t!”

Charlie and I exchange worried looks. I glare at Nash.
Do something.

Nash shrugs.

Ugh, boys. Useless!

“Can’t we have one more day, Mr., um . . . Mayor?” I ease my way to Frances, where I whisper, “You are not blocking the mayor in his own office. Move!”

“No. You may not. Bubba’s Big Picture will come down. We cannot get in the way of progress.” He shuts his briefcase and maneuvers out from behind his desk. His beady brown eyes narrow on Frances.

“Young lady, you’d better remove yourself from my doorway.”

“Not until you give us another chance.”

The mayor’s face reddens. “I’ll have you know I’ve been giving Buford Hollis second chances for the last decade! Enough is enough! Now there is nothing you can do, so I suggest you get out of my way.”

“Or what?” Frances demands. “You’ll hit me?”

The mayor does a double take. “Of course not.”

“You’ll swear at me?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

Frances frowns. “You’ll charge through and mow me down?”

Mayor Crowley reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’ll just call the police.” His voice drops sarcastically low. “I sign their checks, you know. We’re rather tight.”

“Come on, Frances. Let’s go home. We’ll talk to an attorney or something for Mr. Hollis.” Charlie steps closer, but she only increases the tension in her arms, as if her strength is all that’s holding up the doorframe.

“Please, Frances. We’ll figure something out.” I’m just plain worn out. The whole day has been one battle after another. “I’ve got to get home and write a paper.”

“Miss Vega,” the mayor waves his phone, “you have five seconds to leave my office, or else I’m calling the police.”