The Big Picture (10 page)

I got saved over spring break. I asked Jesus into my heart and gave him my life. But I thought membership had some privileges, you know? When I rose out of those baptismal waters, I was told I was a new creation. I was hoping new meant improved. I mean, I wasn’t expecting to shoot out of the church baptismal with double Ds or anything, but I thought I would have some perks being in the family of God. So far — not really working out for me. Where is God in this? Maybe God plays favorites, and I’m in the bottom ranks. Maybe the Chelseas of the world are more his style. And the Katies? Well, they get tossed around like a volleyball. Slung into the net and spiked to the ground.

I stand up and step toward the doorway.

“He hasn’t forgotten you, Katie.”

And I keep walking. Up the steps and into my room.

Where Maxine sits in the dark on the floor under the window sill.

I turn on the light. “What are you doing?”

“Turn that blasted light off! You’ll blow my cover.”

I flick the switch again. “Who are you hiding from, the nursing home? I told them as long as you were still wearing big girl underwear, you could stay.”

“Very funny,” she hisses. “Sit down.” She pats the spot next to her on the floor.

And like it makes all the sense in the world, I park myself beside her.

Where we wait.

And wait.

Outside the crickets serenade and the bullfrogs harmonize.

Though I’ve learned it’s usually best not to ask, I throw caution to the wind and do it anyway. “What are we doing?”

“Waiting.” Her voice stays a steady whisper. “Sam and I had another big row today, and I’m waiting for him.”

“Because you’re afraid he’s going to sneak in here and strangle you?”

Maxine plants her nose to mine. “I don’t need your sass.” She turns
her head back toward the open window. “I just thought he might do something romantic and apologize. You know, like throw some pebbles against the windowpanes, wake me up, and shout out his undying love for the whole neighborhood to hear.”

I cover my mouth, stifling a laugh. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. Where would he get an idea like that?”

“Because he has the potential to be romantic.” Maxine drums her nails on the floor. “And because the last thing I shouted was, ‘Maybe you should throw some pebbles against the windowpanes, wake me up, and shout your undying love for the whole neighborhood to hear.’”

In all the chaos that is my life, I do have one constant I can be grateful for. One idea that is steady and true.

Maxine Simmons will always be crazy.

Chapter eleven

MY LIFE STORY TAKES UP four lines on my paper. Wide ruled.

The next Monday in school, Ms. Dillon is nice enough to give us almost the entire class period to work on our autobiographies. Here’s what I have so far:

I was born in Texas.

I still live in Texas.

I wish Millie would let me eat cold pizza for breakfast.

What’s up with Simon Cowell’s man boobs?

Seriously, that’s all I have. I don’t know, it’s like on one hand I have too much to say about my life, and on the other, I haven’t really lived much. Aside from moving around a lot with my mom, I’ve never really traveled. I don’t think sneaking off in the middle of the night so you don’t have to pay rent qualifies as a vacation or anything. I’ve never been on an airplane (I know, I’m weird). Aside from some stray cats, I’ve never had a pet (and no, Rocky doesn’t count). I don’t have a lot of family, so no thrilling stories about summers with grandma or zany family reunions.

Ms. Dillon, wearing a cute, summery dress from the Gap, sweeps through the rows and checks our work. She pauses at my desk.

She clears her throat. “Having trouble focusing?”

“I’m just brainstorming.”

“You should be past that stage. We brainstormed last week.”

I strike a reflective pose. “Ms. Dillon, can you really put a time limit on the outpouring of thoughts?”

She cracks a smile. “Are you stuck?”

“Like a thong bikini.”

“Well, every life has defining moments. What are yours? What are the things you’ll want your grandchildren to know?”

I’ll want them to know if you skip brushing your teeth just one night they won’t fall out. That if you cross your eyes, they’re not gonna freeze that way. And once upon a time it was cool to like Britney Spears.

“I don’t know. I don’t really have any highlights or anything. Can I just make some stuff up? You know, give it a creative, soap-opera flare? My life à la
Lost
or something? I mean, nonfiction is so dull.”

Ms. Dillon leans down, pulling her shoulder-length blonde hair to one side. “I
know
you’ve had your moments.”

“Leave my disciplinary file out of this.”

“I’m talking about moments that shaped you. Made Katie Parker who she is.”

“But I don’t know who I — ”

“Yes, you do.” She taps her pen to my paper. “Now just have the guts to put it on paper.”

AT LUNCH THE GANG DECIDES TO eat outside in the commons. Commons is just fancy talk for “We’re taking our Frito pies and tater tots to some picnic tables outside.”

I set my Millie-packed lunch down at a table marked “Donated by the class of 1993.” Dang, that is old. But it has a nice view of the parking lot. I like to see who’s sneaking off campus for lunch.

“Hey, Katie. Looks like it could rain.” Hannah slides in next to me, then Nash parks his tray in front of us.

“Where’s Frances?” I pop a carrot in my mouth.

“Sneaking a call to her mom. She said it was important. So how about that history test today? Heinous, huh?”

Hannah cocks her head at Nash’s question. “I don’t know about that, but I thought it was really, really hard.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I have got to do really well on the final to bring my grade up.”

“I can help you study.”

I turn at Charlie Benson’s voice.

“Can I sit with you guys?”

Hannah scoots over, making a space just for him. A month ago this would’ve sent my heart into orbit. Now . . . I’m not sure what to think. Part of me just wants him to go away and leave me alone. Let’s just call this done. Another part of me wonders if it’s stupid to toss away a good friend just because he’d rather hold someone else’s hand besides mine.

I scoot down even more until I have one cheek practically hanging over the edge. Charlie notices my distance and raises a single eyebrow.

“Seriously, you know history is my strong area. I’d be glad to help you study. We could review together.”

The boy is a total genius. His strong area is any class that comes with a book. My area of expertise? Study hall.

“Um . . . that’s okay. I just need to sit down and make myself some flash cards, go over our old tests, that sort of thing.”
I probably couldn’t study and look at you at the same time anyway.
Something would be too distracting, and it wouldn’t be the War of 1812.

He steps closer, and I smell the scent that is his alone. Eau de Hot Boy. “Come on. Give it some thought. We’ll get some pizza, quiz each other . . .”

Oh, be still my heart. Just what every girl wants to hear from a guy: I want to quiz you.

“I’ll . . . think about it.” I just can’t stay mad at this guy. Am I becoming a doormat? Are the words
walk here
tattooed on my forehead yet?

I hear Frances before I see her. Breathing like a rabid rhinoceros,
she stomps through the gravel, her shoes crunching a mean path to our table.

“We have a crisis!” She slaps her phone on the table next to Nash.

I take in my friend’s flushed cheeks. “Oh, are they out of bean burritos again? It’s really for the best, Frances.”

“No.” She exhales loudly. “I’m not kidding. I just spoke with my mom. She said the mayor heard about my signature campaign to save the cinema. He called my mom and told her I had until seven o’clock tonight — that he would be waiting in his office.”

We all stare at each other, not really sure what to say.

Nash tugs on Frances’s hand. “So how close are we?”

“We have to have five hundred signatures.” Frances lets that sink in. “We only have one hundred and seven. No, make that one hundred. My brother took it to school last week and got seven signatures.”

“That’s great. We’ll take all we can get,” Nash says.

“They were kindergarteners. Plus I don’t think the mayor is going to accept any signatures in Crayola.”

“Then we’ll have to go out tonight and get signatures.”

Frances looks at Charlie. “Yes, we have to. We’ll cover this city from every direction. I’ll make maps, charts, come up with some strategies.”

Nash tosses a tater tot in his mouth. “Make sure you pack me some snacks. Sounds like this could take a while.”

Frances punches her first toward the overcast sky. “We will launch a door-to-door assault on In Between! I will not sleep until I have my five hundred signatures.”

We hash out a few details but leave most of it to General Vega. After we agree to meet up after school, we drop the topic. Hannah takes her tray in, and Frances and Nash become engrossed in talk about his band.

Leaving me and Charlie.

Not alone. But pretty much.

“How was your date with Joey Farmer?”

I look up from the gluten-free cookies Millie packed for me. “It was
fine.” These things don’t even resemble cookies. And I don’t know what glutens are, but I miss them.

“I have to be honest with you . . .”

He angles his body to where our knees are touching and he’s totally facing me, blocking out the remaining sun, Frances and Nash, and what’s left of my self-control.

“Yes?” Did I just imagine it, or did he just move his face in closer?

“He seemed like a really nice guy.”

I feel my face fall. I think my smile is somewhere around my ankles. “Um . . . he is. Very nice.”

“And uh . . .” Charlie’s mouth quirks. “Quite the musician.”

And I don’t know why, but for some reason, this ticks me off. It’s like family — I can talk about them, but
you
can’t. Same way with awkward blind dates of convenience secured through retirement home connections. I can say the bagpipe thing was awful, but
he
can’t.

“He’s just different. And I happened to think his serenade of Fergie’s ‘My Humps’ was . . .” I search for words. “Captivating . . . enthralling . . . unique.” And so off-key, it was everything I could do not to roll on the ground and clutch my ears in agony.

“Katie — ” Charlie moves his hand closer to mine on the table. Not touching, but just a whisper away. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s just that you went out with that guy.”

I blink. “Yeah?”

Charlie opens his mouth then snaps it shut. “I . . .” He runs his hand through his caramel-colored hair. “It bothered me you were bringing some dude to my party. Then when I saw him, I was just . . . so relieved. I thought I could enjoy the rest of the evening, knowing he wasn’t a major threat.” Charlie holds up a hand to halt my oncoming protest. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with him. But I know he’s not your type.”

Yeah, the distant, lead-you-on type is more my thing apparently. Because I love the adventure of never knowing where I stand. It’s some crazy fun.

“Yet it did bother me — seeing you two together. All night I kept thinking, why isn’t that you and me sitting on that blanket? Things were going so well, and now it’s a good day if I can even get you to talk to me.”

“That wasn’t my decision.”

“Wasn’t it?”

I chuck my cookie substitutes back into my lunch bag. “You know what I think?” I pin him with my stare. “I think you
know
you messed up. Chelsea came sniffing back around, waving her Prada bag in your direction, and you dropped me like a stale donut. Then your Charlie-do-gooder conscience set in.” I poke his chest with my finger. “And I think your conscience tells you that you didn’t handle that situation right. You didn’t treat
me
right.”

He grabs my finger and holds it captive. “I told you the truth. I told you Chelsea was going through something major and needed a friend. I didn’t mean she just needed someone to IM her every once in a while. I meant she needed a full-time friend. Did I not lay that out for you?”

Interesting how you can feel heat radiating off of someone.
Ugh, focus, Katie!
“But at some point, the line between friend and
more than friend
has blurred, am I right?”

Charlie’s left eye twitches. “Chelsea and I are just friends. Maybe you’re just too insecure to handle my being friends with a girl.”

I jerk my finger back. “Number one, big boy, this isn’t just any girl — she’s your ex-girlfriend. And number two, you’re just friends? Does Chelsea know that?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah? Really? Then why did she call you sweetie Friday night?” I could vomit just recalling the memory. Seriously, who
says
that?

Charlie gives a dismissive eye roll. “She called me that? Chelsea calls everyone that.”

“Oh, really?” I crane my neck around him. “Hey, Frances! When’s the last time Chelsea called you sweetie?”

“Never.”

I nod. “Nash?”

“Uh — ”

I look behind me. “Hey! Boy in hoodie and saggy pants with safety pin in your lip. Yeah, you. Has Chelsea Blake ever called you sweetie?”

“Nope.”

I jerk my face back to Charlie. “You were saying?”

He crosses his arms as growing anger tightens his face. “We’re just friends. That’s all.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Frances stands up and peers into the distance. “But isn’t that your
friend
right now, throwing herself at that tow truck guy?”

We all rise and walk to the edge of the gravel to get closer to the parking lot. Charlie takes off in a sprint.

“Come on,” Frances waves us on. “I don’t want to miss this.”

I hesitate but follow. Honestly, do I care?

“. . . and this man says he’s going to take my mom’s car away.” Chelsea shrieks like she’s on fire, clinging to Charlie’s shirt. “Don’t let him. Please don’t let him!”