The Big Picture (30 page)

My heart thrills at this. “Because I’m friends with a guy?”

He swings his attention back to me. “I don’t know.” His hand pushes through his brown hair. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Oh, boy
. Are we really back to that again? “Charlie, I can’t wait forever until you figure it all out.” I take a step closer. “Do you like me?”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“Just barely. You’ve hardly glanced at me since you’ve been here. And during lunch — did you even say two sentences?”

“I don’t think things are ever going to be the same — with you in Middleton and me in In Between.”

“I don’t think that’s what’s changed. I think it has nothing to do with distance.”

His brows snap together. “Of course it does.”

“What were you going to talk to me about on the phone last week? You know, the last time you called me?” Did I mention that was a
week
ago? That doesn’t exactly scream
my heart yearns for you
.

“You know . . .” He pauses, searching my face. “I think I have it all figured out — what would be the best for both of us. Then I come here and see you again, and I remember how it used to be. How much fun we used to have. How easy you are to be with.” His hands rub up and down my arms. “I miss that.”

“I do too. But I don’t want to date two of you.”

“Tate?” He scowls.

“No, Chelsea. There can’t be three of us in this relationship.”

“She’s different, Katie. I’ve given that a lot of thought, and I — ”

“Charlie! We gotta go.” Frances holds her car door open and watches us.

“What?” I prompt him. “What were you going to say?”

“Dude, we gotta hit the road!” Nash waves us over.

“We’d better go. We’ll finish this conversation another day. Sometime when we’re not surrounded by the smell of meatloaf and gravy.”

I thought it was kind of romantic myself.

I sigh with resignation and nod.

Frances jabbers the whole way to my trailer, and my heart is already so heavy with missing her, I can’t even focus on the thread of conversation. When she pulls into my drive, I blink at the pressure behind my eyes.

“Can we come in? I’d love to meet your mom.” Frances throws Sally Ann in park.

“Er . . .” I glance toward the trailer, painfully aware that Mom’s car is gone. Where has she gone? Maybe it’s just to the store. We do need groceries. But then again, maybe it’s not the store. Maybe it’s to a dealer’s house. Or to an exploding meth house, and I’ll see her on the evening news. Or —

“Katie?”

I blink at Frances’s voice. “Um . . . Mom’s not even here, and I’m sure the trailer’s a wreck. Next time?” I echo Charlie’s words and brave a glance at the boy beside me. The boy who was my science partner. Then my friend. Then something more . . . then nothing.

He rests his hand over mine — just for a second. “Next time then.”

I take turns hugging my friends, nearly losing it as I pull Frances to me. “We’ll see you soon,” she says, and I can only nod. “Oh! Before I forget, the Scotts and Maxine each sent you a care package.”

Joy shoots through my heart, and I clap with childlike glee. “Lemme see!”

She goes around, opens the back hatch, and hands me a box. “From James and Millie.”

I dive into it. Some Gap tank tops, a new pair of flip-flops, some books, a new CD, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. Not even her soy tofu weirdo cookies — real cookies! Though I’m stuffed, I stick one in my mouth anyway. Ohhh . . . they taste like home.

“And this is from Maxine.”

I stick my hand in the Hello Kitty gift bag and pull out . . . a signed picture of Brad Pitt? I lift questioning eyes to Frances.

She shrugs. “We were told not to ask any questions.”

Fair enough. I rifle through the rest of the bag and find French truffles, a new
People
magazine, a pen that writes in disappearing ink, and a hundred dollar bill — wrapped up in five new pairs of Victoria’s Secret panties.

“She said they were the latest and guaranteed not to crawl.”

“Oh, it’s great.” I hug Frances to me again. “You guys are all great.”

Charlie takes my packages and walks me up the steps. Swallowing back dread, I pull my house key from my purse.

“Thanks for coming, Charlie. It means a lot to me.”

He hugs me again. Briefly. An altogether wimpy embrace. “That’s what friends are for.”

Friends. Right.
Thank you, Charlie Vagueness
.

I wave toward the car and say good-bye to Charlie again. Then step into the trailer, closing the door on my In Between friends. I peel back a curtain and watch their car from the living room window. Then I run to my mom’s bedroom and peek through her window, staying there until there is nothing left of my friends to see.

They are gone.

Leaving me here.

In Middleton.

Because I am Katie Parker — a girl just born to say good-bye.

Chapter thirty - two

“DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE that.”

I put the remote down as my mother walks through the front door. “Where’ve you been?”

“Do you know how sick I am of that question?” She pokes her chest. “I’m the mother.
You’re
the daughter.”

“
Hmm
. So you do know that. I wasn’t sure.”

“Don’t smart off to me!” she roars, planting herself right in front of the TV.

“Did you get any groceries?”

“Get ’em yourself.”

“Yeah, I’ll just walk to the store.” Fury courses through my every cell. “Maybe I could’ve, had you taken me to the doctor instead of going MIA every time I had an appointment.”

“Just shut up.”

Though I’ve heard it a million times, I still close my eyes at her words. Millie and James would never talk to me like that.

She rubs her temples. “My head hurts. Get me some aspirin.”

“Get it yourself.”

“This is
my
house. You will do what I tell you to so long as you live here.”

I stand up, throwing the remote on the couch. “Which won’t be very long. At some point the child services lady is going to come back — and not to talk to you. But to take me. Is that what you want? You ripped me out of the Scotts’ house just to throw me somewhere else?”

“You’ve never wanted to be here. Admit it!”

I bite my lip and shake my head. “I wanted my mom back. I wanted things to work. I wanted you to have a job like a normal person. I wanted — ”

“You are so judgmental. You get that from
them
, you know. Those
people
you lived with.”

“Why?” I yell. “Because I expect you to have a job? As soon as I get rid of this cast,
I’m
getting a job. It’s what people do — people who want to eat. Have you paid that electricity bill yet? The water?”

“It’s about time you thought about helping out around here. Take, take, take, that’s all you do. I can’t do this alone.”

“You can’t do this
period
, Mom.”

She jumps around the scarred coffee table, halting inches from my face. I smell the alcohol on her breath and automatically breathe through my mouth. “What do you want from me? I’m not perfect.”

“I want you to be the mom who can at least remember a doctor’s appointment. I want you to be able to get yourself to work so I don’t have to pull out my old list of excuses for the landlord. I want you — ” my voice breaks, and some of the anger seeps away, leaving mostly sadness. “I want you to love yourself
and
me enough to stay clean.” I blink away the wetness pooling in my eyes. “Please love me enough to not send me back into the system. You don’t know what it’s like. I deserve better.” I hear the whine in my voice, and it’s like acid in my stomach. “I can’t go back, Mom,” I whisper. “I can’t go back to a group home for a single day.”

My mom’s body trembles, her breathing ragged. “I will try and find a job tomorrow.”

“What have you been doing all this week?”

“Trying to find a job!” Her voice shakes the thin walls.

“You have to call the lady from the state. I can’t put her off any longer. She left a message on the door Friday that you missed a drug test. You have to go take that.”

Mom steps around me and sinks into the couch, her head in her hands. “I can’t.”

I swallow hard. “Why?”

“Because I just can’t.”

“You’ve got to start going to your support group meetings again. And talk to your sponsor. You have to get help. You’re sabotaging your life.”
And
mine.

“Just like that, huh?” She raises her face and laughs. “You got it all figured out, dontcha, kid? You’ve got all the answers. Well, you don’t know what it’s like to be me.”

I stare at her shaking hands, her red face. “No, I don’t. I can’t imagine. But you know what? This past year I learned what it is to be a kid — to be taken care of. To be loved and provided for. To not have to worry if I’d have anything for dinner or where I was going to get lunch money. To really be a kid and not the adult. Why can’t we be like that? Why can’t you just be the mom?
My
mom.”

Mom digs into her pocket and pulls out her keys.

“No, don’t go anywhere. Please. Just stay here tonight. I can’t handle this anymore — this wondering where you are and if you’re alive.”

“Then don’t worry about it. Did I ask you to worry?” She stands to her feet.

“Please don’t go. We’ll work on your résumé. We’ll search the want ads for a job.”

“I don’t need your help,” she sneers, glaring down at me. “I’m going to John’s. I won’t be back tonight, so don’t stay up and ‘worry’ about me.”

“You’re picking everything over me. John, the drugs . . .” I pull myself up and latch onto her shoulders. “When do I get to be a priority?”

“I don’t know.” She pushes past me. “But it ain’t tonight.”

“Please — ”

My pleading voice stops her halfway out the door.

“Do this one thing for me. Don’t leave me tonight.” I see her eyes focus a bit more and know she’s considering it. “I won’t ask anything else of you. I’ll make us some popcorn. We can watch some Lifetime.” I smile weakly. “There’s a new Tori Spelling movie on tonight.”

My mom takes one step back into the living room.

Then her cell phone rings. She rips it out of her back pocket and checks the call.

“Don’t answer it.” I don’t know who it is, but it can’t be good. I’m sure it’s someone who could never understand the value of a good Lifetime movie. Or a drug-free life.

“Uh-huh. Really?” Mom sticks her head back outside and waves. “I’ll be right out.” She stares at her phone. “Dang. Battery’s going dead. Can I borrow yours?” A horn honks from the driveway.

“Who’s out there?” I look outside. Some guy sits behind the wheel of an old Ford truck. I can’t see his face, but I can tell he hasn’t shaved in this decade and he has hair longer than mine. “Who is that?” ’Cause it sure isn’t John.

“Just a friend. We go way back.”

Like back to prison?

“Katie, I gotta go.” She sticks her hand out and waits for my phone. “Come on.” She sees the protest in my face. “I just need some air. I’ll have your phone back to you tonight. I’ll try to be home by nine. I will.”

I have absolutely no reason to believe her. No reason to trust her anymore. Yet I hand my cell to her anyway. “Don’t go through my saved numbers and crank call anyone.”

Mom rolls her eyes then gives me a quick peck on my cheek. “Thanks.”

“Mom?” She’s pulling the door closed. “I love you.”

The lines between her brows deepen. “Uh-huh. You too, kid. I’ll see
you later.” But she winks as the door shuts, and I know it’s the closest to “Daughter, you are the light in my life and the reason I draw breath” I’m going to get.

I return to the couch, as worn out as if I’d just finished a marathon and with my nerves in shreds. I offer up a quick prayer for my mom’s safety.

Three hours later I am mourning the loss of my phone. I have people to text! Family to call! Games to play. Could my life get any more miserable?

Yes, it could.

And it does.

The house goes dark.

And silent.

I curl my legs up on the couch and pound my head on my knees. No, no, no! This is
not
happening. I
knew
she hadn’t paid that electricity bill.

Feeling my way to the kitchen, I locate a flashlight in a drawer. I hate the dark. I would never make it on
Survivor
. I would be the first one they voted off. In fact, I’d volunteer to be kicked off. I like my creature comforts too much. Like electricity, a soft bed, and food that doesn’t make you want to grab a can of Raid.

I raise all the dusty blinds to let in the remaining light from outside.

Headlights set the living room all aglow, and I peer out the window over the sink.

Tate.

My heart picks up the pace. Do I let him in? He’ll know we can’t afford electricity. He’ll know my mom is a total loser. But I’m bored. And I don’t know when or
if
she’ll be back. Total humiliation versus human contact. I don’t know!

He raps on the door. I stay in my spot, motionless. Frozen. I can’t let him in. I can’t let him see me like this.

The small knocks turn into pounds. I close my eyes against the
noise.

“Katie?” he bellows, his fists heavy on the door. “Katie, are you in there? Mrs. Parker?”

Oh, no. He’s worried about me.
Go away! Shoo! I have attack cats. Don’t make me sic them on you.

I hear him descend the steps.
Whew
. I exhale my pent-up breath and take another peek.

Wait. What’s he doing? He reaches into the back of his Explorer and pulls out a box. A cooler. He’s getting out a cooler?
Um, not exactly a good time to tailgate, Tate.

I move away from the window as he draws closer to the trailer again, still calling out my name. My neighbors are gonna be so ticked.

I hear the cooler hit the ground, and I frown.

Stepping away from the sink, I press myself to the back wall of cabinets. There’s no way he can see me.

I gasp.

And my eyes connect with Tate Matthews — who stands on his Coleman and spots me with his flashlight.