In Between Page 16
A dude hiding behind his hair spoke up. “And we’re the soulful Chihuahuas.”
“Well . . . soulful Chihuahuas, pleased to meet you. I’m Katie Parker.”
“Katie, are you into poetry?”
I am so not into poetry. I thoroughly dislike the stuff. You read a poem, and it speaks to you. You write a stupid essay on it, and the teacher tells you your interpretation is wrong, and the author is really saying something else entirely. Oh, really? Did you talk to the author yourself? No, I didn’t think so!
“I’ve read my share.”
“For this lunch meeting, we are discussing Emily Dickinson,” a girl named Liv said.
“Oh, yeah.” I remembered some Dickinson. “She’s kind of a downer.”
Gasps erupted. French fries fell. Pizza dropped to plates.
“You don’t think so?” I asked, too aware of their predatory stares.
Okay, while I don’t know a lot of Emily Dickinson, I don’t remember her writing any poems about giggles and ponies. But I wasn’t going to argue with these poetry die-hards. They meant business. I was afraid if I pushed the issue, they would resort to fisticuffs. Can you imagine explaining that to Millie?
Katie, what on earth did those kids beat you up over?
Poetry, Millie. Poetry.
“Emily Dickinson did write about death. But she celebrated it.” A guy threw his hands in the air for dramatic effect. “Maybe you wouldn’t understand. We artists carry the burden of being misunderstood.”
“Oh, no! I totally relate.” Finally we had found some common ground. “Like last night I made these swans when I was setting the dinner table. Except they weren’t swans, they were napkins, you know? And I’m like . . .”
Blank stares all around me.
Yeah, so that was lunch. Good times. I’m not sure where my place is with the In Between student body, but it’s definitely not with the Soulful Chihuahuas.
And that was pretty much the highlight of my day.
Now waiting here for the school bus to take me to Mad Maxine’s, I believe I’m about to face the low point of my day. Today I start the final phase of my punishment—reading to Maxine. Can’t wait.
I scan the crowd of people rushing out and leaving campus. You have the kids who hang out in the parking lot. Then there’s the type who squeal and peal out because they think it’s really cool. There are the bus riders like me who stand outside waiting, impatient and resigned to our fate—a noisy, stinky, bumpy ride and—
Oh, no.
No, she couldn’t.
She wouldn’t. I have done nothing to deserve this level of public humiliation.
Honk! Honk!
“Outta my way!” Honk! Honk!
“Sweet Pea!” Honk! Honk!
Mad Maxine.
Swerving in and out between cars and kids, Maxine pedals her hardest to reach me. Today’s frock of choice is an I Love Elvis sparkly tank, black capris, and black patent leather heels. Because who doesn’t ride a bicycle in two-inch heels?
“Yoo hoo! Katie! Katie Parker! I see you!”
I turn my back to her, hoping in vain that if I can’t see her, then I’m invisible.
“Don’t you get on that bus!” Honk! Honk! Honk!
Maxine’s bike squeals to a stop right behind me. “Hey, I’m here to pick you up. Me and Ginger Rogers.”
I am forced to turn and acknowledge Maxine. If the principal knew she was here, the school would probably have to go into lockdown. I’m sure he knows her.
“Ginger Rogers?”
With love in her eyes, Maxine pats her bicycle seat. “My bike.”
“You named your bike?”
Maxine scoffs. “Who doesn’t?”
“I think you’re confusing bicycles with yachts.”
My foster grandma waves the idea away with a hand. “Look, are you going to get on or not? We’ve got stuff to do.”
People are staring and pointing, and I am extremely uncomfortable. Like, right now I’m looking for some poets to hang out with.
“Move your tush and get on!”
I step closer to Mad Maxine so at least one of us won’t be yelling. “I am not getting on that bike.”
“Ginger Rogers.”
“I don’t care if you call it Channing Tatum, I’m not getting on.”
Everyone loads onto the buses. Maxine blocks my way. With Ginger.
“Move, Maxine. I need to get on the bus.”
“Look, girl, as soon as school is out on Tuesdays you are on my time. And I say get yourself on this bicycle. We’ll be home quicker. If you ride the bus you won’t get to Shady Acres until after four. I can have you at the apartment in five minutes.”
The bus takes off.
Without me.
Sighing deeply, I begin to walk. And yes, at this point I know it’s ridiculous. I am walking to her apartment, and she will follow me on her bicycle built for two. But I’m embarrassed, and I’m a little mad. I mean, I’m trying to make some friends at this school. I don’t think I earned any cool points today by having my lunatic foster grandmother honking at every minivan in her path and running over students not smart enough to feel threatened by the senior citizen in the hot-pink helmet and Hello Kitty knee pads.
“You’ve got a long walk ahead of you.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.” This backpack is getting heavy.
“And you know I’m going to follow you the whole way.”
“Never would’ve guessed.”
“Aw, come on, Katie Parker. Get on the bike. We’ve got things to talk about.”
Maxine rides in swooping figure eights around me. I start humming just to annoy her.
“I heard you met Sam Dayberry yesterday.” Swoop, swoop.
I come to a dead stop.
Maxine slows. “What?”
“That’s what this is about.”
Maxine wears an innocent schoolgirl expression. “I have no idea what you are talking about, young lady.”
“Yes, you do. You came here to pick me up because you wanted the scoop on Sam. And I would bet my Abercrombie jeans you’ve been waiting all day for three o’clock, dying to get to me as soon as you could to hear what I have to say about meeting your boyfriend.”
Maxine’s mouth falls open. “He is not my boyfriend! Don’t you ever say that out loud. I will wash your mouth out with soap! I will get a switch from a tree and tan your hide! I will make you scrub my toilet with your own toothbrush! I will . . .”
Maxine can tell I’m not buying it.
“Just get on the bike.”
I stand my ground.
“I have ice cream and hot fudge at the apartment.”
Five minutes later we’re home.
I take a seat on the red overstuffed couch in Maxine’s living room. Maxine’s heels clip-clop in the kitchen as she whips up our hot fudge sundaes.
She pokes her head around the corner. “Do you want whipped cream on yours?” She wipes her hands on the gingham apron she’s put on, like she’s preparing a ten-course meal instead of a single dish of ice cream with some store-bought chocolate sauce.
“Yes, of course.”
Approval shines in her eyes.
I can hear the whipped cream being squirted into one bowl, then another, then one long, hollow whoosh.
“Maxine, I know you’re spraying that stuff in your mouth. That is so gross.”
From the kitchen comes the sound of coughing and a can being returned to the counter.
“Do you want a cherry on top?”
“Yes, please.” I do love cherries. In fact, I can tie two cherry stems with my tongue at the same time. No wonder somebody snatched me up to be their foster child. I’ve got skills.
Maxine slinks around the corner again, a telltale blob of whipped cream on her upper lip.
“Nuts?”
You certainly are.
“Okay, here we are. Two bowls of hot fudge sundae—Maxine style.”
She places the bowls on the coffee table in fr
ont of me. They’re the size of serving bowls, not your nice little cereal dishes. Bananas peek out in every direction from the ice cream, and chocolate sauce fills the bowls like soup. The whipped cream piled high on top of each sundae stands at least six inches tall. Cherries are stuck here and there to finish it off.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Dig in.” Maxine hands me a big spoon, and the two of us go to work on the masterpieces before us.
“Okay”—Maxine says around a mouthful of chocolate—“So what’s new?”
I set my bowl down, careful not to let any of the chocolate sauce spill over onto the coffee table. Not that I think Maxine would be upset over the mess on her furniture, but I have a feeling that, like me, she would hate to see good chocolate go to waste.
I reach for my backpack and dig around until I find a book. “Here, Millie sent this for you. She said you’ve been waiting on it.”
Maxine grabs the book. “The Scarlet Letter?” She chucks the book onto the table.
“Yes, it’s what she said you’d want me to read to you.”
Maxine snorts. “If I wanted to hear stories from another dead white guy, I’d go hang out in the recreation hall.”
“But Millie said you loved your classics.”
Maxine picks up the book again, laughing to herself. “Hester has an illegitimate child, the geezer she’s married to is mean to her, the town turns on her, and she gets her dresses custom monogrammed, blah, blah, blah. Next!”
“That’s all I brought for you. Millie said you two have spent hours discussing classic novels.”
Maxine reaches for her ice cream. “Let just say you kids didn’t corner the market on Cliff’s Notes, you know what I’m saying?”
“So you don’t like books?” Maybe I won’t have to read to her after all.
“Of course I like books. Just not the old musty ones. Millie likes the stinky books. I just try to keep up to please her. She loves to talk about li-tra-chure and the clossics.”
I nearly choke on a cherry stem. “Is that your British accent?”
Maxine huffs. “Oh, never mind.”
“Australian?”
“I said be quiet.”
“Kind of cockney with a touch of Jamaican.”
“What else do you have?”
“I don’t have anything. Millie sent only one book. I guess I’ll tell her to send over a copy of Green Eggs and Ham next time.” I take a one last bite of my sundae, then with much regret and sadness, put it down on the table. As much as it pains me, I just can’t eat anymore.
“Well, what are you reading?” Maxine asks, still going strong with her own dessert and, like a trouper, showing no signs of slowing down.
“Nothing you’d be interested in. It’s from our school library.”
“Perfect. Read it.”
I retrieve it from my bag and show her the pretty pink cover. “It’s written for a sixteen-year-old.” I toss the book on the cushion beside me.
“Uh-huh . . . and?”
“And . . .” I take a deep breath and lean back on the couch to relax my stomach muscles from all that eating. “It’s about a teenage girl. She finds out she’s a princess, goes to live in a foreign country, endures rigorous training to become royalty, wins the heart of everyone in the land, hooks up with a boy, and finds out she is to one day be queen of an entire nation.”
Maxine claps her hands together. “Finally! Something I can relate to.” She grabs the novel and flips through it.
The book is thrust into my hands, opened to page one.
Maxine leans in closer. “You may begin.”
And so I do. I read chapter after chapter, stopping after the main character meets her grandmother, the queen, for the first time.
“Oh, keep going. Do your queen voice again.” Maxine’s eyes are wide and sparkly, and her hand rests over her heart like I’m reading a suspenseful thriller. And every time I talk like the aristocratic grandmother in the novel, Maxine closes her eyes and smiles, like she’s there.
I mark the page with my bookmark and shut the book. “Enough for today. It’s nearly five o’clock. Millie will be here anytime, don’t you think?”
“Now that’s a book.” Maxine stands up and carries our melted ice cream creations into the kitchen. (Well, what’s left of mine. Hers was eaten and the bowl licked clean. And I mean literally.)
“You’re a pretty good reader.”
My back straightens and my cheeks warm. “Thank you.”
“I mean, I wasn’t even sure if you were literate.”
I grab a discarded pink kneepad and throw it in her direction, and Maxine’s deep laugh fills the tiny apartment.
On her return, my foster grandmother brings me a glass of lemonade and puts it on the coffee table. Right next to a coaster.
“Sooo. You were telling me about meeting Sam Dayberry at the theatre.” Maxine throws herself back onto the couch. She grabs a pillow and fluffs it.
“No, I wasn’t.” I keep my voice neutral, like this isn’t more interesting than Days of Our Lives.
“Oh, I thought you said something about him. I’m old. I don’t hear very well.” She flicks a piece of lint off the couch.
“Maxine, the FBI doesn’t have equipment that picks up sound as well as you do. You know I didn’t say a word about Sam. You did.”
Maxine adjusts a ring on her finger, then studies her nails.
We sit in silence, and I begin to count in my head how many seconds it will be before she cracks.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.
Four Mississippi.
Five—
“Okay! Fine! Just tell me what you know!”
I pretend to consider this for a moment. Maxine drums her fingers on the arm. She crosses then uncrosses her legs.
“Tell you what . . .”
“Yes?” She moves in closer.
“You tell me what you know about Amy, and I’ll tell you what I know about Sam.”
Maxine leans back, straightens her posture—on alert. “What did you say?”
I know I’m pushing it, but I need information here. This woman knows everything. “I said I will give you Sam information, if you tell me about your granddaughter.”
The climate in the room changes like a cold front just swept in. Gone is the silliness. The fun of the sundaes has melted, and the dreaminess of the book has disappeared. Maxine is serious. Her face unreadable.
“What is it you think you need to know?”
I glance out the living room window, expecting Millie to drive up anytime. “Why is she such a secret?”
Maxine looks at the floor for a few seconds then returns her eyes to mine. “Every family has their heartaches, girl. Ours is no different. Amy is my granddaughter, and wherever she is, I love her.” Maxine nods her head, her peroxide blonde waves swaying across her shoulders. “I love that child.” She sips her lemonade. “But that story is Millie’s to tell.”
“Why is it Millie’s to tell? Her daughter shouldn’t be a secret.”
“She’s not a secret.”
“Oh, no? Well, then explain the phone calls no one will talk about or the packages Millie takes to the post office every week or the weird tension between James and Millie sometimes.”
Maxine’s mouth stretches into a slight smile. “Sometimes you let things simmer for a long time without even realizing it. And we all need someone to come along and remind us to stir the pot. You know what I’m saying?”
“Stir the pot? Simmering? No. I don’t have the slightest clue as to what you are saying.” I need information. Not a spaghetti recipe.
“Well . . .” Maxine breathes in deeply, considering her words. “All I have to say is the Lord knows what he’s doing.” Maxine considers me for a brief moment then nods her head again. “Yes, I do believe the Lord knows just what he’s doing.”
Chapter 31
We should name our pig.
I scrunch up my face and whisper a very strong “No.”
Due to some evil plotting on the counselor’s part, today’s schedule is mixed up to accommodate torturous standardized testing for the juniors. So it’s Thursday classes on a Wednesday schedule. It’s taken me the entire three weeks I’ve been here to learn my daily routine, and then they play today’s cruel trick.
I decide next time I’m bringing nose plugs to biology class. It reeks like pickled pork and formaldehyde in this room. Mr. Hughes partnered us up today for our first foray into pig dissection. I was lucky enough to get Frances. And I’m serious. She can be a bit overenthusiastic for me sometimes, but I’m not so dumb I don’t know the value of a good lab partner. Besides, she’s growing on me.
“You may begin cutting. . . .”
I block out the rest of the teacher’s instructions and focus on a Star Trek poster on the wall. What is it with Star Trek and science teachers?
“Katie, are you listening?” Frances taps her pencil on the metal tray the pig is in.
I pull my shirt up over my nose. I will also be finding a face mask to bring with me to biology. I know dead pig vapors are seeping into my mouth. I’m eating pig air.
Frances hands me the dissecting knife. Like she thinks I’m gonna cut into that thing?
I slide the knife back her way. “I’m not ready to hurt this guy yet.”
Frances giggles. “You can’t hurt it, Katie.” She moves in closer, pushing the blade back onto my side of the table. “It’s already dead,” she whispers like she’s letting me in on a big secret. “Now let’s name him!”
“How do you know it’s a him?”
“Well, if you pick up his tiny leg and look to the—”
“Never mind! Okay, okay, let’s just get this over with.”
Frances sighs. “Tell you what. Rock, paper, scissors—best two out of three, and loser cuts into Sir Oinks-a-Lot here.”
I think it’s an established fact I don’t have good luck. Her rock smashed my scissors, and her paper covered my rock. Done deal.
I pick up the knife and approach the pig. Closer, closer, zeroing in on my target. Here I go—
“Frances, this seems ungodly.” I throw out the sentence I heard in church last Sunday.