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  She adjusts her safety goggles with the back of her gloved hand. “What?”

  “Um, yeah. Last night when I was flipping through the Bible Millie gave me, I think I saw something in there about this.”

  “Really? Let me guess, it’s in the book of Sausage?”

  “Well, no.” There’s not a book of Sausage, right? “I think it’s in there with all the commandments. Like with the Ten Commandments.” I get another strong whiff of the animal, and my eyes cross.

  Frances nods. “Oh, so thou shall honor thy father and mother. Thou shall not kill. Thou shall not commit adultery. Thou shall not—”

  “Slice open a pig if you don’t want to, yes. Exactly. Chapter 12, verse 19, page one hundred?” I hold up my hand and add an amen. Because I am here to testify that I am not cutting into this animal.

  Frances laughs and her whole face lights up. Even in a lab coat and surrounded by pig stench, she is beyond pretty. People like her should live on their own continent. That way the rest of us wouldn’t have to suffer.

  “Katie, I won rock, paper, scissors fair and square; so get to it.”

  All right. Here we go. And . . . cut.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Frances’s voice echoes in my head.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I wore too many layers today. It’s an oven in here. “Did someone just turn the heat up?”

  “Here, sit down.” Frances pulls out my lab stool.

  “No, really, I’m good.” Seriously, did I forget my deodorant today because I am sweating like a—well, never mind.

  “I’m going to work a little bit while you catch your breath, and then you can help me out.” Frances picks up the knife and goes to it, checking our lab manual every few minutes. “So . . . are you going to church tonight?”

  “Bacon Bits.”

  Frances looks around the room like she’s searching for a translator.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our pig.” The room spirals around me. “That’s his name.”

  And then my world goes black.

  “Katie! Katie, can you hear me?”

  Oh, no. I did not pass out. I have never passed out in my entire sixteen years.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  I peel open my left eye and see Frances’s face inches away from mine.

  “Frances, if you administer CPR you will totally destroy any future chances of either one of us ever having prom dates.”

  Frances sits back on her heels. “She’s come to, Mr. Hughes. She’s okay.”

  Okay? I’m totally humiliated.

  “You were only out a few seconds.” Frances checks her watch, then grabs my wrist, searching for a pulse.

  I jerk my hand out of her grip. “Do you mind?”

  Slowly I sit up, but only to find I am surrounded by twenty-five biology classmates gawking at me like I’m a new species. I stifle a groan, and with the help of an overly attentive Frances, I stand on my own two feet.

  Mr. Hughes breaks through the masses. “Katie! Are you okay? Oh, you gave me such a scare.”

  I rub the back of my head where a bump is starting to protrude. “Thanks, Mr. Hughes, but I’m okay.” Nice of him to care.

  “Well, that could have been a disaster!” The teacher puts a hand to his chest, like he’s having heart palpitations. “It’s a good thing you didn’t knock the pig off the table. Those things cost over two hundred dollars!” With an exaggerated smile, my teacher runs a hand across his forehead. “Whew!”

  “Mr. Hughes . . . I . . . you . . . oh . . . I’m taking Katie to the nurse.” Frances grabs my arm and begins to lead me out of the classroom.

  “Oh, yes, by all means, take her to the nurse. I was going to suggest that myself.” Mr. Hughes takes one last survey of the pig and hands Frances the hall pass.

  I follow Frances out into the hall. She grumbles to herself and stomps at quite a good pace.

  “I mean, the nerve of that man!”

  “Hey, Frances—”

  “All he cares about is science and his precious equipment.” She throws her hands in the air and continues to storm away from me.

  “Hello, injured here. Slow down.” My head is really starting to hurt.

  “I should’ve let him have it last year during the science fair when Billy O’Rourke’s volcano experiment blew up, and Mr. Hughes made a mad dash and knocked Billy out of the way to save the beakers.”

  “Frances . . .”

  “I love science. I do. But I will not be one of those scientists who is disconnected from the world and everything around me.” Frances turns a corner and continues her conversation with herself.

  I stop in front of the water fountain and get a drink, comforted by the cool of the water (but totally grossed out by what’s always in the water fountain). I wonder how long it will take before Frances realizes I’m not with her.

  “Oh!”

  Six seconds.

  I hear Frances running down the hall. She skids to a stop beside me. “Katie, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Do you need help walking?”

  I begin to laugh, but it jars my head. “No, I’m fine. I just wanted to let you have some alone time with yourself. You seemed to be in a pretty deep conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Frances returns my smile, and it hits me that our status has changed. Does she think of me as her friend? Do I consider her a friend?

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Seriously. I’m fine. I would like to get some aspirin though.” We continue our walk, slowly this time, toward the nurse’s office. “So . . . I was going to check out the drama department at lunch. Get a look at those cast pictures you were telling me about.”

  “The pictures of Amy Scott?”

  “Yeah. Um, do you want to come with me?” Maybe seeing the pictures would jar Frances’s memory about anything she might know about Amy.

  “I have a student council meeting during the last fifteen minutes of lunch—”

  “Oh, okay, yeah, no problem. I don’t need help or anything. I was just being polite and—”

  “We could go during the beginning of lunch.”

  My mouth opens. Then closes. “Really?”

  “The bell is going to ring any second now. If we go as soon as the nurse is done with you, it will give us a good fifteen minutes to check out Amy’s pictures.”

  “Thanks, Frances. I really appreciate it.” I’m touched that Frances, who’s a member of nearly every club and organization in this school, and who practically needs her own secretary to keep up with it all, would pencil me into her schedule.

  The bell rings when I’m in the nurse’s office, and after five minutes of assuring Frances and the school RN I’m fine, I am released with a couple of aspirin and a baggie of ice to put on the bump.

  “Okay, on to the theatre department. Have you met Mrs. Hall yet?” Frances keeps up a steady pace while I walk behind her, leaving a trail of water from the leaking ice pack.

  “Um, no, haven’t met her.”

  “She’s the head drama teacher. Maybe you’ve seen her. Long, red hair and wears a different colored scarf over her head every day? She usually dresses in black. Wears a lot of jewelry. She’s cool though.”

  We enter the school theatre, and I toss my ice pack in the trash.

  I pause in the doorway for a moment and take in the theatre. Like the Valiant, this place just kind of speaks to me. It’s like it has an attitude of its own. I love the quiet. And the history. That old beat-up stage has seen a lot of plays, I would imagine. Lots of Chihuahua thespians. What would it feel like to be on the other side of those heavy black curtains when they rise? What would it be like to be in the spotlight, getting a standing ovation, being in an auditorium full of people who can’t stop clapping for you?

  “Ladies, can I help you? The sign up sheet for auditions is out in the hall.”

  A petite woman with bright auburn hair floats down the side ramp of the stage, her fuchsia and gold skirt
billowing around her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hall. We’re not here to sign up for the play.” Frances puts her hand on my shoulder. “This is Katie Parker. She’s new to In Between High, and she wanted to take a look at your theatre.”

  Mrs. Hall’s eyes sparkle, matching her bejeweled ears. “Oh, a theatre lover, are we?”

  I realize she’s speaking to me. “Oh, um, well . . . yes, ma’am.” Am I?

  “What have you done?” Mrs. Hall’s face is all intense.

  I shoot a look at Frances. What have I done? “Well, ma’am, I guess a few weeks ago I got in some trouble and—”

  Frances elbows me in the ribs. “She means what plays have you performed.”

  Oh. Right.

  “None, really. Oh, except I was Mrs. Claus in my third-grade play. Did a little singing, a little dancing. You know, jingled a bell or two. Rocked around the Christmas tree.”

  I remember singing my heart out, saying my memorized lines flawlessly, and nobody was even there to see me. My mom had dropped me off with some lame excuse about running an errand and returning in time to see my performance, but she never showed. The school had to call some distant cousin to pick me up after the program. I just remember the entire night I watched for her. Even when I was onstage and saying my lines. I never took my eyes off the audience.

  Reason number 498 of why I have yet to write the woman a single letter since I’ve been in In Between.

  “We’re having auditions for our yearly musical. Sign up if you’re interested.” Mrs. Hall’s hands move at her every word. Everything about her is flowing, moving, and overly expressive.

  “I think I’d like to look around here if that’s okay.” I take a step in the direction of some cast photos hanging on the wall.

  Mrs. Hall follows me. “Ah, yes, do check out the pictures. These are all the plays we’ve done since 1989. Taking the cast’s picture on opening night is a tradition I started when I began working here many moons ago.” She waves her hands Vanna-White style over a row of black-and-white photos hung in frames.

  The three of us inch our way down the wall, and Mrs. Hall is only too happy to share her play production memories with me. Every single one of them. And there have been a lot of plays since 1989.

  I tap Frances’s shoulder and shoot her my S.O.S. look. We aren’t getting anywhere. I’ve been looking at these pictures for ten minutes and have yet to see Amy.

  “And then for our spring show in 1992, we decided to try something more cutting edge, so we did a series of mime one acts.”

  Frances steps behind Mrs. Hall’s back and points to the opposite wall. Over there, she mouths.

  “Well why didn’t you say so?” I ask.

  Mrs. Hall turns to me. “What?”

  Whoa, good acoustics in here. “Um, I said, swell, way to go!”

  “Oh, well, thank you. Where was I? Yes, I recall. Now in the fall of 1993—”

  “Mrs. Hall, Katie is staying with James and Millie Scott. She was really interested in the cast pictures with their daughter Amy.”

  A bittersweet smile spreads across the teacher’s face. “Ah, yes. I remember Amy Scott well. Amazingly talented. So much potential.” Mrs. Hall shakes her head. “She would be over there with the photos from the last decade. I think her last play with us was about seven years ago, her senior year.”

  Her ankle bracelets chiming, Mrs. Hall leads us across the auditorium to the far wall. These pictures are also in black and white, but I can tell they are more recent.

  “Amy Scott, Amy Scott, Amy Scott . . . Ah, yes, here we are. I believe we have six different photos of plays that starred Amy.”

  Pointing out each one, Mrs. Hall lists every production and gives information on each one.

  I study each cast shot. Amy was no wallflower. She’s front-and-center in every image. Despite various costumes and varying degrees of stage makeup, Amy looks happy and . . . I don’t know, normal. She looks like a student who’s excited and into what she’s doing—just like the rest of the cast. What did I really expect to learn?

  I sigh and run my hand over the knot at the back of my head. It feels like an egg is trying to sprout out of my skull. Stupid pigs.

  “You have a great theatre, Mrs. Hall.” I’m ready to call this what it is: a failure. “Thanks for letting me look around.”

  “Sure. You girls come back anytime. And don’t forget auditions next week! Tell your friends!”

  As Frances and I make our way to the door, Mrs. Hall calls after us, “You know, I don’t hear from Amy much anymore.”

  We stop.

  “She used to send me a postcard or an email from time to time, updating me on all of her auditions, but I haven’t heard from her in about two years.”

  “Amy’s a professional actress?” Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Mrs. Hall chuckles to herself. “Well, I don’t know about that. Last I heard she was in Los Angeles trying to get a walk-on part in a horror movie. And the year before she had been in New York auditioning for some off-Broadway plays.” Mrs. Hall shakes her head. “It’s a cruel business, acting. It will take the strongest person and eat them alive. And if you’re not very strong to begin with . . . well, let’s just say it’s hard to keep going on years’ worth of rejections. And it sure doesn’t pay the bills.”

  I try not to show my excitement at this wealth of information. “I was wondering what you meant when you said—”

  “Mrs. Hall you have a call on line four, Mrs. Hall a call on line four.”

  At the overhead speaker’s announcement, my moment is lost.

  “That will be the costume store I’ve been trying to reach all week. It’s about time they called me back. Our productions keep those people in business, and I can’t even get a simple phone call returned.”

  The teacher flounces off in a mismatched cloud, bemoaning her costume woes.

  “Well, we learned something today.” Frances studies me.

  “I learned Amy is somewhere trying to be an actress and . . . that’s about it.”

  “Mrs. Hall didn’t sound like she thought Amy’s Hollywood pursuits had a happy ending, did she?” Frances checks her watch.

  “No, she didn’t. The plot thickens.”

  “You could just ask Millie about it, you know.”

  “Frances, would Sherlock Holmes take the easy way out?”

  “It’s not the easy way out, and you know it. If Millie and James haven’t told you the whole story about Amy, then maybe they don’t ever intend to.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t feel comfortable coming right out and asking them why their daughter is such a big secret. I thought I was going to hyperventilate last week when I had to ask Millie to buy me some tampons. And the topic of their daughter is even more personal.” I shove open the theatre doors, and we walk back the way we came.

  “Oh, hey, it’s time for my meeting. I gotta run, but I’ll see you later.” Frances throws her apple core into the trash can and readjusts her backpack. “See you at church tonight, right? Wednesday nights are the best.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there. Can’t wait.”

  “Better watch out. It grows on you. Like mold.” Frances walks backwards, her grinning face pointed in my direction. “Yep, you’ll be counting the minutes ‘til Wednesday night church. I can see it now.”

  “Go to your meeting, Frances. And watch out for that janitor there.”

  Frances turns around in time to narrowly miss a collision with an extra-large custodian.

  “Oh, and Katie?” Frances calls over her shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “You smell like Bacon Bits.”

  Chapter 32

  “So today you’re going to be re-covering some of the theatre seats. It’s pretty simple. I’ll show you how to do a few, and then you and this mighty staple gun can take it from there.”

  Sam Dayberry kneels on the floor of the Valiant with one of Millie’s homemade cookies in one hand and a piece of fabric in the other. I hadn’t anymore than wa
lked through the door, and he was firing off instructions and waving tools.

  “Okay, you take this fabric here, which I’ve already cut out for you, and you are going to cover, fold, tuck, and staple. Got it?” Sam demonstrates the process again. “Easy. Cover, fold, tuck, and staple. Once we get these covered, I’ll screw them into the seats. Now you pick up your staple gun and try it.”

  I grab a cushion and lay my upholstery over it.

  “I don’t hear you.”

  I bite my lip to control a smile. “Cover . . . fold . . . tuck . . . and staple.” I hold the finished product up for his inspection.

  Sam studies my handiwork and whistles his approval. “Very nice.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, like it’s no big deal.

  But it is.

  The two of us work in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. The theatre smells like sawdust today. A group of guys are here again working on some of the wood repairs. The scent stings my nose, but I like it.

  I also like watching the play practice on stage. The director, Bev, a slender woman about Millie’s age, sits in the front row, watching her cast of Romeo and Juliet rehearse. Every few minutes, she calls out corrections and suggestions, and the cast stops and begins again. Like Romeo, Juliet is a senior at In Between High, and she’s playing her part like she’s Sorority Girl Juliet. If you ask me, she’s not miserable enough and is way too enthusiastic about her every line. I mean, when she gets to the part where she says, “Deny thy father, refuse thy name,” the girl is smiling. Like she’s waiting for her photo op. Now that’s just not right. From what I remember of the story, and from what I’ve picked up from watching rehearsals, Juliet is pretty miserable over not being able to be with Romeo. So a little less grin would be in order.

  Sam leans over to survey my work. “Doing good, doing good. So anything new at In Between High?”

  “Um, no.” Tuck and staple. “Oh, wait, yeah. Dissected a pig today. Passed out. Bumped my head. Have a major knot.”

  “Maybe it will get you out of school tomorrow.”

  “I can only hope. I don’t want this head injury to be in vain.” I send Sam a slanted grin. “So . . .” I lay out my material on the next cushion. “I saw Maxine yesterday. Tuesdays are my day to read to her, you know.”