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  I’m thinking you’ve sniffed one too many perfume samples in those fashion magazines.

  Millie continues her nervous chatter, putting a supporting hand under my arm, which is quite a feat given all the packages she is carrying. She leads me out the door, and we make our way to the exit.

  Where the blinding light of day nearly brings me to my knees.

  Oh, sun, I forgot you existed. I have been in a cave we mortals like to call a shopping mall, and I have missed you.

  Remembering my new sunglasses with the cool pink rhinestones, I slip them on, and my vision is restored. I dutifully follow behind the Queen of MasterCard and Visa.

  It takes me, Mrs. Scott, and two strangers who were dumb enough to stop and help thirty minutes to pack the car and get every bag in. I told Mrs. Scott if we needed to sacrifice any of the purchases due to lack of room, that the underwear could go since I liked to go au natural anyway.

  So far Miss Millie just does not appreciate my jokes.

  Five minutes later we are parked at a restaurant. At least I assume we’re at a restaurant. All I can see in front of me is a solid wall of packages and boxes. We’re so tightly packed in this sedan, if Mrs. Scott left me in here, I think I’d only have about an hour’s worth of air supply. Suffocation by JC Penney is not a cool way to go.

  “Katie, are you ready to get out?”

  I hear her door open.

  “Mrs. Scott, is that you?” I say this weakly, hoping she’ll notice she’s lost me in this avalanche of shopping bags.

  “Sweetie, where are you?” She digs around me, trying to latch onto some part of me she can safely drag out. “Is this you?”

  “Nope. I think that’s my coat.”

  “How about now?”

  “Nuh-uh. I can see your hand though. I’m two Marshalls bags to your left and down a Dillard’s.”

  “Yes, just a second, I think I—gotcha!”

  “Ow! That’s my nose!”

  Mrs. Scott manages to find my arms and with a good tug, I’m finally sprung from the vehicle.

  Ah, air.

  French fry scented air.

  Freedom never smelled so good.

  Chapter 7

  “Katie, are you ready to order?”

  Millie Scott and the server have been waiting for me to give my dessert order for the last two minutes. For the first time in my life, I am in a restaurant that has its own separate dessert menu, and I just want to savor the moment and take in all my choices. This menu has pictures—a centerfold of chocolate cake, New York style cheesecake, strawberry shortcake, and a few other decadent items I’ve never seen before. Feeling pressured, I select a chocolate concoction that has ice cream, brownies, hot fudge, and a whole list of candy shop items sprinkled on top. Maybe this foster care thing is working out. I get a padded bra and ooey-gooey dessert.

  Mrs. Scott interrupts my chocolate fantasies. “I thought maybe we could hit the salon next week if you wanted.”

  I run a hand through my shoulder-length hair. What’s wrong with my hair? Granted, it’s currently not a color existing in nature, but still. First all new clothes and then new hair? What next, a brain transplant? A personality transfusion? Is there anything else you’d like to alter about your new foster child, Millie Scott?

  “It would be fun to go together and get pedicures. While we’re there, we can flip through magazines and see if there are any new hairstyles we want.”

  Well, it’s hard to be mad at the lady when she puts it like that, like she just wants to hang out and have fun. But if she suggests we do some Internet research together on plastic surgery, I’m on the first bus to Sunny Haven.

  The waiter delivers my long-awaited dessert, and Mrs. Scott drops the salon topic.

  I stare at the restaurant’s chocolate creation in a few moments of reverent awe before attacking it with my spoon. I notice the waiter has mistakenly brought two spoons, and Mrs. Scott’s hand reaches for one. Her spoon targets my dish, coming closer and closer. I sit in horror as I realize I am expected to share. Did Millie Scott sweat right through her deodorant by trying on every shirt in the mall? No. Did Millie Scott cram her feet into every pair of shoes in the great state of Texas? I don’t think so. Did Millie Scott spend the majority of her day trapped in one tiny excuse for a dressing room after another? No. I did! Me! Back away from the chocolate! Drop the spoon and no one will get hurt!

  I repress my inner Trina and watch as my nonMom helps herself to my brownie fudge sundae. It’s just not fair. I worked hard for this dessert! She’s coming in for bite number two. And now three? This is too much.

  “Get your own.” I hear myself say.

  “What did you say?” Mrs. Scott asks, as a ringing goes off in her purse.

  “Um . . . get your phone?”

  “Hello? Yes, mother. Yes, I know I haven’t been by in a week. You know we’ve been extremely busy. I thought you would be getting ready for your singles’ cruise. Right, I can see how that would be a problem. Yes, I know you need your Floaties and nose plugs for the pool. Fine.” Mrs. Scott sighs into the phone. She looks stressed. “I’ll pick some up at the store.” Her blue eyes shift to me. “Yes, she’s here. She’s just beautiful.”

  Mrs. Scott grins then rolls her eyes to show me she is not enjoying her phone conversation. Well, I am. It’s given me just enough time to eat all my dessert. If she stays on a few more minutes, I can run my tongue over the plate. Very ladylike, I know. But who knows when chocolate and I shall meet again?

  “Yes, mother. Okay. I’ll pick up your stuff and bring it over. No, no, you are not going yourself. We’ve talked about this. I will be right there.” And with a quick “love you, bye,” the phone call is over.

  “Katie, there’s someone I’d like you to meet this afternoon. My mother.” Mrs. Scott stops talking, and there is a long pause, as if she is trying to think what to say next. “My mother is, um, different. I don’t want her to scare you, but she’s been compared to Judge Judy.”

  “Judge Judy?”

  “On crack.”

  I knew there was a crazy grandma in their closet somewhere. I knew it! I’m still not going to rub her feet.

  “She’s going on a cruise with the single senior citizens in the church and needs a few things. So we’ll just stop at the store then take them over.”

  “Your mother doesn’t drive?”

  “Oh, she can drive. But the town has asked us to not let her anymore.”

  “The town?”

  “Yes, she’s such a horrible driver that they had a town hall meeting last year and voted unanimously to start a campaign to get her car taken away from her.” Her head nods. “They were right. We haven’t had to replace a stop sign in over six months. And the Say No to Mad Maxine T-shirts were quite catchy.”

  The corners of Mrs. Scott’s mouth turn up, and I find myself smiling back.

  “The town really is safer.” My foster mom dabs at her lips with delicate hands, removing all traces of my brownie. “Except for the incident last month, things have been going much better.”

  I find myself leaning in.

  “Mother bought a bicycle—a tandem bicycle, no less—and had a little accident, wiping out in the street. Luckily though, the chicken truck stopped for her. After it hit a fire hydrant.” She shakes her head and laughs. “It rained feathers and naked chickens for an hour. But Mother says she is close to perfecting her wheelie.”

  A BMX granny. That is awesome. Her mother sounds like someone I’d like to know. If she’s Millie’s mother, she must be sweet, too. A little eccentric, but probably the sweetest, kindest, most gentle-tempered woman ever.

  Chapter 8

  Millie Scott’s mother is the definition of evil.

  Maxine Simmons is a gum-smacking, energy-drink-guzzling, wheelie-popping demon.

  And we arrive just in time to see her trying on bathing suits for the cruise. Ew. I know when I close my eyes tonight, I will still see her parading around in various styles of spandex one pieces. She
was going to show us her bikini possibilities, but Mrs. Scott stopped her.

  “Mother, when we went shopping last week, we bought you a few cover-ups. Where are those?”

  Mrs. Scott and I are both staring at the black number her mother is modeling. The suit is all black, except for a huge orange tropical flower on the front. It looks like an orchid is getting ready to swallow Mrs. Scott’s mom at any moment.

  “Hah! Cover-ups are for old people. I got good legs. No need to deprive the world of these gams.” The woman does some sort of Rockettes kick, then looks at her audience for affirmation and realizes for the first time during this fifteen-minute glamour show that I am in the room.

  “Who are you again?”

  “Mother, this is Katie. Katie Parker. She’s the girl we’ve been telling you about.”

  Mrs. Simmons, or Mad Maxine, as I think I will refer to her, plants her bathing-suit-clad body right in front of me and looks me in the eyes for a full minute. One uncomfortably long minute. A weaker girl would be crying at this point. She’s that intimidating.

  Or crazy.

  “Like I told you, Katie arrived yesterday, and we got her all settled in. Then today we went shopping. We’ve had a great time, haven’t we Katie?”

  Mrs. Scott tries to make casual conversation, but her mother ignores her. Mrs. Simmons’s eyes pin me in place.

  “I got these legs from dancing. I was a Vegas showgirl back in the day. I’ve danced with Sinatra, Ol’ Blue Eyes himself. When I was not much older than you, I could dance the tango with a forty-pound headdress on my head.”

  Mrs. Simmons looks at me like top that, and I honestly have no response. Um, one time in the third grade I ate glue? I mean, seriously, what do you say to this?

  “That’s great, Mrs. Simmons.”

  “Later I’d go on USO tours, and I’d dance on stage for the soldiers from dawn ’til dusk, with no rest in between.”

  Her face is now even closer to mine. I can smell her spearmint gum. I nod a few times then look over at Mrs. Scott for help. I see my foster mom is now on the other side of the room, taking things out of Mad Maxine’s suitcase and replacing them with other clothing choices. I try to will Mrs. Scott to look my way and make eye contact. I send her telepathic messages. Save me. Save me from your crazy mother.

  “And I met a soldier and married him. Davis Simmons knew a good thing when he saw it.” Mad Maxine backs up just enough to pop her gum. “And I had three children, Millie being my third, and you know what, little girl?”

  “Um . . .” I gulp. “No.”

  “I still got it. That’s right. The body is a temple, and I have got myself a tem-ple. And until I am wearing adult diapers and being spoon fed, I will clothe myself in whatever I want. Are we clear?”

  And before I can respond, Mad Maxine snaps her head toward her daughter. Millie’s eyes bug out. She shuts her mother’s suitcase and wisely takes a step back.

  Smart woman, my foster mother.

  “Do I look like I need help picking out what to wear for my cruise, Millie?”

  Oh, no. Please don’t fight. Not in front of the child.

  “What about you, little missy? Do you think I look like I don’t have enough sense to dress myself?”

  Oh, if I could only click my heels together and be home. Before I know it, Mad Maxine has my chin in her claw.

  “Well, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Ha!” With a satisfied cackle, she releases me to take a swig of her nearby energy drink. The label reads: Super-Charged Cola. This woman shouldn’t even be allowed to be within sniffing distance of caffeine.

  “Mother, I just think you should pack more of a variety of clothing. You never know what the weather will do. Remember that time you went to Jamaica, and there was a hurricane?”

  Yeah, and she probably jumped on her broomstick and rode right out of it.

  “I am sixty years old. Don’t you think I know how to pack by now?” Patting her crayon yellow hair, Mad Maxine walks over to inspect her modified suitcase.

  “You are not sixty.” Mrs. Scott’s index finger flies out to point at her mother. “Don’t let her fool you, Katie. She’s seventy-four, and that’s being generous.”

  I don’t know why Millie and James Scott wanted a foster daughter. It looks like they have their hands full with psycho granny here.

  “Mom, we’re not here to talk about you. I wanted you to meet Katie, and all you’ve done is show her how you can throw a tantrum.”

  “I am sixty-two years old. If I want to throw a tantrum, then that’s what I’ll do.” And with a humph, the woman turns back to me. Great.

  “Where did you come from, Katie Parker?”

  Is this a trick question? I’m so intimidated by this woman, I don’t want to get the answer wrong. Does she mean what town? Does she mean on a deep, emotional level, like I come from heartache, Mrs. Simmons, heartache. Or does she mean where do I think I originated from in terms of my beliefs on creation?

  “Sunny Haven Home for Girls,” I squeak out.

  Mad Maxine stares at me for a long while, like I’m supposed to add more to it. As she keeps her piercing gaze on me, I notice her hands. Her nails are perfectly manicured and painted a shiny, scarlet red. She has rings on nearly every finger, giant, sparkling things that shimmer and dance on her hand. She probably stole them from a pirate.

  No, she probably was a pirate.

  “I know something about homes,” Mad Maxine says finally and looks at me like we are two kindred souls.

  Cue the violins. This woman knows drama.

  “I know what it’s like to be thrown in with a bunch of people you don’t even know. I understand what it’s like to not see your family, and to have to depend on others.”

  “Now, just a minute.” Mrs. Scott steps in between us. “Katie, before you go feeling sorry for her, my mother sold her home in Las Vegas to come and live with her children. She lived with my sister first, then my brother, and then landed on my doorstep. Even though we waited on her hand and foot, she left my home and bought this little apartment at Shady Acres Retirement Village. Live with a bunch of people you don’t know? She’s the president of the social committee! And as for her not seeing her family, I’ll have you know she makes James and me schedule our visits with her so we won’t interfere with her activities.”

  “That’s right. And I see you’re not penciled in for today, so don’t let the door hit you on the way out. If you want to talk to me anymore, I won’t have an opening until four o’clock this afternoon. I have a Pilates class.” Mad Maxine waves her hand toward the door, clearly dismissing us, and we move on cue.

  Just a few more steps and this will all be over.

  “Oh, did you get the nose plugs and Floaties I asked for?”

  “Yes, Mother, they’re in your suitcase.” Mrs. Scott kisses her mom on the cheek. “Have a good time. And remember, unless the captain asks you to, you are not allowed to steer the boat.”

  “Bah! That’s my daughter! Always the spoil sport.”

  And in the midst of more cackling, Mad Maxine grabs me and pins me against her tropical disaster of a bathing suit in a hug. I think of a praying mantis, and hope she doesn’t try to suffocate me while Millie’s not looking.

  “You come back and see me, little girl. You and I have a lot of catching up to do. I can tell you need family, and I’ve decided you may think of me as your grandmother.” She leans in closer to my ear and whispers, “You just remember I know people. If you steal the silver, we will track you down.” And with a pat to my flaming cheek, Mad Maxine shoves me and Mrs. Scott out the door.

  Safely outside, Mrs. Scott and I both take a few deep, cleansing breaths.

  I try to think of something to say. “Well . . . she seems nice.”

  We look at each other, simultaneously sigh, and share out first real laugh together.

  Chapter 9

  Dear Mrs. Smartly,

  It’s me, Katie. I’m tied up in the Scott’s
basement. I haven’t eaten for days, and there has been talk of feeding my withering carcass to the mammoth dog. Please don’t blame yourself.

  Okay, O Wise One, things are fine here. As fine as could be expected for being in a strange town, in the home of people you’ve known for only three days.

  Today I had to go to church with the Scotts. It turns out someone “forgot” to tell me Mr. Scott is a pastor and the Mrs. is his secretary. The last time I was in a church was for some Bible school thing that a neighbor dragged me to. I was five. The Kool-Aid was watery, the cookies stale, and the teacher snapped at me for finger painting a mustache on Jesus.

  Yeah, so church. Hmm. Interesting place. I like how it’s acceptable in their religion to stare at me. All heads turned my way when I walked in with Mr. and Mrs. Scott. Their eyes stayed on me when we sat down together. And you better believe those churchies were watching me like eagles when the collection plate came my way. What do they think I’m gonna do, grab a handful of checks and make a break for the door?

  We know I couldn’t do that.

  No one is gonna cash a two-party check to a sixteen-year old girl with no ID.

  We sang some songs that were kind of lame. And then Mr. Scott got up at the podium and preached. (Why couldn’t he be something normal, Mrs. Smartly, why? Like a doctor, a lawyer, or even one of those plumbers who show way too much backside?) Everyone seemed to really get into Mr. Scott’s sermon. There were amens firing off all over the place. Then there was a time called an invitation, according to Mrs. Scott. That took forever. Come join the church! Come give your life to Jesus! Come pray at the altar! I think they should’ve passed out snacks during this portion of the service because I got a little hungry sitting there all that time. Maybe have a hotdog salesman come through the pews, like at baseball games.

  But it gets worse. At the end of the service, Mr. Scott introduced me to the whole church and makes me stand up there in front with him and Mrs. Scott.

  To add to the fun, everyone came up and shook my hand or hugged me. (Hugged me! Are you writing all of these things down in that file of yours?) I’ve never been so squished and shaken in all my life. I’d rather be yelled at for giving Jesus facial hair.