In Between, Page 2

  This woman before me, who exudes kindness, has me wrapped up in her delicate arms before I know what hits me, before I can inform her of the Katie Parker no-hugging policy. My temporary mom smells of potting soil and fabric softener, and for a moment I allow myself the luxury of breathing it in.

  “Your picture didn’t do you justice. You are just as cute as you can be. Isn’t she, James?”

  Millie Scott takes a step away from me, keeps her hands on my shoulders, and holds me out for further scrutiny. I have to wonder what my new mom and dad (insert sarcasm here) are thinking about me. I’m not so unsightly that I need to wear a Tucker’s Grocery bag over my head, but I also don’t presume to be Miss Teen USA material, either. As I stand there in all my sixteen-year-old glory, I hope they see my overly-processed hair as strawberry blonde and not an unfortunate battle between red and yellow (with no clear winner). My Madonna T-shirt is vintage, not garage-sale castoff. I hope they know this morning I had some decent looking makeup on, but now it’s probably streaking down my face, all Gothic-like. I want them to look at my five-foot-nine frame and see potential, and I don’t mean for the Chihuahua basketball team.

  Her husband smiles at me and luckily opts for a shoulder pat instead of a hug. James Scott stands at least a foot taller than his little wife and looks like the football player to her cheerleader. He is broad and solid, and there is something about him that gets your attention. I notice he has khakis on, and I’m proud to say he doesn’t have them pulled up and belted below his armpits. His short-sleeve polo shirt has an insignia over the left pocket, and I read In Between Community Church.

  Mrs. Smartly mentioned he worked for a church in some capacity. Nice uniform, I want to say.

  As he smiles at me, I notice his dark gray hair, eyes settled behind oval glasses, leather shoes that scream out “I’m comfortable, but stylish too.” But mostly I notice his caution. As I quit my assessment of my would-be dad, I stare straight into his face. His blue peepers meet mine, and in this moment I know. I know that, number one, James Scott is carrying around some hurt of his own; and number two, he’s not really sure he wants me around to see it.

  “Hey, let’s get your bags, young lady, and we’ll show you around, get you all settled in.” James drops his hand from my shoulder and walks to the van to collect all my worldly possessions.

  Mrs. Scott’s arm snakes around me as I’m led toward the house. We walk up a cobblestone path with flowers on either side. The house in which I am now to live looms before me. It doesn’t look scary, but my stomach does a triple flip anyway. The cream-colored house is anything but new. My new digs have obviously been around for a long time and have seen much TLC and restoration, unlike a certain girl’s home, which will go unnamed.

  Aside from some pretty scary looking yard gnomes, my own mother never really got into home maintenance, so I am reluctantly impressed by the Scotts’ curb appeal. Black shutters hang at every window, and the two-story abode is topped off by a tall brick chimney. I’m sick at the thought of staying here, but I’ve been in the system long enough to know things could be worse.

  “We’re so excited you’re here, Katie.” Mrs. Scott gushes with enthusiasm, and I wait for her to add a sporty “Yay!” I offer the woman a weak smile but find I don’t really have anything substantial to say.

  With a brief look at Iola Smartly, Mrs. Scott tries again. “We have a room for you all set up, but it needs a teenager’s touch. So later in the week we can go shopping for things to make you feel more at home, okay?”

  She’s trying really hard. I’ve got to give her that.

  Mrs. Smartly clears her throat and jerks her head, signaling me to acknowledge Mrs. Scott.

  I shrug a shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Mrs. Smartly’s eyes roll around and she shakes her big, poofy head.

  Look, until I know the Scotts’ motivation, until I know I’m here for upright reasons and not to clip their dog’s toenails on a daily basis or be the resident toilet scrubber, I have got to play it cool. Sure James and Millie look like nice people, but I hear a lot of psychopathic serial killers are quite charming, too. If there is one thing I learned from Trina, the Knife Wielder, it’s always be on your guard.

  We enter the house, and I instantly get a whiff of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Do these people think they can woo me with cookies? Do they really think I’m that weak?

  I hope they don’t have nuts in them.

  Various antiques surround me, but surprisingly not in a “don’t touch me” sort of way. The Scott home is cozy, with overstuffed furniture, walls adorned with decorative plates, the occasional botanical print, and family pictures spanning decades. I scan the perimeter to make sure the heart of any home is here—the television. Luckily, it’s not an antique, but it’s not exactly a sixty-inch flat-screen either. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for premium cable.

  Mrs. Smartly is looking this place over like she’s committing it to memory. I hope she’s doing this for caution’s sake and not with the thought that I’m gonna steal that blue and white platter hanging over the fireplace.

  “So, Miss Katie, you’re awfully quiet. How are you feeling about all of this?” Millie Scott asks.

  Mrs. Smartly looks at me with such intensity I’m afraid her eyes are going to laser through mine.

  With a bored (yet artfully haughty) glance at the house I mutter, “It’s okay.”

  I know my face is speaking volumes, though. I know my face is saying, “You people don’t impress me. I don’t want to be here. Your efforts are useless.” Apparently, I need to come up with a “Yes, I will take milk with my chocolate chip cookies” expression too. I mean, seriously, when is the woman going to break out the baked goods?

  “Maybe we could see Katie’s bedroom?”

  A light enters Millie Scott’s eyes at Mrs. Smartly’s suggestion, and you can tell she thinks that’s a grand idea. My room had better not be upstairs. If I need to make my great escape, I don’t know how I would get down. Let’s be realistic. That bit of tying a bunch of sheets together can’t possibly work in real life. “Girl falls to her death—insufficient thread count to blame.” Plus I am not hoofing it up and down stairs all the time.

  “If you’ll follow me upstairs, I’ll show you your room.”

  Sheesh, can’t an underprivileged, displaced ward of the state ever catch a break?

  At step number 260 (okay, okay, it was step number seven) we are met by the largest dog I have ever seen in my life. I’m throwing mental daggers at Mrs. Smartly. She said nothing about a dog. I don’t like dogs. They slobber and they smell, and this one looks like a giant, mutant horse.

  “Now get out of the way, Rocky. Oh, look, he’s excited to see you, Katie.”

  We are forced to stop and observe the dog out of respect for Mrs. Scott, and the dog takes this moment to sniff me in ways I find totally inappropriate and surely should be documented in that file Mrs. Smartly is carrying around with her. Mrs. Scott watches me with her dog, hoping no doubt for a connection. With a polite pat on the head to her little snookums, I continue up the stairs. Rocky decides we are racing and darts ahead of me, taking the stairs three at a time. Their mongrel had better not be going to my room. A girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere.

  “Here we go. This is your room, Katie.”

  Millie Scott leads us into my bedroom, and for the briefest of seconds my breath catches and time stops. I’m surrounded by pink walls—not a Barbie pink, but a spunky, rockin’ pink, with crisp white trim outlining the room. There’s a bookshelf, filled from top to bottom with books (I guess a bookshelf filled from top to bottom with People magazines was too much to hope for), a white shaggy rug stretched over the worn wooden floor, and a dangling crystal light fixture that boldly declares sophistication and class. (Granted, what do I know of sophistication? But I’m betting that light doesn’t respond to a clapper.)

  In a corner stands a white wooden desk with an empty bulletin board hanging over it. On the opposite
wall is a bed. My bed. It’s white and big and covered with various floral quilts someone with patience, skill, and a whole lot of free time must’ve pieced together and stitched.

  “What do you think? I did the best I could, but it definitely needs a teenager’s flair.” Mrs. Scott fluffs a bed pillow.

  The room is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never had anything like it. I would like to say I’m not touched by the effort Millie Scott put into creating this space for me, but I am. This bedroom looks, well, safe. I look at this room, and I think, I could make a home here.

  But I’m not.

  “Did you buy all these things for me?” I drag my hand across the desktop.

  Mrs. Scott looks at the floor. “Ah, well, not all of it. A lot of this furniture we already had, and I just spruced it up a bit. A little paint and polish, you know.” Her eyes sweep the room. A hint of sadness steals across her face just before the serene smile returns. Interesting. I tuck this detail away.

  My attention returning to the room, I turn in a circle to make sure I’m taking it all in. Just for good measure, I twirl in another circle, seeing the paint, the fluffy bed, the big, fuzzy rug, my desk, the curtains, the lights, the pictures on the wall, the starched pillowcases, the—

  Oomph!

  The underside of a dog.

  “Rocky! Get off her! Oh, Katie, I’m so sorry.”

  I’m dying. This is it. I’m flat on my back with Rocky, the two-hundred-pound horse on my chest, his tail wagging every three milliseconds and hitting my leg like it’s going to break the skin any minute now.

  “Rocky, off! My goodness, he just came out of nowhere! Sweetie, I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Scott tries in vain to remove her dog. “Really, he’s never a problem, Mrs. Smartly. I hope you don’t think we would ever let Rocky endanger Katie.”

  From my spot on the floor, I look up at Mrs. Smartly, my beloved guardian angel these past six months, and give her my best pitiful look. Please, oh, please don’t leave me here with Mr. Slobbers.

  “I’m not the least bit worried, Millie. I think Katie’s going to be just fine.” Mrs. Smartly has the nerve to give me a wink, like I, too, think this is all just so precious.

  The dog, apparently deciding we’re all playing a super-nifty game, plants his whole body on my legs, sitting patiently, waiting for what comes next.

  Can’t.

  Feel.

  My legs.

  Mrs. Smartly gives me a soft nudge with her orthopedic shoe. “Yes, Katie’s definitely in the right place.”

  Chapter 3

  The rest of the home tour moves at Mach speed. Mrs. Scott talks and draws our attention to various things in the home, and Mrs. Smartly jots down a note or two in her file. It’s all over much too quickly. I am not ready for Mrs. Smartly to leave. I’m sure not ready to be left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Scott.

  I clear my throat. “Maybe we could look at the laundry room one more time?” Mrs. Smartly cuts her eyes at me. Doesn’t it mean anything to the woman that I would rather be in her company?

  My guardian reaches for her car keys. “Katie, it’s time I left.”

  Isn’t this the part where she should be crying? Delicately wiping her tears on a handkerchief? Letting me know how much I will be missed? At this point, I’m even okay with the kind of crying that involves heaving sobs and lots of snot. Come on, Mrs. Smartly!

  Genuine panic races through me. I’m going to be alone with total strangers! And their dog will probably suffocate me in my sleep tonight or drown me in drool. No, no, no! Think, must think.

  “Did you pack my switchblade, Mrs. Smartly?”

  Mrs. Smartly doesn’t even blink.

  Millie Scott sure does.

  “No, Katie, I left it back at the home, along with your rat poison collection.” Mrs. Smartly smiles evenly. “Our Katie has quite a sense of humor.”

  Mrs. Scott isn’t sure whether to be calmed or not by Mrs. Smartly’s indifference. Oh, yeah, Millie Scott, you’d better be scared. You’d better fear this. I am dangerous. I do dangerous, risky, life-threatening things all the time.

  Oh, who am I kidding? The most dangerous thing I’ve ever done is sit on a public toilet.

  “Walk me out to the van, Katie. I’ve got something for you.” And with that, Mrs. Smartly shakes hands with my new mom and pop, throws out some final instructions, and pulls me out the door with her.

  The two of us walk silently down the driveway to the green van. The path stretches before me like some sort of melodramatic symbol of how far I am from home. In this moment, I am overwhelmed with a powerful sadness. I miss my mom, my old trailer house, the stray cats. Right now I even miss that ugly, redheaded kid across the street, who threw worms on me.

  Don’t cry. Don’t you cry, Katie. Deep breaths now.

  I drag my feet along the gravel in a deliberately annoying way, which, of course, doesn’t faze Mrs. Smartly in the least. Leaning her ample frame into the driver’s side of the van, she pulls out a small box.

  “What is it?” I say it as if I already cannot stand the gift or her.

  “It’s stationery.”

  Stationery? Well, sure. Nothing says “have a nice life” like paper products.

  “Great. Thanks, Mrs. Smartly.” I don’t know why I’m mad, but I am. “Maybe I can write the governor and thank him and social services for placing me in the Chihuahua capital of the world. Maybe I’ll write Trina and see if she’s moved on to nunchucks yet. Or hey, I know, maybe I’ll write Dave Letterman and tell him me and my new dog have a super-cool trick we like to call ‘Kill Katie.’”

  Mrs. Smartly snorts, and the next thing I know, I’m plastered to her polyester, paisley dress, enveloped in my second unsought hug for the day.

  “Katie Parker, you are something else.”

  Mrs. Smartly’s chest shakes with her chuckling, and to my utter shame, hot tears fall down my cheeks. Oh, this day will live in infamy.

  We move apart, and before I can turn my head, she has a tissue in my hand. Iola Smartly—prepared for anything. Clearly she was a Girl Scout in her youth.

  “This paper is for writing letters to whomever you want, Katie. You can write the governor if you so choose, but if you don’t write me at least once every week, I will be telling Mr. and Mrs. Scott you already think of Rocky as your flesh-and-blood brother and would love for him to sleep in your room.”

  Now that’s just cruel.

  “And you can write your mama and update her on your life.”

  Oh, to be the author of prison letters. It’s a young girl’s dream come true. “I’m not writing my mom. She totally ditched me. Left me for this place.” I jerk my head toward the house.

  “She’s in prison, Katie. It’s not like she took off for Honolulu.”

  “The day she calls is the day I’ll write.” I know she can make phone calls in that place. And do I ever receive one? No.

  “Fine. Then you can just write me.”

  Mrs. Smartly gives me her I-mean-business look, and I obediently bob my head in agreement. “Okay. I’ll write you.” I clutch the stationery and the soggy tissue to my chest, wishing I were anywhere but here.

  “I know this is scary. And it’s not fair.” Here come the waterworks again. “But the Scotts are good people. They’re going to try their hardest to make you a home, and I want you to behave and be nice. They are not your enemy.”

  Again, I nod my head. Which causes my nose to drip.

  “I believe in you, Katie Parker,” Mrs. Smartly says with such a force I can’t help but to look up at her. “You have something. I don’t know what it is, but you have got to know you are special and your life is meaningful.”

  Another tissue magically appears out of nowhere. Does the woman pull them out of her ear? Where does she keep those things?

  “I do believe, Ms. Parker, you are just a blessing unfolding by the day. God’s got big plans for you, and it may not seem like it now, but he’s taking care of you, and In Between, home of the Fighting
Chihuahuas, is where you are supposed to be.”

  God-schmod, I want to say. I’m practically an orphan! How special is that? How blessed is that? If God blesses me any more I’ll be living on the streets, digging for my dinner in a certain hamburger restaurant’s McDumpster.

  “One of these days really soon, you’re going to be able to say, ‘I know what it is to be wanted, what it is to be loved. I know what home is, and I’m right where I’m supposed to be.’” Mrs. Smartly smoothes her big hand over my hair, and the gesture is so motherly—and so unlike her—that my eyes fill up again.

  She hugs me again (three and counting) and hoists herself into her awaiting coach.

  “Mrs. Smartly,” I cast a sorrowful look back at the house. “Are you sure you want to leave me here?” My voice catches, and I’m all too aware of the plea in my tone. I expect a wisecrack from Mrs. Smartly, but her face softens, and she suddenly gives me something I know I don’t ever want from her—pity.

  “No, Katie Parker. I don’t want to leave you here. But I do want to do what’s right for you, and just as sure as I know this engine is going to overheat at some point on my way home, I know taking you back with me to Sunny Haven would be the wrong thing to do. Now I’ll be checking on you, so if anything goes wrong, I’ll be back.” She sees the hope in my puffy eyes. “But I really don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Young lady, you have a chance to have a good life.” She pokes a stubby finger in my chest. “Don’t screw this up.”