In Between (29 page)

The Scotts always eat their meals together at the table.

Something is rotten in the state of Texas.

“Sure . . . sure I can.”

James refills his coffee and brings the pot with him to the table. He raises it over Millie’s cup, but her hand slaps over the mug, stopping him from pouring any refills. “No, thanks.”

He straightens and rests the pot on a place mat, his face slightly pink. James turns his head in my direction and stretches a smile across his face. “Ready for church today?”

My eyes dart between the two of them before I answer. “Yeah, I guess.”

And I guess I’m sick of the frigid temperatures in this house lately. First they were mad at each other. Then they ignored one another. Then yesterday James started acting more like his old self, while Millie continued playing the quiet game.

“I heard you guys fighting last Wednesday night before church.”

James chokes on his Columbian blend, and Millie snaps her paper shut, eyes wary.

Why can’t I ever just keep my mouth shut? It’s like I’m genetically mutating into Maxine or something.

“Katie, adults argue. That’s part of life.” Millie sighs.

“It’s part of marriage.” James drums his fingers on the table.

Oh, okay. That explains it all.

Are you
kidding
me?

“I don’t understand why you don’t talk about Amy.” I just had to throw it out there.

Millie tenses and casts her eyes downward. “We do talk about Amy.”

James picks up a fork, absently turning it end to end. “What do you want to know about Amy?”

“Anything. Everything. Where is she? Why doesn’t she visit?”

It all comes out in a gush, and Millie looks at no one. James may be ready to talk to me about his daughter, but his wife is not.

“Amy is in Colorado. She lives there with a boyfriend, and—”

“She’s in Atlanta.” Millie cuts in, and James sets the fork down with a clank.

The two stare each other down for a moment and communicate on a level that doesn’t include me.

“She’s in Atlanta?” James growls. “Since when?”

“Since last month.”

“You knew our daughter moved again, and you didn’t tell me?” He jerks the napkin out of his lap as he stands, then throws it on the table. “Katie, will you excuse us?” James gives my shoulder a squeeze then nods toward upstairs.

I lumber up the stairs and land facedown on my bed. I probably just smeared my mascara, but who cares. I can’t stand this. I don’t
want
James and Millie to be unhappy. I thought normal families got along. What’s with all this fighting? The Middle East doesn’t have a thing on James and Millie right now.

Sluggishly I move to the bathroom and brush my teeth with my Barbie toothbrush. Though it’s childish, my toothbrush could be one of my most favorite things my foster parents have ever bought me. My own mom would never let me have such a frivolous thing, so when Millie said, go pick out a toothbrush, Barbie it was.

After a rinse and an impressive gargle, I inspect my hair, pulled on top of my head in a messy ponytail. I don’t look that different than when I arrived in In Between. Yet, I know somehow I am.

Knock. Knock.

If James and Millie are here to tell me they’re splitting up, I am going to be so ticked. “Come in.” I take a seat on my bed as my foster parents enter my domain.

“We want to apologize.” Millie sits down next to me. James goes for my desk chair again.

“We didn’t intend to keep anything from you, and we’re very sorry if you felt left out or deceived in any way.” James glances at his wife, and I wonder if the mention of deception is aimed at her.

“About our daughter. . .” Millie draws a tired breath. “Our sweet Amy’s dream was to graduate from high school and go to NYU to study acting. James and I debated over allowing her to go, and as much as we wanted to encourage her dream, after much prayer, we just knew college in New York was not for her at that time.”

James swivels in the chair to face me. “We told Amy we would continue praying about her college, but she needed to find a school closer to home. She wasn’t—isn’t—as strong as you are, Katie.” James shakes his head, and his eyes focus on something—another time, another place only he can see. “Besides believing God didn’t want Amy at NYU, we had a lot of reasons to not want her too far from us. As a child and as a teenager, she was very needy, very emotional. We had her in counseling for many years. We tried medication, everything we knew to help her. Nothing helped.” He exchanged a look with his wife. “It’s like Amy has danced with destruction all her life.”

“We love our daughter. She means the world to us. Please understand that.” Millie’s eyes plead with me, and I know I’m looking at some serious mama hurt here.

“The day we told Amy she wouldn’t be going to NYU, she ran away that night,” James said.

“She packed a single suitcase, took a few of our credit cards, grabbed all of her graduation money, and rode a midnight bus to New York. She left us a note, but it was over a month before we heard from her again.”

James grimaces. “And even then it was just a postcard that said ‘I’m in New York, and I’m okay.’”

“Amy is just . . .”

“A mess.”

Millie bristles at her husband’s words, but schools her features back into a neutral mask.

“We’ve been on quite a chase for our daughter in the seven years since she left,” James says. “Millie and I have traveled all over this country, invested thousands in trying to keep up with her, not to mention all the money we’ve sent to every PO box she’s ever had.”

“So why won’t she come home?” I cannot imagine not wanting to come home to all this—this house, this family, those omelets. Okay, Rocky’s a deterrent, but you throw him a raw steak or two, and he’s out of your way.

“Amy’s gotten mixed up with some pretty serious stuff. We’ve done everything we can to help her, but aside from being her personal bankers, she doesn’t want anything to do with us.”

“James, that is not fair.” Millie’s nostrils flare. “Amy is lost and confused, and she’s not emotionally well.”

“She’s also spoiled and selfish, and it’s gone on too long.”

And here we go again. I was hoping they had signed a peace treaty or something downstairs.

Millie opens her mouth to blast a comeback, but our eyes meet, and apparently, she thinks better of it. Instead my Non-Mom purses her lips and folds her hands in her lap. Probably so she won’t deck a preacher.

“Our daughter has been in so many towns in the last few years, we can hardly keep up with it. Well, I certainly can’t.” James’s words fly over me and land on Millie.

She lays her soft hand over mine. “While it is definitely true Amy will probably never find any success as a professional actress, we still love our her and have hopes for the rest of her life. We pray for her to come home and get the care and attention she needs.”

“Medical attention.”

I jump in before Millie reacts to James’s comment. “So why don’t you all talk about her? Why doesn’t anyone talk about her?”

My foster dad rubs a hand over his face, and for once he looks his age. “I guess . . . I guess it’s hard to admit you failed as a parent. There’s not a whole lot to say about it. Other than pray, we can’t do anything for Amy right now.”

“And I suppose people are just trying to respect our privacy by not asking about her. They used to ask about her—years ago—but I think the people in the community know our daughter isn’t well.” Millie’s voice breaks a little, and the sight of a single tear running down her perfectly made up face hurts my heart.

I place my other hand over Millie’s and give it a squeeze.

“I’m sorry we’ve argued in front of you, Katie. Amy is the burden of our hearts, for both of us, and it wears on us. James and I would hate for you to be affected too.”

“Sometimes we want to approach Amy’s situation in different ways, that’s all.” James graces his wife with a quiet smile, before checking the silver watch on his wrist. “I’ve got to get to church, but Katie, anytime you want to talk to us about something, we’re here for you. Nothing is off limits.”

“Can I get the pin number of your debit card?”

“Not on your life.”

“But you just said—”

“Why don’t I pray for us right now?”

James takes a hold of our hands. And as he prays for us, I open an eye and take a peek at this family I’m in. We are connected, this pastor, his wife, and I. Hands joined, I feel their strength, and with everything I am, I know these people are solid. They’ve become like home base, like when I used to play freeze tag. No matter where I was or who was after me, I could run to base and be safe. Amy had to know that. Yet she keeps running anyway.

“God, we thank you for Katie and for this family. We thank you for Amy, and pray if it’s your plan, you would deliver her back to us, safe and sound and ready to live in your will and be the young woman we know she can be. Lord, we pray we would not get in your way. You are in control. We pray for patience. We pray for strength. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

My foster parents both squeeze my hands and I squeeze back. Millie wipes at her eyes and wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. She kisses the top of my head, and I stay there, content to be near.

“All right, kiddos, I needed to be at the church a half hour ago, so I’d better run.” James leans down and kisses his wife. He plants one on my forehead and glides out the door.

“We’ll see you in a little bit.” Millie calls after him, then gets a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Oh, my. I’d better go fix my makeup.”

“Yeah, if you don’t powder up, the choir will disown you.”

“Funny girl. Your eggs are probably cold by now. You want me to heat them up?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Then meet me downstairs, ready to go in ten minutes.”

“Hey, Millie?”

My foster mom throws a hand around the doorframe to halt herself. “Yes?”

“Are you gonna change the grand opening date of the Valiant now?”

She inspects her manicure. “No, I’m not. I sent the programs to the printer weeks ago. We won’t be changing anything.”

I swallow. “Do you think she’ll be there?”

“Yes.” Millie’s gaze is steady on mine. “I know my daughter will be there.”

T
he three o’clock
bell rings, and I shuffle out of class and elbow my way through the pressing crowds to my locker. I mentally review my classes for the day and try to recall the ones I have homework in. This is still a new phenomenon for me—homework. Back in the day, I would have left the books at school and gone home to watch some television and nuke a frozen burrito. When your mom hasn’t once glanced at your report card, it’s a little hard to muster up the motivation to do something like homework. But James and Millie are different. They’re all about the education. And obsessed with checking my grades online. (Twenty-four-hour access to my grades. That’s a brand of punishment I’ll never get over.) So between my grade-tracking foster parents and Frances’s tutoring, I am slowly turning into a school-conscious kid. Not too sure how I feel about that yet, but slowly floating up from the bottom of the class isn’t too bad.

I stuff my needed textbooks and binders in my backpack, and like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, I lumber out to the bus waiting area. I choke on some exhaust and stand next to the corner of the building under a shade tree.

“Psst.
”

I readjust my droopy backpack.

“Pssssst.
”

I search to my left and my right. And see no one.

“
Psst
, over here.”

An acorn beans me in the back of the head.

“Are you deaf? I’m over here!”

I peer around the corner, and there stands foster grandmother, dressed in black from head to toe, plastered to the side of the building, inches away from me.

“Maxine,
what
are you doing?” I notice she has her helmet on. And there are leaves all over it. “Did you hot glue those leaves?”

“All 106 of them. Now keep your voice down.”

My eyes dart side to side, as I desperately hope no one is watching this odd scene.

“Aren’t we reading this afternoon? It’s Tuesday.”

She shakes her head. “No books today. We have a very important mission.”

“I don’t think that—”

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it—”

I swipe my hand across her cheek and bring back a charcoal-colored thumb. “Is this black paint on your face?”

“Nah, it was supposed to be, but I ran out and had to smear mascara all over my cheeks.”

“Very becoming.” I don’t even want to think about why she owns face paint in the first place. “What is this about?”

“Do you accept the mission or not?”

I hear the buses shift into gear, and out of the corner of my eye I see a yellow haze pass by. My bus. Gone. A tired sigh escapes my lips.

“Your bicycle is here somewhere, isn’t it?” I am not heaving this backpack all the way to Maxine’s house.

“Well, I sure didn’t take the subway. Now, as I was saying, we have work to do.
Mission: Sam Is a Cheating Dirt Bag
is afoot.”