On the Loose (24 page)

“Drop the ropes and give me twenty-five push-ups!”

I throw my rope down and prop my body on the floor, nose to the ground.

One.

Two.

Should I wear my new jeans tonight? Maybe with the cute little heels?

Three. Or was that four?

I wonder if I should bring a jacket? What if we’re outside some? But if I don’t take a jacket, then Trevor will have to offer me his if I get cold.

Seven. Ugh. How many more? My arms are jelly.

“Finish it up and hit the showers. You sissies stink!”

I peel myself off the floor and get a whiff of my armpits. I do reek.

Hannah limps my way, and we walk to the dressing room. I fling open my locker and grab my shower gear.

“Hey! Where’re my shoes?” Hannah digs through her locker and searches all around her. “My shoes are gone.”

I sort through her stuff, pulling out her backpack, digging through her giant purse. No shoes.

“Who’s got Hannah’s shoes?” I yell.

Angel slams her locker closed. “That’s it. Somebody in here is a thief.” She looks at each one of us. “And we’re gonna find out who it is.”

She and a black-haired friend attack every locker, pushing the few protesting girls out of the way and springing the doors open wide.

Though I have nothing to hide in my cubby, I do not want Angel’s grubby hands on my stuff. When she stands in front of my locker, I remain in place. Guarding my space.

“Move it, Parker.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so, Nelson. I’m really glad you’re helping Hannah look for her shoes, but I don’t have them. And you’re not touching anything of mine.”

Angel smirks. “If you got nothing to hide, then there’s no problem.”

“You’re currently my only problem. Now I’m gonna take a shower. And I don’t want to see you near my things. Are we clear? Because I would hate for you to get suspended again.”

Angel plants her face so close to mine I can smell her afternoon breath. “Open the locker.”

“Outta my face, Angel.”

She turns to her friend. “I think she’s got something to hide.”

Hannah steps between us. “She doesn’t have anything to hide. We don’t even wear the same shoe size.”

“Open your locker,” Angel growls. Her eyes carry a variety of threats.

“Nope.”

Angel puts her fists up. “I’ve been practicing my wrestling lately. You either show us you don’t have the shoes, or I’ll show you my latest move called the punching bag.”

My shower bag plops to the floor. I stretch my arms out. I am so not in the mood for another black eye.

“Well, Parker?”

“Katie, don’t do this. It’s not worth it. This is the last thing your foster mom needs.” Hannah’s voice nails through some of the choking anger.

Millie.

If I stress her out, I would be the lowest of the low. What kind of person upsets a cancer patient?

I pick up my stuff again. Shoving past Angel, my shoulder rams into hers. “Have at it. But if you take anything, I will hunt you down.”

The spray of the shower beats into my skin. Walking around with raw fury burning in your gut makes for a long day. I want to turn back the clock. Go back to a month ago when things were nearly perfect. No cancer. No Amy. No Angel picking fights on a regular basis.

No knowledge of what really goes into the cafeteria goulash.

“Parker! Parker!”

The fifth time I hear my name, I shut off the spray and poke my head out the curtain. “What is it, sweetie?” My giant grin matches my syrupy tone.

Angel stomps to my shower and holds up a pair of shoes. Hannah’s shoes. “Do these look familiar to you?”

Water drips down my face. “Glad you found them.”

“Found them in
your
locker.”

A draft shoots under the shower curtain and blows across my cold skin. “What?” I look for Hannah, who stands behind Angel, twisting her ponytail.

“I didn’t take her shoes, Angel. Hannah knows I would never do that.”

“And what do these shoes tell you?” Black combat boots dangle from Angel’s other hand.

“They say ‘My owner has really bad taste, and I wish someone would put me out of my misery.’”

Angel throws the shoes to the concrete floor. “Cute. You think you’re just real cute, don’t you?”

I pull the curtain tighter around my face. “Right now I think I’m wet and freezing. Now can I dry off or are you going to get to your point?”

I edge my arm out and grab my towel hanging on a hook.

“My shoes were in your gym locker. Hannah’s shoes were in your gym locker. Is this becoming clearer?”

“Stop it, Angel. You know Katie didn’t steal anything.”

Is that doubt I hear in Hannah’s voice?

I wrap the towel around me and step out. “I did not take anything.”

“I opened your locker, dug under your bag and some clothes, and found your hidden stash of shoes.”

Gripping my towel, I close the distance between me and Angel. “I do not steal. You did that. You put that in my locker, Angel Nelson. How pathetic can you get?”

“I think the proof is in your locker here. Everyone witnessed it. I didn’t pull those shoes out of my sleeve. They came from your locker.”

Angel and I stand in the center of the dressing room. Everyone stands around us, their eyes glued to me. I look around. Doubtful stares everywhere.

“Come on. It’s me. I’ve been in this class all year. Why would I take anything now?” Did that sound a bit desperate? “Look, I don’t know how those shoes ended up in my locker, but I did not take them. End of discussion.”

I bust through the circle and pull out my clothes. I jerk my shirt over my head.

“Don’t walk away from me. You can’t just steal from us and think we’re not gonna do anything about it.”

Fear tugs on my gut. “You do whatever you need to, Angel. But you and I both know I wasn’t in anyone else’s locker. Maybe the janitor put them in there. I don’t know.”

Hannah chews on her bottom lip.

“Hannah, you believe me, right?”

“Sure, Katie.” She clutches her flats in her non-twisting hand. And drops her gaze as I walk by.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Angel. But you’ve picked the wrong girl to mess with.” I shove past my accuser.

Thirty girls watch me leave. Their faces the same—doubtful, accusing.

Walking out, I carry my gym bag and my backpack.

And what’s left of my dignity.

“Y
ou’re sure you
don’t want to spend the night again?”

Frances parks her beastly station wagon in the Scott’s driveway.

“Yeah. I’ll just stay here.”

“What if Amy’s taken over your room?”

My door opens with a painful creak. “I’ll kick her out. That’s my room, my bed. And she and her cigarettes can take the couch.” I’m done playing nice. I have no doubt something else hideous is going to happen to me. I want to at least face it from the comfort of my own bedroom.

“Oh, hey, Hannah and I are going to the movies with some of the Target Teens. Are you in?”

Images of PE burn in my brain. “No. I’m just gonna hang out.”

“With Maxine and Amy?”

I sling my belongings over my shoulder. “Sure . . . for a little while.”

Frances clicks the radio off, silencing some classic Gwen Stefani. “I know that face. You’re up to something.”

I blast her with an eye roll. “I’m going to Trevor Jackson’s party tonight. He invited me.”

Frances catapults out of her seat, only to be jerked back by the seat belt. “What? Katie, no.” Her black hair dances as she shakes her head. “This is not good.”

“Yes, it is. Finally something in my life that
is
good.” I drop one bag and lean on her door. “Haven’t you ever felt like the world was against you?”

“Is this about the shoes again? I told you Hannah was cool with that.”

“It’s not about the shoes. Forget the shoes.” Not that I could. “It’s everything!”

Frances tilts her head. “Do you want me to pray for you right now?”

“No! No, I don’t want you to pray for me. I want . . . I want . . .”

“Yes?”

“Forget it. Thanks for the ride.”

“Wait! Katie—”

I slam the door.

Frances rolls the window down and yells. “Do the Scotts know you’re going to Trevor’s party?”

“You sound like Charlie. Just get off my back.”

Her brows furrow. “You think that hurts my feelings, but it doesn’t. Right now you are acting out of your own pain. You are taking your fears and anxieties and projecting them onto me. By deceiving the Scotts and attending this social function, you are reciprocating your own inner punishment.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“Don’t go to the party. This isn’t about you and Trevor. This is about the fact you’re mad, so you’re purposely disobeying your family.”

“No, it’s definitely about me and Trevor.” I turn around, my eyes narrowing at the sight of the front door. “Bye, Frances.”

“If you call me from jail, I won’t pick you up!”

I wave as I make my way up the sidewalk.

Frances sticks her head out of the wagon. “Friends don’t let friends drink and drive! Give hugs not drugs! Alcohol is the most commonly used drug among teenagers! Fifty-two percent of all—”

I close the door behind me and stop. And listen.

“Hello?”

Heavy pounding comes from overhead. Is that in my room? That girl better not be messing with my bedroom. I have had it!

The bags crash to the floor, and I sprint up the stairs.

With a curse on my lips, I explode into the room, armed and ready to do battle. “Get outta my—”

Maxine stands on her bed, two nails dangling from her glossy lips. Rocky, drooling on my bean bag, opens one eye.

“My, how I’ve missed your sweet hollering.”

“Hello to you, too,” I say.

“Hold this up so I can see where I want it.”

Maxine lifts a picture, and tragedy closes in on me once again.

“That is the ugliest, most hideous thing I have ever seen.”

In her arms Maxine cradles a velvet print of Jesus and his disciples. They sit at café tables sipping mochas.

“Are you ashamed of Jesus, our Lord and Savior?”

“When he’s in neon? Yes.” I grab the nails on the bed. “Take it down. You are not putting that in my room.”

“Talked to the contractor today about my apartment. Those people are so backed up. Looks like I’ll be here another month or two. Thought I’d personalize my space with some art. What’s the problem?”

“Art is neither fuzzy nor does it glow in the dark. Take it down. And what is that smell?”

“Sorry.” Maxine grimaces. “Beans for lunch.”

“No.” I tour the room, kicking Amy’s clothes out of my path. “Don’t you smell that?”

She sniffs. “Did you forget to put your gym socks in the laundry again?”

Things are starting to click. “Does Amy do drugs?”

The bed gives as Maxine sits down. “What are you thinking?”

“That a typhoon hit my room for one thing. And I’m staying here tonight. I don’t care what James and Millie say. I’m sleeping in my own bed tonight.”

“Well, where else would James and Millie want you?” She raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think Amy’s on drugs?”

“Duh. Basic health class information here. She’s got all the signs.” I take my arm and rake more of Amy’s junk off my bed. This calls for clean sheets.

“So she’s a little eccentric. Nothing wrong with that.”

“My mom was a dealer. I saw people like Amy all the time.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong.” She fluffs a throw pillow.

“Do you?”

My foster grandmother sighs. Her face, for once, serious. “Yeah . . . I’ve had my suspicions too. I’m just afraid to say anything. Afraid to rock the boat and upset Millie and James. Now is not a good time, you know?”

“Amy needs help though.”

“Katie, Amy’s had help all her life. She’s been in and out of every kind of treatment center from here to Canada. James and Millie have gone above and beyond to help that girl.” Maxine gives a weak shrug. “I love her, but I can’t reach her. She’s gonna have to fall on her face for once. Rely on the G-O-G, baby. The G-O-G.”

I smile. “The grace of God.”

“You know it.”

Do I know it? Do I really believe God can pick you up, when you’re at your lowest, most disgusting point and dust you off and make it all better? And why should I believe that? I’ve yet to see it.

Time for a topic change. “So . . . are we going to the hospital to see Millie?”

“No. I’ve already been. They’re coming home tomorrow morning. They said for Sam not to bring you out.”

A karate kick in the stomach would not hurt more. “Why?” My voice is detestably whiny. “We could take Ginger Rogers.”

“No, toots, not this time. Millie said she didn’t want you hanging out with a sick lady on a Friday night.”

“I want to hang out with a sick lady.” I rip the sheets off my bed.

“Aw, come on. You and I can stay up really late tonight. Watch some old movies, pop popcorn. Short-sheet James and Millie’s bed.”

I turn my head and stop a tear. “Nah. I’ve . . . um . . . gotta study.”

Maxine cackles. “Study? Is that code for text some hot guy?”

“No. I have a science fair project. My partner is picking me up to go work on it.” Oh, I’m a liar. A rotten, stinky liar. And to Maxine of all people. But I’ve got to get out of here and go to that party. Trevor Jackson wants to see me. Do I need any more motivation? And if I do, how about the fact my foster parents are right now having family cuddle time with Amy and don’t want me there. If they don’t want to be around me, why should I feel guilty about making my own plans?