The Big Picture (35 page)

“You should do it, Katie.”

I try to read Charlie’s expression, but it reveals nothing.

“We’ve got space for you too, Chelsea,” Nash says, and inwardly I groan. Wonderful. That’s so fair. It’s like having me strut the runway with Gisele or Kate Moss.

“It’s for a good cause,” Frances emphasizes, but I get the chastisement in her eyes. She puts the squeeze on. “Chelsea?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Her face has returned to the sad look she wore when she came in.

“You know we won’t let your friends do anything to hurt you.” Charlie’s voice is all comfort.

“Ex-friends, and now is just not a good time.”

“You’d be helping to save the drive-in.” Frances is not backing down. She pinches my arm and shoots me a look that says,
Just go with it.

“Um . . . yeah. Buford Hollis really needs our help, Chelsea. Come on, I’ll do it if you will. We’ll show In Between what hot looks like.”
Or you will. I’ll just follow behind you and try to bring in more than fifty cents.

Charlie flexes his arms. “Wow, my hands are just itching to toss someone else in the pool.” He leans in toward Chelsea. “Sure you don’t want to be in the date auction?”

She shakes her head, her eyes downcast. “It really isn’t a good idea.”

Charlie gets to his feet and sighs deeply. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

He reaches for her, and with a yelp and a giggle, Chelsea jumps up. “Okay, okay! I’ll do it.” She laughs and brushes a tendril of hair off her cheek. “Sign me up.”

When Frances drops me off at the house a couple hours later, I know between the two of us we are totally smelling Sally Ann up with our potent BO — a mix of sweat, chlorine, and multiple brands of sunscreen. I hold the car door open and peel my sticky legs off the seat.

I tell my friend good-bye and head up the sidewalk.

“Katie?” Frances leans out the passenger side window.

I walk back to the car.

“Thanks for helping us persuade Chelsea to help out with the fund-raiser.”

“Um . . . sure.” It’s going to be loads and loads of crazy fun. People bidding on me, me basing my self-worth on the dollar amount I bring, and then watching folks hold onto their checkbooks until Chelsea the beauty queen comes out.

“You have no idea what she’s been like lately. She’s just now starting to show signs of coming out of it. She feels like she has nobody.”

“Glad to help.” And I wave good-bye to my friend and walk into the house, my shoes squishing all the way.

A note stuck to the fridge tells me that Millie is at the theatre, Maxine is at karate, and James is, of course, at the church. Just me and Rocky, the slobbery wonder.

I reach in the fridge and claim a bottle of water.

When the phone rings, I pick it up, untwisting the lid on my drink. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“Katie?” My heart jumps at my mom’s voice.

“Mom? Where are you?” I hear cars zoom in the background.

“A pay phone.”

“Where?”

“It doesn’t matter. Listen, I need some money.”

I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Yes, after you left me stranded, I did survive.
“I don’t have any. Where are you, Mom?”

“Why — so you can turn me in? I don’t think so. But I could be close enough to meet you if you could get me some cash. It’s important.”

Important is such a relative word. I would think
I
was important. “I don’t have any way of getting you money. You have to turn yourself in. This is crazy. The police are looking for you.”

“You think I don’t know that? Things just got . . . out of hand. I need your help.”

“You need help, but there isn’t anything I can do for you.”

“So that’s it?”

I can hear my own heartbeat. “I guess that’s it.”

“Katie, if you can’t get me money, at least don’t turn me in. Don’t tell anyone I called. Do you hear me? I’m your mother.” And for a minute she sounds normal. And my heart breaks. “I’ll turn myself in soon. Let me be the one who goes to the police. You don’t want that on your conscience.”

I rub a hand over my face and try to think.

“Don’t call the police. Don’t tell anyone. Do this one thing for me.”

And the line goes dead.

NOTHING ZAPS YOU MORE THAN THE sun. Well, maybe stress. And I’ve been exposed to both. When the family gets home, I say nothing about the phone call. And I lug the guilt around all evening like an overstuffed gym bag. After pretending to watch the evening news with James, I collapse into my bed.

When a flashlight is shoved in my face an hour later, I’m still awake. “
What
is that?”

“Get up.” Maxine towers over me, completely dressed, all the way down to her knee pads and biking helmet. This is
not
a good sign.

“Go away, Maxine. It’s after eleven o’clock. I’m tired. I still haven’t caught up on my sleep, and you reek of trouble.”

She sniffs her pits. “I need to change deodorants.”

“Get that light out of my face and go away.”

My foster grandmother kneels beside my bed, her face inches from mine. “Sweetheart, sugar bear, honeydew — ”

“I have sensitive gag reflexes . . .”

“Toots, I need some assistance. I have had a long heart to heart with my Lord and Savior, and I know what I need to do.”

“Go back to bed.”

“And that ain’t it.” She pushes on my shoulder and shakes me. “Open those peepers. There you go. Now listen up. It has come to my attention I may have acted a little too hastily in giving Sam the boot a couple months ago. I have seen him about town with his new woman — Mabel Doolittle” — Maxine pauses to let the name roll off her tongue like soured milk — “and Sam looks terrible. Katie, I fear he’s in a bad way, and without my love he just isn’t thriving.” Maxine nods. “He needs me. So we must save him.”

I yawn. “So you’re willing to sacrifice yourself to save him.”

“Exactly.”

Crazy, thy name is Maxine Simmons. “And what is it you propose to do? In the dark. At eleven o’clock. While James and Millie are in bed.”

“We’re going to Sam’s house.”

I sit up. “What? I’m not going over there. Let me guess, you want to do some breaking and entering and leave love notes all over his house while looking for clues about the seriousness of his relationship with Mabel?”

Maxine tightens her chin strap. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She shakes her head. “No, what I want to do is just go over there and surprise him with — ” Her eyes dart away.

“Yes?”

She clears her throat and coughs. “Love sonnets.”

I bark with laughter. “Love sonnets? You, Maxine Simmons, want to woo Sam Dayberry with love poetry? And you honestly think that’s
going to — ” I close my eyes and pray for patience. “You think that’s going to work, don’t you?”

Maxine flings the blankets off my bed. “Of course it is. Sam’s a theatre person like you. He’s into all that Shakespeare and stuff. Get up, Parker. We have a date with destiny. A rendezvous with romance. A par-tay with poetry.”

“I can’t just leave the house without James and Millie’s permission.”

“You’re with an adult.”

“Not a sane one.”

Maxine whops me with a pillow. “They’ll never know. We’ll be back within the hour.”

“
You’ll
be back within the hour. I’m staying right here.”

“If you don’t get up, I am ratting you out and telling Millie where you and James stash the contraband snack food.”

I gasp. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me. I would gladly suffer through months of endless tofu with no break in sight, just to secure your help.”

I stew over this. She knows she has me, that hag. James and I need our junk food stash like we need air. It’s our oasis away from Millie’s organic, soybean world.

“If we get caught, you are taking the full blame for this.”

Maxine holds up her right hand. “I promise.”

“And no throwing me under the bus this time and telling James and Millie I was sleep walking, and you were just following me for my own protection.”

“I will never use that excuse again. We’ll leave them a note just in case.”

“I suppose you expect me to drive?”

“Amateur!” Maxine’s cackle rattles my frazzled nerves. “No, that would make too much noise. We’ll take my bike.” She hands me my helmet, a violet number she purchased for me some time ago. “Get dressed. I’ll not have you roaming the streets all indecent.”

I open my mouth to retort, but decide it’s not worth the energy.

Maxine and I slip outside, where her bicycle built for two, Ginger Rogers, waits for us under the porch.

I throw a leg over. “You’re going to have to do most of the pedaling. My ankle isn’t up to much of a workout yet.”

She turns around and stares at the top of my head. “Ahem.”

Mumbling, I smash my purple helmet over my hair. “Start pedaling, Granny.”

Using mostly my good foot, I help Maxine push the bike through town. We sail through Main Street, our headlight beaming. We meet no cars, but do get some strange looks from a bleary-eyed cow or two.

“Lean!” Maxine hollers, and we tear through a few yards, only to come to a screeching, grass-throwing halt in Sam’s backyard.

My foster grandmother gulps as she contemplates Sam’s darkened bedroom window on the second story of his brick home. “My, it sure is hot out here tonight. Is it hot out here to you, Katie? It’s just unseasonably warm.” She fans herself with a hand.

“Actually I was wishing I had brought a jacket.” My teeth hold down my top lip so it doesn’t escape in a smile. “Let’s get this over with. I’m missing my beauty rest.”

Sweat beads at Maxine’s temples below her helmet. “I — I just need to practice a bit. Give me a second.” She takes two steps away from me, pulls a piece of paper from a pocket of her denim capris, then turns her back. I hear a mumble of words. “Love thee like . . . No, no. I need thou like. Drat! You are so fine, dawg. No!” Next come vocal warm-ups. “Mi-mi-mi-mi-i-i-i!”

“Maxine?”

She jumps and clutches the paper to her chest. “What? Can’t you tell I’m in the zone?”

“The psycho zone?”

“No, the inspired, totally poetic zone.” She sniffs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe we should just go home.” Before the police cruise by on their nightly watch and catch two idiots creeping around under an old
man’s bedroom window.

“No.” She motions me over to her. “I can do this. Why don’t we pray?”

“You want to
pray
? About
this
? About our sneaking out of the house at midnight to recite
poetry
?”

Maxine lifts her chin and stares up into the night. “Dear God, help me shun this doubter.”

“Fine.” I bow my head. “Just do it.”

“That’s a great attitude. Very holy.” Maxine lowers her head and takes a deep breath. “Dear Lord. First of all, forgive me for sneaking an extra six cookies after dinner and taking more than my share.”

“Get on with it.”

“And forgive me for telling Martha Culpepper her new hair cut looked good, when we both know it looked like a porcupine had ravaged her head.”

“Maxine — ”

“But God, right now I want to ask for your hand of favor. Lord, I do need some help. I admit that. I let a good man go, and I know it’s only through your grace and my fabulous bod that I’m going to get him back.”

My neck constricts in a cramp.

“God, help me to be all poetic and rhyme-y. Let the love words just roll off my tongue without me puking on the petunias. Amen.” She squares her shoulders and walks toward Sam’s window. “Grab some rocks.”

With a huff that could be heard in the next neighborhood, I traipse through Sam’s landscaping and pick up some pebbles for Maxine. “Here.” I drop them in her hand.

She lobs one at his window, high above her head. And misses. “Nope. I’ll try again.” The second one produces no results. Neither does pebble number three or four, which hit the side of the house. “Hold this.” Maxine shoves her paper in my hand and scans Sam’s yard for more ammunition.

She returns and tosses another rock toward his window. It hits the
gutter and bounces off, beaning Maxine right on the head. “Ow!” She rubs the top of her helmet and then gathers all her rocks into one hand, winds up her arm, and lets them fly.

Crash!

I wince at the sound of shattered glass and move out from under the window.

“Dagnabbit!” comes Sam’s throaty yell. “What in blue blazes?” His room lights up and his bald head appears. “Maxine?” He rubs his eyes. Probably thinks he’s in the middle of a nightmare. “Maxine, is that you?”

She freezes. Her eyes jerk to mine.

“Go!” I whisper, shooing her toward the light. “Go!”

“Uh . . . uh . . .”

Oh, not good. I unfold her piece of paper and run and stick it in her trembling hands.

“Katie?” Sam calls.

I ignore him and run back to my spot a safe distance away. “Speak, Maxine!”

Her round eyes skim her notes for an uncomfortable amount of time before she clears her throat, looks up at the window, and begins.

“Sam, I have something I want to say to you.”

“And you couldn’t have done it
without
breaking my window?”

She turns toward me again. I nod rapidly and give her two thumbs up. Oh, this is hideous. Absolutely hideous. It’s like the time in third grade when Ryan Tillman wanted me to be his girlfriend, so he gifted me with a dead, bloated frog.

Maxine tries again, her voice unsteady. “I have made a lot of mistakes, Sam. But tonight I only have this to say.” She steps closer to the house and shouts up to the second floor. “Here’s why I want Sam to be my sweetie. Took him for granted, but now I think he’s oh-so . . . um . . . neatie.”

I cover my eyes. I can’t watch this.

“He’s got wrinkles and doesn’t have much hair. He won’t see my
plastic surgeon, but I guess I don’t care.”

If only I could cover my ears.

“His coveralls usually clash with my clothes. When we dance, he steps all over my toes. He dates old bags, hussies, and tarts. And here I thought he had more smarts.”

Oh, to be home in bed now.