The Big Picture (6 page)

The young English teacher hands out rubrics. “For bonus points, you have the option of writing an additional three pages, giving us a view into your future. Perhaps in a decade. Where will you be? What will you be doing?”

In a decade? I don’t even know where I’ll be next month.

Hannah leans into my row. “This is totally lame.”

No, lame is having to write an essay in which you detail the events of living with your druggie mom, moving from town to town, and being shipped from girls home to foster home, then back to newly released mother. I’ll call it “The Sweet Life of Katie Parker.” Or “The Life and Times of a Girl the World Continues to Chew Up and Spit Out.” Or maybe “I’m Katie Parker. Sure There Are People Worse Off Than Me. But I’ve Never Met Any.”

I glance across the room at Angel Nelson, a nemesis of mine and resident bully of In Between High. I can imagine her essay (if she turns one in): “Sixteen Years of Beating People Up.” Or “I Skip School; Therefore, I Am.” That girl seriously needs some God in her life. And some deep conditioner — major split ends.

At lunch I grab our usual table and set my bag down. Ever since Millie’s cancer, she’s been on this psycho health kick, so I’ve started packing my own lunch. It was either that or eat tofu and bean sprouts every day.

“Can I sit here?” Charlie places his tray of nachos and fries across from me.

I arch a brow. “What would your coach say about your menu choices?”

He grins, and for a moment it feels like the good old days. “He’d wonder why I didn’t get pizza too.” He bites into a fry. “So tell me about your mom.”

And just like that, my appetite is gone. “Um . . . I dunno.” I push my lunch bag away. “I guess I’ll be going back home sometime.” The
words are acid on my tongue. Shouldn’t there be at least
some
joy in the thought of living with my mom again? At least I won’t have to eat Millie’s tofu burgers anymore.

Charlie reaches across the table and pulls my hands into his. “What? What are you talking about?”

I try to focus on the question, but all I can think is
He’s holding my hands! In his inner battle between Chelsea and me, did he just pick me?
“Um . . . that’s why my mom was here. She’s been . . . uh . . . free for some time now, so she decided she would stop by for a visit and take me with her for the weekend. The Scotts wouldn’t let her, but pretty soon they won’t have a choice.”

“She can’t just take you like that, though, can she?” Charlie’s frown is fierce. “You want to stay with the Scotts, right?”

My chest tightens. Yes, I want to stay with the Scotts. And yes, I want to be with my mom. At least I’m pretty sure I do.

“I’ll finish up the school year here. Millie says my mom is in the process of being evaluated by the state to see if she’s fit to regain custody, and apparently things are moving quickly.” Too quickly. By the time summer break starts, I could be on my way back to my mom.

“What can I do?” Charlie asks.

How about never let my hands go. Tell me there is no other girl you’d rather gaze at than me. Never look at Chelsea again. And offer me half your fries.

“Nothing.” I force a smile. “There’s nothing any of us can do.”

“How do you feel about all of this?”

I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. If the state says I go, I go.”

He leans in. “Katie, I want you to know no matter what — ”

“Hey, Charlie.” Chelsea sashays our way, stopping next to Charlie. Her eyes narrow. “Hi, Katie.”

Charlie drops my hands, and I rest them in my lap. “Hey.” Perfect timing. It’s like she has some homing device that goes off every time Charlie takes a step in my direction.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you.” Chelsea strikes a tragic pose, clutching her Aquafina and her Coach bag. “Please?”

They hold a quiet conversation, as if I’m not even there.
Hey, Chels, I’m sorry you broke your nail and all, but I was just telling Charlie how I have real problems.

She straightens. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

She walks away before Charlie can answer. He faces me, a light blush on his cheeks.

I hold up my hand. “I don’t even want to hear it.”

“No, it’s not what you — ”

“Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

My mouth drops. “She is
so
manipulating you. Are you blind?”

“She’s not manipulating me. She really does have some major stuff going on.”

I snort. “Then tell me about it.”

He pauses, as if he’s considering it. “I promised her I wouldn’t.”

I stand up and throw my food back into my bag. “Well, I’m glad she has such an honorable
friend
.” I walk off, with one last glare over my shoulder. “See you later.”

I WAVE AT FRANCES AS SHE drives away, leaving me in the parking lot of the Valiant. I work here some days after school. I used to work here for punishment. Now I hang out at the theatre because I love it. It’s like my home away from home. Er, away from home.

I open the door and step into the Art Deco lobby. I can’t imagine not being able to see the Valiant as often as I want to. Can’t imagine life without any more chances to perform on the stage beyond those double doors. Sometimes I feel like I was raised in the wrong family. Like the Scotts’ kooky daughter should’ve belonged to my mom and I should’ve been raised a Scott. Life here just seems to be such a good fit. So right.

God, why do I have to leave? Why did you even bring me here, just to jerk me back out again? It’s going to be so painful leaving James and Millie, Maxine, Sam, my friends. Why are you doing this to me?

I fling open the doors and step into the theatre. I inhale the scent that
is
the Valiant — a mixture of wood polish, set paint, and a distinct smell that comes from something only as old and historical as this building. A cool old, you know? Not Great-grandma’s mothball collection old.

Walking down the center aisle, I notice Sam Dayberry sitting in the first row. He’s talking on the phone. His voice gets louder. Angrier.

“I’ve called you all day long. Where have you been?”

I stop in my tracks. Should I stay? Should I go? I don’t want to eavesdrop.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do.

“Now, Maxine, you hold on just a minute, there . . . Now, see here . . .
Forcing
you into marriage? Where did you get that blasted idea?”

I hold my breath, frozen in my spot. I strain to hear every word, even the ones bursting through the phone from my foster grandmother.

“
What?
Well, I
never
said I expected you to cook and clean for me. Where is this coming from? Now, just a minute . . . I’ve had about enough of your dramatics. Yes, I said dramatics! You’ve been hinting for months you wanted an engagement ring. I buy you one and propose, and you go stone cold loco. Yes, I said
crazy
!”

More shouting erupts from the phone. Sam holds it away from his ear.

“What do you mean you didn’t get a proper proposal? We’re in our seventies, what do you want me to do, skydive? I’d break a hip!”

Sam’s neck is red and splotchy. I hope he doesn’t get so worked up he has a stroke or something. I had CPR in health class, but I totally don’t remember it.

“If you think I’m no longer good enough, then go find someone else. Nobody else will put up with your craziness like I do.”

Oh, no. No, Sam. Do
not
issue Maxine a challenge. You do not want to do that.

“What do you mean you were doing me a favor by agreeing to marry me? I happen to be the catch of our geriatric community. What?” Sam pauses and listens. “Now that’s just insane. You don’t mean that.”

I step closer.

“See other people?”

What?
No, Maxine! What are you doing?

“Fine. We’ll see other people if that’s the way you want it. Good luck finding someone to date you. You and all your personalities.”

And he snaps his phone shut, the sound echoing through the theatre with a heavy finality.

Sam stands up, grabs his handkerchief from his pocket, and swabs his forehead. He rips his cap off his head and swivels around.

And sees me.

Standing there like a total idiot.

“Uh . . .” I search for the right thing to say. Something intelligent. Something comforting. “What’s new?”
So
not it.

He shuffles out of the row and stomps his way to me. “What’s new? I’ll tell you what’s new. The world Maxine wakes up in every day is new. I don’t know what I’m gonna get from her from one day to the next. I’ve had it.”

“Now, Sam — ”

“I mean it, Katie. I’m too old for her soap opera tactics. I can’t take it.”

“But you love her.”

His mouth stretches into a grim line. “She doesn’t care. She’s got some bee in her bonnet, and until she realizes I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her, it’s hopeless.”

“No, it’s not hopeless. You guys are such a cute couple. You’ve been chasing her for years. Don’t give up now. You know she’s just having one of her fits. She wants you to pull out the big guns, romance her, woo her back, make a big fuss over her.” I hear the panic in my voice. Everything is falling apart — even Maxine and Sam.

“My fussing days are over, kid.” Sam tries to step around me, but I
throw out my hands and halt him.

“She’s just scared. You gotta talk to her.”

“Scared? What’s she afraid of? I’m the one marrying Mad Maxine. If anybody has the right to be running scared it’s me.”

He’s got a point there. Maxine is infamous in this town for her antics.

“Sam, please, call her back. Say something sweet to her. Take her out to dinner. Buy her some chocolate.”

“It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not, it’s — ”

“She brought me this today.” Sam digs into the pocket of his worn khakis. His rough hands pull out a diamond ring. “Maxine broke off the engagement.” He hangs his head. “It’s over.”

I close my eyes and seethe.

Katie and Maxine — two losers in love.

Chapter seven

TUESDAY AFTERNOON, TWO HOURS BEFORE Charlie is supposed to pick me up for our evening out (I hesitate to call it a date, much like I once hesitated to call him my boyfriend), Brian Diamatti, aka Joey Farmer, my mystery man, pops up on IM.

“Hey, Katie. My grandpa gave me your e-mail addy. Wanted to introduce myself and say I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel for Thursday night.”

I feel a mix of relief and alarm.

“OK,” I type. “Nice to sorta meet you. Are we still on for Friday night?”

His reply is instant. “I can’t wait.”

Funny, I can’t say the same. “How will I know you?”

“Sending you a pic right now. Don’t judge me too harshly.
”

As I wait for his picture to show up in my in-box, we make some final plans to meet at my house instead of the party so we can do our first meeting in private, and not under the scrutiny of Charlie and Chelsea. Plus, I’ll have Frances and Nash meet us, so we can all ride together — in case he is an ax-murderer, I want to be in good company. Or as Frances warned, in case he’s a total dork.

I click open his e-mail attachment. Ohhh, very nice. No dork here. In fact, my Italian stallion looks a lot like Orlando Bloom. Score! Eat that, Charlie Benson. Maybe Frances’s ploy wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“See you Friday night.” I know any other girl on the line with Orlando’s stunt double would keep him talking, but I just don’t feel like it. Maybe when I meet him there will be some spark, some flare of attraction that will capture my attention and erase all thoughts of Charlie from my mind.

Not that today wasn’t nice. Charlie sat with me at lunch again. Chelsea had some appointment and checked out (probably had to get her brows waxed), so she wasn’t around. It was just Charlie and me, laughing, talking about school and people at church. No weird tension, no bubbling anger over his secrecy and Chelsea-allegiance. Who knows, maybe it’s the start of a new era for us. Maybe there is a shot at a relationship. I have to admit, I’m still totally head over Pumas for him.

Guilt tugs on my conscience.

I should e-mail Brian Diamatti and cancel for Friday night. I can’t bring another guy to Charlie’s party. Especially someone posing as a date.

I open up a blank e-mail and type in Brian’s address.

“Hey, Brian, I’ve had a change of heart. While I appreciate — ”

My bedroom door opens and bangs into the wall, rattling on its hinges.

Maxine enters the room, grabs the doorknob on the rebound, and with a slam, closes us in.

She speeds to her bed in her red high heels and slides across the comforter like it’s home plate. Maxine flops over with a dramatic sigh, scoots around till her legs are propped up on the wall and her head hangs over the edge.

I study her upside-down face. “So how was your day?”

She lifts her ruby lip in a snarl. “As if you don’t already know. Sam told me you were standing right there in the theatre, listening in on our conversation.”

I close out my e-mail. “Maxine, you were yelling so loud, I could’ve had my iPod cranked up full blast and stood next to an army of roaring B-52s, and I still couldn’t have avoided hearing you.”