On the Loose (10 page)

“So where do we start? What do I do?”

I grab a pen and notebook out of my backpack. Time to make a list. “You’re gonna continue to work on strategic placement in the hallways. Drop a book near his locker. Speak to people in his proximity. Be in his path.”

“Right.”

“Step two. It’s time for you to ask Nash to get together and work on the science fair project. You need to talk to him in biology tomorrow.” I scribble this down.

Frances hangs her head. Strands of her black hair escape from her knot. “I can’t, Katie.”

“Frances, sometimes we do things we don’t want to do.” Oh, my gosh. Did Millie just jump into my body? I sounded like an . . . adult.

“Can’t you help me with that?” Oh, how the mighty have fallen. This brainy, future fashion model/nuclear physicist has gone from happy and confident to melodramatic and suffering from an inferiority complex. It’s driving me nuts. I have bigger things to worry about.

“
Hmmm
 . . .” I tap my pen to my chin, trying to focus. “What about we see if Nash and Charlie want to meet us at the public library after school tomorrow to get started on our projects? I’ll ask them both.” This could work.

Frances throws herself onto her bed and covers her face with a white and black comforter. “I don’t know!”

“Frances.”

Her face reappears.

“Do you like Nash or not?”

Her eyes go all dreamy. “Yes. Nash is . . . is . . . awesome.” She sighs.

“Well, then you can do—”

Suddenly Luis, Frances’s six-year-old brother, rockets out from under her bed. “Nash is awesome! Nash is awesome!” He flies out of the room. “
Mawwww
-
Meeee
! Frances has a
boyfriennnnnd
!”

Frances makes a grab for her brother, but it’s too late. Frances has just been outed.

“Maybe your mom didn’t hear.” I offer weakly. With Luis’s volume, I think Nash himself possibly could’ve heard it.

Frances and I spend the next hour and a half rehearsing how she will act tomorrow in biology. We make a list of safe topics for her to discuss with Nash and possible replies. Mrs. Vega calls us to dinner, but before we go downstairs, I make Frances pinkie-swear she will practice.

It’s at step ten that it hits me. The smell of stew. Fish stew at that. Wow. Potent.

“Hello, girls!” Mr. Vega, newly home from work, kisses his daughter’s cheek and gives me a big bear hug. I’m not much of a hugger, but these I’ve gotten used to. There’s something very comforting and genuine about this family’s enthusiasm for me. Like I’m an extension of their household.

After grace, we pass the food one dish at a time.

Mrs. Vega hands Frances some bread. “Do you have something to tell us?”

“We’re the only people I know who put cod in liquid, drown it in cabbage, and call it dinner?” Frances hands me the bread basket.

Mr. Vega chuckles. He’s all about international cooking, too, though. When it comes from Mexico. “See, I told you we should have eaten the
carne asada
tonight.”

Mrs. Vega swats at her husband with her napkin then returns her attention to Frances. “Do you have a boyfriend, Zeng Mai?” Only Frances’s parents call her by her first two names. Like all things cultural or fishy, Frances rejects it.

“Luis! Don’t you ever step foot in my room again!” Frances bestows her best evil eye on her little brother. Who promptly opens his mouth and shows her his chewed food.

“Zeng Mai, you have a boyfriend, and you did not tell us?” Cesar Vega’s smile disappears. “You know you must ask permission to date anyone. Why have we not been introduced to this young man?” He looks to his wife who only shrugs.

“Nash is awesome! Nash is awesome!”

“Luis, be quiet! Mom, tell him to be quiet!”

“So Nash is this young man’s name?” Mrs. Vega ladles out soup for herself.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, okay? I’m boyfriendless. Totally without a boyfriend.
Sans
boy.
No tengo un novio
. There? Are you happy?”

The soup goes to Frances. Who passes it to me. I drop some in my bowl, not wanting to be rude.
Ugh
. Stin-kee.

“Do you like this boy then?” Mr. Vega tears his bread in two.

“He’s my science fair partner, Dad. No big deal.”

“Katie is not your science fair partner? Don’t you both have biology?”

“Well, Mrs. Vega, I wanted to work with someone else.” It’s kind of true.

The rest of the meal passes by with the Vegas quizzing Frances about Nash. The more they ask, the madder she gets. Eventually I tune them all out as thoughts of Millie consume me. They don’t just do a biopsy for the fun of it. They must suspect it’s cancer.

After dinner Frances and I do the dishes, then we follow the family into the minivan and head to church.

Target Teen is the Wednesday night church service for junior high and high schoolers. Initially it was punishment for me to come here, but now it’s not too bad. The youth pastor, Mike, is a pretty funny guy, and I find myself sucked into his lessons. But it’s the music that always speaks to me and has me coming back for more. There’s a full band, made up of fellow Chihuahuas who go to our church, and it’s like MTV meets Jesus. Electric guitars, drums, dimmed lights, rockin’ harmonies. It’s the best.

“Hey, Katie. Hey, Frances.” Charlie, who has recently started coming on Wednesday nights, greets us in the doorway, flanked by his girlfriend Chelsea.

Two words about Chelsea: Total. Snob.

Seriously, she’s tall and blonde, and she just screams out “I’m simply lost without a boyfriend.” She’s the type who’s had a boyfriend every day since kindergarten. Her dad works for some major corporation, so she’s loaded. Like dripping with money. She carries a Prada bag. And I don’t mean the kind that upon closer inspection really says
Rada.

“Hi, Charlie. Hey, Chelsea.” Frances, having calmed down some, is back to her old polite self.

“Hey, guys.” I try not to notice Chelsea’s jeans look just like the pair I saw in
InStyle
magazine this week.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows, Charlie makes at attempt at conversation. “Katie is my partner for the science fair.”

“Great.” Chelsea looks me up and down before finally dismissing me as both harmless and useless.

“Hey, Chels, why don’t you stay here with Katie and Frances while I go talk to the guys?”

Chelsea’s shiny pink lips pucker. “You’re not gonna leave me . . . here, are you?” She clings to his arm.

I can’t stand clingers.

Charlie says good-bye sheepishly and pulls his girlfriend along with him to greet some other people.

“Take your seats everybody.” Pastor Mike takes the stage. His diamond earring blinks in the spotlight. “We’re gonna open up with prayer then we have a special treat for you tonight. The God Wads are here to lead worship. So make them feel welcome.”

Pastor Mike prays over us then introduces the band. “Give it up for the God Wads!”

Frances and I pick a seat next to Hannah and some other girls from school. “Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh. There he is.”

I follow the path of Frances’s laser stare. Right to Nash, bass guitar player for the Wads.

“Don’t do anything crazy like throw your bra onstage.”

The band pounds into their opening number, and everyone jumps to their feet. Hands go up, some sing along. Frances drools. I stand there and watch the whole scene, still feeling a bit like an outsider. What’s it like to just throw your hands in the air and become one with the music? To totally worship and not care what anyone thinks? At what point does this all get comfortable?

After six or seven songs, the God Wads exit the stage. Frances leans over my way to watch them go. She’s all but in my lap.

Pastor Mike grabs a microphone as the lights come up some.

“I have a brief announcement. The spring break mission trip to Florida has been cancelled.”

A chorus of “Awwwws” drowns out whatever he’s saying next.

Frances and I exchange pained looks. I was gonna get to go too. That totally blows. I’ve never been to Florida.

Stupid tornado.

“I know, it stinks. But listen.” Pastor Mike pauses until the room quiets again. “Why drive for over seventeen hours to do mission work when we have people who could use our help right here? Guys, I’ve prayed about it a lot, and I know the right thing to do is stay in In Between. I’ll bring you more details later, but you better believe it will still be fun. You know I’m gonna make sure of that.”

He’s echoed by a few hoots and hollers. Most of us remain quiet, watching our dreams of sandy beaches and clam bakes disappear. And yes, I know that’s not what the mission trip is about, but it sure was a nice bonus. Helping a poor neighborhood
and
getting a tan.

“All right, more on that later. Let’s go ahead and dive into the Word.”

Pastor Mike has a student pray for us (I would
die
if he ever picked me) then opens his worn Bible.

“Guys, tonight we’re gonna talk about faith. Who here has got some faith?”

Hands shoot to the ceiling.

“I mean real faith.” Pastor Mike’s bald head glistens in the dimmed lights. “It’s easy to have faith when things are going well. But what about when a boyfriend dumps you? What about when a parent leaves? What about when someone you love is sick?”

My ears perk at that. He’s on staff here. Does he know something about Millie?

“Hebrews 11:1 says faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. If I was a betting person, I would put in some serious cash and bet many of you are hoping for something. Are you strong enough to believe it?” His eyes sweep over the crowd. “Are you willing to let this go and allow God to be in control?”

As the pastor gets into some examples, my mind once again goes back to Millie.

God, I’m not totally there yet. I just need some more time. I do know you’re real though. But God, Millie needs you. She’s a total believer. She’s a sold-out, fish-sticker-on-her-car Christian. She can’t have cancer. It’s not fair. Give it to someone who deserves it. Give it to someone who doesn’t have a foster kid. Until my mom gets her stuff straight—if ever—I need James and Millie. You can’t just drop me here and then toss me right back out.

“We’re gonna make a commitment here tonight.” Pastor Mike puts down his Bible. “Whatever it is that’s on your heart. Whatever it is you’re struggling with, that you’re praying for. Give it up. Let God have it. And have faith.” A candle sputters beside the pastor. “Right now, where you’re at. Let’s take a moment and pray silently. Ask God to take this issue over for you.”

Heads drop. No one stirs.

All right, God. I’m trusting you to take care of Millie. No cancer, all right? I can’t handle anymore craziness. Can’t handle any more disappointments. I am stepping out on faith tonight. And believing that Millie is cancer-free.

T
hursday’s are great,
aren’t they? By the time Thursday rolls around, you can say to yourself, yes, I can do this. Because when I get through this day, it will be Friday.

I’m standing next to Frances’s locker waiting for the 7:55 bell to ring for biology. Frances’s locker is unfortunately located next to Chelsea’s. As in Charlie’s Chelsea.

Chelsea currently has her arms roaming up Charlie’s chest toward his neck. Who needs police officers on security duty at this school? What we need is some PDA police. Maybe I should make a citizen’s arrest.

To his credit, Charlie intercepts Chelsea’s predator hands and holds them in his own.

“Katie? Hello?” Frances waves her hand in front of my face.

“What?”

“You’re staring,” she whispers.

I shake my head to clear the images. “Sorry. Gross displays of affection (hey, they should be called GDA!) are like car wrecks. They’re so heinous; it’s hard to turn away sometimes.”

“Hey, guys!” Hannah limps toward us, her ponytail swishing behind her.

“What’s up with the leg?” I ask.

Hannah shrugs. “PE injury.”

We all nod in total understanding.

“Hi, Charlie. Hey, Chelsea.” Hannah waves happily.

Their cocoon of love now disturbed, the couple moves apart. “Hey, guys. Didn’t see you there.” Charlie smiles warmly.

Yeah, I’ll bet you didn’t. You were too busy making out with Handsy McHands-A-Lot.

Chelsea snaps her gum a few times. Her look of disdain reminds me of Angel. “Hi.” Her attention goes back to Charlie.

“Did you enjoy church last night, Chelsea?” Frances asks, her eyes already going all dreamy. No doubt remembering Nash playing his heart out.

Chelsea does a partial eye roll. The type that is so small she could deny it, but it’s there all the same. “Yeah. The band was . . . okay.”

“Okay?” Frances slams her locker shut. “The band was fabulous. The band was out of this world.” She sucks in air. “The band was . . . was the best of any band I have ever seen on that stage.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Chelsea grabs Charlie’s hand and leads him down the hall. Much like one would lead a cow.

“How can he stand that girl?” I ask when the duo is absorbed by the masses.