On the Loose (16 page)

My heart filled with glee and giddiness, I skip off the stage.

“Chelsea Blake.”

And nearly trip down the last step. What? Who?

“Chelsea, please take the stage.”

No! That glee spontaneously combusts as I see Charlie’s girlfriend approaching the stage. Where did she come from? She’s in a Drama I class? How did I not know this? Ugh. She’s everything I’m not. Sun-kissed blonde hair, legs that scream supermodel, and pouty lips that are never without shimmery gloss. I can’t even remember to apply the occasional ChapStick.

My lunch threatens to climb back up my throat. I can’t stay here. I will not watch that girl violate the laws of good acting by whining and posing through the audition.

God, I would just like to take a break from ignoring you to say this is not fair. You made Chelsea blonde and beautiful. And a boy-magnet. I get the stage. Is that too much to ask for? Have I ever said, God, can I have a C cup? No. Acting is my thing. Let her stick to what she’s meant for. Like boys. And filing her nails.

Grabbing my backpack, I hustle it out of the theater and into the auditorium lobby. I fling open my purse, grab my phone, and punch in Millie’s number.

No answer. How am I supposed to get home?

Ten minutes later I’m pressing redial for the millionth time. Where is my foster mom?

The theater doors sail open, and I turn my head. Trevor.

“Hey, Katie, are you waiting on a ride?”

“It seems my ride is MIA.” It takes everything within me not to quiz Trevor about Chelsea’s performance. Surely it was bad though. She fails at
acting
nice on a regular basis.

Trevor holds up his keys with a jangle. “How about I take you home?”

Gulp. How about it? On one hand, it gives me the chance to show Trevor how I could be the planet orbiting his sun. And what if something is wrong with Millie that she isn’t answering her phone? I definitely need to get home. On the other hand, Millie will flip out if a boy brings me home without permission. She’s all strict like that.

“Uh . . .”

Trevor takes a step closer to me. “What’s the matter, Katie?” He smiles. “Don’t you like me?”

Like you? Hello, you say the word and your name is carved onto every notebook I own.

“Yeah.” I stare into his Hershey brown eyes. “I’d like a ride.”

I float behind him toward the parking lot.

Trevor stops and studies me. “You didn’t tell me whether or not you liked me.”

Be cool. The school parking lot (especially next to the overflowing trashcan) is not the place to confess my undying love. What did that teen magazine I read last month say? To act slightly aloof. Mysterious.

“I might like you, Trevor.” Insert alluring smile here. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Take this next
right.”

My ride is almost over. I run my hand over the leather interior of Trevor’s Hummer. Yes, the boy drives a Hummer. Mostly I don’t get the draw of these vehicles. I’m sure a tank of a truck comes in handy sometime. Like when you need to reorganize some mountains. Or if Trevor gets called to war, he can just drive on into the battlefield. Crush some small countries with his enormous tires.

Regretting the ride has reached its conclusion, I point Trevor into the Scotts’ long drive.

“Well, have a good practice.” Was that lame? I think that might’ve been lame.

Trevor puts the gear in park. “I guess I’ll see you at our first rehearsal—Monday, after school.” His arm travels to my seat rest. “Catch ya later, Cinderella.”

“Whatever. I’ll probably get a backstage role. Girl who hangs up costumes.”

Millie appears on the front porch. I can see her frown from the car.

“I better go. Thanks for the ride.” I open the door.

And fall out.

“Oh!”

“You okay?” Trevor calls out.

I jump up. “I’m good!” A little further down than I thought. “Guess I need to work on my dismount.” And bandage my pride while I’m at it. Sixteen-year-old girl dies in driveway. Cause of death? Total embarrassment.

I shut the massive door and wave good-bye to Prince Charming.

“Katie, who was that?”

I jump at Millie’s voice.

“Oh, hey, Millie.” My ankle throbs.

“Who was that boy?”

“Trevor Jackson. He’s directing our play. And he’s in it.”

Millie’s eyebrows rise. “You were not to leave the school until I picked you up. You know my expectations.”

I catch the full force of her attitude, and I feel the old Katie Parker threatening to come out. The me from six months ago would’ve said something smart and walked off about now.

“I called you, Millie. I called you a dozen times.” I try to keep my voice even. But really, what is this inquisition for? It’s not like I’ve been out causing trouble with this guy. And it’s not like this family is into full disclosure.

“I told you I would pick you up.”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Mother changed my ringtone again. When I heard the rap song going off twenty minutes ago, I thought it was her phone. I’m sorry. But I don’t want you riding around with people I don’t know. I’ve never met that kid.”

“I said his name is—”

“Trevor. Yes, I heard you. But do I know him? No.” Millie flails an arm like Mrs. Hall. “Do I know it’s safe for you to be in a car with him? No. And do I feel comfortable with you being alone with boys—especially without my permission? Absolutely not.”

My face burns. And it’s not from the fading sun.

“Look, I called. Just like you told me to. And you were nowhere to be found. I just wanted to get home. For your information, I was worried about you.” Okay, that’s only part of the reason I left with Trevor. “What if you were sick and couldn’t get to your phone?”

Millie frowns. “Why would I be sick?”

“Because you have
cancer
? Excuse me for being concerned and wanting to rush home and see if you were lying on the floor unconscious!”

Cluck-cluck! Squaaawk!

My head jerks at the noise. “What was that?”

Millie inhales loudly. “It’s nothing. You know, cancer doesn’t really work that way.”

I come at her with full volume. “Well, how would I know? You haven’t told me anything.
Nada!
Nothing!”

Cluck-cluck! Squaaawk!

“I’m not sick. I’m perfectly fine right now, and you shouldn’t worry about me. I’m not concerned in the least.”

“Millie?”

“Katie, the point is . . . What?”

“What,” I point. “is that?”

Cluck-cluck! Squaaawk!

Millie looks behind her. “Oh, that’s a chicken. Listen, do you understand we have rules here and when you—”

“Why is there a chicken in the yard?”

“Pipe down out here. There’s a noise ordinance in this town, for crying out loud.” The screen door slams as Maxine comes onto the porch. She plants her hands on her hips. “And there’s not
a
chicken in the yard. There’re four of them. Think of them as our new pets.” Maxine circles a finger near her head then points at Millie.

I slowly nod, feeling like I’m missing the punch line. “Pets. And what are we calling them?”

Maxine smiles. “Dinner.”

“They’re free-range chickens. I bought them today.”

“Millie,” I say. “It’s understandable you’re stressed, but most people shop for purses or shoes when they’re overwhelmed. Not poultry.”

“She’s on a health kick.” Maxine consults her watch. “Started about two o’clock.”

Millie rolls her eyes. “I’ve decided we’re going to eat healthier, that’s all. More natural.”

My eyebrows lift. “And we’re doing this because . . .?”

“Because,” Millie’s voice drops to a mumble, “there’s medical evidence a natural diet can help . . . Well, that it can be good for you. Hey, who’s ready for dinner?”

“Ew!” I stare at the red and gold fluff ball pecking at the ground.

“No, the chickens are for eggs.” Millie casts her mother a warning glare. “Not for dinner.”

“I had a great audition, by the way.” So obviously Millie is completely preoccupied with the cancer, but she could at least take five seconds to ask about my day.

Millie pulls me to her in a hug. “Oh, honey, I prayed for you all day. I knew you’d be wonderful.” She pats my back. “But from now on I want to know where you are at all times. And with whom. And no going anywhere with anybody unless you have my permission.”

“Woo! That boy was hot.” Maxine slaps her knee. “If I were thirty years younger . . .”

Millie snorts. “They’d arrest you.”

“Y
our cousin is
really pretty.” My eyes are glued to Esther, who is currently in the middle of a dance number with her partner and about fourteen other couples her age. The group waltzes in perfect time across the country club ballroom to a melody played by a string quartet. Yes, In Between doesn’t have a single McDonalds, but they have two golf courses and a country club. That’s some messed-up priorities if you ask me.

“Yeah, she’s beautiful,” Frances grumbles and checks the door one more time for her science partner to arrive. So far, no Nash. And no Charlie.

“How long did they work on that dance?” I ask in awe. “Everyone is doing the same thing at the same time.” It’s like watching ballroom dancing on ESPN2.

Frances forces a laugh. “Only the best for Cousin Esther. Her parents hired a choreographer.” She sees my look of disbelief. “
Quinceañeras
are a big deal to my father’s family.”

“Yes, but not to this one.” Mr. Vega butts into our conversation, jerking his chin in Frances’s direction. “We could’ve had her
quinceañera
at the White House, and Frances would not have cared. Would not have been grateful. See how Esther smiles?
She
embraces her culture.
She
isn’t embarrassed by it.”

“Katie, pass the beanie weenies. My dad wants me to embrace our culture. Like Esther.” Frances ladles some onto her plate and takes a bite. “
Mmmm
. Taste the homeland.”

Mr. Vega crosses his arms and glares. “There is nothing wrong with your cousin’s food choices. Katie is not ashamed to enjoy our culture.”

All eyes at the table turn to me as I’m shoving a chip overloaded with guacamole into my mouth. I look at Frances, my mouth full of dip. “You gotta try this.”

My leg receives a sharp kick beneath the table. “
Ow
. Sorry.”

“No,” she whispers. “Look. Nash and Charlie are here.” Frances curls her lip. “I hope Esther doesn’t see them. She’s always trying to one-up me. If Nash gets one look at her in her dress and tiara, it’s over.”

Nash and Charlie stop at the entrance and survey the scene. Frances abruptly stands up and waves her arms to get their attention.

“Frances, watch out, you—”

Down goes a waiter, clothes-lined by Frances’s arm.

“Oops, oh, my, um . . . I’m sorry, sir. Here, let me help you up.”

“No,” the waiter protests. “That’s okay, I’ve got it. No, really, miss, please don’t—”

Crash!
Frances looses her grip on the waiter’s hand and lands right on top of him and his serving tray.

By this time, a small crowd has gathered. The celebratory waltz is no longer the main event.

I launch out of my seat and heave Frances off the poor waiter just as Nash and Charlie arrive at our table.

A short, elderly woman punches Mr. Vega’s shoulder
“Qué es éste ruido? Tú estás aruinando la quinceañera de mi Esther.”

Frances translates in my ear. “What’s this noise? You are ruining my Esther’s
quinceañera
.”

“Ah, mama. Just a little accident. It’s all taken care of.” Mr. Vega kisses the woman on both of her wrinkled cheeks.

Frances whispers, “That’s my grandma. She’s mean. Esther’s her favorite.”

The woman glares at Frances. She waddles around the Vega family table, pinching every family member on the cheek and muttering in Spanish.

Grandma Vega stops when she gets to me.

I look at Frances. Then back at her grandma. “Hi there.” She stares at me for a full minute. Do I have tamales in my teeth again?

Grandma Vega smiles tightly then clenches my cheeks.

“En ese vestido pareces una campesina.”

I return her smile. “What did she say?” I think she likes me.

Mrs. Vega pipes up. “She says you are lovely.”

Frances takes a long swig of punch. “She says your dress makes you look like a village peasant.”

I remove my face from the woman’s grip.

With one last evil eye for Frances, Grandma Vega departs for another table.

Mr. Vega stands. “Welcome, Nash and Charlie.” His words are polite, but his voice is curt. “We are glad to have you here. Please, sit. The father-daughter dance is about to begin.”

We all take our seats and focus on Esther. Her father meets her in the middle of the dance floor. He carries a pillow with a pair of high heels on it.

“What is that?” Nash asks.

Frances sighs. “Her father is presenting her with a pair of high heels. She’ll take off her flats and wear the new shoes. It’s a sign she is a woman now and not a child.” Frances leans in, “She’s still a total child. High heels are so not gonna help her.”