On the Loose (7 page)

My bagel pops up from the toaster, but Millie pushes it back down again. For the second time.

“Well, actually it was pretty easy. I simply made sure Sam and I—”

“No, I mean how as in
why
. Why did you think deception was the best way to handle this? I just find this situation totally unacceptable.” Millie shakes her head.

Maxine slurps out of her coffee mug. “I don’t like the word
deception
. I prefer discreet. I am not someone who is interested in becoming the gossip of the town. Unlike some people, I value privacy.”

I choke on my juice. “I caught you going through my backpack just last night.”

“Stay out of this, cupcake.” Maxine glares at me over her java. “I thought I had dropped an earring.”

In every zipped compartment of my bag? Um, yeah.

My bagel shoots out again. Totally charred. Millie doesn’t even look at it when she retrieves it from the toaster and plops it on my plate.

I pick up the skeletal remains of what once was a cinnamon raisin baked good.

Millie puts her arm on mine. “Not yet. I’ll pray for our breakfast.”

Too late. It’s already dead.

“Dear Heavenly Father . . . thank you for this fine morning. Thank you for a . . . revealing weekend together camping. God, we pray you would forgive us of our sins—sins like deception, lying, sneakiness—”

“Sneakiness is not a sin,” Maxine blurts out.

“—I pray you would put a burden on our hearts to walk in your will—your truthful, honest will. Father, we know we disappoint you when we act like idiots . . .”

I lift my eyes to see Maxine’s face. She’s pinches the bridge of her nose and drums her fire-engine red fingernails on the table.

“We know you look down on our stupid choices and shake your head and . . .” Millie exhales loudly. “And just sigh. Lord, no matter how much we hide our sin—in our hearts, in the bushes . . . wherever—we know you can see it all. I pray for righteousness in this family.” She clears her throat. “And I pray that craziness isn’t genetic. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Maxine purses her lips. “Well, that was . . . inspirational.”

Millie hands me the butter. “Eat your breakfast. We have to leave a little earlier for school today.”

“Do you think traffic is going to be bad the first day back to school?” I dump globs of jelly out onto my bagel and take a hesitant bite.

“No, I have an appointment this morning.”

I swallow the blackened bread in my mouth, its bitter taste leaving a trail down my throat. Under the table I try to hand the rest off to Rocky, my usual food disposal, but he takes one sniff and runs into the living room.

“What kind of appointment? Did you hear from the doctor while we were gone?” Maxine’s voice is sharp.

My foster mom hesitates. “Yes. We’re just going to discuss the results of the mammogram today.” Millie sees my fallen face before I can change my expression. “There’s still no reason to worry at this point. Women get mammograms all the time, Katie.”

I shove my plate away. I could have had an omelet soufflé or a plate of chocolate donuts in front of me, and I’d still be losing my appetite.

And I feel like I’m being left out. Surely Millie and James know more than they’re letting on. Talk to the doctor? About what? And why can’t I just ask her? Instead I’m nodding my head like I understand what she’s telling me. Like it’s all okay. Like I’m not sitting here with black crumbs on my mouth wondering if my foster mother is gonna die.

“Mother, we’ll continue this discussion another time. I know you have a karate lesson to get to this morning.”

“My study of the martial arts can wait. I’m going with you and James to the appointment.”

Millie clears the table, including Maxine’s still full coffee cup. “No, you need to go about your normal day. This is just a simple appointment, and there is no reason for you to go.”

“I said I was sorry, Millie.” Maxine’s bottom lip pooches out.

I smile and refill my juice glass. For once the trouble has nothing to do with me. It’s a nice feeling, I must say.

The ride to school is a quiet one. Millie makes occasional small talk, but her mind is somewhere else. I want to bring up the C-word, but then again part of me doesn’t even want to know.

“So . . . are you nervous about your appointment with the doctor?”
There.
I said it. It’s out there.

She looks at me quickly then her focus returns to the road. A slow smile spreads across her face. “I’m not worried. It’s all in God’s hands. You believe that, don’t you?”

Let’s say I do believe it. Is that a good thing? Do we want this in God’s hands? I personally want this in the hands of some brilliant, Harvard-trained doctor. Some guy who won the Nobel Peace Prize for Medicine. That’s who
I
want in charge of this cancer business.

“Katie?” Millie takes one hand from the wheel and rests it on top of mine. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m gonna be okay.”

Okay as in I’m gonna be here thirty years from now, or okay as in six months from now I’m gonna be having my morning coffee with John the Baptist and Mother Teresa?

“Do you have any questions, Katie?”

No.

Yes.

I mean, no.

Well, just a million.

I try to talk around the lump in my throat. “I guess I don’t get why this is happening.”
Katie, do not sound pitiful
.

“Hey, nothing is happening yet.” She puts her signal on, then turns into the school parking lot. “But you can pray for me. Will you do that?”

I lift my chin and slowly bob my head in agreement.

“You know what else you need to think about?” Millie puts her car in park and turns toward me.

“No.” Like I need one more thing to think about.

“Learning to drive.”

I meet Millie’s gaze, and we share a smile.

All around me kids are getting out of cars. Their own cars.

“But I like having a personal chauffeur, Millie.”

I know. It’s weird. I’m sixteen, and I don’t drive. No driver’s license—is there any greater shame for a sixteen-year-old? I’ve looked through the driver’s manual a few times, though. But that thing is
so
boring. Why can’t they spice it up? Maybe Harlequin could rewrite it.
Jackson turned to Avery, kissed her, and said, “Do you know you are the love of my life? And furthermore, when driving in fog you should use your low beams?”

“Give it some thought. James has upped our collision insurance and is ready to take you driving.” Millie winks then gives me a sideways hug. “Have a great day.”

My mouth lifts in a grin, and I step outside.

“Oh, and Katie?”

“Yeah?”

“God’s in control.”

I shut the door and wave as she drives off. God’s in control.

Fine. For now, I’ll just go along with that. I mean it’s totally possible. I’m inclined to believe God saved the Valiant Theater. He knew that theater was valuable to me and the Scotts, and it came out of the tornado with hardly a scratch. And Millie is even more important to me than that building, so she’s gotta be okay, too, right?

“Hey, Katie!”

I wave at Frances as she runs across the sidewalk to meet me. We head inside to our lockers, talking about our weekend, and I fill her in on the latest with Maxine.

“Hi, Katie. Hi, Frances.”

Hannah Wilkerson, one of the many friends who comes with Frances as a package deal, smiles in greeting. As it is everyday, her brown hair is tied back and waving down her back. When Hannah is doing some deep thinking, she’ll twist that ponytail around her fingers.

She taps me on the shoulder. “So did you hear some of the school’s roof was blown off? I wonder where it went to.” Hannah shrugs. “Since we’re back today, I guess they found it.”

Okay, so she doesn’t do deep thinking often.

Hannah and I walk to English together, while Frances goes the opposite way to her English for Brilliant Kids class. It’s not really called that, but it might as well be.

During first hour my eyes are glued on the clock. I’m aware of every instant, every movement of the second hand. I just want this day to be over so I can get home and see what the doctor told Millie. After doing some grammar work (do I really need to know what a gerund phrase is?), some vocab exercises (I must find a way to work the word
verisimilitude
into lunchtime conversation), and reading a short story (it wasn’t short enough), the bell finally rings.

I bid farewell to Hannah and meet Frances at the door to history class. A forty-something woman in a denim jumper stands at the front of the room frowning.

“Students, take your seats. I . . . I mean, please . . .

World history is taught by Mr. Patton, a history relic himself. He’s so old he belongs in the Smithsonian, right there with the first flag and the Constitution. And his classroom smells like mothballs.

The teacher claps her hands. “I’m Mrs. Vanderhoover. I’m your sub for a few weeks.” She smiles weakly and writes her name on the board—dropping the marker twice.

Oh, no. Don’t subs know we can smell fear instantly? And some students are like sharks—when they smell the prey, they have no choice but to attack.

Frances takes her seat and up goes her hand. “Where is Mr. Patton?”

The sub raises her voice above the escalating chatter. “Mr. Patton will be out for a while. He has had surgery and will not be back for a few weeks.”

“Probably a hip replacement,” I whisper to Frances, who sits in front of me.

“Now, take out your history books.” A paper airplane goes sailing past the sub. Two more follow.

This is not good.

Mrs. Vanderhoover’s voice cracks. “All right, enough of the airplanes. I . . . I . . . now, sir, you need to sit down. What? Well, yes, you may go to the bathroom if it’s an emergency.”

I flip open my world history book as Wes Gregory, school skipper extraordinaire, charms the sub into a bathroom pass. Five more students leave, complaining of sickness or bathroom issues. Rhonda Darby, co-captain of the cheerleading squad approaches the teacher.

Frances turns in her seat and rolls her eyes. “Here it comes.”

“The only girl who enjoys PMS.” I watch Rhonda with annoyance.

“Mrs. Vanderhoover, may I go to the restroom, too, please?” The cheerleader pouts artfully.

The sub’s beady eyes survey the room. “I think you can wait. Please?”

Rhonda leans in close. “I’m having female problems.”

Frances and I swap disgusted looks.

“Er, you may go,” Mrs. Vanderpool relents.

“She has cramps every day,” Frances mutters.

Mrs. Vanderhoover asks the rest of the class to open our books and begin reading the chapter on the Industrial Revolution. From there, the class dissolves into further chaos.

“Students, if you please. I would like your attention.” Her quiet, mousy voice is no match for the roar of twenty totally bored students. “I really need you to . . . um, if you would please listen. The Industrial Revolution can be a fascinating bit of—”

And then Mrs. Vanderpool finally gets our attention.

By throwing herself in her seat, laying her head on the desk, and silently crying. Some people are just
not
cut out to be subs.

We watch this scene for the next few minutes in rapt silence. It’s like reality TV, only live. Mrs. Vanderhoover suddenly stands up, grabs her purse, and walks to the door.

“One day you brats will appreciate the Industrial Revolution! Mark my words!”

I’m kind of appreciating it right now.

And then she’s gone.

After my next class, Algebra II, comes my favorite time of the day: lunch. When I first got to In Between High, I hated lunch. Being the new kid, it was quite a while before I had people to sit with. I guess there are always people to sit with, but I’m talking the kind you actually want to share your chili pie with.

I sashay through the masses in the cafeteria to what is now my usual table. There Frances sits, surrounded by her friends who have all adopted me. Accepted me.

I unzip my lunch bag, excited to do the one thing at school I know I’m good at—eating. Inside I find the contents of my lunch, lovingly packed by Millie.

My brow furrows.
Hmmm
. Millie’s not worried about cancer? Well, the frozen burrito, bag of prunes, salt shaker, and two eggs she packed in my lunch would tell a different tale.

Ew
.

“Wasn’t history today bizarre?” Frances fills everyone in on our psycho sub. “And then she starts to cry, and while she’s wailing she keeps yelling out—” Frances stops.

Oh, here we go again
. I’ve seen that face before. Frances’s features are frozen in place.

I catch sight of Nash walking our way. I guess it’s to be a day of meltdowns.

“Hey, guys.” He gives a friendly smile and carries on small talk with the table. “I saw you girls tearing up the lake this week. Did you have a good time?”

“Totally,” I say quickly, hoping Frances will just stay mute and not attempt conversation. “We had a great time out on the boat. Did you happen to see Frances catch that big fish from the dock?”

He looks impressed until his eyes wander to Miss Catch-and-Release herself.

Frances’s tilts sideways, and she stares at Nash in awe. With cheese sauce dripping down her chin.

I shove a napkin in her hand and motion to her face. He’s never going to ask her out with cheese substitute oozing out her mouth.

“So you like camping, Frances?” Nash, for whatever reason, takes a stab at conversation with her anyway.

“Uh . . . um . . .”

Come on, Frances. You can do it
. I’m coaching her with my eyes. I send silent, telepathic messages. Say,
I love to camp. I love to be outdoors where the air is clean and fresh.
(Well, unless you’re camped downwind from the bathrooms.)

“Um . . . yeah . . . I like water sports.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Not bad. Her syllables at least formed a sentence this time.

“Cheese fries are good too.”

And this concludes the “make sense” portion of the conversation. Ah, well. Maybe next time.