The Big Picture (24 page)

“No.”

“Maybe you could talk to him for me. He said he misses you at the Valiant already.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, a headache beginning to force its way through. “And I miss him. But I can’t make this right for you. You’d just jack it up somehow if I did, anyway.”

“I gave him your number . . .”

“And I’d love to talk to him.” That man’s the grandpa I never had. “But I’m out on this crazy fiasco of yours. Out.”

Maxine huffs. “Fine. I raise you and make you into the fabulous young woman you are today, and this is the thanks I get?”

Despite the pounding in my brain, I giggle. I don’t even bother reminding her she’s only known me less than a year. “Right. But if he does call, I might let it slip that you have mentioned him.”

“Really?” she squawks.

“
If
I decided to say something, it would be subtle.”

She considers this. “Okay. I’ll take what I can get. Low-key and understated. I don’t really understand that approach, but whatever. Not that I’m not perfectly happy with William. He’s a charming companion.”

I snort. “His outlaw mustache is a nightmare. And his knuckles?
Ew
, have you noticed how hairy they are? Like
so
in need of a wax job or something. Maybe some Nair?”

Maxine clears her throat. “Anyway, sweet cheeks, I only miss Sam’s friendship, mind you. I wouldn’t reconsider his marriage proposal if he shoved handfuls of George Washingtons down my brassiere.” Maxine covers the receiver and I hear Millie’s garbled voice. “Millie wants to talk to your mom when we’re done here.”

I listen for any sound of life from the other part of the trailer. “Uh . . . she had to run out for a bit, but she’ll be back later.”

“What’s that? Oh, she said she wanted to talk about your doctor appointment with her and go over some questions about your ankle.”

“Well . . . I’ll tell her to give Millie a call. She should be back anytime.” Hopefully before I graduate from high school. “We ought to
be able to handle the appointment though.”

“Okay, toots, we love ya and stuff.”

I smile. “I love you and stuff.”

Two hours later I’m still lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and clutching my phone.

Okay, Katie. Get it together. Enough pouting for the day. You’ve reached the maximum amount of time allotted for feeling sorry for yourself. Find something to do. Get your mind off all this craziness.

I know. I’ll make dinner. We have a stocked refrigerator for the first time in history, and there has to be something in there I could throw together. I’ve seen Millie cook a hundred times. How hard can it be?

I ease myself from the bed and move into the kitchen to investigate my options. Ground beef. Check. Buns. Check. Great! I’ll make some hamburgers — burgers to rival the Golden Arches and make my momma glad to be home.

Okay, here we go
. I gather everything I need and group it into one spot. If nothing else, being crutch-bound has made me more efficient. And crankier, but that’s irrelevant.

I open the hamburger meat and press some into patties.
Ew
. Gross. This stuff is nasty. My mom doesn’t have extra virgin olive oil, which I’ve seen Rachael Ray use in everything on all her cooking shows, so I pick something that looks like it and pour a few inches into the heating frying pan. The vegetable oil pops and cracks to life.

Just going to put the burgers in now. One gourmet patty . . . two masterpiece patties . . .

Fergie busts out a song from my bedroom, and I grab my crutches and beat it back there to catch my phone. It could be Frances.

As I reach for my phone, my heart skips a beat.

Charlie.

“Hello?” I’m breathless — but maybe he’ll find that totally hot.

His voice is as rich as dark chocolate. “I was hoping you’d pick up.”

I laugh. “Why wouldn’t I pick up the phone for you?”

He pauses, and I take the moment to sit down at my desk. “I wasn’t sure where we’d left things Friday night.”

Hmmm
. Me neither. Let’s have a repeat. Like the part where your lips were on mine.

“Katie?”

I jump. “Oh, yeah. I’m here.”

“I was saying that I wasn’t sure if we had really settled anything. If you were still mad at me.”

“No. I’m not still mad. I probably would be if you hadn’t reverted back to the boy genius that you are and realized Chelsea’s not right for you.” I twirl my hair and sigh. “And I am.”

Static-filled words from the other end.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you.” I move my phone around to try and get a better signal.

“I . . . um . . .”

“Charlie?” I sit up straighter in my chair. “I know we can’t really have much of a relationship with the distance. I don’t even have a car. But . . . I don’t know . . . I’ve had a lot of time to think since I’ve been here.”

“You’ve been gone two days.”

“It’s been a long two days.” What is this new attitude? “Anyway . . . I’d be willing to try and make it work . . . if you would.” Please. I need something from In Between to hold onto.

“Katie, you mean a lot to me, and — ”

The line mutes. I check the display. Call ended.

With a growl, I punch a button to redial his number. Ten messages of service not available later, I give up.

Is there hope for us after all? Is he so into me he would be willing to put in miles on his car and tons of minutes on his phone and —

What is that smell?

Oh, my gosh! The hamburgers — I forgot about them. I hope —

Beep! Beep! Beep!

I slap my hands over my ears as the fire alarm screams in millisecond
intervals, and hop, crutchless, into the kitchen.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

Fire. Flames. Smoke.

Gonna burn the trailer down.

Mom’s gonna kill me.

Stop the fire. Grab some water. No, grab a towel. Many towels. Baking soda? Baking powder — think! What is it that puts these things out? Is there a fire extinguisher anywhere?
Help me, God! Help me.

Hopping on one leg, I tear through Mom’s cabinet drawers, yanking one after another open until I find tea towels.

And then I stare at the flames.

It’s never going to work. It’s too big. Inches away from the cabinets. I throw one on the skillet anyway.

Help me.

The fire consumes the material instantly.

Help me.

I take a deep breath and hold my hands over my erratic heart.

A lid. I need a big lid.

Grabbing the edge of the counter, I ease down and dig through the pots and pans. Lid, lid, lid. Come on. Be here . . . Yes!

With a towel covering my hand, I say another prayer and lower the lid down. So hot.

And I let it drop. Please don’t explode. I take a step back just in case. Even more important than this trailer — my face.

The front door bangs open. My mom stands, mouth open, for a split-second, then jerks into action.

“What are you doing?” she yells.

“Cooking dinner!” Or the kitchen.

“Get back,” she barks. “Get back.” Her hand pushes me away from the remaining flames. I teeter back and rock on my good leg. Oh, no. My arms flail . . . and backward I go.

On my butt.

In time to watch her pour a giant box of baking soda all over the
flames. I stay put, my breath pushing at my lungs.

The fire diminishes. Slowly at first. Then down to nothing.

Bobbie Ann Parker turns on her heel and pins me with a look that could wilt a sumo wrestler.

“What” — she pulls her sweaty hair from her cheeks — “were you thinking?”

I lie back onto the cold linoleum and cover my face with my hands. “That I’d fix you dinner.”

Her sigh could rattle the walls. She sits down beside me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Katie, look at me.”

I spread a few fingers and peek through.

“Are you okay? Did the fire touch you?”

I shake my head. Just took some years off my life, but I don’t suppose she really cares to hear.

Mom puts her hand on my leg. “What about your ankle? Are you good? Okay? Tell me.”

I try to wiggle it around. “Could be better.” It hurts. I must’ve twisted it during my fall. Or when I sailed through the kitchen like I was on a trapeze wire.

“You could’ve burned the house down.” Her voice drifts back to angry. “We could’ve lost everything.”

I swallow hard. “I know. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“You could’ve hurt yourself.”

“I know.” My butt probably is bruised, but I’ll keep that one to myself. I lift myself up to a seated position and face my mother. “I didn’t know where you were, though. I’ve been worried all day.”

“I got called into work earlier than I expected.”

Why doesn’t she look me in the eye when she says that? “You could’ve called. Or answered your cell once. How did you think I’d get home from church?”

She studies her ragged nails. “I figured John would give you a lift.”

“He’s a stranger, Mom. I don’t want a ride from him. And what if he didn’t? I couldn’t walk home. Wasn’t going to stick my thumb out. What did you expect me to do?”

Her eyes flash. “I didn’t expect you to burn my house down. I had to work. It’s not easy being a single parent, and we have bills to pay.”

“You forgot about me.”

She lifts her chin. “I tried to call.”

“No you didn’t. Your number would’ve shown up. You would’ve left a message.”

“Well, I don’t know what happened, but I did try to call. And I didn’t have time to leave a message.” Mom stands up and dusts off her jeans like we’ve been sitting in the dirt. “You’re a big girl, Katie. I expect you to take care of yourself too. I can’t do it all.”

No, but you could do the minimum
. “I don’t know
anyone
in this town, Mom. I’m alone; I’m crippled.” I hold up my Aircast. “Can you wait a day or two before you leave me to my own devices?” My voice shakes. “You can’t just bail out on me.” I gesture to the stove. “This happens.”

“You’re not an infant. I shouldn’t have to worry about fires and falls!” she yells back, throwing towels in the sink.

“And I shouldn’t have to wonder where you are all night. Or if you’re coming home.” I lift myself to my feet. “Or if you’re going to leave me stranded at church.”

Her face twists with bitterness. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone to church.”

“And maybe you shouldn’t have been a mom.” The words burst out of my mouth before I can pull them back. My eyes go wide.

Her eyes narrow. To slits. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.” She stomps out of the kitchen, grabs the purse that was thrown down at the door, and pauses. “I’m not going to stand here and fight with you. I’m going back to work.”

I raise my watch. “At five-thirty? On a Sunday?” My brows wrinkle in doubt. “You’re lying. You’re not cleaning any beauty shop at this time of evening.”

Mom throws her bag over her bony shoulder then marches back to the kitchen. She stops near me and looms. “I don’t care where you think I’m going. I’m leaving.” Her voice sears through my head. “I won’t be back for a couple of hours. If you want to think the worst, then go ahead. Everybody else does.”

“Mom, I — ”

“Open these windows and clean this place up.” And back to the door she tramps. “You have two hours. Don’t ruin anything else.” And the door slams.

Leaving me alone.

Again.

I laugh and brush away a hot tear. Ruin anything else?

Like my life?

I think it’s too late.

Chapter twenty - seven

WHEN I WAKE UP THE next morning, my mom is gone.

I know she came home at some point because she’s laid out the Pop-Tarts and some snarky instructions on how to operate the toaster without incinerating the neighborhood.

I don’t even feel like eating, and I push the foil package aside. I was to have been at the doctor’s office an hour ago. Millie is going to flip. I don’t know whether Mom forgot or purposefully didn’t get me up for the appointment. I don’t know that it matters.

Frances calls and we catch up. I fill her in on my fire routine, and she gives me the update on the drive-in.

“We’re having a date auction in three weeks. Isn’t that a cool idea?”

“Yeah, any chance Jake Gyllenhaal is going to show?” I’d give up my allowance, my cell phone,
and
my future firstborn for that.

“No, but there’s still time.”

And then I ask the question I told myself not to ask. “So what’s the status? With Chelsea and Charlie, I mean.”

Dead air.

“You there?”

“I don’t know, Katie. Chelsea’s family had to move out of their big
home, and they’re in a tiny rental house. The family’s been coming to church. Chelsea’s been pretty torn up.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Charlie’s spending a lot of time with her. I’ve tried to get Nash to grill him, but you know . . .”

Yeah, I don’t exactly see Nash willing to do the Barbara Walters routine.

Is that what Charlie called me about yesterday? To tell me he was getting back with Chelsea?

A knock at the door cuts off any more Charlie thoughts. “Gotta go, Frances. Somebody’s here.”

I peep out the window and see Tate on the steps, talking to the cats. “Just a second!” I yell, and hop into my room to throw on a bra and some shorts. I one-foot-it back to the living room, yanking my hair into a ponytail.

When I open the door, he stands, wearing a slanted grin.

“Did you come to see the cats?”

“No, but Blackie here says he’d like filtered water from now on instead of tap.”

“His name is Blackie, huh?” I laugh and hold the door open for him. “I just call him Stray Number Seven.”

Tate smiles into my face as he passes. I offer him a seat and notice his eyes assess the room. That old familiar shame rolls in my stomach. Nope, not gonna care about that. Not today. Not ever again.

I sit on the other end of the couch. “So, you were cruising around town in your swimming trunks and thought of me?” His madras plaid trunks look like they came from Sam Dayberry’s closet. Except on Tate, they’re kind of cool.