In Between (3 page)

“Maybe we could see Katie’s bedroom?”

A light enters Millie Scott’s eyes at Mrs. Smartly’s suggestion, and you can tell she thinks that’s a grand idea. My room had better not be upstairs. If I need to make my great escape, I don’t know how I would get down. Let’s be realistic. That bit of tying a bunch of sheets together can’t possibly work in real life.
“Girl falls to her death—insufficient thread count to blame.”
Plus I am
not
hoofing it up and down stairs all the time.

“If you’ll follow me upstairs, I’ll show you your room.”

Sheesh, can’t an underprivileged, displaced ward of the state ever catch a break?

At step number 260 (okay, okay, it was step number seven) we are met by the largest dog I have ever seen in my life. I’m throwing mental daggers at Mrs. Smartly. She said nothing about a dog. I don’t like dogs. They slobber and they smell, and this one looks like a giant, mutant horse.

“Now get out of the way, Rocky. Oh, look, he’s excited to see you, Katie.”

We are forced to stop and observe the dog out of respect for Mrs. Scott, and the dog takes this moment to sniff me in ways I find totally inappropriate and surely should be documented in that file Mrs. Smartly is carrying around with her. Mrs. Scott watches me with her dog, hoping no doubt for a connection. With a polite pat on the head to her little snookums, I continue up the stairs. Rocky decides we are racing and darts ahead of me, taking the stairs three at a time. Their mongrel had better not be going to my room. A girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere.

“Here we go. This is your room, Katie.”

Millie Scott leads us into my bedroom, and for the briefest of seconds my breath catches and time stops. I’m surrounded by pink walls—not a Barbie pink, but a spunky, rockin’ pink, with crisp white trim outlining the room. There’s a bookshelf, filled from top to bottom with books (I guess a bookshelf filled from top to bottom with
People
magazines was too much to hope for), a white shaggy rug stretched over the worn wooden floor, and a dangling crystal light fixture that boldly declares sophistication and class. (Granted, what do I know of sophistication? But I’m betting that light doesn’t respond to a clapper.)

In a corner stands a white wooden desk with an empty bulletin board hanging over it. On the opposite wall is a bed.
My
bed. It’s white and big and covered with various floral quilts someone with patience, skill, and a whole lot of free time must’ve pieced together and stitched.

“What do you think? I did the best I could, but it definitely needs a teenager’s flair.” Mrs. Scott fluffs a bed pillow.

The room is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never
had
anything like it. I would like to say I’m not touched by the effort Millie Scott put into creating this space for me, but I am. This bedroom looks, well, safe. I look at this room, and I think,
I could make a home here.

But I’m not.

“Did you buy all these things for me?” I drag my hand across the desktop.

Mrs. Scott looks at the floor. “Ah, well, not all of it. A lot of this furniture we already had, and I just spruced it up a bit. A little paint and polish, you know.” Her eyes sweep the room. A hint of sadness steals across her face just before the serene smile returns. Interesting. I tuck this detail away.

My attention returning to the room, I turn in a circle to make sure I’m taking it all in. Just for good measure, I twirl in another circle, seeing the paint, the fluffy bed, the big, fuzzy rug, my desk, the curtains, the lights, the pictures on the wall, the starched pillowcases, the—

Oomph!

The underside of a dog.

“Rocky! Get off her! Oh, Katie, I’m so sorry.”

I’m dying. This is it. I’m flat on my back with Rocky, the two-hundred-pound horse on my chest, his tail wagging every three milliseconds and hitting my leg like it’s going to break the skin any minute now.

“Rocky, off! My goodness, he just came out of nowhere! Sweetie, I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Scott tries in vain to remove her dog. “Really, he’s never a problem, Mrs. Smartly. I hope you don’t think we would ever let Rocky endanger Katie.”

From my spot on the floor, I look up at Mrs. Smartly, my beloved guardian angel these past six months, and give her my best pitiful look.
Please, oh, please don’t leave me here with Mr. Slobbers.

“I’m not the least bit worried, Millie. I think Katie’s going to be just fine.” Mrs. Smartly has the nerve to give me a wink, like I, too, think this is all just so precious.

The dog, apparently deciding we’re all playing a super-nifty game, plants his whole body on my legs, sitting patiently, waiting for what comes next.

Can’t.

Feel.

My legs.

Mrs. Smartly gives me a soft nudge with her orthopedic shoe. “Yes, Katie’s definitely in the right place.”

T
he rest of
the home tour moves at Mach speed. Mrs. Scott talks and draws our attention to various things in the home, and Mrs. Smartly jots down a note or two in her file. It’s all over much too quickly. I am not ready for Mrs. Smartly to leave. I’m sure not ready to be left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Scott.

I clear my throat. “Maybe we could look at the laundry room one more time?” Mrs. Smartly cuts her eyes at me. Doesn’t it mean anything to the woman that I would rather be in her company?

My guardian reaches for her car keys. “Katie, it’s time I left.”

Isn’t this the part where she should be crying? Delicately wiping her tears on a handkerchief? Letting me know how much I will be missed? At this point, I’m even okay with the kind of crying that involves heaving sobs and lots of snot. Come on, Mrs. Smartly!

Genuine panic races through me. I’m going to be alone with total strangers! And their dog will probably suffocate me in my sleep tonight or drown me in drool. No, no, no! Think, must think.

“Did you pack my switchblade, Mrs. Smartly?”

Mrs. Smartly doesn’t even blink.

Millie Scott sure does.

“No, Katie, I left it back at the home, along with your rat poison collection.” Mrs. Smartly smiles evenly. “Our Katie has quite a sense of humor.”

Mrs. Scott isn’t sure whether to be calmed or not by Mrs. Smartly’s indifference. Oh, yeah, Millie Scott, you’d better be scared. You’d better fear this. I am dangerous. I do dangerous, risky, life-threatening things all the time.

Oh, who am I kidding? The most dangerous thing I’ve ever done is sit on a public toilet.

“Walk me out to the van, Katie. I’ve got something for you.” And with that, Mrs. Smartly shakes hands with my new mom and pop, throws out some final instructions, and pulls me out the door with her.

The two of us walk silently down the driveway to the green van. The path stretches before me like some sort of melodramatic symbol of how far I am from home. In this moment, I am overwhelmed with a powerful sadness. I miss my mom, my old trailer house, the stray cats. Right now I even miss that ugly, redheaded kid across the street, who threw worms on me.

Don’t cry. Don’t you cry, Katie. Deep breaths now.

I drag my feet along the gravel in a deliberately annoying way, which, of course, doesn’t faze Mrs. Smartly in the least. Leaning her ample frame into the driver’s side of the van, she pulls out a small box.

“What is it?” I say it as if I already cannot stand the gift or her.

“It’s stationery.”

Stationery? Well, sure. Nothing says “have a nice life” like paper products.

“Great. Thanks, Mrs. Smartly.” I don’t know why I’m mad, but I am. “Maybe I can write the governor and thank him and social services for placing me in the Chihuahua capital of the world. Maybe I’ll write Trina and see if she’s moved on to nunchucks yet. Or hey, I know, maybe I’ll write Dave Letterman and tell him me and my new dog have a super-cool trick we like to call ‘Kill Katie.’”

Mrs. Smartly snorts, and the next thing I know, I’m plastered to her polyester, paisley dress, enveloped in my second unsought hug for the day.

“Katie Parker, you are something else.”

Mrs. Smartly’s chest shakes with her chuckling, and to my utter shame, hot tears fall down my cheeks. Oh, this day will live in infamy.

We move apart, and before I can turn my head, she has a tissue in my hand. Iola Smartly—prepared for anything. Clearly she was a Girl Scout in her youth.

“This paper is for writing letters to whomever you want, Katie. You can write the governor if you so choose, but if you don’t write me at least once every week, I will be telling Mr. and Mrs. Scott you already think of Rocky as your flesh-and-blood brother and would love for him to sleep in your room.”

Now that’s just cruel.

“And you can write your mama and update her on your life.”

Oh, to be the author of prison letters. It’s a young girl’s dream come true. “I’m not writing my mom. She totally ditched me. Left me for
this
place.” I jerk my head toward the house.

“She’s in prison, Katie. It’s not like she took off for Honolulu.”

“The day she calls is the day I’ll write.” I know she can make phone calls in that place. And do I ever receive one? No.

“Fine. Then you can just write me.”

Mrs. Smartly gives me her I-mean-business look, and I obediently bob my head in agreement. “Okay. I’ll write you.” I clutch the stationery and the soggy tissue to my chest, wishing I were anywhere but here.

“I know this is scary. And it’s not fair.” Here come the waterworks again. “But the Scotts are good people. They’re going to try their hardest to make you a home, and I want you to behave and be nice. They are not your enemy.”

Again, I nod my head. Which causes my nose to drip.

“I believe in you, Katie Parker,” Mrs. Smartly says with such a force I can’t help but to look up at her. “You have something. I don’t know what it is, but you have got to know you are special and your life is meaningful.”

Another tissue magically appears out of nowhere. Does the woman pull them out of her ear? Where does she keep those things?

“I do believe, Ms. Parker, you are just a blessing unfolding by the day. God’s got big plans for you, and it may not seem like it now, but he’s taking care of you, and In Between, home of the Fighting Chihuahuas, is where you are supposed to be.”

God-schmod, I want to say. I’m practically an
orphan
! How special is that? How blessed is that? If God blesses me any more I’ll be living on the streets, digging for my dinner in a certain hamburger restaurant’s McDumpster.

“One of these days really soon, you’re going to be able to say, ‘I know what it is to be wanted, what it is to be loved. I know what home is, and I’m right where I’m supposed to be.’” Mrs. Smartly smoothes her big hand over my hair, and the gesture is so motherly—and so unlike her—that my eyes fill up again.

She hugs me again (three and counting) and hoists herself into her awaiting coach.

“Mrs. Smartly,” I cast a sorrowful look back at the house. “Are you sure you want to leave me here?” My voice catches, and I’m all too aware of the plea in my tone. I expect a wisecrack from Mrs. Smartly, but her face softens, and she suddenly gives me something I know I don’t ever want from her—pity.

“No, Katie Parker. I don’t want to leave you here. But I do want to do what’s right for you, and just as sure as I know this engine is going to overheat at some point on my way home, I know taking you back with me to Sunny Haven would be the wrong thing to do. Now I’ll be checking on you, so if anything goes wrong, I’ll be back.” She sees the hope in my puffy eyes. “But I really don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Young lady, you have a chance to have a good life.” She pokes a stubby finger in my chest. “Don’t screw this up.”

The van door gives a mournful creak as it shuts, and Mrs. Smartly starts the reluctant ignition. The van,
my
green van, slowly backs out of the driveway. I would give in to my urge to chase the vehicle down the driveway, but I’m sure Rocky the Wonder Dog would join the chase and come after me like I’m his latest dog biscuit. Mrs. Smartly slowly brakes the van and rolls down the window. “I will miss you, Miss Katie,” she calls. “You’re one of my favorites.”

“I’ll miss you too.” I’m just blubbering now.

“And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll be bringing your new sister, Trina, out here.” And with the engine choking and hacking, Iola Smartly, director of the Sunny Haven Home for Girls, drives off, leaving me standing in the middle of the drive, more miserable than I’ve ever been in all my sixteen years.