In Between (5 page)

I slink off the kitchen barstool and drag myself up the stairs. There isn’t enough pancake batter in the world to fortify me for this day.

“I even have a few pages marked of items I thought you might like!” she calls after me.

Great.

My new mother works for the fashion police.

“I
f you look
on page sixteen of the October issue of
Teen Scene
, I believe you will find this exact shirt on that cute little pop star from that one band.”

As Millie Scott cross-references her teen magazines, I try on the millionth shirt she has handed over the dressing-room door. This is torture in the extreme. I’d rather have my finger nails pulled out one by one. I’d rather suffer one million paper cuts, then jump in a pool of lemon juice. I’d rather watch anime. In Japanese.

I’m tired.

I’m cranky.

And if I have to strip down again for “one more shirt” or “last pair of jeans, I promise,” I am going to scream my head off.

We have been at it for over six hours, and while my haul has been substantial, let’s be real. These are things that will just be left hanging in that nice big closet when the Scotts send me packing. It’s hard to get too excited about buying new clothes, most of which I will never get around to wearing.

I am not going to get attached to any of these clothes Mrs. Scott throws at me. Not the five pairs of jeans, including the ones that make me look like I actually have a butt. Not the hoodie with the extremely obvious, but beautiful brand name on the back of it. Not even the new winter coat the sales girl said makes me look like a smart, yet chic college student.

Though the two new padded bras will be with me forever.
Now that I have found you, my pretties, we shall never separate.
Show the orphan girl a Wonderbra, and suddenly life is worth living.

“Oh, my goodness!” Millie cries.

Super, she probably realized there are still some jeans left in Texas that we have yet to try on.

“It’s after three o’clock! We’ve forgotten to eat lunch!”

Forgot to eat lunch? This girl does
not
forget about meals, Ms. Half-a-grapefruit-for-breakfast. Lady, around noon I ate a pair of those Mary Janes you pushed on me. Of course I’m hungry! I’m a growing child! Well, except in the bra area, but I think we’ve already established my great shortcoming.

“I’m so sorry, Katie. I’ve only had you one day, and I’ve already managed to starve you. I got so caught up in all of this, I just lost track of time.”

I know she is envisioning me tattling to Mrs. Smartly. Like I would. I’m a lot of things, but I’m no snitch. Those kinds of girls get beaten up.

“Well, Mrs. Smartly doesn’t like it when I skip meals. She believes my nutritional health is directly proportional to my mental, physical, and emotional development.” I have no idea what I just said, but I know it was on a test I took in health class last year.

I fling open the dressing room door, and Millie Scott is before me, surrounded by a sea of bags and packages, wringing her hands.

“I had no idea it was so late. We’ll leave right now and go get something to eat. Anything you want. You name it.” Millie looks so distraught I can’t help but try and use it to my advantage.

“I wondered why I was feeling so faint this last hour. Food would be very nice, ma’am.”

“Anything.”

“And dessert.”

“You got it.”

“Appetizers too?” I’m reeling her in.

“Of course.”

“And a strawberry virgin daiquiri with a little pink umbrella floating in it?”

Millie Scott’s brow furrows. Too much? But if I don’t get at least a hot fudge sundae out of this, I’m going to be thoroughly put out. I tried on everything ever hung on a rack! I deserve chocolate!

As I strike a pathetic pose, I realize I have never addressed Mrs. Scott by her name aloud. What do I call her? Millie? Mrs. Scott? Woman Who Is Not My Mother?

“You must be starving. What was I thinking?”

I’m thinking you’ve sniffed one too many perfume samples in those fashion magazines.

Millie continues her nervous chatter, putting a supporting hand under my arm, which is quite a feat given all the packages she is carrying. She leads me out the door, and we make our way to the exit.

Where the blinding light of day nearly brings me to my knees.

Oh, sun, I forgot you existed. I have been in a cave we mortals like to call a shopping mall, and I have missed you.

Remembering my new sunglasses with the cool pink rhinestones, I slip them on, and my vision is restored. I dutifully follow behind the Queen of MasterCard and Visa.

It takes me, Mrs. Scott, and two strangers who were dumb enough to stop and help thirty minutes to pack the car and get every bag in. I told Mrs. Scott if we needed to sacrifice any of the purchases due to lack of room, that the underwear could go since I liked to go au natural anyway.

So far Miss Millie just does not appreciate my jokes.

Five minutes later we are parked at a restaurant. At least I assume we’re at a restaurant. All I can see in front of me is a solid wall of packages and boxes. We’re so tightly packed in this sedan, if Mrs. Scott left me in here, I think I’d only have about an hour’s worth of air supply. Suffocation by JC Penney is
not
a cool way to go.

“Katie, are you ready to get out?”

I hear her door open.

“Mrs. Scott, is that you?” I say this weakly, hoping she’ll notice she’s lost me in this avalanche of shopping bags.

“Sweetie, where are you?” She digs around me, trying to latch onto some part of me she can safely drag out. “Is this you?”

“Nope. I think that’s my coat.”

“How about now?”

“Nuh-uh. I can see your hand though. I’m two Marshalls bags to your left and down a Dillard’s.”

“Yes, just a second, I think I—gotcha!”

“Ow! That’s my nose!”

Mrs. Scott manages to find my arms and with a good tug, I’m finally sprung from the vehicle.

Ah, air.

French fry scented air.

Freedom never smelled so good.

“K
atie, are you
ready to order?”

Millie Scott and the server have been waiting for me to give my dessert order for the last two minutes. For the first time in my life, I am in a restaurant that has its own separate dessert menu, and I just want to savor the moment and take in all my choices. This menu has pictures—a centerfold of chocolate cake, New York style cheesecake, strawberry shortcake, and a few other decadent items I’ve never seen before. Feeling pressured, I select a chocolate concoction that has ice cream, brownies, hot fudge, and a whole list of candy shop items sprinkled on top. Maybe this foster care thing is working out. I get a padded bra
and
ooey-gooey dessert.

Mrs. Scott interrupts my chocolate fantasies. “I thought maybe we could hit the salon next week if you wanted.”

I run a hand through my shoulder-length hair. What’s wrong with my hair? Granted, it’s currently not a color existing in nature, but still. First all new clothes and then new hair? What next, a brain transplant? A personality transfusion? Is there anything else you’d like to alter about your new foster child, Millie Scott?

“It would be fun to go together and get pedicures. While we’re there, we can flip through magazines and see if there are any new hairstyles we want.”

Well, it’s hard to be mad at the lady when she puts it like that, like she just wants to hang out and have fun. But if she suggests we do some Internet research together on plastic surgery, I’m on the first bus to Sunny Haven.

The waiter delivers my long-awaited dessert, and Mrs. Scott drops the salon topic.

I stare at the restaurant’s chocolate creation in a few moments of reverent awe before attacking it with my spoon. I notice the waiter has mistakenly brought two spoons, and Mrs. Scott’s hand reaches for one. Her spoon targets my dish, coming closer and closer. I sit in horror as I realize I am expected to share. Did Millie Scott sweat right through
her
deodorant by trying on every shirt in the mall? No. Did Millie Scott cram her feet into every pair of shoes in the great state of Texas? I don’t think so. Did Millie Scott spend the majority of
her
day trapped in one tiny excuse for a dressing room after another? No. I did! Me! Back away from the chocolate! Drop the spoon and no one will get hurt!

I repress my inner Trina and watch as my nonMom helps herself to my brownie fudge sundae. It’s just not fair. I worked hard for this dessert! She’s coming in for bite number two. And now three? This is too much.

“Get your own.” I hear myself say.

“What did you say?” Mrs. Scott asks, as a ringing goes off in her purse.

“Um . . . get your phone?”

“Hello? Yes, mother. Yes, I know I haven’t been by in a week. You know we’ve been extremely busy. I thought you would be getting ready for your singles’ cruise. Right, I can see how that would be a problem. Yes, I know you need your Floaties and nose plugs for the pool. Fine.” Mrs. Scott sighs into the phone. She looks stressed. “I’ll pick some up at the store.” Her blue eyes shift to me. “Yes, she’s here. She’s just beautiful.”

Mrs. Scott grins then rolls her eyes to show me she is not enjoying her phone conversation. Well, I am. It’s given me just enough time to eat all my dessert. If she stays on a few more minutes, I can run my tongue over the plate. Very ladylike, I know. But who knows when chocolate and I shall meet again?

“Yes, mother. Okay. I’ll pick up your stuff and bring it over. No, no, you are not going yourself. We’ve talked about this. I will be right there.” And with a quick “love you, bye,” the phone call is over.

“Katie, there’s someone I’d like you to meet this afternoon. My mother.” Mrs. Scott stops talking, and there is a long pause, as if she is trying to think what to say next. “My mother is, um, different. I don’t want her to scare you, but she’s been compared to Judge Judy.”

“Judge Judy?”

“On crack.”

I knew there was a crazy grandma in their closet somewhere. I knew it! I’m still not going to rub her feet.

“She’s going on a cruise with the single senior citizens in the church and needs a few things. So we’ll just stop at the store then take them over.”

“Your mother doesn’t drive?”

“Oh, she can drive. But the town has asked us to not let her anymore.”

“The town?”

“Yes, she’s such a horrible driver that they had a town hall meeting last year and voted unanimously to start a campaign to get her car taken away from her.” Her head nods. “They were right. We haven’t had to replace a stop sign in over six months. And the
Say No to Mad Maxine
T-shirts were quite catchy.”

The corners of Mrs. Scott’s mouth turn up, and I find myself smiling back.

“The town really is safer.” My foster mom dabs at her lips with delicate hands, removing all traces of
my
brownie. “Except for the incident last month, things have been going much better.”

I find myself leaning in.

“Mother bought a bicycle—a tandem bicycle, no less—and had a little accident, wiping out in the street. Luckily though, the chicken truck stopped for her. After it hit a fire hydrant.” She shakes her head and laughs. “It rained feathers and naked chickens for an hour. But Mother says she is close to perfecting her wheelie.”

A BMX granny. That is awesome. Her mother sounds like someone I’d like to know. If she’s Millie’s mother, she must be sweet, too. A little eccentric, but probably the sweetest, kindest, most gentle-tempered woman ever.