In Between (7 page)

Okay, so hugs and kisses to Trina and her knife set.

Counting the seconds until I see your polyester dress again,

Katie Parker

M
orning. Ugh. My
alarm clock is so loud it sounds like the town’s tornado siren is in my room. I was awake most of the night. Again. I did a lot of tossing and turning, as well as a good amount of thinking and worrying. My first day at In Between High.

With a big sigh, I heave my body out of bed and grab my new fluffy pink robe. Maybe I could fake a fever? How hard would it be to conjure up a case of chicken pox? I think I could do a fine imitation of a whooping cough.

My slippers go
whish, whish
as I drag my feet across the hardwood floor to my closet. It’s time to mentally prepare for my clothing selection for today. Ah, there’s that white shirt with the cool sleeves that look so chic. And the short plaid skirt is just calling my name. “
Katie! Put me on, Katie! I show off your calves and accentuate your waist!
” Oh, and what about the jeans with the recognizable design on the pocket that just shouts “
Even though I was probably made by a five-year-old in a third-world country, I am ultra trendy and super expensive!
”

I run my hands along the rows of clothes hanging proudly in my closet.
Not today, pretty things. There is work to be done.
If my goal is to leave, it’s time to kick start
Project: I Want to Go Back
. (It was all I could come up with at 3:30 a.m.)

I bypass the many hangers of new clothes, move toward the back of the closet and pull out today’s uniform. Black shirt, black skirt, and a black trench coat. I step over my new running shoes, my funky flats, and the cutest leather sandals ever and pick up a sturdy, although mighty ugly pair of black lace-up boots.

In the bathroom adjoining my room, I quickly get dressed, hoping Millie won’t check on me before I get myself all ready. The look I am going with today is one you must take in all at once and not in stages.

I spend another twenty minutes crafting my hairstyle for my Monday premiere. I straighten my hair as flat as it will possibly go, so it falls limp and clings to my face. My bangs hang over my eyes like a curtain, and it isn’t lost on me that I resemble a sheep dog. I hope I don’t walk into walls or accidentally venture into the men’s room with this hairdo. Reaching into my cosmetic bag, I take out some purple cream hair tint, and run it through sections of my hair, creating a few obnoxiously bold stripes.

Now for the pièce de résistance. My makeup is my medium, my face the canvas. I paint black eye shadow over my eyelids, outlining with ebony kohl eyeliner, and adding layers of cakey, dark mascara. With a swipe of some extremely dark lipstick in a color somewhere between gross and disturbing, I survey my finished product.

I look absolutely horrible.

The boys will not be flocking to this girl. But that’s okay. I am not here to think about boys. The plan is to get out of this Taco-Bell-less town. Today I am Goth Girl. Like a superhero gone bad, I will roam the halls, looking for people to intimidate and striking a scary pose here and there.

When Millie and James Scott see this, they will be so scared they will have me packed up before my spiked dog collar is fastened.

“Katie! Time for breakfast! Are you awake?”

Speaking of the wonder parents, there’s my cue. For a second I hesitate. Would it be so bad to roll with it and play nice? I could have all those clothes and a home for a while. But I know it’s only a matter of time before they change their minds and send me back anyway. I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories from girls at the home—girls who are moved from one foster home to another, never allowed to stay in one place. Yeah, well, not Katie Parker. I won’t travel from town to town like some sort of concert roadie. (Unless I could actually be a concert roadie. Totally different.)

My boots make loud thuds on the stairs as I charge down to the kitchen. Propelling off the last step, I hold back on my impulse to yell out “ta-da!” and land right in the doorway of the room. Smack in front of the awaiting Scotts.

Mrs. Scott’s mouth opens, and her coffee mug hangs mid-sip.

Mr. Scott squeezes his eyes shut then peels them open again.

Rocky yelps and scampers behind Mr. Scott, peeking between his legs.

Mrs. Scott clears her throat. “Um, Katie . . .”

“Yes, Mrs. Scott?” I fasten the last buckle on the dog collar. Ouch, how do people wear these things?

“I . . . um . . .” My foster mom takes one more absorbing glance at me then shakes her head, as if to clear the new Queen-of-the-Night-Katie image out of her brain.

“Katie.” Now her voice is back to normal. Now that’s not right.

“First of all, you must call us by our first names. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so no need for formalities. And second . . .”

Yes? Here is comes. The yelling. The disappointment. The realization I’m too much for you.

“Do you want sausage or bacon with your waffles?”

What? You’re supposed to tell me I can’t wear this; and then I will yell back, oh yes I can; and then you will call Mrs. Smartly and tell her to come and pick her goth kid up!

I take a deep breath. (Wow, it really does smell awesome in here. Those waffles must have blueberries in them.) Okay, this isn’t working. Time to kick it up a notch.

“Oh, I don’t care which. Bacon or sausage, it all comes from the pig. The dead pig. Death . . . that’s so cool.”

Mr. Scott raises a single eyebrow. “Death is cool?”

“Yes, death. I write poetry about it all the time. My people celebrate it.”

“Your people?”

Mrs. Scott doesn’t look scared, only confused.

“I’m what you call goth. See, my people know life is just a celebration of loneliness, heartache, darkness, and . . .” Think! Think of another adjective! “Other dark things.”

Mrs. Scott plops bacon
and
sausage on my plate. She fills my glass with grape juice, which I grab like an inspiration piece.

“This grape juice—I like it. It resembles blood, like the blood that seeps out of our souls during a lifetime of wandering and searching.” I have no idea what I said, but I’m losing my grip on this situation. Mr. Scott is back to reading his paper, and Mrs. Scott returns to the kitchen counter to cut some fruit.

“Well, maybe you can do some searching at school today. Like searching for your classes and searching for some new friends.” Mr. Scott doesn’t even drop the sports section when he says this. Kind of rude not to at least look at me when you’re brushing me off.

“I don’t need friends. Loneliness and pain are my friends.”

Wow, these waffles are excellent.

No! Focus, Katie! Focus!

“Katie, where is all of this coming from?” Mrs. Scott asks. “This is the first I’ve heard of any interest in the goth culture and, um, dark stuff.”

Mr. Scott lets a corner of his paper drop. “I thought goth had been replaced by emo. And then emo went out and was—”

“People like me don’t need labels.”

Mrs. Scott cuts a grapefruit into sections and carries it over to her husband. I would swear the two exchanged a look. You know, a meaningful look. And not the kind that says, “You get the car. I’ll get her bags.”

“Mrs. Smartly told me to behave or I’d be sent back. So I tried to be on good behavior these last few days. But I just can’t deny who I am any longer. This”—I sweep my hand over my black garb—“is who I am. It’s what I am. When we deny who we are, we . . . aren’t who we . . . really, uh, are.”

This is not how the script in my head went at four o’clock this morning.

And now to close the deal. “So, Mrs. Scott, I—”

“It’s Millie.”

“What?”

“Call us by our first names.”

“Uh-huh.” Whatever. “Well, as I was saying, I guess now that you know the dark, dark truth, you’ll want to send me back. I’m sorry this didn’t work out, Mr. and Mrs., er, I mean James and Millie.”

“Katie, we have no intention of sending you anywhere. We’re here for you, and we support you.”

No, you don’t! You can’t!
Project: I Want to Go Back
is disintegrating right in front of me, faster than Rocky can make bacon disappear.

“Okay, now go get your jacket and let’s get you to school!” Millie grabs my shoulders in a brief hug and heads toward the living room.

“Right.” I stand in a frozen stupor.

“Oh, and Katie?” My foster mom stops at the edge of the kitchen, the morning sun accenting her perfect highlights.

“Yes?”

“You have lipstick on your teeth.”

“K
atie, we’ve sat
here for five minutes. You don’t want to be late on your first day, do you?”

Millie Scott pats my knee as we sit in the car outside my new school. Do I want to be late? No, I want to be absent. There was no way to get out of wearing this black monstrosity I just had to call an outfit this morning, so I’m stuck looking like a tragically attired vampire. Add that to the list of reasons I want to hurl.

When I walk through those doors I will become two things: the new kid and a Chihuahua. Neither prospect pleases me. Yet I taste my defeat. “Okay, let’s go.”

We exit the car, but not before I trip over my own feet. I just
had
to wear the combat boots. I right myself in time to see about twenty-five kids hanging out outside the building.

Staring.

At me.

“It’s going to be fine,” Millie places a hand on my back and guides me into the building.

“Well, Ms. Parker,
you come with quite a personal file. Light on academic achievement and heavy on the behavior issues,” the counselor says sharply, as Millie and I take a seat.

It’s true. I have quite the rap sheet. But mostly it’s instances of being with the wrong crowd at the wrong time. I don’t really cause trouble, but it seems like the people I choose to hang out with do. Kids like me, kids who have been tossed around some, we just want to be accepted. And who is the most accepting group on a school campus? The troublemakers. It may not be right, but sometimes it’s as close to right as we can find. But as Mrs. Whipple, the counselor, pointed out, it doesn’t make for an impressive personal file. (But it does make for good reading.)

“We do not tolerate misbehavior at In Between High, Ms. Parker. Understand that right now.” Mrs. Whipple glares at me over harsh bifocals.

Millie tenses beside me. “Mrs. Whipple.” My foster mom scoots to the edge of her seat, her posture like that of a cat on the verge of a good pounce. “Katie has traveled a long way, geographically and emotionally, to get here. She starts today with a clean slate and without any judgment placed upon her, no matter what her personal file says. Are we clear?”

Mrs. Whipple and I both turn to stare at Millie in stunned silence. My black mouth forms an
O
.

“Mrs. Scott, please understand it is my job to make sure Katie is clear on our rules and most importantly, our expectations. We run a tight ship here at In Between High, and we want all of our Chihuahuas to be as safe and successful as possible.”

There’s a quote for the yearbook.

Millie reaches over and grabs my hand, her glossy, manicured nails a stark contrast to my own polish, straight out of a Halloween kit.

“We all want that for our children,” my foster mom says. “But I want Katie to know she is supported here. I want her to begin at this high school with every opportunity to succeed. She is a beautiful, intelligent girl, and she is not here to cause any trouble or be a disturbance.” Millie gives my hand a squeeze. And I don’t even mind.

Mrs. Whipple takes a slow perusal of my attire, her buzzard-like eyes absorbing every black detail. Yeah, okay, so my outfit is a disturbance. A fashion disturbance.

Mrs. Whipple clears her throat. “Well, of course, we will do everything to make sure Katie is acclimated to our school. I am here to help. But that doesn’t change the fact that Katie comes with a list of past offenses. Like this one, ‘food fight in the cafeteria.’”