On the Loose (22 page)

For the first time in an hour, James looks at me. “What? Of course you’re going.”

I shake my head. “No. I’ve decided not to go.”

“When did you decide this?” Maxine asks.

Three seconds ago. “I dunno. It’s been a while.”

“It’s going to be a great time.” Pastor Mike stares at me like I’m an alien. “You don’t want to help the people of In Between? People who lost their homes? Everything they own?”

I grab a magazine and open it to a random page. “I have a science fair project due about that time. And then there’s the play after spring break. I think it would be best if I stayed home and worked on that.” Whoa, some of the stuff in
National Geographic
should have warning labels.

James crosses his legs at the ankle and pins me with his eyes. “Katie’s just a little stressed with school and the play right now. I’m sure she’ll be ready to tackle the mission project by Spring Break.”

No. I’m not going. What’s the point? Go serve soup and sandwiches to some down and out In Betweenies and tell them how great God is? Hey, folks, sorry your house blew away, but I would like to tell you that God loves you. I don’t think so.

Hours later I wake up from a cat nap as Millie’s surgeon shuffles into the lobby.

“Mr. Scott?”

I study this man’s face—every line, twitch, and blink. Does he have good news? Bad news? Or maybe he just came out to weigh in on the mission project issue like everyone else.

“Mr. Scott, Millie’s out of surgery and in recovery. We removed the three tumors with no problem.”

With one eye on Amy, I sigh with relief. The Scott’s daughter doesn’t move a muscle. No reaction at all. This chick is so weird.

“There was some node involvement, so it is a bit more extensive than we’d hoped. We’ll talk about this more later. But she did well.”

Yes, of course they’ll discuss it later—when I’m not around. And I know from my research lately that lymph node involvement is not good. Not good at all.

“You can see Mrs. Scott in about an hour when she’s transferred to a room.”

James thanks the doctor and shakes his hand.

The Price is Right
blares on the wall. While someone screams for joy over winning a sports car, six people in a hospital lobby are mute, silent. Exhausted and worried.

Thoughts circle through my brain like NASCAR drivers, one idea chasing another. What if they didn’t get it all today? What if I have to go back to Sunny Haven? What if I get sent to live with a different family?

James manages a small smile. “I think we have a lot to be thankful for today. Why don’t we thank God for Millie’s surgery going well?”

We gather around James, everyone taking hands. I stand between Laura and Maxine.

My head bows as my foster father offers up a prayer to God. The God of cancer. The God of abandoned kids. The God of druggie moms.

“. . . And Lord we ask for healing for Millie. We pray you would lay your hands on her and . . .”

My eyes focus on the floor. I examine Amy’s shoes. A ragged pair of boots. Brown, scratched. Ugly. I continue my inspection all the way up to her sweatshirt.

And my eyes meet hers. I jerk my gaze back to the floor, but curiosity draws me back to her face.

How dare she stare at me! How rude.

“Amen.”

Pastor Mike and Laura give a round of hugs to everyone. When it’s her turn, Amy steps back.

I’m soon cocooned in a three-way bear hug with my youth pastor and his wife. Their words hit my ears. But not my heart.

“God is on the job, Katie. You’ll see.”

“Hang in there, girl. We’re praying for you too.”

I cling to them for an extra second, then step away. Saying nothing, I watch them leave. I’m all out of words. All out of hope. Life just kicks me in the gut everywhere I go.

James puts one arm around me and another around Amy. Maxine leans into her granddaughter. Stand next to me! Did Amy pedal for a solid hour to get to the hospital? No. Did Amy have to stomach your atomic pizza this morning? No, I did! What about me?

“Anyone up for a late breakfast? We can grab a bite before they take Millie to her room.” James hugs me in closer.

“I’m not hungry.” I step out of his embrace and return to my seat.

“I think I’ll catch a quick nap.” Amy steps over my legs and settles onto the couch.

“Maxine? Care to join me in the downstairs cafeteria?”

Maxine grabs her purse. “I’m starved. I’ve hardly had a thing to eat all morning.”

I pick up my
National Geographic
again and flip through the pages. Ten pages of ancient Egypt. Mummies—you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I throw it on a nearby table.

“How long are you staying?” Amy’s voice breaks the silence.

I look up, checking to make sure she’s actually talking to me. “I. . .I don’t know. I guess until my mom gets straightened out.”

Amy picks at her fingernail. “What’s up with your mom?”

Where is Maxine’s
Seventeen
magazine? I could use a good quiz right now.

“I said, what’s up with your—”

“I heard you.” I shrug an indifferent shoulder. “Drugs. Prison.”

Amy sits up. “She got busted for doing drugs?”

“No. Selling.”

She considers this. “What kind of drugs?”

“Cough drops.” My head bobs to the back of the chair. I want to go home.

“What are you so mad about?” She chews on a nail.

“I’m not mad. I’m just worried about your mom.” Unlike you, I happen to care about your parents. “How long are you staying?”

Amy pulls her finger out of her mouth. “Not long. Gotta get back.”

“They worry about you all the time. They’ve been waiting for you to see the Valiant.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have time to see their theater.”

“They restored that old theater for you, Amy. Did you know that?” Heat spikes through me. “Last fall they worked day and night on that building. Hoping you would be there opening night. They looked for you the entire night.”

She lifts a shoulder. “I was busy.”

“Don’t you even care? You’ve got two parents who love you, and you don’t even care. Do you know how much I would give to have parents who cared about me? Or how many times I’ve wished I had been born into this family?”

Amy laughs, shoving her brown hair out of her eyes. “I
wasn’t
born into this family.”

I rewind the words in my head. “What?”

“Didn’t they tell you?” She stands up, grabs her jacket and brushes past me. “I’m adopted.”

“Wait—”

Amy pivots, facing me. “I’ve never been good enough. Never could be what they wanted me to be. And they’re treating you the same way. I can’t believe you don’t see that.”

I shake my head. “The Scotts . . . they’re great parents.”

“Tell me, Katie, do you go to church because you want to? Or because they make you? Do they pressure you into things like, oh, I don’t know, mission projects? Yeah, they’re great parents. As long as you fit the mold—a good little Christian girl, who makes good grades and never gets into trouble. As long as you’re perfect.”

My hands are clenched, shaking. “They don’t expect me to be perfect.” I stab my chest. “I get in trouble all the time,” I say like a badge of honor. “The Scotts love you.” Even though you’re psycho.

A shadow falls across Amy’s face. “They love the idea of who they want me to be. Think about it. Because I’m betting it’s the same for you.” She steps toward the door. “Tell Dad I’m at home. I gotta get out of here.”

The doors close.

And I’m left alone.

Utterly, miserably, pathetically alone.

I
sit in
a chair next to James. The sea foam walls of Millie’s hospital room do nothing to soothe my fried nerves. Maxine continues to file her nails, and if Millie doesn’t wake up soon, Maxine’s bound to break out the fingernail polish.

I twist the string of my hoodie round and round my finger. Is now a good time to tell James his daughter is a total freak? Would it be appropriate to use this moment to ask why nobody told me Psycho Daughter was adopted? Why does this family keep everything from me?

Maybe they even adopted Maxine.

My foster grandmother yawns loudly then catches my eye. “Huevos Rancheros make me gassy.”

I see a small movement of feet under Millie’s sheet. Then an arm shifts. And finally, two eyes struggle to gain focus of the room.

James shoots out of his seat and settles on the bed next to his wife. “Hey, hon.” He smoothes her blonde hair away from her pale face. “How are you feeling?”

Millie’s eyes travel across the room then settle on James. Her head bobs in a nod. “Not . . . bad.” Her voice is low and weak.

My foster mom gives a sluggish smile toward me. “How’s school today?”

Maxine coughs twice.

“Well, I kind of didn’t go.”

Millie frowns. Nice to know in her drugged-out stupor she can still put her mom face on.

Her manicure complete, Maxine walks to the other side of the bed. “About time you woke up. I wanted to turn the TV on, but James wouldn’t let me. He said the citizens of Salem could get along without me for one day.” She snorts in disbelief.

“Why’s Katie not in school?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Maxine picks up Millie’s hand on the bed. “James, tell Millie who’s here.”

James pours Millie a cup of water and holds the straw to her mouth. “Amy’s here. Or was here. Er, I guess is here.”

Millie tries to sit up.

“No, no, lay back down.” James puts a hand on her shoulder. “You have plenty of time to see her.” His mouth curves. “She looks good. A little thin, but good.”

Amy looks like she hasn’t eaten in a year. Her hair is sprouting split ends and crying out for a trim. And she shakes like a car antenna. Yeah, she looks real good.

Millie pushes the water away. “Where is she?” Her words slur. “Where is she, James?”

“She’ll be back soon. She went to the house. To rest.”

Or to steal my laptop. I do not trust that girl.

Millie lays her head back, a smile on her lips. “My baby’s home.”

“Thanks again for
picking me up.”

I press my back into Frances’s passenger seat and close my eyes. So tired. Worn to the bone.

“You didn’t miss anything at school today. Well, except a quiz in history. Oh, and Nash kissing me.”

Nap over. “What?”

“Yeah, at lunch. He put his greasy corndog down, wiped off his milk mustache, and said, ‘I can’t properly digest. My brain is filled with no other thought than I love you, Frances.’ And then he grabbed my face and—”

“You know your left ear twitches when you’re lying, right?”

Frances scowls and turns onto my street. “It could happen.”

“Yeah, when Justin Bieber is in the White House.”

She puts the car in park. “I’m coming in with you. I want to see the Scott’s daughter.”

Doesn’t everyone?

Earlier in the afternoon I had called Frances to give her the update on Millie. And to beg her to pick me up from the hospital. I needed a break. A Trevor break. She kindly offered to take me to play rehearsals. I mean, they can’t have a decent rehearsal without Drizella, Ugly Step-sister Number One.

Walking up the sidewalk, I catch a blur out of the corner of my eye. “Rocky!” The giant dog leaps on me, his elephant-sized paws settling on my shoulder. “No, Rocky! Get down. Ew, mud!” I heave the dog off, pushing with all my strength. He lays low to the ground and licks my shoes, like he can’t get enough of me. At least someone appreciates me today.

“What are you doing out here, boy?” I look around for Amy and grab Rocky by the collar. “Come on. In you go.”

Standing on the front porch, I start to put the key in the lock, but the front door stands open. “Hello?” I call out. Frances stays with the dog in the entryway, and I grab a towel for his muddy paws. If only fixing his dog breath were that easy.

Peering into the den on my way to the laundry room, I see Amy, sprawled out on the couch watching a talk show.

“I brought the dog in.” I stand there until she acknowledges me.

“Uh-huh.”

“You left him outside.”

She picks up the remote, the volume inching up a notch. “He wanted to go out.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just let him loose. He eats Old Man Potter’s ferns, and the neighbor kids OD on dog tongue.”

Amy ignores me.

Frances and I wipe Rocky down, his paws still brown, but not bad enough to stain anything.

We head to my bedroom.

Where I find clothes strung everywhere and a stained, worn suitcase on my bed.

Frances wrinkles her nose. “Is Amy sleeping in your room?”

“Actually, it’s my room” My non-sister pushes past the door and steps in. “This used to be my room.” She walks around. “Not much left of mine. I can tell they really missed me.”

Girl is ticking me off. “You’re twenty-five. I don’t think the Scotts are bad parents because they packed up your Barbies and ’N Sync posters.” And where am I supposed to sleep? I cannot believe this.

Amy pulls a cigarette out of nowhere and lights up.

“Are you kidding me? Put that out! This is my room!” I rip the cigarette out of her mouth and run into the bathroom. I take a few deep breaths and watch it swirl down the toilet.