The Big Picture (28 page)

He chews on his lip as he looks me over. “She hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No.” The pressure builds behind my eyes. Please, let’s go.

“Where is she?”

I shake my head, my vision blurry. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I need to get out of here for a while, though, okay?”

“Katie, I don’t think it’s safe here for you.”

I swat at a mosquito aiming for my arm. “I have guard cats.” I look down at three curled up together asleep.

He doesn’t smile. “My dad knows people. He could help. He could — ”

“Our conversation doesn’t go farther than the Sunset Salon parking lot, remember?” I stare at Tate. Hard. “You know nothing, and you say nothing. Please.”

After a quiet drive, we meet the others at the downtown gas station. A few pile in with us, and another group follows in a Jeep.

Ashley and Tate discuss some people from school, and two other people I’ve never met carry on their own conversation.

I stare out the window and count the stars.

God, you know how many stars hang in the sky. But do you know that I’m here — miserable? Do you even remember me? Did you drop me in Middleton and then move on to someone else? Are my problems too small for you? Because they seem gigantic to me. Overwhelming.

“Ready?”

Tate’s hand on my arm pulls me back to reality, and I see we’re here. Wherever here is. I grab my flashlight and open the door. I lower myself down from the seat and reach for my crutches.

“Nuh-uh.” Tate shakes his head. “Just stay put for a second.”

I frown but obey. I really don’t feel like getting out anyway. The night breeze blows on my face, and suddenly I’m aware of how incredibly tired I am. I don’t know that I’ve had more than four hours of sleep on any night I’ve been here. I’ve got more bags than Chelsea now — except mine don’t say Coach. They say
I need about eight hours with a good fluffy pillow
.

Tate opens the back hatch and passes off lawn chairs to his friends. Then he comes around to my side. And holds out both arms.

His smile is reluctant. “Okay, you’re gonna hate this, I can already tell, but . . . um . . . I forgot to mention one little thing.” His left cheek dimples.

I lift an eyebrow.

“You can’t take your crutches up the hill. You’ll never make it.”

“Then why did you bring me out —
oomph
!” And before I can say “hand violation,” Tate scoops me up into his arms. “Put me down!” I hiss. “I am
not
going to be carried like a baby.”

“Yeah, I told you you wouldn’t like it. See, I
know
you. Now, your job is going to be to hold the flashlight so I don’t trip over something like a big rock because I
will
drop you and leave you for the coyotes. Or if I step on a snake because of your poor lighting skills, I will be forced to offer you up for a sacrifice. You think I’m a good guy, but no . . . I will totally make you take the venom before I do.”

“Very funny,” I say through gritted teeth. I jerk my head around, trying to gauge the reactions of his friends. They walk on, oblivious to us. “Ashley is going to think you’re nuts.”

“One, Ashley already knows I’m nuts. And two, it was her idea to invite you, and she, along with everyone else, would’ve known you
couldn’t maneuver the hill on your ankle, so just shut up” — he pulls me in closer with a grunt — “and enjoy the stinkin’ nature.”

As we ascend the hill, I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. Eventually I lean my head back and stare out into the night.

“Um, Parker. The light.” And I re-aim the flashlight on our path.

We finally climb to the top, and Tate sets me down, his breathing heavy.

I smirk down at him as he doubles over, hands on his knees, sucking wind.

“I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“When . . .” he gasps, “do you get off those crutches?”

If my mom had made the doctor appointments, it could’ve been today. “Hopefully next week.”

“Then that’s when we should’ve scheduled this outing.” He wipes his sweaty forehead and grabs two lawn chairs from his friend Jake. “Sit. It’s going to be a while.”

I shine the light on my watch. “How long?”

“The shower isn’t supposed to start until midnight. We have a few hours. Did you leave your mom a note?”

“I don’t think she’ll mind.”

Tate snaps his finger. “Jake, the backpack, if you please.” His wrestler-sized friend heaves it to him, and Tate reaches in and pulls out a Coke for everyone. “And for you — ” He digs further and presents me with a Diet Dr Pepper. “Don’t tell Ash. It’s the only one I could find.” He rests his hand on the back of my chair. “I thought you could use it more.”

After Tate passes out two different kinds of cookies, everyone settles in and stares toward the sky. Voices are hushed as someone points out the Big Dipper, then later a shooting star. Much later, I stand up and hop toward the cliff’s edge. I look out into the dark nothing below me, shining my flashlight on emptiness. Hollowness. I so relate.

“Girls who’ve had stressful days probably shouldn’t stand that close to the edge.”

I glance over my left shoulder and see Tate. The others are lost in a discussion about the loss of Pluto as a planet.

“I won’t jump.” Like I want to be buried in this cast?

“It’s a big sky, isn’t it?” His voice reverberates near my ear. His breath fans my neck.

I turn all the way around, inches from Tate’s face. His eyes hold mine captive. I step closer. We’re both right there, and I inch toward his mouth.

“Katie?” His hands on my shoulders stop me. It takes seconds to register it — rejection. I just got totally shut down.

I move back, my eyes wide. Hurt. My mouth opens, ready to blurt out some excuse. Anything.

Tate shakes his head and cups my face. “I’m not the person who can heal this for you. Right now you don’t know what you want. You have a guy back home. You have a mom that’s making you crazy. And what am I?”

I shake my head, mute.

“I’m your friend. And I’m a safety net at the moment. But I don’t think I’m what you want — or what you need.”

Dear God, it would be so cool if I didn’t hurl on his shoes right now.

“Tate, I’m — ”

“It’s okay.” His hands fall away from my face and land at his sides. “Um . . . I know this is going to sound weird — ”

Oh, weirder than me throwing myself at you?

The wind blows past us, and Tate tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind my ear. “Would you mind if I prayed for you — right now?”

I look up and blink back some tears. Hot tears of shame and humiliation. “Okay.” I must be like a leper to him. What if he thinks I’m some sort of skank ho? Should I tell him I’m not? Should I say, “Hey, Tate, I am not the type of girl who tries to make out with the first boy she sees whenever she’s on the verge of seeing a meteor. No . . . I usually reserve that for a lunar eclipse.”

“Dear heavenly Father . . . God, I thank you for Katie, for her
friendship. It’s come to mean a lot to me in a short amount of time. Lord, I know she’s scared. And even though I don’t know everything that’s going on, you know every detail. And you hold her life and safety in your hands.”

I close my eyes and think of Peter again, how he must’ve peed his pants — or his tunic — when he stepped out onto the lake, and especially when he started to sink. Tonight was definitely a sinking moment.
Dear God, things are just getting worse. I’m at the point of going under. Now when are you going to pull me back up? Is it too late?

“Amen.” Tate pulls me to him in a hug, which I don’t return. Nope, I’m totally hands off. His chest rumbles with laughter, and he grabs my arms and wraps them around him. “Things are going to be okay, Katie.”

“There’s a meteor!” Ashley calls out and points upward.

I step away from Tate, unable to meet his gaze, and look toward the sky. He helps me walk back to the others, and I stand there amidst their cheers and carefree smiles. And the first meteor zooms across the sky, a dusty tail streaming behind it.

Jake holds a lantern to his watch. “It was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

“Nah. It’s right on time.” Tate catches my eye and a corner of his mouth lifts. “God’s always on time.”

Chapter thirty - one

MY MOTHER’S BOYFRIEND BRINGS HER home Tuesday during a commercial break of
General Hospital
.

I open the door, and he helps Mom inside. She looks like a drowned rat. One who has tuberculosis or the plague or something. Her hair hangs in stringy pieces in every direction. Her face is as white as the crisp sheets at the Scotts’ house. And she has mascara smeared down her cheeks like some lame attempt at goth.

When John returns from depositing Mom on her bed, I give him my fiercest glare. “Thanks for calling me and keeping me updated.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. She didn’t show up at my house until early this morning.” He sits down on the faded couch, his fingers dancing a nervous beat on his knees. “Your mom’s going to want to sleep for a while.”

“What’s she on this time, John?”

“Katie . . . she just made a mistake. It’s over. The last thing she’s going to need is you holding it over her head.”

I narrow my eyes. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“How you think she’s the victim here. You of all people should know better.”

“I care for your mom a lot.”

“I’m not really sure that’s doing her much good.” I release a ragged breath. “Where has she been? Who’s her dealer?”

He runs his hand over his stubbled face. “I don’t know that there is one. She just got her hands on some prescription meds, but it’s over. It’s not going to happen again.”

Dude, I’m sixteen, and you’re more naïve than I am.

“I’m tired.” He stands up and pulls his keys out of his pocket. “I haven’t slept since the night before last.”

I haven’t slept since I got here.

“I can have her car brought out later.”

“Whatever.” And I walk to my room, leaving him standing there to let himself out.

I pick up my phone and scroll through the missed calls. None of them say Charlie. I left a message for him yesterday. Why hasn’t he called me? We had a serious conversation to finish. And I could use a friendly voice right now. My fingers itch to punch in his number.
No, be strong. Don’t chase him. Let him come to you
. Surely he wants more in a girl than a Gucci stuffed between her ears.

Dragging out a notebook, I sit on my bed and give Ms. Dillon’s bonus point assignment some thought — my future. Where I’ll be ten years from now. I pull out my pen and write.

Ten years from now I will be chasing my mother across Texas and any other southern state she can manage to run to. I will be answering calls from creditors, still making excuses to the neighbors, and holding off the landlord who wants his rent. I didn’t have time for my senior prom, as I spent that night combing the ditches for signs of her car. And I didn’t make it to my high school graduation because I couldn’t remember what town I was in; we had moved so much. And of course, I didn’t attend college because I didn’t have time. I was too busy babysitting — my mother. And I still failed to get her roots touched up.

I throw my pen across the room just as there is a knock at the door. Probably John. Maybe he remembered another guilt trip to lay on me.

I peek out the kitchen curtains and groan as I see Janice Holloway from child services. No! This cannot be happening. I don’t have the energy left to deal with this. But what am I supposed to say, “Sorry, come back, my mom’s sleeping off a big pill binge”?

As quietly as possible, I walk back to Mom’s room. “Get up. Please get up. Child services is here again.” I shake her by the shoulder. “You have to get rid of them.”

My mother blinks. “Not today. Don’t feel good.”

“Yeah, well
I’m
not gonna feel good if I get sent to a group home again. Mom, get up. Seriously. Tell them you’re sick, but at least let them see your face.”

“Tell them I’m at work.” Her voice is weak, and I know she’s useless right now.

“I can’t say that. They know you don’t work at the salon anymore.”

“Tell them — ” And the rest of her sentence becomes a groggy puzzle as she rolls over and goes back to sleep. I’m so glad everyone but me is able to catch up on their rest.

Janice Holloway pounds at the door, but I can’t make myself answer it. Let her think we’re not at home.

I creep back into the kitchen and stoop low so she won’t see my face through the window. The portly woman, today dressed in a suit the color of Barney (um, not slimming), talks into her cell phone for a few minutes before she stomps off the steps and drives away in a cloud of dust.

The rest of the week crawls by as Mom returns to the land of the living and looks for a job. But without a high school diploma, her opportunities are always slim. Every day she comes back wearing a hound-dog face and with no prospects. I go to the mailbox daily, knowing I will soon find a shut-off notice from the utilities. I can do without a lot of things, but electricity — not really one of them. I spend my hours worrying about Mom, attempting more cooking, and keeping the trailer
spotless. I figure if I can eliminate some of the stress at home, then her chances of falling back to the drugs are less. Though my cooking might actually generate more anxiety for her. Or at least heartburn.

Tate and I work on our script for our Noah’s ark lesson through the week. Neither one of us says anything about my lips getting lost on Monday night, and Tate acts like nothing ever happened. I’m relieved things aren’t weird, but yet . . . a girl would still like to know what goes on in the mysterious male mind.

On Sunday I shoot out the door before his Explorer even pulls into the driveway to pick me up. I leave my crutches in the trailer. The doctor at In Between told me I’d be off of them in a month, and thanks to my mom’s inability to keep appointments, we’re past the four weeks. But now it’s kind of weird walking without them, even though I keep as much weight as possible on my good leg.