The Big Picture by Jenny B. Jones

Ten minutes later we’re on our way to pick up some of his friends and head to the creek. I left my mom a note, but I’m not worried about my lack of permission. She’s not really into curfews and schedule approval. Millie, on the other hand, would want to know the life history of everyone I’m with, their contact numbers, and copies of their parents’ Social Security cards.

  “Okay, gang, lunch will be served in an hour.” Tate sets down a monstrous red cooler when we arrive at the creek bed. “Only the best for my friends — fifty-nine-cent bologna with cheese-substitute slices.” Everyone groans. “Work up some appetites. I made dessert too.”

  “And that is?” Ashley walks next to me as I slowly descend the rocky hill to the creek bed.

  “Fruit Roll-Ups.”

  “I’m glad you came out here with us, Katie.” Ashley sets up two lawn chairs, one for each of us. “Tate usually chases off the new people in town.” She leans in for a loud whisper. “They fear him.”

  Ashley looks a lot like Chelsea — tall, slender, blonde, ridiculously cute. But there’s nothing about her to dislike. Kindness radiates from her blue eyes. And I’ve yet to hear her utter the word Prada.

  At Tate’s war cry, the seven other people with us tear off T-shirts, kick off shoes, and jump into the water.

  “That creek is always freezing.” Ashley laughs as she watches the group yell and splash around. “But it’s some of the clearest water you’ll ever see.”

  I slather on some sunscreen and roll up my shorts a few inches. I wasn’t ready to strip down to my bathing suit for these people, so I just went with some cute denim shorts and a tank. I figured the combination of a two-piece and my cast was too hot for anyone to handle.

  I’m halfway through my second People magazine when Tate climbs up the bank, stands over me, and shakes off like Rocky after a bath.

  Knowing he’s expecting a girly shriek, I continue my reading. “Thanks. I was getting a little hot.” I grin over the magazine.

  He rests his arm around Ashley. “Hey, Ash, it’s now the portion of the day in which I work on my tan, so I’m going to need that chair.” She gets up without protest and heads straight for the group at the river.

  “That was nice of you to relieve her, but I don’t need a babysitter. I’m perfectly content up here watching you guys.”

  He shakes his head and sighs. “You were watching me? I knew it. I try, Katie. I do try not to attract the ladies. But I can’t help myself. What can I do to make myself less . . . irresistible?”

  I hold my laugh. “I totally relate. I get so sick of the constant stares, the boys begging for my number. I’m more than just a pretty face, you know?”

  “It’s a burden, indeed.” He reaches into a cooler, opens a water, then puts it in my hand. “Prayer is all that gets me by. God gave me this cross to bear, so I know he will see me through.”

  “I knew you’d understand.” My phone sings, and I check the display. Charlie. I glance at Tate then answer.

  “Hey, Katie. How’s it going?”

  I smile at his voice. Ugh! Why does he still do this to me? Charlie could call and read the Sports Illustrated table of contents, and my heart would still do flips.

  “It’s going.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Okay.” Not even going to discuss it. The day is too nice to ruin with talk of the anti-parent. “I heard you guys are getting ready for a date auction. That sounds fun.”

  Beside me Tate puts on his headphones and rocks out.

  “Yeah, wish you were here to help.”

  What does that mean? He wishes I were there so we could be together? Or he wishes I were there because I could help hang up fliers in town?

  “Frances mentioned Chelsea’s been having a hard time.” Hint, hint. This is your opening to tell me once and for all where you stand with her.

  “Um . . . yeah. Things are . . . interesting, I guess.”

  Interesting? What does that mean? Are lips involved in interesting?

  “So . . . we got disconnected yesterday when I called. I really wanted to talk to you about some things.”

  “I wish they all could be California girls!” Tate belts out a summer tune loud enough to scare the birds.

  “Who was that?”

  “Huh?” I focus on the phone call. “Oh, nothing. Er, no one. Charlie, I’ve really been thinking about our last conversation too. I wasn’t sure if — ”

  “Hey, guys! You about ready for lunch?” Tate yells out toward the water.

  “Who is that, Katie? Where are you?”

  “Um . . . I’m at the river. With some new friends — church friends.”

  “You ready for my special bologna sandwich specialty? The secret is the corn chips under the — oops.” Tate notices the phone and gives me some space.

  “Who’s that?” Charlie’s tone is as friendly as a pit bull.

  “That’s my friend Tate. He’s the pastor’s son.”

  “Your friend? Wow, you work fast.”

  No, God does. “He’s a friend, Charlie. Am I supposed to stay holed up in my mom’s trailer and not make a life for myself here?”

  “No . . . no, of course not. That’s . . . um, great you’re making friends. Yeah. Well, anyway, I guess now’s not really a good time to talk.”

  I can tell even if it were, he’s done. “No. Can I call you later?”

  “Yeah. And Katie . . . I’m sorry. Things have just been kind of wild here.”

  Like flaming kitchen wild? No, I don’t think so.

  “Everyone misses you.” Charlie’s voice deepens.

  “I miss everyone too.” Could we be any more vague?

  “Do you think — never mind. I gotta go. Have a good time with your new friends. Just don’t forget your old ones.” And the line is dead.

  I sigh and snap my phone shut.

  “Let me guess — boys are stupid?” Tate hands me a sandwich, and I inspect the contents.

  “Something like that.”

  He waves his own sandwich as he sits back down. “It’s okay. I’m not offended. We’re genetically destined to screw things up — especially with the ladies.” He stops talking, his eyes intense on mine until I take a bite.

  “Mmmm.” Was that convincing? If she were here, Millie would rip this processed meat sandwich out of my hand.

  “It’s the Fritos. My special touch.”

  I crunch and nod.

  “So you have a boyfriend?”

  I look out toward the water. “I don’t — um, no. Actually, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “That was good — all that certainty. One of those relationships, huh?”

  I take another bite. “I think we’re just friends. We live too far away from each other anyway.”

  “Nahh. If a guy likes a girl, distance doesn’t matter.”

  I consider this. “Really?” I shift in my seat to face him better. “Tate, do you think a guy can like two girls at the same time?”

  “Only on The Bachelor.” He grabs a Coke out of the cooler. “Not that I watch it.” He hides a smirk behind the can. “The guy in me wants to say what a lucky dude, but no . . . I don’t actually think you can like two people at once. It’s not fair to the ladies, and it’s a jerk thing to do.”

  I take a drink of my water and replay his words in my head.

  “But you’re not the type of girl who would let a guy play you, right? I totally don’t see that. You’ve got too much fire for that.”

  Yeah, I’m all about the fire.

  Tate shakes his curly mop. “Wow, getting deep over here. Anyway, remember yesterday when you mentioned you were a drama queen?”

  I laugh, grateful for the lighter subject. “Yeah?”

  “My dad has me teaching Sunday school now. I’ve been trying to spice it up. You know, make it more exciting, but it’s not working. So I had this idea. I wondered about you and me putting our heads together and writing some skits.”

  “Like Bible stories?”

  “Yeah, and acting
them out. You know, some Jonah and the whale. Or maybe the story of Jesus walking on water — I’d play our Lord and Savior, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you think?” He sees my reluctance. “Come on. God gave you those talents for a reason. Use them.”

  It does sound kind of fun. And my theatre muscles do need a good stretch. “Okay. I’ll try.”

  “Cool.” He nods and smiles. “Maybe we could start with a little Adam and Eve, Garden of Eden business? I’m all about realism, so for a costume I thought maybe you could — ”

  I douse him in my water.

  “Or not. Totally okay. Clothes are good too. I’m game for both of us wearing clothes.”

  DESPITE MY PROTESTS, TATE HELPS ME up the steps, around the cats, and to the door of the trailer. Mom’s car is parked out front, so when I step into the living room, I expect to see her there. But the room is empty.

  I walk back to her room and find her sprawled out on top of her bed. I guess when you only sleep a few hours a night, a nap might be in order. I definitely relate.

  In the kitchen I mix up some tuna salad, and breathing through my mouth so not to ingest the nasty fish fumes, I stick it in the fridge to chill for Mom. Then I go to my room and pull out my Bible. My finger traces over my name embossed in gold. I open the cover and read the inscription from James and Millie, written when I first came to live with them.

  I turn to the book of Matthew and read through some chapters like Tate asked me to do. So Peter walked on water to Jesus? I jot down a few notes and skit ideas.

  “Katie?”

  I glance up, my finger marking my spot, as my mom comes in. She sees what I’m reading, but says nothing.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask. “There’s some tuna salad for you in the refrigerator. And no kitchens were harmed in the making of your dinner.”

  She smiles and lounges by me on the bed. “That’s nice of you.” Her hand plays with a loose thread on my comforter. “I forgot your doctor appointment, didn’t I?”

  “Yep.” I gauge her expression for anything revealing. Did she really forget? Was she on something and out of it? Was she wrapped up in work?

  “Mrs. Scott is gonna have my hide. But I called and the doctor can see you next Monday.” She rubs a parched hand over her face. “Remember when we lived in that one-bedroom apartment near Austin? And we’d watch Gilmore Girls together?”

  “Yeah, those were good days.” Minus the parties, the cracked-out strangers, the nights I’d spend alone.

  She leans back and props her head on her hand. “We were kind of like them, huh?”

  Yeah, except Lorelai wasn’t psycho. Or on drugs.

  “Katie, I would like things to work here. I’m trying . . . I really am.”

  “I know, Mom.” I want to reach out for her hand. But I don’t.

  “I’m figuring this stuff out as I go. And I’m going to mess up a lot. I’m not the soccer mom type.”

  “I don’t exactly see you in a minivan anyway.”

  Car lights flash into my room, and Mom jumps up. “That would be John. He’s coming over to watch some stupid baseball game. He doesn’t have cable.”

  No, but he has a job, and that makes him a winner compared to all the others.

  As Mom gets the door, I get out the bread and tuna for them and PB&J for myself.

  “What happened in here?” John points to the peeling and singed wallpaper around the stove. My eyes dart to Mom.

  She joins me in the kitchen, wraps her arm around me, then pops a chip in her mouth. “Katie and I were just thinking about decorating.” Her grip tightens. “It’s about time some things around here get a makeover.”

  Chapter twenty - eight

  I DON’T JUST HAVE BUTTERFLIES in my stomach. I have acrobatic moths or bungee-jumping bees.

  Tate picks me up for church the next Sunday, and my mom waves good-bye from the door. Though I am confident in my acting abilities — and let’s face it, I can command a stage — I have never had something I’ve written on display, up for public opinion. Or in this case, the judgment of twenty or so kids of the glue-eating age.

  “Hey — ” Tate swats my knee. “Don’t look so stressed. We had a good run-through last night. Everything’s going to be great. We’ve written a great script, and I’m a fabulous actor, so — ”

  I clear my throat.

  “All right, and you’re not too bad an actor yourself.”

  “That’s actress, thank you very much.”

  “Katie, you really are talented. I like how you brought some comedy to a passage that really isn’t funny. The kids are going to eat that up.”

  I feel my cheeks warm and fix my gaze out the window, staring at pieces of this small town that still seems so foreign.

  “So what do you want to do when you graduate? Study theatre?”

  I open my mouth. Then shut it. “I really haven’t given it a lot of thought.”

  “Are you serious? You haven’t thought about your future? Your career? College?”

  “I’m more of a day-by-day girl, myself.” I punctuate my sentence with a playful wink. But inside the butterflies start a tango. How can I think about the future? Who knows where I’ll be or what will happen to me? College was never even an option for me — until I went to live with the Scotts. Before them, graduating high school wasn’t too likely. And now — I just want to figure out my place here in Middleton with my mom. Who has time to dream?

  He pulls into a parking spot at the church, and by the time I grab my purse and script, he’s opening my door. I take his outstretched hand and slide out of the truck. I inhale just a hint of his tangy cologne, a smell that’s becoming familiar to me, and feel a brief moment of calm. I can do this. I can totally be Peter for those kids.

  The corners of Tate’s mouth lift, revealing pearly white teeth. “You ready to walk on water?”

  “I think I am.” I return his smile. “But like I mentioned earlier, I will not refer to you as God before or after the skit.”

  “Oh, come on. Lunch is on me if you keep it up the whole day.”

  “You’re lucky I’ll even be seen in public with you.” And we enter the building and head back to the children’s area.

  I change into my low-budget costume (a sewn-up brown sheet belted off with one of Pastor Jamie’s ties) and meet Tate “onstage” in time to greet the first batch of kids to walk through the door.

  I watch him call each kid by name, rough up one’s hair, then give another little guy a piggyback ride. The kids are all over him — pulling on his clothes for his attention, showing spaces where teeth used to be, and telling stories about their weekend. And Tate, hanging on their every word, couldn’t look more interested if he were talking to the president. Humming a happy tune, I join the group and help him greet the rest of the kids.

  At ten o’clock, Tate welcomes everyone and begins his tale of Jesus feeding five thousand people. The kids’ eyes widen as he holds up five loaves of bread and two rubber fish. In the role of Jesus, he builds on the Bible story, describing the disciples drifting in harsh winds on the lake.

  I climb into Pastor Jamie’s canoe and pretend to row. “Wow, it sure is windy out here. Sure is dark. I hope my hair isn’t getting messed up.” My body jerks in trembles, and the front row of kids giggle.

  “Wait!” I cry. “What is that? Who is that? Do you guys see that man? He’s walking on water.”

  “It’s Jesus!” our crowd cries.

  “Jesus,” one kid repeats, like I’m a total moron.

  I stand up in the canoe, balancing myself with a paddle. “Jesus? Is that you?” As best as I can with my gimped ankle, I shake my legs, my knees knocking.

  Tate raises his arm and unfolds his hand. His eyes burn into mine. “Take courage. Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”

  I chatter my teeth so hard, the back row ought to be able to hear. “Lord, if it is you, call out to me. Tell me to come out to you on the water.”

  God, I feel like th
is is my own life. Like you’ve put me in this impossible situation — like Peter walking on water. I need you to make it okay for me too. Peter couldn’t walk on water without you, and I can’t do this — this new life — without you. I want to take my courage from you. Please reach out and get me before I go under. Please.

  “I’m right here.” Tate’s soft voice washes over me, snapping me back to the moment.

  With one crutch, I climb out of the boat and step by tedious step, make my way to him. “Look at me!” I call out to the audience. “I’m walking on water! I’m walking on water! I’m — ” My face falls. My head jerks down. “I can’t walk on water!” And I slowly squat down, flailing my arms. “Help me! I’m drowning. Help me, Jesus!” Please help me, Jesus.

  Tate meets me, and my hand warms as he holds it. “I’m right here. I’m not going to let you go. Not ever.”

  I start to rise, my eyes steady on my castmate. “Don’t let me sink.”

  “Where’s your faith? Why do you doubt me?” And together we climb back into the canoe. As Peter, I bow my head and pretend to pray as Tate approaches the group and gives them some final thoughts on faith.

  “No matter what situation you find yourself in, God’s always there, hand out, ready to pull you through.” He looks back over his shoulder, and I feel the weight of his stare. “He saved Peter. And he wants to save you.” And he leads the kids in a prayer.

  “That went great,” Tate says, as he drives through my trailer park. “Loved the part where your knees knocked together. But I was a little afraid you were going to fall.”

  “Yeah,” I laugh. “I might need to stay off my ankle this afternoon. All that rocking in the boat wore me out.” He stops in my driveway and races around to get my door before I can protest.

  “Hey, a group of us are going to watch a meteor shower on top of Stony Peak tomorrow night.” He sees my look of ignorance. “It’s a cliff top in Tuckerville. You should go with us.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not really into meteors.” Or cliffs.

  “Oh, come on. These things don’t come around every day. It will be something to remember.”

  Oh, I think I’ll have plenty to remember from this time in my life. “I don’t know. I was going to get some important stuff done tomorrow night — like file my nails. Or dust my mini-blinds.”