by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Sixteen
It was two days later, Sunday morning, and I had just arrived at Calvary Chapel. I was in the Sunday school room poring over my lecture that I had prepared earlier that week. Maggie was right, even though I had refused to believe that I was toying around with the notion of quitting my duty as Sunday school teacher. I loved the children but had considered my calling to be something higher than teaching kids the Word of God. The pastor of the church was Keith Denny, whom I idolized. He walked the line that he preached. He had a way with words, too. Really connected with the parish. And thus attendance rose following his replacement of pastor Gates a year ago. Naturally I was thrilled when he said I possessed a rare gift, and that is making learning scripture fun for kids. He didn’t pay out compliments often, so the ones he did issue were received like an unexpected check in the mail.
Keith Denny thought I’d make a great pastor. He said just that, last year, shortly after replacing pastor Gates, and since then I had desired to be what he was, a pastor for Calvary Chapel. It was my conceit that made me think that I was too good to limit my talent to teaching kids, that I was put on this earth for something more. Something on a wider scale than a dozen or so kids. I would be teaching kids as my day job someday anyway, so I didn’t need to do it again on Sundays with a fresh set of kids. I saw my job as something I needed to do (but enjoyed doing nonetheless), as it was a stepping stone to something bigger. It gave me much needed experience. But the time had come to move on. I had long been thinking that, even as my heart had protested it. I had deeply connected with most of these kids, and a more rewarding feeling there is none. God wanted me to teach these kids, but I was considering putting my ambitions above His will. Maggie was right about that. It took her telling me to open my eyes. Or at least to admit to myself that I was headstrong on following my own will above His. What I wanted to do was change God’s will, not my own. I prayed that He’d see it my way, that I had more to offer in leading a flock of adults a dozen times greater in number than was my current flock of twelve or so kids.
As I stated, I loved these children. And I mean that literally. I hoped that when I eventually became a pastor that these children would inevitably be a part of my flock. They wouldn’t be kids forever, after all.
Most of them had already been influenced by their parents, so they accepted God easily and never argued my teachings. Some of them were just bored to be there, and I could understand that. I’d have been one such kid ten years ago. Only one of the children gave me a hard time. He wasn’t bored to be there. He seemed to be put there purely to be a thorn in my side, to challenge me. Maybe God guided him there to test my strength.
I called him Trouble. I thought his parents should have named him that. I called him it affectionately, though, or at least feigned it. “There’s Trouble,” I’d say with a grin when he entered the room. I had given Trouble every chance to fit in with the rest of us, but as they say you can’t win every battle, and with Trouble you can’t win any battle. I secretly hoped his parents would change churches. Trouble had been a part of my Sunday school class for only a few weeks now, so he was a new student, and a somewhat new teenager at fourteen. Fourteen is a rotten year for kids who were raised by lazy non-caring parents (I’m not saying those are among his parents’ traits, but had I met them I wouldn’t be surprised if they were just that). Fourteen is typically the first rebellious year of a kid’s life. Trouble was a scrubby scrawny little kid who wore the same blue jeans every Sunday, identifiable by a few rips and frays in the pant legs. It was as though the crappy jeans were a part of his Sunday school uniform. His shirts varied, but they were too casual as well. I had no idea who his parents were, didn’t care to know, but it was evident they took no pride in their son’s appearance, and on the most sacred day of the week at that.
Brooke was my favorite child. I never called her Brooke, I called her Tinkerbelle. She reminded me of Tinkerbelle from Peter Pan. A spritely little blonde kid with ruddy cheeks, capering about in a skip and song, with an underdeveloped body for her eight years of age, as if her mother had been a smoker when she was pregnant (though she was absolutely not!). She was no taller than your average five-year-old. She was thin, pallid, had a thatch of dense unmanageable buttermilk-blonde hair, and possessed enormous blue eyes like something out of a Keane painting. They were hard not to stare at. So beautiful they were, a deep cobalt blue.
What I loved most about Tinkerbelle was her enthusiasm, which was infectious to the other kids, as was her smile with pearly white teeth, a couple of them crooked. Her parents I did know, Sven and Juliann. They were blonde and blue-eyed as well, Scandinavian immigrants—Sweden, I believe. Their Tinkerbelle was their reason for living, and who could blame them? She was the kind of kid who makes you want to have some of your own, and pray that they turn out just like her. And that had nothing to do with how cute she was (okay, maybe a little). It was her politeness, disposition, and positive attitude. But on the other side of the coin was the likelihood that she might make you a young grandparent, and give you ulcers once she reaches the age to date boys. Not to mention the kids on backs of milk cartons are rarely homely; they tend to look like… like Tinkerbelle. Ever come across a kid so precious that you wish science had reached a point that we could cryogenically freeze the growth gene to keep them locked in youth? If not, you haven’t met Tinkerbelle.
My students adored her, with the exception of Trouble—hardly surprising.
Today Trouble decided to give her a wedgie, pulled the back of her underwear high up. Poor Tinkerbelle bemoaned the discomfort, but was too agreeable and kind to get angry with him. She asked him to pick on a girl his own size, and did so with a pleasant-enough expression. It angered me. I made Trouble stand in the corner (yes I’m aware fourteen is an inappropriate age to send to the corner), and was a little surprised that he obeyed me. Had it been any other kid forced to stand in the corner, the other kids might have teased him a little, lightheartedly. But Trouble’s peers didn’t want to get on his bad side, even though they had found his bad side the moment their paths had crossed.
There were sixteen chairs in the room, four rows wide and deep. I had less pupils than that, but only by a couple. They were listening to me sermonize about Jonah being swallowed by a whale. It’s a fascinating story for youths. They can hardly believe such a thing happened.
“Was it a Sperm whale?” Trouble asked from the corner, delighted by his cleverness. He had faced away from the corner without me noticing, sat Indian style on the carpet floor. He smirked at me. The children craned their heads around to see him.
“Enough, Trouble,” I said.
“Sperm,” he said thickly and laughed.
“What’s a sperm?” Tinkerbelle directed at me, extending the er of sperm for several seconds. Anything out of that kid’s mouth was cute, I tell you.
“It’s a kind of whale,” I replied, then glared at Trouble. “You’re supposed to be facing the corner till I say you can return to your seat.”
“You’re not my dad,” he said. “Go on and tell panty-girl what sperm is, Aaron.”
“I already did,” I said and really glowered at the boy. “Enough disrupting my sermon. If you insist on being a nuisance, you can leave us.”
“Good,” he said crossly. “I’m bored.”
“Why are you such a jerk,” the boy seated beside Tinkerbelle said to Trouble. The boy was Freddy, a soft-spoken introverted eleven-year-old. I couldn’t believe of all the kids it was Freddy who finally railed against Trouble. And it changed the air of the room at once, created a palpable tension that hinted at ugly confrontation.
“I didn’t know you were in love with Brooke,” Trouble said, provoking Freddy. “Brooke, are you in love with Freddy too? Huh, Tinkerbelle?”
“Don’t be mean,” Tinkerbelle returned.
“I mean it, Trouble,” I said in an authoritative tone. “I won’t stand for this behavior.”
Trouble looked up to his left at the closed doo
r, a kind of surprised look that I wasn’t expecting. It was an image I’d revisit frequently in the coming days. There was a gravity to it that escaped me just then, but wouldn’t for long.
Trouble then fixed on Freddy, who was now facing me and undoubtedly regretting that he opened his fool mouth. His gaze was low, cheeks red. His assailant regained that loathsome smirk. “Hey Freddy,” Trouble taunted, “kill any hamsters recently?”
Freddy’s eyes blinked wide. He turned to look at the punk kid seated in the corner. “You shut your dang mouth!”
The kid looked up to that same empty place in front of the doorway. His smirking mouth stretched a smile. He returned his attention to Freddy to say, “You’re going to hell for killing that hamster. Satan is going to ram his pitchfork up your butt.”
I gasped. I knew I had to take control of the situation and fast. Before I could take action, Freddy bolted from his chair, tipping it back into the boy behind him. “I hate you, Paul! I hate you! You’re such a bully!” He then b-lined toward Trouble, ranting, “That’s what you are, a bully! A bully! I bet your parents wish they had a different kid than you!” He stopped short of Trouble, fists clenched, eyes sharp.
“Like your precious Brooke? Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend or something? She doesn’t even have tits yet, what’s your problem?” Troubled laughed.
I resolved to march over to the troublemaker and take him by the arm and out of the room, out of the church, but didn’t get to him fast enough. I had wasted too much time being locked up with incredulity.
Freddy’s buttons had been sufficiently pushed. Reserved or not, introversion be damned, he pounced on Trouble. Shockingly, Trouble didn’t attempt to thwart the attack. He was too busy laughing. Freddy put his hands around the delinquent’s neck and throttled him. I was now rushing to the boys.
“You want…” Trouble said, panting from hysteria, “you want Brooke to touch your little weenie, don’t you?”
“Shut your damned mouth!” Freddy cried.
“Enough! Both of you, enough!” I shouted as I separated the two, pulled Freddy off the lousy kid.
“God hates kids who kill their hamsters,” Trouble said with great satisfaction.
“I didn’t kill Jackson,” Freddy argued, “he just stopped being alive! Stop saying I killed him!”
“Says you,” Trouble retorted.
“Take your seat,” I said to Freddy, touching his back. “I’ll handle this.”
“You’re just jealous of Freddy,” Trouble said to me and giggled. “Jealous that Brooke is in love with Freddy and not you.”
“Enough!” I clasped his wrist, yanked him to his feet. “You’re no longer allowed in my Sunday school.” I began leading him not through the door into the church but to the back exit which opened to the overflow parking lot. I wasn’t about to have this kid enter the church to make a scene there. He wasn’t resisting me, which was a good thing because nothing on earth would have stopped me from ejecting that kid out of my class.
“In a few years or so,” Trouble said, being pulled behind me, “your little Tinkerbelle is going to be Marie’s age. Remember what you did to Marie under the bridge? What you stole from her? What you stole from her you can never return. How do you feel about that? Did she look at all like Tinkerbelle?”
Thunderstruck, I let go of his wrist and froze in place. I couldn’t guess as to what my expression was, but Trouble found humor in it.
“Who told you about Marie?” I whispered.
“Whenever you see blood, do you remember poor Marie? What you did to her? Love thy neighbors—you sure loved your neighbor Marie, eh?” More laughter.
I slapped the kid across the face in a loud thwack. Instead of scaring him, he found humor in that as well. I was more than a little disconcerted. It felt like I was stuck in a nightmare. I prayed to God to give me the strength needed to deal with this situation that was quickly becoming a crisis.
The kids remained in their chairs (save for Freddy, who stood in the back watching the ugliness transpire). All were silent, mouths agape. Most were too young to piece together what Trouble was referencing between Marie and I, but not all of them. I had a couple teenagers. Kaitlin was one such teenie. Her hand was over her mouth, eyes perfectly round. An unnerved teenaged boy was checking the children around him, worrying for them as they endured the malicious words of Paul.
I retook the boy’s wrist and egressed him out the back door, where morning sunlight made me squint. I closed the door behind us, stood before Trouble with my arms folded under my chest, breathing heavily. I wasn’t angry but confounded, bewildered. And Trouble, he looked bored just then. Was this boy bipolar or what? What had just happened didn’t move him at all. There was no remorse or shame, just arrogance. The situation was under control, under his control.
“Why did you say those things?” I demanded.
He looked away and shrugged. Then yawned, which might have been a ruse to get me in a dander. I wanted to slap him again.
“Maybe you and I should have a talk with your parents,” I said threateningly. “Who are your parents?”
“None of your business. And besides, they don’t go to church.”
That was just as shocking as anything he might have said. They didn’t go to church? Why would a boy of such a rebellious constitution go to Sunday school if his parents didn’t take him? Or maybe they did take him, and dropped him off to get him out of their hair for an hour or so. That had to be it.
“You aren’t welcome here anymore, Paul. I mean it. Find another church to make miserable.”
“Doesn’t God say to forgive?”
“Yes, and I would forgive you if you asked for it, but you didn’t. And won’t.”
“Yeah that’s true,” he said and the corners of his mouth upturned.
“How did you know about Marie?”
He turned his chin up at me. “You fucked her, didn’t you?”
His vulgarity didn’t anger me as it should have. I didn’t care that he just used the F word. I had bigger things on my mind.
“How do you know about her? About Marie. Tell me.”
“None of your goddam business.”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.” That vulgarity I couldn’t let slide, not in the house of God (or parking lot of His house).
“Saying his name in vain couldn’t be a bigger sin than suckering a little girl into having sex with you.”
“I was young, so don’t make it out to be something worse than what it was. Yes it was horrible what I did, and yes I’m contrite. But you need to tell me who told you this.”
He shrugged with a wry grin. “A friend.”
“Nobody knows about that,” I said. “I don’t believe you.”
“I wonder if Kaitlin would let me do to her what you did to Marie.”
“What on earth is wrong with you? How could a fourteen-year-old be so angry, so vitriolic? Leave Kaitlin out of this. She’s a good girl, doesn’t need to be corrupted by you.”
“Good girl, yes. Good to take under the bridge. I bet you’d like to take Kaitlin under that bridge at the riverbed,” he said knowingly. “You know which one I’m talking about, by Fresno State.”
I nearly struck the kid once again. It took all my concentration to restrain myself. “If you return to my class,” I warned, “I’m going to call the police and have you escorted out.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’d call the police? What will the cops learn if you did that? Maybe that you hit a minor? I have witnesses. Try landing a pastor gig with that on your record.”
“Landing a pastor gig?” How on earth did this kid know so much about me! He did have one heck of a point, there was no denying that. I didn’t want him telling the cops that I struck him. Assaulting a minor is one of those game changers, the ones you spend your remaining years regretting, living in consequence.
“Just go away and don’t come back. Okay?” I s
ounded less authoritative than pleading.
“Nah,” he drawled. “I think I’ll stay, actually. It’s kind of fun. And I have a feeling Brooke is going to grow up to be one hell of a hot chick. Maybe I’ll have some fun with her under the bridge, if you know what I mean.” He winked at me.
I lost control, saw red. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently, some crazed expression on my face. “Shut your fucking mouth!” It was the first and last time I uttered that word since I was fourteen.
He was laughing, so I shook him harder yet. One shake was so severe that his head snapped back with a cracking sound; his vertebrae re-aligned. That sobered his laughter. He gripped my forearms and ripped them away from his shoulders, glared at me incensed. He pointed threateningly at my face. “Don’t you ever touch me again,” he said in a low tone, eyes burning with rage. “Ever. Do it and it won’t be the police who takes you away, but a mother fucking coroner. Got it?”
I took a solemn step back from him, retraced what I had done. This kid was turning me into a monster. Turning me into what he was. He was brilliant at getting under my skin. In that aspect he outsmarted me. Outwitted me.
“Go on and leave,” I said firmly. “Don’t come back.”
“No! I already said I’m staying so accept it! You got yourself into some serious shit touching me, you’d do best to remember that!”
I was speechless, had no smart comeback to that.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, sounding much more adult than he was. “We’re going back inside and pretending this never happened. Consider that a gift. I’m staying today and will be back next week, so you’re just going to have to deal with it. Try me and you’ll be getting busted by the cops. That’s the cold hard reality of it all, Aaron.”
“Just tell me this and we’ll return inside,” I said. “Who told you about Marie?”
“Mind your damned business.”
He opened the door and went inside. I followed him in. The kids were utterly silent, their eyes jumping between Trouble and me. I was discombobulated, couldn’t even recall what my lesson for the day was. Paul took his seat at the back and stared at me apathetically, as if nothing had happened.
“I uh…” I began after an awkward silence. “Let’s sing a hymn.” I cleared my throat, sweat dotting my brow, and began singing: “Jesus loves me this I know…”
The kids weren’t singing along.
“Come on, everybody,” I urged, “sing along.” I tried out a smile; it felt as unnatural as it looked. “Jesus loves me this I know…” One kid joined in, then another. “For the bible tells me so. We are weak and he is strong…” Now everyone sang along, except for the enigma in the back. He grinned his malicious grin at me, eyes cold and calculating.
Before that hymn would end and a new one would begin, I had resolved to tell pastor Denny that I was done teaching Sunday school. Freakin’ done. I was going to put in for the pastor position at the new Calvary Chapel (just months away from completion) across town. I’d tell him after service.
