by Erynn Mangum
I sober. “Mr. Hillerman,” I whisper darkly.
“That’s right, Paige. Let it out.”
“What is the Spelling Bee Horrificalness?” Tyler asks me. “And y’all realize that’s not a word, right?”
“Sure it is,” Layla says matter-of-factly. “B-E-E. You know, buzz? The thing that stings you?”
“No, I meant — ”
“It was freshman year,” Layla interrupts. “Our first year in high school and we were not really making strides up the social ladder, if you know what I mean. I had this huge puffy hair and Paige had glasses and braces and, well, neither of us had gotten the whole eyeliner thing down. And there was this schoolwide assembly for a spelling bee about, oh, maybe right around Christmas that year.”
“I was a pretty good speller,” I say. “I couldn’t figure out that stirrup pants had been out of style for like fifteen years by then, but I could spell.”
“Read geek,” Layla tells Tyler.
“Hey!”
“Loveable geek,” Layla says.
“Anyway. I got beaten out of representing our grade by Anthony Lakerson, because the day of the semifinal, I had a sinus infection and I could barely breathe,” I tell Tyler.
“Anthony was an even huger dweeb than Paige, if you can believe that,” Layla adds.
Tyler raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s a word either, but go on.”
“D-W-E-E-B,” Layla spouts off.
“No, I meant — ”
“So anyway,” Layla interrupts again. “Weeks go by and there we all were in the gym. They’d built this little stage with the two podiums on it for the people in the spelling bee and then all of the rest of the students sat on the bleachers. And our gym was really …” She looks at me, frowning.
“Echo-y,” I say.
“Right. Very echo-y. During basketball games, I had to leave because of how loud the squeaks from the players’ shoes were.” She shudders. “I still can’t watch basketball. Peter spends a lot of time alone in March.”
“Peter?”
“My fiancé. Keep up, Tyler,” Layla says.
“Anyway,” I say, setting a calming hand on Layla’s arm, “Anthony was up against another student at the school, and in the first round, he got the word robust.”
“Okay,” Tyler says.
“So, Anthony spells it R-O-B-O-O-S-T, ” Layla says.
“Roboost?”
“Exactly.” I nod at Tyler. “And that’s when it happened.”
“What happened?”
“Paige laughed like Cruella de Vil, and I’m not even kidding.” Layla leans forward, all serious.
“It wasn’t that bad.” I roll my eyes.
“Oh, trust me. It was bad. I was sitting right next to her, and quick as a flash I slapped my hand over her mouth, but I wasn’t fast enough.” She shakes her head mournfully.
“I couldn’t help it. I was still a little mad about the whole thing where he beat me out because of a stupid sinus infection.”
“So her laugh echoed across the entire gym,” Layla says slowly. “And it kept echoing and echoing until poor little Anthony Lakerson sat down on the stage and wept.”
“No way,” Tyler says.
“He didn’t weep,” I say.
“Oh, he cried.” Layla nods. “He cried hard. He cried so hard his mom had to push her way down the bleachers and take him home.”
“I felt really bad,” I say. “I told him I was sorry later. It just kind of … popped out.”
“The apology?” Tyler asks.
“The laugh.”
He grins.
“Anyway.” Layla gets back to her gummy bears. “Later Anthony told everyone he’d been cutting onions all week for his mom’s big Christmas feast and that’s why he started bawling in the middle of the stage and he thought maybe the onion fumes had gone into his ears and made him hear words differently. Like roboost instead of robust.”
“And that’s the Spelling Bee Horrificalness,” I say.
“And now we know it’s all Mr. Hillerman’s fault.” Layla looks at me.
“Teachers have a great responsibility in this life.” Tyler nods.
“For good or for evil,” Layla says soberly.
“Well, I’ll have to remember I’m in the presence of a spelling snob then.” Tyler smirks at me.
“I gave that up.”
“Sort of like how I gave up meat.” Layla chews a gummy bear.
“Except I gave mine up years ago, and Layla has now gone two hours,” I say, grinning at my best friend.
“So, you’re engaged,” Tyler says.
“Yep. Hoping to follow in the tradition of my parents, set so grandly before me,” Layla says dramatically. “You can come to their surprise anniversary party if you’d like to. Though, to warn you, there is a good possibility there will not be any animal products on the menu.”
“When is this party?” Tyler asks.
“February 22. And we’re going to spend the night in the park beforehand. Me and Paige.” She pats my knee again. I guess that means Peter has backed out. Like I knew he was going to.
“Yeah.” I try to muster up some enthusiasm.
Tyler looks at me and then back at Layla. “Wait, just the two of you?”
“Yep! It’s going to be great. We’ll bring sleeping bags … we’ll roast marshmallows. We’ll sing ‘Kumbaya.’ It’ll be epic.”
“Uh-huh.” Tyler looks back at me. “Have you thought about maybe asking a few more people to join you in this epicness?”
“Definitely not a word, Tyler.” Layla shakes her head.
“Sure it is. J-O-I-N. Join. You know, when more people come spend the night at the park so you don’t get murdered the night before your parents’ anniversary party.” He gives her a stern look. “Somehow I doubt that would be the best way to pay homage to their grand example for you.”
I start laughing. Any guy who can dish it back to Layla is okay in my book.
Layla pauses and thinks about that. “I guess that would be good, huh.”
Tyler nods. “Staying alive? I think so.”
“No, having more people to sing ‘Kumbaya.’ Two people just don’t really make a great campfire sing-along and no offense, Paige, but our voices don’t mesh very well.”
I shrug. No offense taken there. She speaks the truth.
Sunday morning, my alarm goes off at seven.
Now, I love being a Christian. I love Jesus. I love reading my Bible, and I love that I can go to God anytime in prayer.
I don’t love that church happens so early on one of the few mornings I have off from work. And I especially don’t love the weeks when I’m teaching the two-year-olds’ Sunday school class, because I have to be there thirty minutes before I normally would.
If there are any unperks of being a Christian, I consider less sleep one of them.
I finally talk myself into getting out of bed by seven fifteen, stumble to the shower, and turn the nozzle all the way to hot. Good showers only happen if the water is so hot that my feet are purple when I get out.
I stare into the mirror while I wait for the water to heat up. My eyes have big dark circles under them, and I swear I see a new wrinkle forming on the side of my right eye. I am twenty-two years old. This is not supposed to happen for many more years.
Maybe it’s the very late night last night. Tyler and Layla both ended up staying until well past midnight. We ended up half watching, half talking through the rest of Clueless and then Just Like Heaven.
I take a quick shower, blow-dry my hair, and pull on a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeved Henley-style shirt. Rule number one in teaching the two-year-olds is that nice church clothes are a definite no. Particularly if your nice church clothes include a super-cute jersey skirt that has a fold-over waistband instead of an actual waistband that can’t be pulled down.
Yeah. I learned that lesson the hard way.
I plug in my curling iron and look at my hair. It isn’t as long as Layla�
��s and it certainly isn’t her pretty, chocolaty brown. My mother liked to tell me my hair was “golden brown,” but that made it sound a lot prettier than it actually is.
Should I ever have the money someday for highlights, I’ll make it blonde again like it was when I was a little kid.
My dad always tells me that you can marry more money in five minutes than you can make in a lifetime. Which is why my mental list of what I am looking for in a future husband includes the words rich doctor.
They’re right below frequent shaver. An occasional five o’clock shadow is cute, but I really prefer a clean-shaven face.
Probably has something to do with being raised in Texas, where it consistently reaches ninety degrees and 100 percent humidity. The less you have to wear, the better, and that includes facial hair.
Which is also why doesn’t think a swimsuit is nice summer attire is on my list. And that one is self-explanatory.
I get to church at eight thirty after making a stop at Starbucks. I am well on my way to becoming one of the esteemed gold-card members with how often I go there. I sip my macchiato, then look at the cup, frowning.
If I give up macchiatos, will I have enough to get highlights every month?
I take another sip and shake my head. Isn’t worth it. I’ll stay dishwater blonde or brown or whatever color my hair is. You can never underestimate the power of a personality, compliments of the wonder drug caffeine.
My coteacher, Rhonda Matthews, shows up at about eight forty-five. “Paige, I am so sorry.” She hurries through the half door looking pretty harried. “Mandy woke up with a cold, Reid’s alarm didn’t go off, and Ben decided that he would only come to church with me if he got to pick out his outfit.” She hustles her two-year-old son, Ben, into the room. Ben looks … colorful.
“Nice boots, Ben,” I say. It’s hard work to pull off red cowboy boots with green athletic pants about two inches too short for you.
“What do you say to Miss Paige, Benjamin?” Rhonda demands, hanging her purse and jacket on the hooks by the door. This is the thing about us Texan women. It may be seventy degrees out, but dang it, we are going to wear those cute jackets when it is supposed to be wintertime.
Ben pulls three fingers out of his mouth, slobber covering them. “Tanks, Mwiss Paid.”
“Sure,” I say. One of these days, I will figure out how to get that stain-master stuff sprayed on the jeans I wear on Sunday school teaching days. And maybe some form of germ repellent.
Rhonda watches Ben wander off toward the toys and shakes her head. “I really need to go through his closet this week and pack away all the pants that size. Kids just grow up too fast, you know?”
“Mmm.” I nod, like I do know. In my opinion, though, these kids are never going to grow up and stop putting everything in their mouths. You’d think parents would want their kids to finally reach that stage. I watch Ben gnaw on a plastic dinosaur he just picked up out of the toy bin, then finally look away.
If I ever invent germ repellent, I can seriously become a zillionaire. Sunday school teachers everywhere would thank me.
By the time it’s nine fifteen, we have twenty-three kids and insanity. Two teachers are about eight teachers too few when it comes to controlling twenty-three children who know only three words very well: Mine! No! and Hey!
Somehow, we create some semblance of order and get everyone to sit in what might pass as a circle. “All right, guys, we’re going to sing a few songs and then listen to a Bible story, okay?” I say in my best version of that lady from Lamb Chop.
“I hate to sing!” one boy screeches as he stands and runs for the toys.
“Yeah! Me too!” Ben yells.
“Tough,” Rhonda says, pulling out her mom voice. “Now you will sit down in the circle and you will sing songs. You get it?” She takes both boys firmly by the hands and leads them back into the circle. “And, Wesley, I know your mother. And I am not above tattling on you.”
Wesley, properly chastised, slinks into a seated position and eyes me with about as much sweetness as a dill pickle.
“Um. ‘Jesus loves me! This I know,’” I start. Because really, there is no good way to start singing about the Savior’s unending, unbelievable love when you are just told you can’t play with the toys and your mother’s friend is going to tell on you.
The kids join me one by one, and by the time we’ve sung it four times over, everyone is singing and a few of the braver kids are attempting to do the hand motions with me.
We sing “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” “This Little Light of Mine,” “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy,” and then a new girl politely asks if we can please sing the theme from The Little Mermaid.
“It’s really very easy to learn,” she tells the other kids. “Everyone listen. ‘Look at this stuff, isn’t it neat?’”
“Gabriella,” I interrupt. “How old are you again?”
“I’m four,” she says, holding up three fingers.
“Yeah, honey, you’re in the wrong class.”
“But you’re a very good singer,” Rhonda tells her.
“Yes. Very good.” I look up at Rhonda. “Is Tiffany still out there?”
Tiffany is the eighth grader who sits out by the check-in desk to make sure all the parents grab one of the panda, koala, or giraffe cards, depending on how old their child is, so they can check them back out. It is apparently a security system, but seeing as how Tiffany left her post fifteen minutes into class and someone can easily just grab a panda card and come take a child, I don’t see that it does too much. I just try to remember which parent goes with each kid.
Rhonda sticks her head out the half door. “Nope,” she says.
“Okay then. Gabriella, you’re going to be our helper today. Does that sound good to you?”
She nods happily, like I’ve just told her she is going to go to Disney World.
I really should switch to the four-year-old class. But then I look over at Kayla, the most adorable little girl in the entire world, and change my mind.
“Okay. Story time,” I say, and Rhonda takes over.
Rhonda is a master storyteller. I think every mom becomes one when she leaves the hospital. It’s definitely a motherly thing.
Today’s story is about David, the little shepherd boy who was anointed to become king.
Joshua raises his hand.
“Yes, Josh?” Rhonda asks.
“Why did they pour syrup on his head?”
“Not syrup,” Rhonda says. “Oil. It is something they did back then to show honor. But,” she says quickly, “it is not something we do today. So y’all leave your mama’s pantry alone. Yes, ma’am?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben says.
All the other kids nod solemnly.
Like I said, Rhonda is very motherly.
When she finishes telling the story, all the kids come and sit down at the tables to make their craft of gluing cotton balls onto a cardstock cutout of a sheep. I’ve written the memory verse for this week on the back of the sheep.
Then we let the kids play outside on the playground until their parents come to pick them up.
Rhonda gathers her purse, jacket, and son and then gives me a head wave. “Bye, Paige. I’ll see you in two weeks for this madness again.”
I laugh. “Bye, Rhonda.” I pick up my Bible, purse, and jacket and walk down the hall to the singles’ class.
I am almost there when I think about what Tyler said about singles’ classes and how he much preferred the main service. Seeing as how Pastor Dan is still on sabbatical and I’ll probably hear some talk about how Xbox is not just a biblical thing but a good thing for every Christian, I turn and head back down the crowded hallway to the auditorium.
The auditorium is packed with people coming in and people trying to leave and people standing in the way of everyone who is doing the previous two things.
Apparently, there is just something about aisles that begs people to stand in the middle of them and talk, completely bloc
king the way.
I find an empty row toward the back on the right side and set all my stuff down on one of the seats. Since most of the people I know go to either the first service or the singles’ class, I hardly recognize anyone around me.
I sit down and smile to myself. I can sit here and worship Jesus however I want to without worrying about what my friends around me think. I can quietly take notes without being passed a note that has Hey, we should go get donuts for Sunday school scrawled on it.
I start getting excited.
Then I start getting worried that I am excited I am going to be alone.
The music begins and the lights dim into almost complete darkness. A young couple squeezes past me into my row, followed by an elderly woman and what looks like her teenage granddaughter.
I have saved myself two chairs. One on the aisle, one right inside just so I know I’ll be sitting by myself.
Our music pastor, Victor, and his wife, Carrie, start harmonizing the beginning of a worship song. We all stand, as is customary.
I close my eyes and just listen for a few minutes as everyone around me starts to sing. The young couple two seats down don’t have very good voices but sing out anyway. I also hear the elderly lady’s gentle warble and the teen girl’s soprano.
I start singing and suddenly the only voice I can hear, the only voice that really matters, is my sad, usually off-key voice. But it isn’t an issue. Not right now. Not when it is just me and God.
I raise my hands without caring what the people around me think, sing the words, and feel peace for the first time in a few weeks.
Pastor Louis climbs onto the stage as the notes of the final song hang in the air. “Thanks so much, Victor and Carrie,” he says while the auditorium claps politely and sits down.
I sit down and pull my Bible over. Pastor Louis talks for the next forty-five minutes on God’s goodness and how it does not give us license to sin, but it gives us an example to follow. “We like to say that God is good all the time. And yes, He is good all the time. But have you ever asked yourself why?”
