Paige Torn

by Erynn Mangum

I blink. I have never asked myself that question.

  “Look at Deuteronomy chapter 7. If you’re like me, you skip over these important books and head straight to the New Testament.” A few people in the room chuckle. Pastor Louis turns the pages in his Bible and reads, “‘For you are a holy people to the LORD your God; the LORD your God has chosen you to be a people for His own possession out of all the peoples who are on the face of the earth.’ And a little farther down, he says, ‘Know therefore that the LORD your God, He is God, the faithful God, who keeps His covenant and His lovingkindness to a thousandth generation with those who love Him and keep His commandments.’”

  Pastor Louis looks up from his Bible. “You see? God is not good to us because we deserve it. God is not good to us because we are so needy and sad. And God is not good to us because of anything we’ve done or will do. No, God is good to us because He is good! His goodness is a part of Himself. And He is good to us because He chose us.”

  He looks around the room. “If you’ve ever felt like you’re not good enough, like you’re not strong enough, like you don’t do enough, stop. Rest. Realize that God is good. And He has chosen you.”

  He starts flipping in his Bible again. “What has He chosen you for?” He points at the Bible. “Ephesians chapter 1: ‘He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we would be holy and blameless before Him.’”

  He says a few more things, but I don’t pay as close attention because I am busy writing down references and underlining holy and blameless in my Bible. Holy and blameless.

  I know I’m not living holy or blameless. I mean, goodness, I haven’t even had a chance to read my Bible in a week. I bite the inside of my cheek and make a note on my bulletin:

  Set alarm for 30 min earlier tomorrow.

  If I am so tired at the end of the day that I can’t focus on my Bible reading, then maybe the alternative is to get up earlier and read in the mornings.

  Pastor Louis finishes his sermon, the band plays two more songs, and then everyone is dismissed. The church erupts into a volcanic mass of chatter, laughter, children squealing, and the general sounds of people standing, stretching, and gathering their belongings.

  “Hi there!” a cheerful woman behind me says.

  I turn to see a plump, dark-haired woman about thirty-five standing there.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “I’m Cindy.” She shoves her hand toward me. “Are you new here? What’s your name?”

  “I’m Paige. And no, not new here. New to this service, though.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Paige! God bless you!”

  I haven’t sneezed so I’m not sure what her exclamation is for, but I nod and give her a smile before pulling my jacket on and heading toward the door. “Bye.” I wave to her, trying to be friendly.

  I mash and cram my way through the crowded hallway all the way to the end of it where the youth room is. Apparently, we have a leaders’ meeting today. What is with all these leaders’ meetings lately anyway?

  I’ve barely had a chance to look through the material since Tyler and Layla ended up staying over so late last night. I skimmed through it while I brushed my teeth last night and this morning. It looks like we’re going to begin a new series on the basics of Christianity.

  “Hola.” Rick says “hello” in a bad Spanish accent as I walk in.

  “No marshmallow gun?” I greet him.

  “What? Come now, Paige. I am a responsible, peace-loving father.” He rolls his eyes. “Sheesh.”

  I nod to the Mountain Dew in his hands. “Bad night?”

  “Paige, I love my daughter, but I swear she’s nocturnal. We had the raccoon of babies. We went home yesterday about four in the afternoon. She slept the entire day, all through dinner. Nat nursed her at ten, we laid her down, we all slept until midnight, and then we were all awake until …” He looks at his watch. “Well, it’s almost eleven forty-five.”

  “Sorry, Rick.”

  “Just pray for me. I drove here and I have to drive home.” He rubs his bleary eyes and nods to Julie and Trevor stacking the chairs so the janitor can clean the youth room this week. “Thanks, guys.”

  “Sure thing, Rick,” Trevor says.

  Rick looks at me. “So, what do you usually do first service again?”

  “I teach the toddlers every other week. On the off weeks, I go to the main service.”

  Rick nods. “How would you like to start coming in here and helping out with the youth ministry on the off weeks?”

  I set my stuff down on one of the chairs Julie and Trevor left for us. “What would I be doing?”

  “Nothing, really. Just being here for the girls before and after, so if they have any questions or need anything, you’re there. Pretty much what you do on Wednesday nights but without the teaching.”

  No extra teaching sounds okay. Then I can just continue going to the second service. As much as I like hearing the current lessons on how Gandalf is apparently an allegory to Christ, I’m not getting too much out of the singles’ class.

  Lord of the Rings just isn’t my style. If I’m going to read a book, I want it to take place in the real world.

  I shrug. “I can maybe do that.”

  “Great!” Rick looks genuinely thrilled.

  Sam and Trisha walk in, and Tyler comes in last again. “Morning everyone,” he says, smiling at me. He drops into the chair next to mine. “How was Sunday school?”

  “I went to the service this morning.”

  He grins. “Really? I didn’t even see you there. Bummer. We’ll have to sit together next time.”

  “Yeah.” I try to inflect some enthusiasm into my voice but honestly, I loved this morning. It was just me and God. I miss that.

  “All right, guys, I won’t make this long,” Rick says. “I know you’ve probably all got plans, and I need to go sleep. But I did want to go over the new curriculum with you and make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

  “What page is that?” Sam asks.

  “Right now? Oh, page 1, I guess.” Rick grabs his binder off the pulpit. “I actually wrote this over the last few months. I want it to be something where the kids are learning the same thing on Sundays and Wednesdays so it really sticks, you know? So, today we talked about sin and you guys will all do a short lesson on it, look up a few passages, and then I’ve got about ten or fifteen discussion questions on it.” He taps his binder. “Any questions?”

  Everyone shakes their heads and Rick nods. “Great. It’s pretty straightforward. Plus, I’m excited about having all the small groups going through the same thing. All right. Have a good Sunday.”

  “Sleep well,” I tell him.

  “Thank you. Hopefully that will wait until after I get home.” He yawns.

  I head out to my car after waving good-bye to everyone. Layla texted me during the meeting.

  WANT TO GO LOOK AT DRESSES TODAY?

  I write her back as I walk across the parking lot. SURE. LEAVING CHURCH NOW. WANT ME TO COME TO YOUR PLACE AND PICK YOU UP?

  My phone buzzes as I climb into the car. SOUNDS GREAT. SEE YOU SOON!

  I drive to Layla’s apartment. I feel germy. Children have been all over me this morning. One little girl fell on the playground and spent the next ten minutes crying alligator tears and leaking snot all over my shoulder.

  I don’t feel very bridesmaid-y.

  I get to her apartment, walk through Murder Alley and up her stairs, and knock on the door. “Come on in!” she yells from inside.

  I walk in and she is standing in the kitchen, wearing a green apron and oven mitts. She has her hair in a haphazard bun on the top of her head. Peter is sitting on the couch watching football.

  “Hey, Peter,” I say, walking past him into the kitchen.

  “Hi.”

  And there you have it, folks. The longest conversation I will have with Peter this week.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Layla.

  She grins at me and turns back to peering into h
er oven. “I’m cooking!”

  I look around her kitchen. About nineteen dishes are stacked in the sink, flour dusts one of her counters, and there is a slimy bag of potato peelings on the counter. “You read the Pioneer Woman blog again today, didn’t you?”

  “Possibly. But don’t those potatoes look amazing?”

  I look in the oven too. She has some kind of potato casserole bubbling in the oven. It smells good, anyway.

  “Did you guys not go to church today?” I ask her.

  “We went to first service. There’s a playoff game on today.”

  Priorities and all that.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Yeah. And I decided to get culinary while he’s watching the game. Apparently, these potatoes are like the best potatoes ever known to man and perfect for football game days.”

  I’m not a huge potato fan, but I blame that on my way-distant Irish heritage. A family can only stomach so many potatoes before someone in the lineage can’t stand them.

  “How was Sunday school?” Layla closes the oven door and sets the timer for another five minutes. “What allegory did you study today? Diary of a Wimpy Kid?”

  I grin. “I went to service instead.”

  “No way. You skipped out on singles’ class?” she gasps. “People are going to think you up and married, you know.”

  “Maybe. It was really nice.”

  “Up and marrying?”

  “Service.”

  “Right. It was a good sermon today.”

  “Rick asked me to start coming to the youth group on my off weeks from the toddler class,” I tell her.

  “Oh yeah? What did you say?”

  I shrug again. “I said sure.”

  “You have a hard time telling him no.”

  I lean against the counter. “I do not.”

  “Do too. When was the last time you said, ‘No, Rick. I can’t do that’?” She leans against the opposite counter, crossing her flour-covered arms over her chest.

  I think about it. “One time he asked me to chaperone a broomball game.”

  “And I said no for you because you were so sick you couldn’t even text.” Layla sticks her finger in the air. “Doesn’t count.”

  “I don’t know, Layla. I don’t mind helping out.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She opens the oven again and pulls the casserole out.

  “What’s in that?” Something about the way it’s starting to congeal just seconds out of the oven doesn’t look right to me.

  “Potatoes, chives, cheese, milk, flour, and gelatin.”

  “Gelatin? Like Jell-O?”

  “Like baking gelatin.” Layla tosses me an empty box from the counter.

  I look at the front of it. Preserving Gelatin. 4 packages.

  “How much of this did you use?”

  “All of the packages. It’s what the Pioneer Woman said to do.”

  “Where’s her blog?” I ask.

  Layla points to the kitchen table, where her laptop is set up. I click the touchpad, and the screen lights up to the blog.

  “See?” Layla says, coming over behind me. She points to the screen. “Layer the potatoes, chives, and cheese in a nine-by-thirteen baking dish. Then pour the milk and flour mixture over it.”

  “Where does it mention gelatin?”

  She frowns at the screen. “It did say it right after that. I scrolled down to see what direction was next, and it said to sprinkle four packages of preserving gelatin over the pan.”

  I scroll down. And get to her next recipe.

  Whole Berry Breakfast Casserole.

  It calls for four packages of gelatin.

  I look back at the potato casserole, and the whole thing seems to be almost breathing. It looks alive.

  Which is not how potato casserole should look.

  “Oops,” Layla says sadly.

  “It smells good,” I tell her, trying to be nice. It does smell good even if it looks strange. Potato casserole should not wiggle like that.

  I am suddenly pretty certain I’m not going to be hungry the rest of the day.

  Layla sighs, pulls off her oven mitts, and brushes the flour off her arms into the sink. “People like me shouldn’t be allowed to cook.”

  “Oh come now, Layla. You made those brownies that one time, remember? Those were good.”

  “They were from a box. I’ve seen monkeys on YouTube who can make those brownies.”

  I snap my fingers. “And you made those green beans with garlic and brought them to the church potluck.”

  “From the frozen section. They were even in a steamable bag so all I did was throw them in the microwave.” She sighs and washes her hands. “At least Peter can cook.”

  This is news to me. “He can?” I ask quietly. “What?”

  “Lots of stuff. Pancakes. He made this meatball soup a few weeks ago at his apartment that was his mom’s recipe growing up.”

  I had no idea.

  “I’m going to get ready to go. I want to look like a bride and not like that girl with the crazy hair from whatever that Pixar movie is when I’m trying on wedding dresses.” She disappears into her bedroom and closes the door.

  This is awkward. Just Peter and me. I can’t decide what will be more awkward. To join him in front of a football game I couldn’t care less about? Or to stand around in the kitchen with a pan of potato Jell-O?

  Eventually, the potato Jell-O starts scaring me, so I go into the living room and sit on the glider chair.

  Peter looks over at me. “Smells good in there.”

  I blink, feeling what I imagine the first people to experience a movie with sound felt like.

  They are speaking aloud!

  “Well, it didn’t turn out too well, so I wouldn’t get your hopes too high.”

  He shrugs. “Okay.”

  A few minutes of complete silence go by, save for the low drone of the announcers on the TV.

  “So,” I say, “Layla said you can cook?”

  “Hmm?”

  “She said you can cook? Pancakes? Soup?”

  “Oh,” Peter says, looking at the TV. “My mom had left a container of the soup in my freezer. I just stuck it in the pot and stirred it.”

  God bless their future children. I immediately start praying that one set of their parents will move into town so they at least have a chance of a good solid meal once a week.

  Layla opens the door, looking cute in a gray sweater dress, black leggings, and boots. She pulls a red scarf around her neck and grabs her jacket.

  My dashboard showed it was seventy-one degrees when I was driving over here after church. She is going to roast, but I don’t say anything.

  It is January, after all.

  “Ready?” she asks me cheerfully.

  I stand and nod. “Yep.”

  “Bye, sweetie.” She leans over to kiss Peter. I look away. It is awkward watching friends kiss.

  “Bye. Have fun.” Peter offers her a smile before turning back to the TV.

  Layla opens the door; I grab my purse and follow her out.

  “I vote we go to Panda for lunch first,” Layla suggests.

  “Didn’t we just have Panda?”

  “You can never have too much Panda Express, Paige. Never. And anyway, I’m buying. My grandpa just sent me a big check as a wedding present.”

  “You don’t want to save that money for something other than fast-food Chinese?” I ask her, unlocking my car.

  She slides into the passenger seat, and we both buckle our seat belts while I turn the ignition.

  She shrugs at me. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. A down payment on a house? Or at least an apartment without Murder Alley?”

  She waves her hand. “Potato, po-tah-to. What you call Murder Alley, I call a peaceful stroll. And anyway, Peter wants us to move into his apartment after the wedding.” She makes a face, and I feel my nose wrinkling as well.

  Peter, with all his charming personality and engaging wit, is not the best housekeeper. An
d yes, I am being sarcastic.

  “That places freaks me out. I just know something lives there with him.” Layla shudders.

  I gag. Now I really am not hungry.

  “Or we can just go look at dresses,” Layla says after a second.

  “Good idea.” I back out of my parking place. “Where am I driving to?”

  “Marcello’s. We’ll start there.”

  Marcello’s is a big national wedding dress chain, which usually means they can offer better prices but the dresses are not as unique as the smaller boutiques. However, the biggest reason to go to Marcello’s is their legendary customer service. Supposedly, from the moment you walk in, people wait on you hand and foot. You want coffee? You get it. You want a caramel macchiato? You get it.

  One of our friends who used to be in the singles’ class told us that she’d mentioned offhand something about being hungry for shrimp while she was there with her mother-in-law, and one of the ladies who worked there came out a second later with a full shrimp dinner for her.

  I kind of want to go and just see if all the buzz is right.

  It’s about a thirty-minute drive from Layla’s apartment, so Layla starts messing with the radio, tuning it to a country station. “I think I want to walk down the aisle to Keith Urban,” she says dreamily.

  “Sadly, I’m pretty sure he’s already taken. And for that matter, so are you. And anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s too short for you.”

  Layla laughs. “No, you dork. I meant I want to walk down the aisle to one of Keith Urban’s songs.”

  “Like what? The song where the girl is like a bird? The song where the girl is like a song?”

  She purses her lips. “True. He doesn’t really have very good wedding songs, does he?”

  “Not so much.” Not in my opinion anyway. But I am way more traditional than Layla. I think brides should walk down the aisle to that “Here Comes the Bride” song.

  I pull into Marcello’s and we both just sit in the car for a few minutes, staring up at the huge, beautiful building in front of us.

  “Wow,” Layla whispers.

  “Yeah.” I nod.

  Huge, beautiful white dresses hang in the windows on mannequins who are poised to marry other faceless mannequins in black tuxedos.

  “I bet they get some Mr. Potato Head parts at their wedding.” I elbow Layla.