by Mina Bennett
"Is that a witch?" someone else said.
"What?" said Jacob. "I thought it would be funny."
"Jacob," said Lily, "that's your family."
"What? No it's not."
"No, I mean, that's the exercise. If you tell people to draw a family, whatever they draw, that reveals how they secretly feel about their family. That's the whole point of it." Her smile was starting to fade. "It's...honestly, Brandon drew someone hanging from a tree, but this one really takes the cake."
Jacob was still smiling. "That's stupid," he said. "Be careful with that psychology nonsense. They'll stuff your head full of all kinds of ridiculous garbage."
***
I wasn't sure why, but after I got home, I found myself in a particularly reflective mood. Digging into the back of my bookshelf, the forgotten second row that I'd crammed behind newer books in recent years, I found my junior class yearbook. George looked at me curiously as I pulled it out, sitting cross-legged on the floor and scratching him behind the ears while I looked at the slightly dusty cover.
Smiling slightly, I started thumbing through the pages. It was funny how much people had changed without my noticing. Jacob, though - Jacob was impossible not to notice. When I got to his picture, I stopped and suppressed a giggle. Back in those days, he was a little cherub-faced kid with glasses that were half the size of his face. No idea what happened, but he grew into himself somehow. He'd shot up in the last couple years, becoming one of the taller guys at church, with a strong, stubble-covered jaw and blue eyes that sparkled with humor, more often than not.
Sometimes, I wasn't sure where the defense mechanism ended and his personality began. Anyone else would laugh at me for even thinking like that. But I knew. I saw the way he let his head slump into his hands when he thought no one was watching.
Other people didn't notice, or didn't care to. But even if I'd never seen his façade crack, it was just a matter of putting two and two together. Ever since his sister was born, his life had been a series of devastations, disappointments and harsh realities. Carefree cheerfulness was the only way to be in the face of all that, I supposed. Anything else, and you risked losing yourself in it.
His strength was beyond me. I was pretty sure if I had to deal with everything he was up against, I'd just crumble under the pressure. But he was out and about every day, smiling, laughing, spreading joy. His happiness was infectious. If it was all fake, it was a heck of a forgery.
Thinking about him made me happy, for a while, and then very sad and then very guilty as I realized that he was someone who actually had a reason to act like a depressed misfit. His life was actually, objectively more difficult than average. Me, I just made things difficult somehow. It wasn't on purpose, certainly, but it didn't really matter. The end result was the same.
It had been that way for as long as I could remember. There was something heavy inside me, a deep and abiding weariness that sometimes almost felt like a giant hand, physically holding me down. Some days it was a struggle to get out of bed. Depending on what mood my mom was in, she'd either dismiss it with "what do you have to feel sad about?" or quote scripture at me, reminding me that this world was "a veil of tears" and that people who weren't sad all the time must be crazy.
But I knew it wasn't true. I knew not everybody felt like I did, and if I was being honest with myself, I knew that my feelings had a name. But in Hobb's Vale, "therapy" was a dirty word and "depression" was even worse. One time, after a particularly bad fallout with my parents, I'd ended up in a counseling session with Pastor Dave where he told me that all I needed to do was "surrender myself to Jesus." I didn't know what that meant. I still don't.
As a kid I prayed every night, but I never heard an answer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jacob
It was like anything else. At first, I was in shock, sort of - just going through the motions, day to day, not thinking or feeling much of anything. The gnawing sadness didn't really set in until after dark. I'd lie there and feel sorry for myself, disgustingly so, while some ridiculousness like "Can't Make You Love Me" played in my head. I probably even wrote a few poems.
Basically, I'm not proud of it.
But eventually, things went back to normal, like they always do. My thoughts grew less sharp and eventually the pain started to fade. It settled into a dull ache, and most of the time I didn't even notice it anymore.
Church was the hardest. I made a point of not looking at her - at them - whenever I could manage it. Seeing her face made the ache worse again, like biting down on an abscessed tooth. So I just avoided it. Eventually, Mark was going to get a placement at some church or other, and it would hopefully be far enough away that he'd be forced to move. She'd go with him, and we'd see each other rarely, or not at all. That was how these things went.
As far as I was concerned, she was already gone.
One Sunday, I was standing by the snack table, which was as far as I could get away from Mark and Marissa, staring at the muffin tray. Cinnamon streusel, or blueberry?
Or maybe poppyseed?
Or maybe it didn't matter, because it would turn to dust in my mouth?
"Hey."
I started, feeling a fist gently prod me in the upper arm.
"Penny for your thoughts." It was Lily, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always. She was grinning at me, a little curiously.
"Trying to pick a muffin," I said.
"Hey, that's a hard decision. I didn't mean to break your concentration. But if I can make a suggestion -" She picked up a quarter of a bran raisin one, and popped it into her mouth. "These are surprisingly good," she said, chewing.
"I'll take your word for it, thanks," I said, backing away from the table with a smile. "On second thought, I guess I'm not that hungry."
"Well if it takes you that long to decide, I'd guess so." She fiddled with the end of her ponytail. "So you're into bikes, huh?"
I carefully averted my eyes from Marissa, but I could still see her in my peripheral, talking quietly with Mark. "Yeah," I said. "I ride whenever I get a chance."
"That's cool," she said, grinning. "I kinda remember you fixing people's bikes when we were little. I never had one, mom always said I had enough to deal with between ballet and soccer and cheerleading camp..."
We'd obviously led very different lives.
"Sure," I said. "Well, never had much going on, so bikes were kind of my thing."
"That's cool," she said, again. Her eyes darted around the room, like she was searching for some topic of conversation. "Most people think it's weird when I tell them that I never learned how to ride."
I shrugged. "Well, I don't think it's weird. But if you want, I could teach you sometime."
"That would be great!" She nodded enthusiastically. "Okay - I need to go, my family's heading out to the car, but let's talk next week, okay?"
"Sure," I said, slightly bemused. She ran off, quickly overtaking her family on the gravel-covered slope that led down to the parking lot.
***
As I leaned my bike against the Henderson's garage door, I could hear that the barbecue was already in full swing. And more than that, I could smell it. My stomach grumbled as I headed towards the source of the sweet, smoky scent that had been making my nose twitch for the last five miles.
"Hey man, hurry up," was Brandon's greeting as he laid his hand on my back and hustled me towards the grills. "There's not much ribs left."
"Okay, okay! I'm coming." I did like ribs, but I wasn't sure that I shared Brandon's near-spiritual connection with them. There actually were plenty left, along with an abundant supply of pasta and potato salad, chips, fruit salad and sodas. I saw Mark with his camera, standing a ways away from the group, snapping away with a fedora perched slightly cockeyed on his head.
"What's with him?" I glanced at Brandon, who was eyeing the ribs on my plate. "Back off my ribs. I see that gleam in your eye."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he insisted. "And what - Ansel Ad
ams over there? I guess he has this secret ambition to be a photographer. He thinks it'll tie in nicely with his mission work."
"I don't think Ansel Adams ever shot people."
"Whatever. You think of a famous photographer."
I took a bite of my ribs.
"You can't, right?" Brandon looked more thoughtful than triumphant. "What a thankless art form."
"Well," I said. "You're really just capturing what happens in that moment. It's not like painting or sculpting something."
"Oh, no. This isn't turning into another 'is poker a game of luck or skill' debate. That nearly tore us apart." Brandon flicked a watermelon seed across the lawn. "Where's your girlfriend?"
"That's real mature," I replied. "And, as it happens, I don't know."
"You guys talking about poker?" I turned around, seeing Mark approach us with his camera dangling around his neck. "I hope you're not thinking of gambling on the Lord's day."
He was smiling, but I couldn't tell if he meant it or not.
"Nah, we're just talking about pointless arguments," said Brandon. "Did you have some of these ribs? They're amazing."
"Not yet. I prefer Memphis style, but the host obviously outdid himself." Mark unscrewed the lens from his camera and tucked it into his bag. "And you can't help but appreciate that, right?"
Brandon and I both nodded. Mark had a certain way of asking questions that made you feel you had to answer, even if they were clearly rhetorical.
"Well," said Mark, when he realized we weren't going to contribute anything else. "I'm going to grab something to eat before it all disappears. Catch you guys later."
"You see that?" Brandon muttered, as he walked out of earshot. "He took pictures before he ate. He prioritized his pretend photojournalism over food. That's not right, man."
"Yeah, well." I picked at a bone on my plate. "He works in mysterious ways, that one."
"He seems way less concerned about where his fiancée is than you do," Brandon pointed out. "And that ain't right either."
I shrugged, looking down at the grass. The last thing I needed right now was someone validating my stupid flights of fancy about Marissa.
Finally, I found her, leaned up against the edge of the house, away from everybody else. Of course. I went up to her, waving a little. She waved back, favoring me with a half-smile that quickly faded.
"So Mark's a hat guy now, huh?" I picked at a potato chip on my plate.
She hid a smile. "Hat guy? What's that mean?"
"You know. A hat guy."
"As opposed to a guy who wears a hat?"
"Yes."
"What's the difference?"
"Well, it depends on whether it's a necessity or a fashion choice. A lifestyle, if you will."
She was giggling. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. Mark's a hat guy. I can see it now. I can't believe I never noticed it before." I grinned, reassuring her that I was just kidding around.
"Well, he doesn't wear hats to church. That'd be weird."
"Sure, but wearing a Prohibition-era gangster hat to a Sunday afternoon barbecue is totally normal."
Marissa shook her head, but she was smiling at me. "I think he just likes the way it looks."
"Sure, that's how it always starts. You're marrying a hat guy, Mari. I hope you're happy with your choices."
She glanced down at the ground, and then back up at me. "I've seen you wear hats," she said.
"In the winter." I pretended to be scandalized. "That's completely different."
"Sure." She laughed, folding her paper plate in half. "You're weird, Jacob Warren. I'm gonna go find a garbage can." She disappeared around the corner of the house.
"Hey," said Brandon, startling the living daylights out of me.
"Holy - where did you come from?" I demanded, nearly jumping out of my skin as he appeared behind me. "I swear. You're going to kill me."
"I was just lurking over there," he said. "Eavesdropping. For reference, you're coming on a little strong."
"I'm just joking around," I insisted. "I mean, come on. He's a hat guy. Am I supposed to just leave that alone? I'm not that strong."
"Sure, a joke's a joke, but you're not laughing."
"You're making, like, absolutely zero sense right now."
"Okay. Sure. I'm the crazy one." Brandon turned to go. "But don't come crying to me when she breaks your heart for the eleventy-millionth time."
"Wait." I grabbed his arm. "Are you talking about my stupid Sunday school crush?" I forced a laugh. "Don't be - you're - come on, man."
Brandon turned abruptly, and his expression was uncharacteristically serious. "Listen to me," he said. "Here's what you need to do, okay? You need to stay far, far away from her. She's only going to hurt you more, and she's not going to mean it, but that doesn't mean it's going to hurt any less. You've got to protect yourself. She chose somebody else. Let her go."
I couldn't find the words to contradict him.
"And I mean stay away," he went on, lowering his voice further. "I mean turn down all of these invitations. Skip out of church as much as you can. I know that sounds like bad Christian advice, but trust me when I say you need to get her out of your mind. Stop seeing her, and especially stop seeing her and Mark together. It's poisonous. Just tell people you got a job, or actually get a job. Or you have homework or something. I don't know. Just - trust me."
I cleared my throat. "You're being awful melodramatic," I managed to say.
Brandon's face changed a little - shut off, shut down. Back to his usual sarcastic self. "Sure," he said. "All right, yeah. Guess I'm just seeing things that aren't there."
Defeated, I went indoors to wash my hands and splash some water on my face. He wasn't serious, was he? He couldn't be serious.
But deep down inside, I knew he was right.
***
I sat for a long time in Henderson's living room, in humiliated silence. I honestly didn't think I was that obvious. I'd even managed to mostly convince myself that I was over my schoolboy crush on Marissa Moore. But if Brandon could see it so clearly, then so could everyone else.
So could Marissa.
That was the most horrifying idea of all. Marissa herself, quietly pitying me in my lovelorn state. I couldn't stand the thought of it. I had to stop. I had to get over her.
There was just one problem: how?
I'd read all the right books and websites - True Love Waits, I Kissed Dating Goodbye, everything that had been recommended to me since I was a teenager. But nobody ever seemed to address this problem. What happens when you love somebody, and they don't love you back? How was I supposed to focus on serving God when the girl of my dreams was slated to marry another man?
I had to do something. I had to get out of this town, or at the very least, find something to get my mind off Marissa. I'd been harboring these feelings for so long that they were just a part of who I was, always lurking beneath the surface. They had a part in shaping every decision I made, and I couldn't believe it had taken me this long to realize how pathetic that was.
Vaguely, I started to become aware that someone else was in the room again. I looked up, slowly. It was Brandon.
"I'm sorry, man," he said, sitting down.
"No," I said. "You're right."
He just shrugged.
"What do you think I should do? I honestly don't have the first idea how to start...getting over someone."
"You want to know what I honestly think?" Brandon raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. "Get a job."
CHAPTER SIX
Marissa
"I'm...sort of in a bind," Mark said to me, as he handed me a cup of steaming cider from the refreshment table.
I looked at him, taking a cautious sip. It was too hot, and it burned my tongue slightly going down.
"I was supposed to have someone from school helping out with the younger kids at VBS tonight, but they bailed on me. Do you think you could
step in?"
"Okay," I said. I blew lightly on my cider.
"Great," he said. "I think it'll be fun for you."
I wasn't sure that mattered, one way or the other.
Mark had been "courting" me for a few weeks now, taking me out to lunch and dinner and talking to me about his future plans - what would be our future plans, for our life together. The day my dad first told me about it, Mark had called the house shortly afterwards, asking me for the answer I hadn't been ready to give my dad. I said yes, of course. What other answer was there? Mark had sounded happy, and then told me he'd see me at church.
Since then, things had been...strange. He looked at me all the time, and I could feel his eyes always raking over me like I already belonged to him. It gave me goosebumps, and I wasn't sure if they were good, or bad.
On our outings he talked almost incessantly, which was fine with me. I didn't have much to contribute. He'd had a full life, going on several long-term missions to India when he was about my age, but he told me he'd known his calling since he was a kid. At one point he actually did stop long enough for me to clear my throat and speak.
"I used to think I wanted to be a pastor," I said, softly, trying to make a connection.
"Well." He laughed a little, patting my hand where it rest on the table. "You couldn't be one. Of course. But you could always - you know, lead a Sunday school or something. Or a girl's group."
I stared down at my plate, feeling my face grow hot. "Why not?"
"Mari, come on. You know why. It says so in the scriptures."
I knew exactly what he was referring to, in first Timothy. A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet. I'd spent a long time puzzling over that verse, struggling with its tone of cold dismissal. "She must be quiet." I felt that way enough without God reinforcing it.
