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I always wear my headphones, to distract myself, when his bedframe slams against the wall between our rooms. I confronted him once, asking why he screws himself over like he does, and he said, “I want to forget. ” It makes me sad that he wants to get away from the world so bad. I think it’s because he’s so smart, and sadness comes with knowing so much. I feel sad in that way sometimes.
That’s when I see Rachel, Tate, and Aaron waving at me from the church playground. Our parents usually let us hang there instead of subjecting us to Coffee Time before Sunday school. But where’s Seth? He’s usually attached to Rachel’s hip. I think he has a thing for her, but he’s too embarrassed to get involved with her, considering the whole scandal with her dad, the district attorney, screwing his secretary and all.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and blurt, “See you at Big Church. ”
Mom started calling services Big Church when I was little, because the adults went there while kids went to Children’s Church. I can’t seem to break the habit.
“Bye, Dad!”
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, turning to face me. “You won’t miss Sunday school this time, right?”
I rub my palms on my new dress. “It was just that one time. We got to talking about Death Cab for Cutie, and then Laura told us that Brother John believes that any secular music is from the devil! And then Aaron said that at his old church, a bunch of the youth decided to burn all their secular music. Aaron said one girl burned a new iPod. Isn’t that fucking outrageous?!”
“Young lady, watch your mouth,” Dad replies, glaring at me.
“I don’t like you hanging out with all those guys,” Ryan says, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “You know what they want, right?”
I shove his shoulder and he groans and leans against the window. His forehead leaves a sweaty smudge on the glass.
“Aren’t you cold?” Dad asks me.
“Nope!”
I love that Ryan’s bombed again and Dad’s worried that I’m not wearing a coat. My brother’s been getting trashed a lot lately. Sometimes I don’t know what to do, like two weeks ago when I came home and found him curled up in bed with an empty bottle of Robitussin on the floor. He had drunk the whole thing. And when I confronted Dad about Ryan, he asked me to pray with him.
I open the door, step out onto asphalt spotted with overgrown weeds, and make my way to the playground. It’s freezing outside, but I can’t cover up this rockin’ dress.
“Remember what I said about Sunday school!” Dad calls out. “I love you!”
“Love you too!” I yell back.
I skip toward Rachel, Tate, and Aaron, who look me up and down as I approach the seesaw. Aaron’s eyes grow wide as he takes in my hips and chest.
“You haven’t returned my calls,” Aaron says slowly, his eyes becoming narrow slits.
“I’m sorry, I’ve had a busy week. ” Now that I know this dress will have the desired effect, I’m ready to go inside to see if Brian’s here with his parents.
“You cold?” Aaron asks, slipping his gas station jacket off. Its faded blue linen smells like dust and rain. Last week I buried my face in his shoulder and cringed while he peppered my neck with kisses.
He moves to slide the jacket around my shoulders, but I wave him off. He starts to put his jacket back on, looking disappointed. Corndog’s comment about me messing with his friends rings in my mind again. I didn’t realize I was hurting guys so much. It never occurred to me that they might want more. Does Aaron actually like like me? If so, I feel bad.
“You guys want to get a doughnut?” I ask.
“You? But you never eat anything,” Tate says, looking up at me. He’s 53". He laughs and runs a hand through his shaggy, honey wheat hair. I love how he wears his Converses with black church pants. Leather bands are wrapped around his wrists, and a hemp necklace with a cross charm hangs from his neck. Last week he wore an X-Men tie. I said, “I knew you were a mutant!” and he laughed.
“I love stale powdered doughnuts,” I say in a monotone.
“And I’m starving,” Rachel adds. She’s a sophomore. A younger, tinier version of her brother, Tate. She has a thing for wearing sweet little dresses and ballet flats.
Tate’s nose wrinkles. “You actually want to go inside 15 minutes before Sunday school starts?” I see his hand moving inside his pocket, touching something. Must be a cigarette he’s dying to light up.
“Please?” I whine.
“Doughnuts for the win,” Aaron says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
I whisper to Rachel as we walk. “Do you know a Brian Hoffman? I think his parents go to church with us. ”
“No, I’ve never heard of him,” she whispers back. “Hey, I love that dress. Goes great with the boots. ”
I smile. “Thanks. How’re things going with Seth? Did he ask you out yet?”
She scrunches up her face. “No. I invited him over Friday night and his parents said he couldn’t come, but he snuck out and came anyway. We kissed a couple times, but I don’t know what’s going on with us. ”
I give her a sympathetic look. “I’m around if you want to talk or anything. ”
She smiles and takes off to find Seth. We trudge up to the Fellowship Hall and get in line for Coffee Time. I avoid Mrs. Carmichael, this ninety-something-year-old lady who thinks I’m Sophia Loren. For real. She believes I’m an actress and always tries to touch my face and hair. If she gets hold of my arm, her grandson will have to pry her off me.
Then Laura and Allie strut past, giggling.
“Where does she think she is? A strip club?” Laura says, taking in my outfit.
I don’t reply—it’s not right to hurt other people’s feelings, even if they’ve hurt mine. I smooth my dress. My eyes water.
“Prudes,” Tate says under his breath, making me smile. “Jealous prudes. ”
That’s when Brother John walks by. The youth pastor says, “I hope you haven’t been smoking again, Tate. God never intended for you to abuse yourself like that. ” He scans my dress, and my body tenses up as he stalks off.
“Good morning to you too,” Tate says, the corner of his mouth edging up.
I don’t know why we still come here, what Dad’s trying to prove. I look across the room as he chats with Tim Anderson of Anderson’s Paint and Hardware and Jack Taylor of the Jack Taylor Ford dealership. Sometimes I hear them teasing Dad because he works at City Hall, stamping housing permits and whatnot, and doesn’t own his own business or have stock or anything. Whatever. He says he comes for “fellowship” and “friends,” but what kind of friends don’t stick by you after your wife leaves? No one from church ever invites him to bingo parties or to play golf anymore.
So what if he’s been coming here since he was a boy? Gramma and Poppy retired to Florida—it’s not as if they’d notice if we stopped coming. But Dad’s always talking about the good times he’s had here, hoping the good times will start again. For years and years, he ran the church-wide barbecue and held barbecue sauce contests. All the men went wild for it. But Brother Michael canceled it last year, claiming interest had gone down. Dad said he understood, but I was so sad for him.
I have a lot of good memories from church too. Pouring hot wax into sand at Vacation Bible School, to make a candle for Mom. Packing baskets of canned goods and delivering them to less privileged families. Kneeling at the altar and thanking God for my friends. For Laura and Allie, who I played Beauty Parlor with. In junior high, we’d go to the city pool, lay our beach towels on the steaming hot concrete, and stare at Jeff, this lifeguard who looked like a Ken doll and drove a Harley.
I get a powdered doughnut and a black coffee, then go stand next to a window where I can see the entire room. Prime vantage point. No sign of Brian. Tate and Aaron join me, holding white paper napkins filled with donuts.
Tate and Aaron eat approximately twenty stale doughnuts and slurp down their coffees in the amount of time it takes me
to eat my one doughnut. The church bell dings and dongs, letting us know that Sunday school starts in ten minutes. I love that bell. When I was little, the ushers would let me pull the long velvet cord, to make the bell sound clear across the county. I wish life were still simple like that sound.
It’s like the minute we entered high school, the church’s messages all changed. It was no longer about loving God. It was about not sinning. No drinking beer, no touching body parts that bathing suits cover, no swearing.
“Why aren’t Seth and Rachel hanging out with us?” I ask.
Tate’s face goes white. “Well, his mom told him to stop hanging around us…I guess she saw you and Aaron on the playground last Sunday, um…”
Aaron crumples his Styrofoam cup. “Shut up, man. ”
I stare across the Fellowship Hall at Seth. He lifts his chin, acknowledging me, then goes back to talking to Rachel. Seth’s mom doesn’t seem pleased about that either. I get that his mom wants to protect him. But Rachel’s a sweet girl.
I used to be a sweet girl.
Tate and Rachel didn’t turn on me post Mom-gate. They go to Woodbury High, with Aaron, so it’s not like we’re great friends or anything, but they’re good company. We giggle a lot. Especially when Brother John does PowerPoint presentations of common devil worshipping signs.
But Aaron’s new here. That’s the only reason his parents haven’t told him to steer clear of me, Parker Shelton, Sinner Extraordinaire.
I should have business cards made.
They say you give us gifts. You made Drew great at football, but he’s no Jordan Woods. He’ll never play in college. You made Dad an architect, but he’s not designing skyscrapers in New York or opera houses in Paris. You made me into a killer softball player. Good enough to make the all-conference team sophomore year. But more than that, you gave me something I loved.
But didn’t you realize that when you took Mom from me, that you were also taking something we shared? Mom was there the first time I picked up a tee-ball bat. Mom bought me my first glove. She showed me how to put a ball in my glove, wrap it up in a rubber band and put it under my pillow at night, so I could break it in. So I could dream about it.
But you took away that dream, and now I don’t know what’s left.
Written during services on February 14. Burned.
Brian never showed at Big Church.
But before I left, I lifted a copy of the church directory from the main office, so I could stalk Brian in the comfort of my home.
“Is that them, you think?” Drew asks, pointing at a picture of an older couple. The caption reads Mr. and Mrs. William Hoffman. Where Brian’s sexiness came from is not evident in this picture. But they’re the only Hoffmans at Forrest Sanctuary.
I close the directory, go over to my vanity, and drag a hand through my drawer o’nail polishes. I pick out Bodacious Boysenberry and carry it to my bed, where I plop down next to Drew and start removing Passion Peach.
“Let’s Google him!” he says, opening my laptop, going into reporter mode.
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