by Anne Dayton
I shrug. Beating Riley would be nice in theory, but now that she’s kind of my friend, it’s a little more complex.
“By the way, Ana, the event coordinator at the Ritz-Carlton called about the ballroom. I really think it would be fabulous for your quince. Then we wouldn’t have to restrict the guest list at all. We could easily do a full sit-down meal for six hundred there.”
I almost drop the bag of Oreos. “What?!”
“Please don’t get crumbs on the floor.”
I stumble over to the counter in shock, trying to remain calm. Did she just say six hundred people?! I know, like, ten people total. “I thought we agreed to make it a small party.”
Mom sighs. “Well, I liked that idea. But as you know, your court is supposed to have fifteen couples for the waltz. So we’re going to need a dance floor I think. Plus, your father got me his list of invitees, and it was extensive.”
I stare at the round Oreos on my plate, thinking about how to articulate my complaints. Mom and I are having such a good day. I don’t want to ruin it. “Maybe I don’t need to have damas. I could just skip the court thing.” Damas are your best friends who are a part of the court. But I don’t have fifteen best friends who all just so happen to have boyfriends. I mean, hello? I just moved here, and it’s definitely not raining men in Half Moon Bay.
Mom comes over and smoothes my hair. “Will you just come and look at the Ritz-Carlton with me? Then we can talk about it.” Her eyes are pleading.
Wow. That really worked. I stayed calm. I didn’t make any wild accusations, and she actually heard my opinion. “Sure.” I nod. “Let’s check it out and go from there.” There’s no way on earth that I’m going to have it at the Ritz, but it will make my life easier if I play along.
“Thank you, Ana,” Mom says, and wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “I think you might be impressed with it.”
I begin to unscrew the top layer of my Oreo. I don’t see how people can bite right into them and eat all three layers at once. I scrape all traces of frosting from the top cookie and think about how Ms. Moore told me to be honest with my parents and cut out all the lying. Maybe she’s right. Mom did just say I was showing newfound maturity.
Still, do I dare?
“Listen, so there’s this, uh, event coming up at school . . .” I look up tentatively. Mom narrows her eyes a little. I peel the frosting layer off the bottom cookie carefully and set it on the plate. “You see, the thing is, Riley McGee invited me to go.”
Riley’s been stopping by our table at lunch now quite regularly, and she’s got all of us convinced that the dance might be kind of fun. Once Zoe realized we’d be going together as the Miracle Girls—without dates—she was all for it. And Christine gave in all too easily to our pleading. I’m pretty sure she’s counting on Tyler being there. I shove the bottom cookie into my mouth and look up hopefully.
Mom smiles like a politician. “I’m so glad the two of you are finally becoming friends.”
I nod. “Right. So Riley invited all of us, you know, Zoe and Christine and me—”
“And I. Zoe, Christine, and I—”
Actually, it’s me. But I can’t risk correcting her right now. I take a deep breath and blurt out the rest. “She invited us to the Valentine’s Day dance and I was hoping I could go.”
My mother’s face begins to darken as if a storm cloud is rolling over it. “What?!” she hisses. She grabs my arm tightly and I twist my body to get out of her grasp. “What did you ask me?”
I see Maria hightail it out of the kitchen and I want to scream, Come back! “Mom, it’s just a school dance. It’ll be chaperoned.”
Mom shakes her head slowly at me, as if she can’t believe I’m even standing there in front of her with the gall to ask permission to actually go out for once in my life. My hands clench and I set my face.
“We agreed that you would go to the youth group Valentine’s Day party.” She says this so calmly I want to punch her. She agreed I would go to the youth group party. I agreed to nothing.
“I don’t want to go to the lame church event. Why can’t I go to the dance?” I flare my nostrils. “Everyone else will be going.”
“What does that matter?” Mom throws her hands up in the air. “Do I care about everybody else? No. Did God entrust their safety and well-being to me? No. Only you. You are the only one I am supposed to take care of, and this dance is out of the question.”
My eyes begin to well up. And God help me, I know I shouldn’t say it, but I can’t help myself. “You can’t keep me locked in this stupid pink palace.”
Mom tightens her lips and looks like she’s about to throttle me. “Stupid?”
“It’s a prison, Mom. I’m almost fifteen. You can’t keep me from doing everything.”
“You want to bet?” Mom walks across the room and grips the granite countertop. “Ana, you know the rules of our house. No dating until you’re sixteen. These dances are dangerous. Lewd dance moves, people pouring alcohol into the punch, kids getting high!”
I force myself not to laugh. Mom’s fears seem to be exclusively based on bad eighties movies. “They’re nothing like that! The teachers are really strict.” Mom turns away from me. “Be reasonable. I came to you like an adult. I asked for permission. I’m trying to have a discussion about this.”
Mom turns around quickly. “That’s it, you’re grounded again. I don’t know when you started thinking you’re an adult, but you’re not. You’re still fourteen. And you will obey the rules of this house, young lady.”
“Argh!” I throw my hands up in the air.
Mom starts to speak again, but puts her nose in the air and stomps out of the room instead. I stand there for a moment, clenching and unclenching my fists. It’s all so unfair. I did everything just like Ms. Moore said. I was honest and mature. And it didn’t work. In fact, it made everything far worse. I could have passed the Valentine’s Day dance off as an event for Earth First and gotten to go, no problem. But now, all of my friends will be there, having the kind of fun normal teenagers have, and I’ll at some stupid church party with all the other losers.
I see my math test on the fridge. Suddenly the hundred seems to be laughing at me, taunting me, saying, I can’t believe you thought that would work, you idiot. I rip it off the fridge, crumple it up, and throw it in the trashcan.
39
What are the chances Valentine’s Day would fall on a Saturday? Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s one in seven. Mackey would be so proud. Unfortunately, Mackey is probably at the school dance right now, monitoring all my friends, while I am desperately trying to channel Christine (also at the dance, by the way) and act like I don’t care. The closer we get to the church, though, the harder it’s getting. After seeing girls at school carrying around bunches of roses and balloons all day Friday, the last thing I want to do is go out and face people.
I guess I’m supposed to be grateful that Fritz organized a Valentine’s Day party for those of us with nothing better to do, but somehow it just feels like a pity event, where all the losers without dates come to make each other feel better about the fact that Jesus loves us even if no one else does. I know that both Tyler and Tommy Chu are going to our school’s dance, and Jamie mentioned she was going to the dance at her school, which means Dave will be at that, hence there will not even be a praise band tonight. We’ll probably sit around and read 1 Corinthians 13 and cry out of loneliness.
But Mom insisted I come tonight. Even when I tried to back out over dinner, she shook her head and said I had to go. And since Mom and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms right now, I decided I’d better not argue with her or she might put me up for adoption.
As Mom pulls into the church parking lot, I scan the cars and quickly realize how few there are. I feel even more pathetic. I get out as quickly as I can.
I walk to the door and try to muster the courage to go inside the youth room. It’s awfully quiet in there. What if I’m the only one who showed up? What if I’m the only one
in the whole youth group who doesn’t have a date on Valentine’s Day? Judy and Fritz will have to sit around all night, smiling at me, trying to pretend that they don’t wish they were having a romantic candlelit dinner.
I tentatively push open the door. Okay, I’m not the only one. There are not as many kids as on a typical Sunday night, but there are about twenty people inside, and after hanging out with most of them at the ski trip, I don’t feel like a total freak walking into the room.
I casually walk up to a group of junior girls. Tricia, whose mane of thick golden hair puffs out around her face, is telling a story about how someone had a singing telegram delivered in her history class on Friday. The lights are low—mood lighting I guess—and I look around the room and take in the paper hearts strung from the ceiling and the retro love songs playing on the stereo system. The snack table supports a giant pink cake, and there are confetti hearts all over the floor. I try to make out the faces on the other side of the room. I squint. Is that . . .?
My heart soars as Dave waves at me, a ridiculous shiny red necktie hanging down the front of his shirt. I smile back, command my stomach to stop turning flips, and scan the room quickly. Where’s Jamie? I can’t make out every face, but I don’t think I see her. Dave starts walking toward me, but before he gets very far, Fritz puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles an ear-splitting call. Everyone freezes. Fritz dances his way to the front of the room, then gestures for the music to be turned down. I have a very bad feeling about this. I thought this was supposed to be a party. No one said anything about activities.
He welcomes us to the festivities, then gestures to Judy, who begins to hand out slips of paper. I take one as she goes by and unfold it uncertainly.
COW, it says.
Oh great. I’m a cow. Exactly what I wanted to hear. Maybe this game is meant to explain why we’re all dateless on Valentine’s Day? Dear Ana, it’s because you’re a big fat cow with a dim bovine brain. Moo.
“Each slip of paper lists an animal,” Fritz says from the front of the room. “There are four kinds of animals. You want to be with your kind.” I freeze. I can see where this is going. Is it too late to run? “You’ll find them by making the noise the animal makes. Go.”
Immediately, the room is filled with people quacking, oinking, mooing, and meowing. I watch incredulously as two pigs find each other in the chaos, then together set off to find more pigs, oinking in delight.
Why do they always do this? It’s like the youth leaders sit up all night thinking of ways to embarrass us.
I stand still and listen carefully to determine where the other cows are, then when I see a group forming, I go over and join them silently. Dave is a cat, as it turns out, a role he embraces enthusiastically. It only takes a few minutes for the group to divide itself into barnyard clans, then Fritz gets on the microphone again.
“Now you’re in your teams,” Fritz says. “Each team will get a clue. And frankly . . . I think it’s about time.” He laughs, though no one else does. “This clue will lead you to your next clue, which will lead you to your special Valentine’s Day prize, a great treasure.”
A scavenger hunt. How romantic. Why couldn’t my parents have let me stay home? What was wrong with hiding in my room and being miserable there?
I assess my group. There’s a weird freshman guy named Phil who’s apparently a champion diver, but whose freakishly blond hair seriously needs to be washed. Troy, the pimply sophomore, Tricia of the pouffy hair, and Stacy Meeker, the long-legged senior who is gorgeous and by all rights should be somewhere better than this tonight. We talked a little on the ski trip, and she’s cool.
As I puzzle out the liabilities of my team, Judy hands around slips of paper. Fritz announces that each team has the same clues, just in different orders, and that the final clue will lead us to a great treasure. He blasts an ear-splitting air horn, and we’re off.
“Come on, guys!” Phil yells, gesturing for us to follow him. My group takes off after him out the youth room doors, ignoring my weak protests. We don’t even know where we’re headed. They stop a few feet outside the door, apparently realizing the same thing, and Stacy starts to read from the small slip of paper in her hand.
“We’d all appreciate if you’d quit your crying,” Stacy reads. Out of the corner of my eye I see the Cats running off toward the Sunday School classrooms. “Quit your crying. What does that mean?”
“The nursery!” Phil runs down the hallway. The others follow after him, and I go, too, despite my doubts. It says quit crying. The nursery is where all the crying happens. We scramble across the courtyard and enter the main building, then run down the hallway. When we get there, the room is dark and empty. There are no clues to be found anywhere.
“There’ve got to be clues here somewhere,” Troy says, picking up a bag of diapers to check.
“Do you guys think it might mean the soundproof cry room?” I say.
‘That’s it!” Phil gives me a high five. We run en masse to the little glass box at the back of the dark sanctuary, where moms are supposed to bring their fussy babies so no one else has to listen to them. Inside, there are four little envelopes. I pick up the one that has the word COWS on it.
That was kind of fun. I start to wonder how the other teams are doing. Have they found their first clue yet? I pick it up and begin to read.
“The only room named after a man.” I look up at the group.
“The john?” Phil asks, shrugging his shoulders.
“That’s it!” Stacy says.
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. They freeze. Rushing around from guess to guess will waste huge amounts of time. We could win this if we use our brains a little.
“It can’t be the john.” I shake my head. “There’s like a thousand bathrooms in this place. There’s no way they’d make us search them all.” I stare at the clue, trying to figure out the hidden meaning. My competitive side is starting to take over. I read the clue to myself again and break into a smile. This one was so easy it was hard.
“It’s the gym,” I say, and the team begins cheering and runs out of the cry room. I race ahead and get there first, passing the Pigs going the other way, and fling open the door. Taped to the back side of the door is an envelope that says COWS.
“Before you sing, to here you will bring.” Stacy says, reading the clue uncertainly. Okay, that doesn’t even make sense, but the answer is pretty clear.
“Where do they keep the choir robes?” I haven’t been here long enough to know where everything in this church is.
“My mom’s in the choir. Follow me,” Troy says and then runs off toward the stairs. I think we’re doing pretty well. We could really win this thing. What other kinds of places would Fritz think were good hiding spots? I make a list in my head as we run toward a closet behind the sanctuary.
Any one of the Sunday School classrooms is fair game. There’s the church office at the back, but they wouldn’t let us go in there, would they? There’s the playground. The welcome desk. The kitchen.
Stacy flings open a door, and rows and rows of hanging choir robes greet us. She reaches around behind the door as the Ducks run by, then pulls out an envelope.
I think about the music room and the bride’s lounge. What was it that Fritz said we are looking for? Treasure? Then it hits me. I snap my fingers. That’s it. Of course. Why didn’t I think of this before?
“No whining,” Stacy reads, squinting at the clue. “That’s all it says.” Confusion registers on her face. “What does that mean?”
I keep mentally running down the list of locations, but none of them seems right for this. “How’s that spelled?” I ask, an idea forming.
“Whining?” She looks at me quizzically. “W-I-N-I-N-G.”
“There’s no H?”
Stacy shakes her head.
“The communion supplies. There’s no wine. They only use grape juice.” The group starts cheering, but as they run off, I stay behind. There’s another place I want to check out.
/> “Come on, Ana,” Troy says, but I shake my head.
“I’ll be right there,” I say. He shrugs, then runs off with the group.
It’s so obvious. I can’t believe I didn’t realize right away where the final clue would lead us. I’ll just go make sure I’m right, then I’ll meet up with the rest of the group and have them skip the rest of the clues and head there. We’ll be sure to win. We’ll sit there and laugh and wait for the rest of the groups to finally figure it out.
The hallways are quiet as I make my way to the lobby. No one else seems to be around. Perfect. I test the door to the sanctuary, and of course it’s unlocked. It had to be. I slip into the dark, quiet room and take a deep breath.
It’s so peaceful in here. The only light comes from the green EXIT signs, and the shadowy corners of the room feel a little mysterious. There’s something magical about it, like the mysteries of the ages would be answered if only I could stay here long enough.
I squint at the front of the sanctuary and make out the sleek edges of the cross hanging above the stage and then begin to walk slowly down the center aisle. My footsteps echo in the cavernous room, and the sound feels raw, a little too loud, but somehow I don’t mind. It kind of feels right. I guess that’s kind of like life, I think, touching the edge of a pew for reassurance as I walk by. Faith is kind of like the quiet, peaceful sanctuary, mysterious and magnificent, but life is loud.
I get to the front row of pews and step tentatively toward the stage. There, under the shiny cross, I see four envelopes. I step up slowly, reverently, then walk toward them. Halfway across the stage, though, I turn around and look out over the rows and rows of empty pews stretching out before me. Is this what the pastor sees every Sunday morning? It’s totally different from this angle, but the sanctuary is still blessedly quiet, and I sigh. God must have known that I needed this tonight. He knew that it would refresh me to be in this sacred place, utterly alone.
“Hey, Dominguez.”
