An alarming scream comes from inside the house. I climb up the pool ladder—not realizing in my haste that it would have been easier just to use the steps—but it still feels like I’m swimming in a pool, even though it’s empty.
I run through the house, following the screams, to find Hannah holding the vacuum girl by the T-shirt. The girl is totally shocked, like a cat being held up by the scruff of the neck.
Mom bursts into the living room at the same time. “What’s going on?”
The vacuum girl doesn’t talk. I look at her, and she looks at me, and I think, Hannah has held me like that before, too. Figuratively, not physically.
“She was trying to steal our stuff,” Hannah says, pointing to the box of winter items for Goodwill. “I caught her klepto hands all over it.”
“Is that true?” Mom asks the girl, who looks around like she’s caught in a trap.
But we are giving this stuff away. It was sitting at the door, practically homeless. You can’t steal something from someone who doesn’t own it anymore. Our house in Ohio wasn’t stolen by a nice retired couple.
“I told her she could have it,” I say. Mom and Hannah look at me, surprised. “I gave it to her. It’s going to Goodwill anyway. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Oh,” Mom says. She swats at Hannah. “Let go of her shirt. She’s not a criminal. You’re so dramatic sometimes.”
The girl hesitates, looking down at the box and back at me, and then at Hannah, whose arms are hooked like a vise across her chest.
“Go on,” I say, nudging her to play along with this awkward scene, as if we had already discussed it. Who’s the dramatic one? “Take it.”
The girl picks up the box, a little hesitantly, and says, “Thanks.” She heads for the front door.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “Glad you can use it.”
Hannah huffs away.
“We’ll see you next week,” Mom says as she closes the door.
Maybe by next week I’ll have my mess cleaned up, but probably not. I hope the girl brings a strong vacuum again.
3
A gigantic replica of Jesus from the waist up sprouts from the front lawn of First Community Church of the Covenant Bible Fellowship of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. It looks like Jesus is being born into the world again from beneath the ground. His arms rise high in the air, like a football referee signaling a touchdown. He is the reason we moved here—Touchdown Jesus. I’ve started calling the church Touchdown Church. It’s easier to remember.
Tom saw an article, in one of his Christian magazines, about the gigantic statue and the youth pastor who had it erected. Pastor Rick says he was drawn to Truth or Consequences because even the name spoke the glory of God. He calls the gigantic Jesus statue the Lux Mundi, the Light of the World. When Tom read all this, he knew we needed to be a part of it. The conversation went something like this:
Tom: We should move to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.
Mom: Is that a real place?
Tom (staring at me): A real place, and a good reminder. You need to live in the truth of the Lord or deal with the consequences.
Now we live in the town that changed its name in 1950 from Hot Springs to Truth or Consequences, after a game show. Apparently, people came on the show to answer a trivia question. If they answered wrong, they suffered some embarrassing consequence.
After the first Sunday we attended church here, I had a nightmare about the statue. I haven’t gone close to Jesus since.
Here are a few other notable things about Pastor Rick. His last name is Wonder. He is young and gorgeous. His light-brown hair is always perfectly tousled, with just enough gel in it to look like slightly greasy bed head. His hooded sweatshirt smells like a mix of motor oil and coffee, and his beard is more scruff than actual beard. He loves Jesus and the word “awesome.”
He is effortless.
Hannah and I joined the church choir in an attempt to “make friends.” Plus, Hannah heard that every spring, the church puts on the musical The Passion, and she’s determined to play Mary—because she’s dramatic. We practice on Wednesdays, which means Wednesday is also the day we get to see Rick Wonder.
When he walks into the choir room, we stop midsong and stare. Even the boys. He’s that good-looking. The only person completely unaware that Rick Wonder is among us is Beth, who sits beside me and always wears weird shirts. Or maybe they’re not weird. They’re more . . . interesting. And she saves me a seat. Or maybe the one next to her is never taken. I don’t ask.
Tonight Beth is wearing a shirt that says NEVER TRUST AN ATOM. THEY MAKE UP EVERYTHING, and she is focused on the paper in her lap, which she’s been folding for the past thirty minutes. Her dark-brown hair hangs over her face.
“Don’t stop. That sounded awesome,” Pastor Rick says with a beaming grin.
Even Ms. Sylvia, the choir director, blushes.
Pastor Rick leans against the piano. He’s wearing a Pearl Jam shirt and tight dark jeans.
“You know, I sing a little myself,” Pastor Rick says.
“Really?” Ms. Sylvia says.
“I even auditioned for American Idol.”
“Did you make it?” a young girl in the room asks.
Pastor Rick shakes his head. “I realized I didn’t need to perform for America’s votes. I needed to impress the Big Guy instead.” He looks at the ceiling.
I think I hear a girl behind me moan. Pastor Rick taps on the piano like he’s thinking hard. “You wouldn’t mind if I steal some of these fine young people for a bit? I need help setting up for the Harvest Festival this Sunday.”
Almost everyone’s hand shoots up—everyone but Beth and me.
“Eager volunteers,” Pastor Rick says. “Awesome.”
Beth mumbles beside me. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .” She folds as she counts, then gets flustered and undoes the paper.
Pastor Rick asks Ms. Sylvia, “Do you ever listen to Pearl Jam?” Ms. Sylvia shakes her head. “Saw them at Lollapalooza a few years ago. Maybe we need to do a little grunge rock around here.” Ms. Sylvia’s eyes grow wide, and Pastor Rick touches her arm. “Just something to think about.”
“Did he just say ‘Lollapalooza’?” Beth whispers. “Loser.”
“What?” I ask.
She looks up at me, surprised. “Are you talking to me?”
“Never mind,” I say and turn away.
“No. No.” Beth inches closer. “It’s just, you don’t say much.”
And then I don’t say much to that.
“Consistency. I like it.” Beth laughs.
I look down at the paper in her hand. “What are you doing with that?”
“My science teacher said that if you fold a large piece of paper fifty times, the thickness would equal the distance from here to the sun. That’s crazy, right?”
“You’re trying to fold that paper fifty times?”
“The most I can get is five.” Beth shakes her head, obviously a little frustrated. “Why are you in choir if you can’t sing?”
“How do you know I can’t sing?”
“I sit next to you.”
A little laugh comes out of me. “I need to make friends.”
“I’ll be your friend.” Beth shrugs. “I already know you can’t sing. You’re clearly not as impressed with Rick Wonder as everyone else is, so that’s a good sign. And you like math.”
“How do you know I like math?”
Beth points to my choir folder. It’s covered in equations. I didn’t realize how many I had written until now. I hug the folder to my chest, contemplating Beth’s offer. But then she does this thing—she pulls a necklace from under her shirt. A cross necklace. She holds on to it like it’s a life preserver, running the charm back and forth on the chain. It’s hypnotizing. And speaks volumes.
Beth may not like Pastor Rick, but it’s clear she loves Jesus. And people who love Jesus make me nervous, especially people who go to this church. I make the deci
sion, right here, right now, that Beth and I cannot be friends. That is the truth. And we moved here to avoid consequences.
“Here’s a math question for you,” Beth says. “Is point nine recurring also equal to the number one?”
“That’s easy,” I say. “No.”
“Is it?” Beth cocks an eyebrow at me. “Think about it, friend.”
What I really need to think about is a way to break the truth to her.
Hannah and I walk out of church as the sun sets, streaking the sky with purple, pink, and orange.
Here are a few notable things about the desert. Your lips will always be chapped. Your hair will always be staticky. Your skin will always be dry. You will get multiple nosebleeds. Mom will make you drink three full water bottles a day. Cacti and scorpions are the only things that thrive. And it never rains. Ever.
We walk across the lawn, past the gigantic Touchdown Jesus.
“Doesn’t he scare you?” I ask Hannah. It’s like asking a question to the wind. I watch my words get carried off into oblivion.
Hannah holds her Bible in her right hand.
Here are a few notable things about Hannah. She’s an exact replica of Mom. Auburn hair. Blue eyes. Cantaloupe-sized breasts. When Mom goes to the grocery store, Hannah watches soap operas, because she likes all the kissing. She hates watermelon because of the texture. She writes “theatre” instead of “theater.” She didn’t carry around a Bible until about a year ago.
One more thing—she was my best friend.
“Why would I be scared of Jesus?” Hannah says. “He’s all about love.”
She walks away from me.
“When are you going to forgive me?” I ask. The words spill on the ground. The wind doesn’t even bother picking them up.
Hannah glances over her shoulder and doesn’t miss a step. She never misses a step. “It’s not my forgiveness you need.”
“But I’m sorry.”
Here are a few notable things about Esther. I cry every time I watch The Sound of Music. I have short brown hair and brown eyes, which means I’m practically monochromatic. The texture of mango makes my teeth hurt. I look just like my deadbeat, nonexistent dad who left us so many years ago that I shouldn’t be able to remember him. But I do. And most days, I’m not really sure there is a God. Or a Jesus.
Also, it’s really hard to look like someone you hate but can’t forget.
“Did you make any friends?” Mom asks as we drive away from church.
“A few,” Hannah says. She turns up the radio and sings.
“What about you, Esther?” Mom asks over the music, keeping her eyes on the road.
“Not yet,” I say.
“It’ll happen.”
I glance back at Jesus, at his hands outstretched to the sky, and wonder whether I could climb up and sit in his palm.
Maybe someday. When gravity doesn’t exist, and the lone medium-sized dress in my closet actually fits.
I stand over the toilet in our bathroom. It’s super clean in here and smells like lemon.
I flush the toilet. The water swirls around and then disappears. It refills.
I dangle the picture of Amit and me over the toilet. It was taken at our eighth-grade graduation, when we both received the coveted “Pythagoras Award” for ranking first in math class. It was coveted to us, at least. Ms. Rainier insisted that Amit and I stand next to each other as she snapped a picture on her cell phone. Right before the flash went off, Amit put his arm around me.
Here’s another notable thing about Esther—I was in love with Amit Kahn. He has really dark brown hair, just like me, but instead of brown eyes, his are a beautiful gold. And he made me laugh.
“You’re really good at polynomials,” he said once.
Amit is the reason we left the trampoline. Amit is the reason Hannah hates me. Amit is the reason we live in New Mexico. Knowing all of these facts, I can’t seem to forget the time he told me that I was the coefficient to his variable. A girl just doesn’t erase these magical moments from her mind. Which makes letting him go feel nearly impossible. But I need to.
Today, I will do it. Today, I will flush Amit down the toilet. At least the toilet is clean.
I look at the picture one more time, at Amit’s fingers resting on my arm, at the closeness of his body to mine, and ask out loud, “How is it possible to feel a picture? You’re one-dimensional.”
Complex Math Problem: Amit lives 1,300 miles away. He’s banned from Esther’s life forever. How can it still feel like he’s holding her?
I think I might throw up. When that doesn’t happen, instead of dropping the picture in the toilet, I promise myself I’ll make some friends, just like Mom said. More than one. Then I brush my teeth and spit into the sink and don’t wash it down.
The bathroom was clean. I messed it up. It seems to be a trend with me.
4
Truth or Consequences is a small town. It has one of everything—a pet store, a Chinese restaurant, a steak restaurant that advertises a daily $9.99 prime rib special, a coffee hut, a strip joint called Twin Peaks, an empty Blockbuster—to name a few things. It’s so tiny people ride bikes everywhere.
Truth or Consequences is also situated right along the Rio Grande that, unlike our pool, is filled with water. The river is the only hydrated aspect of this town. A path runs along the Rio Grande. Mom insists that I need to ride my bike up and down it at least five times a day. That way, I’ll fit into the summer dress by Christmas.
Most days, I take a nap in this old fallen tree that looks like a hammock. Tall bushes just off the trail cover it, so no one can see me.
And the sleep is good. The weird thing about living in a house that’s full of nothing is that you’re always waiting for something to come back. For something to walk in the door and take up space. Which makes sleeping tough. Things like to come back at night, when it’s dark.
I nap along the river and oversleep today, jolting awake, surprised at where I am. This isn’t anything new. Most days, I wake up here and for a second, I forget it all. That one second is the best moment of my day. Then it all comes back as a Niagara Falls–sized cascade of memories, and I think I’ll drown. But there isn’t enough water in Truth or Consequences to begin with, and it would be super selfish of me to take more than my share. Tom restricts us to five-minute showers already.
I splash water on my hair and shirt to make it look like I’ve been sweating, and then I start toward home. That’s when I almost collide with a runner on the path.
“I’m sorry!” I yell over my shoulder, pedaling faster and catching a glimpse of his buzzed hair. “I didn’t see you coming!”
He hollers back, “No one ever does!”
Tom “volunteered” Hannah and me to run the “Fishers of Man” booth at the Touchdown Church’s Harvest Festival. Kids walk from booth to booth in the church parking lot, collecting candy, prizes, and the Good News from God.
One side of the booth has a line of fish held captive in plastic bags. In the center are fishbowls. For three tickets, each kid can cast a line five times and try to make it into a bowl. Anyone who does gets a goldfish.
It’s my job to hand over the fish and say, “And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.”
Tom said it was so easy I couldn’t screw it up.
In the rest of the United States, today is Halloween. In Ohio, it’s usually raining and cold, but that doesn’t stop everyone from trick-or-treating. The air smells like wet leaves and pumpkin spice, and our neighbor does a graveyard display in his front yard and hides in a coffin, waiting to scare the crap out of the children. And the woman on the other side of our house gives out full-sized Snickers bars.
“Do you think they give out the big candy bars at this thing?” I ask Hannah as she lines up all the fishbowls perfectly.
“You shouldn’t be thinking about that, Esther.”
“Yeah, but do they?”
Hannah shakes her head, but I know she’s thinking ab
out the Snickers as much as I am.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “We’re too old for trick-or-treating, and they’d just melt here anyway.”
I cover my eyes and look up at the blue sky. The sun blazes down on the pavement, making it radiate. There’s heat above us and below us. I am living in a kiln.
Hannah’s right. It’s like fall doesn’t even exist here.
Complex Math Problem: Two sisters are stuck in the desert of New Mexico. They’re 1,300 miles from home. How many more miles will they have to travel before they smell rain again?
I squat down next to the table with the captive fish. They swim slowly from side to side in their temporary homes. Locking eyes with one, I get the feeling that I know this fish. It doesn’t want to be here either.
“We have a winner,” Hannah announces.
I take the captive fish and hand it over to Peter Marshfield, a boy from choir who’s dressed in a tunic and holding a slingshot. He’s a sophomore, and Hannah clearly likes the attention from an older guy.
“What’s with the costume?” I ask.
Peter looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I’m David.”
“Ignore her,” Hannah says, so easily it hurts right in the center of my chest.
Peter looks at Hannah. “You’re clearly dressed as an angel today.”
I want to vomit.
Hannah encourages the flirting. “Keep the slingshot. I might need someone to slay a giant and save me one of these days.”
Peter bulks out his muscleless, hairless chest. “See you at choir practice?”
“I’ll save you a seat.”
As Peter walks away, I holler after him, “And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Just like I’m supposed to say to all the winners, even if they seem like losers.
I lean back against the table and wipe sweat from my forehead. Tom says the air in the desert is dry, so people don’t sweat. That’s how he’s able to wear long sleeves every day. I say the air in the desert is vampire air. It sucks the life out of you. Tom sometimes lies to make us feel better. I can’t really fault him for it. Today is Halloween after all. People love to play pretend.
The Infinite Pieces of Us Page 2
