Paige Turned

by Erynn Mangum

  She rolls her eyes. “Says the girl who got in a car crash because she ‘might have’ seen a ‘rabbit’ in the parking lot.” She sprinkles her speech with air quotes.

  “There was no might have. And car crash is a little exaggeration.” What really happened is I was driving out of the church parking lot when I was fifteen and my cell phone rang. I looked down for half a second and when I looked back up, I saw what I thought was a rabbit running right in front of me. So I did what any fifteen-year-old girl who happened to like animals would do: I slammed on the brakes and swerved and managed to run the little sedan into the curb. I messed up the axle and something else and found out a few minutes later that the rabbit was actually a paper bag.

  Layla has never let me forget that. My dad hasn’t either, actually.

  For the next year plus, every time I would see my dad he would say, “Paige. You’re driving down the road and a dog runs out in front of you. Do you stop? Swerve? Or hit the dog?” Or, “Paige. You are driving down the road and a chicken tries to cross in front of you. Do you stop? Swerve? Or run over the chicken?”

  Or my favorite, “Paige. You are driving down the road and a giraffe steps out in front of you. Do you stop? Swerve? Or hit the giraffe?”

  When he asked me that question, I asked if I could do none of the above and instead take a picture of a random giraffe in the middle of the road.

  My dad, ladies and gentlemen.

  I twirl a long chow-mein noodle around my fork and look over at Layla. “I think we might have been friends for too long.”

  She just laughs.

  * * * * *

  Wednesday night and I am doing what is my new normal for Wednesday nights—running to the copier to make more copies of the stack of papers Rick always has for the leaders that he never remembers he needs copies of until he goes to hand them out.

  It’s like he gets to the meeting and suddenly remembers that it’s not just him doing this youth-leader thing.

  I lay the paper on the glass, close the lid, and mash the button, watching the bright neon-blue light wave back and forth as the machine spits out the pages. I pick one up out of the tray and look at it.

  How to Achieve Peace.

  Sometimes I feel woefully unprepared to lead these girls. Yes, on the one hand, my life has calmed down a little bit. I made amends with my sister; I haven’t seen Luke in a while, which always drops the drama level; and Layla, for all her freak-outs, is really doing okay.

  And then there’s Tyler. Sweet, adorable Tyler who somehow has a crazy past that I just try not to think about.

  I’ve never been a jealous person. Well, I mean, occasionally I struggle with it, but it’s always been more along the lines of, “Hey, those people have the money to eat out at Olive Garden every night, and I’m sitting here trying to convince myself that a cheese stick and a saltine cracker are not only gourmet, but filling.”

  Even in high school, I was completely okay being me 90 percent of the time. Everyone else was going on crash diets and joining clubs and trying to attain popularity, and I was more than content to just sit by myself in the cafeteria and read during lunch.

  It’s a new thing. This jealousy.

  I sigh and close my eyes, rubbing my temples. I’ve spent the entire day trying to figure out what is wrong. I’m happy, but I’m not. I’m content, but I can hardly sleep lately. I love that Tyler and I are back together, but I can’t help this feeling of just . . .

  Jealousy. I don’t even know why. Or of what.

  I finish with the copies and head back down the long, dark hallway to the youth room, shelving the issues in my brain for another day. Everyone except Tyler is already here for the meeting.

  Typical.

  I hand Rick the stack of papers and sit in one of the chairs.

  “Thanks, Paige. Alrighty, guys, there are a few things I wanted to talk about with you before the kids come. Tonight’s lesson is on peace, and I trust that everyone got the chance to prepare for the lesson beforehand.”

  Nodding occurs around the circle and Tyler walks in right then.

  “Hey.” He grins all cutely at me.

  “Nice of you to join us, Tyler.” Rick rolls his eyes. “Have you ever considered just setting your clock like fifteen minutes ahead of time?”

  Tyler nods, sitting in the only other empty chair across the circle from me. “My mom actually did that when I was fifteen or so.”

  “Did it work?” Sam asks.

  Tyler shrugs. “Only until I found out about it, then I started adding fifteen minutes to the time everywhere we went. She finally changed the clocks back, and then I was thirty minutes late everywhere for a while.” He sighs. “I have tried for years to be on time. I just can’t do it.”

  “Tyler, my grandfather would have hit you over the head with a fork if he heard you say the word can’t,” Rick says. “The man was brutal. He was a former Marine sergeant. Loving most of the time but brutal.” Rick shakes his head and then continues his talk about how interesting his study on peace was as one of the fruits of the Spirit.

  I try to pay attention. I honestly do. Tyler’s gaze is on Rick and he nods occasionally, grinning when Rick cracks one of his customary dry-humor jokes.

  It’s like the Tyler of the summer never even existed.

  He’s smiling at Rick, and then he glances across the circle and sees me looking at him. And something in his expression sends warm shivers all the way down into my toes.

  Rick leads us in prayer and then offers a couple more questions to get the small-group conversation going. “And that’s it. Go forth and conquer, friends.”

  All of us stand, fold up the chairs we were sitting on, and stack them back in the corner.

  Tyler comes over as everyone else clears out to go talk to the kids already filling the hallway.

  “So,” he says and then just grins all cheekily at me.

  “So.” I nod, feeling a little squinch of something in my stomach. Dread? Hunger? An impending sense of doom and destruction?

  “I’m going to teach you how to operate a motorcycle.”

  Yep, it was definitely the latter thing I was feeling. I just stare at him. “Why?” I blurt out finally, frowning.

  “Because. What if you are out someday and someone has to go the hospital and the only way to take them is on a motorcycle? You need to know how to ride one.”

  “Tyler, if I’m out and someone needs to go to the hospital, couldn’t I just take the car I came there in?”

  “What if your car is dead?” He leans one shoulder against the wall, smiling at me.

  “How am I supposed to get the person on a motorcycle anyway? It seems like if the injury was mild enough that they could ride on a motorcycle, they could wait to go to the hospital.”

  Tyler shrugs. “I chopped off the tip of my pinkie finger when I was twelve in a freak pocketknife accident. I could still hang on to the back of a motorcycle driver, but I definitely needed to go to the hospital.”

  I grab for his hands and study his pinkies. “You did not.”

  “Did too. See that scar right there?” He points to his left hand.

  I lift his finger three inches from my eye and squint at it. “That’s a hangnail, Tyler.”

  “I’ve always been a quick healer.”

  I open my mouth and then stop. “Was that from The Princess Bride?”

  “You know what I love about you, Paige? You’re quick. I like quick.”

  I try not to read too much into the word he just said. “Quick, but just not on time, right?”

  He grins, loops his arm around my neck, and knuckles my head. “Get to class, smart aleck.”

  “I’m not going to learn how to drive a motorcycle, Tyler,” I say as we walk into the hallway.

  He grins at me, walking backward down the hallway and spreading his hands. “You know you’ve always wanted to. Saturday, Paige. Be prepared,” he sings the last two words like Scar from The Lion King as he turns and disappears into the classroom whe
re he meets with his freshmen guys.

  “A motorcycle?” Brittany, one of the high school girls, starts twittering. “Oh, Paige, that’s so romantic!”

  I watch her scurry away to tell her friends, who all start twittering and giggling at the idea of Tyler and me on a motorcycle together. I try to breathe through the knot in my stomach like Jillian Michaels always talks about.

  Saturday can take it’s time getting here.

  “Wait, you’re doing what?”

  I tuck my cell phone between my shoulder and my ear and reach for the bag of popcorn that is steaming hot in the microwave.

  “Tyler wants to teach me how to drive a motorcycle tomorrow,” I tell Preslee, holding in a yelp as the hot steam hits my fingers when I rip open the bag.

  Preslee is dying of laughter and I dump the popcorn into a bowl, frowning. “Why is that funny?”

  “Because, Paige, oh my gosh, I would pay to watch you learn how to drive a motorcycle!” There is so much overemphasis in her squealing voice, I am wincing.

  I wait for her to finish laughing. Which means I have time to toss the popcorn bag in the trash, pick up the bowl of popcorn and the cheese slices that are making up my dinner, walk over to the couch, settle into the cushion that is quickly conforming to the shape of my butt, and flick on the TV to HGTV, muting the volume. I’ve eaten three handfuls of popcorn and watched a very cute Australian man talk about backyard décor, if my lip reading is right, before she finally stops laughing long enough to breathe.

  “Oh gosh, oh gosh,” she says, over and over again, and I can picture her swiping tears away. “Oh, Paige, I haven’t laughed like that in years.”

  Now I’m just trying not to get offended. “I don’t know what’s so funny about it.”

  “You? Paige Alder, the world’s most-perfect Christian on a motorcycle? It would be like watching Mother Teresa get on a Harley.”

  “It would not,” I mumble, staring at a slice of cheese.

  “When are you doing it? And where? I’m sure if I got up early enough I could come watch.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Oh, come on, Paige, why not?”

  “Are you kidding me? After the way you just spent twelve minutes laughing your head off?”

  She starts giggling again. “I mean, the thought of you sitting there, gripping the handles and oh . . .” She’s gone into hysteria again.

  Honestly, I don’t see what is funny about it at all. I see what’s terrifying about it, but not what’s funny. I have spent the better part of today praying for God’s protection over whatever awful things Tyler has planned for tomorrow.

  I may or may not have also prayed for one of us to contract some mild form of measles so we just have to postpone indefinitely.

  He sent me a text earlier today while I was meeting with one of the girls. HEY! WE ARE ALL SET FOR TOMORROW—I’M BORROWING MY BUDDY’S BIKE. I’LL COME BY FOR YOU ABOUT TEN IN THE MORNING! THIS WILL BE FUN!

  I’m not sure that fun is the word I would have picked. And I like how it seemed like he was almost trying to convince me.

  Well, that was not going to happen.

  I hang up with Preslee, who is still laughing, and turn up the volume on the TV. It was nearly eight o’clock. Fridays are long days now that school is in session. I met with four girls today, one after the other as soon as school let out.

  My drama quotient is filled up for the night.

  I’m pretty sure if I hear Zach’s name one more time today, I’ll have an allergic reaction. I’ll need to warn Sam since he’s in charge of the senior guys. The boy has no idea how popular he is with my girls.

  A light knock sounds at my door and I freeze on the couch, one hand in the popcorn bowl.

  I am fairly certain I am not expecting anyone. Tyler said he was going to be working late tonight so he didn’t have to go in tomorrow, Layla is on a much-needed date with Peter where they apparently aren’t allowed to talk about any wedding details, and I can’t think of anyone else who would be coming by my apartment.

  I sneak over to the door and peer through the peephole.

  Luke.

  I look up at the ceiling. “The drama quotient, Lord,” I whisper. “It’s filled, remember?” I tug at my old T-shirt and yoga pants.

  Luke has impeccable timing when it comes to finding me looking like the Feed the Birds lady in Mary Poppins. I’m nearly afraid to open the door since the odds are good that a few pigeons are going to waddle in as well. If pigeons waddle, anyway.

  I open the door and just look at him.

  Luke, of course, looks gorgeous, which is typical. The boy is one of those freaks of nature who never looks bad. Ever. I’ve seen him in braces, on crutches, and while he had the chicken pox.

  Beautiful, every time.

  There’s something to be said for finding a man who is not prettier than you.

  “Paige!” he says my name all exuberantly, like we do this every Friday. “I was hoping you’d be home.”

  “Did you need something?” I ask, because obviously the only reason I could see for him being here is he felt the need to drive ten minutes and past two grocery stores to borrow a cup of sugar from me.

  “I saw this today and thought of you.” He hands over a small brown-paper sack, and I look at him for a half second before opening it.

  It’s a DVD. Monsters Inc.

  I just stare at the movie. A million years ago, our first date was going to see Monsters Inc. during one of the summer movie specials one of the theaters by our houses in Austin did.

  Luke is smiling at me, and if he thinks this is weird, he’s not showing any sign of it. “Remember? Mike Wazowski! And we laughed at the way that huge slug monster walked for like the rest of the night?”

  “Luke—” I say, about to start in on the hey, remember? We are no longer dating. We’re not even really friends. And good grief, I just spent weeks reminding you of this!

  “It was five bucks by the checkout, Paige.” Luke cuts me off, his expression and voice getting serious. “I just thought of you and how much you liked that movie and I didn’t remember seeing it in your collection. So you can keep it or you can get rid of it, but I just thought maybe this could be the first step to us really becoming friends.”

  I look back and forth from the DVD to Luke’s sober brown eyes. He appears to be telling the truth, but he’s fed me this friends bit before, and it had nothing to do with being friends and everything to do with trying to get back together.

  And that ship has sailed.

  “Thanks,” I say, flatly.

  “You’re welcome.” He looks around me and sees the popcorn and the cheese slices on the couch, the HGTV blaring something about how to safely remove kitchen cabinets without causing mass destruction.

  “Alone tonight?”

  “Thankfully,” I say, hoping he’ll get the hint and not think he should stay and keep me company.

  He nods. “Well. Have a good night, Paige. Enjoy learning how to remodel your kitchen. Though, and this is just some friendly, unsolicited advice, I wouldn’t try anything here.” He smiles a small, questioning smile, and I remember what I told him at the beginning of the summer with a sigh.

  I forgave him. And really, I have. I’ve just learned the difference between forgiveness and friendship.

  And honestly, it was better for Luke and me both to just go our separate ways.

  “Thank you for the movie, Luke,” I say, trying to instill some kindness into my tone.

  “See you later.” He leaves and I close the door, sliding the dead bolt back in place. Most of the time, I love living by myself. But sometimes, I can make myself a little creeped out. It’s better if I don’t open the door once I am in for the night.

  I climb into bed at ten thirty, fully educated on the correct way to reinstall kitchen cabinets after refinishing them.

  Too bad the apartment wouldn’t look kindly on that. I think the creamy white they used on the show would be beautiful in here.

&nb
sp; I pull my Bible over and flip to my place in Ecclesiastes, hoping it says something like, “There is a time to live and a time to stay off of motorcycles.”

  “He has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end.”

  I look at the last sentence and think it over. What does that even mean? That we will never find out the whys of our everyday life until we get to heaven and see the whole picture?

  I click the lamp and set my Bible back on the nightstand.

  Lord, I’m excited for heaven and to find out what my life as a whole looks like. But could we please postpone heaven for a bit? At least past tomorrow—please keep Tyler and me safe as we do this ridiculous thing.

  * * * * *

  “Ready?” Tyler is giddy.

  I mean really, really giddy.

  I stare at him, still groggy. I barely slept last night. All I kept thinking about was going to heaven, how my parents used to see motorcycles driving down the street and my mom would immediately start tsking and saying things like, “Well, that guy is certainly not the brightest!” Or worse, “He’s just driving that motorcycle straight to the fiery pit, isn’t he?”

  Motorcycles were on the same list as tattoos as far as my parents were concerned. And that was the “Thou Shalt Not” list.

  Never mind that we knew and were friends with several very dear Christian people who had ink on their bodies and a Harley between their legs.

  Tyler is nearly ridiculous with his joy. “Oh, I am so excited to teach you this, Paige!”

  “When did you get so into motorcycles?” I rub the bleariness from my eyes and stumble to the kitchen for another refill on the coffee. I was on cup number four.

  The end was clearly not in sight, seeing as how I still could only fully open one eye at a time.

  “I really liked having my bike in high school.”

  “I still can’t believe your parents let you do that.” Tyler and I have nothing in common except an apparent propensity to get hangnails.

  Although, excuse me, I’m pretty sure he still thinks his is a scar.