by Erynn Mangum
I twirl my fork around, contemplating. How bad could it be? A month of relaxation, picture taking, and fish for dinner.
“How are you doing?” a voice murmurs near my ear.
I jump. A meatball flips cleanly off my fork and lands splat, right in my lap.
JACK stands there, water pitcher in hand. His expression registers horror.
I can see it coming before it happens, yet my brain doesn’t work fast enough. “Oh my gosh,” JACK says, “I’m so sorr —”
Swosh! The water sloshes out of the pitcher, rinsing the meatball and soaking my jeans.
A normal person would have screamed and jumped up.
I am not normal.
I sit there. Exhale. Take the dishtowel hanging from JACK’s apron and mop it up, all the while being stared at by not only the whole restaurant but also two men with their mouths wide open.
“Oh my gosh,” JACK says again.
I give him the towel. “Ready to leave, Dad?” I chirp.
“Sure, Honey.”
Dad sets a couple of bills on the table and gives JACK a withering look. I smile at him. “Have a good night.”
I put my coat on, but it doesn’t reach low enough. A big circle of water and a few flecks of spaghetti sauce mar the entire front of my pants.
How embarrassing. Mostly for JACK, I think.
Dad opens the door for me and a blast of cold January wind hits my pants and immediately freezes them solid. Sitting is going to be an issue.
“Here, Honey.” Dad opens the car door.
“Th-thanks, Da-ad.” My teeth chatter. Being wet outside in January is miserable.
“Oh dear. You’ll catch your death. Get in.”
He drives to the studio to pick up my car, coming very close to breaking the speed limit. My dad always drives ten miles under. He’s the old guy in the Mustang no one feels they can pass. Never ceases to drive me nuts. I follow him home as best I can.
“Get out, get out.” He grabs my arm and hustles me into the house, into the living room, and onto the couch, where he pulls out a big afghan Laney made and wraps it around me mummylike.
“I’ll make you some tea.” He disappears before I can protest.
Lemongrass. Blegh.
Coffee sounds good. Vanilla coffee. Lots of sugar. Whipped cream. Steaming, warm, sweet.
“Here you go.” Dad passes me a mug full of thick, pale sludge. It smells so strong my eyes start watering.
“I put honey in there because I know you like things sweet.”
What is it with putting honey in drinks to sweeten them? Just put in God-given sugar for Pete’s sake.
“Thanks,” I say, because I’m nice. I take a sip and gag, but disguise it as a cough, which is a bad idea.
“Oh land. You’re coughing now. This is not good. Not good at all.” He leaves the room and comes back with his hands full of antibacterial room spray, hand gel, and wipes. He sets to work immediately, wiping down door handles, spraying the nose-tickling stuff in my face, and smothering my hands with the goop.
Yuck.
Friday ends with a hot bath and then another round from the sanitation department of my household. I get in bed and don’t move the whole night — mostly because the glop didn’t dry completely and is now stuck to the sheets.
Chapter Seven
Monday morning I wake up feeling convicted.
I hate it when that happens.
Stephen Weatherby has to know how casually I’m approaching this. Period. No exceptions.
I slide out of bed and pludge to the bathroom.
Here’s what I like to do: Make up words. Pludge: (v) The half-walking, half-dragging of oneself. Designated for sleepiness, laziness, and Laurie-ness.
I brush my teeth and decide to skip the hair regimen. I believe pony-tail elastics exist to show the kindness of God.
Dad is halfway through the paper, and my breakfast is on the table.
“Morning, Honey. Are you feeling better yet? Here, take this.” He hands me two caplets of vitamin C, three immune-building pills, and a mug of muck.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Even though this is the fourth cup of gag-me stuff I’ve had in the past four days, I still swallow it with difficulty and wash it down with four cups of coffee and two bowls of Coco-Odies.
Coco-Odies: The only cereal where you can actually OD on chocolate. I’m pretty sure that’s how the name was picked.
“Bye, Dad.”
“Have a good day at work, Laurie-girl.”
I walk into work at nine o’clock and fourteen seconds, cringing, my ears preparing themselves for the verbal lashing I have coming.
“Morning, Laurie.”
“Hey, Hannah.”
I look around. “Where’s Ruby?” I ask. Again.
Hannah brushes her hair out of her eyes. “She’s getting Studio Two ready for . . . never mind.”
Ruby comes around the corner, tugging self-consciously at her hair. “Laurie. Hi.”
Her hair! I gaze in inanimate wonder at the short, sassy bob cut and highlighting done on Ruby’s used-to-be-plain, past-her-shoulders hair.
“Ruby!” I exclaim.
“Do you like it?” She pulls on it again. “I’m not sure. It’s really short.”
“I love it,” I gush. “Love-it-love-it-love-it. Wow, Ruby. When did you get it done?”
“Friday afternoon.”
So while I dealt with Prince-Not-So-Charming, Ruby Palmer turned herself into Cinderella.
The chime over the door jangles and is immediately followed by a long whistle, totally inappropriate if you ask me. Ruby seems to appreciate it though. She blushes four shades of pink, and grins.
“Wow, Ruby. Holy cow, you look great!” Brandon says. “Did you get contacts?”
Ruby’s eyebrows go up as she shoots a look of men! to Hannah and me. “Uh, Brandon, I didn’t wear glasses to begin with.”
He is in confusion. “You didn’t? Well, something’s different. Get a new outfit?”
“Nope.”
Ruby doesn’t intend to give Brandon any help at all. Good for her.
He looks closely at her. “Gosh, Ruby. I give up. What’s different?”
“Think hair, Brandon.” Hannah’s voice brims with sheer, unabashed glee.
“Oh!” Brandon yells. “Your hair’s different. Looks amazing, Ruby.”
“Gee, thanks.” She rolls her eyes to me and looks out the window. The blush starting to recede jump-starts back into place.
I follow her gaze. Nick Amery.
“You know, he seems a little . . .” she says, fiddling with a lock of hair.
“A little what?” I ask. “Weird? Funny? Pastoral?”
“Familiar,” she says, ignoring my suggestions. “Like from a long time ago. Maybe junior high.”
The “Wedding March” sounds through my brain in reckless abandon. I try really hard to keep a grin off my face.
Well, moderately hard anyway.
“Nick! Hey, what’s up?” I whip the door open for him, since his arms are laden with books.
“This is the curriculum for . . .” His eyes land with a resounding smack! on our lovely, newly transformed Ruby.
“For . . .” she urges him.
“Uh, right. Uh, for the, um, the junior high girls’ group, uh, that is, for the Tuesday night meetings with the girls’ group.” Nick swallows. “Wow, Ruby. Hi. You look . . . uh, beautiful.”
She blushes darker. “Thanks, Nick. That’s . . . sweet.”
I glance at Hannah, who looks like she just swallowed Dad’s lemongrass tea. Blegh.
I’ll admit it. I probably would have the same reaction to their gushiness if I hadn’t been the one to arrange it. As it is, I am giddy.
The hair is a nice touch on Ruby’s part.
“So what have we got here?” I step in for the sake of Hannah’s stomach.
“The curriculum.” Nick shoves the books in my face. “There’s two leader’s books and two student editions so you can
see what the kids are doing. And here’s the handouts. We use an NIV Bible, just so you know.”
I nod and transfer the books to Hannah’s desk. Romans in Review.
This is a pet peeve of mine: Alliteration. Preachers do this all the time. For example, my pastor’s points in the sermon on Sunday? Conduct, Condition, and Consider.
This curriculum is going to grate on my nerves. Splashed underneath the title on all the books is Realizing Romans Remains Really Relevant.
Do people honestly talk like that?
“As you can see, we’re going through Romans.” Nick hands me the last book.
Ruby is still fiddling with her hair. “In two weeks now, right?”
“Right,” Nick says. “Our middle school group is pretty small, so you’ll have sixth through eighth graders.”
“Works Well With We,” I say.
I guess people really do talk like that because only Hannah and Brandon give me weird looks. But Nick and Ruby are involved in a stare contest and aren’t listening.
“Ruby, I have a question for you,” Nick says suddenly.
I’m rooting for “Will you marry me?” But I think it might be a bit soon for that.
Nick continues. “Did you by any chance go to Hamilton Middle School?”
Ruby’s mouth drops open. “So that’s how I know you!” She grins. “I thought you seemed familiar. We had the same homeroom, right?”
Nick’s grinning as well. “I think so. Ruby Palmer.” He says her name all reflectively, shaking his head. “Man, I had the biggest crush on you in the seventh grade. What happened to you?”
I didn’t think it was possible, but her blush darkens even more. “My family moved the beginning of my eighth grade year. I moved back after college. Wow. Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, you too.”
I’m really trying not to burst into a happy dance.
Nick checks his watch. “Well, I got to go. See you guys Wednesday.”
“The Hernandez family is here, Laurie.” Brandon is watching the parking lot.
Lunch rolls around and I go to Bud’s, where Mikey greets me with a smug smile.
“Well, look who is here,” he says airily.
“Stuff it, Buddy.”
“That would be my father. I’m Mikey. Nice to meet you.”
I eat at Hannah’s desk.
“Tell me about your church,” Hannah says in between bites of her hot dog.
I blink. “We’re nondenominational.”
“No, I mean about your church,” she says. “What are the people like? Do most of the people in the singles’ class go there?”
“Yeah. Nick teaches a class Sunday mornings too. The people are great. I’ve been going there all my life.” I watch her eat for a second. “Want to come this Sunday with Dad and me?”
Her face brightens. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”
I lick mustard off my finger. “Are you coming Wednesday?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
I finish my burger. “Let me know if you need a ride.”
“Hey, Laurie?” Hannah asks, right as I toss my wrapper in her trash can and stand.
“Yeah?”
She fiddles with her hot dog. “Right. So I went to get a Bible the other day.”
I try to control the elation on my face so as not to scare her off. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” She takes a deep breath and throws her hands up in frustration. “There’s like thousands to choose from and they all have these weird initials on them and some are leather and some are hardback and some are pink and if that’s not enough, you have to choose size and shape and if you want an index or not. And what on earth does red lettering mean? Because I picked one up that said that, and I didn’t see any red letters.” She lets out an aggravated huff.
I smile at her. “How about I go with you?”
“Would you? Laurie, that would be great.” She smiles a huge smile.
Hannah is definitely making some serious progress.
Ruby and I each take our curriculum home with us. I look through the books to see what I’ll be teaching.
Lesson 1: Apostleship.
This could be deep.
The front door opens. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Brandon.”
Brandon sits on the sofa. “I thought you might want to catch a movie or something tonight.”
I balance my chin on my hand. The invite has come many times over the years.
Over the years. Like a flash of my camera, I realize my dear friend has grown up.
Sometime in the past seventeen years, his shoulders broadened, his face lost the baby fat residing on his cheeks, his eyes took on something other than the innocent seven-year-old glint.
It makes my stomach hurt to see it. What if what Brandon said a week ago comes true?
“One day you might wake up, and I’ll be married with a couple of kids.”
One of my ducks in a row bearing Brandon’s name skirts out of line.
I have a feeling chocolate isn’t going to help this problem.
“What’s wrong?” Brandon’s forehead creases in a frown.
“You’re . . . old.”
He starts laughing. “Wow, what a compliment!” He stops. “You’re not laughing.”
“Come on, Brandon, I’m serious.” I close the curriculum.
“Laurie, I’m only twenty-four. That’s not that old. What’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you like this before.” His voice gets quiet.
“We’re growing up. I mean, you’re twenty-four. You have been able to buy alcohol legally for three years.” I am finding it difficult to put my thoughts into words.
He smiles gently. “Well, Honey, don’t worry about that. I’m not going to buy it.”
“We’re not . . . little kids anymore.”
His mouth twists in an aha expression. “I see. You’re thinking about what I said last week.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
When we were little, Brandon and I talked about how someday we’d each get married and have both of our families get together every weekend.
Suddenly the someday is missing. Brandon can get married right now. He can have a family right now.
My stomach feels hollow.
His look softens. “Kinda scary, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
The tone of his voice doesn’t bode well with my state of mind.
“About this, you know, getting older, growing up.” He leans farther into the couch, expression pensive. “I’ve been reading the Bible this past weekend and praying a lot. When I asked Hannah out and you corrected me? That kind of started my thinking. I’m not sixteen anymore. I should be figuring out what qualities I want in a wife, not just dating for the sake of dating. You know?”
I nod.
“I’ve gotten . . .” He grasps the air for the word. “Dissatisfied with my relationship with God. Know what I mean?”
No, I do not. A relationship with God is something I have, am happy about, and think about on Sundays, Wednesdays, and for the few minutes I’m doing my devotions in the evening.
“No.”
“You’ll know eventually.”
“Brandon.”
“Laurie.”
“Let’s just go to the movie and pretend we’re fourteen again. Okay?”
He smiles, but an odd expression crosses through his eyes. “Sure, Nutsy. Let’s go. There’s a great new sci-fi flick out.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of romance and comedy.”
It’s an old argument and one we recycle on our way. We buy tickets, find a seat, poke fun at the previews, and soak in the dark, buttered atmosphere.
But my mind doesn’t revert into its usual half-dead state during the movie.
I’m not sixteen anymore.
Chapter Eight
I pick up the phone. Take a deep breath. Dial. 5 . . . 5 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . .
I
hang up.
“I can’t do this,” I exclaim to Hannah.
She sets her brand-new Bible on her purse and then sits at her desk with her hands folded smug as ever under her chin. “You can, and you have to.”
Rosebud Barbie would make sense.
I heave my breath out. “You’re sure you don’t want to do this for me?”
“And you would learn what from that experience?”
I smile hopefully. “Good friends are hard to come by?”
Hannah quirks her eyebrow up. “Yes, they are. Come on, Laurie. It can’t be that hard. You dial, you listen to it ring, you tell Stephen quite firmly and rationally that you can’t go out, you hang up. What’s so difficult about that?”
“I don’t know.” I groan, banging my forehead on her desk. “Ow.”
“Laurie.”
“Do you have any chocolate?”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “Is that your lifelong motto?” She reaches down and pulls open the bottom drawer of her desk. Digs way in the back. Her hand reappears with a stack of Milky Ways.
“Oh bless you, bless you, bless you.”
“Don’t tell Brandon I have them. He’ll probably freak about mice.”
Two of the candy bars disappear in two point eight seconds flat. A new world record, I imagine.
“Okay. Now. Call him,” Hannah says, pushing the phone back toward me.
I dial again. My pulse rockets so fast I know I soon will pass out.
Good grief. What is the matter with me?
Three rings pass in an interminable amount of time. Fourth ring.
“Hey.”
I open my mouth to blurt out my speech.
“You’ve reached Stephen Weatherby. Leave a message. I’ll call you back.”
BEEEP!
I hold the phone for several moments before slamming it down in confusion and shock. Hannah rolls her eyes.
“Wimp,” she accuses me.
I bite my tongue. I haven’t been called that since the fourth grade when I wouldn’t play dodgeball for fear of breaking my glasses. Well, I played. I broke my glasses. I sliced a nicely sized cut across my eyebrow and ended up with ten stitches and a bandage the size of Alabama covering my face. Dad nearly had a heart attack.
The days before contacts.
