Roam

by C. H. Armstrong

  Nick shakes his head. “Not yet. We weren’t sure where to start.”

  Jim reaches for a bulletin from the centerpiece display in the middle of our table and hands it to Mom. “This explains a lot, but let me give you the highlights. We have three services, so you can choose the one that best meets your needs. Sunday school classes are offered for adults, teens and children during the nine forty-five service. You’ve already missed them today, but consider them next week if you return. Tonight at six, we offer three levels of choir practices—again for adults, teens and children—and at seven we offer senior-high youth group.”

  Mom studies the bulletin. “You’re quite busy here. Our church at home didn’t offer half as many programs.”

  Jim smiles. “We’re very family-centered here. Not only do we want your family to have opportunities to do things together, we also like to think of ourselves as one big extended family.”

  “Thank you,” Nick says.

  Jim glances at his watch and his face falls. “I’m sorry. I’m giving the eleven o’clock sermon and I need to prepare. I’m glad you could come today. Feel free to check out the building if you’d like. I’ll be around after services if I can answer any questions for you.”

  “Thanks,” Mom says. “We’ll definitely find you later if we have questions.”

  With those parting words, Jim heads through the mostly-empty sanctuary and toward the pulpit, stopping only a moment to say a word to the sound techs. Watching his guileless interactions, first with us and then with the sound techs, leaves me ashamed. We’re frauds and don’t deserve his kindness. We didn’t attend this morning to worship; we’ve come to stave off hunger and get out of the cold. Our price for the privilege is sitting through the worship service. I’m horrified at our duplicity. I despise lying, and I wonder whether the level of lying is worse if you tell that lie in church. I can’t shake the feeling God is watching and shaking his head in disappointment.

  “ABS, WAKE UP.”

  A voice reaches deep into the cobwebs of my sleep-drugged brain, demanding my attention. I lift my head off my arms and wipe a stream of drool onto the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It takes a second to understand where I am, but a quick scan of the room reminds me I’m sitting in my favorite carrel at the library. I wipe the sleep from my eyes. “What time is it?”

  Nick glances at the clock above the doorframe. “It’s two thirty. Are you still going to Zach’s?”

  “Yeah.” I cover a yawn with my hand. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

  “I can. You almost fell asleep during the church service this morning.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It was too cold to sleep last night.”

  Nick looks away and heat creeps up his neck. “I’m sorry, kiddo. This is not the kind of life I imagined for you and your sister.”

  “I can’t imagine it’s the kind of life you imagined for yourself, either.”

  “No.” He smiles at me. “You’re right about that.”

  More alert now, I gather my things and zip my backpack closed. “I told Zach I’d be there by three, so I better get going.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “A few blocks, I think, but I’m not good at gauging walking time yet.”

  Nick nods. “Be safe, and be back here by five thirty when the library closes.”

  “But that only gives me two hours. Can I just meet you somewhere else?”

  Nick blows out a breath. “I guess, but I hate having us separated without a mobile phone. Let’s do this: we’ll be here until five thirty, then the Salvation Army for dinner at six. After that, we’ll jet over to the Episcopal Church for seven o’clock. All of those places are within walking distance, but it’s getting dark early these days, so seven is a hard-stop time.”

  Dread settles over me. “What’s at the church?”

  “Youth group. Your mom and I want you to go.”

  “No, Nick.” I shake my head. “Please don’t make me go. It was bad enough this morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Abs. It gives us an extra hour or two out of the cold.”

  “God, Nick. I feel like such a fraud there.”

  “I know, honey. But this is temporary. Please do this for us until we have a better option?”

  Once again, I can’t tell Nick no. If not for us, he wouldn’t even have to be here right now.

  I STUDY THE directions from Google Maps I copied down from the computer at the library. It estimates the distance to Zach’s house at 1.2 miles. It’s not a bad walk, and the exercise makes the cold less noticeable. I’m approaching the house when a pizza delivery truck backs out of his driveway and misses me by about six inches. Spotting me, the driver slams on his brakes and waves an apology. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” I wave. “Thanks for asking.”

  The driver backs down the remainder of the driveway—more slowly this time—and I’m left standing in front of a colonial-style home with a white porch and rock siding. I double-check the address, though I’m sure there’s no mistake. The house is huge and I gape at its grandeur. It’s easily three times the size of our house in Omaha.

  I stand in the driveway contemplating whether I should ring the doorbell or leave, but the door opens and the decision is no longer mine to make. Standing in the doorway in bare feet, faded black sweatpants, and a Rochester South Football T-shirt is Zach. A lock of his dark hair falls over his forehead and he pushes it out of his eyes, then turns his full smile on me. “Are you coming in?

  My heart takes off at warp speed. “I’m still deciding.”

  Zach laughs and steps out of the doorway. He walks toward me, leaving the door open behind him. I wince at his bare feet on the cold concrete. Reaching me, he takes my hand and leads me toward the front door. “It’s just a house. I was afraid you’d react like this after you saw my car.”

  I blush. “Yeah, well—I already told you most kids don’t drive the kind of car you drive.”

  “I remember,” he says. “C’mon. My dad’s gone, but you can meet my mom.”

  I remove my shoes at the front door and grit my teeth to keep my jaw from dropping wide open. The house is even more beautiful on the inside! An impressive staircase spirals upward to a second-floor landing with a large railing overlooking the main floor below. To my right is an immaculately decorated formal living room that screams, “Don’t touch anything!” On my left is a formal dining room with a cherrywood table set for eight. Elegant china sits atop a crisp white tablecloth adorned in the center with a display of fresh flowers.

  Wow!

  “Are you having guests for dinner tonight?” I ask.

  Zach’s eyes follow the direction of my gaze. “No—my mom likes to keep the dining room staged. She says it keeps me from throwing my junk on the table.”

  “Oh.”

  Zach leads me into the kitchen, where once again I’m awed by the size. On one end is another table, this one seating six. At the other end is an island—at least as long as the table—with a white stone countertop. A built-in double oven occupies the left wall and, directly across from it on the other side of the island, are a wine fridge and two dishwashers! At the base of this U-shaped formation is a six-burner cooktop with a built-in griddle.

  The cabinets are a brilliant white, and immaculate. Everything is pristine and very modern. Mom would die for this kitchen!

  Standing at the island cutting vegetables is an elegant woman who can only be Zach’s mom. Tall and slim, with dark hair neatly cut into a long bob, she looks at me with the same dark eyes I’ve admired in Zach. She smiles and wipes her hands on a towel, then walks forward to greet me. “You must be Abby! Zach’s told me so much about you. Welcome.”

  “Thank you, Mrs.—”

  “Cherie,” she interrupts with a warm smile. “Mrs. Andrews is Zach’s grandma.”

  “Thank you.” I smile back.

  Cherie goes to a cabinet and pulls out two plates. “I know it seems late for lunch, but Zach ordered pizza so I hope you’re hungry. The
boy can eat like a horse, so make him slow down and share with you.”

  “Thanks.” I take a plate, then select a slice of pepperoni pizza before sitting across from Zach.

  “Zach tells me Mrs. Miner wants you to audition for soloist in the Fall Concert?” she asks.

  I swallow a bite of pizza and nod. “Yes. I’ve never sung in public before, so I’m a little nervous.”

  “No need to be nervous. Helen Miner knows her music, and she knows talent when she sees it. If she’s singled you out, you must be good. I can’t wait to hear you.”

  A heady rush of pleasure washes over me. “Thanks—I hope you’re right.”

  “Oh, I’m always right. Ask Zach,” she teases, and a dimple exactly like Zach’s deepens her left cheek.

  Zach rolls his eyes, but Cherie leans down and hugs his shoulders. “On that note, I have some things I need to finish up for work tomorrow. I’ll leave you two to your plans. Zach, there’s soda in the fridge. Make sure you offer some to Abby, and make her feel welcome.”

  “Okay, Mom.” His voice is monotone but he grins in her direction.

  We finish our pizza and Zach grabs two sodas before leading me up to his room on the second floor. He waves me inside and props open the door. “Gotta leave the door open. My mom is really weird about that.”

  “Yeah, mine too.”

  I stand inside Zach’s room and take in the sight before me. His bedroom is all teenage boy, and different than anything I’ve ever seen. In the center of the large room is a queen-sized bed, neatly made with a dark green comforter. Along one wall stands a massive oak desk with a MacBook resting in its center. On the opposite wall is a futon beside two matching oak dressers. The top drawer of one dresser is open and a pair of blue boxer briefs hangs from the drawer’s edge.

  Following the direction of my gaze, Zach rushes to the dresser and stuffs the article inside, closing it before I can see more. Red creeps up his neck and I smother a giggle.

  Along the walls—and strategically placed around the room for best visibility—are shelves of trophies and medals. It seems there’s nothing at which Zach doesn’t excel.

  “Competitive much?” I tease.

  “Yeah—about that.” His head dips and he peeks at me through the dark hair hanging over his forehead. “My mom had this thing when I was younger that I had to try everything. So I tried hockey, basketball, soccer, swimming, baseball, and wrestling before eventually finding football.”

  His discomfort makes me smile. “Do you still play these other sports?”

  “Not so much. I gave up wrestling and soccer in ninth grade. I never really cared for swimming, so I only did a year of that, but I still play baseball in the spring, and I like to play pickup basketball when I get a chance. If nothing else, trying everything gave me a love for sports, which made it easier to decide what I want to do after high school.”

  “Let me guess: medical school like your parents?” I grin.

  Zach returns my smile. “Not exactly, but close. Guess again.”

  “I have no idea. Tell me.”

  “Athletic training. It’s like a doctor, but usually without a medical degree. Sports teams from high schools all the way through professional leagues usually have a trainer on staff to take care of their players.”

  “Huh.” I lift a hockey trophy off the shelf and read the inscription: Supermite Hockey MVP.

  “Huh,” he echoes. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing really.” I shrug and replace the trophy. “I was just wondering why athletic training instead of, say, a full-fledged Sports Med doctor.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope—that’s not for me. I’ve seen how much time it takes my parents away, and I want to spend time with my kids when I have them.”

  “You don’t spend much time with your mom and dad?”

  “No—I do. But between emergency calls and traveling for medical conferences, I’ve always felt like second in line. They compensate by throwing money at me.”

  “Hence the Audi?” I ask.

  He nods. “So what about you? Do you play any sports?”

  “Not really. I did a few years of ballet and gymnastics, and I was a cheerleader at my old school for a while.”

  “Oh yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow. “That’s pretty cool.”

  I shrug and push away the painful memories. “It was okay.”

  Zach picks up his guitar and takes a seat next to his desk. “Have you thought about what you want to sing for Mrs. Miner?”

  I shake my head. “I have no idea. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Okay. What’s your favorite song?”

  “Right now? Um…‘Blackbird?’”

  Zach tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows drawn together. “I don’t think I’m familiar with it.”

  “It’s an old Beatles song.”

  “The Beatles?” Zach laughs, and his face lights up with recognition. “Seriously? What are you, fifty?”

  “I don’t know!” Heat floods my face until my cheeks sting. “It was the first thing that popped into my head!”

  “Whoa! Don’t be embarrassed!” he says, still laughing. “I’m just kidding with you! I was just surprised—I expected you to name something from this generation. But let’s give it a try—I’ll see if I can find the chords.”

  Zach flips open his laptop, and uses a search engine to find the song. He studies it a moment then smiles. “This one’s easy. Do you know the words?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay. I’ll play a short intro and nod for your entrance.”

  I pull in a breath and push my nervousness to a dark corner. At Zach’s nod, I close my eyes and sing through the first chorus. And then the guitar stops. I open my eyes and stare at Zach, who stares back at me with an expression I can’t read. The room is silent and the hairs on my arms stand up at the same time heat rushes to my face. My heart drops to my stomach and I bite my lip to stop the tears stinging the backs of my eyes.

  “Okay. Thanks anyway.” The first tear slips over my bottom lash. I wipe it away before he sees, then head for the bedroom door. “I gotta go.”

  Zach jerks to attention, jumps out of his chair, and grabs my arm as I reach the door. “Whoa! Where are you going? Are you mad because I stopped?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, no. I mean—I don’t know who Mrs. Miner thought she heard, but it wasn’t me.” I pull at my arm. “I gotta go.”

  “No!” Zach’s hand moves to mine and he sets the guitar down. “I didn’t stop because it was bad! I stopped because I was surprised!”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well—bad, surprised. Same thing. Thanks, though.”

  “No, wait!” Zach holds my hand firmly. “Surprised-good. I mean—I knew you had to be at least decent since Mrs. Miner singled you out, but I had no idea how good you’d be. I was shocked, that’s all!”

  “You—you liked it, then?”

  “Liked it? I’ve never heard anything like it! Your voice is different, but in a good way. You’ve never done any singing?”

  I shake my head. “Only for fun, and then just in front of my family.”

  “Wow!” Zach’s smile is like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “Okay, then. We need to find you something more challenging—something that really shows off your voice and gives it the justice it deserves.” He stares off across the room, his lips pursed in thought. “Adele!”

  “Adele?” I nearly shout. “I can’t sing Adele! Won’t she be overdone? Won’t that be too cliché?”

  “Exactly!” Proud of his idea, he smiles wider. “There’ll be at least two or three girls who’ll choose Adele, thinking they can sing her, but they can’t. I bet you can, though. And if I’m right, you’ll blow them out of the water. Do you like Adele?”

  I shrug. “Of course—who doesn’t?”

  “Exactly! Do you have a favorite?”

  I think for a second. “Maybe ‘Hello?’”

  “That would be excellent if you can pull it off. Want to give
it a try?”

  I gnaw on my bottom lip. “I guess.”

  Can I really do this? Adele is—Adele! If I don’t do this well, I’ll be the joke of the entire school. It’s a gamble, but Zach’s enthusiasm is contagious. Coming to a decision, I say more firmly, “Okay!”

  “Do you know the words?”

  “Not all of them.”

  Zach prints the lyrics from an online site and hands the copy to me. Then, resuming his seat, he picks up his guitar and strums the first chords. At his nod, I open my throat and sing the words on the staff. When the song ends, I stand nervously and await his critique.

  A slow smile overtakes his face. His dimple deepens in his cheek, and I’m once again struck by the urge to touch the small groove with my fingertip. “I think you’ve got your song.”

  “Are you sure?” I raise both eyebrows. “I dunno…”

  “Okay, let’s do this again, and this time I’ll record it.” Zach opens GarageBand, then takes out a microphone from the top drawer of his desk. He connects it to his laptop and hands it to me. “Here—sing into the mic. I want you to hear what I hear when you sing.”

  I don’t want to do this. Seriously, who really wants to hear herself sing? But Zach is bubbling with excitement, so I do what he asks. Once again, he plays the opening chords and I enter at his nod. When I finish the last note, he waits only a second then presses a button to stop recording.

  “Now listen.” He connects a set of speakers to the laptop and clicks the play button. A voice comes through the speakers—clear and pure and unique in a way that raises goose bumps along my arms.

  “That’s not me,” I whisper.

  “That is you,” he whispers back.

  My head spins and my knees threaten to give out. I sit on Zach’s bed and try to understand what I’ve just heard. That can’t be me!

  Zach’s face is lit up in an excited grin. “I think this is the song. What do you think?”

  I swallow hard and my eyes meet his. I nod and my words are barely more than a whisper. “I think so, too.”

  “You’re gonna kill ’em, Abby!”

  Zach and I practice for the next two hours, going over the song dozens of times. After the first half hour, he puts the guitar away and insists I sing a cappella while he coaches my performance. Before I realize, it’s nearing six thirty. If I hurry, I’ll have just enough time to make it to the church.