Stealing Parker

Chapter 2


stalkerish tendencies aren’t necessarily a bad thing, right?
51 days until i turn 18

Practice ends, and after pouring the water onto the grass and storing the coolers in the shed, I go meet Drew in the parking lot. He’s standing with Sam, who’s gesturing wildly.
“I don’t know why Dr. Salter has to approve our prom theme this year,” Sam exclaims. “How was I supposed to know that when I suggested a pajama party prom last year a bunch of guys would show up only in their underwear?”
Drew’s cracking up. “Um, you wore snakeskin boxers that sparkle, dude.”
“Fancy, weren’t they?” Sam laughs. “I wear the cutest underpants.”
I preferred Chase Neal’s puppy dog boxers. I really like animals.
“So if we win the Prom Decisional, what theme will we suggest?” Drew asks Sam.
“I’m thinking we should tell Dr. Salter we want an Ancient Rome theme. We can all show up in togas!”
I smile, tucking my hands in my pockets. Sam’s nice and funny, but I don’t know him like I know Drew. I usually keep to myself when he hangs out with his friends. And that’s fine. I prefer to keep most people at bay.
“I’m glad you’re not on the softball team,” Sam says to me. “It’d be a lot harder to beat y’all if you were playing.”
Every April, the Hundred Oaks softball team plays the baseball team, and whoever wins gets to pick the prom theme. The softball team won my freshman and sophomore years, but lost junior year. A lot of the guys were glad I didn’t play. They got their Underpants Prom, after all.
Prom is on May first, but I’m not sure if I’m going. Aside from all the wild underwear, last year wasn’t much fun considering Drew and Amy were suctioned together at the mouth the entire time, and my date, He Who Shall Not Be Named (okay, okay—it was Charlie McIntosh), kept trying to feel me up in the middle of the gym. Gross. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind going to prom this year if I thought it would be a good time with a guy I really like and trust. A man like Lord Devereaux, the hero in this romance novel I’m reading right now. He’s a pioneer of women’s rights and gives loans to poor people, all while lusting after Princess Penelope.
God only knows why, but Corndog rides a lawnmower up to me. He pats the seat behind his butt. “Your chariot awaits, Parker.”
I avoid his eyes and check my phone. I’m supposed to go shopping with Drew this afternoon and don’t have time for another Corndog lecture about how I screw over his friends. As if I don’t feel bad enough about my life already.
“Dude, why are you riding a lawnmower?” Sam asks.
“Dad caught me drinking again and took away my truck,” Corndog pouts.
“Bullshit,” Sam says, folding his arms across his chest, laughing. “You never party.”
“Fine, fine,” Corndog replies, chuckling. “I’ve been way bored since grades don’t matter anymore and I wanted to see how long it’d take me to get here riding this thing. I’ve been tweaking the engine to make it go faster.”
I smile a little. Since I was named valedictorian, I’ve been bored too. Like me, Corndog’s always loved science. We partnered on projects together until Laura started liking him in middle school.
“It seems like walking would be faster than a lawnmower,” I say.
“But it’s not nearly as cool!” Corndog retorts.
“Henry! Would you get your ass over here!” Jordan Woods calls from beside Sam’s truck. He’s letting her drive his truck now? Must be real serious.
“Gotta jet. The ole ball and chain needs me,” Sam says. His grin is so bright. He jogs to his truck and pulls her into a passionate kiss.
“Get a room!” Corndog yells at them, then focuses on us.
“We’re going shopping at Cool Springs,” Drew says, pointing at me with his thumb. “You in?”
“I can’t,” Corndog replies, glancing at my face. “Dad needs my help today. But thanks for the invite.” He tools off on his lawnmower. Wow, it does go fast.
“Corndog’s dad had to let their farmhand go,” Drew whispers. “I guess money is super tight and demand for their milk and eggs is down.”
“That’s sad,” I say, watching Corndog disappear onto the highway toward the countryside.
“I’m worried about him,” Drew says before he and I climb into the bug. He checks his hair in the rearview mirror. “Harry Potter movie marathon tonight?”
I buckle my seatbelt. “You don’t have plans with Amy?”
He stops combing his hair. Hesitates. “I broke up with her last night.”
I cover my mouth with a hand. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m just moving on, all right?”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine, fine.” He blushes. “I just want to watch Harry Potter.”
“I’m in,” I reply.
“Great.” He claps his hands together once, looking away from the mirror. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
I fiddle with a tangle of hair. Corndog must’ve known about the breakup before I did and thought Drew did it because he likes me. But I don’t think that’s possible. Drew and I spend hours lying in bed together, chatting and watching TV and reading. I’ve never felt that electric charge between us, telling me he wants to make a move. Drew’s the friend who stuck by me through everything. I’m scared for him. I’m scared, that, if what I suspect is true, he’ll face the same narrow-mindedness I did.
“What do you want to talk—”
“You wouldn’t believe what Steven Reed did at the party I was at last night,” Drew interrupts.
“What?”
“You know how he broke his leg ice skating last month and how he has to wear a walking cast?”
“Yeah…”
“So he was like completely trashed out at Miller’s, and he was stumbling along the road, pretending to hitchhike. And he fell into a ditch, and he was so drunk he started screaming about how he’d broken his leg. And Marie Baird had to convince him that his leg was already broken.”
We laugh as Drew turns the ignition. I watch out the window as Brian climbs into his red Ford F150. Our eyes meet, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. What went wrong? Just an hour ago we were joking around. Is he really that mad about the stats? About me wasting his time? Why didn’t I tell him the truth?
I wave as his truck pulls away. He doesn’t wave back. And that feeling of belonging, of having someone who understands where I’ve been, fades.
Brian’s left blinker turns on.
“Follow him!” I exclaim.
Drew gapes as we pull out of the parking lot. He doesn’t question me. He peels out onto the four-lane, heading into town, trailing behind Brian’s truck. Good friends don’t question stalkerish tendencies, and well, Drew’s a great friend.
“Don’t stay right behind him,” I squeal.
“He doesn’t know it’s us.”
“Okay, one, he has a rearview mirror. And two, how many people have red VW bugs around here?”
Drew lets off the accelerator and swerves into the left lane. I slap a hand on the window as Brian takes the next right, and we keep on going straight.
“Drew! You lost him!”
“You told me not to stay right behind him!” He clutches the wheel.
“I didn’t mean lose him altogether.” I throw my hands up in the air.
“I’m sorry,” Drew says, giving me a weird look. He narrows his eyes.
I rub his shoulder. “It’s fine…How about Jiffy Burger for lunch?”
His face lights up, and he steps on the gas.
I can’t eat the food at JB—too many carbs—but their French fries and cherry Sun Drop make my friend happy. And that’s enough for me.
???

After lunch and shopping with Drew, I find Dad passed out on the couch with his Bible splayed open across his chest. Piles of architecture and floor plan magazines lay haphazardly on the coffee table, alongside a cup of tea.
It’s only 5:00 p.m., but he’s snoring up a storm. At forty-two years old, he has a full head of brown hair the color of dark chocolate, and only a few wrinkles. He’s very handsome, but you can’t tell for the sadness. I press a kiss to his forehead. His eyelids flutter open.
“I’ll start dinner in a bit,” he says, but I tell him not to worry. I’ll take care of it. He whispers he loves me.
“Love you too,” I mumble back, but he’s falling asleep again already. I can hear music, the beat thumping against the walls of Ryan’s room. The drums make the floor vibrate. I slowly walk down the dark hallway past prints of the Beijing National Stadium and the Kansas City Public Library to my room and set my shopping bags on the rug. A knock sounds on my door.
“Come in.”
Ryan pokes his head in. His brown hair sticks up every which way and one eye is squinty. “Can you help me with my laundry, Park?”
I sit down on my bed and open my laptop. “Give me a few, ’kay?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Ryan shuts the door, leaving me alone.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter. “It’s nice to see you. I’m great, thanks. Laura said mean things about me at practice. The chemistry test yesterday was a real bitch, but I studied hard so I hope I get an A. Thanks for asking, Ryan.” I stare at my duvet as I say this, feeling like a crazy loser. I wish my brother would tell me he’s proud of me, but I doubt he’ll ever care about anyone trying to be their best again.
In high school, Ryan was a perfectionist. Woke up every day at 6:00 a.m. Mom would cook him breakfast and iron the button-down shirts he used to wear, while he went over his homework again. Like me, he made straight As, but he exceeded my accomplishments in so many ways. He was student council president. Lots of girls wanted to date him. He ran the yearbook staff. He played shortstop for the Raiders and was elected homecoming king. He ruled high school, but he couldn’t wait for college. He couldn’t wait to leave behind the people who didn’t take school seriously, the people who partied on weekends and didn’t give a crap about their SAT scores. He couldn’t wait to study premed at Vanderbilt.
He started falling apart the middle of freshman year, after Mom left, after learning that even at a prestigious college, not everyone was focused like he was. It’s like the minute our family disintegrated he finally figured out that reality didn’t match his dreams.
My cell rings. The caller ID says it’s Mom. I let it go to voice mail, then play it on speaker. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my shins while I listen.
“Parker…it’s me. Mom. I’d love to chat with you, you know, whenever you have a chance. Your dad told me about Vanderbilt. Congratulations! I’m so proud of you. Theresa and I are doing well. We just got a new puppy. She’s a labradoodle! That means she’s half Labrador, half poodle. I think we’re going to call her Annie. I know how much you love that musical…Okay, well, I’ll call again soon. I love you.” Beep.
I save the message. Just like all the others. I lie down on my bed and focus on the ceiling. Try to shove the loneliness out of my mind. I’ve always wanted a puppy, but Dad and Ryan are allergic. And now Mom has one—without me.
Sometimes I catch Dad staring at a picture of him and Mom that he keeps in his wallet. Dad says he’s forgiven her, but does that mean I have to?
I’ve only seen her twice in the past year. I miss her, and I want her in my life, but I can’t bring myself to tell her. I’m ashamed I never call her. But if people hear about me hanging out with my mom again, I’m afraid it’ll wreck my life even more. She ruined my family.
Why did God let this happen to me?
???

A few hours later, I go down the street to Drew’s double-wide trailer, walk inside without knocking, and head to his room.
His buddies on the football team love calling him Double-wide Drew, insinuating that he is well-endowed. It makes Drew laugh. Double-wides are a luxury, you see. My family’s lucky enough to have a three-bedroom house, but it’s smack dab behind a laundromat and a fried chicken joint, so you can only imagine the smell. A mix of fabric softener and grease. But besides the terrible odor and the fact we are definitely not in the ritzy section of Franklin where people have swimming pools shaped like guitars, the location rocks. It’s only three minutes by bike from school, and I love riding my bike everywhere it can take me.
I knock softly, push Drew’s door open, and find him sitting at his desk, typing on his laptop, which is surrounded by his bobble-head collection. He’s the only person I know who loves writing in his spare time. When he goes to Middle Tennessee State next year, he’s going to study journalism so he can be a sports reporter one day. As much as he loves playing football and baseball, he’ll never be good enough to get a scholarship. It’s a sore subject because he’s worked so hard for so long and could really use the money.
It’s only Drew and his mom—his dad left before he was born, and his mom waitresses at Cracker Barrel like sixty hours a week to make ends meet. I cook dinner for Dad and Ryan every night, so I usually end up making Drew a plate too. I set a bowl of steamed rice and chicken on his bedside table.
“Yo, Drewsky,” I say, tiptoeing around sports magazines and several days’ worth of discarded newspapers.
He turns and smiles wide, standing up. “Harry Potter movie marathon time!” he says, hugging me. He’s wearing a thin gray sweater layered on top of T-shirts. He has the right body to play both running back and second base, short and stocky, but somehow he’s rocking the skinny jeans. He’s fixed his hair again and doesn’t smell like boy (like socks). He smells like lemons.
Everyone is used to Drew dressing up and always looking like a million bucks, because he wants to stand on the Titans sidelines and report for ESPN someday. But I feel like it might be more than that. And I don’t want people to judge him like they’ve judged me. I can only hope that his friends would support him more than mine supported me. Corndog’s a good friend to him.
I’m not sure why Corndog’s comment about me messing around with his friends bothered me so much today, but it did. I mean, I thought guys like one-night flings. Right? I’ve only made out with, I dunno, four guys on the basketball team? And how many on the baseball team? Two? I can’t believe Paul Briggs announced that I put out, right in front of Brian. What must he think of me?
I slip my boots off while Drew inhales the rice and chicken, because he’s always hungry. He turns on Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and flips off the lights. He grabs the big bowl of popcorn he popped and then we stretch out on the bed. I’ve been saving my calories all day for this popcorn.
“Who’s your favorite Harry Potter character?” Drew asks, shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth.
“Ron. Obviously. You?”
He chews. “Hermione. She’s a little sex kitten.”
I shove his shoulder, nearly knocking him off the bed. “That’s so perverted! She’s like ten years old in this movie.”
“She’s older than me now! How is that perverted?” he says with a laugh.
“Would you rather be Hufflepuff or Slytherin?” I ask, picking my first piece of popcorn. Mmmm, butter.
“Slytherin. I like green more than yellow.” He pops a piece in his mouth. “As a house elf, would you rather be responsible for combing Hagrid’s beard or washing Snape’s greasy hair?”
“Gross! Uh, I’d rather comb the beard because I might find interesting animals or food in there. I might even find mini bottles of butterbeer or something.”
We talk during the movie, making fun of Draco’s terrible slicked-back hairdo and Hermione being a know-it-all until Oliver Wood comes on the screen.
“He’s so hot,” I say, groaning. “I want to date a guy with a British accent.”
“You? Dating?” He snorggles.
“I’d forget about my no-dating rule for Oliver Wood. Just look at him ride that broom!”
Drew bursts out laughing. “If you absolutely had to date someone who lives in Franklin, or else you’d be eaten by a dragon, who would it be?”
“Brian Hoffman.” It pops out and I cover my mouth.
“Coach Hoffman? So that’s why you wanted to follow him today?”
When Brian and I were talking, I was smiling and laughing and I felt good. I want to know more about him. I enjoyed joking around and loved making him laugh. I liked what he said…It’s a scary thing to wake up and realize the people you need most aren’t nearby anymore…But you keep moving.
I reply, “What can I say? That boy is hot.”
“That boy is a man but yeah, he’s hot.”
“You think Coach Hoffman is hot?”
“I can tell which guys are hot and which aren’t,” he says slowly, looking at the TV. “It’s not like it’s hard.”
I clap my hands. “Okay. Here’s a test. Oliver Wood—hot or not?”
“Hot.”
“Okay, you pass the test.”
“What?” he blurts. “That was a short test.”
“Fine, fine,” I say, laughing. “Is Paul Briggs hot?”
“Oh, hell no.”
“Correct.” I tap my lip. “Is Coach Hoffman hot?”
“I believe we’ve established that. You sure are thinking about him, huh?” He taps the back of my hand.
My face heats up. “Is Corndog hot?”
“It’s weird thinking of my friend that way.” Drew quickly says, “If you could be any Harry Potter character, who would you be?”
“Professor McGonagall, so I could turn into a cat and sleep all day…If you could have any magical power, what would it be?”
He pauses long enough for Harry to fall in love with the Mirror of Erised. “I’d want to know how people would react ahead of time. To anything, you know?”
“So um, what did you want to talk about? Amy? Why didn’t you tell me things weren’t okay with her?”
He touches his throat. “Can I get a rain check? I want to watch the movie.”
I let out a sigh, relieved, glad he doesn’t want to chat.
???

Yeah, yeah, Brian probably won’t show at church, considering he’s never there—trust me, I would’ve noticed him—but what if he comes today?
I shave everything that needs shaving and moisturize everything that needs moisturizing. I even curl my eyelashes. “Ow,” I blurt, when I pull on them too hard. I still haven’t gotten the hang of that part of my beauty regimen yet.
I use nail polish remover to ditch the Bubblegum Pink. Then I pull open the top drawer of my vanity and dig through the heap of polishes. Malaysian Mint, Atomic Orange, Blushingham Palace, Canadian Maple Leaf…No, no, no, no.
Brian is older, classier. I bet he’d like a soft color. I paw through the bottles. Going once…going twice…Passion Peach it is. I hum as I redo my nails. Two coats of peach and a layer of clear. I keep messing up my right thumb. I remove the polish twice. Third time’s a charm.
I pull on a pink bra, and pinch the skin hanging over the elastic of the matching panties. Brian does not seem like a guy who appreciates muffin top. I drag my hands through my tangled hair, tangling it more.
Last, I put on a sleek black dress and pair it with my leather boots. I’ve been saving up my baby-sitting money for college, but I decided to treat myself to this dress. I admire it in the mirror, sliding my hands up and down my hips, making sure I look elegant. Not butch. I wince, recalling how Laura told people that.
When I bought the dress at Cool Springs Mall yesterday, Drew said it seemed like a waste of money. “You look hot in anything,” he’d said, holding a polo up to his chest, admiring himself in the mirror. “No need to go all Rodeo Drive.”
I’ve got a few minutes before we need to leave for church, so I unzip the dress and lay it carefully on the back of my desk chair. Then I lock my door, lie down on my bed, and slip my fingers under the elastic of my underwear, wondering what it would feel like if a guy touched me there.
I’m praying Brian comes to church with his parents today.
He must’ve felt the connection too, right?
???

Reasons Why I’m the Worst Christian of All Time
Exhibit One: I drop the F-bomb at least twice a day. To tell you the truth, I kinda love the word. It’s so versatile. It can be an adjective, a noun, a verb. Also, I take the Lord’s name in vain. Sometimes.
Exhibit Two: I break all sorts of Bible rules. I do not treat my body like a temple, like Brother John tells us we should. When Drew snuck wine to school in a Dr. Pepper bottle, I didn’t hesitate to take a few sips in the janitor’s closet between French III and World History.
Exhibit Three: I don’t see how a loving God would split a family up like he did mine. Nor would he mess with Dad’s head like that. Brother John always says, “God tests our faith.” My question? Why would an all-powerful being be so jealous?
???

Church is the one thing Drew won’t do with me. Not because he’s atheist or belongs to some other religion or cult or anything. He specifically dislikes Forrest Sanctuary. Mostly for how the congregation talked about us after Mom left, but also because the church gives him the heebie-jeebies.
Dad pulls the Durango into the church parking lot. Ryan rubs at his face and the smell of beer and cigarettes and weed sweating out of his body wafts over. If someone gave him a breathalyzer right now, it’d beep louder than a fire alarm. Just call my father Daddy Denial.
Thank heaven our church uses Food Lion grape juice instead of wine at communion, or my brother would probably pass out in front of the altar. Hey, it’d give new meaning to bowing before God. Ryan wouldn’t come to church if he had his way, but if he’s going to live under Dad’s roof, he has to play the game. Ryan is a very nice guy. A very nice and always stoned or drunk kind of guy who sometimes gets it on with random girls before Dad comes home. Okay, okay, it’s not “random girls.” But I’m probably “random” in Macy’s eyes. She ignores everything that isn’t a really boring book about political science. In that regard, they’re a good couple because they are moody and ignore each other for the most part.
I always wear my headphones, to distract myself, when his bedframe slams against the wall between our rooms. I confronted him once, asking why he screws himself over like he does, and he said, “I want to forget.” It makes me sad that he wants to get away from the world so bad. I think it’s because he’s so smart, and sadness comes with knowing so much. I feel sad in that way sometimes.
That’s when I see Rachel, Tate, and Aaron waving at me from the church playground. Our parents usually let us hang there instead of subjecting us to Coffee Time before Sunday school. But where’s Seth? He’s usually attached to Rachel’s hip. I think he has a thing for her, but he’s too embarrassed to get involved with her, considering the whole scandal with her dad, the district attorney, screwing his secretary and all.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and blurt, “See you at Big Church.”
Mom started calling services Big Church when I was little, because the adults went there while kids went to Children’s Church. I can’t seem to break the habit.
“Bye, Dad!”
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, turning to face me. “You won’t miss Sunday school this time, right?”
I rub my palms on my new dress. “It was just that one time. We got to talking about Death Cab for Cutie, and then Laura told us that Brother John believes that any secular music is from the devil! And then Aaron said that at his old church, a bunch of the youth decided to burn all their secular music. Aaron said one girl burned a new iPod. Isn’t that f*cking outrageous?!”
“Young lady, watch your mouth,” Dad replies, glaring at me.
“I don’t like you hanging out with all those guys,” Ryan says, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “You know what they want, right?”
I shove his shoulder and he groans and leans against the window. His forehead leaves a sweaty smudge on the glass.
“Aren’t you cold?” Dad asks me.
“Nope!”
I love that Ryan’s bombed again and Dad’s worried that I’m not wearing a coat. My brother’s been getting trashed a lot lately. Sometimes I don’t know what to do, like two weeks ago when I came home and found him curled up in bed with an empty bottle of Robitussin on the floor. He had drunk the whole thing. And when I confronted Dad about Ryan, he asked me to pray with him.
I open the door, step out onto asphalt spotted with overgrown weeds, and make my way to the playground. It’s freezing outside, but I can’t cover up this rockin’ dress.
“Remember what I said about Sunday school!” Dad calls out. “I love you!”
“Love you too!” I yell back.
I skip toward Rachel, Tate, and Aaron, who look me up and down as I approach the seesaw. Aaron’s eyes grow wide as he takes in my hips and chest.
“You haven’t returned my calls,” Aaron says slowly, his eyes becoming narrow slits.
“I’m sorry, I’ve had a busy week.” Now that I know this dress will have the desired effect, I’m ready to go inside to see if Brian’s here with his parents.
“You cold?” Aaron asks, slipping his gas station jacket off. Its faded blue linen smells like dust and rain. Last week I buried my face in his shoulder and cringed while he peppered my neck with kisses.
He moves to slide the jacket around my shoulders, but I wave him off. He starts to put his jacket back on, looking disappointed. Corndog’s comment about me messing with his friends rings in my mind again. I didn’t realize I was hurting guys so much. It never occurred to me that they might want more. Does Aaron actually like like me? If so, I feel bad.
“You guys want to get a doughnut?” I ask.
“You? But you never eat anything,” Tate says, looking up at me. He’s 5'3". He laughs and runs a hand through his shaggy, honey wheat hair. I love how he wears his Converses with black church pants. Leather bands are wrapped around his wrists, and a hemp necklace with a cross charm hangs from his neck. Last week he wore an X-Men tie. I said, “I knew you were a mutant!” and he laughed.
“I love stale powdered doughnuts,” I say in a monotone.
“And I’m starving,” Rachel adds. She’s a sophomore. A younger, tinier version of her brother, Tate. She has a thing for wearing sweet little dresses and ballet flats.
Tate’s nose wrinkles. “You actually want to go inside 15 minutes before Sunday school starts?” I see his hand moving inside his pocket, touching something. Must be a cigarette he’s dying to light up.
“Please?” I whine.
“Doughnuts for the win,” Aaron says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
I whisper to Rachel as we walk. “Do you know a Brian Hoffman? I think his parents go to church with us.”
“No, I’ve never heard of him,” she whispers back. “Hey, I love that dress. Goes great with the boots.”
I smile. “Thanks. How’re things going with Seth? Did he ask you out yet?”
She scrunches up her face. “No. I invited him over Friday night and his parents said he couldn’t come, but he snuck out and came anyway. We kissed a couple times, but I don’t know what’s going on with us.”
I give her a sympathetic look. “I’m around if you want to talk or anything.”
She smiles and takes off to find Seth. We trudge up to the Fellowship Hall and get in line for Coffee Time. I avoid Mrs. Carmichael, this ninety-something-year-old lady who thinks I’m Sophia Loren. For real. She believes I’m an actress and always tries to touch my face and hair. If she gets hold of my arm, her grandson will have to pry her off me.
Then Laura and Allie strut past, giggling.
“Where does she think she is? A strip club?” Laura says, taking in my outfit.
I don’t reply—it’s not right to hurt other people’s feelings, even if they’ve hurt mine. I smooth my dress. My eyes water.
“Prudes,” Tate says under his breath, making me smile. “Jealous prudes.”
That’s when Brother John walks by. The youth pastor says, “I hope you haven’t been smoking again, Tate. God never intended for you to abuse yourself like that.” He scans my dress, and my body tenses up as he stalks off.
“Good morning to you too,” Tate says, the corner of his mouth edging up.
I don’t know why we still come here, what Dad’s trying to prove. I look across the room as he chats with Tim Anderson of Anderson’s Paint and Hardware and Jack Taylor of the Jack Taylor Ford dealership. Sometimes I hear them teasing Dad because he works at City Hall, stamping housing permits and whatnot, and doesn’t own his own business or have stock or anything. Whatever. He says he comes for “fellowship” and “friends,” but what kind of friends don’t stick by you after your wife leaves? No one from church ever invites him to bingo parties or to play golf anymore.
So what if he’s been coming here since he was a boy? Gramma and Poppy retired to Florida—it’s not as if they’d notice if we stopped coming. But Dad’s always talking about the good times he’s had here, hoping the good times will start again. For years and years, he ran the church-wide barbecue and held barbecue sauce contests. All the men went wild for it. But Brother Michael canceled it last year, claiming interest had gone down. Dad said he understood, but I was so sad for him.
I have a lot of good memories from church too. Pouring hot wax into sand at Vacation Bible School, to make a candle for Mom. Packing baskets of canned goods and delivering them to less privileged families. Kneeling at the altar and thanking God for my friends. For Laura and Allie, who I played Beauty Parlor with. In junior high, we’d go to the city pool, lay our beach towels on the steaming hot concrete, and stare at Jeff, this lifeguard who looked like a Ken doll and drove a Harley.
I get a powdered doughnut and a black coffee, then go stand next to a window where I can see the entire room. Prime vantage point. No sign of Brian. Tate and Aaron join me, holding white paper napkins filled with donuts.
Tate and Aaron eat approximately twenty stale doughnuts and slurp down their coffees in the amount of time it takes me to eat my one doughnut. The church bell dings and dongs, letting us know that Sunday school starts in ten minutes. I love that bell. When I was little, the ushers would let me pull the long velvet cord, to make the bell sound clear across the county. I wish life were still simple like that sound.
It’s like the minute we entered high school, the church’s messages all changed. It was no longer about loving God. It was about not sinning. No drinking beer, no touching body parts that bathing suits cover, no swearing.
“Why aren’t Seth and Rachel hanging out with us?” I ask.
Tate’s face goes white. “Well, his mom told him to stop hanging around us…I guess she saw you and Aaron on the playground last Sunday, um…”
Aaron crumples his Styrofoam cup. “Shut up, man.”
I stare across the Fellowship Hall at Seth. He lifts his chin, acknowledging me, then goes back to talking to Rachel. Seth’s mom doesn’t seem pleased about that either. I get that his mom wants to protect him. But Rachel’s a sweet girl.
I used to be a sweet girl.
Tate and Rachel didn’t turn on me post Mom-gate. They go to Woodbury High, with Aaron, so it’s not like we’re great friends or anything, but they’re good company. We giggle a lot. Especially when Brother John does PowerPoint presentations of common devil worshipping signs.
But Aaron’s new here. That’s the only reason his parents haven’t told him to steer clear of me, Parker Shelton, Sinner Extraordinaire.
I should have business cards made.
???

They say you give us gifts. You made Drew great at football, but he’s no Jordan Woods. He’ll never play in college. You made Dad an architect, but he’s not designing skyscrapers in New York or opera houses in Paris. You made me into a killer softball player. Good enough to make the all-conference team sophomore year. But more than that, you gave me something I loved.
But didn’t you realize that when you took Mom from me, that you were also taking something we shared? Mom was there the first time I picked up a tee-ball bat. Mom bought me my first glove. She showed me how to put a ball in my glove, wrap it up in a rubber band and put it under my pillow at night, so I could break it in. So I could dream about it.
But you took away that dream, and now I don’t know what’s left.
Written during services on February 14. Burned.
???

Brian never showed at Big Church.
But before I left, I lifted a copy of the church directory from the main office, so I could stalk Brian in the comfort of my home.
“Is that them, you think?” Drew asks, pointing at a picture of an older couple. The caption reads Mr. and Mrs. William Hoffman. Where Brian’s sexiness came from is not evident in this picture. But they’re the only Hoffmans at Forrest Sanctuary.
I close the directory, go over to my vanity, and drag a hand through my drawer o’nail polishes. I pick out Bodacious Boysenberry and carry it to my bed, where I plop down next to Drew and start removing Passion Peach.
“Let’s Google him!” he says, opening my laptop, going into reporter mode.
I groan. If I do that, I’ll be a bona fide stalker. My business card should actually read “Parker Shelton, Slutty Sinner Sleuth Extraordinaire.”
Drew’s already typing his name into the search bar. Right then Ryan pokes his head in my room.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. Dark circles ring his eyes.
“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll start cooking,” I say, holding up my nails. Ryan nods and the door clicks shut. I love, love, love cooking, but it’s the only chore I really like. I love taste testing. Mom never worked. She was a housewife, and when she left, I had to take on chores like laundry and ironing after Dad turned his T-shirts pink and burned his thumb while pressing his pants. I wish Mom and Dad were still together. I wish her dog Annie was here. All I really want in life is a big furry dog that slobbers a lot.
“Here he is!” Drew says. Brian’s Facebook page pops up. The profile picture is of him in a Georgia Tech baseball uniform, holding a bat. He’s smiling. He’s younger than he is now. The rest of the profile is locked down, so I can’t get any juicy details like his favorite books and movies, to see what we have in common.
“You should friend request him,” Drew says, moving the cursor to click the button.
“No way!” I slap his hand and log out of my account before he does something drastic.
I make a split-second decision to repaint my nails with Passion Peach.
When I asked if he played ball, Brian replied, “Something like that.” He played college ball but won’t admit it?! I start to Google his name, then shut the laptop. I will not be a psycho, no matter how much I want to know him. No matter how much I want to feel that link again. He understands what it’s like to miss someone. He treated me like I’m somebody worth knowing.
Brian Hoffman. Who are you?