it fascinating, especially since you already
have an obvious interest in the subject.
Maintain, Matt, Maintain
I try, really I do, but a big burst of laughter
kind of explodes from my mouth. “Interest?
Not really. Dearth of interest is more accurate.
Anyway, I’m not exactly sure I’m going to
college.” Damn. That slipped out, too. He
and Dad are friends, and I haven’t confessed
my lack of ambition to my parents yet.
His grin dissolves. Wow. That surprises
me, and it would be a spectacularly amazing
waste of talent, in my opinion. You’re one of
the brightest young men I know. I hope
you reconsider. You’ve got a lot to offer.
Backpaddle. Quick! “I haven’t decided
for sure yet. I mean, I’m already accepted
at UOregon.” I never considered anywhere
else, and only applied there because Dad
insisted. Mom figures I’m a lost cause,
anyway. If she even remembers I’m alive.
“Well, thanks for your concern, and I’ll
definitely think about that religion class.”
He looks downright sad, like he knows
I’m flat BSing him. I hope you do, Matt.
One thing I hate is watching a special kid
fall through the cracks. Have a great weekend.
Dismissed
Booyah! I can finally get something to eat.
But not before I track down Hayden. The halls
are jammed, everyone buzzing about the long
weekend ahead. I thread through the throng,
heading for my locker. There. There’s my girl,
waiting for me. Only thing is, she’s not alone.
Standing beside her is Jocelyn Stanton. One look
at her and irritation shimmers, but before it can
fan into anger, Hayden flashes perfect
pearl-white teeth and I kind of melt. I reach
for her, and she slips into my arms like
satin. Hi, baby. Her soft, full lips seek
mine, and this kiss, like every kiss, is all
I could ever ask for. Well, maybe not all,
but it’s more than enough for right now.
We unlock our mouths, but I keep her close,
inhaling the orange-ginger scent of her hair.
“Missed you at lunch.” I think a second, add,
“Actually, I missed lunch, too. But I missed
you more.” Behind us, Jocelyn tsks impatience,
lifting a froth of annoyance. “What’s her problem?”
Before she says a word, I know I’ll hate her answer.
Didn’t Realize
I had ESP, but apparently I’ve acquired
it somewhere along the way. Hayden
gives me a quick kiss to mute the blow.
She has to drive her little brother home.
My turn for impatience. “And . . . just
what does that have to do with you?”
I’m going, too. After we drop him off,
we’re going to change before the game.
“You mean the basketball game?
I didn’t know we’d decided to go.”
I especially didn’t know we’d decided
to go as a threesome, but I don’t say so.
Well, I, uh . . . kind of figured I’d go,
with or without you. It’s a big game—
“I know, Hayden, I mean, my dad being
the coach and all. But Freak’s having a party
and I thought that would be a lot more fun.
I tried to find you at lunch to discuss it, but . . .”
The unfinished sentence dissolves in silence,
the accusation watery but easy enough
to discern. I told you about the meeting,
Matthew. Not my fault you didn’t remember.
The shrew in her voice is a reaction to hurt,
of course. But I’m hurt, too. And more than
a little pissed off. “Don’t call me Matthew.”
Only Mom and my teachers do. “You’re right.
I did forget, and I’m sorry. But why would you
make plans with Jocelyn without asking me
first? I wouldn’t do that to you!” Petulant,
that’s how I sound, like a pissed little boy.
Come on, Matt. Placating, that’s how she sounds.
What’s one night? We have three whole days
to spend together. Anyway, you’re welcome
to come. Your dad would like you to be there.
Right. Like he’d even notice. “Never mind.
You go to the game with your girlfriend.”
If I Wanted
To be really nasty, I could add,
“And I’ll go to the party with mine.”
But that would be such an incredible
lie she’d no doubt laugh at me.
She knows I’d never mess up
what we have, even if I do feel
coldcocked by her indifference
to my distress. I tuck my tail,
mostly wishing I had the cojones
to snarl instead. “If you change
your mind, call. If not, guess
I’ve got a date with Marshall.”
Behind Hayden, Jocelyn taps
idiotically long fingernails against
too-plump thighs, and her eyes roll
toward the ceiling. All things
considered, I have a hard time
understanding why Hayden
and she are still friends, and
if I wasn’t mostly a gentleman,
I’d be tempted to shake her. If
I thought it would do any good,
I might resort to a small shoulder
jab, but pretty sure that would
only make Hayden dig in deeper.
I give my girl one last pleading
glance, start to walk away. But
I change my mind, mostly to
impress Jocelyn (in a negative
way). I reach for Hayden, pull
her into my arms, kiss her with
every ounce of love I hold inside.
At first, she is stiff, aware we have
an audience, but she softens quickly,
slipping the tip of her spearmint
tongue between my lips. My own
tongue lifts in eager greeting.
And now the two dance like
a snake charmer and cobra—
a quick, sinuous pirhouetting.
My heart drums, staccato, and
I can feel hers stutter against
my chest. With my eyes closed,
I could get carried away, but I
keep them open, watching
Jocelyn tsk and mutter beneath
her breath, totally tweaked at
this waste of her time and,
I suspect, not a little jealous.
Now Come Catcalls
From random guys walking by,
so reluctantly I pull away. Hayden
smiles and I kiss my way up her neck
to whisper in her ear, “You’re pretty
hot for a Christian girl. Sure you won’t
come to the party? We could do something
biblical. Build an ark, or sacrifice a lamb.”
She wants to be offended, but can’t quite
bring herself to, and laughs instead.
You are completely incorrigible, you know
that? Not to mention sacrilegious and
most likely damned. I will pray for you,
and if God doesn’t strike you down between
now and then, I’ll call you tomorrow morning.
Great sense of humor for a Christian
girl. While she’s still laughing, I go
&
nbsp; ahead and risk ruining her lighthearted
mood by asking Jocelyn, “How’s that
prick brother of yours? I hear his stats
aren’t exactly overwhelming. Tell him
I said to break a leg. Literally.”
Both Girls Sputter
And that’s fine with me. Hayden
needs to realize that her friendship
with Jocelyn makes me crazy, and
the idea of her driving anywhere
with that bitch’s brother just about
puts me over the edge. “Enjoy the game.”
I watch them walk stiffly to Jocelyn’s
way-too-sensible Prius. Not so sensibly,
they stand in the drizzle, waiting for
Cal Stanton, who occupies the top spot
on my “People Who Should Just Go
Ahead and Die Now” list. Not that
I’d dare admit I keep such a roster
in my head. If my therapist discovered
all those sessions we’ve shared haven’t
netted much in the way of my forgiving
the people on my hypothetical hit list,
she’d be downright concerned.
But My Lips Are Sealed
I make a dash through the rain
to my unsensible, but completely amazing
2013 Ford F-150, “Blue Flame” over gray.
It was an eighteenth-birthday gift
from my grandparents. The Portland
techies, not the Creswell Baptists.
Unfortunately, it’s the latter who live
closest to us, where they can keep
an eye on their daughter—my mother,
and their biggest disappointment. Well,
except for Luke. But the Portlanders,
hey, turns out they’re pretty cool.
(Hard to believe, considering they gave
birth to my dad.) I thought so even
before they gifted me with an awesome
ride “to celebrate my arriving.”
I wasn’t exactly sure where I’d arrived.
All I knew was from that day on, I was
going to arrive everywhere in style.
Best of All
This baby is loaded.
5.0 liter engine.
Supercab design.
4 x 4 drivetrain.
Satellite radio.
Bluetooth built into
the steering wheel for
hands-free calls while
I drive. I use it now
to let Marshall know
I’ll pick him up around
nine. Freak’s parties tend
to go really late. Get there
too early, and you risk
a DUI on the way home
or one hella hangover
the next day. Too bad
drinking comes with
so damn many intrinsic
reasons not to do it.
Hasn’t Stopped Me Yet
And it won’t stop me tonight, especially
without Hayden’s disapproving looks
to slow me down. But I’ll definitely
keep in mind I want to spend time
with her tomorrow, hangover-free.
At least I don’t have to shower now.
Who cares what I’ll smell like?
As I turn onto our street, I can see down
the block to our driveway, where Dad’s
car is parked. Odd. Why would he be here
now, with the JV game only a couple of
hours away? Usually he just stays at school.
Maybe he forgot something this morning.
I park in my usual spot against the curb.
Rain drizzles down the windshield, and
I watch it for a few minutes before going
inside. Rarely does the Turner family deviate
from the norm, and some small whisper
of foreboding stirs. But no, that’s stupid.
If someone had died, I would’ve gotten
a call. The thing about technology is,
surprises of a major sort are few and far
between. I stow the unease, go inside.
Where It Becomes Clear
In a half breath that I was correct in
my assumption that something is skewed
toward “holy crap.” I can hear Mom and
Dad talking in the kitchen. Talking. They
never do that. And it’s me they’re discussing.
Mom: What are you going to do about him?
Dad: What am I going to do? This is a joint
problem, Pam. Joint, meaning the two
of us, not that there’s much “us” left.
accurately, what did I do that they found
out about? Not to mention, care about.
I consider a quick exit, but whatever this
is won’t disappear in the next few hours.
Especially not if Dad loses one of the “big
games” tonight—basketball or blame.
Anyway, what’s the worst they can try
to do to me? Ground me? Right. It’s party
night, and I won’t be denied. So I’ll go
kiss a little ass, whatever their problem
might be. I whistle as I sashay toward
the nonproblem and its nonconsequence.
They’re at the Table
Backs to the door. When they hear me
coming, they spread a little before turning
in my direction, and I can see a small stack
of paper on the weathered wood. “What’s up?”
Dad’s face colors pink, as if I’ve busted
him doing something wrong. What’s up
with you, Matt? I think that’s the question.
“You’ll have to be a little more specific,
Dad, I . . .” He picks up the sheaf with two
fingers, gingerly, as if it might be hot. “Oh.”
It’s a photocopy of my essay, at least that’s
what the top page looks like. “Don’t tell
me. Mr. Carpenter and Ms. Hannity think
I’m considering mayhem and thought you
should know before I went off. Right?”
Something like that. He drops the papers
back on the table, then pierces my eyes
with his stare. Are you considering mayhem?
I glance at a couple of pages, remembering
what I’d written on them. “It’s just a freaking
essay. Not a manifesto for murder. Jeez, Dad—”
Shut up! screeches Mom. Don’t take
the Lord’s name in vain on top of the rest.
What is wrong with you, Matthew?
“Uh, Mom? ‘Jeez’ isn’t short for Jesus.
It’s really a rather innocuous expression,
in fact. Don’t worry. God isn’t offended.”
I could say more. I could remind her that
she never said one word about God or church
or faith or religion to me until the day Luke died.
That her overbearing Baptist upbringing backfired
and, according to stories I’ve heard Dad tell
after a few too many, she was about as far
from a pure, little Christian girl as they came
when she was my age. I could insist that makes
her the worst kind of hypocrite—the kind
who takes, uses, and abuses until life bites her
in the ass. Then, rather than try to fix the damage
she’s caused, she dumps it all into God’s lap,
begging him for forgiveness. I could go
even further and ask her to please explain
what’s the point of deity worship, anyway?
No matter how low she genuflects or how
high she lifts all those prayers, she faces
an arduo
us climb up Misery Mountain.
Maybe, just maybe, if she could reach
the top she’d find the tiniest glimpse
of happiness, somewhere in the far
distance. But those peaks are steep
and treacherous, and all she does is keep
slipping backward toward the morass
below. And the real truth is, even if
she scaled the cliffs, stood tall atop
the summit, Luke wouldn’t be there,
and neither would any chance to rekindle
whatever love she and Dad ever had.
Both have vanished forever. But what’s
the point of saying any of that? Even if
she listened, she wouldn’t get it. So I’ll
go back to playing defense. “I’ll try to watch
my mouth, okay? As for the essay, I was just
blowing off steam. With words. Not my fists.
Not an assault weapon. Just words.”
Words Like
Let’s look at religious genocide. We could in theory go all the way back to Noah, of ark fame, whose God was so angry at human sin that he chose to wipe out every living thing except for Noah’s family, and two of each species on earth. Nice creator you’ve got there. The Old Testament is, in fact, rife with Jehovah-driven genocide. But since it’s fiction anyway, let’s move on.
Under early popes, we find the Crusades. Christians killing Christians who weren’t acceptable Christians—those pesky Protestants. Jews. Muslims. Nonbelievers. And what to do about the pagans? Behead them. Impale them. Chop them up. All in the name of a forgiving God.
Keep marching forward. Centuries of witch hunts. Burn those bitches at the stake. The Spanish Inquisition. Extermination of Native North and South Americans. Torture them, rape them, enslave them. Or just outright murder them. “God’s will,” their Christian killers said. The will of a peaceful God.
You might think religion would get more civilized, approaching the twentieth century. But no. We’ve all heard about the Nazi population cleansing. But few realize that Catholic priests and Muslim clerics were, at the same time, willing accomplices to the extermination of eight hundred thousand Yugoslav citizens—orthodox Serbians, Jews, and Roma, many torched alive in kilns. The ovens of a loving God.
Buddhist monks in Vietnam. The Tutsis in Rwanda. Bosnian Muslims. The list of those killed with the aid of so-called Christians goes on and on. Figure in the flipside—Muslims killing Christians in Indonesia and the Sudan, Khmer Rouge and Soviet Communist wipe-outs, the Turk massacre of Armenian Christians, not to mention the whole war-without-end in the Middle East—and what you come up with is one seriously bloodthirsty God, not a loving creator who urges forgiveness and peace.