Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature (21 page)

I completed my outfit with black slacks, black calf-high boots, and a dark red (puce!) blouse that made it look
like I wasn't afraid to wear bold colors because I certainly wasn't trying to hide.

Right.

I kept thinking as we walked up the sidewalk to the church, “I'm here to worship. I'm here to worship. I'm here for God. …” We entered the double doors into the lobby and immediately faced the gauntlet of handshakes from this morning's welcome team.

They were as shocked to see me as if I'd shown up eight months pregnant.

We entered the sanctuary. I tried to take a seat in the very back, but my parents were firm: we were to sit up front, our heads held high.

So we took the long, hard march up the aisle, past every ugly face glowering at me for getting their almighty pastor and church sued by some pansy gay kid sinner and his equally hell-destined parents (I know how these people think), and finally after an eternity we got to take our seats, smack in the very first row.

I've heard that at funerals, sometimes they drug the grieving widow or widower to help them get through the service. Normally I wouldn't say this, but today I wouldn't have minded some of that myself.

Pastor Wells sat off in his corral to the side of the stage, watching every step of our procession, and he looked … happy.

Which was not a good sign, to say the least. Nor was the fact that he started hurriedly flipping through his Bible, although I didn't understand what that meant until later.

There's a lot of rigmarole to get through in church before you actually get to the meat of the sermon. There's the part at the beginning where we stand and greet the people around us (only one person shook my hand—some old woman who probably couldn't see it was me). Then we recite some verses together, sing a hymn, pass the collection plates, sing some more, listen to the choir sing—all those things I used to enjoy. I actually happen to love church, normally.

But not today. Not anymore. I don't know if I can ever set foot in a church again.

Because while we were praying and singing and pre paring our hearts for an uplifting sermon, Pastor Wells sat there so smugly and waited for his moment of glory.

And revenge.

“Beloveds,” he finally began, “welcome, and praise God for this glorious day.”

So far, so good. But then he looked at me and smiled. “And for the return of lost lambs to the fold.”

It was the same kind of smile the hungry Orc had in
The Two Towers
when he looked at Merry and Pippin.
“What about them? They're fresh.”

“I was going to speak today on the second of the beatitudes—blessed are those who mourn—but I believe we will save that for next week, because there is something more particular I wish to speak to you about today.”

I don't think my parents had caught on yet. Unlike me, they were still sitting up straight, innocently ready to listen.

Pastor Wells smiled again. That smile was broadcast onto the three huge video screens above his head so all the people in the ultra-back could see and appreciate how commanding and gifted he is.

“Please open your Bibles to the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 27, verse 3.” Pastor Wells waited for people to find it, then he read aloud.

“ ‘When Judas, who had BETRAYED him, saw that Jesus was condemned, he was seized with remorse—’ “

Pastor Wells paused and gazed lovingly at my family. I wanted to scream.

“ ‘—and Judas returned the thirty silver coins to the chief priests and the elders. “I have sinned,” he said, “for I have betrayed INNOCENT BLOOD.” ‘ “

Pastor Wells paused to let the full gravity of that weigh on us. Then he bowed his head toward his Bible once more and read the last few lines.

“ ‘ “What is that to us?” they replied. “That is your responsibility.” So Judas threw the money into the temple and left. Then he went away and HANGED HIMSELF.’ “

Pastor Wells softly closed his Bible. It was the shortest sermon I'd ever heard him give, but then again, he'd had to think it up on the fly. Besides, everyone knew what— whom—he was talking about, so why add another word? Pastor Wells's eyes shone as he gazed out on his congregation, love and acceptance on his face. At least that's how it looked on the monitors.

“Let us pray. Precious Lord, you gave of your life for us. You knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane, praying that this
cup might be taken from you. ‘Yet not as I will,’ you said, ‘but as Thou will.’ “

Pastor Wells's voice rose and boomed over his lapel microphone. “Father, we come to you today with the same prayer in our hearts: not as we will, but as Thou will. We will take this cup, handed to us by the Betrayer, and we will lift it up, knowing that God in all his mercy, and the Son and the Holy Ghost, are with us now and forever, and will protect us from every harm and send us mercifully on our way. And the Betrayer will be punished. In Christ's name, amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation murmured in response, just like they always do. But then somewhere in the middle of the room, applause broke out—
applause.
And pretty soon the whole church joined in.

I glanced to my right and saw the look of horror on my parents’ faces. “Let's go,” my mother said.

“No!” I said. “Everyone's looking!”

“Mena, we're
leaving.”

It was the worst thing she could have done, but she did it anyway. The applause continued as we rose and slunk down the aisle. We were only halfway when the organist launched into her intro, and the choir stood, and the congregation joined in singing “How Great Thou Art,” some of them with their eyes closed (although most people preferred to watch us) and their arms raised high, swaying in time with the music, calling down Jesus to be with them. And Pastor Wells peered at us from the pulpit and the three megascreens above him, smiling triumphantly
because he knew Judas was no longer in the house and would probably never return.

My mother was crying by the time we reached the doors. I thought I might do the same, I was so angry and embarrassed. But mostly angry.

And then off to my right, in the last row, out of the corner of my eye I saw an apparition—it had to be that. I turned my head fully toward him and saw that he was flesh and blood.

I shook my head slightly and walked on as if I didn't know him.

My parents and I hurried through the lobby, then burst through the double doors, out toward the parking lot. My mother was an absolute wreck.

I knew the last thing I should do was open my mouth and say a word, but something came over me and I couldn't stop myself. “Can you BELIEVE that? Can you believe what he said? Oh my gosh, I can't believe he just did that!”

And then I started crying, too. I knew my parents were never going to forgive me after what they'd just been through. This was really the end.

My mother snapped, “Get in the car.”

I got in with the two of them and sat there knowing the next words out of my mother's mouth were going to be about how I had brought this on all of us, I should never have defied the church, I had disgraced my parents, etc.

But instead my mother said, “Son of a
bitch!”

Now, let me be clear—my mother NEVER cusses. Not even when it's justified, like when she drops something on her foot. Our household is strictly a “darn it” and “gosh” sort of place.

So hearing my mother use the SOB word was about as close to mutiny as I've ever known.

My father didn't even object. He looked as angry as I felt. But I was still sure they'd be taking it all out on me.

We drove in silence all the way home. My father pulled into the garage and shut off the ignition.

My mother turned around in her seat and fixed me with the most murderous glare.

“That was unforgivable,” she began, and I was just about to lay out some defense when she continued. “That man is a disgrace to the ministry and I hope he gets fired. I'm writing a letter to the board. They won't listen to me, but I'll keep writing. I'll do whatever it takes to have him removed.”

“Mom—”

“What you did,” she told me, “was wrong. You should never have sent a letter to that boy—it was stupid.”

“But I only wanted to—”

“You should have told us what you were doing. You should have asked us first. Do you understand, Mena? You don't write a letter like that. You don't send it to that boy. You don't put things like that in writing. They
always
come back to hurt you. It was a stupid thing to do.”

I felt a little light-headed. Was that what this was all about? Not that I'd turned against the church or taken
Denny's side—was the whole war really just about me putting my feelings in writing?

But no, that was only the first part of my sin.

“And after all that, you go shoot off your mouth to that KC girl so she can put it in the paper? Do you understand what it was like to hear about that at church? We've been trying to maintain at least some
semblance
of civility there—”

“Mom—”

“I'm not finished.”

All this time my father just sat there, looking straight ahead at his tool bench in the garage. He always lets my mother do the dirty work. I think it's one of the foundations of their marriage.

“You seem to think you can do whatever you want, whenever you feel like it,” my mother continued. “You think all that matters is what you feel like doing, moment to moment. Queen Mena—is that it?”

“No! Mom—”

“We are a family of three, Mena. Not one, not two— three. Your father and I do not make decisions about our family without considering how they might affect you. But it seems you feel no need to return the favor.”

Which isn't exactly true—my parents have made lots of decisions about my life without ever consulting me, but I wasn't going to argue the point.

“But Mom—”

“What, Mena? What? Speak. What do you have to say for yourself?”

After all those times trying to butt in, now I was speechless. But I had to come up with something. This might be my last best chance to improve the situation.

I prayed for help. And for once in my life, the answer came right away. Maybe I already knew what I had to do— I mean, obviously I knew. But knowing isn't the same as accepting it. Until that exact second, I wasn't ready to do what I knew had to be done. It was just too ugly to consider.

But then I heard my answer, echoing in my brain in Ms. Shepherd's own voice:
Lying is for the weak-minded. If you can't think of a truthful way to solve your problems, you're not thinking hard enough.

I slumped back against my seat. I really had no choice. I either had to go on lying, or stop it right then and deal with whatever the consequences might be. I'm not good at lying. It takes too much out of me. And the bottom line is, that isn't who I want to be. I'd rather know I have some integrity, even if it means never being allowed out of the house again.

I took what felt like might be my last breath on earth. And then I began. “I need to tell you some things.”

I started off slowly, trying to build a good case for myself. I told them how awful school has been. How vindictive Teresa and the rest of them are. How being friends with Casey and Kayla is the only decent thing that's happened to me in months.

“You brought that on yourself,” my mother said. “You're the one who wrote that letter.”

“Yeah, but I
had
to! Denny almost died. What was I supposed to do?”

“Pray,” my mother said. “Ask for forgiveness.”

“I did ask for forgiveness,” I said. “From Denny.”

“And look where it's got us,” my mother said.

I bit my tongue. I could have said that God wants us to reconcile with the people we've hurt. I could have said that I wasn't the one who tortured Denny. I could have said that I thought my parents—not to mention God— wanted me to be kind to people. I could have said a lot of things, but it was obvious that arguing with her about Denny was not going to help me. Especially since I still had to tell them the rest of it.

All my lies. From that first phone call, when I didn't tell my mother that Casey was a boy, to asking Kayla to pretend she was Casey, to going over to the Connors’ house every day, knowing my parents wouldn't have allowed it if they'd known.

“What were you thinking?” my mother demanded.

That I wanted to be happy,
I thought, but I didn't say it.
That I wanted to be liked again. That the silent treatment at home and the meanness at school were killing me. That I was beginning to understand how Denny felt, having to face those kids every day. That until Casey invited me to his house, I thought my life might never be happy again.

“How could you look us in the eye, day after day,” my mother asked, “knowing you were lying to us?”

I just shook my head. The lump in my throat was the size of the moon. I knew I still had to tell them more.

“Um … Stephanie? She isn't really my mentor. That was just so I could go over to Casey's house—so I could say goodbye to the puppies.”

The look on my mother's face was something I never care to see again. It was a mixture of rage and sadness and confusion. Her lips got small. Her eyes watered. I didn't want to keep talking, but I had to confess it all.

People say it feels good to tell the truth, to unburden yourself. It doesn't. It felt like I was boiling myself alive. Because with each word out of my mouth, I knew I was pushing myself further and further away from that day when I would ever regain my parents’ trust. Which meant I was that much further from ever having a normal life again.

My mother was absolutely speechless. She stared at me while my father stared at his tool set, and I just did what I had to without trying to think too much, like a tightrope walker focused on the platform at the end.

And I have to confess something: I did leave one thing out. I just couldn't bring myself to tell them about the kiss. Trust me, they're not ready for that. They might not ever be ready for that. And is it really their business? I mean, it was just a kiss—it's not like I sneaked out and got birth control or something.

If keeping that kiss to myself makes me a sinner, then I guess I'll just have to deal with it when I get to heaven. For now, I'm sticking with my decision.