Slain (27 page)

I put my hand on the stall door, ready to slam it open.

“Shut up, Katie!” Paige yells, really yells, at her. “It’s none of your business either way, okay? You shouldn’t be talking about it.”

I hear Katie snort, and I can imagine the look on her face, eyes wide, pretending Paige is the one whose behavior is inappropriate. It’s the last straw.

I storm out. “Yeah, Katie, shut the fuck up,” I say. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Wow.
Language
,” Katie says. “You really think you need to get in any more trouble than you already are?”

I could tell her everything, but I refuse to defend myself to her. She’s not worth it. I will forget her the minute I have my diploma in my hand.

“Don’t lecture me, Katie. You’re only a technical virgin yourself. Isn’t that right?”

“Shut up,” she says, and blanches because she knows exactly what I know about her. She told me herself. I continue, heedless of the fear in her eyes.

“Paige, did you know Katie let Derek Halls have anal with her after the Harvest Festival junior year?”

“Emma. Stop it.” Paige says.
 

“So, by all means, please go around telling everyone else that I’m the slut. See how that works out for you.”

“I told you that in confidence,” she says. Her eyes are welling up, and I can tell my words have hit her hard.
 

All of a sudden I realize that none of this matters. I’m holding her to a standard that I don’t even believe in anymore. I’m so messed up. I don’t know how to navigate living both inside and outside this world at the same time. I don’t belong anywhere.

Katie turns to Paige. “Please don’t tell anyone. It only happened once.”

“I don’t care what you do,” Paige says.

Some freshman girl bangs the door open, but when she sees our faces, she leaves.

“I’m sorry, Katie,” I say. “You’re right. That was private. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Whatever,” Katie says, and I know it’s as close as I’ll get to an apology from her. It doesn’t matter.

The second bell rings, and Katie wipes at her eyes quickly in the mirror.

“Come on, Paige, we have to get to class,” Katie says.

She starts to go, but Paige doesn’t move.

“Are you coming?” Katie asks.

“In a minute,” Paige says.

Katie huffs out, biting her lip so she doesn’t cry again. It makes me think of her when I met her in first grade, blonde pigtails and an awkward, too-toothy smile. It was hard for her coming in even a year after the rest of us had started. She used to give away parts of her lunch, and go home hungry, just so people would like her. It’s the same with her today, some part of her believing that she’s not worth friendship, only now her fruit snacks are tiny bits of gossip.

I turn and realize Paige is still standing there, staring at me. I meet her eyes.

“What’s wrong with you, Emma? That was really mean.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It was stupid.”

Paige purses her lips and looks away from me. “Is it true, what he said?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry, Paige, but no.”

She nods. I can’t tell if she believes me or not. I get the sense that she’s tucking away these details for later when she’ll have time to figure it all out, just like me. I wish I could tell her everything. I wish I could be honest without losing her. But a part of me knows I already have lost her.

I
T
TAKES
ME
MOST
of the day to clean off my locker. All the janitor, Mr. Rassmussen, gives me is a scrub brush and a bucket of bleach water. No hard candy today. The bleach water doesn’t do anything at all, but it takes two hours of scrubbing, my fingernails spongy and splitting, my skin raw from the chemicals, before he believes that elbow grease will not do the job.

I wait for another hour while he goes to the hardware store and comes back with an assortment of cleaners to try. My cuticles crack from the harshness of the chemicals, but eventually they work.

After school I force myself to go to cheerleading practice, just to have something to do. There’s not much in the way of sports left to cheer for. All we have left are a couple of routines we’re planning to do for the end-of-year assemblies. We’ve done them a thousand times by now, and it feels good to get lost in the movements.

Once practice is over, I barely have enough time to shower, change, check in with my mom, and grab a quick bagel from the Connections Café before youth group starts.

I find Pastor Pete before things get going. My parents have told him everything. He’s the one who suggested I speak with Miss Hope.

“I really don’t think I should be leading worship services anymore,” I say, and it feels like such a relief.

He frowns, “Come on. I know everyone would love to see you up there. Maybe singing will help you feel better.”

Singing would make me feel better. But not these songs. Jackson flashes in my mind, playing his guitar, us sitting on his bed a couple months ago, me singing along. I wish I could go back to that night. I wish it so badly.

“I’m sorry. I can’t anymore.”

He hesitates, not sure what to say, then falls back on, “Okay. It’s up to you.”

Then I remember something else.

“Oh, and…” I start, not knowing how to ask the question. “I was in your office yesterday with Miss Hope, and I saw that pig again, and…”

“Yes?”

“It’s just, you said it was your favorite as a kid, but…um…it looks brand new. All my old toys are pretty beat up.”

His brow furrows. Then he smiles and leans in conspiratorially, “Don’t tell anyone, but I was a little bit of a neat freak as a kid.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, even though it’s hard to believe. What sort of toddler is a neat freak?
 

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I was just wondering. Did Nicolas or June ever come to you for any counseling?”

“I’m afraid that’s private, Emma. Just like I wouldn’t talk to someone else about the things we’ve discussed, I can’t talk to you about them.”

“Did you know Nicolas proposed to her?”

He looks at me, confused. “But she was so young.”
 

Unless he’s a good actor, the answer is no.

“She didn’t accept, but…” I say. “I don’t know, I think she was trying to. She wanted to get baptized first.”

“I’m sorry she didn’t have that chance.”

“Were you planning to baptize her?” I ask.
 

“No,” he smiles softly. “I usually leave that kind of thing to your dad. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, just some things she said before she died made me wonder.”

He tilts his head, curious. He seems to sense that there’s more to the story than that, but doesn’t press me. Instead, he puts a hand on my shoulder, looks into my eyes. “Remember our conversation?”

“Um, yeah.”

“You don’t have to make any decisions about God right now. Just remember to keep listening, okay?”

I nod. I’m not about to get into that discussion again.

“I’m praying for you, Emma.”

Everyone is praying for me.

What Pastor Pete said about the toy doesn’t make sense, and it’s weird enough to make me uneasy. Then I remember that there was a manufacturer’s tag on the pig. Maybe I can look it up and find more information.

There’s still a few minutes before youth service starts so I go across the hall for a little privacy, into the empty gym. I pull out my iPad and look up the toy’s manufacturer: Joya Toyco. They have a website, and I click over to their Products page, but it’s just a paragraph explaining that they specialize in plush toys, not a list of any of their specific products.
 

I move on to their About page. Sure enough, it says the company wasn’t even formed until 2002, way too late to be Pastor Pete’s toy in the ’80’s.

It’s definitely a lie. Why would Pastor Pete lie?
 

And how much do I really know about Pastor Pete?

I know he’s been at the church for five years. I know he graduated from Bethany Bible College and that this is his first job out of school. Which, honestly, is sort of incredible. Most pastors have to put in a lot of time in smaller churches before getting hired at a place like this. He either impressed the heck out of my dad, or he had some very powerful connections.

I doubt it was connections. I’ve never met his parents, or seen any brothers and sisters, or any other relatives for that matter. Paige’s grandparents and aunts and uncles visit all the time. Why wouldn’t Pastor Pete’s do the same? He’s always said that his parents raised him as a Christian. But they haven’t visited even once to see him preach?

Maybe it’s just my head being soaked in all of this June stuff right now, but all I can think of, the only thing I can think of, is that the pig in his office
is
the toy from June’s testimony. Did she give it to him? Did he take it from her? Or am I making too much out of this? Plush pigs aren’t exactly rare. Is there some other story behind that toy that he doesn’t want to tell for a totally innocent and unrelated reason?

I feel jittery. What if there’s more to Pastor Pete’s story than I know? Or what if, more likely, I’m seeing something that’s not there? What if I want to find a scapegoat so badly I’m making connections where there are none at all? I have to be careful. All I know for sure is that I need to find out more.

I hear the music starting across the hall, the slow strum of his guitar, and know I have to get myself under control. Youth group is starting. I need to get back over there.

Instead of my usual place in the second row, where I sit with everyone after the worship part of service is over, I pick a spot in back. Paige stares at me from her place at the piano, not so much confused as she is disappointed. There’s a long, hard conversation ahead of me with her. But it’s going to have to wait until I have this all figured out.

Soon Ruth takes my place at the mic, and it’s as if I never existed. Several people glance back at me, curious, but no one seems brave enough to ask. They’re probably thinking it has something to do with Mike’s Facebook post. They’re probably thinking that not being on stage isn’t my choice at all.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen things from this angle, down in the seats instead of up on stage. What felt earnest and smooth, even at my worst, now looks amateurish and hacky. Pastor Pete’s strumming on the electric guitar feels simple. Greyson’s drums are off beat. Paige is competent on the keyboard, technically proficient but not passionate. And it may be my own pride speaking, but Ruth’s voice sounds sharp—shrill and trying too hard to impress.
 

There’s this trend in Christian music right now, maybe for a long time, to make it sound like secular music. But when they do that, it always sounds so wrong. Whether they’re mimicking sexy ballads (for Jesus) or emo crooning (for Jesus), or rocking hard (for Jesus) it just makes you feel a little icky. Especially the sexy stuff. I mean, all that breathy groaning is about sex, right? So it kind of feels like all these Christian kids are totally horny for Christ.

Just as I’m thinking this, Ruth hits one of those breathy groans and closes her eyes. She’s trying to show how totally into God she is right now, how totally drowned she is in the Spirit, but it makes me certain, absolutely certain, that this is the exact face she makes when she has an orgasm, if she’s ever had one at all.

I let out a little giggle. Okay, maybe not a giggle. The laugh explodes from my nose in a snort. If I was drinking milk it would bubble out of my nostrils. The guy sitting a couple chairs down turns to look, and I see that it’s Chuck. Making eye contact with him only makes me laugh harder, and soon he’s laughing too.

An adult at the back of the room, Roger Smith, standing watch for troublemakers, gives us a harsh look. Chuck scoots closer as I try to stifle the urge to break out in full-blown howls of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” he asks in a whisper.

“Ruth…Ruth’s face. She looks like…she looks like she’s about to…”

Then we both look up and, I swear to god, Ruth does this little grinding sway with her hips and makes that face again, and I lose it. I absolutely lose it. Chuck does too. He knows exactly what I mean.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear a harsh whisper. “Okay, you two, out of here.” Roger Smith is hovering over us with a scowl. I turn to look at him and he seems surprised that it’s me. It makes me laugh harder.

“You’re both excused until you can get yourselves together. Some people here are trying to worship the Lord.”

He gives us a little shove, and Chuck and I shuffle out the back row and out the room. Everyone’s giving us a look. We are definitely misbehaving. Hooligans! Troublemakers! I’ve never been a troublemaker before. The feeling makes me giddy.

Chuck and I wait until we’re outside, and then we explode. I’m laughing so hard tears run down my cheeks. My stomach cramps from it. I take deep, full breaths trying to calm down.

“I thought she was gonna make out with the microphone.” Chuck says.

And I start up again. It feels good to laugh, really good, like a friend you haven’t seen in years showing up as a surprise on your doorstep.

“I know. I know,” I say, finally getting myself together. “I thought she was full-on gonna, you know…finish.”

“Emma Grant.” Chuck raises his eyebrows in shocked respect. “We should ask Ben about that. He’d know.”

“What?! Are you saying—?”

“Yeah. They definitely did it.”

“When? She always acts so perfect.”

“Camp last summer. They snuck away during chapel. I saw them when I got turned around coming back from the outhouse. His shorts were down. Her skirt was up.”

“No way.”

“Yup. Swear to God!”

“Ruth Stanger and Ben Devine?” I’ve known these two since they were babies. It’s not like no one in youth group
ever
has sex, but it is pretty rare. And usually when they do it’s followed by a tearful confession and lots of very public prayer requests. The fact that they’ve kept it a secret this long, even after breaking up, is pretty remarkable. It makes me wish the rules were as simple where pastors’ daughters are concerned.