The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel (21 page)

“You’re idiots,” said a blond girl who was now combing through her wet hair.

Rhea stretched out full length on the bench. “I think I’m going to barf,” she said.

Jory smiled and untied her shoes.

All around them girls sprayed Arrid Extra Dry and Love’s Baby Soft and applied Yardley lip gloss in the mirror. They stuffed clothes into the mesh lockers and clomped back upstairs again, their ponytails swinging.

Jory waited till the stair climbing died away; then she took off her sweatpants and T-shirt and ran her towel over her sweaty legs and chest.

Rhea turned over on the wooden bench and groaned. “You think I’m kidding about the puking,” she said, “but I’m not.”

Miss Smith and Jude clattered down the stairs and into the locker room. “Nice work, girls,” said Miss Smith, looking at Jory and Rhea. She handed her clipboard to Jude. “Okay, read off the numbers and copy them into the grade book. When you’re done, bring the grade book and the leftover towels back to my classroom.”

“Miss Smith? When is Jude going to take the Presidential Fitness Test?”

“That’s a good question, Rhea.” Miss Smith looked up at Jude.

“Maybe you should have her demonstrate for the rest of the class on Thursday.” Rhea turned to Jory. “Jory here was saying she needed some tips on chin-ups.”

Miss Smith nodded. “Not a bad idea,” she said. “You girls better hurry if you want to be dressed before the bell rings.” She turned and slapped back up the concrete steps in her shower room thongs. The gym door slammed in the distance.

“Thanks a whole lot, Durham,” said Jude.

“Anytime,” said Rhea cheerfully.

Jory looked down at the floor and pulled on her corduroy pants. She
turned toward the far wall and held her towel around her shoulders while she tried to slip on Grace’s bra.

“So modest,” said Jude as she leaned against the bank of clothes lockers.

“Just like me,” said Rhea, deliberately pulling her T-shirt off over her head and stepping boldly out of her cutoffs.

“We’ve all seen your fur line already,” Jude said. “God—haven’t you heard of electrolysis?”

Rhea stood in the middle of the room in her red bra and panties. “In Europe none of the women shave their legs
or
their pits,” she said.

“That’s because they’re all dykes or lesbians,” said Jude.

“Aren’t all dykes lesbians?” Jory said, and then instantly regretted this remark.

Jude let out a laugh and stared at Jory with a certain amount of surprise.

“I just meant logically speaking.” Jory wrenched her head through the top of her sweater. She pulled it down around her waist and began tugging her boots on.

“Besides,” Jude said, turning pointedly to Rhea, “it’s not your pits I’m talking about. And this isn’t Europe, either, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“What?” said Rhea. “Arco isn’t in Europe? I want my money back.”

Jory peeked up at Rhea. Her body was tan and muscular, like a boy’s almost, except for the breasts that overflowed from the red bra. Jory was amazed at the way they hung there suspended in space like things half solid and inverted. She grabbed her book bag. “I’m gonna miss the bus,” said Jory.

“You ride the bus?” said Jude.

Jory blushed. Riding the bus was obviously the worst form of social suicide.

Rhea still stood straddle legged in her underwear. “Hell,
yeah
, she rides the bus. She
rides
the bus. She rides
the
bus. She rides the
bus
.
She rides the bus!
”

“Wow,” said Jude. “That was weird. And really unattractive.”

“I’m going,” said Jory.

“So long,” said Jude, smiling and shaking her head.

Jory glanced back at Rhea. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

“You bet, track star.” Rhea smiled and crossed her arms.
“Hasta mañana.”

“Four miles,” Jory said, taking a long swig of milk. “Can you believe it?”

“That’s pretty amazing.” Grace sat at the kitchen table with a stack of books and their father’s slide rule. She was still wearing Henry Kleinfelter’s overalls. “I’ve never run that far in my life.”

“Me either!” Jory put the milk carton back in the refrigerator and gave the door a happy slam. “Maybe I should go out for track.”

“May
be
.”

“I’m just kidding, of course. I’m not staying there. In a few weeks I’m going back to ACA.” Jory sat down at the table across from Grace.

“I know.”

“Dad said I could.”

“Um-hm.”

“He did.”

There was a quiet knock at the front door.

“Dad doesn’t knock,” said Grace.

“I’ll go,” said Jory.

Through the glass in the door she could see Grip standing on their doormat and smiling. He was holding a rectangular package in his hands. His hair was in a kind of bun on the top of his head.

Jory’s heart thrilled piercingly. There had been a part of her that feared she might never see him again. She didn’t care about anything he had previously done, or said, or said that he’d done. She put her hand on the doorknob.

“Who is
that
?” said Grace, who had come out from the kitchen and was now standing behind Jory.

“Oh, um,” said Jory in a small voice. “Well . . .”

“Jory, for Pete’s sake,” Grace said, reaching around Jory and opening the door. “Hello,” she said, smiling her best work-and-witness smile at Grip. “Can we help you?”

“Oh, hey.” Grip switched his gaze from one sister to the other. Jory could feel the skin on her neck getting hot. “Well, say, I have something
for Jory here,” he said. He held the box out. “A sort of back-to-school present, I guess. But I could come some other time. Later or tomorrow or something.” He half grinned. “Y’all are probably in the middle of dinner, aren’t you?”

Grace gave Jory a wordless look. Jory stared at the floor. Grace opened the door a bit wider. “You’re not a schoolteacher of Jory’s, are you?” Puzzlement still flickered across her face.

“Now
that
would be something,” he said, stepping into their living room.

“This is Grip,” Jory said finally, her voice sounding as if she’d never used it before. “And this is my sister Grace.”

Grace shook Grip’s hand. “Grip?”

“It’s my cross to bear.” He put the box down on the coffee table. “A mother with a warped sense of humor.”

“So, how do you two know each other?” Grace folded her hands in front of her.

“Grace.”
Jory whispered.

“Just curious,” said Grace.

“Well, lemme see. Jory was in my employ this summer.” Grip cleared his throat. “She was my assistant and right-hand man during the months of June and July. I guess you must have been in Mexico during that time.”

“Grip tried to teach me how to swim,” said Jory. Suddenly this statement seemed like less of a good idea.

“Really?” said Grace, glancing from one of them to the other, as if trying to determine something without actually having to ask.

Grip shrugged and smiled again.

“Well,” said Grace slowly. “You’re welcome to eat with us if you’d like.
Grip
.” She turned and then walked out of the living room and into the kitchen.

“Shoot,” Grip said, moving a step closer to Jory. “Is this not a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” said Jory. She found herself whispering for some reason she couldn’t explain. “It’s just so strange. I never imagined the two of you meeting.”

“I didn’t think about her answering the door.” Grip shrugged. “You know,” he said, glancing toward the kitchen, “she doesn’t look so crazy.”

“She’s not, exactly.”

“Hey,” he said, and leaned over the coffee table. “Here. Come on, open ’er up.” He handed the box to Jory. It was wrapped in newspaper with a white paper napkin swan on top. “Origami,” he said. “I’m a master.”

Jory sat down on the dead cat couch and held the box. “It jingles,” she said. “Is it for Christmas?” She peered up at him, suddenly shy. With great carefulness she pried at the tape at one end and then on the other. The newspaper came off in a sheet and fell to the floor. She lifted the lid on the box. Inside were moccasins. Brown suede fringed moccasins with tiny silver bells attached to the laces. They were the palest shade of mocha brown and soft to the touch, like the ears of a fawn Jory had once touched at the Boise petting zoo.
“Oh,”
she said. For some strange reason, she felt tears gathering in the back of her throat. She held the shoes in her lap.

“I don’t know if they’re your size,” he said. “They look pretty close, though.” He picked one up. “Try them on.”

She bent down and pulled off Grace’s old boots. She slipped her feet into one of the moccasins, and then the other. They were the tiniest bit big, but she could wear thicker socks. Thicker socks would make them nearly perfect. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Grip smiled. “Those girls at Schism won’t know what hit ’em.”

“Ha,” said Jory, wiping at her eyes. “They think I’m a complete and total weirdo.”

“Nah,” he said. “They’re just jealous.”

“I don’t think so.” Jory gazed in wonder at her feet. She didn’t recognize them. She took a step and listened to the silvery sounds the bells made.
Pocahontas,
she thought.
Sacagawea.
Tiger Lily
. “Thank you,” she said again.

Grip nodded. “I guess this was my lame-ass attempt at an apology.”

“Oh, hey—that’s okay. I shouldn’t have bugged you about that juvenile detention stuff anyway.” She tried to shrug and make her face look as unbothered as possible.

They both glanced down at the floor and neither said anything for a moment.

“Guess what?” she said finally, turning her eyes up toward his. “It’s my birthday.”

“Really? You’re kidding.”

“On Sunday,” Jory said.

“Well, what do you know,” he said, shaking his head. “Nineteen, right?”

Jory smiled.

Grace walked into the living room holding a can opener. “What’s that jingling noise?” she asked.

“My shoes,” Jory said. She held her left foot out toward Grace. “Grip got them for me.” She smiled at Grip. “For my birthday.”

Jory could feel Grace taking Grip in, seeing him as if for the first time. His hair, the blue tattoos, the slightly spotted brown work shirt. “Well,” she said. “They’re very pretty.”

“They’re even the right size,” Jory said.

“What do you two think—beef stew or chili?” Grace pulled her eyes away from Grip and smiled faintly at Jory.

“Oh, wow,” said Grip. “I should have said something. I don’t really eat meat.”

“What?”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“A vegetarian?” Grace stood still holding the can opener.

“Yeah, I know it’s a pain in the ass. But you know, I can make my own stuff, if you’ll let me. I do it all the time no matter where I am.”

“Dad’s a vegetarian,” Jory said.

“No, he’s not.” Grace frowned.

“Well, he might as well be.”

“Hey,” Grip said. “How about you let me take a peek in your kitchen and see what I can rustle up?”

“Oh,” Grace said. “Well . . . okay, I guess.” She turned away.

“Come on, Indian Maiden, you can help me.” Grip tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen.

Jory followed behind him, listening to the snowy sound of her shoes as she walked.

The three of them sat at the kitchen table beneath the hanging light. A salad with lettuce and canned lentils and red beans and other exotic-
looking ingredients Jory and Grace had been keeping at the very back of the cupboard now filled a large blue bowl.

“I’d like to pray first,” Grace said. “If that’s all right with you.”

“Oh, sure,” said Grip. “Y’all do whatever you’d like. Whatever you normally do.”

“That’s what we normally do,” said Grace.

“Not always,” said Jory.

“Nearly always,” said Grace. “And if not in literal speech, then in spirit.”

Grip’s eyebrows scrunched together in thought. “Does that mean that you’re thinking a prayer in your head, or that you’re just kind of meditating on something like Buddhists do?”

Grace leaned forward in a way Jory was very familiar with. She gazed at Grip without blinking. “What it means is that even if you aren’t speaking the words out loud, you are still communing with God. You are actively trying to listen to the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit so that you can praise and thank Him even more fully.”