Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (27 page)

Predictably, several people cry out at once—such a melodramatic response, but I’m getting used to it.

Another woman leaps up. “You’re a hypocrite! On the radio you promoted abstinence. Now we see you rolling around with a girl you say you don’t know.”

“It’s true. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

“I wasn’t apologizing to you. I was apologizing to
her
. I’d do anything for her forgiveness. Yours I can live without.”

The woman slaps her hand across her mouth like I’ve committed blasphemy, and I wonder why she doesn’t just leave. Maybe she wants to hang around in case everyone starts rioting. Who can afford to miss out on something like that?

There’s a bottle of water by my feet, so I take a swig. “I think I know what I must’ve meant when I told Pastor Mike the book was truthful,” I explain. “See, it started out as a five-page assignment, but I was living every page. And so it grew. And when it was over a hundred pages long, it kept growing. I was in every moment, every situation. I was living it, breathing it, feeling it. It felt so real. Now for some of you, that won’t be enough. But before you cast the first stone”—I look at the creased page—“okay, the second stone, remember this: Faith means trusting in things you can’t know for sure.”

The debater in me knows I’m on solid ground here, but I’m beginning to think that people don’t want an explanation or apology at all; they just want me to know that they hate me.

A new projectile flies toward me: another torn-out page from
Hallelujah
; the same page, in fact. Someone
must really hate that page. There’s even a message scrawled along the margin:
Read this, silly boy
.

A few rows back, Fran is waving her hand. She’s wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt instead of the dress, and her purple hair hangs loose around her shoulders, which makes me really happy.

Fran mimes reading from a book, so I flatten the page and read: “For though they had heard, they had not listened. And though they had read, they had not understood. And so did the boy grasp the book and say ‘This once was mine, but now is yours.’ And he held it aloft and waited for someone to take it from him, to claim it as their own. Yet no one did, because they all knew that the story ended somewhat inconclusively, and was thus really, really irritating.”

I chuckle at that last bit, and in the quiet that has suddenly enveloped the church I feel something shift. Everyone is still on edge, withholding judgment rather than forgiving me, but as the sun pours through the stained-glass windows to my left, I feel…
something
. A peacefulness, maybe.

That’s when it hits me: I’m in a church. And not just any church—
my
church. This is my home away from home, a place where I belong, where I should always feel welcome. And the people who know me best—Fran, my parents, Matt, Andy—are still here for me, rooting for me. One week—even the worst
possible week—hasn’t changed that. As for the other people here, they didn’t know me before, and they don’t really know me now. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s better than okay.

I throw another glance Fran’s way and hold up the piece of paper. This time I’m actually smiling, because there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m ready to embrace it.

“That passage I just read reminds me of something really important—something I need everyone to know.” I crumple the paper between my fingers and feel the crisp edges of the page digging into my palms. “The boy in this book isn’t really me. You all know that by now. He’s similar, sure, but better, because the things he says and does have been edited over and over. I’m not him. I’m going to need to screw up sometimes. And I’m going to feel bad about it, and ask for forgiveness. But not from you… from the person I actually hurt.”

There’s a faint murmuring, like this sort of makes sense, so I afford myself a moment to scan the church. My parents are smiling and holding hands. Matt is beside them, looking bored but awake. Best of all, Fran is nodding. That, more than anything else, tells me I’m doing okay.

“But we also need forgiveness,” I continue. “Over the past twenty-four hours I’ve betrayed my best
friend, and let down the people I love most. But they’re still here now, supporting me. And I ask you: What can be better than that?”

More murmuring—louder this time—but no consensus, I think. This is a lot for everyone to digest. I’m not even sure it makes sense to me yet. But I have to keep trying.

“I may not be the boy in this book, but I think I know what he’d want me to say to you today. He’d say: Tell them, read the book or don’t read the book. Like it or loathe it. Just make sure that idiot Luke doesn’t profit from it.”

Someone twitches to life in the front row: Colin, startled and clearly confused.

“I’m serious,” I continue. “This project was never about making money; it was just something for the kids in Sunday school. Now, I can see that most of you already have copies of
Hallelujah,
but if there’s anyone left who actually wants to buy one, I’ll be donating all royalties to the downtown homeless shelter.”

Colin leans forward so far that he topples over and ends up kneeling. It’s a highly appropriate gesture, though when he rolls his eyes he looks far from reverent.

I stare down the aisle at the thousand-strong congregation. I don’t really believe I’ve won them over, but then, I don’t care either. I just squeeze Fran’s page
in my fist one last time and launch it into the crowd. I want to return to them what was theirs all along. It’s a symbolic gesture—and probably pointless—but it makes me feel better.

“Ow!” A boy my age is rubbing his eye. “What the heck was that for?” he yells.

“I’m sorry,” I shout, but he’s already throwing the paper back at me—a direct hit on my left arm.

As soon as the shock passes, I can’t help myself: I bust out laughing. And when I’m over it, I pick up the paper ball and toss it toward Fran, who sniggers as she lobs it straight back. Another throw from me, and suddenly the air is filled with the sound of laughter and tearing paper, and a barrage of fist-sized paper balls are arcing toward me. Everyone wanted a riot, and for once, I haven’t let them down.

I hadn’t realized how many copies of
Hallelujah
were out there, but I don’t mind this new use for a worn-out book. And so I spread my arms wide and let the pages rain down.

United Christian Church, St. Louis, Missouri

Incredibly, at least two hundred people ask me to sign their copy of
Hallelujah
, and I don’t complain even once about my aching hand. At least three hundred more line up for the privilege of hurling their copy on the floor and saying just what they think of me, and I accept that too. Amid the noise and confusion, I’m still at peace in this place, and it’s enough to pull me through.

As soon as there’s a break, Andy ushers me away. The photographers who have been held back dart forward, but Andy blocks them well. When we get to his office he pushes me inside, shuts the door, and remains outside like my personal bodyguard.

I lock the door. I need a moment alone. Several moments, actually. Maybe a day or two—just long enough for the press to get bored and move on.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around. Fran is sitting cross-legged against a wall, reading
Hallelujah
.

“I didn’t know you were in here,” I say.

“Well, that’s a relief. Be kind of weird for you to lock me in otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

“No weirder than what just happened in there.” I point my thumb in the direction of the church.

“True.” She laughs. “Heck, if I’d known services had gotten so exciting, I might have come back before now.”

“Hmm. I think you bring your own excitement. You cast the first stone, remember?”

She closes the book. “I thought you needed some help.”

“I did. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“No problem. Felt good, actually. I’ve been wanting to throw something at you all year.”

An uncomfortable silence follows her remark, which makes the noise in the corridor seem even louder. Maybe the reporters are planning to riot too. Heck, why wouldn’t they? Everyone else is.

I cross the room and sit beside Fran. She shuffles slightly like she’s about to pull away, but then stays put. She places
Hallelujah
on the floor between us.

“Andy told me you critiqued it,” I say. “The first part, anyway. I’m sorry you ever saw the second part.”

She keeps her eyes trained on the book. “Why? It’s how you felt, right?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking straight. When you didn’t come to the retreat, I got upset. I figured it was
because you’d changed your mind about how you felt about me.”

She snorts. “No, you didn’t. Come on, Luke. No more lies, okay?” Finally, she turns to face me. “I saw the way you looked at me that day. You were horrified. Couldn’t turn away fast enough.”

“I was surprised.”

“So?”

“So I needed time to get my head around it.”

“Around
what
? We were
different
—remember? We could look beyond the surface. We refused to judge by appearances. But then you turned away from me. From
me
.” She takes a deep breath. “If you couldn’t face me, then who the heck could, huh? Who?”

I know she’s right, so I say sorry again. I’ve used that word so much today, I’m afraid it doesn’t mean anything anymore, but it’s all I have left.

“Hey, you want to get out of here?” she asks.

“Sure. If you can convince the reporters to leave, I’ll be right behind you.”

She
tsks
. “Where’s your imagination?” She walks over to the window, unlocks it, and pushes it open. Before I can ask what she’s doing, she’s halfway out. “You coming?”

When I reach the window, she has already jumped. I want to follow her, but the drop to the ground is at least six feet.

Fran rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you,” she teases.

I slide my legs over the windowsill. It’s so much quieter outside, and my heartbeat slows down just a little.

“Hey!” A guy leaning against a TV van points a finger at me. “There he is!”

I push off and hit the ground, but a battalion of reporters is already converging on me. My instinct is to run.

Fran seems to know it too, and grabs my arm. “You’re not thinking of leaving without me, are you?” she asks.

Within seconds a dozen microphones are shoved in my face, questions fired so quickly I don’t understand a single word. We begin walking briskly, and the photographers surround us.

“A hundred years ago, we’d have had a chaperone,” says Fran airily. “Now we get thirty paparazzi instead.” She puffs out her cheeks. “My, how times have changed!”

“You can say that again.”

The photographers jostle for position. I can practically feel their breath on my neck. I’m about to turn around when Fran locks arms with me and keeps me facing forward. “Don’t,” she whispers. “It’s not worth it.”

I wasn’t going to say anything, actually; but she
doesn’t know that, and I’m amazed that her instinct is still to protect me. So I keep walking, eyes fixed on a distant chimneystack.

“I’m proud of what you did today,” she says, breaking the silence. “Going in there. Facing them.”

“You were right: It was something I needed to do.”

“Yeah, but that didn’t make it any easier. A week ago you never would’ve had the courage.”

Is this conversation being played out for the reporters, or for us? I wish I knew.

“Speaking of difficult,” she continues, “some of what people said to you in the signing line… it isn’t true, you know.”

“Yeah. But some of it is.” A microphone bumps my left ear. I ought to feel angry, but I don’t. I feel almost nothing at all but her skin against mine. If only our arms weren’t so stiff and awkward.

“Okay, some of it was true,” she concedes. “And I guess a few people have a right to gripe. Like your publisher, for instance.” She leans closer, as if she’s sharing something confidential. “You weren’t thinking of writing a sequel, were you?”

I actually laugh. “What? And go on tour again?”

Fran chuckles too, and releases my arm. I’m glad; I couldn’t have walked another block like that. But then she squeezes my hand, and her fingers brush
my palm. It feels so natural. It takes me back to a better place, a place without paparazzi and rejection and failure.

I squeeze her hand back, and she lets me. So I try to twine my fingers with hers. This time she pulls her hand away.

“No,” she whispers. “I’m not trying to…” Her voice trails off. “We’re friends now, okay? That’s what I want.… All I want.”

For a moment I feel the full force of her words. Even though it’s what I deserve, it hurts—it
really
hurts—and my mind fast-forwards to tomorrow’s newspaper headlines, the ones that confirm my rejection in print:
Dorsey dissed!… Pilgrim punked!… Hellacious ending for
Hallelujah
boy!

Then my mind clears and I realize that’s okay too. Because as I feel Fran there beside me—partner in my walk of shame; my guide to a future full of hope and forgiveness—I know that simply being friends is a priceless gift. Life without her felt empty; life with her feels full. And somewhere between yesterday and today, I’ve learned to value whatever I can get.

We break into a sprint at exactly the same moment, reading each other’s minds.

Thanks…

To Audrey and Clare—my go-to readers. I’m so fortunate to have you on my side.

To the many booksellers who have worked diligently to get my novels into readers’ hands. A special shout-out to the St. Louisans who’ve kept me so busy: Melissa Posten and Nikki Furrer at Pudd’nHead Books; Vicki Erwin at Main Street Books; Danielle Borsch and Sarah Pritchard at Left Bank Books; and Deborah Horn at the Fenton Barnes & Noble.

To the librarians of St. Louis Public Library, especially the Schlafly Branch; and to Patty Carleton, Director of Youth Services. And a tip of the cap to all librarians—I’ve come to know firsthand the enormous contributions you make to schools and communities.