Small Town Sinners Part 8

"Lacey, are you all right?" Mom asks.

I look at her. Bright smile, purple polka-dot ap.r.o.n, blue flowered mitts on her hands as she gets ready to take a cake pan out of the oven.

"No," I say, grabbing her car keys off the pegboard by the kitchen phone. "I'm not."

"Lacey!" she shouts as I stomp toward the front door. I want to go talk to Ty.

My mother stops me in the entryway and holds out her hand.

"You can't just take the car," she says. "I need it later today to go see Mrs. Harrison."

Mrs. Harrison is in my mother's Bible study group, and she's been in the hospital for foot surgery, but she got home this week. That must be why Mom's baking like crazy today.

I hesitate for a minute, considering just leaving anyway. What will my mom do-physically stop me? But then I realize that I'm not mad at Mom, and I'm not mad at poor Mrs. Harrison, who maybe needs a homemade cake after her ordeal. I feel some anger leak out of me and I hand my mother the keys.

Then I stomp upstairs to my room. I turn the radio on my clock alarm up all the way-Dad hates loud music-and I tune it to the heavy metal station. I never understood the rebellion that teenagers feel toward their parents, but in this moment I'm ready to break something.

Chapter Eleven.

The next morning, Tessa and Starla Joy pull into my driveway and I hop in the back of their big old truck. Tessa's been driving us to school since last year when she got her license.

"Nice shoes," says Starla Joy.

"Thanks," I say, glad that she noticed the one new thing I'm wearing.

Even though I consider reinventing myself somehow each year, I never actually do it. Today, I'm in my favorite jean shorts and a yellow tank top for the first day of school. Nothing's new, except my leather sandals.

I notice Tessa's flowing orange-print sundress. It sits up on her tanned shoulders with a braided halter neck and then falls down almost to her feet in a graceful wave. She always looks fresh as a daisy.

When we get to school though, everything looks stale at West River High. Same brown metal lockers, same gray-green linoleum, same indescribable but completely distinct smell in the main hallway. The same groups are gathered in the stairwells before the first bell, the same loud kids toss b.a.l.l.s down the hall and knock into the same smaller, nerdier kids who duck and weave to avoid the fray.

"Hi, Lacey," says Laura Bergen. She's a YL member who's also a violin player, and she's always in at least four of my cla.s.ses.

"Hey, Laura," I say.

"How was your summer?" she asks. She's always asking boring questions like that-expected questions-which maybe is why we're not closer friends.

"It was ...," and I pause.

Normally, I'd say, "Nice. It was nice." But something's different for me today. I'm not feeling very nice.

Laura a.s.sumes I said "nice," though, and starts chatting about how her summer was incredibly fulfilling because she went to music camp up in New England and it was amazing and she learned a new bow position and blah, blah, blah. I smile and hope our schedules aren't as aligned this year as they've been since seventh grade. I don't know how much of this I can take. Funny that earlier this summer I defended Laura to Starla Joy and Dean, who like to pick on her and call her "Bore-a." That nickname springs to my thoughts now and it's a wonder I don't say it out loud.

Just as I think I can take no more of Bore-a Bergen's "nice" talk, I spot a familiar silhouette coming down the hallway behind her. Tall, blond hair, bold purple polo for the first day of school-a strong statement. Everyone knows who Ty is by now, that he's the Tyson Davis who moved away way back when, and as he walks toward us he smiles and slaps a few hands along the hallway path, like he's a West River fixture who never left.

He's so good with people, I think, as he swoops in and puts his arm around my shoulder, a move I've grown to love despite the fact that it confuses me to no end. I turn around and leave Laura Bergen with her mouth hanging open. Music camp, schmusic camp. I smile as we walk down the hall together, knowing that my summer-at least the tail end of it-was the one that was really special.

When I see Dean after first period, though, that I'm-actually-maybe-with-a-guy high plummets. His eye has a purple-and-green bruise around the edge. And when I notice Geoff Parsons walking by with a smirk, I feel like smacking his face.

"I'm gonna go say something!" I tell Dean. I'm leaning against his locker and waiting for him to grab a Fiber One bar. We've got second period precal together.

"Don't," he says, grabbing my arm tightly, like it's very important to him that I not say a word. "Please let it go."

I look down, feeling embarra.s.sed. For me, for Dean, for my father. Things just seem wrong right now. But it's not fair to put that on Dean, and I know G.o.d works in mysterious ways.

I think of Hebrews 11:1: "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."

I lift my head up and smile at Dean, linking arms with him as we walk to cla.s.s. I know that things will be okay.

By Sunday's Youth Leaders meeting, my confidence is fading. All week I waited for some sort of discipline to fall on Geoff Parsons, for my father to apologize to me and tell me that of course Geoff was out of h.e.l.l House. For something, anything to show me that life is fair and just.

But nothing happened. And now I'm in church with all of them, and it's the first rehearsal of the show I've been looking forward to since I was a little girl. I finally have a bigger role to play, I'm finally going to help save souls directly. But it doesn't feel like I expected it would.

Pastor Frist is leading us through a warm-up before rehearsal. We're doing a personal prayer to rile up our energies, and everyone's eyes are closed. I hang my head back as the pastor starts us off, slowly letting his personal prayer language take over his tongue and waiting for the spirit to move us.

It begins as a soft rumble, and I can't tell who goes first. Once the silence is broken, though, more and more people join in with wild yelps and joyous shouts and tangled cries. This is speaking in tongues, finding our own connection to the Holy Spirit through a language known only to us.

I've often been moved by these moments-where I'm gathered among my friends, my pastor, my father-and we're all unselfconsciously conversing with the Lord, letting him truly hear us. I've joined in myself many times, always wondering if I was doing it right, if what I was feeling was real and true and genuinely His presence. Starla Joy and Dean and I, we talk about everything, but we've never talked about our faith. It doesn't seem to be something to ruminate on or ponder. It just is.

But today, as everyone around me feels the spirit, I'm silent. My face is raised to heaven, and the voices of my peers rain down on me, but my mouth isn't moved to open. The sounds seem strange, somehow foreign, and instead of comforting, they menace. I let a little light creep in between my eyelids, and I lower my head so I can look at the faces of the other Youth Leaders. Starla Joy is singing through nearly closed lips, but definitely holding a tune and vibing with everyone else. Geoff Parsons is thras.h.i.+ng wildly, his head going back and forth until little bits of spit fly out of the corners of his mouth as he howls in the name of G.o.d. Dean, far across the pews from Geoff Parsons, is whispering softly, finding his own quieter personal prayer language for today's warm-up.

When I spot Laura Bergen, I feel guilty for calling her "Bore-a" in my head all week, and I quickly, silently ask for forgiveness. Her mouth opens and closes very rapidly as she shrieks nonsensically, and it amazes me that she's never this loud in school. I peer at Tessa, who's right next to me, getting ready to speak her first lines as Abortion Girl, and I feel less envy than admiration for her golden glow, the way her rosebud lips move around the words she's found, the spirit she feels. Even with the hint of a tear in her eye, she looks lit up from within, and I wish I could get to that place.

I scan the room once more. Not a single mouth is still, not a single eye is open.

I feel a flash of guilt, like I'm breaking this communal experience by peeking, by cheating, by not wholly trusting.

I'm about to throw my head back again, close my eyes, and give myself up to my own personal prayer language when I see another observer in the crowd. Ty is looking straight at me. He's here because he's a member of YL now, even though he still says he doesn't want to be a part of h.e.l.l House.

He catches my eye and smiles. It's warm and friendly, like we're both in on a joke that no one else gets. He rolls his eyes a little, and I know he's trying to make me laugh, to join him in mocking this moment. But the thing is, this is something that's a big part of my life. I know that some people think speaking in tongues is a totally weird thing to do, but it's actually meditative and cathartic.

I shut my eyes and let my chin drop down, feeling suddenly self-conscious. I start to chastise myself. Is my worry about a boy watching me getting in the way of my personal prayer? Isn't my love for G.o.d and my desire to feel His presence bigger than my fear of embarra.s.sing myself in front of Ty? I ask myself these questions, but I don't add to the sounds of my friends' fevered chanting. I stay quiet, still, praying that I'll feel the spirit and be moved like I'm supposed to be. Praying that I can find my language of faith.

Rehearsal goes smoothly, but Tessa still has a stomach bug and Starla Joy has to take her home early. I run my scene without a lot of emotion-I'm sitting in the front seat of an old Toyota with Zack Robbins, who's playing a drunk driver coming home from a party-and I can't even work up the energy to scream, "Look out! Look out!" with any feeling. But I convince Pastor Frist that I'll build up to it as we get closer to the performance next month.

When it's time to go home, Ty offers me a ride. I'm about to accept, but then I feel Dad's hand clamp down on my shoulder. "I'm almost done here, Lace," Dad says. "I can take you."

I shrug at Ty, but he's not looking at me. His eyes are on my father.

"Pastor Byer, I'm happy to drive Lacey home," he says. "I have a book I want to lend Lacey from our library-a spiritual tome-and I'd like it if she and I could swing by and get it before I drop her off."

My dad looks down at me, and I can see that he's torn. He doesn't trust Ty, that much is clear, but he doesn't want to be that dad, the one who's overbearing and restrictive to the point that his daughter can't pick up a book on a Sunday afternoon.

"All right," he says. "I suppose that would be okay. But be back for dinner at six p.m. sharp."

I'm surprised. And glad.

Ty b.u.mps me gently with his shoulder as we walk out to the car. I can feel my father staring after us, but I don't care. And that surprises me too.

Dad and I have reached a silent truce about the Dean incident, which basically means that we haven't talked about it since that day on the porch. It's unusual for me to feel this disconnected from my father, this unable to express how I'm feeling. But I haven't brought it up again and neither has he. I still haven't been able to forgive Geoff Parsons, though, and I wonder if Dad knows that and thinks I'm holding hate in my heart. I wonder if I care.

The BMW revs loudly as we head up the gravel driveway. There's no sneaking around in this car. I've never been over to Ty's house before, but I know which one it is-it's a modern-style residence set back in the woods where the Geldings used to live. The driveway is long, and I see PRIVATE PROPERTY signs posted everywhere as Ty eases the car down the road. The front of the house is all huge windows that look out on the trees.

My own house is a modest ranch with just two bedrooms. As we walk into Ty's I see that there's an entrance hall. I don't think I've even been in a house with anything you might refer to as an entrance hall before. The ceiling is vaulted-it's at least twenty feet tall-and the walls are bright white, which makes it feel kind of cold and impersonal.

We walk up a couple of steps and Ty leads me to the living room, where one entire wall is a bookshelf. It's so tall that there's a ladder next to it, and Ty climbs up three steps to grab a book, which he brings down to me. I thought the book thing was an excuse to hang out with me more, but maybe Ty really did want to deliver this. Maybe that long day together in the park meant less to him than it did to me.

"Here," he says.

I turn the book over in my hands. Finding Purity. I take a sharp breath in and my face flushes-it's all about avoiding physical contact before marriage! I may start hyperventilating. Is this why he hasn't kissed me? Is he more conservative than I thought?

"Is this supposed to tell me something?" I ask quietly, looking down at the cover of the book.

Ty takes it from my hands and starts laughing. And I mean really laughing. He's got tears in his eyes when I finally look up and face him.

"Oh, man," he says, gasping for air, "I didn't even look at which book I handed you."

"You didn't?" I ask, not understanding.

"No, Lacey Anne," he says, tossing the book onto a love seat in the corner. "I just wanted to give you something to take home in case your dad asked about it. That shelf is the spiritual section."

He reaches back up to the row of books and hands me one full of eighteenth-century prayers instead. "Here," he says. "This'll be better."

I laugh. "So what did you want from me then?" I ask.

Ty turns more serious then. "I wanted to talk to you," he says. "Alone."

I stare up at him, hoping to read something in his eyes, to get up the nerve to tell him that I like him as more than a friend.

Suddenly my phone starts ringing. It's a Katy Perry song, so I know it's Starla Joy. I silence it.

"What did you want to talk about?" I ask. And then the phone starts ringing again. I push the "go away" b.u.t.ton roughly.

"Do you need to get that?" Ty asks.

"No," I say. "It's probably just Starla Joy being obsessive about some new YouTube video."

But then I think about what happened to Dean, and how things with my friends feel a little more intense now somehow. When she calls a third time, I sit down on the couch and answer.

"What's up?" I ask, as Ty slides into the seat next to me.

"It's Tessa," says Starla Joy. I can barely hear her because she's speaking so quietly, but I know her voice. I can tell she's crying.

"What's wrong? What happened?" I ask.

Ty looks over at me curiously.

"I can't tell you on the phone," she says. "Can you come to our spot?" I hear the strain in her tone.

"I'll be there in five minutes," I say.

When I tell him Starla Joy was crying, Ty insists on coming. I let him, partly because I want to stay with him, to let this afternoon linger longer between us. Besides, I reason, he seems like one of us now. He's defending Dean, he's philosophizing with me, he's concerned about Starla Joy. We've become four.

Chapter Twelve.

Starla Joy is already sitting on the log, rocking back and forth, when I get there. She's no longer crying, but it's clear she's in some sort of shock.

"Hey-is Tessa okay?" I ask her. She doesn't look up at me.

I grab her shoulders and make her look me in the eye. When she sees me, really sees me, a tear falls down her cheek.

"Oh, Lacey," she says. "My sister's pregnant."

I gasp, my hand covering my mouth. I feel sick to my stomach, like someone just punched me and all my lunch is about to come up. Tessa the perfect. Tessa the smart. Tessa who held it together for Starla Joy when their dad left, even though she's just a year older. Tessa who gives me advice on everything and is so, so beautiful.

I look over at Ty, and Starla Joy follows my gaze.

"What is he doing here?" she asks, turning on me angrily.

"I was at his house when you called," I say. "I thought he could help. I thought ... I didn't know."

Ty looks around self-consciously and puts his hands in his pockets, turning to go.

Starla Joy's anger deflates quickly. "Well, everyone will know by tomorrow," she says hopelessly.

Ty faces us again and perches gingerly on the edge of the log next to me.

"I'm so sorry, Starla Joy," he says.

"Momma's sending Tessa to Saint Angeles," says Starla Joy, ignoring him.

West River has one of the highest rates of teen pregnancy in the state-at least a few girls in town each year get sent to the Saint Angeles Home, which is a place where they can go for a few key months when they get in trouble. Some of them come back with babies, some don't, but the home is what the church recommends, because we condemn abortion. And most of the girls who choose to give their babies up for adoption come back and slip right into their old roles as cheerleader or student council member or whatever. It's a good ending to a bad story. At least, that's what it seemed like to me, until it involved Tessa.