There Goes Sunday School Read online

  This whole week has been a haze of bible studies and sports, and honestly, I’m about sick of the body odor. How can guys smell so terrible and yet amazing at the same time? The slightly queasy feeling I get from the scent is a strange sensation for sure. The only interesting event that’s happened to me was Blondie, and that was just dumb luck.

  Our story began just like all teenage stories do, with prolonged, creeper-level staring. We saw each other across the lawn while playing a game of ultimate Frisbee, and something just clicked.

  My youth pastor, Arnold—a dorky name he lives up to beautifully— declared war on a neighboring church group. So, naturally I was there to help defend our title of undefeated Frisbee champions. Blondie played for the other team, and as a sign the sweet Lord Jesus does indeed love me, it was shirts vs skins. You can probably guess who was who.

  There’s nothing quite like lust at first sight. He caught me making eyes and couldn’t stop smiling at me. He had this goofy grin every time he ran down the field that made my heart flutter to a strange rhythm. That is until I took a Frisbee straight to the face.

  I’d like to think I don’t give off a super-gay vibe. Not that I really know what that means anymore. My voice finally deepened nicely last summer, and I don’t really talk with my hands a lot. I play sports and have never set foot on a stage. So, it’s not like I walk down the halls at school draped in a rainbow flag. I do secretly love Cher, but that’s neither here nor there.

  But Blondie somehow knew when he saw me, just like I knew about him, and a week of silent flirting finally built up to ten glorious minutes in Heaven.

  I’m talking about fictitious gay Heaven, of course. I can’t imagine after all the hub-bub most churches are spouting that the actual place would be filled with teenage boys dry humping each other. Then again, I kind of hope it is.

  “Get off me, you fag!”

  I jump at the word, heart thumping like a thousand volts struck me.

  Cameron pushes Jimmy off him, and the other boys continue their raucous laughter.

  It takes a good ten minutes for my pulse to return to a normal pace. I need a distraction.

  Digging through my backpack, I search for a pencil, but stop short of grabbing my sketchbook.

  This isn’t the place, Mike. Too many prying eyes.

  It’ll just have to wait until I get home.

  Angling myself against the wall, I wrap the sheet around me like a cocoon. Drifting off, the sounds of laughter and wrestling meld, and my dreams fill with flashes of Blondie and his cute dimples.

  “How was your week, sweetie?”

  Mom needs to take it down, like, six notches. It’s way too early for this shit. We’re barreling up I-85, but it’s Saturday, so the traffic isn’t at its usual glacial pace.

  “Hot,” I answer. In more ways than one.

  A yawn rips through me and rubbing the grit of sleep from my eyes proves to be a challenge. I cradle the overly sweetened Starbucks latte Mom bought me as if it’s liquid gold. At least she’s thoughtful enough to support my caffeine addiction.

  I don’t think she’s ever been prouder as a mother than the day I started drinking coffee. My dad and Thomas, my older brother, both hate it. but now, she has someone to share her addiction with.

  “It’s been a scorcher.” She smiles as we merge across a few lanes seemingly on a whim.

  My knuckles are white, but after sixteen years of riding in the car with my mother, I think I’m finally getting used to it.

  “I hope you kept yourself adequately hydrated out there.”

  Mom can’t help being overbearing. It’s in her genetic makeup.

  “Yup.” I take another sip of coffee, relishing in the diabetes-laden goodness. “How was the move? Did Thomas get up to school okay?”

  “He’s up there.” Mom’s smile fades. “But I don’t want to talk about it. Too fresh.”

  “He’ll be fine, Mom.” I pat her arm with my non-Starbucks hand. “You don’t have to worry. It’s not like he’s out of the country.”

  Thomas—AKA, every parent’s wet dream of a firstborn—is starting his freshman year at The University of Georgia. Mom and Dad took the day off work yesterday, a huge deal for them, to help him move up to Athens. He is on their swim team, and last I heard, he was third string specialty for the Georgia Bulldogs football team. My parents are over the moon about that. Football is like a religion to them, even though they’ve already got a religion. It’s hard to tell which they follow closer. Someday, someone will start the First Christian Church of the Bulldogs, and my family will line up to be the first members baptized by having Gatorade dumped over their heads.

  “I’m fine,” Mom tells me, but her eyes are still misty.

  Jeez, this is going to be a long day.

  We weave through the parking lot for the Mall of Georgia, scoping out the optimal space to house Mom’s white Escalade. My high school, Stronghold Christian School, has a strictly enforced dress code that includes a ridiculously priced uniform. I have no idea why we’re here. I mean, I don’t even have the freedom of choosing my socks. Maybe Mom just wants to spend some quality time with me since I’m the middle child. Or, maybe, she really does have a favorite child despite her claims against the notion, and it’s me.

  That’s hilarious.

  You know, I’ve never really given much thought to the whole middle-child syndrome debate. I guess I don’t mind the lack of attention. Thomas has always been the straight-A student and star athlete in the family. Rosy, my younger sister, is the baby, can play three instruments, and does no wrong. I’m somewhere between the two of them. I make decent grades, and I have one of the fastest freestyle lap times at school, but none of that really seems to matter. I’m left to fend for myself in a lot of ways, but I’m totally okay with that.

  The less time they spend with me, the less of an opportunity they’ll have to see me slip and give something away.

  I know the conditions of my parents’ love.

  “Come on, Mikey!” Mom calls, already out of the car and moving at quite a clip toward the entrance. She is wearing Nikes and yoga pants, so the pace is formidable.

  I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep up with her.

  Hustling to match her stride, I pass through the outer shops toward to the food court. The splash pad is deserted, and streams of water shoot through holes in the sidewalk at random intervals. In a few hours, dozens of children will be squealing with delight as they get soaked. The sun peeks through the buildings, and sweat drips down my neck just from the few minutes of being out of the car. I polish off the last of my sugary beverage with a gulp and toss the empty cardboard into an open trash can as we clear the doors.

  That sweet shopping mall smell hits me, along with a burst of cool air.

  “Want some breakfast?” Mom asks, already moving towards the counter on our right.

  Once she has her sights on Jesus chicken, there’s no stopping her. She’s like a woman possessed. The siren call of delicate, deep-fried deliciousness is too much for anyone to resist. So, I follow her to the line of people waiting to order from the perky employees who all look suspiciously home-schooled.

  As a gay person—albeit only self-admitted—I know I’m not supposed to support these supposed hateful bigots who dress homophobia up in amazingly addictive foodstuffs, but I mean come on. How can anyone say no to a piping-hot chicken biscuit smothered in strawberry jelly? No one has that much will power.

  “It’s my pleasure!” The lady exclaims, smiling creepily as she hands us our food a few minutes later.

  Is it really her pleasure? She says it with such enthusiasm it makes me wonder if there’s a sniper just hiding in the rafters, waiting to put a bullet in their head that one time an employee doesn’t say the signature phrase.

  That would certainly explain the strange twitch in the woman’s eye.

  Mom and I take a seat in the nearly empty dining room, unwrapping our foil lined breakfast and feasting on the innards. The c
arnage is quick, and soon, the table is covered in crumbs and sticky patches of jelly.

  “Did Rosy not want to join our excursion this morning?” I ask through a mouthful of half-chewed buttermilk biscuit.

  “She’s got band rehearsal at church,” Mom replies before sipping her colossal cup of half-sweet and half-unsweet tea. She would order it by the gallon if it wasn’t so hard to carry around. “Did I tell you Rosy got a solo in service tomorrow morning? Be sure you’re awake for that part.”

  I toss my last hash brown into my mouth with practiced dexterity.

  “Did you happen to meet any cute girls while you were at camp?”

  A sharp inhale sends a chunk of potatoey remains down my windpipe. The resulting coughing fit leaves tears in the corner of my eyes.

  “Well?” Mom doesn’t drop the subject. I swear, the only thing she wants more than me to get into UGA is for me to marry a nice Christian girl and start fathering grandchildren for her. Now Thomas is at school, I’m the next in line of potential procreation.

  Shaking my head, I find it difficult to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach melding with my breakfast.

  “I was too focused on my walk,” I lie, feeling sick.

  What’s one more lie to my mother? My life up until this point has been nothing but a series of them.

  “That’s my boy.” Mom smiles, popping the lid off her fruit cup. “Just make sure you don’t get so distracted you end up thirty and alone like your Uncle Seth.”

  Oh, that’s a definite possibility. But it won’t be due to the reason she thinks, so I just smile and nod.

  She’d prefer my being alone to the reality of the truth.

  Once our faces have been stuffed and Mom’s gotten her second refill from eye-twitch lady, we leave the food court behind. The game is on. Stores roll up their doors, signaling it’s time execute our well-orchestrated plan of attack. My last-minute growth spurt means I’ve outgrown most of my clothes from last fall, so that means we’re on the search for everything from jeans to jackets.

  Shopping unlocks this strange notion in Mom’s head that she missed her calling as a stylist, right up there with Tim Gunn. Of course, it’s completely ridiculous because everything she pulls off a rack for me to try on is terrible and doesn’t match in the slightest. Sometimes, I have to wonder if she might be colorblind. I may be in the closet, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to look a fool.

  She also seems to be laboring under the delusion I want to dress like the other trust fund fueled douchebags named Chad in my class. I’m not kidding. There are three.

  “No way in Hell.” I decline her offer of a pink, short-sleeve polo.

  “Language,” she chides, putting the polo back where she found it.

  “But Hell’s a real place,” I say in defense. “I’m just using a proper noun, Mom.”

  “Michael.” Her tone ends the argument.

  I wonder what she’d do if she realized my vocabulary is far more colorful when she’s absent. Or if she knew I liked to kiss boys. I honestly don’t know which one she would disown me for faster.

  Actually, I do. My chicken biscuit tosses like a ship on the sea.

  After a fruitless three hours, I end up with an armful of thin hoodies, my go-to wardrobe choice on days when the heat index isn’t in the triple digits. In other words, I’ll be able to wear them around Christmas. Until then, it will be nothing but graphic tees and shorts for me.

  “You need to pick out some clothes for church,” she tells me as we head to the next stop in the endless cycle of stores.

  I let out a groan, starting to dig my way through the rack of dress shirts. The only thing more important than going to church in my family is looking presentable when you do. God, apparently, is pretty judgey when it comes to your wardrobe. Heaven forbid I would attempt to wear a pair of flip flops. You would think I proposed practicing human sacrifice in the basement.

  Formal wear paid for and arms laden with swag, we start back toward the food court entrance. The mall is filling up, and I follow a few steps behind my mother, so I can watch the people passing by. It’s one of my favorite pastimes. A guy with a lip ring that really catches my eye passes, but Mom is moving way too fast for me to really appreciate the view.

  After we pile our spoils into the backseat of the Escalade, I climb into the front, leather searing my flesh in a familiar yet still painful way.

  “What do we say?” Mom clambers into the driver’s seat, grabbing the rhinestone sunglasses from the visor above.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  I’m already swiping through the pile of text messages I’ve missed while distracted by shopping. Jackie’s unique perspective and foul mouth make for the most entertaining conversations. I stifle a laugh to keep from having to show my mother.

  She flips on the radio, and a really awful Christian song blasts through the speakers. Humming tunelessly, Mom starts to fight our way out of the crowded parking lot. I plug my headphones in a few minutes later, propping a foot on the dashboard as the sweet sound of Fleet Foxes carries me far away from the heat and cliché lyrics.

  My alarm goes off at seven. I want to throw my phone against the wall. Taking the more rational route, I silence it instead and turn over.

  “Let’s get a move on!” Dad calls through my door. The distant sound of Mom’s hairdryer means I have about ten minutes before she’ll be ready to go. Just enough time.

  Rosy is putting on makeup in the bathroom mirror when I walk in.

  “I suggest you leave unless you want to see me naked,” I warn.

  “Gross.” She rolls her eyes, throwing her mascara into her bag. “Hey, don’t jerk off in there. It clogs the drain.”

  “I’m a grown man.” I strip off my shirt. “I’ll do what I want.”

  “I can’t wait until you’re off to college too.” She moves to the door. “Then I can be an only child.”

  “Keep dreaming.” I laugh. “Tommy will have flunked out by then. Or, better yet, he’ll knock some poor girl up, and they’ll both move in. Have fun babysitting.”

  She flips me the bird, and I moon her as she closes the door. The shower sputters to life with the turn of a handle, steam soon rising to the ceiling. I have to step carefully over the twelve bottles of assorted products lined along the edge of the tub. I don’t know how Rosy can possibly use them all, but I’m always one wrong move away from an avalanche of acne scrubs and flowery shit.

  Rosy isn’t the world’s most annoying little sister, but she certainly does know how to push my buttons. She is very mature for a fourteen-year-old, but then again, how could you not be with our parents? Mom always jokes we came out of the womb middle-aged, but really, it’s the years of high expectations and countless hours of training in social graces that have aged us. We couldn’t possibly be anything else.

  My shower is quick, and I take my toothbrush with me into the bedroom as I sort through the stack of new clothes. I pick out a nice button-up and a pair of slacks before pulling them on. Throwing a matching tie over my shoulders, I go to spit in the bathroom. With a split second of hesitation, I retrace my steps and retrieve my messenger bag from under my bed. I don’t like being away from what is inside.

  “Let’s go, Mikey!” Dad calls from downstairs. “Vamos!”

  I hit the stairs, skidding at the bottom as I grab a pair of shoes by the door. Rosy is already waiting in the SUV, her violin case taking up all the legroom.

  “What took you so long?” she asks, tapping on her phone.

  “I was busy clogging the drain.”

  The noise she makes is worth the dirty look from Mom.

  Our church sits on the outskirts of north Atlanta, in a town called Sandy Springs. It’s mostly rich white people who all drive the same four luxury models and talk about how they miss the good ol’ days, which I can only assume is a racist euphemism.

  My family is about as controversial as you get at our church. My dad, whose parents moved here from Mexico in the late 1960s, married
my mom—the whitest woman ever. The two of them joined the church shortly afterward at the behest of Grandma and Grandpa—the non-Hispanic ones. They used to turn a lot of heads, but shortly after Tommy was born, the church welcomed their first African American and Caucasian couple, and the spotlight moved on to the next pariah.

  I’m just thankful I inherited Dad’s awesome tanned complexion. It takes me literally two days to darken up for summer. No sunburn, just copper skin.

  We pull into the parking lot around eight, the huge sanctuary and steeple looming over us. Mom has been tearing up the whole ride because this is the first Sunday Tommy has been away from the family. Rosy and I share the same disgusted expression as we try to put as much distance between us and Mom as possible.

  The greeter at the door is at least a thousand years old, and I always feel like I’m going to break his frail bones when he offers a handshake. The family splits when we hit the lobby, Mom off to the nursery downstairs where she teaches a class of toddlers using the latest in felt board technology. I don’t think they’ve changed the curriculum down there since Mom was a baby. Dad heads up to the choir room to do a vocal warm up, and Rosy hauls her violin case to the orchestra pit to prepare for her solo.

  Being the underachiever I am, I don’t have any churchy extracurricular activities at the moment, so I meander to the basement where they confine the rest of the high school squalor.

  Maybe I’m early enough to work on a few sketches before Sunday school gets started.

  My creative itch spreads across my arm like wildfire.

  The walls are painted this really hideous blend of bright colors and vague shapes I’m pretty sure are left over from the nineties. I barely even made it into the nineties, being born just a few months before the turn of the millennium. But I’ve seen enough of my parents’ old shit to know I’m right.