There Goes Sunday School Read online

  Dr. Redford is an accurate representation of the teachers here at Stronghold. Old, balding men who have way too many degrees to be teaching high school students but were enticed by the fat paychecks fueled by our parents’ money. There are a few women in the faculty as well, but they’re all the same too. Educated Pastor’s wives, whose children have all grown up and moved out. So, instead of taking up hobbies, they decided to take up teaching.

  Jackie’s mom is the youngest teacher here by far, and she fought tooth and nail to get where she is. She’s actually kind of amazing.

  A boy scrambles through the entry to the classroom just as Dr. Redford goes to lock the door. He gasps for breath, cheeks flushed with color as sweat drips down the side of his face. Shirt untucked and tie hanging loose around his neck, he puts his hands on his knees to help catch his breath.

  Where have I seen him before?

  “Mr. Myers.” Dr. Redford closes the door behind him. “Really setting the bar high this year, aren’t we?”

  Myers. That’s right. He’s Pastor Myers son.

  That explains why I don’t recognize him, and I try to ignore him as best I can. I just know he shares his father’s hatred for the gays. Not worth my time.

  “Sorry,” the boy says, moving quickly to the empty chair to my left.

  Shit. Now, I’m stuck beside him for the rest of the semester. Perfect. Maybe I can convince someone to switch with me tomorrow. Dr. Redford won’t notice if I don’t wait too long.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen—” Dr. Redford flips the lock on the door as he speaks— “let me remind you of my tardiness policy. This door is locked at precisely nine o’five. If you wish to be present for my class, you will make sure you are here prior to that time. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the class responds.

  “Dickhead,” someone mutters to my left.

  “Excellent.” He moves to the marker board. “Then, if you would please produce your syllabus, we will begin with the Gospel of Matthew.”

  With a blow of the whistle, I hit the cold water like a torpedo. The temperature has long lost its shocking effect on me, and I pulse my arms and legs to propel myself along the lane.

  Water fills my ears, muffling the sound from the outside world. Each breath is in perfect rhythm with my stroke, the beat of my heart sounding as the pace drum.

  There aren’t many things I enjoy more than swimming. It gives me a sense of purpose, a definitive goal to reach for that doesn’t involve anyone but myself. I’m the only factor affecting my performance. I’m the only one I have to depend on. It’s just me and the water. It’s simple.

  Not like the rest of my life.

  I burst through the surface, grabbing hold of the edge of the pool. Coach Schmidt is waiting for me as I climb out of the water, stopwatch suspended in front of him and confusion twisting his bushy brows.

  “What was that?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “That time,” he clarifies. “You’re up to almost a minute. Last year, you could do that blindfolded at forty seconds.”

  “Oh.” That’s weird. I felt like I was killing it. “It’s just my first run,” I say, still catching my breath. “Getting a feel for the pool again.”

  “That tells me you didn’t practice over the summer.” Coach resets his watch. “I can’t get you into UGA with times like that.”

  I just nod along, grabbing my towel from the bench. “Sorry, Coach.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Work harder.” He pats my shoulder then moves onto the next lane. “You look like a manatee out there, Davy! And I don’t mean that as a complement!”

  UGA. Ugh. Why did he have to bring that up? My parents’ dream school for me in the far away land of Athens. It feels worlds away.

  Mom and Dad have been dreaming for us kids to attend UGA since before we were born. God, we spend every Saturday during the football season watching games as a family. Now, Thomas is on the team—in the loosest sense of the term—we’ll be sure to take more road trips out there to watch them live.

  I couldn’t care less about football.

  Swimming is my ticket in. I mean, maybe there’s a chance I’d get in on merit alone, but let’s be real. They throw money at athletes. My family may be well off, but that doesn’t mean Dad isn’t looking for every penny of scholarship money I can apply for.

  It would destroy him if he knew the truth. I don’t want to go.

  UGA is their dream, but it never became mine. My heart beats for only one school—SCAD. Savannah College of Art and Design.

  I’ve always had a talent for sketching and charcoal work. My walls back home are covered from baseboard to ceiling with proof. There’s a perpetual graphite stain on my right hand from dragging it across page after page. Then there’s the sketchpad in my messenger bag. The one that never leaves my side. That only comes out in private, most of the time late at night when I can’t sleep. The sketches in that book are personal. Very personal.

  I don’t even dare leave it at home, for fear someone will go snooping. Mom’s always going through my shit, especially my artwork. So, I carry it with me at all times, tucked safely away from prying eyes. Even if it were to fall into someone else’s hands, I made the first few pages a decoy. Just a couple doodles I add to every now and again. You have to travel deep into the pages to get to anything shocking, and I’ve stuck those pages together with tape, so they don’t fall open accidentally. I know it’s a dangerous game to play, but I feel like the best hiding place is in plain sight.

  I can never explain the feeling I get while drawing. It’s this strange sensation down in my gut that makes me think anything is possible, and I can wish something into being just with the stroke of a pencil. Bring anything to life, even the things I only dream of.

  Like. . .

  Sure, UGA has an art program. And, maybe, I can convince my parents to let me take it, but I’d never hear the end of it.

  “That’s a hobby, son. Not a career.”

  “Don’t you want a job?”

  “Are you going to cut off your ear like that nut job, Picasso?”

  Coach’s whistle chases away images of severed ears and canvas.

  “Back in the water, Mike!” he yells.

  I toss my towel aside and do my best to lose myself in the motions.

  “Dinner time!” Dad’s voice echoes down the hall.

  I set my pencil aside, yawning. My drawing is taking shape nicely, smeared lines forming just the right shades. It’ll take a few more hours to make it perfect, but then I’ll be able to add to it my collection on the wall.

  There’s hardly any room left up there, the empty spaces covered in old Kingdom Hearts posters and dozens of sketches. My favorites hover above the headboard—a portrait of my Abuela, a watercolor piece from when I was fourteen, and this really awesome skyline sketch of Atlanta that garnered me the second-place prize at Stronghold’s annual art contest. I lost to the blind freshman who finger-painted the crucifixion. But, honestly, how do you compete with something so heavy handed? Jesus wins at everything around here.

  The hypnotizing aroma of spices greet me as I jog down the stairs. Dad lays plates out on the table, and Rosy pours everyone a glass of tea. Mom’s not home yet, but we usually don’t wait for her. She’s been working late pretty frequently, and we’re lucky if we get the chance to see her before she climbs into bed.

  “Smells great, Dad,” I say, pulling out a chair.

  “I’m glad you think so.” He smiles, taking his own seat. “Because you’re on dish duty.”

  Rosy smiles maniacally as she takes her seat across the table. She must have volunteered me.

  “Fair enough,” I concede, reaching a hand out to her.

  She takes mine and then Dad’s, and I do the same.

  “You want to bless the food?” Dad asks.

  I groan but nod my head in agreement. “Father,” I begin, hands starting to sweat. Despite my countless internal prayers, I hate doing it aloud. I always feel
like I’m going to randomly burst into flames or be stricken with boils. Maybe both. That would be my luck.

  “We are so grateful for this chance to share a meal. We ask You to bless this food to our bodies, and our bodies to Your service. In your Son’s holy and precious name, we pray, amen.”

  And thank you for Blondie. He was a lot of fun. Feel free to send more sexually confused seniors my way.

  “Amen,” Dad and Rosy echo.

  No spontaneous combustion or random pustules, so I have blessings enough to count.

  We all dive into our plates. Dad’s made his special spaghetti which, in reality, is regular spaghetti sauce he adds some extra garlic and some smoked paprika to. It’s one of my favorite meals he cooks. Anything’s better than when he makes lengua. There’s not enough cilantro in the world to cover the taste of cow tongue.

  “How was your first day back, Mike?” Dad asks, a stray noodle hanging from the side of his mouth.

  “It was pretty uneventful,” I reply, twirling my fork until I have a clump of pasta clinging to it. “I didn’t get locked out of Dr. Redford’s first class this year, so that was good.”

  “Is he still locking the door?” Dad laughs. “I thought he got in trouble for that last year. What did the board say, he was holding kids hostage?”

  I shrug, sopping up sauce with a piece of bread before stuffing it in my face.

  “What about you, Rosemary?”

  “It was awesome.” Rosy beams. She’s been patiently waiting for the topic of conversation to shift in her direction. “Dr. Thacker thinks I’ll be able to make first chair by my Junior year! I told her I was shooting for sophomore, but we’ll see what happens.”

  “Estupendo!” Dad exclaims. “That’s so great, honey. How were the rest of your classes?”

  Rosy begins recounting every step she took, and I find myself drifting off somewhere around third period. The details of my day play through like a slideshow, but eventually all the faces and conversations end up blending together as I feel the creative itch pulling me back upstairs. It’s not to finish the landscape sitting on my desk, but to add the final details to my latest sketch of Blondie. Just thinking about it has my cheeks burning.

  The front door opens, and Rosy pauses her story. Mom trudges into the dining room, still dressed in her scrubs and looking like death warmed over.

  “Hey, guys.” She sinks into the seat across from Dad, her smile faint.

  Dad hurries into the kitchen to grab her plate, planting a kiss on her forehead as he returns. “Glad to have you home,” he tells her.

  “What have I missed?” she asks, pushing her spaghetti around the plate with her fork.

  “Oh, you know.” I toss my napkin on top of the remainder of my dinner. “Dr. Redford’s locking us up again, Rosy is on her way to becoming the next Vivaldi, and I think someone in Rosy’s fourth period called their teacher mom. So, that’s pretty embarrassing.”

  “Sounds like an eventful day.” Mom laughs.

  Rosy backs the narrative up to the start of her day, and I grab my plate, relishing in an excuse to escape to the kitchen.

  The sounds of my family drift away as the door swings closed. My plate clatters in the sink, and I fight the urge to groan at the mountain of pots and pans. Once the leftovers have been separated into their respective containers, I fill one side of the sink, squeezing a few drops of soap in.

  Next, I reach for the pair of headphones on the kitchen table, plugging them into my phone as I select the perfect dishwashing playlist.

  Music makes everything better—even chores. The sweet sound of mandolin strumming starts as I begin my Fleet Foxes playlist. I’ve been on a folksy kick lately. Soon, I’m moving in rhythm, scrubbing and rinsing to the chorus’ ebb and flow.

  I don’t notice Dad behind me until he starts drying the stack of dishes to my left. I pull an earbud out. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “It’s a pleasure.” He grins.

  Sometimes, I forget how much I look like my dad. If it weren’t for the ring of green surrounding my pupil, I would be a mirror image of him at my age. Of course, his hair is greying now, streaks of silver mixing into the warm brown. He’s starting to get some serious crow’s feet too, but that’s the least of his worries. He always says wrinkles are the receipts of life. How else do you know you’ve lived?

  “You okay?” He looks at me, that all-knowing-father gaze seeming to pry into my mind.

  “Hm?” I wring out the sponge. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you seem a little distracted tonight. Spacey. Is everything all right?”

  Dad has always been super perceptive. I kind of hate that about him. How am I supposed to get through my angsty teenage years of brooding and ignoring my parents if they’re so understanding? Then again, I have my share of secrets I never plan to divulge. It’s easy to be understanding when your child is well-behaved and straight.

  I’m at least one of those things.

  “Just had a weird day,” I finally conclude, dunking a pot into the suds. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “That’s my job,” Dad replies, squeezing my shoulder. “I’m not doing it right if I don’t worry.”

  “I’m good,” I assure him, plastering on my best smile.

  That seems to convince him, so we continue the dishes in silence.

  Once everything is clean, I dry my hands. “I’m going to go knock out some homework,” I announce.

  Dad’s cell phone rings, and he doesn’t even hear me.

  I scale the stairs, heading back to the safety of my room. I can breathe so much easier with at least a wall between me and everyone else. It’s the only time I don’t have to lie.

  The door closes behind me with a click. My parents don’t believe in locks, but they’re pretty cool about knocking before they come in. There have been some really close calls where that split second of hesitation has saved them from getting an eyeful of things they cannot un-see.

  My current project is waiting for me on the drawing table, but I don’t return to it. There’s something else calling to me now, and I won’t be able to focus on anything else until it’s done.

  The messenger bag is sitting where I left it. I rummage through the main pocket, pulling out my sketchpad. Shoving pillows aside, I climb onto my bed, being sure to angle myself away from the door as I flip through the pages. The one I’m searching for is near the back, and I gingerly pull it away from the tape sticking it to the previous page.

  The lines are rough. I didn’t have a lot of time when inspiration struck like lightning, but the base is passable. It’s almost impossible to glean where the two bodies begin or end, limbs twisted up in each other. Faces meet, locked in a passionate kiss. The expressions are not quite where they need to be yet, but the intention is clear. My heart is racing.

  It’s a sketch of me and Blondie.

  I set to work, emboldening the lines as I sharpen the two figures.

  My cheeks flush as I replay those few glorious minutes in my head. I feel him on me, lips urgently navigating my neck like it’s uncharted territory. The hunger burning in his eyes that I can only imagine is reflected in my own. The sounds escaping from deep in his throat when I touch him….

  A quick rap on the door is a bitch slap from reality. I quickly flip the page while crossing my legs. On second thought, I grab a pillow and set it on my lap.

  “Come in,” I say, voice cracking.

  “Hey, sweetheart.” Mom’s out of her scrubs, but she can’t take off the exhaustion she wears on her face. “I’m about to head to bed.”

  “You’re so old,” I joke with her.

  That makes her smile. “Four thirty comes awful early.” She clutches the small of her back, staggering to the foot of my bed in an exaggerated display. “Someday, you’ll be my age, and you’ll know my pain. And, if you’re really lucky, your kid will call you old too.”

  My kid. As in a child I have with a wife. The woman my parents are expecting me to marry. The thought sinks i
nto my stomach as Mom looks at me, all the hopes and dreams she has for me and a family shining behind those eyes.

  It’s enough to kill me.

  “If I should only be so lucky,” I mutter, eyes falling from her gaze. My breath catches in my throat. I focus on moving air around the growing lump.

  “Don’t worry, Mike.” She has obviously misread my melancholy reaction. “You have plenty of time to find the right girl. Who knows, maybe there’s one closer than you think?”

  I snort. “Me and Jackie are never gonna be a thing, Mom. You can give it a rest.”

  “I used to say the same thing about your father.” She grins. “But I guess time will tell. Try not to stay up too late, sweetheart.” She leans forward, pushing back my bangs to plant a kiss on my head. “Goodnight.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  My door closes behind her, and I stuff my sketchpad back into my bag. Any longing to continue has been snuffed out, the weight of her words extinguishing the creative spark propelling me.

  Nothing kills a boner faster than mom guilt.

  I’ll never be able to give her what she wants. The perfect family, a blushing bride, and grandchildren for her to take to Sunday school. I mean, sure, I can get married and fake it. Maybe even stomach a couple of kids. But that just seems cruel.

  There’s no easy answer.

  A whimper escapes my throat, and a tear falls before I even realize. The sorrow is heavy tonight, swelling in my chest and squeezing the air from my lungs. Fingers search along the bed, latching onto the soft plush of a pillow. I draw the cushy square into my chest, wrapping my arms around it as more tears fall.

  My lips move with silent words, a prayer I’ve recited a thousand times before.

  But all my prayers go unanswered.

  “Let’s go, Michael.” Dad’s voice resonates through the door.

  It’s another glorious Sunday morning, and the last thing I want to do is leave my bed. But that’s not an option, so I mutter a few choice words under my breath as I attempt to detach myself from tangled sheets.