There Goes Sunday School Read online

  “Seriously?” I snap. “Look who’s talking. You’ll be lucky to make it to forty at this rate. Your lungs must look like a coal miner’s!”

  “Jesus, Mike.” Jackie raises her hands in defense. “I was only teasing.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  This whole book situation has me seriously on edge.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  Maybe I should just tell her. I mean, of all people, Jackie will be understanding. Hell, she’ll probably be thrilled for me. She’ll want to start talking about which boys I think are cute and planning my dream gay wedding—which would definitely involve us riding in on a unicorn.

  But secrets never stay between two people. And, although I love Jackie to pieces, I don’t trust her to keep this under wraps.

  I can’t tell her. Not right now.

  I nod my head. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Well, all right then.” She snuffs the cherry on the wall.

  “So, how are things going?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “With Brad, I mean.”

  “They’re going, I guess.” Jackie pulls out her phone again, tucking a strand of her tawny hair behind her ear. “Why? Are you jealous?”

  “Gross.” I laugh. “No thanks. I know where those hands have been.”

  “I’m way out of your league, anyway.” Jackie grins.

  “Something like that.”

  “Come on, Mike. Let’s get inside. It’s Tuesday, and the lunch ladies will be by any second to dump the spoiled milk.” She grabs her purse. “I, for one, would rather not be here to watch.”

  The last period bell rang five minutes ago, and I can’t think of an excuse, any excuse, to delay the horribly inevitable.

  Maybe I can smash a hand in my locker? A trip to the hospital would be better than what’s ahead of me.

  But alas, I’m a wuss and can’t bring myself to follow through. Damn my low pain tolerance. That’s what I get for not playing a contact sport.

  “Hey, Mike!” Chris catches me outside the school. His shirt already haphazardly untucked, jacket hanging off one shoulder. “You ready to head out?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, looking back toward the school. Maybe Jackie changed her plans, and she’ll swoop in to save me. But that’s a fat chance. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said, ‘Can’t wait to get started!’”

  “That’s the spirit!” Chris smiles, clapping me on the shoulder.

  The weather is still steamy enough I’m sweating by the time we get to Chris’s car. He cracks the windows and starts the AC as soon as the engine turns over. The leather is roasting my ass like a rotisserie chicken.

  “So, what exactly is this project of yours?” I ask. The more information I gather now, the less time I have to spend in the house of Myers. For some reason, I’ve been picturing a portrait of Hitler hanging above their fireplace, right next to Jesus. But that’s a bit of a stretch. Donald Trump portrait? That’s a definite possibility.

  “It’s for my mom, actually,” Chris says, pulling out of the parking lot. “Sorry for the lie. Her birthday is next week, and I was hoping I could commission you to sketch something for me.”

  “Commission?” That’s not what I expected.

  “Yeah, I saw that portrait you did of your grandmother last year for the art midterm. It was crazy good. So, I want you to do one for my mom. If that’s okay.”

  “Oh.” I lean back in my chair. “Why did you just say that to begin with?”

  “Because it may have sounded creepy for me to walk up to you and say, ‘Hey, can I pay you to draw my mother?’”

  I snort, and Chris laughs.

  “I definitely would have been creeped out.”

  “See? It sounds better if you just say it’s a project.”

  “Well, just to warn you, I haven’t done a portrait in a while. So, I can’t promise the quality.” That’s a lie, too. Honestly, I haven’t been able to bring myself to lift a pencil since my sketchbook went missing. So that’s a thing.

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Chris waves off my warning. “Besides, if it’s junk, I’ll just spatter it with paint and call it an abstract piece.”

  “Hey!” I fake offense. “That’s my theoretically terrible artwork your talking about!”

  We share another laugh. Maybe this won’t be so bad. At least, that’s what I think until we pull up in his house, and I see his mom’s station wagon in the driveway. The fish symbol prominently displayed beside the I support traditional marriage bumper sticker is a nice touch. All that’s missing is a confederate flag, and they’d have the complete bigot set.

  I follow Chris up the stairs of the front porch, and we step into the foyer.

  “Take your shoes off,” He bends down to untie his before adding, “please.”

  Following suit, I add my loafers to the stack of shoes already by the door. The carpet is plush shag under my feet. The house smells…old. But not unpleasant.

  “Chris? Is that you, sweetheart?”

  “Hey, Mom!” he calls down the hall.

  “I need to talk to you,” Ms. Myers replies. “Come here, please.”

  Chris sighs. “Hey, I’ll just be a second. Make yourself at home.”

  I nod, and suddenly, I’m left alone in the alien surroundings of my Pastor’s home. Which means it’s time to snoop.

  I step into the living room, simultaneously disappointed and relieved at the lack of Nazi paraphernalia. Even more shocking is that everything feels…normal. The furniture is older, but well-maintained. There are family photos hung in clusters on the wall, and a mantle full of knickknacks above the fireplace.

  Several ribbons rest on one a book shelf with Chris’s name on them. I get close enough to read them, but Chris catches me.

  “Ready to head upstairs?” he asks.

  I try to look innocent. “Y-yeah. Of course.”

  We climb the creaky staircase, and Chris opens the door when we reach the top of the stairs. His bedroom is tidy, the ceiling slanting down on either side of the room. Three bookshelves, stuffed to the gills, cover the wall to the far end, the rows of book covers creating a spectrum of colors. To the right, sits a modest laptop on an old desk and a rickety looking computer chair with duct tape covering several holes in the upholstery. Across from that, under the octagonal window, sits his bed. The rest of the walls are covered in posters, mostly bands I’ve never heard of.

  “Come on in,” Chris invites me, moving to the closet in the corner. He opens the door and begins to dig through a pile of boxes. “I have a photo I wanted you to use for reference,” he sets a plastic tub on the desk. With a snap, the lid comes off, and he sorts through the pictures.

  “When’s her birthday?” I ask, wringing my hands together to keep them busy. My stomach is in knots even though I haven’t seen Pastor Myers yet.

  “Not ‘till next week,” Chris answers, extracting a photo from the stack. He hands me the print. “I think that one’s the best.”

  I hold the photo eye level. Wow, his mother was striking in her youth. She can’t be more than twenty in this photo, dark hair pulled back off her face in a beautiful blue sundress.

  “She’s stunning,” I tell him.

  “If you say so.” Chris laughs. He looks back to the closet then stomps his foot. “Damn! I bought a big sketchpad for you to use. I must have left it in the trunk. Be right back!”

  He scurries down the stairs, leaving me alone again.

  My nerves propel me to pace.

  You can really learn a lot from looking at someone’s bedroom. If you were looking at mine, you would know, first off, I am an artist. The second thing you would know is I don’t keep up with my laundry, and there are socks under the bed you should never touch.

  Chris’s room feels familiar, though I can’t quite place the reason why. The bookshelves are neat and organized, but when I get close, most of the books look like they’ve been beaten to Hell and back. He must rere
ad them often. The desk is cluttered with scattered cups, pens, and textbooks. A small stand by his bed holds a stack of paperbacks, the one on top dog-eared to hold his place. It’s a poetry book, but I don’t catch the title before I hear his footsteps on the stairs.

  “Sorry about that,” he huffs, carrying the large pad. “Is this size okay? I kinda just let the lady at the shop pick it out for me. I’m clueless when it comes to this kind of thing.”

  “That’ll be fine,” I tell him, grabbing the photo from the desk. “Did you want me to go ahead and start on it now?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, that would be awesome. Is fifty dollars enough?”

  “It’s plenty.” I take the pad from him, digging in my bag for a pencil set.

  “I can clear off the desk if you need me to,” Chris offers.

  “It’s fine,” I assure him, setting my bag on the ground and crouching down. “I do my best work on the floor anyways.”

  “Cool.” Chris sits down on the edge of his bed, grabbing a small remote control. “Um, do you mind if I put on some music? I have to work on the rest of her present, and it always helps me think.”

  “Sure.” I drag my 4H pencil—perfect for outlining—across the blank page. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  Chris presses a button, and a familiar strumming plays from the set of speakers on top of the bookshelf.

  I stop, my ears perking up like a dog. “Is this Fleet Foxes?”

  “You know them?” Chris asks.

  “Hell yeah.” I can’t help bobbing my head to the infectious tones. “They’re my favorite.”

  “Excellent.” He picks up a notebook from the floor by his bed. “I always listen to them when I’m writing. They just put me in the mood, you know?”

  “Writing?” I pause. “What do you write?”

  “Just poems and stuff.” Chris blushes, looking down at his socks. “It’s a hobby. Nothing serious.”

  Poetry? He doesn’t exactly strike me as the poetic type. Then again, before this week, he really didn’t strike me as any type other than a guilty-by-association bigot.

  That’s pretty small minded of me.

  “Is that the rest of your mom’s gift?”

  Chris nods, cheeks still flushed. “It’s lame, I know. But I’ve been doing it since I was six, so I figure why mess with a good thing?”

  “I think it’s nice.” I lower my gaze back to the photo. The sparkle in her eyes got passed onto Chris. They look very similar. “My mom gets a bag of M&Ms and a gift card for Starbucks. Your gift is actually thoughtful.”

  “Thanks.” Chris crosses his legs, pen pressing to paper.

  We work in silence, mellow tones propelling us along.

  I’ve lost track of everything by the time Chris’s mom calls up the stairs.

  “Boys! It’s dinnertime!”

  “Shit.” I look down at my phone. I’ve missed two texts from my Dad. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  “You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner,” Chris offers, setting aside his notebook. He shed his uniform jacket at some point, and the sleeves of his button up are pushed past his elbows.

  “Sure,” I say before I realize that means we’ll be eating with his parents. More importantly, his father. I try to back-peddle. “Um, I mean, I should probably call my dad and make sure it’s okay.”

  “Whoa,” Chris breathes.

  I didn’t hear him move. He looks over my shoulder at the sketch. I haven’t added any details to her hair, but the outline of the face is almost finished.

  “That’s ridiculous, Mike.”

  “Thanks.” I shake the cramp out of my hand, noticing the shining silvery stain. It’s the proof of my work.

  “I’m going to go wash up.” He moves to the door. “Let me know what your dad says. I can just run you home if I need to.”

  I nod as he leaves, dialing Dad’s number.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he answers. “Where are you?”

  “Hey, Dad. Sorry I didn’t see your text. I’m at Chris Myers’ place. He needed help with a project.”

  There’s a pause on the other end.

  “Chris Myers?” Dad repeats. “As in Roger’s boy?”

  “Sure?” I shrug. “I don’t know Pastor Myers’ first name.”

  “That answers my question.” He laughs. “Well, all right then. I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from denying that claim.

  “How long are you staying out?”

  “They invited me for dinner,” I say, “but I should be home by nine.”

  “Sounds good, hijito. Say hello to Chris’s folks for me.”

  “Right, will do.”

  “Love you, son.”

  “Love-you-bye,” I say with a sigh.

  I end the call, weighing my options. I can always lie and say Dad wants me home now, sparing myself from what’s bound to be an incredibly awkward dinner. The only problem is I already told him they’ve invited me, so I can’t just show up at home. Plus, Dad might talk to Chris’s father on Sunday and ask about it.

  Shit. That means I’m stuck.

  “What did he say?” Chris calls from downstairs.

  “We’re all good,” I answer, pushing myself off the floor.

  The stairs whine as I descend to the main level. Chris waves for me to follow him into the kitchen, and a garlicky, delicious smell slaps me in the face as he pushes the door open.

  His mom, Vanessa, pulls a pan out of the oven, setting it on the stove top. It feels strange to see her in motion. I’ve been staring at her photo for the better part of two hours.

  The photograph leaves out so many details.

  “Michael.” She greets me with a smile. “It’s so good to see you. I trust you boys have been working hard on that Social Studies project.”

  “Huh?”

  “Of course, we have!” Chris interjects, covering my slip up. “I feel an A+ coming on.”

  Oh, duh. Of course, he wouldn’t tell her what we’re doing.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Vanessa hands me a plate filled to the brim and gives a second one to Chris. “Well, dig in, boys. Your father is working late again, Chris. So, he told us to get started without him.”

  My relief is immediate and incredibly satisfying. I don’t have to share a table with my nemesis. It’s like a huge weight lifts off my shoulders. If I’m not careful, I just might float up to the ceiling.

  The three of us take a seat. The utensils and napkins are already in place. A beautiful arrangement stands in the center of the table, containing shade of fall oranges and browns. They must host a lot of guests.

  “Chris,” Vanessa says with a nod, “would you bless it?”

  He clears his throat, bowing his head. I follow suit. If he’s anything like his father, this could take a while. I hope I don’t nod off.

  “Oh God,” Chris starts, “thanks for this food. And stuff. Yeah. Amen.”

  Wait, what?

  “Amen,” Vanessa echoes, tucking the cloth napkin into her lap, unfazed by her son’s blatantly irreverent prayer. “How are you parents, Michael?”

  “They’re…great.” I’m still trying to process Chris’s behavior.

  “That’s good to hear.” She smiles, and it holds the warmth of an embrace.

  I’ll never understand how Pastor Myers came to marry such a kind and compassionate woman. For as long as I can remember, Vanessa has been a pillar both in the church and the community. While her husband teaches hellfire and brimstone, you’ll never hear her so much as raise her voice. She always displays kindness, no matter who walks in those doors every Sunday.

  Without people like her, I would have lost my faith long ago.

  Why can’t everyone be like that, Big Guy? Then You’d have no worries getting everyone onboard with the whole religion thing. You’d have a line around the block.

  “Is everything okay?” Vanessa stares at me. “You haven’t touch your plate.”

 
; “Y-yeah.” I grab my fork, stabbing into the cheese-stuffed tube. It’s love at first bite. “It’s delicious.”

  “I’m glad.” She wipes the edges of her mouth. “There’s plenty, so please have as much as you like.”

  I nod, mouth full of ooey gooey wonder.

  “How are your classes going, Michael?” Vanessa asks.

  “Really well, actually,” I answer through a hunk of garlic bread. I swallow hard. “At least I haven’t failed anything so far.”

  “How wonderful. That makes one of you….” Vanessa replies, cutting her eyes to Chris.

  “That’s not fair.” He raises his hands in defense. “Pop quizzes don’t count. How can I prepare for something I have no idea is coming?”

  “It’s called studying, sweetheart.”

  “I do study! You know, it’s just, sometimes, I don’t study the right thing.”

  “Let’s not argue in front of company.” Vanessa smiles apologetically toward me. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “No worries.” I take another bite of cheesy pasta.

  Vanessa refills my sweet tea from the pitcher. “I really enjoyed watching your sister perform last Sunday, Michael,” she tells me. “How long has she played?”

  “Depends on which instrument,” I reply. “She plays three. The violin is her favorite though. She picked that up when she was five.”

  “That’s crazy,” Chris contributes.

  “She’s blessed with many talents.” Vanessa folds her hands in her lap. “I’m sure it runs in the family.”

  “You’ve never heard my mom sing.” I chuckle.

  “Actually…” She makes a face.

  I choke on my bread.

  “Nancy is a wonderful woman.” Vanessa scrambles to explain herself. “It’s just—”

  “It’s okay,” I say cutting her off. “Oh God.” I wipe a tear. “That was the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “Maybe keep that little joke between us?”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I assure her.

  The conversation continues effortlessly, and before long, Vanessa grabs some ice cream from the freezer for dessert.