This was copied and pasted from a PDF document and includes headers and footers (my name, page numbers, book title), thus making it more difficult to read. Sorry, I couldn't find my WORD document.
Prologue
Two days before classes began, teacher Katie Waldrup sat and pondered at a student desk in the hallway outside her classroom on the second floor of Boaz High School. Even though her present life was better than it had ever been, she could not escape horrors from her recent past: killing five men in two incidents, one of which could send her to prison for the rest of her life. If, her involvement was ever discovered.
Katie reminisced good days since she started teaching English, Literature, and Creative Writing in her hometown three years ago. Almost from day one, fellow teacher Cindy Barker had become her best friend. And, had changed her life in countless ways.
As the maintenance crew finished waxing her classroom floor, Katie silently confirmed she would do it again. After sexual predator and assistant principal Patrick Wilkins had raped Cindy, she crafted their ‘Six Red Apples’ strategy for dealing with him, and the five men who had raped Katie Sims two days before Christmas in 2002, seventeen years ago. Again, Katie fought back the bad and recalled the good. But for her vicious rape, she would not have Cullie, the light of her life, the rising senior who was this year returning to Boaz High School after a two-year escape to Sardis High School. Maybe this was what triggered Katie’s reminiscing. Her worrying about her only child, the one who believed she was tarnished for life for being a ‘rape baby.’
“Miss Sims, I mean Mrs. Waldrup.” Katie finally looked up from a closed notebook that lay in front of her. Sixty-five-year-old Earl Chambers was standing beside two teenage boys, both of whom were pouring sweat as the older man in a crisp pair of new overalls
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looked as fresh and neat as a budding rose. “We done. You gonna sit out here till the prayer walkers come?”
Katie shook her head in disbelief as she slid out of the narrow seat. “Thanks for the warning, I’d almost forgotten.” She did not agree at all with the local practice of pastors and educators alike walking the halls and entering each classroom to say a prayer of blessing and protection on students and teachers alike throughout the upcoming school year. Katie knew it was a flagrant violation of the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment but now for the fourth year, she had chosen to keep quiet. She had a role to fill. Cindy’s pregnancy from Wilkins’ rape had led to her death, and to the fetus she was carrying. Before passing, Katie had promised to raise Alysa, Anita, and Arlon, Cindy and her husband Steve’s three children, ‘in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.’
Katie handed Earl a copy of her latest book, The Light in the Darkness, and a $50.00 gift card to Walmart. The latter becoming an annual tradition. “Katie Sims, I’ll always call you by sweet Darla’s last name. You know you don’t have to give me a thing.” After Katie edged from her seat and stood, Earl motioned to the two teenagers to move the one remaining student desk inside Katie’s classroom. “Me and Miss Darla were best friends.”
“I know. She sure thought the world of you.” Katie said as she walked inside her sparkling clean classroom hoping to organize for two hours before the Bible thumpers arrived. She could not help but recall how Darla herself had gotten pregnant. It was May 25, 1972 at a place on Aurora Lake called Club Eden. It was Darla and eight of her classmate’s high school graduation party. It was a promiscuous night. It was not until three years ago that Katie had learned which of the five men Darla had sex with was her biological father. She waved at Earl as he and his two helpers left her room.
She stepped inside her tiny office at the back of the classroom and laid her notebook on Cindy’s oak desk, the one Katie had insisted she receive after her best friend died. “I love you Cindy and I hear you. You are telling me to forget the past and forge ahead with today. ‘Katie Ann Waldrup, you have four precious children to raise, now get with it.’ Someway, weeks before she died, Cindy had known Katie would eventually marry Marshall County Sheriff Wayne Waldrup.
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Katie was so thankful Wayne was her husband, lover, friend, and soulmate.
Katie sat in Cindy’s matching oak chair and opened her notebook. On the left side was a copy of the poem, “Ten Red Apples”:
“Ten red apples grow on a tree
Five for you and five for me
Let us shake the tree just so
And then red apples will fall below
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.”
Underneath was a color photo of six red apples, Cindy’s visual of her and Katie’s plan to exact vengeance on their rape perpetrators. Katie could not help but cry. It did not take long for the worry to set in. Cullie’s return to Boaz High School would be challenging to say the least, especially given the tension that was mounting between her and Riley, Cullie’s half-sister.
After five minutes, Katie closed her notebook and her eyes, and pondered how to conduct this year’s novel writing project for her creative writing class. Organizing bookshelves could wait until tomorrow.
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Chapter 1
“Cullie, are you coming?” Alysa semi-yelled as she parked her Camry and looked at me, a less-than-interested, slouching and soon-to-be senior, at Boaz High School.
With ear buds in and Riley Clemmons’ “Fighting for Me” blasting from my iPhone, I shook my head in the negative, and mouthed, “I’ll wait here.”
“Heck no you won’t. Remember our talk last night? God is your sun and shield, He has you in the palm of His hand. Now, get your sexy self out of my car or I’ll drag you kicking and screaming. You, not me.” Alysa and I had become fast friends at the beginning of ninth grade, my first year at Boaz High School. Now, almost three years after Cindy, Alysa’s mother, had died from complications relating to her pregnancy, Alysa and I lived together as sisters. Even though we did not share blood or the same last name, our relationship was deep and anchored by our faith in God. I’m sure Alysa couldn’t help but feel proud and marvel how I’d allowed Jesus to transform my life from a quasi-atheist when I’d moved to Alabama at the beginning of ninth grade to what she was now, a rapidly maturing Christian young lady.
“Oh okay, but remember, you promised you wouldn’t leave me.” I said, removing both ear buds with one quick jerk.
“I do. You are going to love Boaz High. Most every teacher is a Christian, bold in their faith. They are like me, always got you covered. You’ll see.” Alysa said, leading me across the parking lot toward the flagpole where youth pastor Ben Edmon and the First Baptist Church of Christ youth group had agreed to meet.
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Fifty feet before arriving, my stomach threatened to wretch. Standing beside the youth pastor and giant flagpole bearing both the U.S. and Christian flags was none other than Riley Radford. As far as I knew, my half-sister, biologically, was my only enemy, and it was not by my choosing. In ninth grade, before the truth came out that we shared the same father, Riley had acted toward me with only innocent and harmless mischief. Then, I was a new girl in town, naturally beautiful according to Mom, and the unsolicited attention of every boy Riley was interested in. It was simple jealousy. Now, since Riley and I had discovered that Ryan’s will had gifted each of us twenty-five percent of his estate, she was actively and consistently expressing pure hatred for her half-sister.
“Hey Alysa, reintroduce me to your friend.” Ben said as Alysa and I walked onto the giant concrete circle engulfing the flagpole base. Attention was the last thing I wanted. But I suppose I might as well get used to it, both good and bad. I was determined to walk my own path regardless of the obstacles.
I forced a smile as I fought back wishes I had stayed at Sardis High School for my senior year. I blinked my eyes five times quickly to verify my consciousness. “What in heck was I thinking when I decided to return here and First Baptist Church of Christ with Alysa? I loved both my school and Bethsaida Baptist Church in Sardis City. There, I had no enemies, and no one knew my past.”
“Mr. Ben, you remember Cullie from three years ago? She was part of our youth group while we were in the ninth grade. Since then, she’s been on a wilderness adventure with our Etowah County friends.” Alysa said, elbowing my side.
“Hi Cullie, nice to see you. Thanks for coming to our prayer walk.” Ben said, taking my hand and giving an aggressive hug before I could react.”
“Welcome to my world little sister.” Without looking, I knew Riley’s voice. She had called a few days after the estate attorney had revealed Ryan’s distribution plan. In Riley’s call, she had been friendly and polite enough but had ended the conversation with a “you take good care little sister, you know I get your share if you don’t live to twenty-one.” Even though I had not seen the legal documents, Ryan’s attorney had supposedly told Riley we would each receive the first
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payment when I turned twenty-one. I was not certain I could believe what she said.
As Ben shouted prayer-walk instructions to a swelling group of ninth through twelfth graders, I realized that Riley’s final statement in our phone conversation was a carefully concealed, jovially delivered, threat. No doubt, Riley was hoping I would not live to see my first payment.
According to Ben, this year’s prayer-walk was the biggest ever: eighteen participating churches, fifty-four teachers and school administrators, and almost six hundred students. Just like last year, principal Julie King divided the crowd into eighteen groups, with mine and Alysa’s group winning the final slot for the day. It was 8:30 p.m. before Ben and sixty-five teenager from his Fusion youth group entered the high school’s front door. As he led a long prayer inside the giant foyer beneath a giant pirate ship hanging overhead, I thought of Colton. He was the quiet and intelligent man from Los Angeles I just knew Mom would have married; the two shared a beautiful and accepting view of the world, solely disconnected from any religion. The last of our intriguing conversations were just six years ago, but they seemed like a lifetime. This was all before Mom and I left the west coast and moved to New York City.
Ben ended his prayer and led our group down the first-floor hallway to a Mr. Kendrick’s classroom. World History. Tonight’s tour was just the most recent layer of similar forces (including Alysa, the now-deceased Cindy, and virtually everyone in Boaz) that had convinced me to take God at His Word and let faith guide my life.
It was 11:15 p.m. when Alysa pulled into our long driveway off Smith Chapel Road. “I love you and am so proud of you.” I did not respond as she continued humming “Amazing Grace” while dodging several potholes in our long and neglected road. Alysa slowed her Camry to a crawl, apparently timing our arrival with the completion of verse four. When she finally eased left onto the pavement outside our well-lit two-car garage, the silky-haired seventeen year patted my left knee and said, “you’re going to love Fusion, but first we best get some sleep.” With that, she grabbed her keys and headed for the patio and rear entrance to the house her parents, Steve and Cindy Barker, had built fifteen years ago.
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I stayed behind for a few minutes, leaned against the Camry, and looked through the darkness, across the pasture, and toward the pond. Although it was nice to live with my triple A siblings (Alysa, Anita, and Arlon), I often miss the days when it was just Mom and me. I particularly miss our long talks. I nodded my head with sleepiness and turned to walk to the patio. Oh, how quickly things could change, how rapidly life could throw you a curve ball. I rolled back the sliding glass door and walked into an unoccupied den, recognizing how blessed I was to have such a wonderful home. Not all change is bad.
When I reached mine and Alysa bedroom, she was in the bathroom we shared with Anita quietly singing “Victory in Jesus” while brushing her long, gorgeous hair. Sisters. I now had three, shared living quarters with two, and would soon commingle with the razzle-dazzle redhead at church and school. Surely, the blood coursing through mine and Riley’s veins would be the catalyst that precipitates change of the good variety despite a rather insignificant thing called money.
Before dozing off, the last thought I had was I made the right decision to return to school and church in Boaz.
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Chapter 2
I awoke early, like it was a weekday and not Sunday. I grabbed my iPhone from under my pillow and set my alarm to 6:00 a.m. with full intentions of dozing another hour. Alysa, thank goodness, was laying on her right side facing the outer wall and not snoring. A nice treat since we had to share a room. After two plus years, I still hated this stupid twin bed, but as Mom keeps telling me, “Cindy’s wish didn’t come without sacrifices for us both.” Thank goodness, there was talk of adding a couple of extra rooms along the back of the house next to the pool.
It had been almost midnight when Alysa and I had arrived home and settled in. I was still perturbed at her for not telling me about the get-together at First Baptist Church of Christ after the prayer-walk. Fortunately, it had not been so bad. T.J. Miller, the pastor, had led a short lesson on the need for a daily quiet time with Bible study and prayer, then he had let us hang out, play ping-pong and pool if we wanted to, and eat pizza and drink Vision, a tart and tangy drink. Alysa said it was a concoction Ben had come up with to symbolize the Holy Spirit. I had not asked any questions, but it was tasty. The good part of the gathering was the absence of Ben Edmon. For some reason, maybe it was the creepy hug he gave me at the flagpole, my impression of him was negative, despite his good looks and athletic body. My opinion was quite different from how I felt during the five or six months I had attended youth group in the ninth grade with Alysa.
Before I could get my pillows and covers arranged exactly right, my luck changed. Alysa was now flat on her back snoring like a freight-train. That cliché, writers are bound to hate the oft-repeated phrases,
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was enough, along with my anticipation that a long, shrill whistling noise would soon appear, to get up, slide into my house-shoes and head to the kitchen.
As I walked the long hallway, I saw Mom standing beside the sink looking through the windows into the outside darkness. I could not help but think about her prize-winning novel, Out of the Darkness, with all its success and how the sequel, The Light in the Darkness, had floundered. Her words, “Cullie, if you’re a writer, you can’t not write, no matter what else happens,” was my daily mantra.
“Morning Mom.” I said halfway across the den hoping not to distract her from an important thought.
“Hey baby. I was wondering how your late night would affect your early morning routine. Did you sleep?” Mom was my rock star. Braver to me than William Wallace, the late-13th-century Scottish warrior. There was nothing she would not do for me. She had proved that nearly three years ago when she had risked her life to save me from my own biological father and his three equally-sicko friends at Club Eden.
“I did. Five hours. Interspersed of course with a few rounds of Alysa’s snoring. Hint, hint, my own room.” Even though talks of adding-on gave Arlon and Anita a new bedroom all their own, I liked the idea of homesteading in my younger sister’s old room. Until two years ago, her and Arlon had shared that room. That had changed on Christmas morning 2017 when we all awoke to Arlon and his mattress inside the kitchen’s giant pantry. I think it was Anita’s budding sexuality that drove him out. That was two years ago. Now, fourteen-year-old Anita could pass for a college freshman, already surpassing Alysa and me in bra size.
“Wayne wants us to do most of the work, other than the foundation. He thinks it will be a good opportunity for us to work together as a family.” Mom said, refilling her coffee cup while I added a mountain of cream and four Splenda’s to my favorite mug.
“Oh great, that will take ten times as long. I am fifteen, sixteen in less than six weeks. I love Alysa but a girl needs some relief from her every-night phone conversations with Jim-Bob. I can’t believe she won’t tell me his real name.”
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“I know baby. I will talk with Wayne. He got called out at 2:30 this morning. He said he would try to be back by lunch. I promise I will do my best to persuade him to hire a contractor. Lord knows we can afford it.” I did not quite understand the family’s finances but knew, in exchange for Mom’s agreement to raise Cindy’s three children, she had set up a trust fund with a lot of money. Mom was the trustee and could spend the money however she wanted, if it benefited Alysa, Anita, and Arlon. I guess it was okay that as a byproduct, the rest of us received some value.
“What was Dad’s emergency?” I had called Wayne my dad since he had so gently and politely asked me if he could adopt me. That was a few months after Ryan, my biological father, had died in the horrible shootout at Club Eden. I think I had caught Wayne off guard when I immediately responded in the affirmative. What child would not want the strong, humble, sheriff to be their father? Especially since he loved my mom like she was a goddess, and, not to mention, Colton was long gone.
“All Wayne said was that a body had been discovered. You know he is tight with his words until he knows all the details. I’m expecting a quick call or a text after my writing session.” Mom said, picking up her laptop and heading to the sliding doors at the back of the house. “Later baby, I hope you have a good session.”
I poured my coffee and grabbed a banana from the basket on the breakfast nook table. I sometimes get hungry before finishing my writing. I followed Mom and watched as she turned toward the garage. I walked straight to my spot. Wayne had converted a storage room above the garage into a large, but quaint room for Mom’s morning writing sessions. He was standing ready to improve my spot in a tiny supply room in the pool house. I had thanked him, but for now I liked the crudeness of my surroundings. Unpainted pine shelving and an old door set on cement blocks for a desk. I was a new writer. I needed to start plain, simple, cheap, before I became a rock star novelist like Mom.
I guess it was only natural that I would fall in love with writing. If I could remember, Mom had been faithful to get in at least an hour of, what she referred to as ‘thoughtful thinking,’ before her day of teaching high schoolers began. Her time had always been early morning. Again, her words, “if you are disciplined enough every day to write even a few
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paragraphs on your current project, you have had a successful day, no matter what happens the next twenty-two or twenty-three hours.”
I had kept a diary for most of my life, but it was not until the end of the ninth grade that I had become a real writer. According to Mom, you are a writer when you write and call yourself a writer. It is a personal decision, not one bestowed on you by a school or book publisher. Mostly, I have written tiny snippets and a few short stories. I was hoping a year in Mom’s creative writing class would give me the tools and the inspiration to write my first novel.
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Chapter 3
Alysa parked her Camry beside the children’s playground on the backside of the church’s rear parking lot. “I always park here. I’ll start leaving the doors unlocked for you.” She said causing me to wonder what she meant. I decided to let it go. I was not a baby. I did not need Alysa by my side every second.
“Okay. Thanks.” I followed her to the rear entrance to the Education Building and up four flights of stairs. I saw an elevator but figured since Alysa was now a high school cheerleader, she wanted to take every opportunity to keep her legs perfectly toned.
“Good morning ladies.” Ben Edmon said as Alysa and I walked the hallway toward him and a sign above the doorway that read, in large bold lettering, “Youth Sunday School Department.” In smaller text at the bottom, it read, “Fusion: We Are One Body.” I did not think the ‘A’ should be capitalized.
Alysa and I both returned the greeting and after a quick handshake Ben motioned us inside to a giant room with probably a hundred chairs. We were early but there were already twenty or more kids milling around two long tables in the far-left corner.
I was noticing eight doors equally spaced along the long wall behind the podium when I heard someone semi-yell, “cometh hither young maidens, drink and learn your future.”
Alysa grabbed my left arm and pulled me with her towards a tall and blond good-looking guy who was coming towards us. “That’s Josh Miller, the pastor’s son.” I investigated her face and saw her eyebrows rise with interest. I wondered if this was the boy she had been talking to at night for the past several weeks.
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As we walked to Josh, I noticed he kept looking towards Ben and the front entrance. When Alysa reached out her hand, Josh pulled her in for a hug. “Good to see my fair maiden.” He looked at me and said, “and who might this be?” returning his gaze to Alysa.
“My younger sister, Cullie.”
“By one month.” I added, feeling anxious about being here.”
Josh, with bright blue eyes, now looked at me. “But do not forget young Anita, her other younger sister. That gorgeous and soon-to-be ninth grader.” I wondered if Josh maintained a database of all the local girls, at least the pretty ones.
For several minutes Josh kept up his silly talk. He also poured Alysa and me a Styrofoam cup filled from a large Tupperware container labeled Vision. Obviously, the drink was a staple of the youth group. Alysa accepted the offer, I did not. I was still buzzed from all the coffee I had drank since early morning.
While Alysa and Josh exchanged goofy glances of infatuation, I felt like a third wheel reading the signs above the eight doors. I located “Twelfth Grade Girls” and started walking towards it since I was being crowded away by two waves of kids suddenly devouring Vision, donuts, and chocolate chip cookies from the two refreshment tables. I figured the room was where Alysa and I, and our other senior classmates, would spend the next hour.
“Okay Fusion take your seats. We need to get started a few minutes early.” Ben said from across the room, now standing behind the giant podium. It did not take Alysa long to appear and guide me to a chair along the center of the row furthest from Ben. I took one final look back towards Josh and saw him still standing beside the refreshment tables, now holding hands, and staring into the eyes of the scarlet-colored queen, as Alysa called her. It was none other than the tall and perfectly shaped Riley Radford.
Ben raised and outstretched his opened hands to quieten the group which now consumed every seat in the room. “Let me have your undivided attention.” He paused for a few seconds, scanning the room as though trying to connect eyes with every person. “It is with deep, deep sadness I announce the tragic news of Skylar Simmons’ death.” A wave of groans and moans rolled chaotically across the assembly.
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“What happened?” A girl I did not know from the front row shouted above the continuing shock of surprise still penetrating the heavy pall I sensed all around me.
Ben shook his head sideways and closed his eyes for what seemed like a minute. “Please know I do not have an official report but what I’ve heard, and I believe my source to be reliable, Skylar was murdered. Her body was discovered late last night or early this morning.” From the look on Ben’s face I could tell he was visibly shaken. Absent was his constant smile. Present was a mixed expression, a cross between a scowl and a sudden negative experience, something like what I expect one would feel if he were struggling to keep his balance standing on the top ledge of a New York skyscraper.
“Where was she found?” Josh said, now sitting beside Riley in the last chairs on mine and Alysa’s row, next to the refreshments.
“I don’t know. My source said he could not disclose that since it was an active crime scene. Okay, that is all the questions I want to take. What we need to do is pray. This is the most important thing we can do. Please close your eyes and ask God to comfort Skylar’s family and to give us hope midst such tragedy. Also, be sure to keep in mind what we have been studying the past few weeks: ‘God never allows pain without a purpose.’ Pray silently for a couple of minutes and then I’ll close.” Alysa and I exchanged glances, both shaking our head in horror before each closed our eyes and bowed our heads.
I found it difficult to focus and pray. Instead, I considered Ben’s statement. I could not help but wonder what purpose God had for the pain I had endured. I became perplexed over the actual meaning of the statement. Did it mean that God choose to allow some pain and no other? Where did the pain come from, its source? Did God create pain, all with a purpose in mind? After a few seconds of feeling sorry for myself for being created as the result of a vicious rape, I turned my attention to the act of prayer itself. Ever since my conversion to Christianity near the end of ninth grade I had retained my deep-seated doubts about the efficacy of prayer. Before moving to Alabama, Mom and I had always had an open relationship about God, the supernatural, prayer, everything Christianity involved. I knew she was not a believer and I highly suspected she still was not, even though she was now playing a role she felt she owed to her late friend Cindy. It was so hard for me not to question the frequent occasions I seemed to observe
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where prayer did not work. I realized that die-hard Christians believed that God always answered prayer, but the ‘God is mysterious’ refrain was so unsatisfying, especially when verses like John 15:7 seemed to promise God always gives his child what he asks for. And, I had been around Southern Baptists enough to know that if Skylar had been found safe and sound, they would be praising Jesus for answering their prayers. Baptists, well, the fundamentalist type, always attributed good things to God but blamed Satan for all the bad.
After several minutes, my thoughts were interrupted by Ben’s vocalized prayer: “Oh Jesus, our ever present, all knowing, all loving, all-powerful friend. We are so heart-broken over our dear Skylar’s death. Please bathe her family in your infinite grace. Comfort them with an unquestionable awareness of your presence. Dear Lord Jesus, give them and us, a peace the world doesn’t know or understand, a peace of knowing our sweet sister in Christ is now walking Heaven’s streets of gold, hand-in-hand with you, singing your praises for ever and ever. Guide us now as we focus on our new unit of study. May everything we do bring honor to your holy name. Amen.”
Just as Ben raised his head and opened his eyes, Riley Radford stood and started singing “Victory in Jesus,” and waving her hands back and forth. In seconds, the entire youth group, like an army platoon responding to the Sergeant’s order, rose and joined the lead of the musically-gift red head. Alysa overrode my reluctance and pulled me to a standing position. I kept silent but closed my eyes and listened carefully to each word as the group did a surprisingly good job of resounding all three verses of the oft-sung hymn:
“What a Friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry
Everything to God in prayer!
Have we trials and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
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We should never be discouraged,
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful
Who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness,
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
Are we weak and heavy-laden,
Cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge—
Take it to the Lord in prayer;
Do thy friends despise, forsake thee?
Take it to the Lord in prayer;
In His arms He’ll take and shield thee,
Thou wilt find a solace there.”
“Thanks, Riley, for your leadership. You are dismissed to your classes. I am sorry, but I am out of time. I’ll let your teachers tell you about our new unit.” Ben said, folding a notebook that I guessed contained content he had intended to share with the group.
In Sunday School, Mrs. Vickers lectured most of the time. The subject was God as the moral lawgiver. The crux of her lecture boiled down to the absolute truth there were objective rights and wrongs and their existence forced only one conclusion: there had to be a moral lawgiver. And, that person was the Christian God.
During preaching, Pastor T.J. Miller, Josh’s father, continued this theme. His sermon seemed anti-climactic after the choir had sung several popular hymns, concluding with “Rock of Ages.” The pastor’s disjointed sermon argued that God’s laws are fixed and universal and written in the hearts of every person. He took almost fifteen minutes to interject his thoughts on relativism. In sum, he concluded that without God as a moral lawgiver the world would descend into atheism, and by necessity, chaos. The thing I could not help but question was his assertion that without God, people would start pillaging and raping their neighbors. This did not seem truthful. But the pastor kept arguing that objective moral values from God were the only way humans knew what was right and wrong.
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When the sermon ended, the minister of music, a man named Rob White, led the audience in three verses of “Amazing Grace,” while the pastor pleaded for lost souls and wayward believers to come forward to confess and pray. I stood beside Alysa and realized there was something different about First Baptist Church of Christ, something I did not remember from my time here in the ninth grade.
It was also something different from the theme and atmosphere at Bethlehem Baptist Church in Sardis City. There was this attitude of certainty the Bible was literally true, and that science and Christianity were completely compatible. All three speakers, Ben, Mrs. Vickers, and Pastor Miller had expressed this in some fashion. Ben’s statement about pain, Mrs. Vickers’ words arguing for the reality of Adam and Eve and the Genesis story of creation, and Pastor Miller’s shocking position that “unlike some folks think, God, and not evolution, is the source of our morals.”
As Alysa and I returned to her car, I felt like I had entered another world, one where my mind and my ability to think reasonably was going to be constantly attacked. It was an eerie feeling, but surprisingly, I was energized to seek the truth.
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Chapter 4
Everyone was already seated when Alysa and I passed through the rear sliding glass doors into the great room. We could see Wayne had made it home in time for lunch. The house rule demanded all six of us eat at least one meal per week around the giant oak table in the dining room. The rule was a carryover from Cindy, as described by the Triple A’s.
“Get your butts in here.” Arlon, the quickly evolving smart-ass and rising eighth grader, yelled the moment Alysa and I walked inside the dining room. I glanced at Wayne who had one arm draped over Mom’s shoulders. He smiled and shook his head sideways. He was a man of few words and one who carefully chose his battles. I considered him one of the wisest people I knew, next to Mom of course.
She motioned for everyone to sit. Alysa slid into her spot at the end of the table closest to Smith’s Chapel Road and reached for Arlon and Anita’s hands on her right and left. The rest of us sat and followed suit. Sometimes Cindy’s rules, routines, and traditions got old. I was still amazed at how faithful Mom was to Cindy’s wishes, now almost three years after her and Steve’s deaths. I often wondered exactly what role Steve, the Tripe A’s dad, had played. He must have worshiped Cindy to allow her to so choreograph the family’s every movement.
After Alysa’s prayer, I was dying to know what Wayne knew about Skylar Simmons’ death but held my tongue not wanting to bring up such a horrible subject over the roast beef, carrots, and potatoes Mom had slow-cooked in the crock-pot since 4:30 this morning.
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While Wayne stood and dipped everyone a generous portion of Mom’s favorite meal, Alysa was quick to question Anita about her overnight stay at Jenn Miller’s. Anita and Jenn, the pastor’s daughter, were both rising ninth graders and best friends since elementary school. I had a suspicion Alysa’s interest was primarily because Jenn was Josh’s younger sister. After learning that Anita had not seen Josh until nearly 2:00 a.m. (he and Riley had hung out at her house in the Country Club), Alysa politely started quizzing Arlon. He too had stayed overnight with an unnamed friend.
For some reason, I was not interested in Arlon and Wayne’s long discussion about the steps involved in constructing the two new bedrooms. It then dawned on me one way that Steve had influenced Arlon. He loved working with his hands. He always was tearing something apart and putting it back together again, whether it was a desktop computer or his dirt bike that, again a Cindy rule, was for riding around their 80 acre tract and never Smith’s Chapel Road.
After the twelve-inch footer talk, complete with how to use something called a cradle to hold half-inch re-bar at the bottom of the ditch, I crawled into my zone. Mom called it her writer zone, but I allowed a multitude of subjects to gather around my imaginary table. The first item was not exactly welcome. It was a little soft-spoken but respectful voice insisting I provide the reasoning I had used to venture out and return to my old life in Boaz.
By the end of ninth grade, I had had enough of the stares and hurtful comments. So, I ran. I ran to Sardis City, a whole new and different world, both the high school and my new church, Bethlehem Baptist. All those denigrating stares and comments were uncalled for since they were for something I could not have changed–being a human only because my mother had become pregnant as a direct result of a multi-person violent rape. Continuing the pregnancy was all Mom’s doing. She could have had me aborted. But, my trailblazing Mom, a non-believer no doubt, chose life.
When Wayne and Arlon paused after discussing the pros and cons of scissor trusses, Mom announced she had made a coconut cake. She was becoming quite the domesticate.
I quickly dismissed my earlier thoughts of engaging in active investigation into the unsettling mindset I had observed at First Baptist Church of Christ. No, I needed to focus on my senior year studies
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(especially Mom’s creative writing class) and getting a part-time job. Unlike Alysa, I had chosen to work to pay for my first vehicle. I was not surprised that Mom had eagerly agreed since she had waited tables during her senior high school year and all four years at the University of Alabama.
After a too-big slice of coconut cake, Wayne gathered everyone into the great room and said, “from what I hear, you all heard Ben Edmon’s announcement during Sunday School assembly this morning. Not that I have to say it, but always remember our house rule (this was his more than Cindy’s): what we say here, stays here. It is true; Skylar Simmons is dead. Her body was found near the railroad tracks behind Fox Run Apartments off Coosa Road.”
“How did she die?” Anita asked sitting on the couch between Mom and Alysa. I guess Arlon and I chose to stand, as did Wayne, hoping for a short family meeting.
“Sorry dear, I can’t get into that. And, you really do not need that mental picture. Trust me.” Wayne circled the couch and stood behind Mom, placing both hands on her shoulders. “Okay kids, meeting over. I have some business to discuss with the head cheese. Oh, don’t forget, at 3:30 we’re meeting at the pond for our next fishing contest.” I loved Wayne’s brevity, but I hated fishing, however, I knew this was a Sunday afternoon activity that Cindy and family enjoyed. Arlon let out a loud yelp before heading to the pantry. Alysa was dragged by Anita to her room; something about double-dating.
“I’ll be in the pool house until the fishing tournament.” I said, wanting to continue working on a story idea I had stumbled across earlier this morning.
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Chapter 5
“Hey baby.” I knew it was Mom’s voice, but it still startled me. It was like she had appeared from nowhere. I normally hung my little sign, “Writer at Work; Do not Disturb” on the doorknob and locked the door. The plaque (Wayne had fitted a slim wire on two sides for hanging) had been a gift from Mom after she read my first short story. That was two years ago. Today, in my rush to get to my desk, I had forgotten it.
“How about knocking and not pulling your ghost tricks. You scared me.” If it was sudden tension in the air, it evaporated faster than it had arisen. We exchanged smiles as she sat on a five-gallon bucket of granulated chlorine we probably would not use until next year. I had intentionally allowed only my chair into my hallowed quarters, not considering Mom’s creativity.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you but you seemed troubled, or at least preoccupied during lunch. Are you okay?” Mom, the observational guru. She vows that is what makes a great writer.
I usually did not hesitate to be open with my hero, but this was different. I was afraid I had put her into an uncomfortable position since she felt such a duty to Cindy, her best friend ever. “Nothing much, just wondering if my appetite was bigger than my stomach.” Mom would know what I meant.
“It’s only natural to second guess our decisions. I suspect the safety of your Sardis City life will be a magnet for quite a while.”
“I thought you were working this afternoon.” I had forgotten tomorrow was the first day of school and Mom had not gotten her classroom back from the custodians until late yesterday.
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“Don’t tell anybody but I worked through the prayer walk. I hung my Flannery O’Connor banner over the door window and kept on working. I lucked out when all the pastors skipped my room. I guess they saw my name beside the door and figured I was a lost cause.” We both laughed out loud.
“Can I ask you a question?” I thought I knew what Mom would say but I felt just hearing it would confirm the direction I had chosen.
“Baby, you know my head and heart are always open to you.”
“Do you believe in absolute moral truths? What Pastor Miller today called objective morals.”
“I assume your question is sincere and you truly want my answer.” Mom said, now standing as though the bucket was hurting her butt.
“Well duh, I wouldn’t have asked it otherwise.” It seemed we were skirting around the God question, both afraid we might disrespect the other’s position.
Mom leaned back against several rows of pine shelves across from my makeshift desk. “No.” Her short answer without explanation surprised me.
“Okay, I have to dig it out of you. Why the hesitation?” I asked, feeling the woman in front of me was not really my mom. What was going on?
“Baby, for almost three years now we’ve avoided the God talk. I hope you know it is because I, as always, have wanted you to make your own decisions concerning religion. I am as much against a non-believer brainwashing her child as I am a Southern Baptist doing the same with her children. But, my dear, do not think it’s been easy. Watching your growing devotion to the church ever since you joined Bethlehem Baptist has been hard to swallow. That’s why I’m reluctant to be totally open.”
“Mom, ditch that for now. Okay?” I loved how I could be fully myself with Katie Sims Waldrup.
“Okay, you asked for it. Into the octagon we go.” She smiled as I stood and gave my best MMA fighting stance, sadly remembering Ronda Rousey’s crushing defeat in her 2016 attempt at a comeback. It had taken opponent Amanda Nunes only 48 seconds to unleash her brutal assault.
“Let me restate my question. “If there were no God, would humans go around robbing and raping their fellow man?”
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Mom paused a few seconds. At 46 she was in the best shape I had seen her in years. She could thank Wayne for that. His penchant for running had rubbed off on his adventurous girlfriend. Mom was tall, slim, and wiry, nothing like the voluptuous Cindy, but still sensuous and sexy with the man of her dreams. I think it had something to do with Mom’s brown hair. It is naturally curly, but she recently found a new straightening process. I must say, it suited her, even though she usually kept it pulled behind her head. Mom finally spoke. “Probably some would. I suspect there are Christians that do that now, maybe not so much in the physical and clearly criminal sense but metaphorically.”
“Are you saying that without God, humans would know right and wrong?”
“I think we wouldn’t be here as Homo sapiens if that weren’t true. Morals are all about well-being. It is not a straight and constantly rising line, but over millions of years man’s idea of what benefits him has evolved. I like what Christopher Hitchens said, ‘do you really think the Israelites were surprised when Moses came down from Mount Sinai and told them they weren’t supposed to kill each other?’ Hitchens would answer, ‘damn, you’d think God would have given old Moses something we hadn’t known for years.’”
“Funny.” Mom made sense. I recall her telling me a story when we were living in New York City about a peer-reviewed paper describing how a tribe in the Amazon forest had similar morals as Americans, and those so-called savages had never heard of Yahweh and his son Jesus. It was like it was a universal gene. Of course, now I knew, that Southern Baptist fundamentalists would say, ‘see there, God wrote his law on every heart.’
“Baby, what’s really bothering you. You know you can tell me anything.”
“Today, for the first time since I joined the club, you know, the Christian club, I felt deceived, like I had allowed emotion and my friends, spelled A L Y S A, to taunt me to God and Christianity and not my intellect and reasoning. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. But, let me warn you. That road, if you choose it, can be very uncomfortable, possibly dangerous. I know you know this but nearly a hundred percent of our friends, neighbors, and local citizens, are die-hard believers. They are fully convinced Jesus died on the cross
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for their sins and He is the only way to Heaven. They likely do not have the capacity to change their minds. So, don’t start to think you’ll be the one to wash the scales from their eyes.”
I pondered what she said and agreed, but I was not interested in becoming any type evangelist, I simply was interested in the truth. “One other question since I really want to explore my short story idea. So, give me your most succinct answer. Why don’t you believe in the Christian God?” Again, I thought I knew Mom’s answer but for some reason needed to hear her say it.
“That’s easy. It is called evidence. Better put, the lack of evidence.” Mom started walking towards the pool house entrance. She then turned and said, “Honey, keep in mind that an atheist is not one who believes there is no god. No one can prove a negative: there is no god being the operative example here. The atheist is simply one who is not convinced. She is not persuaded by the evidence put forth by believers, speaking of the Christian religion. So, I will speak for myself. None of what believers argue as proof of God, is persuasive. Their claims fall apart upon an honest and critical examination. Therefore, I do not believe. But, know I will when the evidence is credible.”
Mom opened the door and was halfway outside. But I had to ask one final question. “Mom. Hold on. Would you give me a couple of actual examples, things that indicates there is no god, no Christian God?”
Mom came back inside the pool house and closed the door. She removed her iPhone from her back pocket as though she had received a text or was simply noting the time. “Okay. It’s my duty to answer you honestly.” She tucked her phone back inside her jeans. “Two things stand out. One, is the Bible. An honest and intensive examination leads to only one conclusion: it is manmade. There are too many errors and inconsistencies in it to have been written by an all-knowing God. Even more glaring, is the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD. That is where religious men met to construct Christian doctrine and decide which books would go into the Bible. There were several existing gospels that did not make it in. Research the Gospel of Judas if you’re interested.”
I stood and walked to Mom. “You said two things stood out for you.”
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“The other is science. The Bible is full of many things that conflict with the natural world. The theory of evolution clearly refutes the Bible’s creation story in Genesis. There never was an Adam and Eve, a first couple. Evolution and what Southern Baptist fundamentalists believe is in direct conflict. Listen baby, Wayne is waiting on me in the den. As promised, I am going to talk to him about hiring a contractor. You get back to your desk and I’ll see you at the pond at 3:30.” With that, she exited the pool house.
“Thanks Mom.” I said to a closed door.
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Chapter 6
I had wanted to stay home and go to bed early in preparation for tomorrow: mine and Alysa’s first day of our last year of high school. But, as usual, I had let her talk me into going to church. Her words, “a $5 snack supper, games, a live worship band, a message, and small groups. Fusion is a blast, totally different from Sunday mornings.”
Anita and Arlon were in Alysa’s back seat with her trying to answer his question why teenage girls like older boys. We passed Sardis High School and a ton of memories flooded my mind. Alysa must have noticed my visual despondency, so she turned up the volume on her new Hillsong Young & Free CD. “Alive” was her favorite song and now she had reset it to play again.
I had heard the song at least a hundred times but now, two phrases jumped out at me: “You are alive in us,” and “You are my freedom.” Jesus, to be alive in me must mean Jesus is alive, he is real, like in the Bible. How is he my freedom? If he is, why do I feel so shackled?
As Alysa turned right on Church Street, we soon passed Sardis Baptist Church on our left. There was a group of kids sitting on the steps of the old sanctuary listening to who I assumed was their youth pastor. “You are alive in us.” I am convinced every kid there would agree. And, that “Jesus is their freedom.”
My mind flashed back to Mom at the pond. While Alysa and Anita were sunbathing on the pier, and Wayne and Arlon were swapping fish stories and snagging bass at the shallow end of the pond, Mom and I hung out at the deep end hardly tossing our lines into the water. But we had talked.
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After I shared my observation from church this morning that there seemed to be a coordinated attempt by Christian leaders to discount or denigrate science, Mom had surprised me with her response. She said it appeared to her that from my observation and my questions inside the pool house, I was at a crossroads trying to answer the age-old question: ‘What am I to believe and why?’ She also said the hard truth was that most kids who grow up in Southern Baptist Churches believe what they are told to believe and never have a chance to question.
Sitting on the dam while two young calves became more interested in us than their mothers’ udders, I shared how trapped I felt. Mom, ever prescient, guessed correctly I was still haunted by the fact I was a rape baby. That meant I was created from evil.
One of the calves let Mom rub its head and back while I expressed my frustration over why God would allow such a thing. I told her I could not understand what God intended for me, what His purpose was for me. I admitted I was questioning my near three-year decision to follow Christ. I told her, “now, that seems I was so desperate to connect, so anxious to relieve my pain, I signed up without a whole lot of thinking.”
Katie Sims Waldrup is the best mom in the world. She gave me her interpretation of what was happening, what I was experiencing. Her analogy was perfect. “You are trying to put a square peg in a round hole. It is impossible, but do not take my word for it. You must create your own meaning. You can spend a lifetime trying to find God’s purpose for your life. You’ll never succeed because it’s a myth.”
After Arlon’s six-pound bass edged out Wayne’s four and a half-pounder, we all walked the half-mile dirt road back to the house. I was glad the other two couples kept their distance from Mom and me. At first, walking the dusty trail, I was positive and excited about accepting the challenge as she had put it. She framed it as, “only natural for a thinking person to ask questions and not allow emotion and someone else’s personal experiences to fully persuade. She said it was up to me to decide whether the circumstances surrounding my conception dictated my life and kept me in prison. Or, I could choose to let go of the past and live on my own terms. After we walked a long way without a word, almost as an afterthought, Mom repeated her earlier warning: going against the majority isn’t easy and often comes with a different type of pain, one of rejection and ridicule.
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Now, with Alysa pulling into her favorite spot at the back of the church’s rear parking lot, and me looking forward to being a part of a loving and supportive group, I shook my head and whispered to myself, “you fool, you are a kid richly blessed and comfortable, why rock the boat? Live, let live. Enjoy this best and final year of high school and swim downstream with all your peers. There is no need to rock the boat and become a thorn in everyone’s flesh. There will be plenty of time for that when I grow up.
The two brats in the back seat were long gone. Lazy Arlon and Anita had made big sis drop them off at the entrance to the Education Building before parking. I sat motionless while Alysa grabbed her purse to lock it in the car trunk. I was dreadful. No respectable writer would ever use clichés. Two in one sentence was a clear sign of my own laziness.
I was surprised Alysa took the elevator to the basement. I guess with the four flights to Sunday School this morning and this afternoon’s round-trip to the pond, her legs had enough conditioning for an off day. I was starting to see a pattern: Alysa was not a wimp; she met obstacles head on but was not dogmatic and unrealistic.
When we exited the elevator, I saw enough kids to fill a high school band. There were clusters scattered everywhere. But what caught my attention was the facility. The church basement was totally different than I remembered from ninth grade. Gone was the dull gray walls and floors. Half of the giant room was now a professional looking stage with dozens of narrow rows of permanently installed padded chairs. The other half of the room was further divided. The back half next to the stairs and elevator was filled with pool and ping-pong tables, a few scattered couches, and a dozen or more Alabama and Auburn bean bag chairs. Along the outside wall looked like a kitchen behind a set of stainless-steel roll-up doors. The final quadrant was filled with two rows of removable chairs in a circle around a knee-high rectangular platform. It was about twice the width of our pier but only about half the length. The tiny wheels at each corner indicated it was mobile. What distinguished this section from the black and white square-flooring in the games and hang-out quarter, and the blood red
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flooring in the amphitheater (my label), was the ocean blue floor. The old gray floor had been hidden by a color like that of the Caribbean.
“There’s Mountaintop.” Alysa said pulling me toward the stage where at least half of the other kids were making their way.
“Who’s that?” I had never heard of the group. I assumed from her earlier promotion, the three guys taking the stage were Mountaintop. I imagined they believed their music led their listeners to well, a mountaintop experience.
“Frank Mayer, Phil Barrett, and Lance Stevenson, three local boys who are headed for the big time.” Alysa said nodding at a group of middle school looking kids. Out of nowhere appeared the blond stallion (my label). Josh must have seen us, and so it happened, he just needed to walk to the stage. I could not help but notice how he quickly grabbed and released Alysa’s left hand as he squeezed through the bottleneck created by the eager middle-schoolers. I made another mental note to be bold enough tonight after lights out to ask my sweet sister how long she planned on living after Queen Radford found out she was trying to steal her boyfriend.
“Why?” It was always a great question.
“Huh?” Alysa said as we sat in chairs that reminded me of my one trip to the Aratani Theatre in Los Angles with its soft reclining chairs. Josh’s touch had obviously enamored my best but gullible friend. She was probably imaging sneaking backstage with the superstar and writing a song of their own. I chose to ignore her non-response.
While the three nerdy-looking guys situated themselves and their electronic gear, Ben walked from backstage, gave a thumbs up to the band, asked everyone to take a seat and calm down. He pointed to the first five or six rows which seemed to be dominated by middle-schoolers. “Welcome Fusion, what a night we have planned. There is a little change in order but do not despair, it’s all good. Mountaintop will sing a couple of songs and then we will break for our snack supper. Eat fast, because at 6:15 I want you seated and silent in The Sea (Alysa whispered this was the name of the Caribbean section). Be sure to print your name in the front of your new book. It will be there when you arrive. After about fifteen minutes at the most, I will release you and Mountaintop will continue its concert. Please note, Game-Time will be closed tonight to avoid ball-knocking.” Ben turned to the band and said, “okay guys, let’s rock the house for Jesus.”
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“Ball-knocking.” I could not help but laugh. The closing of the game area seemed a little unfair for those who disliked music, but I guess word-knocking took precedence. At least tonight.
I should not have been surprised that Mountaintop opened with “Alive” by Hillsong Young and Free. Alysa’s look, a wide smile and raised eyebrows, made me wonder if she was imagining her broken heart being mended and lifted higher by Josh’s strong and tender arms.
The group was good, despite the young and studious look of the three performers. I distracted Alysa long enough to learn they were all ninth graders and had already cut their first CD. I think she was referring to the group when she said, “focus.” But, with the eardrum bursting volume, she could have said, “hocus-pocus.” I muffled a laugh.
By the first “oh oh oh,” most of Fusion was on their feet waving their hands back and forth in unison. No doubt, praising the Savior. Alysa insisted I stand, but I was not much of a swinger, so I folded my hands together and held them in front of my mouth. Oh God, oh, oh, ‘you are my freedom.’ Right now, where I was, my words made total sense. With what I was hearing and seeing, Fusion was the only star in the sky. It was a lighthouse next to a raging ocean. I closed my eyes and wondered whether its light pointed to deliverance or to delusion.
After “Alive, with only a “let us go higher and higher” shout-out by Lance Stevenson (thanks Alysa), Mountaintop launched into a song I had never heard.
“This is “Run Wild” by King & Country.” I barely heard Alysa say above the screaming of two girls directly behind us. It did not take long for me to conclude Mountaintop’s second selection was also about freedom. That must be a Fusion thing. ‘Don’t you want to run wild, live free, love strong, you and me.’ When I heard these words repeated in the chorus, I concluded the song was for everyone whose ‘soul was locked in a cage,’ anyone locked in a ‘prison of their past mistakes.’ The song ended and I asked myself. “What mistake had I made? Was my very existence a mistake?”
After Mountaintop ended its second song, Ben immediately reappeared, this time standing on the ground floor beneath the stage. “Okay Fusion, head to the cafeteria for your snack supper. Eat fast and head to The Sea. I will see you there straight up 6:15.”
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I was glad Alysa stayed put as two waves of teenagers, one high schoolers and the other middle school kids, ran across the game section and through the set of double doors in the far right corner I had seen earlier. As Alysa and I followed the other hundred kids, I noticed it was a large room with several rows of tables. The cafeteria. Several volunteers of all ages were handing out paper sacks as we entered. Barrels of iced-down can drinks were positioned at all four corners of the giant room. After we grabbed a Diet Coke, Alysa found a table in the center of the room already filled with six girls pretty as her. “Hey gang, this is Cullie, one of my younger sisters.” Alysa, always the mature one. “Some of you know her, some don’t. Please love her like you love me.” Alysa covered her mouth after a hearty laugh triggered the release of a generous wad of saliva. “Oh, sorry. But seriously as to my request.” I smiled and sat down by a busty Hispanic girl with the prettiest white teeth I think I have ever seen.
The volunteers gave us only ten minutes to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of Lay’s Classic potato chips, and a mini-moon pie. I was hungry and the food was good, but it seemed a little expensive for $5.00. Where’s the beef?
At the trash, Alysa kept talking to a woman I did not know so I trailed off with my new Hispanic friend, Andre Gomez. She was quiet, polite, and thoughtful. I wondered why and how she had become a varsity cheerleader.
“Let’s sit here. It’s less conspicuous.” Andrea said, pointing to the far-left corner of the circle. “This section gets less attention for some reason. Probably because the football team and the cheerleaders sit up-front all-around pastor Ben.” I almost felt like I was walking on water as we passed a center aisle dividing the circle.
When we reached Andrea’s chosen spot there was a book in the seat of each chair. It had a sheet of paper clipped to the front hiding the book’s cover. I picked mine up and sat down. The typed note read, “The Purpose Driven Life will become the second most important book in your life, next to the Bible of course. Consume TPDL, digest it, and let it reveal your life’s purpose. I urge you to find a friend to join us on this forty-day journey as we march forth learning ‘What on earth am I here for?’”
I removed the paperclip, folded the sheet of paper, and tucked it toward the back of the book. I had heard of Rick Warren. Pastor
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Miller had mentioned him and his phenomenal influence during this morning’s sermon. But I had never been exposed to Warren’s blockbuster book. I opened it and flipped a couple of pages and saw it was first printed in 2002, the year before I was born. I could not help but think it was the year my mom was viciously raped, and I was conceived. December 23, 2002 to be exact. A wave of nausea rolled across my stomach. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back trying to redirect my thoughts. I tried to predict the meaning of The Purpose Driven Life. I heard an “okay gang” from the center stage and opened my eyes, still looking upward. There, flat against the bright sunshine colored concrete ceiling was a banner that read, “The Sea is a wonderful place for students and leaders to Encounter Jesus and Respond with their Lives!” I noted that both Encounter and Respond were printed boldly and underlined. I lowered my head, looked toward the knee-high rectangular stage, and saw Ben standing next to the same woman Alysa had been talking to at the trash bin.
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Chapter 7
“I’m going to make this quick since I promised Mountaintop the last 90 minutes. Pastor Miller said you guys must be out of here by 8:00 p.m. since tomorrow is the first day of school.
Okay, take your new book and turn to the Dedication page. Flip past the two title pages and it is on the right side. The premise of Rick Warren’s book, just like the Bible, is that you are no accident, God chose to create you and to give you a purpose. You are not here by some cosmic random chance.
Over the next forty days we are going to take a journey, your own individual journey, and our journey as Fusion. Like Jesus’ forty days and forty nights in the wilderness, you likewise will invest this same amount of time into investigating your own mission. When you finish, you will know your individual purpose, what you should focus on the remaining days of your life.”
Without introduction, Ben handed his microphone to Alysa’s female friend from the trash bin. She was an average looking woman, probably a few years younger than Ben. She had short black hair with bangs she kept tossing out of her eyes. Standing beside Ben, she looked about my five-foot six-inch height, since the top of her head did not quite reach his shoulders. As to her shape, for some reason I sensed that she at one time had been much more attractive. Now, she continued to carry around twenty or thirty extra pounds from a set of eight-year-old twin girls (Faith and Hope, per Andrea’s whisper). Since I first saw her and Alysa, she had pulled on a crimson-colored tee-shirt with gray lettering that read, “Focus, Faith, and Finish.” I had seen several of the Fusion teenagers wearing the same shirt. I had also seen “Go Pirates” written across the shoulders. I could not help but
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wonder whether the “Faith” component of the school’s motto was an ominous sign of what I would encounter starting tomorrow.
“Hey guys. For those who do not know me, I am Cathy White, wife of music minister Rob White. I am also the new job coach at Boaz High School. So, you may be thinking, ‘why is she here as Ben introduces The Purpose Driven Life?’ There are two reasons. The first is Ben wants someone at school available to answer questions that might arise during the week as you go on this journey. Oh, for you middle-schoolers, I’ll be in the counselor’s office at your school and available for you during seventh period. And, as long afterwards as needed.
As to the second reason I am involved, Ben feels many of you high schoolers will want special guidance on matching your interests and talents to a part-time job. My role is to teach and train you how to make good decisions when it comes to employment. Please know my door is always open to you, no matter what your concern or question. My office is straight through the wall from the backside of Principal King’s, but there is an easier way to enter. Just come through the first door past the school office as you head down the first-floor hallway. It is the old supply closet that was recently renovated. Thank goodness. Blessings on each of you and I look forward to meeting you.”
I asked Andrea how she knew Mrs. White. “My friend Skylar babysit her girls a few times. I don’t know her myself.”
While Ben and Mrs. White conversed in a low tone, I asked Andrea another question. “Are you looking for a job?”
She giggled so loud Alysa and several others from the front row turned and looked our way. “That’s funny. When would I have time? I have a job. It is called cheerleading. Shame it doesn’t pay since I stay broke.”
Ben and Cathy finished their private exchange. The group laughed when Ben reached out to shake her hand as she tried to return the microphone. “We appreciate you Cathy. Okay gang, just one other thing. I want you to repeat these words to yourself when you go to bed tonight: “I am no accident. God had me in mind before He created the universe. He planned my birth and every one of my days, including the day I die. He created me with a special purpose all my own.”
I was scanning the book’s Table of Contents when I heard a familiar voice shout my name from somewhere behind Ben. “Cullie,
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Cullie. Does this include you? Were you an accident?” I felt my face turn as red as the floor in the amphitheater and saw dozens of kids turn to stare.
Immediately, Ben looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Damn cliché. “Okay Riley Radford, no one asked your opinion.” He removed his cell phone from the inside pocket of his sports coat and continued. “I see my time is up. It is 6:30 on the nose. I encourage each of you to start with Day 1 tomorrow, before school if possible. Let us give Rick Warren’s book our best effort. You’re dismissed.” As everyone jumped to their feet and started making their way to the Mountaintop concert, I saw Ben motion toward Riley. I hoped he gave her a verbal lashing.
I did not have a clue who knew my past. But for some strange reason, it did not matter. All I could think was the audacity of Riley Radford and her questions. The bitch had the nerve to single me out before the entire group. I recalled how she stood up this morning during Sunday School assembly and started singing “Victory in Jesus.” She believes she is queen of Fusion, and Boaz High School for that matter. She probably believes her God given purpose is to rule and reign over everyone in her infinitely expanding circle.
Andrea stood and started walking away. Then, she turned and mouthed an, “I’m so sorry,” and asked if I was going to the concert. I waved her on. “I’ll catch up with you.”
As The Sea emptied, I stared at the floor imagining I was all alone on the Gulf of Mexico headed towards the Caribbean. As a wave of confidence rolled upward from my gut, I analogized my small boat riding a giant wave, a single wave on an otherwise tranquil ocean. I said to myself, “if Riley Radford has the damn audacity to plant her flag and declare her beliefs, why can’t I chart my own course?”
It was then I determined to answer Riley Radford’s question, “Was I an accident?”
During my two-plus years at Bethlehem Baptist I had often heard the Bible verse, “All things work together for good to those who love God, to those called according to His purpose.” Tonight, was the first time I had been told that years and years before I was ever conceived God had planned my days, all the days of my life, even the day of my death. This conflicted with what I had led myself to believe, that although I was conceived during my mom’s vicious rape, God could
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use that for good if I surrendered my life to him. In other words, God did not cause my pain. Now, I was being told to believe something radically different. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what Mom would tell me right now if she were here.
“Baby, if I could have prevented your pain and suffering, I would have. God, if He is all-knowing and all-powerful, could have done so without any effort. But He chose not to. Either God does not care for His children or He is incapable of doing what any good parent would do. If it is the latter, then He is not all-powerful. Thus, He’s not the Christian God.”
I smiled, opened my eyes, and shouted as loud as Riley Radford had done when she singled me out: “I don’t know the answer, but I’m determined to find out.” To my surprise, no one looked my way. Everyone was already enthralled with Mountaintop. My shouting subsided and I whispered a question to myself wishing the queen were in front of me: “Riley, was it an accident that my mom killed your father?”
“Come on.” As I gritted my teeth and steeled my mind, I heard Alysa yell from across The Sea. The last thing I wanted was to rock back and forth to multiple choruses with raised hands praising Jesus. I motioned for her to meet me halfway.
“You stay and enjoy the concert. I think I will go sit in the car. I need to be alone.”
“I’m sorry about Riley Radford. She is such a bitch. I wish Ben would ban her from Fusion.” Alysa said as Mountaintop turned up the volume.
“Thanks, but that’ll never happen. I looked toward the elevator and saw Andrea. “Later.” I left Alysa and walked toward my newest friend, maybe my only friend beside family.
When I caught up with her, I noticed she was crying. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I did not want to pry but I already felt a real closeness to the sweet, kind, and gentle girl.
“My dearest friend, Skylar Simmons, was raped and choked to death. I just heard these horrible details. I have to go home.” As she looked at me and tears rolled down her face the elevator door opened.
I ignored my confusion over how quickly Andrea had been given this news. “Oh, that’s horrible.” I did not know what else to say as we walked inside.
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“She was my absolute best friend even though she was three years younger. We grew up as neighbors.”
We were out of the building and halfway across the parking lot before we exchanged another word. “Maybe I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” I said as she stopped and unlocked the door of an older model Ford Taurus.
“Sounds good. By the way, I am taking your mom’s creative writing class. You too?” She asked.
“It’s a necessity. Good to hear you’re interested in writing.” For a moment I forgot about a person I despised, Riley Radford, and someone I would have saved if I could, Skylar Simmons, and asked Andrea a somewhat selfish question. “You want to have lunch together tomorrow? You know creative writing is the last period of the morning.”
Andrea’s tears had subsided, and her smile exposed her beautiful teeth. “I’d like that. I really need a good friend.”
“Me too. See you at school tomorrow. I said, as she sat in her car and rolled down the window.
As I walked away, she got back out of her car and asked me if I needed a ride home. I agreed. After leaving Alysa a note in her Camry, I learned that Andrea also lived in Sardis City, in the Horton Circle subdivision. During our fifteen-minute drive, I learned a lot more, including that she did not feel like she fit in. She regretted trying out for varsity cheerleader at the end of last year. She said that Skylar had encouraged her saying that she was the prettiest and most athletic girl among all those others trying out. When Andrea dropped me off, she again said that she was sorry about what fellow cheerleader Riley Radford had done to me. “She’s a rudderless boat if you ask me.” I smiled, thanked her for the ride, and told her I looked forward to lunch tomorrow.
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Chapter 8
Alysa’s snoring was in overdrive when I slipped out of bed at 5:00 a.m. Even without a bedside clock or a peak at my iPhone, I knew what time it was. I wish I knew the scientific reason why I no longer needed an alarm clock to tell me when to wake up. I suspect it was more complicated than “How to Change Anything in 3 Short Weeks.” This was the tagline for The 21 Day Miracle book I had discovered on Google last night lying in bed trying not to follow Ben’s instructions on what to say and repeat to myself.
I shed my silky pajamas and put on my most comfortable jogging shorts and an old faded New York Knick’s tee shirt. After a short trip to our adjoining bathroom to pee, splash cold water on my face, and notice a brand-new pimple in the middle of my chin, I grabbed my sneakers and headed for the kitchen. Like the last two school years, my early morning routine would include a walk to the pond, assuming my writing session had been successful. Man, that was an ever-moving target.
As I reached for my favorite mug, I noticed a sheet of paper lying next to the coffeemaker with its half-filled pot. Apparently, Mom had already come and gone to her spot above the garage. I read as I added Hazelnut creamer and three Splendas to my quart-size cup. The one-page document was an outline of a talk Wayne had presented to his deputies and detectives. It was dated October 18, 2018, nearly a year ago. About a third of the way down the page was a line highlighted in yellow. It read, “question everything, including your question.” I guess Mom thought her age-old saying would mean more to me if it came
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from Wayne. She knew how much I loved and respected her husband and now my father.
I grabbed the document and my coffee and headed toward the back door. As I passed through the great room, I saw The Purpose Driven Life book lying on the coffee table where I had left it last night. It instantly reminded me of two things: Riley Radford and last night’s dastard act, and my pre-sleep research. In addition to The 21 Day Miracle book, I had asked Amazon if there were other books that used the 40 day troupe. To my surprise, there were dozens. I had stopped after looking through a two or three-page listing. I recalled a few: 40 Day Spiritual Journey to a more Generous Life; The Forty-Day Word Fast: A Spiritual Journey to Eliminate Toxic Words From Your Life; 40-day Journey With Maya Angelou; 40-Day Journey with Dietrich Bonhoeffer; 40 Days of Angels: My Spiritual Journey to Peace, Fulfillment, Happiness, Success and Security, and my favorite, one I half-intended to investigate, Claim Your Power: A 40-Day Journey to Dissolve the Hidden Trauma That’s Kept You Stuck and Finally Thrive in Your Life’s Unique Purpose. By the time I reached the pool house and my make-shift desk, I had figuratively tossed Warren’s 40-day spiritual journey into the trash can with all its other sister journeys.
I tucked Wayne’s document inside Warren’s book and booted-up my laptop. It was always my practice (thanks Mom) to reread what I had written the day before. I do this over-and-over until I feel I can continue. Sometimes, this takes thirty-minutes or more. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how I look at it, today’s first reading did not take but a few minutes. Yesterday was not very productive. Come to think of it, hardly a single day in the past month had been productive. My little story, what I had dubbed Revenge until I could come up with a better title, had floundered since the beginning.
It kept splintering into new and seemingly disconnected plot lines. My initial idea was about two boys, seventh graders and best friends, who had someway discovered their two ninth-grade sisters had been raped by the high school football star. Star as in he was being highly recruited by every SEC football team. I had now written nearly twenty-thousand words and even if I were brave enough to show it to Mom, she would find some way to stretch the truth and find something redeemable. I was glad I would spend the next year in her creative writing class.
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During my third reread, I became flustered and considered deleting my file or storing in a folder titled, “shit to keep buried.” I think my problem is my lack of creativity. My shit-story was no doubt rooted in Mom and Cindy’s ordeal that happened during my ninth-grade year. Repeating stuff to myself as I often do, in 2002 Mom had been raped by five locals, all prominent men including Warren Tillman, the then pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ. Mom had chosen to ignore the violent attack because of me, a direct product of that incident. It was not until fourteen years later when Mom and I moved from New York City to Boaz and her and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker had become fast friends that her buried memories resurfaced. If Cindy had not been raped by assistant principal Patrick Wilkins, I am certain Mom would have kept silent and allowed me to continue believing my father was Colton Lee Brunner, her long ago boyfriend from Los Angeles. But, that’s not what happened. In a sense, Mom and Cindy had gotten their revenge even though it was never determined who had killed Patrick Wilkins. All Mom would ever say about his death was that “sometimes you reap what you sow.”
After moving Revenge to the newly created shit folder, Skylar Simmons suddenly ran across my mind, almost literally. My mind had created the image of the sweet and innocent ninth grader running for her life. I guess it was Andrea’s words last night during our drive home that did it. Skylar’s nude body was found lying face up next to a railroad track. I imagined her feet were bloody from running through the woods. I closed my eyes and wondered who on earth would have killed Skylar? Even if a man raped a girl or woman, which was unimaginably horrible, but for him to kill her put the bastard into the worst category of evil.
My mind was fixated on a Hitler-looking older man when my iPhone vibrated. I still did not like the idea of bringing it with me to my writing desk, but it was a rule Mom had no desire to amend. After my kidnapping in the ninth grade, she had bought an earlier version of the iPhone 10 and threated me with lifelong grounding if I did not keep it with me. ALWAYS.
Alysa’s text read, “Good morning you 12th grade beauty. Take time to read Day 1. It’s awesome.”
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I typed a response to Alysa: “Good morning my dearest friend. I am headed to the pond. Join me.” Just as I was about to click the SEND button Wayne’s advice stopped me. A question quickly formed. If God is all-powerful, all-loving, all-knowing, and as Mr. Warren asserts, planned every second of my life years before I was ever conceived, how in blooming heck does evil exist? What sick person would plan for my mom to get violently raped when she was twenty-nine years old? Even if God did not directly cause evil, why would He allow it? The refrain, ‘God never allows pain without a purpose,” seemed so senseless. And, to top it off, if God is all-powerful and all-knowing, why couldn’t he shuffle things enough to allow me (and every one of His children) to avoid the evil? Then it dawned on me. If God has planned out everything from the beginning, some call this predestination, then He is not powerful enough to change what he KNOWS is going to happen. But I can change my mind right now. I deleted my text to Alysa, abandoned my plan to go to the pond, and reached for Warren’s book resting quietly on the pine shelves. I was sensing there was a fly in the ointment. Damn cliché.
Day 1, “It All Starts with God.” It did not take but a few seconds to halt. It was Warren’s statement, “You were born by his purpose and for his purpose.” Couldn’t God have found a better way to bring me into this world? Why not a sexless conception, like the Virgin Mary? Since Wayne’s advice kept raising its head, I reached for a yellow pad and started a list, “Things to Question/Research: 1) Was Mary really a virgin when she gave birth to Jesus?” I could have generated several more questions on this same subject, but I was getting sidetracked. I had a feeling this was going to be a long list. I returned to Day 1.
After reading all five pages and highlighting a few statements, I returned to the beginning. I had ignored two quotes Warren had included under the Chapter title. He wrote that the famous scientist, Bertrand Russell, had said, “Unless you assume a God, the question of life’s purpose is meaningless.” Warren had labeled Russell an atheist. I reread the chapter and again came back to Russell’s statement. Wasn’t Warren making the same assumption to reach his conclusion that life’s purpose is meaningful and necessarily comes from God?
All throughout the chapter, Warren had quoted a plethora of Bible verses. Here’s a few: “For everything, absolutely everything above and below, visible and invisible …. Everything got started in him and finds
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its purpose in him.”; “It is God who directs the lives of his creatures; everyone’s life is in his power.”; “It’s in Christ that we find out who we are and what we are living for. Long before we first heard of Christ and got our hopes up, he had his eye on us, had designs on us for glorious living, part of the overall purpose he is working out in everything and everyone.”
No doubt Warren was assuming the Bible was true, that it was the very words of God. He had even called it “our Owner’s Manual.” I paused to consider the logic of what the writer was contending: The Bible is true because God wrote it. God is real because the Bible says so. I could have said, the Bible is God’s word because the Bible says so. This is the perfect example of circular reasoning (where the debater starts with the same thing that she finally ends up with) something I had learned in an 8th grade logic class when I lived in New York City.
It was clear The Purpose Driven Life was written for those who had already concluded the Christian God was the one and only real God, unlike what Muslims and Hindus would contend, and that everything in the Bible was rock-solid true. Warren assumed each of his readers would make the same assumption. So far at least, Warren had not provided any evidence that his assumption was warranted. He had not provided any reason to the skeptic that God even exists or that the Bible is trustworthy.
I stood and walked to the door leading to the pool. Through the nine-lite opening, the brilliantly blue water reminded me of The Sea in the church’s basement. Listening to the steady hum of the pump three steps away created an analogy in my mind. Thanks to Wayne, I had learned the pump is the heart of the swimming pool’s circulation system. It pulls water from the pool through the skimmer and main drain, pushes it through the filter, and returns it to the pool through the main returns. I imagined that Alysa and probably every other Fusion member who had this morning begun their 40-day journey, unequivocally believed the Bible is the heart of the Christian life (owner’s manual per Warren), that it pulls wisdom from an infinitely wise God into a less than clean human mind, and pushes it through the Holy Spirit’s indwelling filter to provide peace, contentment, even fun to those who believe and pursue God’s purposes (analogous to those in the clean and pure bright blue water of the swimming pool).
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I almost digressed into a critic of my imperfect analogy but let it go when I sensed my time was up. I activated my iPhone and saw that it was 6:40 a.m. I had to hurry. Last night I had promised Alysa I would be ready to leave by 7:00. She wanted to be at her second-floor locker fifteen minutes before class began. I had been unsuccessful in my effort to persuade her to disclose her reason. Walking into the great room I decided I knew Alysa’s goal: to do her best to orchestrate herself and a certain pathway, a journey of another sort, that would cause an accidental touching of a certain hand belonging to a certain preacher’s son. Yep, I knew what my big sister was up to.
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Chapter 9
All I could think about as Alysa drove us to school in her spotless Camry was how it had transformed from late last night’s multi-layered dust bowl to the current slick and polished dream car. The reason became clear when Arlon and Anita from the backseat kept demanding Alysa pay the five dollars, she owed them. After several miles of trying to listen to “Alive” above the constant thunder from the backseat, Alysa pulled into the parking lot at Boaz Glass, dug two Lincoln’s out of her purse, and tossed them over her shoulder. I cannot remember seeing my usually calm and collected roommate so upset. I wondered if her and her secret boyfriend had a spout.
As we sat in line at the middle school to drop off Arlon, I wondered how Mrs. Owens was going to help me resolve my class schedule. While Alysa barked first day school reminders to, as she put it, “her three younger siblings, I reminded myself how I had gotten into this pickle. The problem rested firmly in the Alabama Department of Education’s graduation requirements. It made no exception. To graduate, the student had to have 24 approved credits. For some insane reason, Boaz High School would not accept “All Things Intricate and Beautiful” that I had taken last year at Sardis High. Nor, would the BHS curriculum czar allow my tenth grade Consumer Math course to occupy one of the twenty-four slots. Thanks to Mom, Mrs. Owens had gotten a little creative early last week when she agreed that if I took AP Biology, and Pre-Calculus I could leave school at 2:00 p.m. and earn the final credit if I could find an employer to meet the school’s cooperative education requirements. But that still left me one credit short.
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It was 7:22 a.m. when we finally wormed our way to the high school. Clearly, traffic was going to be an issue given the proximity of the middle school to the high school. Alysa kept saying, “tomorrow we’re leaving the house at 6:45.” I had insisted Alysa drop me off at the closest access point to the main office. Still ruffled, this delayed her even more from parking in the student parking lot and getting upstairs to her locker. But she did smile and mouth, “good luck,” as I exited the car.
When I walked inside the school office, Mrs. Owens was standing behind the long counter drinking coffee (I assumed) from a crimson-colored cup with the Triple F phrase emblazoned along its side. Scattered along both sides of her toward the ends of the counter were several sets of two, standing across from each other looking at documents and engaging in what appeared to be deep discussion. “Have you got a few minutes?” I asked Mrs. Owens as she looked left and right as though supervising the operation.
“I’ve been waiting on you. Follow me.” Mrs. Owens pointed towards her office. I passed through a set of chest-high swinging gates and headed to the far corner of the room. From the signs above the three doors I could tell her office was sandwiched between the principal and assistant principal’s offices. “Sit down.” She motioned me into one of two chairs across from her cluttered desk. “I think we have your scheduling issue resolved. I have to say your mom is creative.”
“Uh, I don’t understand.” I loved Mom but sometimes she is too protective, interjecting herself where I should be making my own way.
“Thank God, over the weekend Joe Marsh made his decision.” Mrs. Owens said, looking over my shoulder and saying, “the blue form, not the green,” to one of the student’s helping with scheduling problems.
I was even more confused. And, I wondered exactly what God had to do with it. “Who is Joe Marsh?” I asked.
“I’m surprised. I figured you knew him. Your mom didn’t tell you?” Apparently, the student assistants were not well trained since ever few seconds another one appeared for color guidance.
I looked at my iPhone and noticed it was 7:29. I needed to go or I’d be late for first period. I quickly surrendered and said, “okay, so what’s the solution. I am about to be tardy for Mrs. Vickers’ class.
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“Oh, don’t worry. Julie, Mrs. King, has not arrived. She got into a little fender bender on Highway 431. No one can do the announcements but her.” I had met the principal before. Mom liked her and had made me promise I would get to know her better as the year went by. Mom did not actually say, but I got the sense that Mrs. King was ‘a progressive thinker,’ one of Mom’s favorite but little used sayings.
I felt a little perky, so I said, “is there any way for me to know what’s going on with my schedule?”
“Oh sorry.” Mrs. Owens was clearly distracted with the behind-my-back maneuvering or she was solidly incompetent. “I’m so scattered today. Joe Marsh, again, I am surprised you do not know him, just retired from the Sheriff’s Department, and has decided to accept Mrs. King’s offer to teach Forensic & Criminal Investigation. It’s a new class we’ve wanted to offer for two years but just couldn’t find the right person.”
It then dawned on me. J.M. must be Joe Marsh. I had never heard his name but had often heard Wayne talk about the old, crusty detective that, “would put Sherlock Holmes to shame.” I paused thinking how lucky I was to have the Marshall County Sheriff as my father. “So, to be clear, that’s my new class, second period?”
“Yes, that’ll complete your academic schedule. That is six classes. Your mom told me you still do not have a job lined up. Cullie, I assume you know you need to earn seven credits this year to graduate. Your seventh period cooperative class requires you have a participating employer by no later than the end of this first week of school.”
“I know. I am working on it. I have had several interviews but no luck. It seems like when I tell the employers there is some paperwork involved in being an approved company they balk.”
Mrs. Owens stood and walked behind me. I heard the door close and the sound of a deadbolt shaft sliding forward. “Sink or swim, I’ve spent two sessions with those Beta Club girls last Thursday and Friday. They’re so afraid of making a mistake.”
“They probably don’t want to disappoint you.” I tried to defend the four girls who I did not know but had seen three of them last night at Fusion.
Mrs. Owens returned to her desk and punched three numbers into her desk phone after cradling it to her ear. “Hi Cathy, do you have
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time to meet with Cullie Sims, Mrs. Waldrup’s daughter, maybe, say, 10:30?” I ignored the innocent last name mistake and concluded the curriculum coordinator was calling the new job coach, Mrs. White, the woman who was Ben’s school-campus contact for what I assumed were all-things God related. Mrs. Owens cradled her phone and gave me an affirmative nod. “See Cathy, Mrs. White, before you go to your Creative Writing class. She’s our new job coach and should be able to help you make the needed work connections before the end of the week.”
There was a weak knocking at the door behind me as I stood to leave. Mrs. Owens nearly knocked her coffee mug over as she pushed back from her desk and walked past me. “Come in here.” Darlene, according to her name badge, seemed ready to cry as she walked in and stood before my chair as I weaved my way between them and quickly exited the main office.
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Chapter 10
After creative writing class, Andrea encouraged me to go to the lunchroom and wait for her at the table next to the steamed vegetables bar. “It smells yucky. Nobody ever sits there.” She had to see Carol Bonds, one of the physical education instructors and cheer coach, in the gymnasium to get fitted for the newly designed cheerleader sweater. And, to drop off a deposit check. It was hard to imagine the weather would ever be cold enough to wear a sweater given the record heat that began last May.
I was amazed at the size of the high school lunchroom. It was half as big as a football field and bore the Pirate colors. The left half was filled with crimson-colored tables, each stuffed with at least six or seven students. The concrete floor was painted gray. The right side was just the opposite as far as the colors. The floor was crimson and the walls, except the windows, were gray. Scattered throughout the right half was a dozen or more food bars, each clearly identified with a large rectangular-shaped sign (crimson background, gray lettering) that hung above each station. I spotted “Steamed Vegetables” along the back wall beside the floor to ceiling windows. As predicted, the nearest table was empty. I started to venture an S-shaped route to sneak a peek from the “Pizza” and “Salad/Fruit” bars but changed my mind when I saw the side view of a glistening red head dipping what I suspected was Ranch dressing into a Styrofoam cup. Her plate was already filled with several thick-crusted triangles. After placing her dipping sauce on a gray tray, Riley Radford turned toward the “Pirate Fountain.” Her knee-length shorts fit snuggly displaying an enviable rear end. I headed straight for the smelly broccoli.
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At Table 47, with my back to the windows, I fought the urge to look around. I lost the skirmish. Two tables diagonally in the direction of the middle school, I saw Josh Miller sitting with six varsity cheerleaders, including Alysa but excluding Riley and Andrea. There was an empty seat beside him. No doubt awaiting the queen bee. With only eight seats available, I wondered where my newest friend would sit if she was not eating with me. Sometimes my mind tried to answer questions that had not been asked.
I reigned in my eyes and opened Photos on my iPhone; I was glad the school superintendent last week had changed his policy on smart phones. His new directive was terse: “Electronic devices are permitted as long as they serve an educational purpose.” I suspected he was in for a rude surprise as to how teenagers defined education.
In Mr. Marsh’s class I had snapped a photo of a slide from a quick PowerPoint presentation he had made. The short and stocky gray-headed man with a ponytail had started his first class with a question, “How can I improve my detective skills?” Although we did not know each other I had detected (yea!) he was addressing me when our eyes connected two times and he seemed to smile. I almost felt guilty for my earlier aggravation over Mom’s interference in my life. Now, I was grateful she had. Both her and Wayne knew how interested I was in becoming an investigator. I assume Mom, maybe even Wayne, had mentioned me at Mr. Marsh’s retirement party Saturday night. Now, it was all starting to make sense.
“It’s no accident you find yourself alone next to the sewer.” I heard my arch enemy say as she traversed the long route to her table. Riley had made her announcement as she walked the narrow lane between the “Steamed Vegetables” bar and the windows as she approached my table.
I decided on a grownup response. “Hey sister, you’re looking good today. You better order a size larger sweater if you are going to keep eating all those calories. Darn, am I seeing your tummy bulge already?” I normally wouldn’t have said a thing but her last night’s challenge had lit a fire in my gut.” Riley rolled her eyes and walked away.
I returned my gaze to my iPhone and Mr. Marsh’s slide:
“1. Give Yourself Monthly or Daily Challenges That Force You to Slow Down.
- Take Field Notes to Focus Your Attention.
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50 - Briefly Meditate Daily.
- Analyze What You See or Read, and Ask Questions; and,
- Form Connections Between What You See and What You Know.”
It sounded like great advice, especially the latter. All this fit with what Wayne had told me multiple times, “becoming an expert observer is the key to becoming a great detective.”
It was not but a couple of minutes before Andrea entered the lunchroom. She quickly spotted me and headed my way. The closer she came the more she looked sickly, shaken. Her normally beautiful face with bright white teeth revealing a constant smile was hidden. Present was a ghostly white tone. She was coming to tell me she did not feel well and could not stay for lunch. Twenty feet before reaching Table 47 she turned left towards Josh and the cheerleaders. I watched as she handed Alysa something, maybe a note, and then stood next to Riley for a brief conversation. After a few seconds, I heard an indecipherable groan from all seven-seated cheerleaders as though it was a planned chorus to Andrea’s song. I saw Josh shaking his head sideways as my new friend turned and walked my way.
“Let’s eat.” Andrea said, sitting her book bag in the middle of the table. She did not stop to receive my response, not that I had one.
I followed her to the salad bar and alternated between glancing at her and filling the too-small Styrofoam container with mostly Romaine lettuce, carrots, celery, and more carrots. I love carrots. Andrea’s beautiful face gradually returned to a rich caramel, a slightly darker color than the chewy candy Mom made from caramelized sugar, butter, and milk. I would give up a year of writing for her skin tone. I think she noticed me staring, maybe read my mind when she tossed a friendly smile my way. After drowning what Wayne referred to as “rabbit food” with Thousand Island dressing, I grabbed ten packs of crackers and headed back to our table.
“You want some milk?” I had planned on drinking from my water bottle but did not want to say no.
“Yes, thanks. Make mine chocolate.”
I already had a mouthful of carrots and was trying to open a pack of crackers when Andrea arrived. She sat and bowed her head. I assumed she was praying. Finally, she looked up at me, again smiled,
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and said, “Praise Jesus, I’m free.” I just stared, rejecting proper etiquette, instead, taring open the darn crackers with my teeth.
“Why did you go to jail in the first place?” I decided to respond as a detective or lawyer might.
“Funny. I quit the squad.” Andrea said, opening her milk container while sliding the chocolate one over to me.
“Squad?” I figured I knew what she was referring to.
“I’m no longer a cheerleader. Thank God. After studying Day 1 this morning I finally got the courage. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for weeks.”
“Why?” Possibly the most powerful question ever.
The Pencil Driven Life 