His lips felt familiar on her skin. They grazed up and down her arms slowly, starting at the fleshy hollow between her clavicle and shoulder blade, and moved quietly down to her thin wrists. Pale and innumerable bumps began to form all across her body, from her kneecaps to the tops of her thighs to the skin just atop her breasts. She could feel her heart pound as she scarcely breathed in the dark room. Arrhythmia. At once, she was transported back to a summer prior, the two of them lying lazily atop one another on a couch on a warm afternoon, sunlight seeping in through the curtains, illuminating his arms and the paper thin space between his biceps and the sleeve of her shirt. She recalled, just upon looking at him once more, the slightly dirty smell of his dark hair entering her nostrils, how it felt as it slipped quickly between her long fingers, the way his hands knew the curves of her body, and knew when to move his wrists ever so slightly as he made his way from her hips to her breasts to her neck, as if he sculpted it himself. She also remembered how he destroyed it himself. She remembered feeling drunk at 3 in the afternoon, the humidity causing her to go completely light headed, to raise her arms and allow him to remove her blouse, lifting it ever so slightly above her chin, catching it on her forehead, and then she remembered ripping off his pants (breaking a button) in excitement. He stopped her and stared at the bruises that had been born onto her ribs. Quickly, she grabbed his hands and swallowed as she drew in another shaky breath, and she could taste the musky sweetness of his sweat on the tip of her tongue. All of this, and she had only laid her eyes upon him for a few seconds.
He felt quite the same. He saw her dancing, black dress clinging to her sides, highlighting the features upon which he had prayed for some time. She danced to the exotic rhythm of a Spanish guitar, a distant horn section, the heavy delicateness of a ¾ beat. He watched as the messy hair of her bun hung down the sides of her face; a careless tendril would occasionally find its way into her mouth, and he watched rapturously as her pink lips surrounded it and as they separated slowly and blew the unruly lock away. He loved when she lowered her head, dipping it luxuriously to the downbeat, revealing a skin colored pearl at the nape of her neck. He remembered rubbing his index finger around it as he lay beneath her, and the way her naked eyelashes danced atop the bridge of his nose in the afternoons; he remembered the sticky and staccato breaths she would emit onto his chest, the way her pale body would tremble when he would touch her ever so slightly, like a barren tree shaking in a gust of wintry wind. Oh, how he loved to touch her. He felt as if his eyes were rolling back into his head; he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t realize how much he missed her.
The room was dark, and they were the only ones in it. He couldn't wait any longer. In curiosity, he bit his lip and leaned in. “Hello again,” he whispered.
Hair stood up against her neck. She hadn’t seen his eyes like that in ages, and she didn’t think she would ever again. Her heart sank, and then it erupted. His hands had cupped the sides of her face; the tips of his thumbs were caressing her temples.
“I will never let you go,” he said.
They shed their clothing quickly and methodically like snakes, and just as smoothly made their way to the bed, their tongues slithering in and out of each others’ mouths with extreme ease. Her skin was soft and moist, and he sank into her body as if it were made of quicksand.
She began moving her fingers up and down his vertebrae: cervical, thoracic, lumbar, resting at the sacrum, moving back up again. She repeated this for quite some time, her fingers eventually creating a thin red line on his back.
He groped her skin tightly, forcing back memories and squeezing hard, hoping to force out drops of truth. She sweated immensely, and soon enough, purple and black bruises began to form all over her body.
They would never let each other go.
They kissed each other passionately, digging deeper into the pink depths, hoping to find the source of the words they had exchanged some time ago. All they found were teeth. But that was not right; that was not how it used to be, or how it should be. She bit his lips hard, and blood began to trickle down the side of his mouth, creating a shallow red pool on the corner of her white sheets. Pillows were soon damp, skin became raw, and their bodies were slicked in each others’ sweat.
Her ribs were the first to go. He thrust himself atop her, again again again, his weight too much to bear. She dug her nails into his sides as his blood began to spill on her chest. She could not breathe. His sides were searing with pain, his heart beating erratically as he stared down to his purple lover.
She felt a crack, looked into his eyes, and then to his arms. She saw familiar shadows and flickers of light, salty skin and sweaty hair, but watched in horror as a single drop of his blood fell from his mouth to her lips. She could not exhale. Her eyes slowly rolled back into her head; her lips parted, revealing not words but a final, winged breath. And then the room dropped dead.
In panic, he shook her frame, but it rattled like broken china and flopped back down to the bed like an old rag doll. He placed his ear next to her heart, which was now smeared in his own blood. Not a sound. He pressed his lips against hers, the ones to which he’d once devoted entire dreams. Hot air moved from his lungs and into her body, but she could not be roused. In terror, he removed his body from hers, revealing a bruised and broken girl on bloody sheets. His heart lurched, sweat pored from his pores, his veins rose like rivers do in a flood. His body ached, his mind was writhing, and he could not let her go. He took the purple girl into his arms, wrapping his fingers around her vertebrae, kissing her bruised shoulders, crying and wiping his tears from the cracks in her now purple lips. He rocked the body back and forth for the rest of the night, until the next morning, when he was stirred by the sun peeking through the curtains. He then found a pistol hidden beneath her bed, kissed her waxy lips for the last time, placed the muzzle into his mouth, and then pulled the trigger. They would never let each other go.
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Sometimes I write my thoughts down. And the next day, I'll look at them and decide: bullshit or potent. Lots of the former lately. But what do I expect? Most of life is bullshit, and once you've paid into the system and have done it long enough, the remainder of your life is also bullshit because you're too lazy or plagued with diabetes to care to make that trek to the Yellow River. Hey now, do you check your blood sugar?And more importantly, do you check it often? Doesn't matter as far as I'm concerned, because if there is a god, he shouldn't care about how many testing strips you go through per month.
But you know what? Regardless of how bullshit they are, those thoughts are completely my own (yeah, sometimes when I wear a scarf I feel like a pig in a blanket, and yeah, I've written a song on my violin about a boy's eyelashes), and that's more than I can say for most people. Or actually, I can only say that for myself. And thank god for that. I'd hate to delve into someone else's thoughts only to hit my head after barely sinking below the surface, the wardrobe-focused thought processes (OMG PURPLE AND ORANGE SO AREN'T IN); but at the same time, I'm not too interested in diving into an abyss. If I didn't drown first, I'd at least be bored to death (which is more pleasant, I'm not entirely sure). Happy mediums are good, yet they're the most scary for the same reason: they're honest. And let's be honest, how happy is honesty? Take off the lenses, put down the cup, and evaluate. And then you realize. shit. I've fucked up.
I have a difficult time being honest with myself about most everything, even down to how much my roots have grown out and how many miles I've gone over from the sticker in my windshield that says when I need to get my oil checked. Honesty is terrifying and overwhelming, and I hide myself from it a lot, even if it means finding another voice to suck out my thoughts when my pen hits a page. Maybe that's why I don't have a mirror in my bathroom; the sound and scent of truth are already too much for this body to handle.
Also, the words of the night are: siren, grenadine, persuasive.
But you know what? Regardless of how bullshit they are, those thoughts are completely my own (yeah, sometimes when I wear a scarf I feel like a pig in a blanket, and yeah, I've written a song on my violin about a boy's eyelashes), and that's more than I can say for most people. Or actually, I can only say that for myself. And thank god for that. I'd hate to delve into someone else's thoughts only to hit my head after barely sinking below the surface, the wardrobe-focused thought processes (OMG PURPLE AND ORANGE SO AREN'T IN); but at the same time, I'm not too interested in diving into an abyss. If I didn't drown first, I'd at least be bored to death (which is more pleasant, I'm not entirely sure). Happy mediums are good, yet they're the most scary for the same reason: they're honest. And let's be honest, how happy is honesty? Take off the lenses, put down the cup, and evaluate. And then you realize. shit. I've fucked up.
I have a difficult time being honest with myself about most everything, even down to how much my roots have grown out and how many miles I've gone over from the sticker in my windshield that says when I need to get my oil checked. Honesty is terrifying and overwhelming, and I hide myself from it a lot, even if it means finding another voice to suck out my thoughts when my pen hits a page. Maybe that's why I don't have a mirror in my bathroom; the sound and scent of truth are already too much for this body to handle.
Also, the words of the night are: siren, grenadine, persuasive.
All That Remains
by |
tags:
ephemera,
memory,
perception
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A broken headlight follows me wherever I go.
My friend follows me steadily past the abandoned fire station
past the dark old house full of
warm tangled sheets, raw pink lips and ash
shines through four white walls layered in
(lies) and heat.
It follows me past the yellow school
where knicked knobby knees peek out
from beneath the frayed hem of an overeager violet skirt
as small secret glances are barely kept by badly bound books
I look in the rear view mirror
(for in your eyes I see my own)
Blinding and broken
it lights my crooked path.
I keep driving, dear,
clear past the river
past the tracks
past the
past
I come to a dark and sly curve
a sinister grin of the Cheshire Cat
and I look in the mirror
(for in your eyes I see my own) and
instead of two lights I see but one,
for the lone white moon is
all that ever was, and
all that remains.
My friend follows me steadily past the abandoned fire station
past the dark old house full of
warm tangled sheets, raw pink lips and ash
shines through four white walls layered in
(lies) and heat.
It follows me past the yellow school
where knicked knobby knees peek out
from beneath the frayed hem of an overeager violet skirt
as small secret glances are barely kept by badly bound books
I look in the rear view mirror
(for in your eyes I see my own)
Blinding and broken
it lights my crooked path.
I keep driving, dear,
clear past the river
past the tracks
past the
past
I come to a dark and sly curve
a sinister grin of the Cheshire Cat
and I look in the mirror
(for in your eyes I see my own) and
instead of two lights I see but one,
for the lone white moon is
all that ever was, and
all that remains.
night monster
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This morning, I awoke to see this typed in a word document. I’m assuming that I wrote this. My memories of last night are dim at best, thanks to a bit of a spring break “symposium,” if you will. This sounds nothing like me, and I really wish that I hadn’t passed out before I had finished my thought process.
(secretly, I’m horrified that there is another being inside of me that appears only at night)
“The law is a curious thing; the human tear is even curiouser. The law acts as an elastic band, encompassing many things a human may encounter in his or her life experience, but snaps back to place with stern rigidity when its foundation is mangled by a moral err. The human tear, however, is different. Regardless of the side upon which one falls of the broken band, a tear may be shed. The tear, like the law, has a definite shape and form initially. While it resembles a clear bead in the ducts of one’s eye, it loses its shape almost immediately as it descends down the hills and hollows of one’s cheek, expanding and compressing rapidly to adapt to the contours of its fleshy foundation. It is amorphous; there is no moral hierarchy while the tear is in motion, only kinetic energy, only terminal velocity. But once the tear hits the floor with its silent yet deadly impact, it lays flat like a pathetic amoeba, awaiting its turn in the water cycle, only to turn into the tears of a cloud. The tear is broken, the act is done, and all that is left is the salty trail from your toes to your tear ducts, and then the millions of lines from your eye sockets to your synapses and axons and neurons to your brain, from your capillaries to your veins to your arteries to your heart. There is a definite structure and order of the body as there is in the law, but while with law we may discern a definite “because” from a “why,” the reasons behind the trickling of these salty solutions from the well-named lacrimal gland are completely murky.
Why does a mother cry when her child sheds his pacifier for pants? Why does a man cry when he sees another lying dead on the floor in pool of dark red blood, when he himself is holding the smoking gun? Why does a woman look into the mirror on a pale Sunday morning and shed a tear as she sees the dimpled essence of her senescence? If all of these were to follow law, one could easily discern a cause and effect from them, a consequence from an action. The acts of growth and decay are inevitable and natural, and the law’s band does always expand to give reason to them. It does such for death too, especially when terminated by the explosion of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate in one’s body. The effect of giving birth is knowing that the infant will not always be the size of a loaf of bread; the effect of aiming a gun at a man’s stomach and pulling the trigger is his subsequent death; the effect of living is dying. Why then do we, as organisms with the sometimes-burdensome capacity of reasoning, secrete lipids, water, and mucins when we experience certain things?”
And that’s where it stopped.
(secretly, I’m horrified that there is another being inside of me that appears only at night)
“The law is a curious thing; the human tear is even curiouser. The law acts as an elastic band, encompassing many things a human may encounter in his or her life experience, but snaps back to place with stern rigidity when its foundation is mangled by a moral err. The human tear, however, is different. Regardless of the side upon which one falls of the broken band, a tear may be shed. The tear, like the law, has a definite shape and form initially. While it resembles a clear bead in the ducts of one’s eye, it loses its shape almost immediately as it descends down the hills and hollows of one’s cheek, expanding and compressing rapidly to adapt to the contours of its fleshy foundation. It is amorphous; there is no moral hierarchy while the tear is in motion, only kinetic energy, only terminal velocity. But once the tear hits the floor with its silent yet deadly impact, it lays flat like a pathetic amoeba, awaiting its turn in the water cycle, only to turn into the tears of a cloud. The tear is broken, the act is done, and all that is left is the salty trail from your toes to your tear ducts, and then the millions of lines from your eye sockets to your synapses and axons and neurons to your brain, from your capillaries to your veins to your arteries to your heart. There is a definite structure and order of the body as there is in the law, but while with law we may discern a definite “because” from a “why,” the reasons behind the trickling of these salty solutions from the well-named lacrimal gland are completely murky.
Why does a mother cry when her child sheds his pacifier for pants? Why does a man cry when he sees another lying dead on the floor in pool of dark red blood, when he himself is holding the smoking gun? Why does a woman look into the mirror on a pale Sunday morning and shed a tear as she sees the dimpled essence of her senescence? If all of these were to follow law, one could easily discern a cause and effect from them, a consequence from an action. The acts of growth and decay are inevitable and natural, and the law’s band does always expand to give reason to them. It does such for death too, especially when terminated by the explosion of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate in one’s body. The effect of giving birth is knowing that the infant will not always be the size of a loaf of bread; the effect of aiming a gun at a man’s stomach and pulling the trigger is his subsequent death; the effect of living is dying. Why then do we, as organisms with the sometimes-burdensome capacity of reasoning, secrete lipids, water, and mucins when we experience certain things?”
And that’s where it stopped.
WWJC? (What Would Jesus Chew?)
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Youth Nite at Riverside Baptist Church was the night that made me lose faith in god. I went with my friend KeriAnn Ellison from soccer. She was a forward and had a golden toe (I didn't know what that meant but it sounded fancy), and she was always picked first by the coach. She could knock girls down with her broad and husky shoulders, and used a size 5 ball when everyone else used a size 4. KeriAnn also loved Jesus.
One night, she decided to invite me with her to her youth group’s service. I wasn’t an avid churchgoer; my parents gave up on me after I failed playing the Virgin Mary in the nativity play. I dropped Jesus on the altar and watched helplessly as its plastic head rolled down the aisle. But I decided I would give it a try; after all, her mother Lisa was a nice heavyset woman who had eyes like a cocker spaniel, and I liked the way her mini-van smelled. Her father Danny reminded me of a Nascar driver. I don’t know if he actually was, he was just short, balding, and struck me as slightly stupid. But he was still nice, so I figured I would try.
The room was sparsely decorated, but filled with bracketed and center-parted pre-teens wearing white tennis shoes and Lee Dungarees. We got there late because KeriAnn and I had finished a soccer scrimmage later than expected, and there were only a few seats left in the room.
We sat in the front, greeted by two cold collapsible chairs. KeriAnn paid no mind to me and started talking to some friends who liked Garth Brooks and camouflage. I stared at the linoleum tile for a bit, and then to the tiled ceiling. So much tile, I thought. I wondered if that’s what Jesus would do if he were an interior designer.
The pastor took the stage, and never had I been so happy to hear the words "praise be to Jesus" in my life. He did some standard meet and greets, welcoming us back. He talked about sex for a bit and how people who loved god should wait until they are married to indulge in pleasures, and then he talked about Corinthians. I didn’t know what Corinthians was, but it reminded me of Phoenicians. I only knew who they were because my grandma told me once that I had Phoenician feet. Long and narrow, she said, unlike her plebian feet. My grandma was from West Virginia and had taught elementary school for 40 years. That’s enough to make someone’s feet wide.
All of a sudden I felt a sharp pain at my side. KeriAnn was shoving me with her elbow.
“Savannah,” she said, “aren’t you going to answer his question?” under her breath she added, “don’t embarrass me.”
I looked to the pastor. “Um, what was your question?”
I was thinking about my arches and metatarsals.
Everyone laughed at me. The girl to my left, to whom I had meekly smiled earlier, opened her mouth wide like an alligator, revealing crooked teeth stained Sunkist orange.
The pastor repeated the question. “So way-urr do yew cum frum?”
Sheepishly, I replied “here.”
Gator girl laughed again and nudged at my other side. “He means what church do you come from, stupid.”
Shit.
I didn’t go to church.
And that’s exactly what I said. “I don’t go to church.” I stared intently at the missing button on his yellow oxford, refusing to listen to the laughter that surrounded me.
Everyone was silent.
His eyes narrowed and squinted like a mole over his pulpit, fat fingers squeezing on its sides like overstuffed sausages. He licked his lips and I wished that my foldable chair would collapse and swallow me with it. “Well looks like yer gonna have a tough tihme followin’ tonight.” He laughed skittishly, and it reminded me of the breathing exercises future mothers do while in labor, but I stopped imagining him giving birth when I realized I was supposed to continue the dialogue.
“Following what?”
He grinned. “Bible verse recitations.” All of a sudden, kids behind me began clapping their hands and licking the salt from the sides of their greasy lips. From his pockets, the pastor pulled out the prize: strawberry Mentos.
The pastor pulled the first verse from a hat: “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God!”
A fat girl in the corner sprung from her chair, spitting as she shouted “ROMANS 3:23!”
He tossed the pink tube to her, and her eyes followed it as if she were about to catch the holy grail.
People were starting to warm up now. He pulled out another question.
"Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born again."
A skinny boy with glasses popped up, but he was knocked back down by a boy named Tommy. He wanted Mentos. “John 3:3,” he grunted.
The pastor threw him Mentos.
Soon enough, everyone was opening the wrappers of these chewy berry delights, smiling and eating them three at a time, because that is what Jesus would do if he got his questions right. They reminded me of puppies in obedience training.
The pastor threw his final package of Mentos to the skinny boy. I looked to KeriAnn, who was opening her third package. I asked her if I could have one. She snarled at me the way she did the defenders on opposing teams. “Maybe if you knew bible verses,” she said, “you’d deserve a Mento.”
My cheeks turned pink. I didn’t even like Mentos; I just wanted to fit in. “But I was just thinking, since you have so many, one wouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
I could feel a sweaty hand on my left shoulder. It was the pastor. “Sorry you couldn’t get any candy tonight, Samantha,” he said. “But KeriAnn here shouldn’t be givin' ya candy if ya don’t deserve it; that’s called ‘dishonesty.’ We don’t do dishonesty in this church.”
In my peripheral vision I could see a heavy object approaching from his side, resting itself on my lap. “But here’s something Jesus would give to someone like yew. Do you know what this is, Samantha?”
I wanted to tell him my name was Savannah and that yes I knew it was a bible, but I hadn’t read it since I was too busy reading "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea."
“This here’s a bible, and this is where the kids are gettin’ their answers from. If you read it, you can get candy and be happy like them, too.”
Alligator girl was picking her nose and eating Mentos. Tommy was picking a fight with the skinny boy, who had begun curling himself up into a fetal position. KeriAnn was flexing her tanned biceps. I opened the bible, flipped through a few of the pages, and then closed it.
“Just by memorizing," I said, "that makes you happy?”
He laughed. “Well yeah, Samantha. If you don’t memorize it, then none of it matters.”
I handed him back the book, and took one final look at KeriAnn. She was staring at me as if I were stupid and then went back to scarfing down Mentos. In the distance, the skinny boy was running away in panic as Tommy chucked his candy at him. That synthesized strawberry smell made me want to gag, and I couldn’t contain myself any longer.
“Well, Pastor, my name is Savannah and I hate Mentos.”
He looked at me, shocked, as if disliking Mentos was akin to taking a piss on the Shroud of Turin. I got up from my foldable chair and walked outside proudly on my Phoenician feet.
KeriAnn’s mom picked us up later in her mini-van, and I found myself exiled in the back with the dog food and soccer cleats. The ride to my house was a long and silent one until, through the rear view mirror, her sad canine eyes locked with mine.
“Did you have fun, Savannah?” she asked.
I smiled politely and looked back. “Yes, Mrs. Ellison, I had a great time.”
One night, she decided to invite me with her to her youth group’s service. I wasn’t an avid churchgoer; my parents gave up on me after I failed playing the Virgin Mary in the nativity play. I dropped Jesus on the altar and watched helplessly as its plastic head rolled down the aisle. But I decided I would give it a try; after all, her mother Lisa was a nice heavyset woman who had eyes like a cocker spaniel, and I liked the way her mini-van smelled. Her father Danny reminded me of a Nascar driver. I don’t know if he actually was, he was just short, balding, and struck me as slightly stupid. But he was still nice, so I figured I would try.
The room was sparsely decorated, but filled with bracketed and center-parted pre-teens wearing white tennis shoes and Lee Dungarees. We got there late because KeriAnn and I had finished a soccer scrimmage later than expected, and there were only a few seats left in the room.
We sat in the front, greeted by two cold collapsible chairs. KeriAnn paid no mind to me and started talking to some friends who liked Garth Brooks and camouflage. I stared at the linoleum tile for a bit, and then to the tiled ceiling. So much tile, I thought. I wondered if that’s what Jesus would do if he were an interior designer.
The pastor took the stage, and never had I been so happy to hear the words "praise be to Jesus" in my life. He did some standard meet and greets, welcoming us back. He talked about sex for a bit and how people who loved god should wait until they are married to indulge in pleasures, and then he talked about Corinthians. I didn’t know what Corinthians was, but it reminded me of Phoenicians. I only knew who they were because my grandma told me once that I had Phoenician feet. Long and narrow, she said, unlike her plebian feet. My grandma was from West Virginia and had taught elementary school for 40 years. That’s enough to make someone’s feet wide.
All of a sudden I felt a sharp pain at my side. KeriAnn was shoving me with her elbow.
“Savannah,” she said, “aren’t you going to answer his question?” under her breath she added, “don’t embarrass me.”
I looked to the pastor. “Um, what was your question?”
I was thinking about my arches and metatarsals.
Everyone laughed at me. The girl to my left, to whom I had meekly smiled earlier, opened her mouth wide like an alligator, revealing crooked teeth stained Sunkist orange.
The pastor repeated the question. “So way-urr do yew cum frum?”
Sheepishly, I replied “here.”
Gator girl laughed again and nudged at my other side. “He means what church do you come from, stupid.”
Shit.
I didn’t go to church.
And that’s exactly what I said. “I don’t go to church.” I stared intently at the missing button on his yellow oxford, refusing to listen to the laughter that surrounded me.
Everyone was silent.
His eyes narrowed and squinted like a mole over his pulpit, fat fingers squeezing on its sides like overstuffed sausages. He licked his lips and I wished that my foldable chair would collapse and swallow me with it. “Well looks like yer gonna have a tough tihme followin’ tonight.” He laughed skittishly, and it reminded me of the breathing exercises future mothers do while in labor, but I stopped imagining him giving birth when I realized I was supposed to continue the dialogue.
“Following what?”
He grinned. “Bible verse recitations.” All of a sudden, kids behind me began clapping their hands and licking the salt from the sides of their greasy lips. From his pockets, the pastor pulled out the prize: strawberry Mentos.
The pastor pulled the first verse from a hat: “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God!”
A fat girl in the corner sprung from her chair, spitting as she shouted “ROMANS 3:23!”
He tossed the pink tube to her, and her eyes followed it as if she were about to catch the holy grail.
People were starting to warm up now. He pulled out another question.
"Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born again."
A skinny boy with glasses popped up, but he was knocked back down by a boy named Tommy. He wanted Mentos. “John 3:3,” he grunted.
The pastor threw him Mentos.
Soon enough, everyone was opening the wrappers of these chewy berry delights, smiling and eating them three at a time, because that is what Jesus would do if he got his questions right. They reminded me of puppies in obedience training.
The pastor threw his final package of Mentos to the skinny boy. I looked to KeriAnn, who was opening her third package. I asked her if I could have one. She snarled at me the way she did the defenders on opposing teams. “Maybe if you knew bible verses,” she said, “you’d deserve a Mento.”
My cheeks turned pink. I didn’t even like Mentos; I just wanted to fit in. “But I was just thinking, since you have so many, one wouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
I could feel a sweaty hand on my left shoulder. It was the pastor. “Sorry you couldn’t get any candy tonight, Samantha,” he said. “But KeriAnn here shouldn’t be givin' ya candy if ya don’t deserve it; that’s called ‘dishonesty.’ We don’t do dishonesty in this church.”
In my peripheral vision I could see a heavy object approaching from his side, resting itself on my lap. “But here’s something Jesus would give to someone like yew. Do you know what this is, Samantha?”
I wanted to tell him my name was Savannah and that yes I knew it was a bible, but I hadn’t read it since I was too busy reading "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea."
“This here’s a bible, and this is where the kids are gettin’ their answers from. If you read it, you can get candy and be happy like them, too.”
Alligator girl was picking her nose and eating Mentos. Tommy was picking a fight with the skinny boy, who had begun curling himself up into a fetal position. KeriAnn was flexing her tanned biceps. I opened the bible, flipped through a few of the pages, and then closed it.
“Just by memorizing," I said, "that makes you happy?”
He laughed. “Well yeah, Samantha. If you don’t memorize it, then none of it matters.”
I handed him back the book, and took one final look at KeriAnn. She was staring at me as if I were stupid and then went back to scarfing down Mentos. In the distance, the skinny boy was running away in panic as Tommy chucked his candy at him. That synthesized strawberry smell made me want to gag, and I couldn’t contain myself any longer.
“Well, Pastor, my name is Savannah and I hate Mentos.”
He looked at me, shocked, as if disliking Mentos was akin to taking a piss on the Shroud of Turin. I got up from my foldable chair and walked outside proudly on my Phoenician feet.
KeriAnn’s mom picked us up later in her mini-van, and I found myself exiled in the back with the dog food and soccer cleats. The ride to my house was a long and silent one until, through the rear view mirror, her sad canine eyes locked with mine.
“Did you have fun, Savannah?” she asked.
I smiled politely and looked back. “Yes, Mrs. Ellison, I had a great time.”
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