“Oh dang.” I duck.
James wordlessly waves us over to a bookstore a few doors down, and Meg and I rush in, flustered, and collect ourselves. My heart pumps like I just ran laps in PE. (I could never be an effective outlaw—I’m way too anxious, out of shape, and perpetually spooked.)
We all float to different areas in the otherwise-empty store, which has some books but also CDs, fancy Bible covers, Precious Moments figurines. I glance over my shoulder at the dude behind the register, who’s wearing a high-collared white shirt and too-long khaki shorts, and I’m disturbed to see him looking right back at me, not even trying to disguise his staring. Suddenly he abandons his post behind the counter to lurk at a display on my left. I feel his hovering like needle-pricks.
Meg and James are completely out of his view—they could be bolting out the door with armfuls of cross necklaces, for all he knows. I try to shake his suspicion, scrunch my eyebrows and begin purposefully flipping through books like I care. One spine in particular catches my eye: The Negro and the Curse of Ham.
Everything happens quickly: James shrieks, something topples to the ground; lurker guy darts over to them; Meg mumbling “accident” and “we’ll fix it”; I get a rush of screw it, snatch up the book, and drop it into the abyss of my tote bag; I slyly exit the store. Truancy and theft. So punk.
Out on the sidewalk I sneak a look at the book’s cover: in the background are a bunch of Noah-looking bearded dudes wearing robes and holding staffs, and in the foreground is a slave-looking guy in a loincloth and shackles. (Maybe this explains why I feel so doomed. Or at least why that dude was staring at me the way he was.)
Meg and James burst through the doorway, looking guilty and stifling laughs.
“Yo, what happened?”
James raises his hand as an admission of guilt. “I got a little too engrossed reading about Mormon underwear.”
Meg doubles over cackling.
“Whoa, wait. What?” I ask, wide-eyed. “That was a Mormon bookstore?”
“Of course! You could tell because it was so creepy and clean,” James explains, turning up his nose.
“What are they all about?”
“I think they’re basically like Protestants but more racist?”
“Makes sense.”
“I could be wrong, but who cares,” trails James. He’s already on the move, strides ahead of us, headed toward a wide alley. He makes a sudden turn into the little street, sidestepping a gutter.
Fatigue settles into my shoulders, and I start tallying up ideas for getting out of the situation, going home, shutting down, curling up. This is kind of a lot for me, the most socializing I’ve done in a while.
Meg halts. “Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry about it. I know a place,” James says coolly.
Sashaying is the only way to describe how he is moving. I’ve never seen him so comfortable. I feel special witnessing it.
“I just want to get an horchata.” (Horrible accent.)
“You are ridiculous,” Meg snorts matter-of-factly.
We follow, because what else can we do? He could be leading us into an underground cult situation, and we would go. Anything new is by default the most exciting thing that has ever happened to us.
“I’ll wait outside while this whole situation plays out,” I say, flicking my lighter to a cigarette.
“Me too,” Meg says quickly, and James disappears into a taco shop. “I don’t smoke, but I like the smell.”
She squats, leaning back against the stucco, and I join her. What business do I have being pissed that someone wants to be near me?
“You know, I don’t even really want this,” I admit, and stomp out the cigarette after only two puffs.
We sit and exhale. She picks studiously at a fingernail bed. “Good call on skipping the pep rally. I’m so glad we didn’t have to sit through one of Pastor Tyler’s virginity lectures.”
“Yes!” I gasp. “Some dumb sports metaphor about defending the goalposts or whatever. Thanks for being deviants with me. I know I could have just hung out in the yearbook room but…”
“Oh, this is way better.”
“Yeah, I think I needed this.” I squint up at the fluffy clouds and the relentlessly blue sky.
“I kinda thought you’d be into all that stuff because of Marissa….” She sneaks a sideways glance at me; I shrug back knowingly.
“Psh,” I say, like I’m totally over it. “Not since she ditched me for Jordan Jacobsen.”
“Gross! When did that happen?”
“Oh, just on the very last day of school.”
“Yikes. That really sucks. I’m sorry, dude.” She presses her shoulder into mine, and I take a deep breath.
“You know, it does, but it’s actually okay. I’m ready for something new, anyway. And I don’t want a friend who’s just gonna disappear over some douchebag.”
“Yeah! Over some asshole! Who does that?”
I just shake my head. I can’t look at her, because I’ll fall apart, but I want to reach out and grab her hand and hang on. I want her quiet confidence, her self-determination. Like all other freaks, my mantra is I don’t care what people think. But like most other freaks, I care desperately about what people think, how they see me, what makes my existence so different from theirs.
The restaurant door flings open with the sound of accordions and James bellowing “Gracias!”
“I have returned!” He poses, and we giggle despite rolling our eyes at him, pull ourselves up from the ground. “Ready?”
I give him a salute.
“Hey—” I’m suddenly enveloped in a loose, bony hug from Meg. It almost confuses me. “At least you have us now.”
That’s one thing I’ve always liked about Meg. She actually doesn’t care what people think about her quirks or bluntness or ridiculousness. At least not enough to hide herself. You can’t help but respect her.
What I decide to do next is get out of my own way. Hazy with exhaustion and hope, I link arms with them, James slurping loudly on his horchata.
“Yeah.” I nod. “At least there’s us.”
THE PROMISE RING
Chapel is on Wednesday. That’s the way it’s been since kindergarten, and that’s the way it will always be. It’s part of the unspoken order of Christian schools. Without thinking we bow our heads. Without thinking we recite verses in weird dialects—thou and whosoever and begotten. We pledge allegiance to the Christian flag. And first thing on Wednesday mornings, we report dutifully to the auditorium, otherwise known as the gym.