“Thank you, Pastor. Can you explain the passage?”
He purses his lips. “It advocates stoning a woman who isn’t a virgin at the time of marriage.”
“Is that something you’d advise your flock to do?” Before he can answer, she asks him another question. “How about Mark 10:1–12? Those passages forbid divorce. Do you have any members of your congregation who are divorced? Oh, wait—of course you do. Max Baxter.”
“God forgives sinners,” Pastor Clive says. “He welcomes them back into His fold.”
Angela flips through her Bible again. “How about Mark 12:18–23? If a man dies childless, his widow is ordered by biblical law to have sex with each of his brothers in turn until she bears her deceased husband a male heir. Is that what you tell grieving widows?”
I hate myself for it, but I think of Liddy again.
“Objection!”
“Or Deuteronomy 25:11–12? If two men are fighting and the wife of one of them tries to rescue her husband by grabbing his enemy’s genitals, her hand should be cut off and no pity should be shown to her—”
Seriously? I had joined an adult Bible study at Reid’s suggestion, but we never read anything as juicy as that.
“Objection!” Wade smacks the table with his open hand.
The judge raises his voice. “Ms. Moretti, I will hold you in contempt if you—”
“Fine. I’ll withdraw that last one. But you must admit, Pastor, that not every decree in the Bible makes sense in this day and age.”
“Only because you’re taking the verses out of historical context—”
“Mr. Lincoln,” Angela Moretti says flatly. “You did first.”
Where You Are (3:22)
ZOE
For the first five seconds after I wake up, the day is as crisp as a new dollar bill—spotless, full of possibility.
And then I remember.
That there is a lawsuit.
That there are three embryos.
That today, I am testifying.
That for the rest of my life, Vanessa and I will have to jump twice as high and run twice as fast to cover the same ground as a heterosexual couple. Love is never easy, but it seems that, for gay couples, it’s an obstacle course.
I feel her arm steal around me from behind. “Stop thinking,” she says.
“How do you know I’m thinking?”
Vanessa smiles against my shoulder blade. “Because your eyes are open.”
I roll over to face her. “How did you do it? How doesanyoneever come out when they’re younger? I mean, I can barely handle what’s being said about me in that courtroom, and I’m forty-one years old. If I were fourteen, I wouldn’t just be in the closet—I’d be gluing myself to its inside wall.”
Vanessa rolls onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. “I would have rather died than come out in high school. Even though I knew, deep down, who I was. There are a million reasons to not come out when you’re a teenager—because adolescence is about matching everyone else, not standing out; because you don’t know what your parents are going to say; because you’re terrified your best friend will think you’re making the moves on her—seriously, I’ve been there.” She glances at me. “At my school now, there are five teens who are openly gay and lesbian, and about fifteen more who don’t want to realize they’re gay and lesbian yet. I can tell them a hundred million times that what they’re feeling is perfectly normal, and then they go home and turn on the news and they see that the military won’t let gay people serve. They watch another gay marriage referendum bite the dust. One thing kidsaren’tis stupid.”
“How many people have to say there’s something wrong with you before you start believing it?” I muse out loud.
“You tell me,” Vanessa says. “You’re a late bloomer, Zo, but you’re just as brave as the rest of us. Gays and lesbians are like cockroaches, I guess. Resilient as all hell.”
I laugh. “Clearly that would be Pastor Clive’s worst nightmare. Cockroaches have been around since the dinosaurs were walking the earth.”
