I can’t help Tara much with that stuff since my skin insulates me from a whole world of hate. I wish it weren’t the case, but I knowon some level I like my protection. It’s human instinct, I guess, but it tastes gross, worse than boiled veggie dogs slathered in hairy pickles.
Mother Zion looks all traditional and formal from the outside, gothic stone spires and ornate stained glass. That old shame pricks, telling me I’m too blemished to enter. Maybe Tara can feel me clenching up because she links her arm through mine and leads us inside.
The music has already started, swelling to a volume and vibration higher than anything I’ve heard in church before. No pianos, thankfully, just a brass band. Everyone’s singing along, belting and hollering, those carrying the tune outnumbered by those dropping the tune. Hands are thrown up in the air, lots of them, like they’re reaching for something that’s suspended just a few feet above.
I’ve never seen anything like this in church. It’s like everyone’s on mushrooms or MDMA, but there’s this undercurrent of reverence that I try to scoff at but just watch in shock, nearly resentful. Even if it’s not real, I want to feel whatever these people are feeling. They look high out of their minds, completely unshackled.
Tara and I try to be discreet as we slide into the back pew, but everyone around us reaches over and wrings our hands like they’ve been waiting for us, praying for us.
Members of the congregation start standing up at random, calling up to Jesus to heal their mother’s cancer, to make whole their hearts, to forgive their porn addiction, their affair, their suicide attempt. I’m embarrassed for them, how they’re spilling it all, but they don’t seem embarrassed at all. They’re over the fucking moon.
None of it adds up. I like the mathematical incongruence of it all even if I know the beliefs are nonsense.
Then the pastor gets up front, roams all around, not rigid behind a pulpit. He gives this bellowing sermon about how church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints, and that every single one of us has ugly parts of our past. Every single one of us is broken,but God and only God can put us back together again. He says that if we let the Holy Spirit guide us, we’ll finally stop being at war with other people and at war with ourselves.
I get this eerie feeling that the pastor knows me, but then I remind myself that he’s just trained to emotionally manipulate the crowd so we’ll drop money in the donation basket.
People are cheering and hooting the whole time. The place is buzzing with this energy like no one cares what anyone else thinks of them because they already know they’re immortal or at least they believe they are, and what’s the difference really? Either way, they’re having a rave and leaving me behind.
I don’t rest my head on my pillow at all. I just clutch it with my hands, and the flimsy pillowcase is drenched with sweat by the time Tara and I bolt out of there at the end of the service.
“You said church was boring,” Tara says, rounding on me. She’s got an incredulous look on her face, probably similar to mine.
“That wasn’t church,” I say, trying to process it. “That was something else.”
It feels impossible, offensive even, that the outside world could possibly be carrying on with all its mundanities, but carry on it does. The subway rattling into the station as clumsily as usual. Passengers being sucked into their phone screens with the same zombie-eyed stares and glares.
“How am I possibly supposed to play a convincing pastor?” Tara says as we subway-surf back downtown, keeping our balance without holding on to the poles. We tip a few times, legs jittery. “I can’t dothat.”
“Of course you can,” I say. “You’ll just have to go back for a few more weeks until the energy seeps into your bones and sticks. Maybe I’ll go with you again, if you want.”
I act like I’m doing her some grand favor, but really I’m looking forward to it the whole week. It’s like a new mystery I’m trying to solve.
The next service is just as electric as the one before. It turns out I hadn’t imagined the current in the air. When everyone is standing up and yelling things out during prayer time, asking for healing and forgiveness, I’ve got this weird desire to speak up and confess some stuff too. But I don’t believe in confessing my sins because that would mean admitting my sins, and I don’t ascribe to the idea of labeling things as right or wrong, even if some things really do feel foul inside. So I stay quiet, but I list a few things in my head, just to experiment.
Chapter 33
Tara remains fixated on the role, waiting to hear back. One April afternoon, she bounces down the Inn’s outdoor stairs and through the front door, brimming with news.
“I got the understudy!” she announces. “For Jarena!”
She’s beaming. I’m frowning. I went to cheer Tara on at one of the callbacks, and she blew the competition out of the water. A dolphin gliding among minnows—it wasn’t even close. “Why are they having you as the understudy?” I ask. “You should be the lead.”
“Shila got it, remember her?” Tara says. “Her range is insane, way better than mine.”
It’s not true, but I don’t want to piss on her excitement. “Good job,” I say, standing up from the couch, where I’ve been drinking alone and talking to my AI app, telling it to write me a three-act play that I can sell for a million dollars. It spits something out, not any worse than what you see onstage, but my pride won’t let me steal it. My conscience doesn’t have any problem with the plagiarism, but my ego can’t handle being outdone. It’s a real bitch sometimes. “And I’m sure I can orchestrate something so Shila gets sick or breaks a few ribs the day before the show so you have to fill in,” I say. “Not to worry.”
“EJ,” Tara warns, but she’s grinning as I pour her some whiskey.“The director, Niles, has just got thisvisionfor the show. It’s going to be incredible.”
“Of course it will be, because you’re a part of it,” I say. Affirming with words is something I’m working on because maybe I didn’t do the best job of it with Jenni and Hal. Chris either, not that I’m thinking about that.
I ask Tara how she wants to celebrate. She says she just wants to stay in and practice her lines and watch that new show about the women spies of World War II and the men who stole the credit.
“So are we going to church tomorrow?” I ask, a couple episodes in.
She gives me a curious look. “I wasn’t planning to go anymore,” she says. “It was just prep for the audition. Now I’ll be busy with rehearsals so that’ll be my immersion.”
“Right.” I’m annoyed with my annoyance. “Makes sense.”
