Page 106 of People Like Us

For the first time all evening, Andy smiled for real. It was brief and tired and achingly familiar. The kind of smile that reminded me why I’d loved him once.

“Fuck,” he muttered, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “I cannot wait to get this over with. My dad’s gonna absolutely love rubbing this in my face.”

“What?”

He shot me a look. “The breakup. You know how he is about purity and all that.”

I did know. Everyone did. Pastor Spires stepped forward then, his scuffed shoes creaking softly against the stage. The chatter in the sanctuary died almost instantly.

“Baptism,” he announced warmly, “is the outward declaration of an inward transformation.”

His voice rolled smooth and practiced through the church while the line ahead of us shortened. One by one people descended into the water, came back dripping and blinking beneath applause, transformed supposedly.

I wondered if God got bored watching the same performance over and over.

When Andy’s turn came, he stepped into the trough heavily, river water sloshing against the metal sides. He almost didn’t fit in it.

His father placed one hand between his shoulders and the other over his clasped hands, reciting scripture while Andy stared blankly toward the ceiling.

Then the pastor lowered him beneath the water.

When Andy emerged again, his white shirt clung immediately to his skin. My breath caught so violently it hurt.

A dark bruise bloomed across the lower left side of his back, half hidden beneath the soaked fabric. Black fading into purple fading into green. Several more dotting over his chest and shoulders. New, large, and evil. But more importantly, visible to everyone in the congregation.

Andy smiled widely as if he’d known this would happen.

I watched realization flicker across the pastor’s face before it disappeared beneath that same polished smile. Andy climbed from the trough quickly, shoulders rigid, water dripping onto the stage floor.

Then it was my turn.

I stepped into the water carefully, cold immediately soaking through the thin white fabric wrapped around my body. The river smell rose stronger there—mud and algae and wet stone. My dress floated around my thighs like pale seafoam.

Pastor Spires extended a hand toward me with that same sweet smile that always reminded me of spoiled milk.

“Lola,” he said softly.

I took his hand because everyone was watching.

As he positioned me beneath his grip, I saw his eyes flick briefly toward Andy’s retreating figure. Then he leaned closer.

“There isn’t a river pure enough to clean a soul like yours,” he whispered, his boney fingers digging between my shoulder blades.

Rage flashed hot through me so suddenly it steadied me.

I looked him directly in the eyes and whispered back, “What does your Bible say about hitting children, Pastor?”

For one split second his expression cracked. Then his hand tightened around me, as he shoved me under.

The cold swallowed me whole.

Water rushed over my ears, muffling the church into distorted echoes and heartbeat thuds. For one awful suspended second, panic clawed through me as his grip held firm against my spine. My dress tangled around my legs beneath the surface like grasping hands. I had the sudden dizzy feeling that if he decided not to pull me back up, nobody in that church would stop him fast enough.

Then I was rising again.

I surfaced hard, gasping water through my nose while applause echoed around the sanctuary.

My dress clung to every curve of my body. Thin white fabric plastered against my chest, my stomach, my thighs. Half the congregation looked away politely while the other half absolutely did not.