Page 12 of People Like Us

“My tutor,” I said casually.

Lindsey’s eyebrows shot upward. “Since when do you need a tutor?”

I took a slow breath, the cold air stinging my lungs. “I’m behind in science.”

She shrugged. “I hate science.”

My phone buzzed a final time. I peeked at the screen:

Have to go—no phones at the table. Enjoy the game. Hope your boyfriend gets a home run.

A soft snort escaped me. I imagined August sitting stiff at a dinner table fielding questions about homework and friends from parents who cared. It sent a pang of tender jealousy through me.

When the final whistle blew, our team erupted in victory chants. Andy looked over, grinning and waving me toward the tunnel. He wanted me to go to an after-party, but I shook my head, pointing to a watch I wasn’t wearing. Curfew called, and responsibility won. I stood, brushing flecks of frost from my clothes.

I sent him a quick text, that I knew he wouldn’t see until after he’d removed his gear and showered in the locker room.

I’ll make it up to you Wednesday.

Chapter Five

Dust rose behind us in pale brown ghosts as I turned my hatchback off the main road and onto the long dirt drive that led through a corn field to Holy Trinity Baptist Church. Fine grit floated through the cracked windows and settled on my bare thighs and the sticky shine of my lip gloss.

At the mouth of the drive stood the church sign, warped with age and leaning slightly left as if repentance itself had grown tired.

PRAY FOR US SINNERS

The paint had peeled so badly that the second S was nearly gone.

PRAY FOR US INNERS.

“Slow down,” my father repeated from the passenger seat, one hand braced against the dashboard as though I were driving us toward a cliff instead of salvation.

“I’m going fifteen.”

“You were going twenty.”

My stepmother, Denise, dabbed the sweat on her throat in the backseat and said, “Jeff, let the girl drive.” I slowed another mile per hour just to please him.

Cornstalks rose high on either side of the path, thick green walls whispering against themselves in the breeze. We couldn’t see the church from the main road, only the white steeple needling above the stalks.

The road narrowed and curved until the church emerged: old white boards gone green with age, windows clouded by years of weather, the steeple eager as a finger pointed at heaven, accusatory of the god that abandoned it.

Several cars already crowded the dirt lot. I parked between a truck with a fish symbol sticker and Mrs. O’Kinzy’s sedan, which had one hubcap missing and rosary beads hanging from the mirror despite the fact that no Baptist I knew approved of Catholic’s showmanship.

My father sneezed twice, violent enough to make his shoulders jerk as we stepped out of the vehicle.

“Bless you,” Denise said automatically. He waved her off.

I looked down at my shoes. Black faux-leather Mary Janes, polished enough to reflect sunlight, now wearing a powdering of dirt that had already settled against my white stockings in a neat brown ring around the ankle straps.

Perfect.

I’d made my white dress from thrifted tablecloths, the lace corners now a delicate neckline. The cotton—soft from a hundred wash cycles—skimmed mid-thigh if I stood still and climbed scandalously if I moved too freely.

But white bought forgiveness. White meant pure, bridal, innocent, surrendered. If I wore white and braided my hair, my father could look directly at my thighs and somehow not see them.

Inside, the church smelled like old wood, sweat, and mildew. The kind of smell old buildings grew when too many people begged inside them.