Page 14 of People Like Us

“Amen!”

“Yes, Lord!”

“Hallelujah!”

Hands rose, palms opened. A woman three pews ahead began to cry quietly before anything particularly moving had even been said.

Sometimes I joined in. If the room swelled enough, if emotion moved through it like a storm, I could catch it and wear it. I could make tears gather on cue. Let one fall at the right lyric, or mention of grace and the adults would eat it up. My father especially. Afterward he’d squeeze my shoulder and tell people the Spirit was strong in me.

The church always felt alive with something. Some presence I couldn’t name though I was sure it wasn’t God.

Heat gathered under my collarbones. Sweat trickled down the center of my back. The fan above us only rearranged the warm September air.

Andy sang beside me during the hymns, low and pleasant. He knew all the words by heart, and I mouthed along on most occasions.

The piano wheezed from the corner, slightly out of tune, weaponized voices of the choir layering over it. If I closed my eyes I could picture a war scene, nearly cinematic in my mind’s eye. I wondered what we must look like to a God, gathered in this sorry excuse for a building, shouting at him to save us from ourselves.

I looked at the stained ceiling and wondered how many prayers had gone up and stuck there.

Pastor Spires closed in prayer at last. Heads bowed.

I kept my eyes open, a small rebellion just for myself. I liked to look at people while they prayed. You could tell by the set of their faces who was letting the pastor guide them, and who was really desperate for the lord to hear their own pleas. It felt intimate in a way that I didn’t have to participate in the vulnerability of.

But when I glanced across the aisle, I found Shannon O’Kinzy doing the same, a small smirk turning up the corner of his mouth behind the curtain of his long brown hair. I grimaced, and stared down at my feet immediately. I didn’t like when strangers felt like they knew me.

When the amen came, the room broke apart into chatter and scraping pews. Outside, sunlight hit hard enough to feel punitive. The dust had warmed and now smelled baked and mineral.

People clustered in little knots beneath the magnolia tree growing just beside the porch. Smiley approached us again, thumbs hooked in his suspenders.“Y’all coming by The Grill for lunch?”

The thought of his greasy burgers and real air-conditioning nearly made me emotional. But my father said, “Can’t today, need to run to Salisbury for groceries.”

Woodland didn’t have a real grocery store. Just Smiley’s shelves of milk, bread, canned goods, and whatever else could survive neglect. For real food you’d have to drive forty minutes to Salisbury for the nearest Wal-mart.

“Need produce Denise can trust,” my father added, not unkindly. My step mother had adopted a mediterranean diet that summer in the hopes of ‘finally thinning down’. She’d explained it all to me through quick breaths as she attempted to keep pace with me on one of my morning jogs one Saturday morning, but I hadn’t paid that much attention to the logistics. I was, however, thrilled to have real food in our cabinets for once—even if it was mostly canned tuna and grapes.

“I’d be happy to take Lola to lunch,” Andy said from beside me like an offering. “If you and Mrs. Sinley would like a few hours to yourselves.”

My father’s whole face softened. “That’s thoughtful, son.”

Denise touched Andy’s arm. “Always such manners.”

I wondered if they heard themselves. Or if adulthood was just losing the ability to hear your own obviousness.

Andy glanced at me, eyes bright. “You hungry?”

I could hear the real question he was asking: “Want to hook up while your parents are out?”

“Sure,” I said, smiling.

There was something almost tender in being loved by someone everyone approved of. It made life easier. It made doors open for you.

It also made every room I stepped into feel owned by somebody else.

Chapter Six

Andy held the door to The Grill open for me with one broad arm, the bell above it clanking against the glass. Cool air met us first, then the smell of fryer grease and barbecue sauce cooked too long in metal pans.

The walls inside were yellowed with age and freckled by water stains that bloomed across the ceiling tiles in brown halos. In the dining room, glass-eyed deer heads watched over everyone, cobwebs sagging between their antlers. Their mouths were stitched into expressions that looked almost human if you stared too long. I always tried not to.