The entire way here I’ve questioned my sanity, but I don’t know how I’d
live with myself if I stayed home. Jesse Lachlin used to be my childhood
best friend. We were inseparable. We had the type of friendship people
strive to have, and then, a few years ago,
he cut me so deeply that I still bleed. But ten-year-old me would have
never abandoned a hurting Jesse. So today I’m not only honoring the
memory of Jesse’s grandmother, but also the memory of our dead
friendship.
On my way to the funeral, the high grass of the field swats at my legs,
but I don’t mind the sting. I love walking barefoot in grass, I love the
smell of the earth and I love that brief feeling of freedom open spaces
can provide.
It’s the dog days of August. The type of hot that starts when the sun
rises and makes you sweat through your clothes within minutes. While my
skin and palms are on fire, the pads of my feet are cool against the
dirt. The heat is unwelcome, but the sky is deep
blue and the sun is bright, and for that, I can be grateful.
Walking out of the field, I stop short of crossing the one-lane road to
slip on the flats that dangle from my fingertips. My mother would be
mortified if she knew I was entering a church in a cotton daisy-print
sundress. It’s not one of the dresses with stiff
fabric and impossible back zippers she would have picked for me at an
overpriced department store. It’s the type that’s machine-washable and
breathable. The type of dress Jesse’s grandmother would have given her
stamp of approval.
I can practically hear my mother heavily sigh and mumble my name,
Scarlett, as if it were her personal, private curse word. Mom believes
there’s a certain way to dress and behave, and I’m breaking all sorts of
her rules today. Watch out, world. I’m officially
rebellious.
I smile to myself because I’m the opposite of rebellious. For the last
few years, I’ve followed every rule. I’m the teacher’s pet and the girl
with straight
A’s. I’m the poster child of perfection, and have earned every
snarky ice princess comment Jesse’s friends whisper about me in the
school hallways because he and I no longer speak.
There are only six cars in the parking lot of the white church, and that
makes me frown. I thought more people would have wanted to attend.
Jesse’s mud-covered pickup is there, and so is an unnaturally clean
black Mercedes that belongs to his uncle. This ought
to be interesting. Jesse and his uncle have a mutual hate for each
other that runs deeper than any root of any tree.
Movement to my right and I slowly turn my head. Shivers run down my
spine at the sight of Glory Gardner. Even though I’m seventeen and too
old for ghost stories, I still can’t shake the ones regarding this
woman. Girls would whisper over lunch boxes that Glory
was a witch. As I grew older, I understood that witch meant con artist.
She claims she can read palms, tarot cards and “sees” spirits from
beyond the dead. All for a glorious fee.
She’s a beautiful woman—long dirty blond hair that’s untamed, even in a
bun, and she has an eclectic taste in clothing. Today she wears a white
peasant shirt and a flowing skirt made of material that shimmers in the
sun.
Glory watches me like I watch her, with morbid curiosity. I knew her as a
child, back when Jesse and I ran wild in the fields near her home, but
we haven’t talked in years.
She stands under the shade of a towering weeping willow. There are lots
of those trees around here. Mom says it’s because there is too much
water in the ground. I say it’s because the people in this town have
cried too many tears. Mom doesn’t like my answer.
I tilt my head toward the church, an unspoken question if Glory will be
joining me. She shakes her head no. I’m not shocked. According to
rumors, Glory will go up in flames if she enters the house of God. But
who knows? Maybe I will, too.
The church is one of those picturesque, historical, one-room school
buildings squeezed between a cornfield on one side and a hay field on
the other. A huge steeple with a bell attempts to reach the heavens, but
like anything created by a human, it falls tragically
short.
The foreboding wooden door makes no noise as I open it, and I’m able to
slip in without a huge, squeaking announcement. Orange light filters in
through the dark stained glass windows, and its struggling beams reveal
millions of dancing particles of dust.
On the altar, there’s no casket, but there is an urn. My heart
dips—Suzanne is dead. I used to wish she were my grandmother, and many
times, she treated me as if I belonged to her. Suzanne was the epitome
of love, and the world feels colder now that she’s gone.
Choosing a spot in the back, I drop into a pew, and as I scan the church
my stomach churns. How is it possible that this place is so barren?
Besides the Funeral Brigade, or the FB, as I like to refer to them,
there aren’t many people here. The FB are the older group of woman who
attend every funeral in our small town even if they didn’t know the
person. Attending funerals isn’t my idea of fun, but
who am I to judge?
The FB sit directly behind the one person the town believes to be the
lone sane member of the Lachlin family, probably because he isn’t blood
related—Jesse’s uncle.
On the left side of the church is Jesse. Only Jesse. And that causes a
painful pang in my chest. Where are his stinking friends? The anarchists
in training who follow Jesse wherever he goes? Where is the rest of the
town? Yes, Suzanne was polarizing, but still,
where is any respect?
Quietly, so I don’t draw attention to myself, I slip from the right set
of pews to the left. Someone should be on Jesse’s side, and it’s sad it
has to be me.
A door at the front of the church opens, and the pastor walks out from
the addition the church build on as a small office ten years ago. I
would have thought any pastor assigned to this place would be as ancient
as this church. Sort of like an Indiana Jones
Knights Templar scenario where he lives forever as long as he stays
inside. But no, he’s the youngest pastor from the main, newer church in
town. His name is Pastor Hughes, and he’s a thirty-something black man
with a fit build who is just cute enough that
he should be starring in a movie.
The pastor looks up, and he flinches as if startled. I peek over my
shoulder then sigh. Clearly, he’s surprised to see me. Flipping
fantastic.
His reaction, and the fact he won’t stop staring, causes every person to
turn their heads. Lovely. I’ve had dreams like this where I enter a
room and become the center of attention. Only in my dreams it’s at
school, it’s my classmates and I’m naked, but still,
this is disconcerting.
Eventually, the FB and Jesse’s uncle return their attention to the
front, but Jesse doesn’t. He rests his arm on the back of the pew, and
it’s hard to ignore that he’s made me his sole focus, but I do my best
to act as if I don’t notice.
To help, I concentrate on what my mom taught me as a child—to make sure
the skirt of my dress is tucked appropriately so that my thighs don’t
show. I then fold my hands in my lap and straighten to a book-on-head
posture. I can be the ice princess people claim
me to be.
Five pews separate me and Jesse, and it’s not nearly enough. My cheeks
burn under his continued inspection. Jesse has done this a handful of
times since our freshman year. Glance at me as if I’m someone worth
looking at, someone worth laughing with a little
too loud and smiling with a little too much. Then he remembers who I am
and snaps his gaze to someone else.
But he’s not looking away now.
