Small Town Sinners (19 page)

As I walk down the driveway, I check the time—five till eleven. I would never have thought of going out this late last year. I walk three blocks up to Oldham. Ty is already there, engine off, waiting.

“Hey,” I say as I get in the car.

“Hi,” he says back.

I close the passenger door gently and say, “Go anywhere.”

He drives to Ulster Park, but this time we don’t get out of the car. It feels late, it feels risky. The fireflies aren’t out and laying down the sleeping bag in this deep darkness would be strange.

As soon as he cuts off the engine in the empty parking lot, I expect him to turn to me and ask why I called him, what I want. Instead, he rolls down his window and leans his seat back to almost horizontal, putting his right arm behind his head and closing his eyes.

I stare at him for a minute, taking in his light eyelashes and full lips, then letting my eyes run over the hard muscles in his arm that peek out from his short-sleeved yellow polo. His skin looks soft and still so sun-kissed from summer that I have the urge to reach out my hand and run it over his bicep.

But I stop myself, remembering to hold back, and then I roll down my own window and recline my seat to match his angle. When I put it back it far enough, I can see the moon through the windshield. It’s almost full, bathing the car in a white glow. The air is silent except for the bugs singing around us.

“I may be the devil,” I say to Ty.

His laugh cuts through my serious statement.

“You certainly are not,” he says.

“I’m serious,” I say, sitting upright. “I feel so much anger lately. And today … today, it felt even darker. Like … hate. Actual
hate
for Geoff and Jeremy.”

Ty doesn’t say anything. His eyes don’t widen in surprise; his jaw doesn’t drop in disbelief. He keeps on leaning back, eyes closed, and I think I see a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Ty Davis, are you taking me seriously?” I ask.

He opens his eyes and grins at me.

“Of course,” he says. “Always.”

“Well, even if you’re not, I still want to talk to you,” I say.

I can talk to this boy. I can talk to him like I’ve never talked to anyone. Not my pastor, not my best friends … not my father.

I’m afraid to show spiritual weakness in front of anyone in town, especially those closest to me. We’ve never questioned anything or anyone related to the church. You just don’t
do
that in West River. But here’s Ty, a bit of hometown, a bit of the bigger world. Somehow I think he understands.

So I open up to him again. I tell him how I’m confused about my parents’ unwillingness to discuss Tessa or Jeremy with me, how I’m so angry at Geoff Parsons for tormenting Dean while being a member of Youth Leaders and a star of Hell House, and how Pastor Frist’s sermons are echoing more and more hollow with every passing Sunday.

“And today, when Jeremy was saying his lines about having sex recklessly, I couldn’t help but think of how
he
did that,” I say.

“How did I miss a reckless sex scene?” asks Ty.

“No!” I say, swatting his arm. “It’s the gay marriage scene. I know that makes it different—they’re talking about gay sex so it’s not the same as with Jeremy and Tessa, but—”

“I thought you said that sins were sins, Lacey Anne,” Ty says, tripping me up with the words I said this summer.

“They are,” I say. “But regular premarital sex is one thing and homosexuality is just … different.”

I shudder, thinking about men kissing men, or really about Mr. Sikes kissing Mrs. Sikes, which is almost as icky.

Ty looks at me, silent.

“I mean, being gay and having lots of sex is like a double sin,” I continue, sensing that he’s not seeing my point. “Because you’re not married, so you can’t be making love in a holy way, and you’re also going against nature by doing it in a gay way, so you’re sinning twice.”

I smile, satisfied with my mathematical explanation.

“What if you live in Vermont and you
can
get legally married if you’re gay?” asks Ty.

“We don’t live in Vermont,” I say. “And around here, gay sex isn’t the same as premarital sex between two normal people. It’s immoral. And gay marriage isn’t legal.”

“But it
is
in some places in our country,” Ty says. “And you at least have to admit that the morality of gay marriage is open to interpretation. Unlike, say, the morality of child abuse. Can you imagine some states legalizing that?”

“No, but it’s not the same thing,” I say.

“Ah, but your earlier logic says it is,” says Ty. “Hell House shows one scene after another—Gay Marriage, Domestic Abuse, Abortion, Suicide, Cyberporn—and it puts them all on the same level.”

“Well, they’re all bad,” I say.

“And we’re back to this circular conversation again.” Ty sighs.

“Leviticus 20:13 says ‘If a man lies with a male as he lies with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination,’ ” I say.

“Lacey,” says Ty, sighing a little and looking exasperated. “I’m not gay, but even
I’m
tired of hearing that verse come out of the mouth of the church.”

“Well, it’s in there,” I say.

“So is the subjugation of women, vengeance, and the murder of children,” says Ty. “It’s an amazing book, and it has tons of good lessons, but it’s also got some pretty messed-up passages.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Leviticus 20:9,” Ty says. “If anyone curses his father or mother, he must be put to death.”

“Well, it’s all in how you interpret things,” I argue. “That’s really just an extension of honoring your father and mother.”

“Okay,” says Ty, smiling at me now. “I’m glad you’re aware that there are different interpretations and not everything in the Bible is
literal.
I knew you were a smart one.”

“Ty!” I shout, exasperated.

“I’m joking, Lacey,” he says. “I am. Can we just stop talking about this, though, for right now?”

“Okay,” I say quietly, wondering if I’ve offended Ty somehow. Maybe he has a gay cousin or something. I’m only saying what I believe.

“Do you think I’m becoming a bad person? That I’ve fallen from grace and that’s why there’s all this confusion in my head?” I ask. And when I say that sentence out loud, I feel a sting of fear, like maybe it’s possible.

Ty stays quiet for a moment, and I wonder if he’s going to say yes, that he does think I’m losing my path in the light with all this doubt I’m feeling. Maybe I shouldn’t speak it out loud, maybe I shouldn’t show my fear to anyone, not even Ty.

But then he answers.

“Lacey Anne,” says Ty, “the God I know welcomes questions. He welcomes doubts. He welcomes criticisms of His Kingdom when things aren’t just or fair. He rewards people who can see clearly enough to right wrongs. That is definitely what you’re trying to do, in your own way.”

I smile. What Ty just said sounds like something my dad might have told me when I was younger and I asked if I’d go to hell for stepping on an ant or chasing a bird with my bike. It was okay,
I
was okay. So why doesn’t the church make me feel that way anymore? Why does it take a boy in a car at midnight with the seats all the way down?

I lean back and look up at the moon again, relaxing into my confusion, feeling content, feeling accepted, feeling understood.

After a few moments of silence, Ty speaks. “Have I told you how much I adore you?”

Well, that just floors me. After I confess to having hate in my heart, that I might be on the path to the devil, he tells me he’s into me. Surprised as I am, though, I don’t want to mess up this second chance at something more.

“No,” I say. “But I think I gave you a really good opportunity to do that once.”

“You’re right,” he says, rising up and leaning on one elbow, facing me. “I blew it.”

I sit up then too, and look into his eyes, my attraction to him almost palpable. “No,” I say. “You didn’t.”

“What were the rules?” he asks, teasing me.

“I don’t think we have any yet,” I say, feeling breathless.

“Oh, good,” he says.

He leans in then, and I make sure that it’s
he
who kisses
me
first. We don’t have two cars; he can’t run away. And besides, as strong as that first kiss—
my
first kiss—was, this one is ten times stronger. As I feel his lips move with mine, I’m keenly aware of everything around me. The moonlight pools on our faces, the bugs sing a midnight hymn, the leather of the car seats squeaks as we move closer and press our bodies together.

I feel a warmth radiate through my chest and down to my thighs, working its way through my body. I gasp as the sensation gets stronger. His lips are the purest touch I’ve ever felt.

“Lacey Anne,” Ty says, pulling back for a second. “You make me feel brave.”

I smile and kiss him again. I don’t know what he means and I don’t think too hard about what we’re doing here. If I am lost, I don’t want to be found, at least not tonight.

When he drops me off around the corner from my house, Ty holds my hand and looks into my eyes. “Good night, Lacey Anne,” he says, leaning in for one more kiss. I feel like everything has changed.

I walk home and slip off my shoes at the front door. I’m careful not to let the lock click as I enter, and then I pad softly up to my bedroom.

I lie down, but my body is buzzing with energy. It feels almost holy, like when we speak in our personal prayer languages. I don’t know how I’ll ever fall asleep. And yet somehow I start to drift off. As I’m fading into dreamland, I think I understand how Tessa could have made a mistake with Jeremy, if she ever felt like this.

Chapter Twenty-two

On Wednesday after school at Hell House rehearsal, I let go during personal prayer warm-up. I allow the energy to flow through me, and I hear myself shout while my body jolts and jerks. The movements feel like they’re coming from inside my soul, and my awareness almost completely leaves the room.

I remember this connectedness, this nearness to God. I’ve always loved how it’s made me feel. And now, even in my confusion, I bask in the glow of His love. I know it’s there for me, no matter what my thoughts. Because He is there even for those who question Him, even for nonbelievers, even for sinners. Ty reminded me of that.

I pause for a moment and I hear my father’s personal prayer language—the way he gives himself up to God so willingly, so passionately. I know things can’t be right when we’re at odds like we are. I know I must have misunderstood things he said to me, I know we can get back to the place where we see things the same way. I pray for that, as I feel God’s love warm the room with all of us together, sharing this moment.

When we break to rehearse our individual scenes, I make a quick stop at the ladies’ room. Through the window I can hear the strains of Geoff Parsons’s Suicide scene happening outside. I haven’t seen it yet, and I’m intrigued by what I hear.

When I leave the bathroom, I hear Pastor Frist call out, “Lacey! We need our Abortion Girl in here,” but I ignore him. I walk straight to the back exit and outside toward the staff parking area, where the suicide scene is being staged.

Geoff Parsons is sitting on the hood of our Taurus. I almost forgot we were using it in the show. He’s holding the prop gun my dad showed us earlier this summer, and it looks very, very real.

“Lord, I’m worthless and useless,” he says, and it stops me in my tracks. His voice is shaking. I feel the wind kick up and blow my hair around my face, and I shiver a little.

“My parents tell me I’m a waste of space, I don’t have any friends. I have no talents, Lord. I’m a loser, I’m a loner, I don’t deserve to live.” Geoff Parsons is riveting. He looks devastated, he looks broken, he looks nothing like the bully in the sanctuary who took Dean roughly by the shoulders. And somehow he looks more like a real person, more like himself.

As I hear him say his lines, I feel tears well up inside me, and I start to see why he has to have this role. Why he can’t be thrown out of Hell House. Why the work that he’s doing by starring as Suicide Boy is bigger than his bad attitude.

The door opens behind me and I hear Pastor Frist call my name again. “Lacey,” he says. “We’re needing to start your scene.”

I take one more look at Geoff, who’s still totally in character and putting the gun up to his head. Then I turn and follow Pastor Frist back inside.

I think about Geoff’s scene all day on Thursday. I had no idea he could bring that kind of emotion, that much pain, to the part of Suicide Boy. I’ve never seen anyone play it that way, and I’m wondering if there’s more to my dad’s defense of Geoff in this role.

Mom was right when she said Dad is always the one who gives advice—and his door has always been open to everyone, especially me. So why am I running away from trying to understand his point of view? I have to talk to him.