Stealing Parker (5 page)

I have a lot of good memories from church too. Pouring hot wax into sand at Vacation Bible School, to make a candle for Mom. Packing baskets of canned goods and delivering them to less privileged families. Kneeling at the altar and thanking God for my friends. For Laura and Allie, who I played Beauty Parlor with. In junior high, we’d go to the city pool, lay our beach towels on the steaming hot concrete, and stare at Jeff, this lifeguard who looked like a Ken doll and drove a Harley.

I get a powdered doughnut and a black coffee, then go stand next to a window where I can see the entire room. Prime vantage point. No sign of Brian. Tate and Aaron join me, holding white paper napkins filled with donuts.

Tate and Aaron eat approximately twenty stale doughnuts and slurp down their coffees in the amount of time it takes me to eat my one doughnut. The church bell dings and dongs, letting us know that Sunday school starts in ten minutes. I love that bell. When I was little, the ushers would let me pull the long velvet cord, to make the bell sound clear across the county. I wish life were still simple like that sound.

It’s like the minute we entered high school, the church’s messages all changed. It was no longer about loving God. It was about not sinning. No drinking beer, no touching body parts that bathing suits cover, no swearing.

“Why aren’t Seth and Rachel hanging out with us?” I ask.

Tate’s face goes white. “Well, his mom told him to stop hanging around us…I guess she saw you and Aaron on the playground last Sunday, um…”

Aaron crumples his Styrofoam cup. “Shut up, man.”

I stare across the Fellowship Hall at Seth. He lifts his chin, acknowledging me, then goes back to talking to Rachel. Seth’s mom doesn’t seem pleased about that either. I get that his mom wants to protect him. But Rachel’s a sweet girl.

I used to be a sweet girl.

Tate and Rachel didn’t turn on me post Mom-gate. They go to Woodbury High, with Aaron, so it’s not like we’re great friends or anything, but they’re good company. We giggle a lot. Especially when Brother John does PowerPoint presentations of common devil worshipping signs.

But Aaron’s new here. That’s the only reason his parents haven’t told him to steer clear of me, Parker Shelton, Sinner Extraordinaire.

I should have business cards made.

•••

They say you give us gifts. You made Drew great at football, but he’s no Jordan Woods. He’ll never play in college. You made Dad an architect, but he’s not designing skyscrapers in New York or opera houses in Paris. You made me into a killer softball player. Good enough to make the all-conference team sophomore year. But more than that, you gave me something I loved.

But didn’t you realize that when you took Mom from me, that you were also taking something we shared? Mom was there the first time I picked up a tee-ball bat. Mom bought me my first glove. She showed me how to put a ball in my glove, wrap it up in a rubber band and put it under my pillow at night, so I could break it in. So I could dream about it.

But you took away that dream, and now I don’t know what’s left.

Written during services on February 14. Burned.

•••

Brian never showed at Big Church.

But before I left, I lifted a copy of the church directory from the main office, so I could stalk Brian in the comfort of my home.

“Is that them, you think?” Drew asks, pointing at a picture of an older couple. The caption reads Mr. and Mrs. William Hoffman. Where Brian’s sexiness came from is not evident in this picture. But they’re the only Hoffmans at Forrest Sanctuary.

I close the directory, go over to my vanity, and drag a hand through my drawer o’nail polishes. I pick out Bodacious Boysenberry and carry it to my bed, where I plop down next to Drew and start removing Passion Peach.

“Let’s Google him!” he says, opening my laptop, going into reporter mode.

I groan. If I do that, I’ll be a bona fide stalker. My business card should actually read “Parker Shelton, Slutty Sinner Sleuth Extraordinaire.”

Drew’s already typing his name into the search bar. Right then Ryan pokes his head in my room.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. Dark circles ring his eyes.

“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll start cooking,” I say, holding up my nails. Ryan nods and the door clicks shut. I love, love, love cooking, but it’s the only chore I really like. I love taste testing. Mom never worked. She was a housewife, and when she left, I had to take on chores like laundry and ironing after Dad turned his T-shirts pink and burned his thumb while pressing his pants. I wish Mom and Dad were still together. I wish her dog Annie was here. All I really want in life is a big furry dog that slobbers a lot.

“Here he is!” Drew says. Brian’s Facebook page pops up. The profile picture is of him in a Georgia Tech baseball uniform, holding a bat. He’s smiling. He’s younger than he is now. The rest of the profile is locked down, so I can’t get any juicy details like his favorite books and movies, to see what we have in common.

“You should friend request him,” Drew says, moving the cursor to click the button.

“No way!” I slap his hand and log out of my account before he does something drastic.

I make a split-second decision to repaint my nails with Passion Peach.

When I asked if he played ball, Brian replied, “Something like that.” He played college ball but won’t admit it?! I start to Google his name, then shut the laptop. I will not be a psycho, no matter how much I want to know him. No matter how much I want to feel that link again. He understands what it’s like to miss someone. He treated me like I’m somebody worth knowing.

Brian Hoffman. Who are you?

My Monday thus far:

1. Ride bike to school. Store bike at racks. Notice Brian’s red truck. Casually peek in windows for clues as to who he is. A fruit punch Gatorade sits in the center console along with a heap of coins. He has two bumper stickers: one is for the Braves, the other reads
coexist
and is covered by all these symbols that I recognize from Brother John’s PowerPoint presentation on devil worshipping signs. Based on this evidence, I have determined Brian and I are meant to be together. I love Gatorade! I use money! The Braves were my team once. I believe in coexisting. Totally meant to be together! (Kidding, kidding.)

2. Inside Hundred Oaks before first period, I make a point of walking by Coach Burns’s office near the gym. No sign of Brian. Unfortunately I hear Coach Burns talking on his phone. His sweet nothings are gag-worthy. “Yes, baby. I love you, sweet plum.” Sweet plum? Really?

3. Daydream during advanced US history. Does Brian have an apartment? I picture myself tangled up in his crumpled sheets, our legs knotted. The idea scares me a little because I’ve never gotten naked with anybody. I close my eyes, thinking of him in the buff, and accidently let out a moan. The entire class looks at me.

Silence.

Crickets.

Embarrassment.

“Slut,” Laura hisses under her breath.

Prude
, I think, remembering what Tate said at church.

“Hey, hey! I’m trying to learn here,” Sam says, slipping a pencil behind his ear. “Some of us think about more than the opposite sex.”

“No one believes that, Sam,” Mr. Davis says, rubbing his eyes.

4. I walk by Coach Burns’s office between classes. Where is Brian? He must be the only coach/teacher who doesn’t actually come to school.
Gar
. This time Coach Burns has two guys in his office and is yelling at them for horsing around in the locker room. Apparently one guy stole the other’s clothes and tried to flush them down the toilet, which explains why the other is wearing only boxers with pine trees on them. I remember those boring underpants from the Pajama Party Prom.

•••

At lunchtime, I’m sitting in the cafeteria, checking over Drew’s algebra, when Corndog plops down next to me.

“Can I see your calc homework?” he asks. “I want to make sure I got the third word problem right.”

A month ago, I would’ve said “hells to the no,” but valedictorian is in the bag and Corndog got stuck in second place because he bombed that horrific chemistry pop quiz back in October. Ha! Our school announced the valedictorian and salutatorian in January, so I’m not studying for three hours a night anymore.

“Which problem was that again?” I ask.

Corndog reads from his book. “A cup is in the shape of a truncated cone with a radius of 4 centimeters at the top and 2 centimeters at the bottom and a height of 6 centimeters. Water is being poured into the cup such that the height of the water in the cup is changing. Write an equation for volume of the water in the cup as a function of its height.”

“That one was hard. My answer’s in my blue folder.” I nod at my backpack. He digs around inside, pulls out the folder, and brushes his brown hair away from his face.

I erase Drew’s answer to number four and fill in the correct one. He hovers over my shoulder, watching.

“Ohhh,” he says.

“Are y’all cheating?” Corndog asks, peering at Drew’s homework.

“No.” I feel myself blushing. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, pointing at my paper.

“The only reason I couldn’t do this problem is ’cause I didn’t have a cup.” Corndog purses his lips, laughing.

I set my pencil down. “Enlighten me.”

“Don’t you have my cup? As manager of the baseball team, aren’t you in charge of our equipment?”

Drew bursts out laughing.

“I am
not
in charge of your cups or your dirty jockstraps.”

“Tsk tsk. I’m going to report you to Coach Hoffman for not being in complete control of our equipment.”

Drew is wiping tears away from his eyes.

I stare Corndog down. “I’m going to report you for being a complete tool.”

“How am I supposed to write an answer to this problem if you can’t tell me where my cup is?”

“There’s no way in hell I’d touch a cup.”

“Not even say, Bates’s?” He smirks and stares past me at Drew, who quickly looks away. His face goes red, and he plucks his algebra homework from my hand, gathers his backpack and laptop case and storms out of the cafeteria.

“What was that about?” Corndog asks, his forehead crinkling.

I rap my pencil on the table. “Piss off, Corndog.”

“Whoa.” His face turns serious. “What’s wrong?”

“On Saturday…you said something about Drew? Did you really think I’d use my best friend? Do you really think I’m that kind of person?” I play with a string hanging from my hoodie, waiting for him to respond.

He steals a chip off my tray. “On Friday night at Miller’s Hollow, he told me he was dumping Amy. He said he doesn’t like her as much as he likes someone else.”

“And you think he meant me?”

He shrugs and eats another of my chips. “I dunno. I figured so.”

I shove a bunch of chips in my mouth and crunch on them. I swallow, hating that I’m giving in to hunger. I want people to see me as pretty, as ladylike.

“I don’t like him like that,” I say quietly.

“Shit,” he replies, dragging a hand through his hair. “Poor Bates.” For as much as he gets on my nerves, Corndog’s a pretty good friend to lots of people. But he obviously doesn’t share my suspicions about Drew.

At the table behind us, Laura is going on and on about the Prom Decisional. “Y’all, you have to vote for a Disney theme. You just have to. I’m gonna dress as Princess Jasmine and I’ll get Aaron Pritchard to go as Aladdin!”

Aaron from church? The Aaron I made out with? Same ole Laura. What’s mine is hers, and what’s hers will always be hers.

“I’d rather do the Roaring Twenties,” Allie tells Laura. “Wouldn’t flapper dresses be so cute?”

“We’re doing Disney!” Laura squeals.

Corndog groans so low I can barely hear him. “Disney sounds terrible.”

“I like Ancient Rome more,” I reply. “I have this gorgeous white silk dress I could wear.” It belonged to Mom, but she never wore it and left it behind for me.

“Sounds pretty. Who are you going with?”

“No one in particular. I love my dress though,” I say, smiling to myself.

“I’m thinking of suggesting a Ho Down Prom. We’ll tell all the girls it’s a farm theme, you see, but really all the guys will dress in drag. Like hookers. Get it? A Ho Down?”

I laugh. “I’d pay money to see that.”

“Right?” Corndog chuckles and grabs another chip. “So are you gonna tell me what you did with my cup?”

I grab a handful of chips and throw them in Corndog’s face.

I hear a laugh. A shadow falls across my tray and papers, and someone taps my shoulder. “Parker, I’m glad to see you’re keeping my captain in check.”

I twirl around and look up to find Brian Hoffman standing there in a button-down Oxford shirt and black tie. He looks like a Geek Squad sexpot. Black hair falls in waves around his ears.

He nods once at me. “I need your help with something after practice this evening. Can you stay for fifteen minutes or so past six o’clock?”

“Fifteen minutes?” I squeak.

“Give or take a few.” Brian smiles.

I examine my nail polish. I’m glad I stuck with Passion Peach. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay, see you then.”

A bunch of girls, including Laura, stare at him as he struts out of the cafeteria.

Corndog gives me a smile and looks from me to the cafeteria doors, shaking his head. “You are highly entertaining, Parker Shelton.”

•••

You’re not going to believe this, but after lunch, I don’t stalk Coach Burns’s office to look for Brian. Instead, I stalk Drew’s locker to make sure he’s all right. A sign advertising the annual Baseball-Softball Prom Decisional on April third hangs on the wall. Tickets for the game are already on sale.

I glance at my watch a few times and slide on fresh lip gloss while waiting for him. Approaching at my ten o’clock is Ty Green, aka the hottest guy at school, swaggering sexily. We talked briefly at this New Year’s party, but he disappeared before the ball dropped. When the ball fell, I was all alone, and this incredible loneliness washed over me, like being pulled under by a strong tide.

Ty gives me this knowing grin, then heads toward the art room. That’s when Drew shows up with Matt Higgins, who does this vanishing act into the library. As if he’s ever been in there.

Drew opens his locker to check his reflection in the little mirror he has hanging inside.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “Can we talk?”

“I’m busy.”

“You look fine.”

“Yeah?” He grins at himself in the mirror.

“You’re like the Narcissus of Hundred Oaks.”

He looks over his shoulder at me. “Who? You callin’ me a girl?”

I shut my eyes and shake my head. My brother has been complaining for years that he and I must be the only cultured people in Franklin. “No, he was this Greek guy. In the time of the gods.”

“You think I’m a Greek god? I knew you loved me.”

“Come on, you.” I shut his locker door and pull him into the library, leading him to the magazine room. We fall down onto cushy chairs. Drew sets his laptop case on the floor. He always keeps his computer nearby in case he has a free moment to write.

I open my purse and pull out my compact so I can re-powder my face. I dab it across my nose and chin. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He props his ankle on his knee and shakes his foot.

“You ran out of the cafeteria. I was worried.” I shut my compact and slip it back into my bag.

Drew drums his fingers on the chair’s arm, then takes my hand and studies my peach nails. “I like this color. It’s simple.” He slowly meets my eyes.

My cell beeps, and I quickly check the screen. Mom. She sent me a text saying she hopes I’m having a nice day. “Ugghhh,” I groan. “She’s so annoying. She won’t let go.”

“Who was that?”

“Mom.”

“Have you talked to her lately?” Drew asks softly.

“No.”

“Sometimes she calls my mom to check in, because you never answer her calls. Why haven’t you?”

“Because,” I snap. The librarian gives me a warning glare. “She ruined my family and everything with my church when she…you know…came out. I just don’t get why she had to leave us.”

I rarely talk about any of this, not even with my family, so I’m surprised it’s tumbling out of my mouth. It’s like, if none of this had happened, everything would’ve been okay with me—with church, with softball, maybe I would’ve had real dates. The real goddamn kicker is that her girlfriend, Theresa, was the church office assistant.

“But it’s not your mom’s fault,” Drew starts.

“But it is.” I shove the phone deep in my bag.

“She can’t help it—”

“It doesn’t bother me that she’s gay. I just wish my family was still together.” My eyes water.

He hesitates, and looks around the magazine room. His mouth opens, but the warning bell rings for next class and Drew jumps to his feet. He throws an arm around me as we enter the crowded hallway.

•••

Laura had a big black dog named June. I loved going to her house. I’d throw stick after stick, and June would go retrieve them and lope back to me, and I swear, if dogs could smile, June would have the biggest grin on her face. I loved playing with that dog. Hugging her. Kissing her. Laura hated that I got along so well with the dog, because June belonged to her and she didn’t like sharing.

Then, one Sunday morning, Laura told me June had died. I cried during Sunday School. I wiped tears off my face during Big Church, using the hem of my dress. Mom and Dad asked what was wrong, so I told them the dog had died. When my parents expressed their condolences to Brother John, he told them June was alive and well. And then Brother John gave me a lecture on how lying is a straight path to Hell. I never told anyone that Laura lied. I didn’t want anyone to tell her she was on a path to Hell.

Written February 15. Wadded up and burned. The flame caught my thumb and I stuck it in my mouth, to soothe it.

•••

Today’s practice starts out with a team meeting. I squeeze between Drew and Sam on the bleachers.

Brian is standing in front of us, twirling a bat in his hands like a pinwheel. I’m glad to see he ditched the Best Buy employee costume for a sweatshirt and baseball pants that’ve seen a few workouts.

He glances at me and then focuses on Coach Burns, who clears his throat and reads from his clipboard, telling us about the first game set to take place Saturday against Tullahoma. He explains that we should meet at school at 6:30 a.m. to get on the bus so we can go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast and then make it to Tullahoma in time to warm up.

Drew growls, “I hate Cracker Barrel. I’m sick of it.” His mom is always bringing food home because she gets a 50 percent discount.

“I love their pancakes,” I say, knocking my knee against his. “I wish you’d hook me up more often.”

Drew knocks his knee against mine. “As if you’d eat a pancake.”

“I would eat one.”

“Pancakes or waffles?”

“Waffles. Syrup or butter?”

“Miss Shelton, is there a problem?” Brian asks. He stops twirling his bat.

“Um, no?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“No private conversations while Coach Burns is talking, please.” He turns his gaze from me to Coach Burns, and heat rushes through my body. Why’d he have to embarrass me like that?

Since the softball team is still using the field, Coach Burns starts talking strategy for Tullahoma, the first of forty-five games. The football team gets all the money they want, but our baseball and softball teams share equipment and a field. Coach Burns seems like the kind of guy who makes do with whatever he gets. What kind of coach will Brian be next year?

Coach Burns says
blah, blah
and I focus on the softball team, watching them scrimmage. The girl they’ve got playing third base has poor range. She’s not quick on her feet. I could always cover the entire gap between third and shortstop, diving when I needed to, taking a ball straight to the gut when required. This girl barely moves three feet, then lets the left fielder clean up her mistakes.