Sway (14 page)

T
wo days later I’m listening to the interviewer speak, but I can’t hear much past the monotone drone of the woman’s voice. The questions are always the same—whether asked by passersby on the street or a local news anchor or one of the hosts on
Good Morning America
. It’s almost as if some anonymous writer composed a list of acceptable ones and offered them for sale on Amazon—
Top Ten Questions to Ask an Atheist
, buy it now for the low, low price of $9.99. Answering them is exhausting. Boring. As predictable as the sun rising next Thursday morning, whether or not I’m still around to see it.

But as boring as the questions are, this is the first time they’ve ever bothered me.

I attempt to shake off the feeling and sit straighter in my chair, hard to do since the chair and the cameras and the rows of overhead spotlights are planted right in front of the nativity scene at Caleb’s foster center. I can almost feel the eyes of the Virgin Mary burning into my back.

Earlier this morning, I asked for a change in location—maybe a bookstore or a coffee shop or a Christmas tree farm somewhere nearby—but it seems everyone thought this spot would make for the best possible publicity. It will, but the attention is the last thing I want. Especially now.

Because even though I’ve wished to see Caleb at least a thousand times in the past forty-eight hours, right now I’m hoping with every fiber in me that he won’t show up here.

I force myself back in the moment and make eye contact with the woman across from me.

“Yes,” I say, nodding for extra emphasis. “I fully support my parent’s campaign. Church and foster centers—while both admirable in their own ways—need to stay separate if taxpayer money is involved.” I’ve given some variation of this answer a thousand times, but something about the look on her face tells me I messed up this time.

The way she sends an uncomfortable glance toward my father confirms it. Next to me, he clears his throat as she shifts in her chair. I don’t miss the impatient raise of her eyebrow or the condescending tone of her voice when she tries again, nor the way my father looks at me expectantly. I’m failing here, and we both know it.

“That’s all well and good, Kathy, but I asked you about how you feel about church leaders using their position to indoctrinate innocent children. Take this church, for example. What would you say to one of their leaders if you had the opportunity?” She leafs through a few pages of notes as a slow chill creeps up my spine. I know what she’s looking for. “Here it is.” She faces me again. “Last month in St. Louis, you were quoted as saying, ‘Church members in positions of authority need to stop using their power to convert children to their old-fashioned ways of thinking. Faith-driven pressures like these might be the single most detrimental issue facing our young people today, even more dangerous than unemployment and inner-city crime.’ ”

I blink, thinking of Caleb flipping through albums in my apartment. Of his tattoo. Of those studded biker boots.

Try as I might, I can’t come up with anything old-fashioned about him.

I uncross and cross my legs, wishing I had worn pants instead of a skirt because suddenly my legs feel sweaty and sticky even though it’s forty degrees outside. The heat lamps surrounding us are too hot. Too bright. Too focused on me.

“So what would you say to the leaders of this church?” the interviewer says, settling her papers back in her lap.

It feels like a giant ball of cotton is stuck in my throat as I try to swallow. The cameras are on me and her eyes are on me and I have to say
something.
“I guess I would say…um…that as far as this church goes…It’s probably best if…um…” I take a deep breath, wondering what in the world is wrong with me. I’ve been doing this for years. It should come as naturally as breathing. Right now, even breathing is difficult.

“I think what Kathy is trying to say is—”

I stop him with a hand to his wrist. I love my father, but I can’t let him speak for me. Those days are over, and besides—when it comes down to it—I want to sound professional. My image is at stake here, too. My chin goes up. I square my shoulders.

“I would say the same thing I’ve always said. Like any other church, this one has no place trying to interfere in the lives of children while using taxpayer money to do so. It doesn’t matter if they use only a little. That nativity scene needs to come down, or their doors need to close.”

My words sound confident, in control. And when I see my father smile, a sense of pride envelops me. Finally, I’ve done the right thing.

So why does a tiny part of me feel like I’ve just betrayed the one person I care about most?

*

With my headphones tucked inside my ear, I’m trying to stay on a path well-lit by streetlamps. Needing an outlet for my restlessness, I took off walking an hour ago. It’s dark, not as black as it will be but well past sunset. And call me crazy, but I’d rather not be attacked by some psycho stranger, especially when very few people are out here to hear me scream. So I follow the lights, which sometimes leaves me with the feeling that I’m walking in circles.

I’m on my fourth time around when I see him.

Lit up by his own set of lampposts, Caleb is jogging toward me like a scene from a movie, where the object of the girl’s affection appears at just the right time. Music swells. A reunion ensues. And they all live happily ever after.

Except I know the moment he sees me, and Caleb is anything but happy. His steps slow, and he’s skewering me with his eyes, sizing me up and not liking what he finds.

“What are you doing here?” Sweat drips from his forehead. He doesn’t even try to hide the accusation in his voice.

“Walking, same as you. Last time I checked, it’s a public park.”

“I’m running. Walking’s for wimps.” He’s comparing our workout routines, and it’s a dumb thing to say, and I have about a million different retorts hanging out on my tongue just waiting to be released, but I hold them in because he’s trying to prove a point. I’m not sure what exactly the point is, but he’s mad. Of course he’s mad. Gone is the boy who pinned me against his car door only a few days ago and kissed me until my knees nearly buckled. Gone is the boy whose devilish grin set everything to rights in my world, even through the turmoil of drunkenness and rallies and term papers. Gone is the boy I was falling for, which sounds so stupid when I think about it now, because what kind of moron falls in love in three days?
With a pastor,
my rational side whispers to me.

But the emotional side of my brain won’t listen to the rational side, because the emotional side can only remember his eyes…his gentleness…his lips…his tattoo. The emotional side is too busy staring at his sweaty, ridiculously chiseled chest.

The emotional side is still falling.

His next words yank me out of my descent.

“Don’t you have an interview you need to get to?” he says. “You know, one where you sit on
my
lawn in front of
my
nativity scene and give me more unsolicited advice about how I need to close my doors and quit brainwashing kids?”

My eyes fly to his face,
so
over his chest. If he expects me to feel bad about that interview, he’s sadly mistaken. “I wasn’t aware the church property belonged to you. And as for nativity scenes, I didn’t know I needed to ask your permission before sitting next to Jesus.”

His eyes flash. “Well, from now on, you do.” It’s the wrong thing to say, and for a moment I see a flicker of guilt because, seriously, he’s going to keep me away from baby Jesus? But just like me, Caleb is an expert at masking anything but a stubborn streak. As quickly as it comes, the guilt disappears. “Got it?”

My temper flares. “Why don’t you just take the nativity down? Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His gaze narrows. “Well since you’re such a fan of the media, here’s a news flash for you: I don’t bow to pressure, not from your dad and definitely not from you.”

“You might not say that once our lawyers get involved,” I snap. I regret the words as soon as they slip out.

“Bring it, Kathy,” he bites back, insulting me. I swallow the sting and engage in a stare down, two iron-clad wills fighting to come out on top. I’m breathing hard and he’s breathing hard and then he seems to remember something. “Speaking of lawyers, according to mine, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

His words punch at me, deflating my indignation, because he’s right. So much for a fight; just like that, I’ve lost. With a sigh, I tuck my headphones back inside my ears. “I’ll make it easier for you, then.” I turn to leave, suddenly wanting to flee this creepy, too-dark park and its watchful, painful eyes, especially with Caleb taking up all the space.

He doesn’t stop me like I hoped. He says nothing at all, and a crushing weight of disappointment settles around me. Even though it makes no sense, I want him to come after me. To challenge me. To make a desperate attempt to pull me away from my parents and over to his side. It probably wouldn’t work, but I still want him to try.

And I want, more than anything, for him to call my name and tell me we can work this out.

Instead, there’s nothing but silence and the sound of my sneakers treading dejectedly on the pavement. Less than ten seconds in, and I can already tell it’s going to be a long walk home. I press play on my iPod, counting on the slow strains of Janice Joplin to shatter the oppressive silence as I break into a jog. It’s dark now, and though I would never admit it to anyone, I’m a little afraid to be out here alone.

Just when I’ve gotten a good rhythm going, someone pulls on my arm and jerks me around.

“Get your hands off me!” I scream, then rip my headphones off and attempt to land a good punch on the body of whatever freak is stalking me, but stop just before my fist makes contact.

Caleb. I should have known.

“What are you doing, scaring me like that?” I drop my arm and shove him in the chest.

“I yelled at you six times! Turn your volume down!” My push did nothing but make him angrier, and he’s in my face again, looking down at me while I look up at him, only a few inches away. All of a sudden, my rapid breaths have nothing to do with jogging at all, because Caleb is so close and I just want to kiss him. I want
him
to kiss
me
. The thought comes from nowhere with a longing that surprises me. Caleb either senses it or feels it too, because with a quick glance at my mouth, he takes a step back and runs a hand over his face. The distance is minimal, but large enough to highlight that we’re once again on two sides of what feels like an insurmountable fence.

Still, he’s here. I’m here. Maybe, just maybe, we can figure out a way for each of us to take a step up.

“What do you want now, Caleb?” I sigh and look beyond him at the blackening night sky, thinking that step feels awfully high. “If you’re just going to yell at me again, can we reschedule for tomorrow? I don’t want to be out here much longer.”

“Then I’ll walk you home, because I have some questions and I think you owe me some answers.” What might pass for a smirk tilts a corner of his mouth for the smallest second. “Afraid of the dark, are you?”

A tiny thrill shoots through me at the idea of spending more time with him, but I’m not about to let him know it. “No, just of being accosted by strange men who have nothing better to do than ask me questions.” This time, his grin is genuine. It’s small and doesn’t last long, but I’ll take it.

I pick up a penny lying on the sidewalk and tuck it inside my pocket. I’m not particularly superstitious, but right now I’ll take all the help I can get, even if it means I’m forced to deal with a few germs. “What do you want to know?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Why pink?”

I feel myself frown. It’s an unexpected question, one I’ve never been asked before, but hardly difficult to answer. Because despite the thought that goes behind some organizations and their colors—Gay Pride with the rainbows, Just Say No with red ribbons—my answer is simple.

“Because on my first appearance at a rally—when I wasn’t quite a year old—I carried my blanket onto the stage. It was pink, and the media covered me and that blanket relentlessly for nearly a week. I guess my parents thought it brought good luck, and the next time, in addition to that blanket, I wore pink hair bows. Then pink shoes. Eventually, pink became my signature color, and consequently, the organizations.” I sigh, hating the explanation. “It sounds stupid, but since that day, we’ve never had a dip in interest. With every rally, more people attend and more people buy into our cause. Media attention has been huge since then, and it’s only growing.”

“Obviously,” he says with a humorless laugh. “And you’re proud of all this attention?” Whether on accident or on purpose, hostility creeps into his voice. I try to ignore it and answer as best as I can.

“I’ve never thought about it as a pride issue. Honestly, I’ve never really given it much thought at all. It just…is. I don’t think my parents are wrong, if that’s what you’re asking.” I guess it’s only fair that a bit of that hostility now finds its way into mine.