You Don't Know About Me (3 page)

I checked out the two windows in the tiny bedroom in the back corner of the house. The neighbors' houses were dark shapes. I saw something in the backyard that looked like a big black mushroom. I figured it was the birdbath Mom liked.

I wasn't totally bummed. Even if it was too late for the neighbors' windows to be showing awesome mounds and curves, I'd seen enough of Independence to know it had some sweet-looking hills. And good hills meant gnarly bike trails.

We woke early Sunday morning. Picking the first church to scope out in a new town always depended on what growled louder, our stomachs or our souls. This time, the road food in the cooler had spoiled, so our stomachs won the growling contest. That meant that we were headed to a megachurch. Megachurches had the best doughnut spreads.

Mom consulted her
U-S-Pray Directory
and found a megachurch. The name was perfect: Feast of Faith Church. I was looking forward to the doughnut spread and was relieved that Mom would be dialing her righteous rage to mellow. She had a rule: If a church wanted to stray from His Way, that was its business; but after she joined, it was also hers.

The doughnut spread at Feast of Faith was mega-praiseworthy. But it was going to be a one-time feast. Strike one against Feast of Faith was a worship band playing CCM. Mom said they could call it contemporary Christian music till Judgment Day, but any band with guitars and drums, no matter how loud they praised Jesus, was a stepping-stone to the concert of sex, drugs, and rocky souls. Strike two: the cameras and the huge screen above the stage showing a jumbo version of the service. Putting your service on cable TV was a sure sign it was a “dead
church.” Any church that encouraged people to worship from a Barcalounger instead of a pew was promoting the sin of sloth.

But the Feast of Faith's big whiff was Communion. The deacons passed around trays of tiny containers, like those half-and-half things in a diner. Under a plastic top was a dime-sized wafer. Then under a foil top was a swallow of grape juice. Me and Mom skipped Communion. I was with her on that. The body and blood of Christ should never be served as a Lunchable.

The pastor preached about how Christ told his disciples not to hide a candle under a bushel but to let their lights shine so everyone could see their good works. He said God has a higher purpose for all of us, and that everyone needs to find their calling so they can shine their light on the world.

I listened close. In Tulsa I'd started doing some mega-cranial time on God's plan for me. When I was little it was a done deal. I would be a Jesus-throated Whac-a-Mole and Mom's wingman in the New J-Brigade forever. But I'd been wondering about what would happen if Mom went to jail, or worse. I wasn't sure I had the strength of faith to be a one-man J-Brigade. Christ says it only takes a mustard seed of faith to make you a believer. What He didn't say was the opposite. It only takes a mustard seed of doubt to make you a doubter.

After the service, I snagged a couple more doughnuts. When I got the stink eye from a group of guys, I scooted outside.

Driving back to the house, we passed one of the things watering my seed of doubt. At the end of a football field, a
big scoreboard announced,
WILLIAM CHRISMAN HIGH SCHOOL—HOME OF THE BEARS.
Maybe wanting to go to high school wasn't exactly a calling, but it felt like mine. And wanting to go on the pro mountain biking tour, of course. But the pro tour was the Big Jump. The ramp to the Big Jump was going to high school and being a normal kid. Whenever I brought it up Mom said no way. She claimed high school was “high” school because it was where kids got high on drugs. That didn't worry me. I'd snuck off and ridden enough trail with heathens and other freaky kids to know my soul could survive the devil's tribe of high schoolers. The fact was, the last thing I wanted was to start tenth grade at One-Pillar High—Home of the Jesus-throated Whac-a-Moles.

After we unpacked the U-Haul I finally got to go for a spin. I wanted to do two things: check to see if the coffin store was real, and scope out Independence for off-road trails. If I got lucky, I might even find a pack of bikers my age.

Downtown was a bunch of brick buildings sticking up two or three stories. I bunny-hopped the curb in front of the Casket Outlet. The coffin in the window was hot white in the sunlight and tricked out with gold handles. I wondered how many other kids in Independence had the same itch I'd had the night before: to jump in the coffin and Rip-van-Winkle till they were eighteen. The chance that someone had beat me to it got me thinking; the coffin store needed a neon sign like a motel:
VACANCY
or
NO VACANCY
.

On the next street I spotted a candy store called Sweet Sam's. I stopped in front of the big window and balanced a
track stand for a few secs before parking my sneakers. Inside, a man was making candy. Maybe he was Sweet Sam, maybe not. I'd seen taffy made before. I watched him pull and stretch and fold the taffy like a giant blob of bubble gum.

It didn't cause any cranial disharmony at the time, but looking back on what happened in the next two weeks my ride into town was like one of Mom's providence checks. Instead of opening the Bible and letting a finger fall on a verse to reveal God's will, I'd opened the Book of Independence, my sneaks had dropped in front of Sweet Sam's, and the taffy man was a sticky sign from God:
The truth is like taffy, Billy; you can pull it and stretch it and fold it till it's just how you want it.

After spinning away from Sweet Sam's, I spotted something jutting over the treetops. It looked like the biggest witch's hat in the world, a silvery-blue cone swirling up into the hot blue sky. A few blocks closer, I saw the “hat” rising from a round building with a huge silver cross. It was the most humondo church I'd ever seen. It was a
giga
church. But what church had a spire corkscrewing hundreds of feet toward heaven?

Riding toward it, my insides went shaky with excitement. It was how people must've felt when they spotted the Tower of Babel in the distance. Huge gardens and parking lots surrounded the gigachurch. Then I saw the sign. I slammed on the brakes so hard I almost did an endo face-plant.
CHURCH OF CHRIST
. It was Mormon.

I'd been so stoked about church-shopping the place. But no way would Mom step inside it. She said the Mormons were blind sheep led by false prophets.

I popped a wheelie, spun, and rode off. I'd seen enough stupid buildings. The heat coming off the pavement made me want to find some woods and trail. But I couldn't get the twisting witch's hat out of my helmet. Dark thoughts skittered in my brain like spiders. Mom had to know about the huge Mormon temple. So why would she move us to a place full of Mormons? The answer hit me like a sprung branch. She was planning an attack on the temple. The New J-Brigade was going to David-up on the Mormon Goliath!

The vision was so terrifying I tried to race away from it. I went into full hammer-spin. It was no use. I was so racked on what might happen—we assault the temple; Mom screams “If we perish, we perish!”; she gets her wish—everything shot by in a blur. I didn't look up till I'd power-slid in front of William Chrisman High. Going to high school wasn't just my calling anymore. It was the only way I'd be saved from a suicide mission, from Mom turning us into martyrs. I didn't want to be a martyr!
I wasn't even sixteen!

I dropped my bike and ran to the row of glass doors. I grabbed a handle, pulled. The door clunked, not budging. I tried others. All locked. I cupped a hand to the glass. No one in sight. I saw a sheet of paper taped inside. It said homeroom assignments and schedules would be mailed by August 2. The first day of school was August 16.

Then I did what I did best. I dropped to my knees. I prayed for God to intercede, to send a letter to my new house telling me my homeroom. I prayed for the glass wall to tumble down like the walls of Jericho. I promised God that if He let me walk into high school on August 16 I'd
gear-up in body-'n'-soul armor and ride a clean line through temptation and evil. If I listened to music it'd be CCM minus guitars and drums. If they had computers I'd only visit Christian websites. If they tried to teach me evolution I'd wear earplugs. I'd witness for Christ. I'd be a Jesus-throated Whac-a-Mole, taking the fight behind enemy lines!

When I was bursting with the Spirit, feeling like this was the best covenant God had been offered in some time, I asked for a sign that He'd heard me. Then I said, “Amen,” stood up, and added a PS:
Thanks for not letting anyone see me praying in front of school.

God has funny ways of letting you know when you've asked for one thing too much, when you've toed over the greedy-line. I turned around and jumped.

Four guys with skateboards stared at me from the curb. I recognized them even though they'd changed into shorts and T-shirts. They were the guys who'd given me the stink eye at Feast of Faith. My stomach chunged tight. It looked like a taste of high school was coming my way sooner than later.

The biggest guy had a mullet haircut, and a sneering grin. “Guess you didn't get enough knee time at church.”

“I wasn't praying,” I said, hoping one little lie wouldn't make God rip my covenant into a million pieces.

Mullet-guy dropped his skateboard with a loud
clack
. “So what were ya doin'?”

“I was seeing if I could pick the lock.”

The other guys snickered. A short guy with a ripped body like a wrestler turned to Mullet. “Maybe he got the miracle this morning. Maybe the light under his bushel is bein' a burglar.” They all laughed.

It was a good sign one of them had listened to the sermon. Maybe they weren't as tough as they looked. “I wasn't gonna steal anything,” I said. “I just wanted to check out my new school.”

“What grade?” Wrestler-guy asked.

“Tenth.”

“Us too.”

Mullet socked Wrestler in the arm, then glared at me. “You can't wait to scope a new school? What kinda fred are you?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. I'm still waiting for God to tell me.”

Everyone but Mullet huffed a chuckle.

“Tube it,” he snapped.

They shut up, so I figured that's what “tube it” meant. I'd never heard that one before. That's another thing about living in a lot of places: you're always picking up new lingo.

He gestured at my bike. “Whacha ridin', roadie?”

“I'm not a roadie,” I said. “I do trail.”

His face hardened. “That's not what I asked.”

“It's a Cannondale. You got trails around here, right?”

“Plenty.” Mullet's face twisted in its sneer-grin. “And I got just the one for ya. C'mon.” He pushed off on his board and two of the guys followed.

Wrestler-guy hung back. He could see I was hesitating. “You better come, or the next trail Case shows you will be a death march.”

Him saying “death march” gave me hope. It was biker talk. Maybe he was a biker too. As the others skateboarded ahead of us, I rode beside Wrestler and we traded names. He was Ben. The other two, besides Case, were Roger and Randy.

“Were you really trying to pick the lock?” he asked.

I'd lied too much already, so I went with half a lie. “With my mind, yeah.” Ben laughed. I changed the subject. “So where we going?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. When Case gets a session in his head he just goes for it.”

“And you guys follow?”

“Pretty much.” Ben grinned. “Don't worry, dude, if Case is gonna mess with you, it won't be 'cause you're some lock-pickin' Jesus junkie.”

“Why would he wanna mess with me?”

“Kinda obvious.” He pointed at my Cannondale. “You're a gear queer.”

I came right back. “We got names for boarders, too.”

“Yeah, like”—he pushed off hard and shot his arms in the air—“the superheroes of cement!”

I caught up with him and hit him with some trash talk I'd heard back in Tulsa. “No, gays on trays.”

He laughed. “Never heard that one. Don't say it around Case. He'll taco your bike and stuff you inside it.”

We bombed a hill and came to a big park scattered with
trees and lots of burnt-out grass. In the middle was a kiddie water park with fountains and metal trees that filled buckets with water, then dumped them on whoever was underneath. Little kids played in the water.

At the bottom of a long drop of cement steps, Case and the R-boys were doing stunts on benches. I figured they were waiting for us to catch up and we'd keep going. I rode down the grassy hill while Ben jumped on the cement ramp bordering the stairs and screamed down it. He jumped off just before his board hit bottom and flew toward Case. Case caught the board with his foot. I popped a nose wheelie next to them.

“What do ya think?” Case asked.

“Of what?” I asked.

He gestured all around. “Our track.”

“It's not exactly a trail.”

“Are you kiddin'?” He pointed at the stairs. “It's got steep and everything.” He poked me in the chest. “You sayin' our track isn't good enough for a pro like you? C'mon, hotshot”—he waved at the stairs—“let's see you nail the grade.”

I looked at the stairs and the two cement ramp-skinnies on each side. I'd cleaned stuff like it hundreds of times. “Local or express?”

“Express!” the R-boys shouted.

I ground up the hill, bunny-hopped onto the top of the ramp Ben had taken, and held a track stand for a sec while I checked the line. It was twenty feet of rail a foot and a half wide. The only brutal part was the bottom. It wasn't
like I was on a board and could bail like Ben had done. I had to time the impact of the flat just right and ride it out. I pushed my butt behind the cockpit and ripped down.