100 Days (20 page)

“Well then,” he says, smiling at me. “In that case, let's go party.”

*   *   *

A man's deep voice booms out a welcome the second we set foot inside the conference room the churches have rented for the evening. It's the new preacher, the one I offended by laughing during his sermon. He and my dad shake hands, and then he turns his attention to me. “Well,” he says. “Now, that's a dress, young lady. Why don't you give me a twirl?”

At first, I don't understand what he means. Then the preacher makes a little twirling motion with his index finger. “Um,” I say. “Okay.” Dad frowns a little as I do the best twirl I can. My hips and knees have been aching all day, so it's more of a slow circle.

“I have some rings for the two of you,” the preacher says, bending down toward me. There's a big smile on his face, but he looks a little uncertain about this part. “They're promise rings. They represent a promise you're making to, uh, stay faithful to your father here as well as to your Father in Heaven.” He opens a little box. “With this ring you promise to, uh … remain abstinent until you are, you know…”

“Married?” I ask him, trying to hide my own smile.

The preacher clears his throat. “Well, yes,” he says. “That's the idea.”

I look past him and into the conference room. Teen and preteen girls are milling about with their fathers near a bunch of tables set up for the fancy dinner. A banner hanging above a podium at the front of the room reads
CHASTITY. PURITY. GODLINESS.
Without warning, I've had enough. I can't do this anymore. Dad was right. I really,
really
don't want to be here. “So, basically,” I say, meeting the preacher's eyes, “you guys are really freaked out by the idea of females having sex before a certain time that you consider appropriate.”

He stands up, wide-eyed. “What did you…?”

“Is there a chastity ball for males?”

“Of course not. That would be—”

“Then this is just totally hypocritical and ridiculous,” I say, interrupting him. “Even if there
was
one for guys, the whole thing is pretty creepy in my—”

Dad takes my hand. “Agnes,” he says. I feel a lecture coming on, and the thought makes me sigh. I'm not trying to be mean. I'm not even trying to be disrespectful. I'm just so tired. Just so, so tired.

“What, Dad?” I say, my voice a little hostile now. The preacher straightens up and snaps the ring box shut, clearly getting ready to set me straight, to instruct me in all of my moral failings.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Dad answers, cutting the preacher off before he can say another word.

*   *   *

An hour later, we're driving home from the burger joint where we stopped for dinner and where other customers openly stared at the two of us as we walked through the door. I had taken off the itchy wig and left it in the car, which meant I entered the restaurant looking like Cinderella's bald, shrunken doppelgänger. I momentarily wondered if I should have left it on.

“I guess we're quite a sight,” Dad said, grinning.

Dad caved in to my begging and let me sit up front for this part of the drive. Now I'm messing with the radio, trying to find a decent station. I land on one that's playing old-timey music, and he says, “Oo, wait! Leave it here!” He pulls the car into the parking lot of a strip mall we were just about to pass. “I love this song. Do you know it?”

I shake my head. It sounds familiar, but I couldn't name it. It's catchy, though. I move a little in my seat to the rhythm.

“The Temptations,” Dad says. “‘Ain't Too Proud to Beg.' One of the all-time greats.” Then he holds out a hand. “Care to dance, my lady?”

I look at him like he's crazy. “Here?”

“Why not?” He has parked in the big, empty lot, and he cranks the radio up so loud that I have to plug my ears. It's like being in Moira's car. Leaving the engine running and the headlights on, he opens his door, gets out, and comes around to my side. I'm starting to get the picture. Smiling, I take his hand and jump down onto the concrete in all my finery. “Why, thank you, kind sir. I believe the dance floor is this way.” I lead him toward the front of the car, and the two of us start dancing right there in the glare of the headlights.

“Here's how we used to do it,” Dad says, breaking out some of his best moves from the Stone Age.

“Oh my God! Dad, no!” I can't stop my mortified laughter from bubbling up. “It looks like you're being attacked by killer bees!”

“Okay then, whippersnapper. You show
me
how it's done.”

I respond by showing him some of the moves I've seen in videos recently, moves I sometimes practice in my room when I'm bored. The chastity ball dress throws sparkles everywhere, all over Dad's tux, out across the parking lot, and onto the windows of the closed stores. I'm like my own disco ball, my own laser light show.

Dad watches me, openmouthed. “You never could have gotten away with that at the chastity ball,” he says.

Ten minutes later, we're breathless and boogied out. I can't remember the last time I felt so physically exhausted and so happy at the same time. Who cares if dancing in the glow of headlights is the stuff of cheesy inspirational movies? This time, it's
my
movie, and I can't imagine anything better at this moment than dancing with a guy I love.

 

56

MOIRA

DAY 45: MAY 11

It's one of those balmy spring days that make a person want to
do
something. I'm as amped up as a Chihuahua on crack after school on Wednesday, and I need to get out of the house.

Unfortunately, Agnes has a cold again. She's already told me she's not up to going anywhere.

“Let me come over and bake for you, then,” I said when we talked earlier. “You could just sit there and watch.”

“I feel too crappy, Em. I just want to stay home, eat some chicken noodle soup, and nurse my stuffy head.”

“You're no fun.”

“I know,” Agnes said. “I'm sorry.”

And then there's this: ever since I decided to take my brother up on his offer, I welcome any distraction that will help put the Berkeley trip out of my mind. It's just four days away now. My stomach gets queasy and my hands get shaky anytime I think about it. Driving always helps. Baking, too. Not to mention eating the things I bake. God, I've probably gained ten pounds in as many days. My dad's been pretty good about helping me power through trays of brownies and batches of cookies, but I can tell even he's getting sick of the stuff at this point. And my mom won't touch all the processed sugar and bleached flour. Now it looks like Agnes and Deb are out, too.

Which is probably why I find myself navigating El-C around turns in the endless dirt road leading to Boone's place.
And why not?
I reason to myself.
My homework's done, and I've been ready for finals since winter break. Maybe I can help Boone study.
I stay under the speed limit to avoid toppling the stack of baking supplies I piled into a cardboard box and set on the passenger seat before leaving the house. I'd run out of most of my ingredients, but miraculously, my mom had a bag of real chocolate chips in the pantry, buried under all the carob. There was a bottle of her good homemade vanilla extract in there, too, the kind she makes by slicing a bunch of rubbery vanilla beans and stuffing them into brown glass bottles filled with cheap vodka. I also grabbed a few sticks of unsalted butter from the freezer and eggs from the fridge before leaving, but sugar was a problem. All Mom had was raw turbinado or agave nectar. I'll have to count on Boone being one of those teen guys who oversweetens his breakfast cereal and his coffee with nutrition-free white sugar.

The dirt road keeps me focused by shifting beneath El-C's tires like it did the first time I came out here. It's like driving across marbles. The washboard ruts don't help, either. Boone is out chopping wood in front of the dilapidated little house when I drive up. He straightens when he spots El-C, rests the ax blade on a stump, and squints at me. I give a little wave, but doubt descends quickly. It was probably stupid to show up uninvited like this. What was I thinking? Then again, I did try calling him before I left, just to make sure he was home. His cell phone was maybe out of minutes, because all I got was a generic recording.

What the hell. I'm here. May as well see it through. “I keep feeling like I need to thank you for … stuff,” I proclaim as I open my door and extricate myself from El-C. “You know, all the … stuff you do for Agnes … and me.” What a doltish thing to say. Haven't I already thanked him enough? Isn't all that “stuff” already behind us? Plus, I need to stop talking so fast.

“You don't have to thank me,” Boone says, coming closer. He looks a little wary, confused. It's not what I was expecting. Well, what
was
I expecting, exactly? A parade and confetti?

On top of the doubt, I'm flustered. I hate being flustered. To cover it up, I dive toward the box sitting on the passenger seat. “Look,” I say, holding up the chocolate chips and the vanilla. “Stuff for cookies!” As soon as the words leave my mouth I think,
Enough with the “stuff” already. Kill me now.
Jesus, why am I so awkward around him all of a sudden? Movement in a window of the house behind him catches my eye and provides a welcome distraction. “Is that your mom?”

Boone turns to look at the window and nods. He holds up a hand and waves, but she's already disappeared behind one of the curtains. His face is grim.

“It's her horse I rode, isn't it? If you can call what I did
riding
, I mean.” I'm still babbling, but I'm grateful for the change of topic at least.

“Yeah,” he says. “Used to be hers, anyway. She's not too interested in him now.”

“Well, I'd like to thank her, but if I'm not welcome…”

“It's not that,” Boone says. “It's…” His voice drops off.

“You know what? Never mind. This was a bad idea. I'm sorry.” It
was
a bad idea coming out here, but at least I know what to do now that it's clear neither of us is going to get over the awkwardness. To hide my disappointment, I turn my face away from him. I'm reaching toward the cardboard box to put the chocolate chips and vanilla back when a soft yet firm voice says, “I taught you better manners than that, Boone.”

I startle a little at the unexpected sound. Straightening up, I turn to see Mrs. Craddock standing in the open doorway of the house.

 

57

BOONE

DAY 44: MAY 12

It's not possible to overstate my humiliation at that moment, when my mother decided to make an appearance out of nowhere. All a person had to do was behold the state of her, the state of the house, and the state of my entire life to know that this was not going to end well. Mom just stood there in the doorway, like she's safer in doorways or something, like an earthquake's going to level the place at any moment. She said what she said about manners, and then she motioned for me and Moira to follow her inside. It was surreal.

As we entered the house, I felt dizzy, like all the blood was leaving my head and draining toward my feet. I tried to see the place as Moira must have seen it: the worn carpet and old television circa 1988; the cobwebs and soot graying the walls; the living room coffee table covered with a partially completed jigsaw puzzle of dogs playing poker. There were loose pieces everywhere.
The shrapnel of my mother's life,
I almost said out loud, but didn't, thank God. Looking at my house through Moira's eyes was like being disemboweled without anesthesia. If Moira felt uncomfortable or disgusted, though, she hid it really well.

Strangely, the day ended up sort of okay after that. It was only a little weird having Mom wandering around the house as if being around other humans was a foreign experience for her. Which it kind of is.

For the rest of the afternoon the two of us hung out, just making cookies and goofing off. At one point, when Mom was in her room, I threatened to lick the wooden spoon before we'd finished using it to drop dough onto the baking sheet. Moira tried to take the spoon away from me, and I resisted. In response, she wrapped an arm around my waist to brace herself as she wrestled it from my grip and then pointed it at me like she'd had quite enough of my shenanigans. She couldn't hide her smile, though, and I didn't allow my brain to linger for too long on the warm softness of her body when she'd pressed it against me. She was even stronger than I'd suspected. Both of us were out of breath afterward.

Later, while the cookies cooled on sheets of newspaper, Moira and I sat facing each other at the old wooden table. A thick slice of sunlight slanted down through the air between us, and all I could think looking at her through that light was,
This will do. This will do just fine.

 

58

AGNES

DAY 43: MAY 13

I must have boogied a little too hard the night of the chastity ball, because now, three days later, I still don't feel good. More specifically, I feel like I was “drug through a knothole backward,” which is something I once heard Boone say. Mom would kill Dad if she knew about our late-night dance party in that parking lot Tuesday night. It was worth it, though, even if my head does feel like it's stuffed with cotton and sand.

 

59

BOONE

DAY 42: MAY 14

Agnes is staying at her dad's house for the weekend, so Moira and I decide to hang out at my favorite downtown dive, a little hole-in-the-wall diner where they serve fifty-cent coffee with free refills. “I've heard that new movie about undead circus clowns is supposed to be pretty cool,” I say once we've settled into our booth. The seats are covered with cracked vinyl, and the Formica tabletop is etched with decades' worth of graffiti. We're the only customers at the moment. As usual, I'm struggling to find a topic of conversation that won't make me sound like a complete tool. I've always sucked at small talk, but I remind myself that it's okay. We're just hanging out. It's not like I'm trying to impress her or anything.