100 Days (8 page)

I look down at my gnarled hands resting in my lap and roll my eyes.
A real brimstoner,
Mom would call this guy. Sometimes, I almost want to invite Mom and Moira to attend a service just to see what would happen. Almost.

In the middle of this thought I feel a tapping on my arm. It's Nevvie, blinking up at me. “Heaven sounds lonely,” the kid whispers, catching me off guard.

I try my best to hold it together, but I don't do a very good job. Attempting to cover my laugh with a fake cough only makes things worse. Nevvie starts giggling. Dad clears his throat as a reminder for us to settle down.

The new preacher must think I'm laughing at him, because he pauses and looks right at me. I hold my breath and lower my eyes.

Next, the preacher moves on to homosexuality. “It is a sin for man to lie with man and woman to lie with woman!” He's yelling a little now, which doesn't seem entirely necessary, given the size of the room and the crowd. “Doesn't matter what the wicked world thinks about it. The Scripture says it's wrong, so it's wrong. End of story.”

A few quiet
amen
s rise up from the pews. I glance at Dad, who appears to be half-asleep. Jamey seems to think the little ones need to hear this, and I wonder if he thinks so, too. What good could it possibly do them?

The preacher notices my fidgeting. “God is not always fair.” He keeps his eyes on me when he says it and sort of gestures in my direction with his head. A few of the congregants sitting in the front rows turn to look. Some of the women who don't see me very often make pouty faces:
You poor little angel.

This time, it feels like the wind's been knocked out of me.
You did NOT just do that,
I think. Forcing myself to breathe and keeping my face a blank, I stare right back at the preacher.
You did NOT just make me the poster child for divine discrimination.
Thank God Moira's not here, or all hell would have broken loose by now.

For the altar call, everyone stands and sings “There's a Fountain Free.” It's never been one of my favorite hymns, but today it sounds particularly flat and oppressive. This is the time when anyone who isn't baptized is supposed to be so overcome with the Spirit that she can't stop herself from going down front, confessing her sins, and proclaiming her need to be cleansed. As usual, I stay put where I am.

Everybody here knows I haven't been baptized yet. I'm pretty sure Jamey asks them on a regular basis to please pray for her little geriatric stepdaughter who surely doesn't have much time left. This is probably why I feel the weight of the congregation's eyes on me as we sing. Obi and Nevvie have been really good during the whole service, but they're starting to get tired and cranky now. I wonder if maybe they're picking up on the tension in the room. “Do you want to go down front?” Jamey whispers, leaning toward me with a smile.

I shake my head and try to smile back, but I'm sure it looks forced. If there's one thing I know it's that I don't want to get baptized. Not yet and maybe not ever. I'm certainly not going to be bullied into it. For starters, I'm pretty sure people in the Bible got baptized in rivers and lakes—“living water” I've heard it called—which sounds pretty nice. It seems to me that a real baptism—one where you decide to trade your old, grimy life for a bright, shiny new one—should be outside in nature, where God can see you more easily. People you love should be there, too. All they have here at the church is a big fiberglass bathtub that one of the families donated when they remodeled. The tub sits on a platform in the back room. Not exactly the most spiritual water-based experience I can imagine.

*   *   *

Jamey doesn't try to hide her irritation with me in the car on the way home. I'm strapped into my booster in the middle row of seats next to Isaiah. Behind us, in the way back, the twins sit strapped into their own booster seats. “Have you heard of the bridge embankment theory?” my stepmother asks, turning to look at me.

“Um, no?”

“Jamey,” Dad says, glancing at her.

“What?” she asks him. “It's what finally convinced
you
, isn't it?” She smiles at me again, but it's a tight smile this time. “It means you could drive away from this church and hit a bridge embankment and die without being baptized. Think about how awful that would be.”

“But I don't have my license,” I answer. “Which means you or Dad would be driving, and Isaiah and Nevaeh and Obi would be in the car, too. So we'd probably all be dead. Not just me.” I immediately regret saying it. When I glance back at the twins, they're staring at me with eyes the size of dinner plates. “Which totally isn't going to happen,” I assure them. “You guys are going to live a long, long time.”

Behind the wheel, Dad clears his throat again like he did in church. “I think you've been hanging out with that friend of yours too much,” he says. “That big girl.”

Once again, I hold my tongue between my teeth to keep from saying anything I'll later regret.

Jamey, meanwhile, seems to think about what I said. “It may be true that we'd all die,” she murmurs finally, “but the rest of us have been baptized.”

I can't believe what I'm hearing. It's not physically possible to keep quiet any longer. “And your point is…?”

Oops.

Isaiah's head swivels around toward me. I'm pretty sure he's never heard anyone talk to his mother like this. Dad says, “That's enough, Agnes,” but I'm not sorry. I cross my arms in front of my chest.

“I think you know what my point is,” Jamey says, ending the conversation. She turns back toward the windshield and gazes out at the road ahead.

*   *   *

That night before bed, I find Isaiah in the bathroom brushing his teeth. “I have a favor to ask you,” I tell him.

Eyebrows raised, hand paused in midbrush, he regards me in the mirror.

“I was wondering if I could borrow your slingshot.”

Isaiah frowns. When a little line of toothpaste foam escapes from the corner of his mouth, he slurps it back in.

“Just until the next time I come here,” I tell him. The slingshot has a wrist brace, which makes it easier for me to shoot. The last time I tried it out, I discovered I had pretty good aim.

Isaiah spits and rinses, then stands there with the toothbrush in hand, deep in thought. Finally, he says, “You're gonna die soon, aren't you.” The way he says it, it's not a question.

I blink in disbelief. “What? That is so totally beside the point. Where did you even get such an idea?”

“It's what you and Mother were talking about in the car, isn't it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”

All I can do is sigh. Verily, the situation with these kids is worse than I thought. “I guess I'm … still considering my options,” I tell him.

He seems to think about this for a long moment. Then he says, “It'll suck if you don't accept Him. 'Cause then you'll go straight to hell, and I'll never see you again.”

All I can do is laugh. I know it probably confuses him, but I can't help it. All this talk of who's going to heaven and who's going to hell is ridiculous. As if humans have any control over that sort of thing. As if we have any way of really knowing whether or not there even
is
a heaven or hell in the first place. “If nothing else, you're going to make a great preacher someday,” I say. “So can I borrow your slingshot?”

Isaiah looks a little disgruntled. “What'll you trade it for?”

I think about this for a minute. I wasn't expecting to haggle. “Hey, you could have my old sling from when I broke my arm. A slingshot in exchange for a sling, right? Even Steven?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I'm sure it's way too small for me.”

Man, this kid drives a hard bargain. “I know,” I tell him. “How about my old retainer? I'll bring it for you next time I come.” A few years back, I had this fantasy that my teeth wouldn't grow in all funky and crooked like other progeria kids' teeth do. The retainer was my dentist's way of humoring me until I learned to face the facts, and I'm banking on it being both gross enough and cool enough to warrant a loaner on the slingshot. It is. At the mere mention of used orthodontia, Isaiah's frown disappears. He holds his hand out to seal the deal.

“Thanks, buddy.” I shake and then reach up to tousle his hair. I'm not quite tall enough, though, so Isaiah puts down his toothbrush and bends at the waist, lowering his head to just the right height.

 

19

BOONE

DAY 82: APRIL 4

I make sure to show up at Agnes Delaney's house right on time Monday afternoon. God knows I don't need any more grief from Principal Weaver.

I get out of the truck and squint at the yard before reaching into the bed for a rake and a big plastic bag for the dead pine needles and leaves covering the lawn. I'm wearing a flannel shirt and old work boots with brass hooks for the laces and steel toes shining through the worn-out leather. They were my dad's, of course. Next year, they'll probably be too small for me. A knit cap is pulled low over my head, pressing my raggedy bangs over my eyes like a screen, the way I prefer.

I remember this place. I was here once, years ago, for Agnes's birthday party in fifth grade. Agnes hadn't been at our school very long, and not too many kids went, if I remember right. Before presents were opened and the piñata was smashed to pieces, Ms. Delaney led us all out to the grass. With Agnes right there, she asked what we knew about progeria. Everyone was quiet. Nobody knew anything about progeria. A few kids peeked at Agnes to see if the questioning bothered her, but she seemed fine with it. Her mom told us Agnes's body was aging much faster than our bodies were (as if we couldn't see that), but that Agnes was still a kid.

“And you should treat me that way,” Agnes chimed in.

“Be a bit careful with her,” Ms. Delaney added. “But also remember she's not an old person. She's a young person, just like you guys.”

Afterward, we played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. When it was time for everyone to go home, Agnes handed out party bags full of candy and little toys. I got a plastic maze with a ball bearing trapped inside that you were supposed to tilt through the maze and into a divot at the end. The divot wasn't deep enough, though, so the ball would just roll right past it. That thing drove me crazy.

My dad picked me up from the party. Right away, I could tell he was having what my mother called an “off day.” His off days didn't happen too often back then, before his roofing accident, but when they did, watch out. When I got into the truck, he nodded at the toy in my hand and made a sarcastic “Oooo” sound, showing me how unimpressed he was with the quality of the party favors being handed out around here. Agnes and her mom waved at him from the lawn, but he didn't get out to say hello or anything. Instead, he turned his head away, scowled through the windshield, and pretended he didn't see them.

“You could have wished her a happy birthday,” I told him once we were headed home. Probably I was emboldened by cake and punch. Normally, I'd just shut my trap.

“Watch it, boy,” he said.

I stared straight ahead.

“That little freak makes me uncomfortable.” I figured he was trying to make a joke, but it didn't work. It wasn't funny. At that moment, it felt like our matching father-son tempers were completely in sync.

My jaw clenched. “She's not a freak.” I thought about shoving open the passenger side door at the next stop sign, flipping him off, and walking home. Or maybe just jumping out of the truck and running back to Agnes's house to stay at the party longer. Her mom seemed nice. I bet she'd let me stay until my own mom could come get me. But that would only cause trouble, and I'd wake up later in the middle of the night to the sound of my parents arguing. Even if they made up afterward like they always did, I wasn't going to put my mother through that if I could help it. A hot, dull ache rose behind my eyes. I closed them hard to make it go away and let out a slow, steady breath.

Neither of us said anything more for the rest of the drive home.

*   *   *

Heading toward the Delaneys' lawn now, I spot Moira Watkins standing on the top step with her hands on her hips. She's wearing old Doc Martens that have been painted bloodred. She's also wearing black-and-white-striped tights that look like they were issued by the county jail. Seeing her, I feel like I've arrived early for my appointment with death.

Agnes is sitting on the step below Moira with her arms crossed over her birdlike chest. The two of them stay where they are, watching as I come closer. Nobody says hello.

It's a small yard. I know I'm going to have to listen to their conversation whether I want to or not. At least the weather's dried out a bit. Otherwise, the carpet of oak leaves and pine needles would be too soggy to rake efficiently.
The only way out is through,
I tell myself, starting on the first pile. Thank God the girls make a show of ignoring me completely.

“So, how was your weekend?” This from Moira.

“My dad wants me to go to a chastity ball with him.”

“A what?”

“A chastity ball,” Agnes repeats. “It's a thing they do where a bunch of churches get together and host a dance for fathers and daughters.”

“Is that like a chastity belt?”

I do not allow myself to smile.

“Kind of,” Agnes says. “Jamey thinks it would be a good bonding experience for us.”

“Jamey also keeps a display cabinet full of Precious Moments figurines. Clearly, her elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Moira says. “And no offense or anything, but does your dad really think he needs to worry about your purity?”