God is in the Pancakes (13 page)

“Well, I didn't want to just drop by unannounced in case you were doing something . . . I don't know, weird.”

“Uh-huh, be careful with the pervert talk, you might start giving me ideas, Manning. Hmm, I wonder how much someone like you would fetch if I tried selling you into white slavery?”

When I get to the Wards' door, Eric greets me with, “Heads up!” tossing a Granny Smith apple at me.

“Hey,” I yelp, quick enough to get my hand up, but not fast enough to catch the apple, which ends up bouncing against my palm and dropping to the ground.

“Reflexes, Grace,” Eric says with a smile and a shake of the head. “We're going to have to work on those reflexes.”

“I don't think your mom would be too happy to learn you're greeting visitors by pelting them with fruit.”

“Point, Manning.” Eric grimaces. “Okay, you've won this round, but I'll get you next time, my pretty.” He proceeds to twist his imaginary mustache at both ends. “Come on, it's good you're here, you need to quiz me for our American History test.”

“We're having a test in American History?”

“Uh, yeah? This is the test on the Vietnam conflict, recall?”

“Ah,” I say as we head upstairs to his room, “the war not deemed a war because we lost.”

“And why else was it a ‘conflict' instead of a war?” Eric presses in a professorial tone.

“Because there were no clear combat zones; there was no front. Territory was taken, lost, and taken back again.”

“And why else?” Eric asks as he sits down at his desk and I plop down on his bed.

“Because Congress never officially declared it a war.”

“Very good. And, for the bonus round”—he holds up his index finger—
“why else?”

“Because we had no plan,” I say, not realizing I'd absorbed so much of this stuff. “No exit strategy. Even when it was clear there was no way to win—that no good could come from sticking around and fighting more, we just kept slogging on and on.”

Eric nods. “Pointless suffering.”

We study for the next forty-five minutes straight, going over his class notes and making up quiz questions from the textbook. When I get the fifth of five lightning round questions correct, I shrug at Eric like it's no big deal. “Look, I just want to say you don't have to be intimidated by my brilliance, because I promise I will never wield it against you.”

“Z'at right?” he snorts, crumpling up a piece of paper and throwing it at me. This time my reflexes are primed and I catch it.

“Ah-ha!” I yell. “The student has become the teacher.” I stand up and take a step closer to Eric so that when I throw the paper ball back at him, it bounces right off his shoulder.

“Not so fast, grasshopper!” he yells back, scooping the ball up from the ground. His arm cocks into pitching position and I take a fast step backward to get as far away from him as I can. Unfortunately I get tangled up in a stray sneaker in the middle of the floor and shriek as I find myself falling back onto his bed.

“Ha!” Eric laughs, hurling the paper missile at me, the momentum carrying him a foot forward and directly into the path of that sneaker. “Ahh!” he yells as he pitches forward and falls on top of me.

Our mutual clumsiness causes us both to start laughing so hard we nearly knock heads as Eric unsuccessfully tries to raise himself up off me. With one hand pushing against the bed, and the other pushing on my right thigh, he hoists himself up. But the pressure he puts on my leg tickles, and I collapse backward in another fit of giggles, my hands flopping on either side of my head.

“You!” I say between laughs and gasps for air.

“Oh, yeah?” Eric replies, his hands grabbing mine, his body hovering above me.

Eric's face is now only inches from my own and when I look into his light blue eyes, I'm not entirely sure what I'm expecting. But he returns my stare, and I see he's really looking at me. My lips part and suddenly I'm not laughing anymore, just exhaling. I move my chin up and bring my lips closer to Eric's mouth. He keeps his eyes open as he brings his lips to meet mine, and as soon as they touch, I close my eyes. His lips are soft and warm and have a faint taste of the Starbucks iced coffee drink that's sitting next to his keyboard.

I've never had someone else's tongue in my mouth before, and I'm glad in another minute I'll never have to say that again. I can feel Eric's mouth opening and the hot air circling between us. Our hands remain clenched by my head, and Eric is using his arms and his knees to keep himself propped up in a position that can't be comfortable for him. Still, I'm not sure what to encourage him to do. Would he even want me to say anything at this moment? Do people do that? As I feel Eric's tongue on my teeth, I realize I'm supposed to open my mouth wider and when I do, our tongues touch. It feels a lot less bizarre than how I'd been imagining it all these years.

So it's this?
I think.

This is the thought that takes me out of the moment and back into my own head. This is one of those events I've been thinking about my whole life. One of those things that you always wonder how it's going to feel but you just can't know—not even if someone describes it really well—until you do it yourself. Like what it feels like to be the one driving a car, or like what it feels like to skydive or go under anesthesia. My eyes pop open and I try to bring my concentration back to Eric.

“Grace,” he says.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

Eric shakes his head.

“Should we stop?” I ask.

The question has the force of an answer and he pulls back. “Well,” he says after he scrutinizes my face for another minute. “Do you want to?”

I nod quickly, not wanting to say anything for fear of hurting his feelings, but not wanting to go any further now. I know I need to explain myself in some way. But all I can manage is, “What if your mother comes in?”

“Yeah,” he replies, both of us knowing this would never happen. Neither one of us says anything for a minute—a silence so awkward, it's unbearable.

“Maybe I should go. My mom's probably going to be expecting me home soon anyway,” I say lamely.

“Okay.” He rolls over on the bed and doesn't look at me.

“I . . .” I re-tuck my shirt and scramble off the bed. “So I'll see you later.” I reach for the doorknob and close it softly behind me as I leave.

As I run down the stairs and out Eric's front door, the sentence
What did I do?
keeps running through my head. But eventually that makes way for another one:
What is Eric going to think of me?
And eventually that's pushed out by yet another thought:
Will this change everything?

I
n my dictionary, the first definition of the word
refuge
is “a place or state of safety,” and though I get it, I don't think it's quite right. The first time I'd heard the word was when we learned about the “protected territory for animals and wild life” in Earth Science class in middle school. But then in World History, we learned about “refugees,” who are people who flee to a foreign country to escape danger. In our philosophy unit in Civics, we learned that the first step in becoming a Buddhist is to “take refuge,” which means to “look into oneself.”

My problem with the dictionary's definition isn't that it doesn't include these differences because, in a way, “a place or state of safety” does get to the basic sense of all of these ideas.
My problem
is that I think the dictionary writers are making too big an assumption. They're saying safety can be assured in a designated location, and I'm not so sure it can. I mean, are you
ever
entirely safe? Are you safe in a school yard? Crossing the street? In the bathtub? You can slip and fall anywhere. You can also slip up, fall ill, or be persecuted, taunted, or haunted in any spot. And it's especially difficult to find a place of “refuge” when the things that are tormenting you—the things you'd most like to run from—are the thoughts that keep running through your own head.

I barely sleep at all that night, freaked out by what happened between Eric and me and still jangled by thoughts of Mr. Sands, which keep crashing through my head. When I get out of bed the next morning, I just feel the need to flee. But since I can't find refuge, I decide to settle for a “sanctuary” instead. The chapel at Hanover House is located near the cafeteria, and it seems as good a place as any to hide for a while. Forget school, I just need time to think. About everything. I don't bother showering when I wake up, I just layer my green “COLLEGE” T-shirt over my softest long-sleeve shirt and slip into a pair of jeans that were washed relatively recently (I think). I grab my book bag, hop on Big Blue, and start pedaling so quickly, a cramp stabs my gut. I knead the area with my fingers instead of slowing my pace. When I get to the main building of Hanover House, I keep my head down as I walk, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, hoping no one will notice that a school kid isn't in school this morning. I safely make it to the chapel. But the sound of the door whooshing open makes the man sitting alone in the third row turn around.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, “I didn't know anyone was going to be here now. I'll go.”

“You don't need to leave,” he replies, shaking his head. “This place is supposed to be here for everyone, right?”

“I guess.” I shrug.

The man gives a half smile. “I'm pretty sure I'm right.”

“Okay.” I nod, sliding into one of the back pews.

The man turns around and lays his arms on top of the pew in front of him, resting his head on top of them. I stare at the way his shoulders connect with his back and think he looks like he's preparing for a swim race. From the way he's concentrating, I'd bet he was the guy who swam butterfly when he was in school. But he only stays still for another minute, then turns back around to see if I'm still here.

I try to look away as quickly as I can, but he catches me staring. “My mother,” he says, as if he's the one who owes the explanation, “she's not doing very well.”

“That's too bad, I'm sorry,” I reply. I don't know if I'm supposed to say anything more or just let him get back to doing whatever he was doing, but he doesn't turn away.

“Is a grandparent of yours here?” he asks.

I consider the advantages of lying: I wouldn't have to explain why I'm not in school—people with dying relatives get a pass on cutting. And it's not like he'd doubt me; the age thing works out about right. I mean, this guy even sort of looks like my dad. “No,” I say, “I work here.”

He smiles. “You work here?”

“I'm a candy striper.”

“Oh.” He nods, looking like he either doesn't quite get it or doesn't quite buy it.

“Yeah, I get credit at my high school for working here,” I lie, nodding vigorously, so he'll believe me. That's when the toreador text ring tone goes off. “Oh, sorry,” I say, quickly reaching around to find my phone in my bag.

CNT BLVE U CUT TST! WHR RU?

My thumbs start moving before I'm even sure what I'm going to say. DEATHLY ILL, I type, then hit SEND, guiltily looking back up at the man sitting in the front of the chapel. “Sorry about that,” I say again.

“Important message?” he asks.

“Uh, I just had to let someone know where I—”

Duh-duh-duhn-nuh-nuh-duh-dun-duhn-nuh-nuhnuh
the phone chimes.

“Sounds like someone's pretty interested in your answer,” the guy says with a smile. I glance down at Eric's response and I'm not sure “interested” is the word I would choose; “pissed” is more like it.

Y RU LYNG 2 ME?

I snap the phone shut. This is not something I feel like I can explain on the keypad of my cell phone.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“So what does a candy striper here do?” the man asks.

“I'm still sort of trying to figure that out. But, uh, we're basically supposed to befriend the residents, and make things more comfortable for them, water their plants, give them magazines . . .”
Consider the idea of helping them end their suffering.

“Well, I'm sure they appreciate that. I know I would. I'm always impressed by people who selflessly try to help others like you're doing. Strikes me as very”—the man puts his arms out—“Christian.”

I bite down on the inside of my lip. “I don't think handing out celebrity magazines really qualifies as Christian.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I say suddenly.

“Oh.” He blinks. “Sure.”

“I mean, if this is too personal, just tell me to shut up or whatever.”

He laughs a little. “Now you've got my attention.”

“Do you think this works?” I motion to the pews, the altar. When he doesn't answer right away, I figure I need to be more specific. “The praying. I mean, do you really think anyone's listening?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding his head. “But I suppose that's going to be the answer you get from most people you'd find in a church.”

“Dumb question, I know.”

“No, no, I didn't mean that. I just meant that that's probably just the knee-jerk reaction you'd get from most people. People don't really like to think about it because it's more reassuring to them to have a definite answer. Having an answer is a comfort. It's when you start asking questions and those questions pull threads in the larger fabric, you're forced to wonder what you're left with. And for people of any age, it's scary to think the fabric of the universe—or the universe as you've always believed it existed—can just unwind, you know?”