The Chapel Wars (10 page)

“I don’t have a car.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know what I thought was going to clue me in. A
HOLLY
bumper sticker? And then another time I actually saw you in the parking lot, just walking in with a bag like maybe you’d picked up lunch. And I put on my coat and was all ready to come outside and then Poppy asked where I was going, and I couldn’t say to talk to you.” He rubbed his nose. “And while I’m confessing, that wasn’t the first time I’ve noticed you in the parking lot. I did, before I saw you at the funeral. I have for months now. In my head, you were Parking Lot Girl, and I’d sort of invent a story of what you were doing each day you walked into your chapel.” He laughed to himself. “I wasn’t stalking you. Just noticing you.”

I’d never had someone tell me they love me, but I couldn’t imagine it feeling any better than having Dax say he
noticed
me. It took this … the talking, the walking … the DATE …
to a whole other level. The confession made me consider what would happen if I ignored the whole Cranston/Nolan feud and pursued something with this guy.

What if I went out with him, officially, to see what happened? My parents weren’t the grounding type, and they had James to worry about. That would buy me time, time with Dax, time to decide.

Staring at Dax in the afternoon light, I decided it was worth the risk. Dax was the kind of guy who was worth a lot of risks.

“Maybe I should give you my number so you don’t have to parking-lot stalk me anymore.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That was a little cheesy.”

“Give me credit for being direct and not naming you Other Chapel Boy while I sat around and did nothing.”

He coughed. “Great. But … are you okay with this?”

“Maybe?” I tried to force lightness into my voice. “I’m not one of those girls who likes sneaking around with boys. I see Camille and Sam do it, and it looks like a headache. I don’t keep things from my parents.”

“Neither do I,” Dax said. “Well, I never did with my dad. And I don’t with my mom.”

“But maybe we could hang out a few more times, see if there’s anything to even, you know, tell them.”

“So you’re asking me out.”

I was asking him out? I was. I had never asked out a boy. I’d never even let one in this much. “I guess I am.”

He pulled out his phone. “We switch numbers. You text me
the time and date. Because if you’re asking me out, you plan the date, okay?”

“Now it’s a date?”

Dax smiled. “Yes. I like to put labels on things. And you better go big, show me something spectacular in Las Vegas.”

We switched phones. He added himself as “Dex,” I was “Hallie.” He took a step back and nodded his head to the right. “Let me get a picture of you standing in front of that big letter
H
.”

I crouched by the lone
H
, which was in a font that looked like an old gambling hall. Half of the bulbs were missing, the metal a rusty red.

“Now let’s find
O
,” Dax said.

“Ho?”

Dax bent over, laughing. “I was going to spell your name, but I’m glad to hear you have such a high opinion about yourself.”

We found an
O
. We found two
L
’s. And it was somewhere in our pursuit of a
Y
that Dax yanked me into the giant pirate skull sculpture, a Treasure Island relic from the family-friendly Strip of the nineties. “Hey, ho,” he whispered.

“You know how to talk to the ladies.” I breathed out.

“Maybe I should stop talking,” he said.

And then he kissed me.
Dax kissed me
. To the point I couldn’t remember if my name was Holly or Hallie. I’d spent the last three weeks pretending that I wasn’t thinking about his accent or stubble and now that I wasn’t pretending anymore, reality felt so good. Family, business, dying wishes … who cared at that moment. I just wanted his lips on mine for those four whole minutes until we came up for air.

“Kids!” our tour guide called. We pulled away. The tour had moved forward, but the guide must have forgotten some anecdote and come back. With the group. An old man with a cowboy hat flashed Dax a thumbs-up sign. “You have to stay with the tour. If you can’t see us, we can’t see you.”

Dax took my hand and we shuffled behind. Throbbing, pulsing, whirling, wheeling. Every inch of my skin crackled with electricity. I wanted to plop down in the dirt and rip off his shirt.

“I haven’t been listening to the guide for the last half an hour,” he said. “Just waiting for a chance to do that. Thought the skull was the most romantic sculpture.”

I hit his arm. “Come on, this tour is interesting.”

“Of course it is. But my
company
is fascinating.”

Our grins were delirious. We made it to the end of the tour, the large neon duck once owned by a dry cleaner. Afterward, the tour guide pulled us aside. I thought he was going to scold us for talking and/or kissing the whole time, but instead he walked us back through the displays. “You guys missed a good photo opportunity with all your chatting.”

“Sorry about that,” Dax said.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Please. If I’d had a girl like this when I was young, I wouldn’t listen either. Did you like the tour, sweetheart?”

I hated being called “sweetheart,” but I forgave the man. Kissing a family enemy had put me in a forgiving mood. “I did. Thank you.”

Dax’s face erupted into a smile. “It was the least boring tour in the least boring museum in the least boring town in the world.”

The guide shuffled into a loop of signs and jutted his chin behind him. “Sometimes the lovebirds like to get a picture by this one.”

The sign was so perfect it probably sounds like I’m making it up. That amid the crumbling facade of Bugsy Siegel’s 1940s Flamingo Hotel, or the statue of the smoking pool player, there could be this. A blue arrow with a red-bulbed tip and words in white:
WEDDING INFORMATION
.

“I know you kids are too young to be thinking of that stuff, but it’s a memory.”

Dax and I looked at each other. Just like that photographer with the sunset, the moment was so brilliant and right it made everything seem possible, like Las Vegas was the romance capital of the world and we were the mayors. “Are you in?” he asked.

I kissed him while the guide took our picture.

Yes. God forgive me, but I was in. And I might have already been gone.

Sam was weird to me after Bridal Spectacular, and that’s without my telling him about the Neon Museum. I considered calling him on his BS. I considered it but didn’t, because I needed Sam’s help.

I needed everyone’s help.

I made a trade with my friends, offering to help them study for our economics test if they would meet at Sam’s house Wednesday night to fold brochures, make signs, and stuff envelopes.

Sam’s mom, the Everyone’s Mom, set out a sundae bar with whipped cream and hot fudge. We couldn’t have fit the ice cream into The Space, forget the friends and sprinkles. Once Sam’s mom had finished fretting, she padded upstairs and left us to our own devices. Grant started to sift through the cabinets. We clearly had differing opinions on what those devices should
be. The bar was locked up, but sometimes after a party they accidentally left something in the cupboard underneath.

“Bingo!” Grant held up a bottle of Kahlúa. “Who wants a float?”

“Extra sprinkles!” Porter squirted some whipped cream directly into his mouth.

“You guys,” I said. “Put that away. It’s probably under there because it’s expired.”

Grant glanced at the bottle. “Does alcohol expire? I thought it got better with age.”

“Do you really have to do this tonight?” I asked. “It’s important.”

Grant set the bottle down on the counter and made a tenscoop sundae. Victory, I guess.

“It’s not a big deal, Holls.” Porter ruffled my hair like I was five. “The game is on. As soon as it’s over, we’ll help.”

I folded envelopes alone at the table for fifteen minutes, annoyed that they couldn’t multitask for my sake. There was
always
a game on, no matter what time of year it was, and the world had to stop every time.

My dad used to do that to my mom. On Saturdays she’d want to go on family adventures, and Dad would flip up the leg rest of his recliner and say, “Can’t, game’s on.” Do you know how long a football game lasts? Or eighteen holes of golf? What does a non-sports fan have that allows them hours of justified screaming at a screen?

Which is why I learned to watch sports, to understand sports, to join fantasy baseball leagues and memorize stats and spreads. To connect. To communicate. To
belong
. Maybe that
was part of my parents’ problem. My mom couldn’t tell you the difference between a touchdown and a field goal.

As soon as the game was over (college basketball, beginning of season, UCLA won by ten), I turned off the TV. “All right. Start stuffing these envelopes. Mike and Camille, you are the only ones who have nice-enough handwriting for signs.”

Grant wiped whipped cream off his face. He was such a pig, but I could name at least ten girls at our school who would love to be that whipped cream. Not that West had the highest population of cute guys to compete with. “I don’t get why we’re doing this. Why aren’t your mom and dad working?”

“They
are
working,” I said. “They’re doing other stuff. There is a LOT to do when it comes to running a business.” My voice had taken on that know-it-all tone that always seemed to come when I talked to my friends. They hated it, I hated it, but maybe if they weren’t always such idiots, I wouldn’t have to point out their idiocy.

“Just sell it.” Mike spread the Sharpies on the table. “No offense, but wedding chapels aren’t the biggest moneymakers in the world.”

“Says the boy who buses tables at a Mexican restaurant,” I said.

“Well, yeah. For now. But not forever. Are you really thinking about working there forever? Like when you’re an adult?” Mike wrote,
SAY “I DO” AT THE ROSE OF SHARON CHAPEL
in nearly calligraphic cursive across a poster board, then added some fancy doodles. “What about college—you’d have no choice but to go to UNLV.”

“Yeah, we’re not busting our humps at West just to waste away at Un-LOVE.” Porter had finished his sundae and went back to the Kahlúa, opening it and giving it a sniff. “What’s this supposed to smell like?”

“Alcohol,” I said drily.

“Cheers to that.” He sniffed some more but didn’t drink. “Anyway, you don’t want to go to UNLV for real. It’s a commuter school; that’s not a college experience. Sam’s just hanging here for a year and then he’s out, right Sam?”

“Yep,” Sam called from the couch, where he was tangled under a throw blanket with Camille. “We’re out of here as soon as Camille graduates.”

“We are?” Camille sat up. “Where do you think we’re going? Washington? Ooh, Sam, I have family in Washington. Let’s go there!”

“Forget college.” Mike finished the sign and started on another. He was good at this, helpful. I just wish he would shut his mouth. “What about when you’re twenty-two or thirty-eight? You can’t move anywhere else … ever. You can’t take the chapel with you. You’re stuck in Vegas for life.”

“Mike, shut up.” I could feel anger and tears boiling up, and I pushed them down with all the emotional strength I had. “I’m doing this because I have to.
I have to
. So, seriously, write another sign in your girly cursive or get out.”

The boys gave a collective “Ooooh.
”
I swear Mike even smirked, happy he’d provoked me. He had no idea what it was like to be me. He came from a rich suburban family. He worked at that Mexican place because he liked the chips and salsa.
None of these guys had ever
wanted
. If there was a school trip, they went. If they wanted to buy new shoes, they bought them. They thought keeping this chapel was a
choice
for me.

It was conversations like this that made me wonder why I hung out with these guys. They acted like it was such a privilege that I was the solitary girl in their group, that I was above the other girls who temporarily came into our fold, the girls who laughed too hard and flipped their hair too much, until eventually the guy she was dating got tired of her and sent her on her way. Or I was below other girls because I wasn’t incredibly hot. They could actually speak to me, while the other girls they only spoke of with chauvinistic reverence. They had a group text chain with a photo of some redhead in a cut-off NFL jersey with subject lines like “Tappable?” Sometimes I was in those chains, sometimes I wasn’t. Sometimes I actually wanted to be included, sometimes I didn’t.

Because, the thing is, they were funny. And charming. And oddly caring. I mean, even as Mike went off about how I should live my life, he still sat here making signs for me. They never noticed what I wore or dissected our conversations. If I brought them to The Space, they didn’t passive-aggressively comment on the square footage: they just opened the fridge. When we got in a fight, it was over within minutes, squashed. Last year, when James got a black eye, they drove over to the junior high just to sit out in the parking lot and intimidate James’s assailant. That’s love, right? Some twisted form of friendship?

I wondered what it would be like to sit around with a group
of girls right now, girls who watched reality TV dating shows and crammed cookies into their mouths between mumbled “I shouldn’t be eating this.” Would I like that any better?

“Look, let’s just … finish. Give me twenty minutes and then you can all go plan your non-Vegas futures together. Mike, I hope you move to Connecticut.”

“Don’t be that way,” Porter said. “Mike is sorry, right, Mike?”

Mike gave a noncommittal shrug. “I mean, sort of. I’m just looking out for you.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I said.

Grant leafed through a stack of brochures. “Mike’s on the rag, ignore him. Your wedding chapel is fine.”

“You guys don’t know what you’re missing.” Sam and Camille untangled themselves from the couch and joined us at the table. “Dude, I would work at the chapel forever too.”

“Thanks, Sam.” At least I had Sam. I would always have Sam.