This Sunday, I pay less attention to the streaming sunlight from the stained-glass windows and more attention to the feeling I have, like someone is looking at me from the back of the sanctuary. I finally turn and glance behind me, and Ty’s sparkling eyes make my heart jump. He smiles at me. I feel a blush rising as I turn back to Pastor Frist, and I hope Mom and Starla Joy don’t notice.
After the service, there are homemade cookies and cups of red punch in the lobby where people gather to mingle. I didn’t see Ty on my way out—he must have left early—and I’m disappointed for a few minutes as I make small talk and try to hold people’s gazes even as I want to scan the crowd for his curly blond hair.
Eventually, I see Ty come into the lobby from outside. I try to catch his eye, but he heads straight for my dad and starts talking to him. Maybe he’s asking about me, about us dating. Dad would like a guy asking for permission to date his daughter. Maybe Ty will win him over. I pretend to stare at the blue-and-red lettering on the homemade potluck dinner poster behind my father’s head for a minute or two, but when they don’t turn my way, I decide to approach them. That’s when I discover they’re not talking about me.
“… just drove him home, but he’s definitely upset,” Ty says.
“And you’re sure it was the Parsons boy?” asks Dad.
“Yes, sir,” Ty says. “I know punishment isn’t the church’s role, but I just think that with him getting such a big part in Hell House … well, it isn’t quite fair after something like this.”
“Something like what?” I ask, not worried about eavesdropping when this sounds so serious.
Dad looks at me with sad eyes. “Lacey Anne, don’t worry,” he says. “If you want to miss the Youth Leaders meeting today to go see Dean, I’ll make your excuses.”
“Miss the YL meeting?” I ask. “Why would I do that? And what’s going on with Dean?”
I look over at Ty.
“I found him in the art room,” he says. “Lots of the props he’d built had been painted with 666, the symbol of the devil.”
What?
“What?” I ask, but my voice falters because I’m freaked out. “Why? Who was it?” I look at my father. “Dad, what’s going on?”
“Now, Lacey, don’t you worry,” says Dad, putting a hand on my back. “You just go see your friend and make sure he’s okay.”
Ty puts his arm around me, and I’m too upset to even care that we’re right in front of my father. “Let’s go,” he says, and I nod. Dad doesn’t stop us as we push a path through the post-worship social hour. On the way out I see Starla Joy talking to Mrs. Wilkins, and I catch her eye. One look at my face and she knows to make her excuses.
She hurries over to us.
“What is it?” she asks.
“It’s Dean,” I say.
“We’ll explain outside,” Ty says.
Starla Joy follows without a single question.
By the time we get to Dean’s—a two-minute drive—Starla Joy is as caught up as I am. Ty isn’t being very forthcoming, though.
“I want you to know what Dean wants you to know,” he keeps saying when we ask him who did this. I don’t tell him that I heard him mention Geoff Parsons, but I can’t help feeling confused and a little hurt. Since when does Ty know more about Dean’s life than Starla Joy and I do?
When we pull into Dean’s driveway, Starla Joy opens her door and jumps out before the BMW’s fully stopped. Her ballet flats kick up gravel in the driveway as she runs up the porch steps and doesn’t knock—just walks in. Ty and I are right behind her.
Dean’s mom has her arms folded across her chest when we enter.
“Hi, ma’am,” I say. Starla Joy must have barreled past her on the way to Dean’s room.
“Lacey, Ty,” says Mrs. Perkins. She smiles softly, but it’s one of those smiles that’s filled with tears. “Mr. Perkins is still at church, but I came home. Would you like a snack?”
I can smell something baking—chocolate cake?—and I look around the living room. There’s a stack of National Geographic magazines on the coffee table next to some issues of Real Simple. A mug of tea, still steaming, sits on a porcelain coaster atop the kitchen counter in the distance. Sunlight streams through the windows. It’s comforting to see everything at the Perkins house in its place, even today. This is what my mother must mean when she straightens up our house manically and calls it “cathartic cleaning.”
“No thanks,” I say.
Mrs. Perkins nods and motions up the stairs. “Dean’s okay,” she says. “He’ll be glad to see you both.” She doesn’t look either of us in the eye. I wonder how many times she’s met Ty—it seems like she already knows him.
We walk by her and start climbing the steps.
Starla Joy has her arms thrown around Dean, who’s sitting on his bed holding an ice pack to his cheek.
She turns to us with anger in her eyes.
“Why would this happen?” she asks. And I realize she’s looking at Ty, like maybe he had something to do with it.
“It was an asshole prank,” says Dean, sitting up. He’s changed into a flannel shirt and jeans. I look around the room but I don’t see his paint-covered clothes anywhere. “It’s okay,” he says. “At least I had a good excuse for skipping the sermon.”
He grins and he looks ten years old, which makes me want to run up and hug him too. So I do.
“Is this what it takes to get you both in my bed?” asks Dean. “Worth it!”
I smack his leg. “Stop joking,” I say. “We want to hear what happened. Who did this, Dean?”
He sighs and hesitates for a moment, looking up at Ty. Ty nods. Did he just give permission for Dean to tell his two best friends in the world what happened?
“It was Geoff Parsons,” Dean says. “I went into church early to work on some Hell House set stuff, and he was already there, in the art room where my prop supplies are.”
Dean stares at the red paint still lingering on his hands. “At first I thought he was just going to talk smack, like usual. He started in on my nail polish and saying I was fat and stuff, but I just ignored him and turned around to work on painting the set piece I’m finishing up. That’s when I saw it—the red 666.”
I feel a chill pass through me. This is so not okay.
“I thought it was just on one of the gravestones I built for the drunk driving scene,” Dean continues. “But then I saw that he had painted it all over the wooden bridge I’m building for Heaven.”
“Heaven’s bridge?” I whisper out loud. It seems so insane that Geoff would do that. To Dean, maybe, but when Heaven’s bridge is involved, it’s like he’s doing it to God.
“When I yelled at him, he said I’d probably done it myself when I was under the influence of Satan,” Dean continues. “The guy’s so stupid, though. He still had the red paintbrush in his hand.”
Ty shakes his head, laughing a little.
“But what happened to your face?” I ask.
“When Geoff said that about Satan, I walked up to him and pushed him—hard,” Dean says. “Turns out I’m not really a good pusher, though. He pushed me back even harder and I fell backward. That’s when the side of my face hit the edge of a chair.”
“And Geoff just left you there?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Dean, looking down. “People were shuffling into church, and I thought I’d wait it out. You know how the moms get. I figured they’d make it worse.”
“How did you—?” I start to ask Ty.
“I slipped out of the service to go to the bathroom and when I passed the art room I saw Dean in there,” he says.
“And then Ty rescued me,” says Dean.
Ty laughs. “That’s me,” he says with mock conceit. “The savior of art geeks.”
His face gets serious again quickly though.
“Tell them what he said,” says Ty, encouraging Dean.
“What who said?” I ask.
“Geoff,” says Dean, glancing up at me, then Starla Joy. “He
said … he said if I didn’t paint it, maybe the devil himself did. He said he knew I believed the ‘born gay’ lie, and that I would burn in hell.”
I recognize that—we all do, except maybe Ty. It’s a paraphrased line from the gay marriage scene in Hell House.
“He’s throwing demon lines at you?” I ask, disgusted.
“That asshole!” Starla Joy shouts, her voice cracking. “I can’t believe he’d do this—”
“Or that he’d push you so hard!” I add, standing up and feeling a surge of anger, of disbelief. “Isn’t that illegal or something?”
“Exactly,” says Ty. “We’re going to file charges against Geoff for assault. Aren’t we, Dean?”
Dean winces a little.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, we were all fired up in the car but I pushed him first, and—”
“Wait a minute,” says Starla Joy. “Why didn’t you come get us and tell us what was going on? You just left us listening to Pastor Frist during all this?”
Dean looks down like he’s sorry, but also confirming that yes, that is what happened.
“It’s a guy thing,” says Ty. “You don’t want girls to see you all shaken up.” He looks at Dean. “And I thought we made a plan to press charges.”
“We did,” Dean says. “It’s just that you don’t know this place, Ty. Lacey, back me up—Geoff Parsons is golden. I mean, his uncle is the town police. There’s no way it’ll work.”
“Is that why you were talking to my dad?” I ask, looking at Ty. “Because you want Geoff out of Hell House?”
“You talked to Pastor Byer?” asks Dean with a groan. “Oh man, now Geoff’s really gonna be pissed.”
“I don’t think so,” says Ty bitterly. It’s the first time I’ve seen his blue eyes darken.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He looks at me intently. “I think your father’s going to let Geoff slide,” he says. “He didn’t even seem to consider taking Geoff’s name off the cast list for Hell House.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll want him out of the show.”
“I don’t need to cause any trouble,” Dean says. “It’ll just make things worse for me.”
He’s backing down but I can hear the anger in his voice.
“You’re really going to just let it go?” Starla Joy asks. “You want him to get away with it?”
“He’s been getting away with it for months,” says Dean. He punches his pillow. Hard.
“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting back down on the bed and taking Dean’s hand gently. He looks like he could cry, though I know he’s fighting it.
“You guys don’t see!” he says, yelling, I think, to block the tears. “You didn’t hear him and his friends last year when I got fat. You didn’t watch them stick out a foot as I walked by or whisper ‘Boom!’ under their breath in class when I sat down. You didn’t hear them laugh. Laughing all the time behind my back. And then in front of my face.”
We’re all silent for a few seconds as things sink in. I knew Dean was having a rough year—that he’d changed his clothes and grown his hair out and maybe was trying to hide from the world. But I figured it was just normal stuff. I mean, he never talked about it with me and Starla Joy. We’re his best friends.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asks Starla Joy, her thoughts echoing mine.
“I don’t know,” Dean says, done talking. What he just said is probably the most he’s ever said to us about anything serious. He’s always joking around or making fun of us or just, you know, being Dean. Kind of dark sometimes, but a good best friend.
And I realize that I haven’t been the same for him. Sure, I knew he got picked on, but I had no idea it affected him so much. Or that it would turn into this awful 666 thing. A better friend would have seen it. Ty’s known Dean for like two weeks, and he saw it. He knew. I feel my lower lip start to quiver.
But then I stop, and I find my voice. It’s low and strong, with a tinge of anger that surprises even me.
“Don’t worry, Dean,” I say. “Geoff won’t get away with this.”
When Ty drops me off, I rush into my house, looking for my father.
Mom’s in the kitchen, apron in place with the mixer on high, no doubt making a dessert to take to someone else’s home. “Where’s Dad?” I shout over the machine’s whirs.
She stops the mixer and looks up with concerned eyes. “Honey, how’s Dean?” she asks.
“He’s okay,” I say. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s out back on the porch,” she says. “But tell me—”
I’m already through the sliding glass door. I see my dad in his porch chair reading the newspaper, and I walk right up to him.
“Dad, you have to take Geoff Parsons out of Hell House,” I say. “He doesn’t deserve to be in the show after what he did to Dean!”
He lowers his paper and raises his eyes above his half-glasses. It makes him look quizzical, but I know he can’t be questioning me on this point.
“He defaced church property!” I continue. “He really hurt Dean!”
“Sit down, Lacey,” Dad says, patting the plastic-cushioned couch next to him.
When I sit, I hear the squish noise that used to make me laugh when I was a little girl, sitting out here and listening to my father practice his children’s group sermons on me. But today the squish doesn’t sound funny.
“I’m really sorry about what happened to Dean,” he says. “Boys can get a little rough sometimes.”
“A little rough?” I ask. “Dad! He pushed Dean onto the ground and hurled a line from Hell House at him—he practically accused Dean of being a sinner.”
“Now that’s not quite what happened,” says Dad. “I’ve talked to the Parsons, and they say Geoff and Dean have been trading barbs since last year. Everyone’s excited about Hell House, so of course the script is on people’s minds—it was carried into their argument, and things just got a little out of hand this morning.”
“Hold on,” I say. “Are you giving me a ‘boys will be boys’ line?”
“Lacey Anne, watch your tone,” Dad says, and I can see his face getting more serious. “This isn’t a big deal. Geoff has been going through a hard time lately. And Dean’s fine, right?”
“Well, he’s not going to die, if that’s what you mean,” I say. “But I don’t think I’d call him fine.”
“Boys are more resilient than girls,” says Dad. “Dean will be at the first day of school tomorrow with a crazy story, an exciting lunch topic. And we don’t need to go recasting Geoff’s role in Hell House. He’s perfect for the part of Suicide Boy—you should have heard his audition. It was inspired.”
Dad’s looking up to the sky, like it was God Himself who “inspired” Geoff’s performance. I feel a flash of real anger, not at God, but at my father. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this way, so upset, so sure that my dad is … wrong.
“Dad, Geoff hurt someone physically,” I shout. “Dean! My friend, who you’ve known forever. A fellow church member. And he did it at church!”
“Lacey, I’ve told you,” Dad says, his tone getting harsher. “This was a back-and-forth situation between the two boys that’s been going on for a while. Dean isn’t innocent here. If we take Geoff Parsons’s role away, Dean will have to be banned from working on Hell House too. And I hear he’s got some great ideas for set design.”
Dad rustles the paper back into position in front of his face as my head drops down. He’s not going to hear me. He thinks what happened is okay.
I stand up and walk back into the kitchen in a daze.
“Lacey, are you all right?” Mom asks.
I look at her. Bright smile, purple polka-dot apron, blue flowered mitts on her hands as she gets ready to take a cake pan out of the oven.
“No,” I say, grabbing her car keys off the pegboard by the kitchen phone. “I’m not.”
“Lacey!” she shouts as I stomp toward the front door. I want to go talk to
Ty.
My mother stops me in the entryway and holds out her hand.
“You can’t just take the car,” she says. “I need it later today to go see Mrs. Harrison.”
Mrs. Harrison is in my mother’s Bible study group, and she’s been in the hospital for foot surgery, but she got home this week. That must be why Mom’s baking like crazy today.
I hesitate for a minute, considering just leaving anyway. What will my mom do—physically stop me? But then I realize that I’m not mad at Mom, and I’m not mad at poor Mrs. Harrison, who maybe needs a homemade cake after her ordeal. I feel some anger leak out of me and I hand my mother the keys.
Then I stomp upstairs to my room. I turn the radio on my clock alarm up all the way—Dad hates loud music—and I tune it to the heavy metal station. I never understood the rebellion that teenagers feel toward their parents, but in this moment I’m ready to break something.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Tessa and Starla Joy pull into my driveway and I hop in the back of their big old truck. Tessa’s been driving us to school since last year when she got her license.
“Nice shoes,” says Starla Joy.
“Thanks,” I say, glad that she noticed the one new thing I’m wearing.
Even though I consider reinventing myself somehow each year, I never actually do it. Today, I’m in my favorite jean shorts and a yellow tank top for the first day of school. Nothing’s new, except my leather sandals.
I notice Tessa’s flowing orange-print sundress. It sits up on her tanned shoulders with a braided halter neck and then falls down almost to her feet in a graceful wave. She always looks fresh as a daisy.
When we get to school though, everything looks stale at West River High. Same brown metal lockers, same gray-green linoleum, same indescribable but completely distinct smell in the main hallway. The same groups are gathered in the stairwells before the first bell, the same loud kids toss balls down the hall and knock into the same smaller, nerdier kids who duck and weave to avoid the fray.
“Hi, Lacey,” says Laura Bergen. She’s a YL member who’s also a violin player, and she’s always in at least four of my classes.
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