by Anne Dayton
23
“My house, my house,” Tyler sings into the mic. I groove to the music a little and look over my shoulder again. This is the riskiest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but so far it’s totally worth it. Now I get why people like rock concerts so much. They’re amazing. I’ve seen Tyler lead worship at youth group, but this is something different. Three Car Garage’s sound, away from the youth room, is loud and brash and high-energy. I keep fighting the impulse to just start dancing right here as if I’m alone in my bedroom. And Tyler looks so cute when he shuts his eyes, grabs the mic, and sings.
Operation Rock and Roll took a full week to plan. I saw Tyler putting up flyers for the show at church last Sunday. Sure, I knew they had a concert coming up, but the flyers told me exactly when the band would be going on and how long the show would be. Then all that was left for me to do was find a way to get myself there.
Just one problem, of course. Okay, well, two problems: Mom and Papá. Christine and Zoe both wanted to come to the concert, too, and Zoe kept saying, “Why don’t you just tell your parents the truth?” Her point was that Three Car Garage is a Christian band, so my parents wouldn’t object. But what I couldn’t seem to get through to her was that all rock and roll is the devil’s music. It’s all bad, according to my parents. Plus, this outing would also be forbidden under the “strictly no contact with boys” rule, which trumped all other rules except one: church activities are always okay.
That’s where Christine came in and really proved herself again. She and I reasoned that, in some ways, this really was a church event. I mean, where two or more are gathered, God is there. And Three Car Garage has three members. So all I needed to do was present this to my parents as a church activity—not technically a lie, since the band members all go to church—and I’d be allowed to go. Christine had the genius idea of having my parents drop me off at church, which is just a short walk from the café, and then we’d all stroll down there together. This way, I never actually told my parents the concert was at church, but they naturally assumed that it was. Really, the whole thing was brilliant.
But now that I’m here, I’m feeling a little less sure. The stage is set up in the outdoor courtyard in front of the café, and I wasn’t really prepared for that. Anyone who drives or walks by could see me standing here, instead of, you know, at church where my parents think I am at the moment.
The song ends with a loud chord, and the crowd goes wild. There is a huge turnout tonight, and girls our age crowd the area near the stage. Some of them I recognize from school, and I suspect we’re all here to see Tyler.
“Thank you,” Tyler says into the mic as Tommy Chu taps lightly on the cymbals and a girl screams loudly behind me. He winks at her, and I turn to see who it is. No one I recognize. Okay, whew.
“That was our song, ‘My House in Heaven,’” he says. “And it’s about, like, how God said that your house in heaven will . . . that you’ll have a house in heaven. You know that verse?” Girls scream and I try to make my voice the loudest one.
Dave grabs his mic. “The song is about John 14:2,” he says, looking out over the crowd. “Where Jesus tells us, ‘In my father’s house are many mansions. I am going to prepare a place for you.’” Dave fidgets with a leather bolo around his neck. “He’s talking about heaven here. Isn’t it great to know that Christ himself is preparing our future home for us all?” A few people clap when Dave is through.
“Exactly,” Tyler says. He brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. “That’s where our band name comes from. Because when I get to heaven, I want my mansion to have a THREE . . . CAR . . . GARAGE!” He screams this last bit into the microphone, and the cheers from the crowd are ear-splitting.
“Well, that and Tommy’s parents let us practice in their three-car garage,” Dave says.
I know Dave sees me out here, but every time he catches my eye he quickly looks away again. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since the painting incident. Pretty soon no one will be talking to me at all.
Tommy claps his drumsticks together and they start playing again. Slowly, Christine, Zoe, and I work our way up to the front. Zoe keeps swaying back and forth to the music in a sort of trippy way. Christine and I are really dancing, along with the rest of the crowd, and I forget all about my earlier paranoia. I can be so dramatic sometimes.
And then, much too soon, the show is over. I clap and clap and clap until my hands are red. My throat is sore from screaming.
Christine nods her head toward the café, and we all trudge inside to use the bathroom. We check our makeup in the mirrors.
“What’d you guys think?” I dig in my purse for my Chapstick.
“Tyler’s actually a good singer.” Christine frowns at her reflection. “I was a little worried that he’d starve to death after having seen his painting, but at least he’ll always have his singing.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse than finger painting.” She blots her sweaty face with a paper towel.
“I thought that guy Dave was awesome, too,” Zoe says and raises a brow at me.
“He’s okay,” I try to act nonchalant. Zoe shakes her head. “Let’s get walking back to the church. My mom’s going to pick me up soon. I don’t want her to think I’ve been raptured and she hasn’t.” Zoe laughs a little, and Christine looks at me like I’m crazy.
As we walk back toward the band area, though, I can’t help but slow down. The guys are packing up their instruments. There’s no one else around them.
“Hey, Ana.” Tyler is smiling at me. At me! I force myself to stay calm. Dave watches us, placing his guitar in its furry case.
“Hi, Tyler.” I give a small wave, hoping I don’t look too eager.
“Where’s that girl Riley tonight?” he asks, closing the lid of his guitar case. He snaps the buckles to lock it.
For a moment, I can actually feel my jaw hanging open. Do I look like that girl’s keeper? “Like I know,” I snap.
Tyler nods for a moment, studying me. “Well, maybe we should hang out sometime.”
“Um . . . ” What is he saying? Does he mean hang out? Or hang out?!
“If you want to,” he shrugs. I turn around a little to make sure that I’m not being punk’d. I see Dave staring at us, but I don’t spy any hidden cameras.
“Cool,” I say, trying hard to channel Christine’s calm, detached demeanor. “Yeah, let’s hang out.”
24
“So you told them you were going to church, but you went to a concert instead.” Ms. Moore’s hands move quickly, tying red ribbons around the bottom of the plastic baggies. We’re sitting across from each other at the table in the front of her classroom, and the Elvis Christmas CD she put on makes the plain old room seem kind of festive.
“Sort of.” I tear off a bunch of mistletoe and stuff it into a plastic bag. Keeping my hands moving seems very important all of a sudden. “I mean, I didn’t actually tell them I was going to church.” As it comes out of my mouth, I know how pathetic it sounds.
“I see. So you feel okay about what you told them?” She levels her eyes at me evenly, her left eyebrow rising a tiny bit. I avoid her glare.
It was Ms. Moore’s idea (of course—what kid would think of this?) to gather mistletoe, a plant that grows way up in the branches of the trees around here, and sell it as a Christmas fundraiser for Earth First. Ed made it totally easy for us and gathered a ton of it from the trees in Zoe’s backyard, but we still have to cut the bunches into smaller pieces, place them in plastic baggies, and tie them up. We hope to make enough money on this fundraiser to save twenty acres of rainforest, but we’re supposed to start selling tomorrow and our product isn’t ready, and since no one else could make it after school today—Zoe has band practice, Christine has to babysit The Bimbot, and the junior girls have track practice—it’s just me and Ms. Moore.
“Ana?” Ms. Moore’s brown eyes are still focused on me. Doesn’t this lady ever let up? She stops tying ribbons and lets her hands rest on the t
able. “What’s the worst that could happen if you were honest with them next time?”
“They’d probably kill me.” I hold a small bunch of mistletoe in my hand and run my fingers over the smooth leaves. “Or ground me forever. Lock me in the closet until I’m twenty-five.” She doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “They’d never let me go, that’s for sure. You don’t understand how strict they are.”
“Maybe not,” Ms. Moore says after a while. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a tin of Burt’s Beeswax lip balm, then dips her finger into the shiny gel. “But I can tell that you’re uncomfortable with lying to them, and I wonder if there’s a better way.” She swipes her finger across her lips quickly, then rubs her lips together.
“Like what? They treat me like I’m a baby.”
“You could talk to them about how you feel.” She says this so calmly I almost don’t notice she’s started tying the ribbons again.
“I can just imagine that conversation.” My brains spins for a moment, picturing it. “Mom, Papá, I want to go to a rock concert to see a boy I like. See you at midnight!”
Ms. Moore snorts. “They actually might kill you if you phrased it like that. But they just want to protect you, Ana, and if you want to show them you’re old enough to have some adult privileges, you need to come to them like an adult. Have a conversation about it and tell them how you feel.”
“Whatever.” I notice that my hands are idle. I wonder how long I’ve been talking instead of working. It’s weird to talk to Ms. Moore like this. Weird but cool.
“So tell me about this boy.”
I freeze. Can I tell a teacher something like this? Do I want to?
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” But for some reason I almost do want to. “Does he go to this school?”
“Yes.” And with that little word, somehow a dam opens, and soon I’ve told Ms. Moore all about Tyler. She thinks she knows who he is, but she isn’t quite sure, thank goodness. I tell her everything, even the part where he asked me to hang out a week and a half ago, and how I’ve been waiting for him to call (not that that would work anyway) or e-mail or IM or anything. And how I haven’t heard a thing.
“Even when I saw him on Sunday, he didn’t mention hanging out. Do you think I should e-mail him or something? I think he was really serious. Maybe he lost my e-mail address?” Sure. Fritz e-mailed all of us a youth-group directory a few weeks ago with everyone’s phone numbers and e-mails, but maybe Tyler accidentally deleted the e-mail?
“Maybe. But aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” She ties another perfect bow, making it look so easy. “Let’s start with this. What would you do if he did ask you out? What would you tell your parents?”
I bite my lip. What would I do? I would . . . I would tell them the truth. I think. Wouldn’t I?
Ms. Moore smiles. “Ah, the course of true love never did run smooth.” She brushes her hair back behind her ear.
“Huh?”
“That’s Shakespeare. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We’ll get to it next semester.”
Okay, I can deal with Shakespeare, but that doesn’t exactly clear up what she meant. I am about to ask when the classroom door bursts open and Zoe streams inside, her cheeks red and her long hair flowing behind her.
“Am I too late to help?” She drops her backpack and piccolo case onto the floor. “Mr. Parker made us do, like, a thousand drills today.” She pulls a bag of chips out of her bag and bites into a Dorito.
“You’re just in time,” Ms. Moore says, smiling at Zoe. “Here, why don’t you take over? I’m going to go over my lesson plans.” Ms. Moore walks toward her desk, and Zoe reaches for the spool of ribbon and the pair of scissors.
I try to smile at Zoe, and I really am glad to see her, but I also can’t help feeling a little frustrated that she interrupted what felt like such a private moment with Ms. Moore. It was so nice, just the two of us.
Zoe ties a few ribbons, placing a chip in her mouth between each one, while Ms. Moore writes in a big thin black book on her desk. I focus on the task at hand and try to keep my mind from wandering toward anything that starts with a T. Not tigers, not tremors, not taboos, not . . .
“Do you really think people will want to buy this stuff?” Zoe wrinkles up her nose as she holds up a finished bag of mistletoe. I have to admit, it looks pretty cheery with the red ribbon and white berries against the green leaves.
“Sure,” I shrug. “Why not?”
“It’s just some silly shrub.” Zoe pops another chip into her mouth and cuts another piece of ribbon.
“Oh, sure,” Ms. Moore says. “People love this stuff. Especially around the holidays, when we could all use a help getting a kiss from someone we care about.” I feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, so I don’t turn around.
“Ew.” Zoe shudders. Zoe and I are the same age, but sometimes it doesn’t seem that way. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” she says, shaking her head. I pretend I don’t know either, even though I’ll probably take a bunch home for myself, just for luck. At least I don’t have to worry about her stealing my crush.
There’s a low beeping, and Ms. Moore reaches into her purse and pulls out her cell phone. “I have to get this.” She stands up and walks toward the hallway. The heavy door thuds closed behind her, and the only noise for a while is Elvis crooning about a blue Christmas.
“So I had a new idea for how to get Riley,” Zoe says “It just came to me during drills. I’m not a very good swimmer, and I don’t really love the ocean, but I bet surfing isn’t that hard. I bet I could—“
“Zoe, what are you talking about?” I say before she gets too carried away. “You’re going to learn to surf? Don’t you think that’s a little weird? That’s certifiably stalker material.” Zoe looks a little taken aback at my outburst, but I can’t stop myself, for some reason. “Why are you so insistent about getting her to hang out with us, anyway? She doesn’t even like us. She’s made that abundantly clear. And I don’t actually like her much, either. I’d be happy if I never had to speak to her again. So why don’t you just give it a rest?”
“Oh,” Zoe says. She slumps a little and lets her hair fall in front of her face. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”
Guilt overwhelms me. How can anyone be so genuinely nice?
“I . . . ” I mean, I do feel so strongly about it. And yet, I know Zoe is only trying to do what she thinks she needs to do. For whatever reason, she’s convinced that there are four Miracle Girls. “I just . . . I just don’t think she wants to be one of us. And I don’t want to see you get hurt trying to force her.”
Zoe nods, but I can see in her eyes we both know this isn’t entirely true.
“We won’t have to force her,” she says quietly. “She needs us as much as we need her.”
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. Zoe seems like she wants to say something more, but as Ms. Moore comes back into the room, we both fall silent.
25
I’ve been dreading this all week. I wrinkle up my nose at the Ben-Gay smell that permeates the air at Stonehill Manor and walk slowly down the hall, saying a quick prayer for strength to do this. Mom decided it had been too long since I had visited the nursing home. I’ve come three or four times, which is more than most of the other church volunteers, but she read that regularity is as important as sincerity in the admissions game, so here I am. I know there must be a couple of other church people here, but I haven’t seen them yet.
It’s not that I hate being here. It’s just that I’m not really sure what to say or do while I’m here. I run my hand along the textured wallpaper as I walk down the beige hallway, looking for Sarah Slater’s door. Even if she doesn’t remember me, I’ll know her, and that’s something. A hunched-over woman with thin white hair trails behind me, pushing her walker along while she mumbles about dogs, but I try not to act weirded out.
I recognize the plastic wreath on the outside of Mrs. Slater’s
open door, and I take a deep breath and walk to her room. I can see that she still has her Christmas tree set up, but because this time it’s actually December, it feels a little less special somehow. I rap lightly on the wooden doorframe, and she turns.
“Is that Molly?” Her voice is low and quiet. She squints at me and takes a step toward the door.
“No, Mrs. Slater. It’s Ana.” I read online that you shouldn’t ask Alzheimer’s patients if they remember you, because it puts them on the spot and they feel bad if they don’t, so I watch her face for any signs of recognition. She nods, but her eyes don’t show that she has any idea who I am.
“Do you want to see my Christmas tree?” Her face breaks into a huge, toothy smile. I nod and walk into the room. She sits down daintily in her recliner and I plop down on her gray chair. She begins to talk about the whipping she got the time she locked Molly in the bedroom and her parents didn’t find her for hours. I sit on the edge of the chair and smile, though I heard this story the last time I came. When she gets to the part about choosing her own switch from the bushes in the backyard, she trails off and stares straight ahead.
“I brought you something, Mrs. Slater.” I reach into my backpack and pull out a handful of candy canes. Her eyes light up as I hand one to her, then stand up and hang a few on the branches of her plastic tree. She carefully peels the plastic back from the straight end of the candy cane and slips it into her mouth. She sucks on it, and her mouth makes a few slurping noises, which kind of grosses me out. I stare at her. Now that I’ve given away my treat, I don’t quite know what to say, but she seems happy enough, so I let my gaze travel to the window. She does have quite a nice view, looking out toward an enclosed backyard area with green grass and a pond. A heavy gray fog blankets the grass and obscures the trunks of the trees. There’s something almost magical about the way the fog erases the hard edges of the world around here.