Devoted

by Jennifer Mathieu

  Lauren’s gotten started and now she might never stop. She can only choose her words for a moment before she starts sounding just like her blog posts. And her blog posts mean something to me. They’re what got me to think there might be something else out there for me, something besides just living a life like Faith’s. But sometimes Lauren sounds just as strident as Pastor Garrett.

  Lauren’s still talking but I stop listening. I want the space for just my thoughts. Even if they frighten me sometimes. Even if I don’t know how to answer myself most of the time.

  When there’s a knock at the door, Lauren stops mid-sentence. The two of us glance at each other, confused.

  “Who’s that?” she asks, walking over toward the door and looking through the peephole.

  In the millisecond it takes me to turn my head toward the doorway, one thought enters my mind: It could be my father. It wouldn’t be that hard for him to find out where Lauren is living.

  It could be him. And any swimmy, fuzzy, tingly feelings I felt a moment ago have disappeared. My hand grips the back of the couch, and I’m not breathing.

  I don’t want my father here.

  But I also want him to want to be here. To be looking for me. To make sure that I’m all right.

  My lungs are burning, about to explode.

  Lauren turns back from the peephole with a bemused expression and turns the knob.

  Mark Treats is standing there, holding a paper bag from the grocery store, wearing his THE JAM T-shirt, holey jeans, and a freshly sunburned nose.

  “Hey,” Mark says. The word comes out like a shout. He walks in like he lives here. “Uh, I tried calling, but Lauren didn’t answer her cell.”

  “I put it on silent,” Lauren says, shutting the door behind him.

  I’m still clenching the back of the couch, but my shoulders drop as I finally allow myself to exhale. Not that I relax. Just seeing Mark in the living room is enough for my heart to keep a quick pace. At his own house or even in the car this afternoon it felt less strange, somehow, to talk to him. But here in the apartment with me dressed in my nightgown it’s something much different. My cheeks warm.

  “If you need a place to stay, the couch is taken, Mark,” Lauren asks, rolling her eyes. But there’s a smile on her face.

  “No couch needed. I was just wanting to bring these over tonight. For Rachel.” He lifts his chin in my direction. “Hey.” Then he sets the paper bag on the table where Lauren and I sometimes eat our meals together.

  “What’s in there?” Lauren says, peering into the bag. I still haven’t said anything. Not even hello.

  “Those Madeleine L’Engle books from my house,” he says to me, not Lauren. “All of them.”

  Lauren is digging through the bag, pulling out the worn paperbacks with faded covers and piling them on the table, and Mark is standing there staring at me, smiling a crooked smile and maybe, probably, I am trying not to cry.

  “I mean, my dad read them to me when I was a kid and then I read them again when I was older and my mom’s not into them, so they’re just sitting there being, like, not read. So I thought, you know, if you haven’t had the chance to check them out or whatever. No rush in getting them back or anything.”

  “Oh,” says Lauren. “Wow. That’s really nice of you, Mark. Isn’t that nice, Rachel?” She looks at me, and her voice reminds me of when I prompted my younger siblings to talk by spoon-feeding them the right words one at a time.

  “I…” I swallow. “Thank you. Mark.”

  “You want to sit down for a sec?” Lauren says.

  “Yeah, sure,” Mark answers, scooping the books up from the table. He flops down on the other end of the couch. A bare kneecap sticks out of a hole in his jeans. In blue ink someone has written DINOSAUR BREATH.

  “Anyway, see, I numbered them on the spines with a Sharpie so you know what order to read them in, just in case you get confused,” he says. His DINOSAUR BREATH knee is bouncing. Is he ever still enough to sleep? The small pile of books sits between us, and I reach out for one and flip through it, just to have something to do with my hands.

  “Mark, this is so nice of you,” I say. Something about holding the book steadies me a little. My heart is slowing down and so is my breathing.

  “Hey, I have to make a call,” Lauren says, searching around her chair for her cell phone. “I’m in my room if you need me.” She raises an eyebrow at me as she heads to the back of the apartment.

  “So,” Mark says, “I gotta tell you I got into trouble today.” He sticks his finger in his right ear and wiggles it around. “Damn. Water in the ear. One of the downsides of my profession. That and the sunburn.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “My parents found out I didn’t go to SAT prep,” he says.

  “How?”

  “Well, my parents speak to each other. They’ve been married for, like, a hundred years, but they still enjoy spending time together and talking, so it didn’t take long before my dad mentioned that I’d been over at the office this morning and then my mom was like ‘did he mention SAT prep’ and my dad was all ‘he had SAT prep he never said anything’ and she was all ‘you need to stay on top of that boy’ and then it was, you know, ‘Mark we need to talk to you come to the kitchen immediately’ and blah, blah.”

  “So then what happened?” I have my knees tucked under my chin. Maybe this way he won’t be able to tell I don’t have a bra on under my nightgown. Since moving in with Lauren, it’s been one of the habits I’ve given up. At home I wore one all the time, even when I was sleeping, just in case we had to wake up in the middle of the night for an emergency and my dad or brother saw me.

  “The usual is what happened,” Mark says with a shrug. “Sad head-shaking from Dad. A lecture from Mom about how SAT prep class is going to help me get into a good college and how I shouldn’t miss out on such an amazing opportunity and all that. Then they told me I was grounded and when I started complaining, my dad said not to push it because they can ground me all summer long if they want to.”

  “That’s it?” I ask. If he expects commiseration, I’m not quite sure how to start.

  “I know. It could be worse. They didn’t even mind me coming here to drop off these books. I think my mom thinks you could be a good influence on me,” he says.

  “It’s really nice of you,” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “How’d you know where Lauren lives?”

  “My parents gave her some of our old furniture and stuff when she came back here. I hauled that table over there up that flight of stairs, actually.”

  “Oh,” I say. “It’s nice how they’ve helped Lauren. And me. I mean, since I … left my house.”

  “You mean since you ran away?” Mark asks.

  The words make me sound more dangerous and exciting than I think I am.

  “I guess I ran away, yeah,” I say. Or was I kicked out? Or both?

  “My parents know things were rough for you at home, and rough for Lauren, too,” Mark continues. “Because of, like, your church, right? And that’s why you’re not living with your families anymore.”

  “I guess that’s one way of putting it,” I answer.

  I expect Mark to ask me a million questions. Is it true I can’t cut my hair? Is it true I’ve never watched television? Is it true I haven’t ever been to a public school? But he just sighs and looks around Lauren’s apartment, decorated in resale shop finds and tattered posters of nothing I recognize or know—pictures of bands, pieces of artwork.

  “What’s DINOSAUR BREATH?” I ask, pointing to his knee.

  “Man, I forgot that was there,” Mark says with a laugh. “It’s the name of this band I might be in. With some other lifeguards from the pool. But we may not be Dinosaur Breath. We might be Blueberries for Sal. Or the Betty Whites.”

  “Oh. What instrument do you play?”

  “I don’t actually play anything yet,” he says. “But if Dinosaur Breath is formed, I think I’ll play bass. But I have
to get a bass first. And, you know, learn to play it.”

  I laugh. A band that doesn’t exist based on instruments that don’t exist.

  “What? That’s funny to you?” But his big smile tells me he knows it is. I love how his smile eats up almost all of his face.

  “A little,” I say, grinning. “No, a lot.”

  “Yeah, it is,” he says, standing up and stretching. Should I get up, too? Is he leaving? I don’t have a road map or directions for How to Be with a Boy. Especially one who brings me books and glances at girls’ rear ends and wants to be in a band that plays secular music. Especially one with broad shoulders and suntanned calves and dark eyes that first strike me mute and then make me feel like a head without a body, all warm and floaty.

  “I’m gonna get a glass of water from your kitchen if that’s cool. You want one? I mean, if it’s cool that I get a glass of water.”

  He doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.

  “I can get it for you,” I answer, daring to lower my arms from my chest. I have little goose bumps up and down my arms, from the ends of my short-sleeved nightgown to my wrists.

  “I can walk,” Mark says. “You want one?”

  I won’t be able to hold it I’m still so trembly.

  “No, that’s okay.”

  When he comes back he downs the water in three gulps.

  “Excellent water. Five stars. High quality water.”

  I laugh again, but I don’t know what to say. Do I seem stupid just sitting here laughing? Or do boys like girls who laugh at everything they say?

  “So…” he says, putting the empty glass on the coffee table, “are you going to go to school in the fall?”

  “You mean … Clayton High School?”

  “Yeah.”

  I bet Clayton High has a library, full of even more books than the Treats have in their house.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m staying here long term,” I answer. “I’m not … I don’t. Like I said. It’s complicated.”

  “Your parents don’t want you here, right?” Mark asks, picking at a mosquito bite on his ankle. His fingernails are short and clean, and I’m struck by this tiny attention to detail hidden in the middle of his jittery, jumpy self.

  “No, they don’t want me here,” I tell him. “They want me to come home and go to, um … a church camp. Because I wasn’t … behaving appropriately.”

  “What did you do?” Mark says, an eyebrow raised.

  “I went on the computer without their permission.” And I thought for myself and had questions and wondered if maybe things might be different for me. But I don’t say that part.

  Mark whistles. “That’s it? You went on the computer and you have to go to a church camp?”

  I nod, reddening. Did Mark think I did drugs like Lauren’s old boyfriend? Drank alcohol like Lauren? Snuck out without permission? If Mark thinks I’m a dangerous runaway, I guess I’ve just proven him wrong.

  “Is the church camp that bad?” he asks. “It’s not just sitting around, like, singing and rapping about Jesus?” He pantomimes playing a guitar, nodding his head from side to side.

  “I think the church camp would be bad,” I say. Maybe it’s the tone of my voice, but Mark lowers his hands and looks at me right in the eyes, and he stops all the silliness. “I think if I went to that church camp it would, like, kill my spirit,” I say, my voice a whisper. “It would make me not be me anymore.” Whoever that is.

  Mark nods. He has lashes like a girl’s and a tiny scar in one of his eyebrows where the hair doesn’t grow anymore.

  “What do you mean not be you?” He keeps his gaze on me.

  “Oh,” I say, the question catching me off guard. “I’m … well … I like to read,” I manage. “I like to know things. I guess I’m curious. Maybe too curious. That’s probably what my parents would say. And my pastor. But I don’t think … I mean, I know … you’re not allowed to be curious at church camp.”

  Mark’s face softens, and he smiles. “I think liking to know stuff is good. I’m glad you didn’t go.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “I’m really glad I didn’t. Even if I don’t know what’s going to happen to me next.”

  Mark picks at a cuticle. “This is making my SAT prep class problem seem pretty trivial. You’re, like, trying to answer philosophical questions about your existence on the planet, and I’m, like, basically trying to get away with not having to memorize a million vocabulary words, like what mendacious means.”

  “It’s funny you should say mendacious,” I tell him, “because it means prone to lying.”

  “There is no way that’s what it means,” Mark says, taking A Wind in the Door from the pile of books between us and tossing it at me gently.

  “Yes, it does, honest!”

  “All right, all right. I believe you. Man, you probably have a bigger vocabulary than my older brother, and he got into Georgetown.”

  “What’s Georgetown?”

  “This fancy schmancy school for people who are going to become fancy schmancy doctors,” he says, leaning back on the couch and staring at the ceiling. “My parents are thrilled, to say the least. And I know my mother loves to imagine how amazing it would be to tell everyone both her sons are doctors. Whatever.”

  “Well,” I say, “there are a lot of doctors, but there’s only one bass player for Dinosaur Breath.”

  Mark laughs hard. As hard as he’s made me laugh. I can’t believe I did it. After he recovers, he asks if I have a brother.

  “I have six,” I answer. “And three sisters.”

  “No way,” he says, his eyebrows popping. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Whoa.”

  “There’s a family at my church with twelve kids,” I say, enjoying myself. “And the mom is pregnant again.”

  “Really?”

  “Really!”

  “Where does everybody sleep?” he asks, stunned.

  “Bunk beds, I think. It’s what my brothers do.” The mention of sleeping makes me think about my little twin bed, and my mind hits on the image of Ruth snuggling up with me. The lightness of my mood darkens a bit, but then Mark jumps and glances at the phone he pulls out of his pocket, grimacing and shoving it away again just as quickly. “Parental units beckon me,” he says, frowning. “And after the SAT prep situation, I can’t screw up again.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to botch things up even more,” I answer. “Is botch an SAT word?”

  “Probably,” Mark says, standing up. “Botch. It sounds like a skin disease. She’s got a serious case of botch.”

  I follow him to the door, smiling at the joke. “He’s got a terrible case of the bumbles,” I try.

  Mark nods in mock seriousness. “She’s suffering from bungle disorder,” he adds.

  “I can’t think of another one,” I say, laughing. “Wait, I can. Flub.”

  Mark bows his head, shaking it sadly. “He ate right, exercised, didn’t smoke, yet when the doctors performed the autopsy, his heart was full of flub. Such a shame.” When he lifts his head back up, his wide grin meets mine. Then he opens the door to head downstairs. “Hope you like the books,” he says to me.

  The books. I was so focused on our last bit of conversation I managed to forget that was the entire reason he came over. In fact, I was so focused I managed to forget that I stood up in front of him without a bra on underneath my nightgown.

  “Oh,” I say, quickly crossing my arms in front of me. “Mark, thank you so much. Thank you for the books.”

  “No problem,” he says, giving me a little wave as he heads out. “I’ll see you around, Rachel.”

  I shut the door after him and rest my cheek against it, closing my eyes as I listen to the sound of his feet making their way down the steps.

  18

  I’m not sure where Diane gets all these addresses or how much she spends on postage, but there’s another stack of bright pink flyers to stuff when I get to the Treatses’ house on Monday mor
ning.

  “I asked the print shop for shell pink and I get this,” Diane says, tapping the flyers with her finger. “Don’t you think the shade is too Pepto-Bismol?”

  “No,” I say, even though they are a little bright for my taste. “I think people will notice them.”

  “They say Sweet Treats and are the color of a box of Good & Plenty,” she continues, picking up a flyer with a grimace. “I’m going demand my money back. People are going to think I run a candy store. They’re going to be calling me up asking me how much I charge for Mars bars and Kit Kats.”

  I can’t help but grin. It’s easy to see where Mark gets his quick humor.

  “Should I still stuff them?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Diane says, sighing. “But I’ve got to make a note to myself somewhere about calling that print shop to complain.”

  She strides over to the mirror and checks her reflection one more time, using a carefully manicured pinkie finger to tug a stray eyebrow hair into place. Her carefully tailored peach suit skims her knees and hugs her curves, and matching sets of slim, gold bracelets shimmy along her tanned, freckled forearms. The scoop neck of her top shows off the tiniest sliver of cleavage. Diane really likes looking at herself in the mirror, and I’m amazed she can stare at herself so much and not feel her behavior is vain.

  Finally, she smiles appreciatively at her reflection and then turns to me.

  “Not bad for a former beauty queen, right?” she asks like she doesn’t need my answer because she already knows it herself. But something in her voice tells me she’d like hearing the answer from me anyway.

  “You always look pretty, Diane.”