by Henry Circle
Ricky is drumming on his thighs anxiously as we walk into the church. I’m twitching a bit myself. I don’t know why we’re nervous. This is where we do our homeschooling, just without all the church members. But I’ve been to Sunday service with David and Sunny before. I really don’t feel like I fit in with all the women here with their butt-length hair, ankle-grazing skirts and nude-colored panty hose.
On the other hand, Ricky should feel right at home. Half the people in here are recovering addicts, former prisoners and just plain white trash. There are two guys with that many teeth between them trying to talk politics. One guy says the president is trying to take guns away from Americans and give them to the Muslims. If you sell moonshine for a living, chances are slim that you have much to contribute to conversations about the goings-on of Congress.
I can’t believe these are my boyfriend’s people. David’s no hipster, but he’s intelligent and self-aware. I know what Sunny and David would say if I made a joke about their church members. They would say that no one is an outcast here, and these are the people that we should help because they need God most of all. So I decide I should eat pie and stop thinking so much about other people’s backwoodsiness.
I’m attacking the peach pie with a plastic fork when I hear, “Are you planning on sharing that with anyone else? We have knives if you want to slice it first.” David offers a butter knife and a perfect white smile with a perfect dimple stitched into each perfect bronze cheek. God, it’s hard not to kiss a face like that. If we weren’t in church, I’d paint him with my slobber.
Sunny squeals, “Thank you so much for coming. And you brought Ricky and Kip! I don’t know how you got them here, but it makes me so happy. You’re gobbling that up! That must be some delicious pie.”
“Actually, I think I’m not a fan of the peach variety. It tastes a little off to me,” I explain, handing her the fork. “You’re a pie expert. Tell me what you think.”
As I pass off the fork, David says, “Look at Ricky.” Ricky is red and blotchy and scratching his neck and chest frantically. “What’s wrong, man? Is it because you’re wearing my shirt? My mom uses a lot of fabric softener.” David says.
“Church. I’m allergic to church. Happens every time,” Ricky complains.
“Obviously, he’s getting stress hives. What are you afraid is going to happen, Ricky?” I ask him.
“What I know is going to happen. Everybody’s gone start that flipping and shouting and crying and speaking parcel mouth. That makes me scared as hell when everybody starts acting all crazy. Is you and Sunny gone start up that mess, too? Cause I might flip out. I’m just warning you,” Ricky says, looking at David.
David pushes away a spiraling tendril of black hair from his forehead before carefully saying, “I…never really feel my faith that way. I’m more quiet and reserved in my connection with God. Sunny hasn’t had the holy ghost come upon her or spoken in tongues, and for her, it’s a bit of a sore subject. She really wants to experience that level of …belief.”
Ricky really starts scratching. “I hope that ghost don’t get in me.”