There Goes Sunday School

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  “What are we doing here?” I ask Chris as he moves toward the counter.

  “You’ll see,” he replies. “Just keep your pants on. Or, on second thought….”

  “Shut up!”

  He laughs, stepping up to the register. “Can I get an Iced Mocha, please?”

  “Sure thing, Chris,” says the barista.

  My cheeks go red when I realize it’s Davy.

  “Hey, Mike!” he calls, waving at me.

  “H-hey, Davy.” I move alongside Chris. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, you know. It’s poetry night, so naturally coffee grounds are everywhere. I think some might be in my shoe right now….” He makes a face, then hands Chris his receipt.

  Chris nods his thanks and moves toward the end of the bar.

  “Are you going to do a latte again?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, pulling out my wallet.

  Poetry night, huh? Is this what Chris had planned? I need to start thinking of an excuse to get out of this.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Davy grins, a curl of blond hair sticking out from under his hat. “It’s on me.”

  “T-thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” After another wink, he moves down the line to start on our beverages. I’m starting to think that those may be intentional.

  Chris has an amused look on his face as I join him at the end of the bar.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Should I be jealous?”

  I raise a brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “Jesus, Mike. You are oblivious, aren’t you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” He laughs.

  “Here you go, guys.” Davy slides two cups over the counter. “Enjoy!”

  I balance my saucer as we walk, taking the only available table left in the joint.

  “Good evening, everyone,” a voice says over the speakers as we settle in. A balding man slouches on the makeshift stage across the room. “Welcome to Clark’s Cup and our open poetry night.”

  A round of applause ripples through the crowd.

  “Thank you, thank you. I would ask you to please remember this is a safe space tonight. We’re coming together to share the different and experiences we’ve been given. Please respect others. We’re going to get the ball rolling here with our first artist this evening, coming from the east village, so please give it up for Victoria!”

  Another round of applause as a woman with blood-red hair and a collection of piercings steps up to the microphone. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve seen her before.

  “Chris!” I whisper. “That’s the chick from the piercing shop!”

  “No shit,” Chris breathes, leaning forward in anticipation.

  The woman—Victoria as we can only assume—clears her throat as she locks her gaze on a spot in the back of the room. “Thank you.” She adjusts the microphone slightly as the crowd quiets. “I will be reading a selection from my poem entitled, Bitch.

  “I broke my Granny’s antique candy dish when I was ten.

  It shattered against the floor into thousands of fragmented bits.

  Maybe that’s why it sounded so familiar,

  when I heard the same noise inside the day she left.

  * * *

  “But, now, she’s back, this crazy bitch.

  She says she’s sorry, she repeats herself again and again.

  But I’ve heard this song before, on an endless loop,

  my dad mouthed it each time he’d come back.

  * * *

  “Except that last time, when he didn’t bother.

  I expect this will end the same way.

  No word. No explanation. Just a sudden absence,

  both terrifying and liberating.

  * * *

  “She holds me tight and makes me feel safe.

  Embraces and embraces. Soft kiss and stare.

  How can I keep myself from feeling

  those things that make me wish for more?

  * * *

  “The Bitch is back, and it looks like it’s to stay.

  Another day, another day, another day.

  Every time she makes me smile

  I wish and pray she feels the same way.”

  I shiver as Victoria’s words fade, and applause takes over the silence left in the absence of her voice. I look at Chris, and he has gone pale. He fidgets in his chair, hair hiding his eyes.

  “Chris?”

  “Thank you, Victoria.” The announcer shuffles back onstage. “Another powerful testament to your talent. And thank you for leaving out a certain four-letter word.”

  Victoria blows the man a kiss before flipping him the bird.

  Charming.

  “Our next artist is one of the youngest entries we’ve had in a while.” The host carries on, unfazed. “So, please give a warm welcome to Chris!”

  Oh. That explains the nerves. I look at him, but he’s already risen from his chair and is moving toward the stage. He steps in front of the microphone, having to angle it downward since he’s a good foot shorter than Victoria.

  I’m drawn to the edge of my chair. This is the first time I’ll get to hear Chris’s work. It’s slightly embarrassing how excited I am.

  “Hello,” he starts, voice cracking with nerves. He clears his throat and continues. “This is called There Goes Sunday School.

  Sunday morning, dark skies overhead,

  I sit along the wall, pen drawn but thoughts gone.

  There’s a struggle to find words,

  to match what bounces round my head.

  * * *

  “I feel so out of place here,

  things once comforting, now alienating.

  Familiarity replaced with the dread

  of those I know finding what bounces round my head.

  * * *

  “I’ve kept it bottled up so long, this thing

  I hide, fermenting and wasting away.

  Too ugly to show the light of day.

  Too lonely to know the words to say.

  * * *

  “An urgent sound centers my thoughts,

  driving me out with the rest of our herd.

  We huddle close, threats of danger blaring

  through sirens and words.

  * * *

  “The God I no longer seek has found me, I think.

  His wrath released on the boy who turned his back.

  Punishment dealt for the sin no one wants to acknowledge,

  For the life I never chose to live.

  * * *

  “It’s cruel that my sentence seeks to claim us all,

  wind tearing and lightning crashing.

  I slip through the door, unnoticed.

  Maybe my absence will bring them relief.

  * * *

  “The world outside bends to His wrath,

  but inside His house, His voice is quiet.

  I wish to return to my seat, paper, and pen.

  To carve my final words before He claims me.

  * * *

  “But, once again, words fail to capture what’s real,

  and I weave aimlessly through the skeletons of absence.

  Reflection of days long past, staring me in the face

  in constant conflict with what bounces round my head.”

  Chris’s voice grows stronger as he reads, a steady rhythm building in his words.

  “Another clap of thunder, and I’m tumbling,

  skidding backwards on paper, and falling on cement.

  When I rise from the ashes of klutz, there’s something new

  nestled in the crook of my arm. A book, cover open.

  * * *

  “The first page is magic—light filtering through a forest of leaves,

  each gray stroke subtle perfection.

  Blended beautifully.

  Something moves, stirring in my depths.

  * * *

  “Water flows from the second page,

  pouring out around me unt
il I’m swimming.

  Tossed back and forth from rock to rock

  along the monochrome river’s bumpy edges.

  * * *

  “Page three is stark white.

  Its emptiness echoes inside me,

  reverberations making their way up

  to silence what’s bouncing around in my head.”

  The audience is glued to him, not uttering a word while he speaks. I follow suit, but there is a difference between me and them. I know exactly what he’s talking about.

  “Fingers follow fingers,

  turning and turning and turning

  till I near the end of the line.

  At last admitting the journey is over.

  * * *

  “Yet another path is open, hidden in plain sight.

  Pages releasing their hold on one another

  to reveal the treasure,

  and lead me to what I had no idea I was seeking.

  * * *

  “Bodies, folded into one under silken skin.

  Lips and hands, and my heartbeat hammering in my chest.

  Fire burning in my cheeks, along with something more.

  Something new, terrifying, and strong.

  * * *

  “With one, final turn, a name burns itself

  into my brain, letters forever engraved.

  Who would have thought? Someone already

  knows what bounces round my head.

  * * *

  “In sudden haste, the flock returns to its pasture,

  grazing on gossip and sugary-smothered

  breakfast as I quietly fade into the background,

  a wolf desperate to be a sheep.

  * * *

  “My discovery hides out of sight,

  waiting to serve as a catalyst.

  There’s more than one of us here.

  In the words of my father, ‘there goes Sunday school.’”

  Chris folds the paper, stowing it back into his pocket as the audience applauds. I clap along with them, the weight of his words still carving their way into my brain.

  There goes Sunday school.

  I can’t help laughing. It’s a play on his father’s favorite phrase to describe anything he doesn’t agree with. “There goes the neighborhood.”

  Who knew my artwork could mean so much to someone? Especially someone like Chris. Then again, I guess I really don’t know him that well. Perhaps he’s exactly the person who would be touched by my work.

  He finds his way back to the table, cheeks flushed with the energy of being exposed.

  “Excellent work, Chris.” The announcer speaks into the microphone. “A lot of potential from a very talented young man. Our next artist is one of our favorite locals.”

  “What did you think?” Chris asks, breathless. He sips from his sweaty iced mocha.

  “I got chills,” I say, rubbing my arms for emphasis. I want to say more, but I’m not really sure how to.

  “Is that a good thing?”

  I nod, clutching onto the warm mug to steady my hands.

  “I know I already apologized,” Chris starts, “but I want to say again how sorry I am about taking your book.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Ancient history.”

  “If it helps my case,” he says, still flushed with nerves. “You should know those sketches helped pull me through a really tough time.”

  “Really?” My stomach twists like a pretzel. I hate talking about my art. I just want it to speak for itself. But I can’t help asking, “How?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” Chris replies, resting an elbow on the edge of the table. “But I guess you could boil it down to hope.”

  “Hope?” What does that have to do with anything?

  “Yeah.” He nods in agreement. “They gave me hope there was someone out there like me. That somebody had it all figured out. That I had a chance to feel something again.”

  “I don’t have anything figured out,” I admit, back hitting the chair. “I was actually hoping you did.”

  “That’s the thing,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “I don’t think anyone has it figured out. We’re all kinda making it up as we go along.”

  Another person has taken the mantel of the stage, standing at the microphone, but I’m too distracted to comprehend the words flowing from him.

  “But we’re not alone anymore,” Chris continues, leaning forward with intensity in his eyes. “We can—”

  “Well, well.” A new voice derails my train of thought. Victoria looms over us, all smiles. “If it isn’t my favorite little couple. I swear, I just want to put you two in my pocket and carry you around. Unfortunately, the misogynistic bastards that designed this dress neglected to give me any, so I don’t have a place for you.”

  “How unfortunate,” I say. Chris chuckles.

  “I’m Victoria.” The tall woman extends her hand. “You can call me Tori if you want.”

  “Mike,” I respond, taking her hand. She has a very firm grip.

  “And, obviously, you’re Chris.” She turns her pierced head on him next. “Your rhythm sucks, but the material’s not half bad.”

  “Thanks,” he replies. “I really enjoyed yours too.”

  “Ugh. I had to edit a lot of it out, seeing as they won’t let me drop the f-bomb,” Tori bemoans. “At least not in the microphone. I guess I can say it all I want now. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s really refreshing.” She sighs deeply, then blinks a few times as if she’d forgotten we’re sitting here. “I’m sorry, was I interrupting something?”

  “Actually,” Chris starts, “we were—”

  “Not at all,” I interject. Things are getting a little too real. I need a distraction. And what more of a distraction can you ask for than obscenity-spewing-six-foot-three-red-headed lesbian?

  “Well, I can’t stay long,” she says, pulling up a chair. “It’s drag-karaoke night, and I’ve still got to go home and change.”

  “Drag-karaoke?” I repeat, flashes of sequins and big hair coming to mind.

  “Oh yeah.” Tori laughs. “It’s a blast. I’d invite you guys along, but sadly, they don’t let kids in.”

  “We’re not kids,” Chris corrects.

  “Oh please.” Tori strokes a finger along Chris’s cheek. “Not a speck of stubble. I’m fairly certain I have shoes are older than you.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “Tori,” I say as I place a hand on her arm, breaking up the developing spat. “I’ve always wanted to know what you call that piercing.” I point to my upper lip.

  She turns away from Chris. “What, this?” She flicks the two balls in front of her teeth with her tongue. “It’s a frenulum, or Smiley piercing. Hurts like a sommabitch.”

  I wince. “I don’t doubt that.”

  “Were you thinking of getting one?” she asks, flashing a smile as if accentuate the ring.

  “Not exactly,” I sheepishly admit.

  “That’s a shame.” She sighs, rising from her chair. “Well, kiddos, it’s been real. It’s been fun. Can’t say it’s been real fun. I have a date with a man that looks prettier in makeup than I ever will.”

  She gives an impressive courtesy, then heads for the door.

  “What a strange person….” I muse, watching the woman until she disappears through the door.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  Another round of applause smoothers the conversation, and I drain the rest of my latte.

  “Hey, Mike?”

  I set the cup down with a clink. “Hm?”

  “Do you wanna get out of here?” Chris asks, looking down at his phone.

  “Sure.” I shrug, just glad he isn’t looking at me like he was just a moment ago. I’m not sure exactly where we stand at the moment, but I know I want to keep this as uncomplicated as possible. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking about grabbing a bite. You hungry?”

  “Starved,” I admit.

&nbs
p; “Awesome.” With a jingle, he waves his car keys. “I’ll go get the car.”

  “Yeah.” I stand up and the sudden urge hits me. “I’m going to make a pit stop.”

  “Okay.” Chris nods. “I’ll be outside.”

  The trip to the bathroom is uneventful, and the hand soap smells like coffee somehow which is kind of awesome. But it does give me a chance to think. Here I am, on a pseudo-date with a cute guy who loves my artwork and is totally into me. Not exactly what I had planned, but I can’t be mad.

  After my hands are dry, I push open the bathroom door and someone catches it halfway.

  “Whoa!” a voice exclaims from the other side.

  “Sorry!” I apologize, sticking my head through the opening.

  Davy holds his hat to keep it from falling, his other hand wrapped around the edge of the door. “It’s okay.” He laughs, pulling the door the rest of the way. “No harm done.”

  “R-right.” I shuffle awkwardly into the hall, running a hand through my hair. Heat rises to my cheeks from just being this close to Davy.

  He’s just so damn cute in his uniform….

  I’m starting to think Chris is right, Big Guy. I mean, this is obviously an involuntary reaction here. It’s not like I want to find this boy adorable…. It just is the way it is. So, is that still wrong?

  “How’s the date going?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Davy blinks at me. “Sorry.” He smiles. “I just assumed that’s what was going on between the two of you.”

  “Oh! N-no,” I stammer, taking a step back. I bump into a decorative table, quickly grabbing the vase of flowers before they tumble from their perch. “I-I mean, that’s hilarious! You… You’re so funny, Davy.”

  “Whatever you say, Mike.” He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press the subject.

  “See you at school!” I don’t give him a chance to respond, just turn around and head for the door.