Sway

by Amy Matayo

  Scott just stares at me, and I think I’ve found my answer. When he stands to pace the room, I’m certain of it. A knockout punch. I set the pen down and focus on my desk, feeling not at all victorious. Something occurs to me then, something I should have figured out when I saw all those missed calls. Something that makes me feel even dumber than I already do. My shoulders sag on a sigh.

  “When did you realize it was her?”

  “When a press release came through the fax machine about thirty minutes before they arrived.” And I left my phone in the car like an idiot. “Her photo was at the top of the page. I freaked out and started calling you. I’m sorry, man. I read her name on the driver’s license but never put it together. I think I was more focused on Kimball’s puke and that dress she was wearing to think much of anything else.”

  “I think we both were. It’s alright, seriously.” I tent my fingers and lean my chin on them while fixing my stare on the desk, trying to come up with a solution to this but coming up with jack crap. Slapping my palms on my face and rubbing them up and down doesn’t help, it only increases my headache. I drop my hands and look at Scott.

  “What are we facing with this? In legal terms, I mean. What happens now?” I’m relatively new to this Christian stuff, and practically an infant at being in charge. My technical title is Youth Pastor. My actual responsibilities involve running the Chapman Center—an after school program named after the church’s founding pastor designed specifically for underprivileged children, the majority of whom come from single-parent and foster families. But the program doesn’t just run until the standard five o’clock after-work pick-up time so common in other programs like it. Ours runs into the evening—as late as seven, eight o’clock—for parents who work the late shift.

  We make dinner for those who need it, and we help with homework so the older kids don’t fall behind in school. In the direst circumstances, we have beds for kids who need a warm place to stay the night. The church provides safe, caring, capable people who’ve been background checked, fingerprinted, and practically full-body scanned to take care of them. In the two years I’ve been in charge, we’ve never gone a single week without at least one bed occupied. So far, the oldest child was sixteen. The youngest was two.

  But we pray before dinner, we pray before bedtime, and there’s a six-by-six silver plaque engraved with John 3:16 hanging on the wall to the left of the front door. And, of course, a plastic nativity scene on our front lawn that some parent didn’t like and complained about, never mind that we’ve fed her kid—and have continued to feed her kid—for months now because we’re sweet like that.

  But for that sweetness, she contacted a lawyer who contacted the press who alerted the Hawkins’ and now we’ve been slapped with a lawsuit. For that, a few needy kids with no place to go might be looking for another place to sleep.

  “According to Senator Richter, in the best case scenario we’ll have to pay money to the state and take down the nativity scene, then repay the taxpayers who, according to initial public opinion, couldn’t care less about any of this. We don’t exactly live in the most anti-religious state in the country. Most people pray at dinner and ballgames and have nativity scenes in their own yards.” Scott looks at me and then looks away like he would rather end the conversation right now. But I’m not done and he knows it.

  “And worst case scenario?” I wonder if my voice sounds as mad as I think it does, because I already know his answer.

  “We run out of money, and we’re forced to close our doors.”

  Close our doors. The doors of the only good thing I’ve ever done. The door that God Himself opened up after so many others had slammed in my face.

  The tension crackles in the room like a firework just before detonation.

  “And kick fifteen kids to the curb, just like that,” I finally say. All because we dare to thank God for pizza before we eat it and stick a Virgin Mary in the grass. This is the most moronic thing I’ve ever heard of, but holy crap if the Hawkins’ movement hasn’t gathered steam. At least among the media, and even an idiot like me knows they have the last word on everything.

  “Just like that.” Scott nods while I sit there with my mouth hanging open like the defenseless little boy I used to be. But eventually I close it, because I’m not that helpless kid anymore. I ditched that “Poor Me” act a long time ago, back before Scott and his dad found me and gave me the first two people in years I could depend on. The feeling had been so foreign back then, frightening and unwelcome. When you’ve been left to your own devices for over ten years, leaning on another person makes about as much sense as swallowing your own excrement. It’s unnatural. The last thing you ever expect to find yourself doing.

  It took a long time for me to trust either of them, but eventually I learned to lean on other people and ask for help when I couldn’t figure things out on my own.

  This time, I’m not asking. This time, I’m taking matters into my own hands.

  I grab the folder off my desk that holds the speech I never gave and push back my chair to stand. Scott’s face grows alarmed when he sees the determined look on mine—the one that says “Screw The World,” the one he’s seen a million times before that I should have known he would recognize now. He jumps up to stop me.

  “Caleb, think before you do anything. You’ve come too far to go off half-cocked, and we can’t afford the negative publicity.” He latches onto my arm, but I shrug it off and try to appear calm.

  “I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

  “Says the man who threw a temper tantrum and gave the head pastor of this church a broken nose.”

  “It healed perfectly and your father got over it. You need to get over it, too.” I take a step toward the door, but Scott moves faster and blocks it. If he wasn’t my best friend, I would laugh in his face. With his red hair and five-foot-nine frame, I could obliterate his bones with one blow to the middle. I’ve done it to others before and barely missed a breath from the effort. But I don’t. Because Scott is Scott and the guy has guts. I slam a hand on my hip and glare at him.

  “I won’t do anything to give us a bad name.”

  “Swear it.” He might have guts, but he’s also a pain in the butt.

  “I swear.”

  “Hold up your fingers.”

  “Oh, for the love of—seriously, dude? Now?”

  “Hold them up.”

  With a menacing stare that used to intimidate police officers but now actually manages to make Scott look bored, I slap the folder against my thigh and hold up two fingers—the same two-fingered Boy Scout salute we make the kids use when they get caught fighting or complaining or refusing to do their homework. This is stupid. I’ll never make them do it again.

  “I swear not to cause any more problems,” Scott prompts me. “Now say it.”

  My jaw pops and I itch to punch something. “I swear not to cause any more problems.” My arm falls. “Can I go now?”

  “Sure.” Scott wanders over to my chair and sits down, propping his feet on my desk. “But remember, if you wind up in jail again, neither me nor my father is coming to bail you out this time.”

  “Fine. Good thing I like bunk beds and open-view toilets.”

  “And roommates who could have a lot of fun with a guy as pretty as you, don’t forget about that!” Scott’s laughter follows me through the doorway, and despite my anger and outrage and all the other emotions that have managed to tick me off today, I find myself smiling.

  *

  It isn’t until I throw open the door of my truck that it really hits me.

  She’s gone.

  I look up toward the parking lot and notice the absence of cameras and people or even a single pink flier littering the sidewalk. It’s all gone, as if none of it were here in the first place. There won’t be a movie with Kate. Or dinner. Or a hundred other days that I wasn’t aware I even wanted but now want with a longing so strong it nearly flattens me.

  I want to go back to this morning
and ask her stay, to skip the interview with Ben and her parent’s event and anything else that doesn’t involve just her, me, another kiss, and a long drawn-out conversation. But I can’t, because that chance is over.

  And now, like everyone else I’ve ever allowed myself to care about, Kate is gone.

  I don’t go straight home. Instead, as if the car has a mind of its own, I find myself in the next town, driving mindlessly. Doing figure eights around my problems as I replay the day, the week, the last seventeen years of my life as though a riddle might be solved somewhere between the mile markers. Even the folder—along with my resolve to do something—are momentarily forgotten.

  In the end, I solve something, at least. Something I already know. Something that should have dawned on me sooner but doesn’t until I exit off the highway toward my neighborhood.

  It’s Tuesday.

  My mother…nine-eleven…Johnny Cash …Kate’s revelation.

  More proof I didn’t need that nothing good happens on a Tuesday.

  And when it comes to me, it’s becoming more and more clear that nothing good happens ever.

  14

  Kate

  “Speak Now, I’m Listening”

  —Memphis May Fire

  Two days later I’m listening to the interviewer speak, but I can’t hear much past the monotone drone of the woman’s voice. The questions are always the same—whether asked by passersby on the street or a local news anchor or one of the hosts on Good Morning America. It’s almost as if some anonymous writer composed a list of acceptable ones and offered them for sale on Amazon—Top Ten Questions to Ask an Atheist, buy it now for the low, low price of $9.99. Answering them is exhausting. Boring. As predictable as the sun rising next Thursday morning, whether or not I’m still around to see it.

  But as boring as the questions are, this is the first time they’ve ever bothered me.

  I attempt to shake off the feeling and sit straighter in my chair, hard to do since the chair and the cameras and the rows of overhead spotlights are planted right in front of the nativity scene at Caleb’s foster center. I can almost feel the eyes of the Virgin Mary burning into my back.

  Earlier this morning, I asked for a change in location—maybe a bookstore or a coffee shop or a Christmas tree farm somewhere nearby—but it seems everyone thought this spot would make for the best possible publicity. It will, but the attention is the last thing I want. Especially now.

  Because even though I’ve wished to see Caleb at least a thousand times in the past forty-eight hours, right now I’m hoping with every fiber in me that he won’t show up here.

  I force myself back in the moment and make eye contact with the woman across from me.

  “Yes,” I say, nodding for extra emphasis. “I fully support my parent’s campaign. Church and foster centers—while both admirable in their own ways—need to stay separate if taxpayer money is involved.” I’ve given some variation of this answer a thousand times, but something about the look on her face tells me I messed up this time.

  The way she sends an uncomfortable glance toward my father confirms it. Next to me, he clears his throat as she shifts in her chair. I don’t miss the impatient raise of her eyebrow or the condescending tone of her voice when she tries again, nor the way my father looks at me expectantly. I’m failing here, and we both know it.

  “That’s all well and good, Kathy, but I asked you about how you feel about church leaders using their position to indoctrinate innocent children. Take this church, for example. What would you say to one of their leaders if you had the opportunity?” She leafs through a few pages of notes as a slow chill creeps up my spine. I know what she’s looking for. “Here it is.” She faces me again. “Last month in St. Louis, you were quoted as saying, ‘Church members in positions of authority need to stop using their power to convert children to their old-fashioned ways of thinking. Faith-driven pressures like these might be the single most detrimental issue facing our young people today, even more dangerous than unemployment and inner-city crime.’ ”

  I blink, thinking of Caleb flipping through albums in my apartment. Of his tattoo. Of those studded biker boots.

  Try as I might, I can’t come up with anything old-fashioned about him.

  I uncross and cross my legs, wishing I had worn pants instead of a skirt because suddenly my legs feel sweaty and sticky even though it’s forty degrees outside. The heat lamps surrounding us are too hot. Too bright. Too focused on me.

  “So what would you say to the leaders of this church?” the interviewer says, settling her papers back in her lap.

  It feels like a giant ball of cotton is stuck in my throat as I try to swallow. The cameras are on me and her eyes are on me and I have to say something. “I guess I would say…um…that as far as this church goes…It’s probably best if…um…” I take a deep breath, wondering what in the world is wrong with me. I’ve been doing this for years. It should come as naturally as breathing. Right now, even breathing is difficult.

  “I think what Kathy is trying to say is—”

  I stop him with a hand to his wrist. I love my father, but I can’t let him speak for me. Those days are over, and besides—when it comes down to it—I want to sound professional. My image is at stake here, too. My chin goes up. I square my shoulders.

  “I would say the same thing I’ve always said. Like any other church, this one has no place trying to interfere in the lives of children while using taxpayer money to do so. It doesn’t matter if they use only a little. That nativity scene needs to come down, or their doors need to close.”

  My words sound confident, in control. And when I see my father smile, a sense of pride envelops me. Finally, I’ve done the right thing.

  So why does a tiny part of me feel like I’ve just betrayed the one person I care about most?

  *

  With my headphones tucked inside my ear, I’m trying to stay on a path well-lit by streetlamps. Needing an outlet for my restlessness, I took off walking an hour ago. It’s dark, not as black as it will be but well past sunset. And call me crazy, but I’d rather not be attacked by some psycho stranger, especially when very few people are out here to hear me scream. So I follow the lights, which sometimes leaves me with the feeling that I’m walking in circles.

  I’m on my fourth time around when I see him.

  Lit up by his own set of lampposts, Caleb is jogging toward me like a scene from a movie, where the object of the girl’s affection appears at just the right time. Music swells. A reunion ensues. And they all live happily ever after.

  Except I know the moment he sees me, and Caleb is anything but happy. His steps slow, and he’s skewering me with his eyes, sizing me up and not liking what he finds.

  “What are you doing here?” Sweat drips from his forehead. He doesn’t even try to hide the accusation in his voice.

  “Walking, same as you. Last time I checked, it’s a public park.”

  “I’m running. Walking’s for wimps.” He’s comparing our workout routines, and it’s a dumb thing to say, and I have about a million different retorts hanging out on my tongue just waiting to be released, but I hold them in because he’s trying to prove a point. I’m not sure what exactly the point is, but he’s mad. Of course he’s mad. Gone is the boy who pinned me against his car door only a few days ago and kissed me until my knees nearly buckled. Gone is the boy whose devilish grin set everything to rights in my world, even through the turmoil of drunkenness and rallies and term papers. Gone is the boy I was falling for, which sounds so stupid when I think about it now, because what kind of moron falls in love in three days? With a pastor, my rational side whispers to me.

  But the emotional side of my brain won’t listen to the rational side, because the emotional side can only remember his eyes…his gentleness…his lips…his tattoo. The emotional side is too busy staring at his sweaty, ridiculously chiseled chest.

  The emotional side is still falling.

  His next words yank me out of my descent. />
  “Don’t you have an interview you need to get to?” he says. “You know, one where you sit on my lawn in front of my nativity scene and give me more unsolicited advice about how I need to close my doors and quit brainwashing kids?”

  My eyes fly to his face, so over his chest. If he expects me to feel bad about that interview, he’s sadly mistaken. “I wasn’t aware the church property belonged to you. And as for nativity scenes, I didn’t know I needed to ask your permission before sitting next to Jesus.”

  His eyes flash. “Well, from now on, you do.” It’s the wrong thing to say, and for a moment I see a flicker of guilt because, seriously, he’s going to keep me away from baby Jesus? But just like me, Caleb is an expert at masking anything but a stubborn streak. As quickly as it comes, the guilt disappears. “Got it?”

  My temper flares. “Why don’t you just take the nativity down? Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His gaze narrows. “Well since you’re such a fan of the media, here’s a news flash for you: I don’t bow to pressure, not from your dad and definitely not from you.”

  “You might not say that once our lawyers get involved,” I snap. I regret the words as soon as they slip out.

  “Bring it, Kathy,” he bites back, insulting me. I swallow the sting and engage in a stare down, two iron-clad wills fighting to come out on top. I’m breathing hard and he’s breathing hard and then he seems to remember something. “Speaking of lawyers, according to mine, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  His words punch at me, deflating my indignation, because he’s right. So much for a fight; just like that, I’ve lost. With a sigh, I tuck my headphones back inside my ears. “I’ll make it easier for you, then.” I turn to leave, suddenly wanting to flee this creepy, too-dark park and its watchful, painful eyes, especially with Caleb taking up all the space.