Sway

by Amy Matayo

“You’re right. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.” I feel my chin go up. Darn him and his stupid rules. His stupid morals. His stupid nativity scene that he won’t take down. His stupid convictions that don’t mean anything. If he would just throw them all away then we might have a chance. But he won’t, because he’s too stubborn. I turn toward the door again, and stop. Everything inside me folds in on itself, because I know.

  It’s those convictions that make him so attractive to me.

  Even his faith in God. Even though I don’t understand it.

  Caleb is right. This can’t happen again.

  “You don’t need to take me to see Ben tomorrow.” The pain of a thousand needles stabs me behind the eyes. Mondays with Caleb are the best part of my week. “I’ll find another way to write my paper, so please don’t worry about it.”

  I hear him move behind me. I feel the soft flutter of my hair and know that his fingers are touching the ends of it, caressing it, before they drop away completely. He sighs, long and labored.

  “I’ll be there. Same time as last week.”

  “Caleb, don’t—”

  “I’ll be there. Like I told you, I’ll be there every week until you’re finished. You’ve given everything to me, Princess. I’ll try hard to return the favor.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to gasp from the heaviness crushing me, but I don’t cry. Sometimes it’s hard to remember not to. With a nod, I open the door. My shirt is twisted at the waist and my hair is mussed a bit from his hands, but I don’t stop to fix either as I walk down the stairs. The sound of Caleb’s keys jingle in the air as he locks the front door behind me.

  “Kate, wait,” he calls after me. “At least let me walk you to your car.” I stop, but I don’t turn around. There isn’t anything left to say, and the longing is still there, stronger than ever. “Please don’t be angry,” he whispers when he catches up to me.

  He’s right; I shouldn’t be. None of this is his fault; he didn’t ask for it any more than I did. So when he steps up beside me and wraps an arm loosely around my shoulder, I lean into him. He slows our steps and pulls me closer. Unable to take it, both of my arms work their way around his waist, and it takes us much longer than it should to walk across the sidewalk.

  Under the cover of nightfall, it’s easy to relax, easy to forget about cameras and lawsuits and reporters and public perception, especially with Caleb’s arm around me. Especially with my arms around him. Especially when I feel so comforted and so secure and never want to leave and hate that I’m doing that very thing now.

  But then I hear it. He hears it, too, and my arms fall and his arm drops and he spins around to search the night. There’s nothing but trees and blackness in front of us.

  And a camera. Maybe two.

  They click in our direction.

  We can’t see them, but they see us.

  And I have a feeling. A sick, sick feeling, that the time I’ve spent with Caleb, the private time that has felt at moments like heaven itself…

  Has just gone straight to the tabloids.

  25

  Caleb

  “Back To Me Without You”

  —The Band Perry

  Judgment binds you up in chains, yet it’s handed out so freely.

  By well-wishers lacing concern for a seven-year-old with threads of “this poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.” By Christians asking for prayer, then listing out the intimate details of another person’s life while convincing themselves it isn’t gossip. By the news media passing out condemnation without knowing all the details.

  Judgment hurts. Until now, I’d forgotten how much.

  She wasn’t at her apartment on Monday when I went to pick her up. She wasn’t there Tuesday when I stopped back by to check on her. Reporters were, however, and they saw me. Shoved microphones in my face while I struggled to get to my car. Later that night, I was the lead in the six o’clock news. Jesus Dates the Devil was the headline they chose to use. Clever. Cute. It hurt like a cigarette burn.

  If I’m torn up this much, there’s no telling what’s going through Kate’s mind. In my world, it’s just me. In Kate’s, she’s bound to have an entire sea of people ticked off at her.

  I’d hate to be in her situation, but I’d trade places with her if I could.

  I haven’t seen Ben all week. I’ll have to make it up to him somehow.

  26

  Kate

  “You Are Not Alone”

  —Michael Jackson

  I’m scared and confused and lonely and worried. I’ve been accused of things and shouted at and threatened by many. I’ve alternated between the silent treatment and a dozen rounds of twenty questions from my disappointed parents. But it’s my own fault, and I’ll learn to live with the consequences, even if no one seems to care one way or another if I fall apart.

  But what I can’t live with, what I can’t forget, is that I’ve felt this way before.

  Once before. When I was little and afraid and lost inside a Target store, when a frightening man who didn’t look right picked me up and told me to be quiet and proceeded to carry me to his car even though I cried and asked him not to. But the difference is that day, even though someone strange was carrying me and I was screaming and no one was around to help me, I didn’t feel alone.

  Because back then, I did the only thing a little girl knows how to do when she’s scared.

  When she feels threatened. When all she wants is someone to rescue her. When she hasn’t yet lost her innocence. Or faith.

  I prayed. And right then, I felt it. A Presence with me. And just as it came, another man was there. He walked towards us—the kindest face I’ve ever seen before or since. Don’t be afraid, he said before he told the stranger to put me down.

  Just like that, the stranger did.

  And right then, before I could say anything at all, my mother came outside. When I looked around to tell her about the nice man, he was gone.

  I dreamed about the man last night, the only time I’ve revisited that day in my life. Don’t be afraid, he said in my dream. As soon as the words left his mouth, I woke up covered in a sticky sweat.

  It’s becoming harder and harder to convince myself I don’t believe in God.

  But I’m trying.

  So many people are counting on me to try.

  With blood rushing in my ears, I shift in place and step toward the stage. My father just spoke the usual line, my cue to step beside him, to the same little pink X that’s been taped there for years. It’s time for me to deliver another speech. Another town, another school, another government building, another church. I’ve never been nervous before, but now I might faint.

  Good Without God.

  The motto I’ve lived by my whole life.

  In four short weeks, I’ve grown to hate it more than my own name.

  “Come up here, Kathy…” My dad does a double take, one so subtle I’m the only one who sees it. His eyes rake my face and he frowns, and then recovers with a smile as he turns toward the audience. The sound of applause is deafening as I walk towards my father, and on my way up to the microphone a small part of me dies inside.

  27

  Caleb

  “Angel at My Door”

  —NeedtoBreathe

  I spend a lot of time thinking about my life, about how early circumstances led to my own personal downward spiral—like a venomous snake that writhed and hissed its way into the threshold of hell itself before slithering, scalded and feverish, back up again. About how it took hitting rock bottom and a stint in jail to know I was sick of the poison and needed a change, a way out of the darkness that had become my existence. Motherless. Fatherless. Abused. Unloved. Alone. All of it led to meeting Chris Jenkins. He led me to God. I lost friends in the process. I made new friends on the other side.

  I’ve rediscovered my friends this week. The close ones have stuck with me, the not-so-close have accused me of abandoning my faith. The ones who know me have called me a brother, the o
nes who don’t have called for my resignation. I still have a job, but the future of it is shaky. Even with the promise of initial funding, nerves are rattled, and faith is thin. Even Scott’s.

  I’ve always thought his faith was rock-solid. Impenetrable. Like that invisible fence I built around myself years ago. It’s strange how a fence that goes up because of a lawsuit comes right back down because of the same lawsuit, all in the course of one week. Then again, one week can change everything. God created the entire world in less time than that and still had a day to spare.

  Kate was back onstage the other night, standing next to her father, calling for yet another church to close its doors. It surprised me, but then it didn’t. This is her life, the only thing she’s ever known. But this time she looked different, nothing like the girl I learned to care for. This Kate was scared. Unsure. Timid. Alone.

  It didn’t hit me until later that night.

  Kate was wearing black. Her dress. Her boots. Her coat. Even her eyes.

  There wasn’t a trace of pink on her anywhere.

  For all the commotion surrounding us, my office is unusually quiet today. I’ve managed to get a little work done in spite of the screaming silence—if you call pulling up YouTube clips of Kate’s latest speech and drawing penciled switchblades all over a scrap piece of paper in front of me work. There must be at least twenty, and I’ve wasted my whole morning. It’s Monday again, two days before Christmas, and I’m sick of being depressed. I’m thinking about cutting myself with one of these pictures just for fun, but of course the effort would only garner me a pointless paper cut that barely bleeds but hurts like a wasp sting to the eye. Paper cuts are the worst.

  The door opens and Scott walks in. He never knocks, so it doesn’t surprise me when he’s suddenly in front of my desk. But when he plants his hands on either side of my computer and stares hard, I’ll admit to a little discomfort. The guy doesn’t usually pull out his confrontational streak—he looks like a grown version of that kid on Andy Griffith, for heaven sakes—but today is different.

  “What?” I don’t look up. This particular knife is taking shape nicely, and I don’t want to disturb the muse.

  “Would you stop doodling and do something productive?”

  “Don’t insult me. This isn’t doodling. It’s art.” The side of my pencil shades the blade to make it look more dangerous. Better to slice me with.

  “I drew better pictures in first grade. Now get up.”

  This surprises me, and I glance at him. “What do you suggest I do? Let’s see…I can go hang with Mrs. O’Hare and hear another talk about the nauseating things her husband did to her last night—I’d rather you stab me in the ear with this.” I hold up my paper. “Or I could walk outside and be accosted by reporters—equally as thrilling.” I’m aware that I’m throwing the temper tantrum of a twelve-year-old girl, but I’m on a roll. “Or I could call up Kate and ask her how it’s going, but something tells me I ought to avoid that conversation, seeing she’s the devil and all…”

  “No one called her the devil.”

  “Do you even watch the news? That’s been the headline all week.”

  “Dude, she’s an atheist. What did you expect?”

  That attitude right there. It ticks me off. I slap my paper on the desk and glare up at him. “She’s not an atheist.” It’s a dumb, untrue argument, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

  Scott sighs and pulls out the chair across from me, then sits down. He looks at me. Sometimes I hate it when he looks at me. “Unless something has changed that you haven’t told me about, yes she is. From what I can tell, she’s been one her whole life.”

  In a rush, my anger pours out of me. Scott’s right, and I’m lost for what to do. Still, the desire to fight hasn’t left me. “That doesn’t make her the devil, so you can take your pompous attitude and shove it where—”

  “Don’t bite my ear off, Mike Tyson.” I meet his hard stare, and we study each other for a moment, eye-to-eye, man-to-man. “You’re right, it doesn’t. It makes her someone who needs a little grace.”

  Those words settle me. Not much, but enough for now. “Yes, she does. It just seems like lately…like maybe, she’s starting to question things…maybe…” I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes, knowing my words sound stupid but unable to explain myself better. Finally, I give up trying. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Scott rubs an eyebrow. “You could spend some time praying. If you’re right—if she’s starting to wonder about God even a little—she needs your prayers more than ever. Do you pray anymore, Caleb?” His tone is laced with concern so I can’t get angry. I try for a second anyway, but come up short.

  “Of course I pray. You know I do. I think my faith is stronger now than it’s ever been. I’m just tired of the labels, and even sicker of the accusations. How did we get tangled up in this mess? And why the heck do reporters keep calling me Jesus? It’s stupid.” I flip my pencil to the desk.

  “I don’t know. If they knew you like I do, they’d come up with a different comparison.”

  “Shut up.” I close my eyes and lean back, locking my hands behind my head.

  Scott leans back to stretch his legs in front of him. “All kidding aside, I really have no idea. One minute we’re just going along, living life day-to-day…the next we’re embroiled in a national battle. It’s unreal.” He shakes his head and disappears inside himself for a moment, staring unseeing, straight ahead. “It’s a new world, and we’ve got to learn to navigate through it. First things first, we need to fund the center privately from now on.”

  Wait a minute. My eyes open and I give him a look.

  “What about the nativity?” I say with an edge. “Are you going to cave and take it down?”

  He makes a face. “A judge hasn’t ordered us to, so no. Although even if we were, I’m sure you could figure out some way to keep it up that’s mostly legal.

  “Darn right I would,” I say.

  “But as far as funding goes…” Scott says, unwilling to give me time to elaborate on my supposed illegal ideas, “…right or wrong, we’ve relied on public funds since our doors opened. Only for food, but food is expensive, and like I said, it’s a new world. Separation of church and state means a lot more than it used to, and we’ve got to deal with the changes or be prepared to fight battles like this for as long as we’re open. I, for one, don’t have the desire.”

  I just look at him. “I don’t cry ‘uncle.’ You know that.”

  “I’m not saying uncle. I won’t water down our message for anyone. But I won’t let the doors close on this place, either, Caleb. If we have to, we’ll find another way to get the funds we need. Too many kids depend on it.”

  I hear what he’s saying, but defeat tries to claim me anyway.

  “What are we supposed to do, ask Kate for more albums until she runs out? I don’t have the slightest idea how to fundraise, and I can’t do that to her. I won’t. Besides, I haven’t heard from her all week.” My voice has a bite, but I’m not stupid enough to think Scott doesn’t hear the disappointment behind it.

  He just looks at me. “You like her more than you’re letting on, don’t you?”

  I chew a thumbnail and shrug. “A lot more than I should.” A lot more than I can even admit to myself. Yet another reason to keep drawing these knives. I pick up my pencil and get started on a new one. “Go ahead and call me an idiot.”

  “Jury’s still out on that. But I’ve met her. And from what you say, she wasn’t any more prepared for this than you were.”

  I sigh, remembering that kiss the other night, those tears, the heart that seemed torn in half for a few minutes until she hopped in the car and drove away. I swallow…recalling the disappointment the first day I discovered her identity, and again a few days ago while she delivered that speech dressed like a widow in mourning. I shift in my seat and don’t look up.

  “She wasn’t.” Knowing it’s true doesn’t help.

  “I didn’t think so.” Scott c
lears his throat. “I can’t lie and say I’m not worried about you, Caleb. Because I am. You’ve been through more than anyone your age should be. Just, please don’t—”

  I blow out some air. “I won’t let it affect my faith. What do I have to do to prove it to you?”

  Instead of getting defensive, Scott raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Well, there’s one thing that becoming a Christian never changed about your personality. You still have the temper of a demon on fire.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to question your faith. I was going to say please don’t forget that I’ve got your back. No matter what anyone says, no matter what the media tries to portray, I’ll personally rip the arms off anyone who gets too rough with you.” He gestures to himself. “I might not look like much, but I’ve been known to pack a mean punch if anyone gets too close.”

  That earns a laugh from me, my first one all week, and it feels good. Except for the accidental cut he gave me a long time ago, Scott is full of crap and he knows it. I’ve seen him pick spiders up off the kitchen floor and set them free in the backyard more than a few times. And flies…don’t get me started on the way he treats those nasty things.

  “It wasn’t that funny,” Scott says.

  “Yes it was. Hilarious, actually.” I wipe at my eyes. “But thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiles at my still-shaking shoulders. “I’m serious, man. Anything you need…”

  “Thank you. I mean it.”

  He stands up and pushes the chair back an inch. “And as for Kate, I’m praying for her, Caleb. If God wants things to work out for the two of you, He’ll turn things around. Besides, she’s hot. Incredibly hot. All we need to do is get her to side with us you’ll be the luckiest guy on the planet.”

  Geez, is that all? I ball up my paper of penciled switchblades and throw it at his head. “Keep your eyes off her if you know what’s good for you. Or wait—maybe you want to wrestle for her. Show me some of that famous mean punch of yours.”