Cheesus Was Here

by J. C. Davis

  “Baby Cheesus?” Gabe laughs. He’s arranged his food in front of him in a semicircle: an egg salad sandwich, small red apple, bag of Fritos, and a peanut butter bar. Gabe goes for the peanut butter bar first. The boy has taste.

  “Not sure which genius came up with that name, but it’s sticking.” I poke a fork at the fried meat patty on my plate and wait to see if it fights back.

  Gabe shakes his head. “By tomorrow they’ll be talking about how Mrs. Dixon’s dog crapped on Mrs. Rutherford’s lawn.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  And everything might have ended there, just as Gabe predicted. Except for Wendy Stevenson.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wendy Stevenson’s Miracle Cure

  Wendy Stevenson is the type of blonde that clichés are built from: model-thin, gorgeous, and head of the social scene. She’s rodeo queen of Ballard County and has enough calf-roping trophies to start her own herd. Otherwise perfect in every way, Wendy has one tragic character flaw: she’s decided we’re besties.

  It’s not something I’m prepared to forgive.

  Standing beside my locker before lunch Tuesday, I watch with fatalistic despair as Wendy bounces down the hall toward me, her million-watt smile in place. Predictably, Wendy stops beside me. I resist the urge to bang my head against my locker.

  “Hi!” she trills, standing way too close. Personal space is not something Wendy understands. She pats my arm and smiles. “Want to grab a seat in the caf together?”

  “No. Just waiting for Gabe.” I back up, bumping into my locker and dislodging Wendy’s hand.

  “But there’s been another miracle. Don’t you want to hear all about it?”

  Okay, now that kinda grabs my interest. First, when did people start calling Baby Cheesus a miracle? And second, what in the world is Wendy talking about? I mentally file the excuse I was preparing and save it for later. “Another?”

  “Yes! It’s the most amazing thing.” Wendy bounces on the balls of her feet, almost vibrating with excitement. If she launches into full-blown hysteria I’ll be forced to slap her. It’s what you’re supposed to do, right? The fact that I’ll enjoy it is entirely beside the point. “You have to let me tell you all about it,” Wendy continues. “But not here. The hallways smell like dirty socks.”

  Sadly, Wendy is right.

  “Just the two of us?” I tap my fingers against my leg, remembering the last time I got roped into an unofficial meeting of the blonde brigade while Wendy held court in the cafeteria.

  “No, silly, I invited some others too. I can’t keep this all to myself, that would be selfish.”

  Of course it would. I nod glumly. “Trish and Anna?”

  “Totes! And Neil and Eric and Wayne and Isabelle and Nancy, of course. Oh, and I think Mary might sit with us as well. It’ll be cozy!” Wendy bobs in place, looking gleeful.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I’ve got to research a paper for Mrs. Morrison’s class. I’ll be stuck in the library all lunch period.”

  Wendy wrinkles her nose. “Don’t be silly, you have to eat.” She grabs my wrist and drags me toward the cafeteria. For five foot nothing, Wendy is strong. Must be all that calf roping.

  I splutter and protest, but Wendy is a miniature hurricane in designer jeans. All I can do is surrender and be pulled along in her wake. Just then, Gabe reaches his locker and glances up, startled.

  “I can’t just abandon Gabe,” I try.

  Wendy glances at Gabe and smiles sweetly. “Gabe doesn’t mind. He sits with you every day.”

  I give Gabe a pleading look. He snickers and turns away, pulling his lunch bag out of his locker.

  “I hate you!” I snap at Gabe, leaning close before Wendy gives another tug and I stumble after her.

  He waves. “Have fun at lunch!”

  After school, I am going to take Rust Bucket and run him over. Twice.

  Gabe thinks Wendy’s delusions of friendship are hilarious. He’s always teasing me about joining the rodeo club and dyeing my hair blonde. All of which means he’s no help at all whenever Hurricane Wendy comes to town and drags me into something. I can’t figure out if he’s secretly afraid of her or easily entertained.

  Wendy shoves open the cafeteria door with her shoulder, giving me another small jerk. She pauses in the doorway to make sure everyone is looking before dropping my wrist and sashaying inside. I consider fleeing, but I’m pretty sure Wendy would chase me down.

  I have several theories about Wendy’s burning need to be friends.

  Theory one: alien abduction. Wendy is actually a little green man in disguise, sent here to study and torture innocent high school students.

  Theory two: demonic possession. In an effort to boost hell’s numbers, Satan is now recruiting popular teen girls and getting them to steal souls.

  Theory three, my personal favorite: government experiments gone wrong. Wendy’s part of a secret government program to create teen superspies, but her mind snapped, she was kicked out, and now she’s batshit crazy.

  Long, arduous minutes later, after being herded through the lunch line, I slump in my seat at Wendy’s usual table, picking at my food.

  Of course, I know the truth about Wendy’s friendship efforts. But I don’t want to admit it, even to myself. Until Claire died, Wendy never showed the slightest interest in me. Wendy is Pastor Bobby’s daughter and she takes her role as preacher’s kid very seriously. I’m Wendy’s charity project. Pastor Bobby probably talked her into it. And Wendy always sticks with anything she sets her mind to. At least once a month, Wendy tries to drag me into hanging out with her and talking about my feelings. I don’t share well, feelings or otherwise.

  Wendy snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? Did you hear what I said?”

  “No, sorry,” I mutter.

  Wendy sighs and flashes a look at her real best friends, Trish and Anna. Trish is petite with dimples and huge blue eyes, top of the cheerleader pyramid—though not socially, of course. She gets straight As and is working toward a scholarship to Northwestern. Anna, on the other hand, is as annoying and perky as Wendy. They could be twins. Though, to be fair, Wendy is definitely the smarter of the two. Anna skates through life with a C average and a pair of D cups filling out her varsity sweater that have every boy in the school fascinated. Including Gabe, much to my disgust. Anna’s boobs clearly have superpowers.

  “Pay attention.” Wendy thumps my arm and leans in closer. The others all lean in as well. “Yesterday, I had the worst head cold. It was horrible! Snot dripping from my nose, my eyes were red, and I sounded like a bullfrog. So gross. I told Daddy I had to stay home. Now I don’t know if you heard, but Daddy bought that cheese wheel from my cousin Andy for fifty dollars and so we prayed over the cheese wheel. It being a holy sign and all.”

  Wait. Pastor Bobby bought the cheese wheel? I know Andy was yammering about selling it on eBay, but that’s a little different from someone local buying the thing. And how’d Bobby settle on fifty dollars? Is there a price guide for bogus religious signs?

  “And this morning, when I woke up,” Wendy continues, “my head cold was completely gone and my hair looked fantastic.”

  Unbelievable. The level of stupid at this table just reached epidemic proportions. There’s no way anyone’s going to take Wendy seriously.

  Anna gasps and presses a hand against her chest. I bet she practices that move in the mirror at night. All the boys at the table stare at Anna’s chest, transfixed. “I thought your hair looked different today!” Anna says. “It’s all wavy.”

  Wayne tears his gaze away from Anna’s breasts and turns to Wendy. “You think Baby Cheesus is a real miracle? That God sent it?”

  Wendy nods. “Daddy says that Baby Cheesus is a sign of God’s divine hand at work in our little town. That cheese wheel has healing powers. And look at my hair. It has to be God’s work.”

  Everyone at the table is hanging on Wendy’s every word. Apparently I was wrong. They are taking her seriously. />
  I snort back a laugh. “God did not give you a makeover.” Every eye turns to me and I hold up my hands. “What? I’m just saying there’s no way God has switched from burning bushes to curling irons.”

  Neil Clover nods. “Del’s right. I think Andy faked the whole thing. He probably made the cheese wheel hoping someone like your dad would buy it off him, Wendy.”

  I stare at Neil. He’s a rising star on the baseball team, handsome in an offhand way, with ears a bit too big. Part of Wendy’s regular crowd, a future ex if he isn’t one already. Neil is easy to ignore because he never speaks up. So why’s he agreeing with me now?

  Wendy’s lower lip juts out and she sets her pretty jaw. “God and Baby Cheesus healed me! I might have woken up with pneumonia. My cold was that bad. I might have been in the hospital. This is a genuine miracle!”

  Neil falters under Wendy’s glare and shrugs. “Okay, okay. The cheese is magic.”

  Wendy’s face flushes. “It’s miraculous!”

  I hold back another laugh.

  “Miraculous,” Neil agrees. He turns to Wayne quickly and starts talking about the baseball team’s prospects for the upcoming season. Wayne smirks but keeps up his side of the conversation.

  Wendy’s narrowed eyes swivel to me.

  “You believe in Baby Cheesus, right, Del?”

  I feel like there’s a grenade launcher pointed at my head. Red lights and warning sirens should be blaring all around.

  “I need to get in some research time, sorry to eat and run.” I leap up, grabbing my backpack and abandoning my barely touched food. Starvation is the safer option. If Wendy has decided Cheesus is miraculous she’s not going to let it go.

  Wendy scowls and opens her mouth to say something, but Trish interrupts. “Your hair really does look fabulous. I’d kill for waves like that. Maybe you can bring Baby Cheesus over to my house tonight and we can have a makeover party.”

  Wendy pats her hair and smiles. I escape before she remembers I’m not a member of the Cheesus pep squad.

  I have an hour and a half after school before my shift at the Gas & Gut starts. It’s just enough time to head home, grab a snack, jump online, and then change into the black slacks and white shirt I normally wear to work.

  I freeze when I enter my room, staring at the bed. The covers are neatly tucked and all three of my pillows are arranged in a demi-pyramid worthy of a magazine spread. It looks like Martha Stewart vandalized my personal space.

  Adding to the weirdness, a T-shirt has been laid out across the foot of my bed. I edge closer, taking in the shirt’s full horror. It’s baby pink with a white fuzzy kitten on the front. The kitten’s collar is studded with glittery pink rhinestones and it stares up at me with wide blue eyes. Is that glitter dusting the kitten’s fur? Holy crap, it is.

  “Hi, sweetie,” a voice says behind me. I whirl around, almost falling onto the bed.

  Mom stands with one hand braced against my doorframe, smiling tentatively. Her hair is in a loose bun, renegade strands clinging to her neck. She’s wearing her old robe, ratty and blue, with one pocket sewn on sideways in red thread. Claire and I learned to sew when I was eight by practicing on that robe. I’d like to point out that Claire is the one who sewed the top of the pocket closed. I’m just responsible for the red thread. I picked it out after Claire pricked her finger with the needle and bled all over the blue thread we initially chose.

  Mom hasn’t worn that robe since Claire died. I thought she threw it out with the garbage and her motherly instincts. My stomach twists looking at our lopsided stitches. I want to both hug Claire and jab her with the needle a few more times. But that’s the thing about dead sisters: can’t do much with them.

  “Hi?” It comes out as a whisper.

  “Do you like it?” Mom asks, gesturing toward my bed.

  Ah. Apparently Mom is responsible for that monstrosity. I thought Emmet was screwing with me, but guess not.

  “It’s—uh—very pink.” The words are so pathetically stupid I cringe. My mother is standing here. In my room. Talking to me. For the first time in forever I can yell and scream at her, let her know just how pissed off I am about being left a virtual orphan, and she might actually hear me. Except I can’t. Because my mother is standing here. My mother. I’m afraid to move in case she retreats back into her fog and forgets me again.

  “You like it, right?” Mom moves past me to lift the T-shirt up. She smiles and runs a finger across the rhinestones. “You’ve always loved kittens and pink’s your favorite color.”

  My favorite color is dark blue. Mom knew that once.

  “Yeah, it’s great,” I choke out. If I were Pinocchio my nose would be knocking a hole in the wall.

  “I’m so glad you like it,” Mom gushes. She sets the T-shirt back on my bed and fusses with the sleeves. “I saw it at the store and couldn’t resist buying it for you. You look so pretty in bright colors. I talked with my supervisor about switching my schedule around and I’m going to start working the day shift on Saturdays. Maybe the three of us can have the occasional dinner together again. Will you let Emmet know?” She turns back toward me, hands fluttering at her side.

  “That’d be great,” I say slowly, holding my breath. Any minute, a TV camera crew is going to jump out of my closet and shout “Surprise!” Or I’ll wake up, alarm blaring.

  Instead, Mom gives me an unsteady smile. Her fingers brush the sideways pocket and her smile disappears, eyes unfocused and glassy with the beginnings of tears. “I’m sure you’ve got plans for the evening so I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “No, I—”

  She pats my shoulder vaguely and drifts out of the room.

  I retrieve my camera and snap a picture of the hideous T-shirt; yet another photo for my wall. Even when Mom sees me, she’s not really seeing me. I tack the picture beside a self-portrait I took a few months ago. In the image, half my face is obscured by the bulky camera and the rest of me is dark and blurry, a distorted reflection in my bathroom mirror. I am just a shadow girl these days.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Anarchists for Cheesus

  It takes me a while to pull myself together after Mom’s little visit, but I manage to make it to work on time. Andy is grinning when I arrive at the Gas & Gut. I have Monday nights off so this is the first time I’ve seen him since he found Baby Cheesus. He stands behind the main counter, an open pack of potato chips beside him, playing an exaggerated drum solo in the air with battered-looking chopsticks.

  “Guess whose blog got a million hits today?” Andy says, smacking an invisible cymbal and then gesturing for me to answer with one of the chopsticks.

  “Oprah?” I ask.

  “Please. I kicked her touchy-feely, let’s-hug-the-world ass.”

  Andy drops the chopsticks, pulls out his iPhone, and flicks it on before thrusting it into my hand. A blog page fills the screen, garish in crimson and black with the anarchy symbol anchoring the top. Below the masthead, a picture of Baby Cheesus takes up most of the page.

  I smirk. “Love the blog theme.”

  Andy jabs a finger at the blog’s hit counter. “That’s more traffic than this entire town has seen in the last century. I’m famous.”

  He has a point, but I’m not going to stroke his ego. His blog’s sudden popularity is nothing but morbid curiosity.

  “I thought you sold the cheese wheel?” I hand the phone back.

  Andy frowns. “Yeah. Wish I hadn’t, but it was Uncle Bobby. What was I supposed to do? He said Baby Cheesus belonged with the church and God would reward my charity and piousness. He also started hinting that he expects me back at services. He can be scary intense.”

  Andy hasn’t been to a service in over a year. His dad is drunk most weekends, and his mom died when he was three. Bobby helped raise Andy, but two years ago Andy declared he was an atheist and pissed off every white-hair in town. Bobby’s been trying to bring Andy back into the church ever since. So far, he hasn’t managed it.

  “You’re
scared of Pastor Bobby? How’s that fit with your whole drugs, anarchy, and rock ’n’ roll philosophy?” I laugh as Andy pulls my apron from under the counter and throws it at me.

  “You’ve heard him preach about hell. That man means business.” Andy widens his eyes and fakes a shiver.

  “Pastor Bobby has a set of wind chimes on his front porch made out of beer cans and wears a bass fishing shirt every day but Sunday.” I shake my head. “Not scary. At all.”

  Andy shrugs. “You weren’t standing here with him staring you down. At least I was the first to post a picture of Baby Cheesus. I found the thing, that counts for something.”

  “Sure. Like finding a crispy fried pinkie finger in your French fries at Burger King. It’s an honor.” I finish tying my apron on and give Andy my best crazy smile.

  “You’re just pissed you didn’t find Baby Cheesus,” he says.

  “Please, I am totally fine with your newfound fame.”

  Andy lifts an eyebrow but waves me behind the counter. “Don’t expect to find another miracle cheese, I already checked.”

  I glance at the dairy case. The green mesh basket that normally holds the Babybel cheese wheels is empty again. “I hope you paid for those or Ken’s gonna fire you. Famous or not.”

  “Settle down, I paid for them. Not a single religious symbol anywhere.” He waves a hand, giving me a rueful smile.

  “Guess God is done playing with food.”

  “You want help counting out your cash drawer?” Andy waggles his eyebrows like he’s suggesting something dirty.

  “No, thanks, I can handle the big scary numbers.”

  Andy smiles and hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. “You’re missing out on prime Andy time.” He heads for the front door, calling over his shoulder, “One million hits, Del. One million!”

  I laugh and wave my hands, shooing him away.

  On Wednesday, the Ballard County Times runs a paragraph about Pastor Bobby purchasing Baby Cheesus. It’s on page three, but it’s still there. On Thursday a late-night TV show host mentions the miracle cheese during his opening monologue. Andy’s blog is up to three million hits and Baby Cheesus has gone viral, pictures popping up on Twitter and Facebook.