by J. C. Davis
Friday morning, I shoulder my backpack and shove my way through the crowd at school. The rows of yellow lockers stretch out ahead of me and my sneakers squeak against the dingy linoleum floor. Gabe is already at his locker, spinning the dial and smacking the metal door when it sticks.
Wendy and Anna stand a few feet away, close enough that I can hear them without any effort. They look like they coordinated their outfits, each wearing a pink baby doll tee and white jeans. It’s gagworthy.
All is not well in clonesville, however. Anna’s hands are on her hips and one foot taps impatiently. Wendy’s crossed arms are definitely giving off a defensive vibe. Trouble with the super-friends?
“You promised,” Anna whines.
Wendy grimaces. “I can’t. Daddy says it’s sacrilegious to take Baby Cheesus on house calls. He’s built a special pedestal in the church and a plexiglass box to hold Baby Cheesus.”
Anna scowls, foot tapping faster. “But you took it to Trish’s house and she got an A on her chemistry test. I’m failing algebra and my hair is a disaster. You promised Baby Cheesus could help.”
“I would bring Baby Cheesus over if I could!”
Anna sags back against her locker, shoulders slumping. I grab my books and stop next to Gabe.
“Did you hear that?” I ask in a low voice, nodding toward the two girls. “Bobby’s displaying Baby Cheesus in the church?”
Gabe rolls his eyes. “Dad’s been ranting all week about it.” He slams his locker door shut and glares at the lock. “He keeps muttering about false prophets. He’s obsessed. Cheesus is all anyone wants to talk about.”
“Wanna talk dramatic plot devices instead?” I gesture at Twelfth Night and Gabe’s grip tightens on the book, scrunching the cover.
“I can’t focus. It’s all prithee this and prithee that. Who talks like that? I can’t understand half the words.”
“That’s why it’s great literature. If everyone could understand it, it wouldn’t be great.”
Gabe shakes his head. “My mom had a thing for Shakespeare. She used to read me Much Ado About Nothing when I was in kindergarten. I should get this stuff by like genetic predisposition or something.”
“Guess you skipped those genes. But, hey, you got a full dose of nerd genes so it’s not a total loss.” I let the quip about his mom pass. It’s dangerous territory and Gabe’s already in a bad mood. Lila Beaudean hasn’t been in touch since the day she left Clemency six years ago. Every couple of months the two of us try Googling her name but so far, nothing.
“Shut up,” Gabe mutters, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. All the same, I can tell he’s still thinking about his mom. Nothing else makes his eyes go so blank.
Time for a strategic topic change. I tap the toe of his shoe with mine. “The stuff with Baby Cheesus will blow over. Anyway, shouldn’t you be the first one in line praising the miracle cheese?”
Gabe straightens and narrows his eyes. “Because I’m a preacher’s son?”
“I thought you’d be into religious signs and all that.” I tug Gabe’s arm, herding him toward homeroom. “Your dad too.”
The tension drops out of his shoulders and he sighs. “Not when the religious sign in question is sitting in St. Andrew’s and Pastor Bobby is gloating about how he’s got a divine object and Dad doesn’t.”
“So you don’t think there’s anything to Baby Cheesus? No chance it’s real?” I’m not sure which way I want him to answer. Gabe’s always had enough faith for the both of us, and this past year, faith is something I’ve been a little short on.
“I haven’t even seen the thing. All I know is it’s driving Dad nuts, and he’s driving me nuts. I need the cycle to end.”
We reach homeroom and I give Gabe a mischievous smile. “Maybe God will send your dad a divine French fry or something.”
“Not funny. Let’s drop it, okay? I really am tired of hearing about Baby Cheesus.” Gabe flops into his seat with a scowl.
All through class, my brain keeps circling back to the question of whether that cheese wheel is real or not. I mean, I know it’s real; I saw it. I touched it. But what it means is a whole different problem. I’m kind of erring on the side of “It’s all bullshit,” but there’s a tiny part of me that’s got questions. I attended church every Sunday growing up, took communion, said my prayers each night like a good little girl. I believed, one hundred percent, that God was watching over me and my family. Right up until Claire got sick. When my sister died, that was pretty much it for me and God. Clearly he didn’t have my back, why should I have his? But it’s hard to let go of something you’ve believed your whole life.
CHAPTER SIX
Dinner Derailed
Saturday night, I’m standing outside the bathroom Emmet and I share and kicking the door.
“Come on, Emmet! I need to pee, get out of there.”
“Hang on!” he growls back. The door stays locked. I huff out a breath and lean my forehead against the wall. Emmet’s been monopolizing the bathroom for the past twenty minutes, and it’s starting to get annoying. If I was truly desperate, I’d brave Mom’s room and the master bathroom.
Finally the door opens and I straighten, take in the full picture of my brother, and burst out laughing. “What did you do to your hair?”
“Shut up.” Emmet’s voice is sullen and he shuffles past me, glaring.
His hair is sculpted into a wave and he’s pulled little strands loose to flop over his forehead. An emo football player. I should snap a picture and send it to Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
“So,” I draw the word out, flicking a finger at his snazzy bangs.
Emmet swats my hand away.
“Who’s the girl?” I ask
Emmet turns red. Interesting. “You don’t know her,” he mutters.
I narrow my eyes. Has he resorted to picking up city girls? How? Rust Bucket would cough out a radiator if he tried to drive the thirty miles to Ashby.
“Impossible,” I say.
Emmet stops blushing and glowers at me. “Suddenly you’re the social queen? You and Gabe spend your time talking about nerd stuff and ignoring the world. I bet you wouldn’t recognize half the freshman class.”
My mouth drops open. “You’re dating a freshman! Who? Carly Harmon?” She’s cute and she spent most of the summer making puppy dog eyes at Emmet.
“I said you don’t know her. I met her at an away game last season and we’ve been texting for a while.”
“Wow.” I give him a sly look. “How do you work the phone keys with those gorilla hands of yours?”
Emmet tries to swat me again but I duck into the bathroom and slam the door in his face, locking it.
“Better hurry,” I croon sweetly through the door, “don’t want to be late for your date.” I sing-song “date,” drawing it out. Emmet thumps the wall and stomps off.
If Emmet’s got a hot date, I guess I’m on my own for dinner. Leftovers, here I come. I’m ten feet from the kitchen when my nose registers the smell of tomato sauce and spices. I approach the kitchen as though it’s a bear trap, unwilling to discover those wonderful scents are my imagination working overtime. Mom is standing by the stove, stirring something in a big silver pot.
Emmet sits at the table, fingers flying over his phone.
“Hi, sweetie,” Mom says in a cheerful voice, turning to smile at me. “You’re just in time. The spaghetti sauce has another ten minutes before it’s ready. Be a dear and grab that colander from the sink. The noodles need to be drained.”
I don’t move. “What’s going on?”
Mom’s smile becomes strained at the edges. “We’re having dinner. I told you I switched my Saturday shifts.”
Oh. Right. I didn’t think she was serious. And because I didn’t think she was serious, I never bothered to tell Emmet about Mom’s dinner plans. Which explains the narrow-eyed look he shoots me before focusing on his phone again. Oops.
Emmet finishes whatever he’s doing with his phone and tosses it ont
o the table. “I told Micah we’ll hang out tomorrow after services.”
Mom nods and snatches another pot off the stovetop. “Del, the colander?”
My feet drag in slow motion to the sink but I make it there in time to hold the colander up while Mom dumps in the noodles. One of them slops over the side and wraps around my wrist, a soggy, wet tether.
Mom laughs and plucks the noodle away. “Thanks. Emmet, can you get out plates? Del, why don’t you start the garlic bread.”
She’s acting like all of this is totally normal. Like I haven’t been living off Beefaroni and day-old pizza for ages. As though the past year hasn’t happened at all. Make that two years because that’s how long it’s been since we had pasta night as a family. I glance at the colander. The pile of noodles reaches to the top of the bowl. Way too much for three people. But then, Mom’s used to cooking for five.
“Del, what’s wrong with you tonight? Can you please help with the garlic bread?” Mom’s voice snaps my attention back to her and I drop the colander into the sink, noodles and all, and move to the fridge. My body’s on autopilot. I should call bullshit on all of this, but the spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove smells amazing and Mom’s smiling. Sometimes it’s just easier to go along with things. I’m not forgiving her, just calling a temporary cease-fire.
Ten minutes later the table is set, the sauce is ready, and I’m placing a slice of garlic bread beside each plate. Mom beams at Emmet, me, the table, as though we’ve performed an amazing circus trick and she might start clapping at any moment. It’s a little creepy.
Between slurping noodles, Mom grills Emmet about his new girlfriend. “How’d the two of you meet? How long have you been dating? What’s her name?”
I expect Emmet to answer with a grunt, as usual. He holds in words like a dragon hoarding treasure when it comes to talking about the girls he dates. Instead, cheeks red, he smiles and says, “I met Micah at a football game six months ago. She was—uh—there with the other team.”
“Are you seeing anyone, Del?” Mom asks.
The dream about kissing Gabe pops into my head, and I choke on a mouthful of garlic bread. Emmet starts laughing.
“No,” I manage to wheeze out.
Mom looks concerned but I wave a hand at her and snatch up my soda bottle, downing a few gulps.
The phone rings and Mom gets up, preempting Emmet. She checks the caller ID and frowns. “Why would Maybelle be calling at this hour?”
Maybelle Jensen is the biggest busybody in town. If she’s calling it’s nothing good.
Mom answers with a too-bright “Maybelle!”
Emmet snorts and shovels in another mouthful of food.
Mom’s quiet for a long time, listening, before finally saying, “I see. Of course we’ll try to be there.” Pause. “Yes, that does sound amazing.” A longer pause. “I have to go, Maybelle. The kids and I are in the middle of dinner. We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
Mom’s cheerful tone has cracks in it the size of the Grand Canyon and her face is pale. The phone shakes in her hand as she gingerly sets it back in the stand.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Mom drops bonelessly into her chair and stares at the tabletop. “There’s a special service at St. Andrew’s tomorrow. Pastor Bobby has asked everyone to do their best to be there.”
“Which service?” Emmet frowns. The football team always attends church together during the late morning service. Coach says it builds team cohesion and Emmet’s always moaning about having to drag his ass out of bed in time, but he’d never miss a Sunday. Rumor is, Coach benches anyone who isn’t a regular church attendee.
“The eight thirty service,” Mom answers, still distracted.
“What’s the big deal?” I ask. Mom’s acting weird. She attends the first service at St. Andrew’s every week anyway, so that can’t be what’s bugging her.
She lifts her head and meets my eyes, frowning. “Do either of you know something about a holy cheese wheel?”
I laugh in relief. “Is that all? Yeah, everyone’s talking about it. Andy found it at the Gas & Gut a week ago and Pastor Bobby bought the thing.”
“Maybelle said it’s a genuine miracle, that it can heal the sick,” Mom whispers.
I go still. That’s the same tone of voice Mom used the day my parents told us Claire had cancer. As though the words are coated with shards of glass.
“But it’s not real.” My voice is higher than I want and I clear my throat, suck in a deep breath. “I know Wendy Stevenson’s claiming she was healed, but looked at the source! Remember that time she told everyone a spaceship made crop circles in Mr. Hadley’s field? Only it was just his cow rampaging around after a fence blew down?”
“Maybelle says there have been several healings.” Mom stares at the table, smoothing her hand over the paper towel beside her plate. “Can you imagine if Claire …”
She trails off and Emmet gets up, coming to stand behind her. He rests a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. She’s okay now. She’s with God.”
I shoot him a dirty look. He’s always bought into that whole “it’s all okay because she’s in heaven” crap. Claire was thirteen. She should be here with us.
Mom looks up and there are tears sliding down her cheeks, but she smiles at Emmet. “You’re right, of course.” She pats his hand and gets up. “I’m just being silly. I think I’ll go lie down for a little bit.”
Emmet mumbles a reply and Mom stumbles past him. Her hip knocks into the table, sending her dinner bowl smashing to the ground. Pasta sauce splatters across my shins, staining my jeans, but Mom doesn’t pause. She walks out of the room completely oblivious, back in her haze.
I might as well be invisible.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cheesus on the Pulpit
I slink out of the house an hour early the next morning. Considering how badly things ended last night, I want to be out the door long before Mom and Emmet start moving. It’s too early for my shift at the Gas & Gut, but I head there anyway. The store is quiet, right up until church lets out. The handful of cars that pass through town on the highway don’t stop.
Around noon, a steady stream of people begins filtering through the store. Each and every one of them wants to buy a cheese wheel. We run out within half an hour.
A little after one, Gabe stomps into the store. He’s still in his dress shirt and slacks from church, his mouth a grim slash. He looks good in dress clothes. I try not to notice the way his shirt is just a bit too tight in the shoulders, but it’s a losing battle.
“How’d you get out of youth group?” I ask, fumbling for something to say.
Gabe frowns, forehead scrunching. Did he catch me checking out his shoulders? I want to sink behind the counter and hide. There’s a long, awkward pause. Finally, Gabe grabs a large cup and fills it with ice and Dr. Pepper. He takes a sip before passing me a dollar. “Pastor Bobby lured half our congregation away this morning. Dad’s furious. I slipped out and he didn’t even notice.”
I stop willing myself to disappear. “Pastor Bobby put the word out last night that he wanted everyone at a special service today. Something about Baby Cheesus.”
“Yeah.” Gabe rests an elbow on the counter and sighs. “Bobby’s got that thing on display in St. Andrew’s chapel, right beside the pulpit. Only way you get to see it is by attending services.”
I give him a sideways look. “You went to St. Andrew’s?”
He flushes and laughs. “I slipped in after the late service ended. If Pastor Bobby wasn’t so long-winded I wouldn’t have had time. The cheese wheel really does look like a baby in swaddling cloths. There was a huge crowd looking at it, and not all of them were townies.”
The bell over the front door rings, and another person wanders in asking to buy a cheese wheel. Gabe waits, but more customers arrive. Eventually he gives up, shoots me a wave, and says we’ll chat later.
My shift ends at three because I picked up some extra hours earlier in the week. I grab
my backpack and dash out the door, barely saying a word to Andy.
St. Andrew’s sits at the southeast corner of town, three blocks from my house. My feet keep moving past my front door and on toward the church. I pause at the stop sign and take it in. The tall white spire stretches high over a set of thick wooden doors. Stained glass windows stand in even rows down the side walls, colorful bursts amid the white paint. On the front lawn at least thirty people mill around, chatting in small groups. Some of them are sitting, legs tucked beneath them, leaning close and whispering. Wendy Stevenson and several of the blonde brigade sit near the front steps.
Before anyone notices me, I take my camera out and get a picture of the crowd in their Sunday best, the church framed behind them. I’ll label it worshiping a different god. How many of them came to hear Pastor Bobby preach and how many came just to see the cheese wheel?
As if I’m any different. It’s not religious fervor dragging me back to St. Andrew’s, but simple curiosity. I take a deep breath and brave the crowd.
Wendy must have some sixth sense because her head whips up when I’m a few feet away and she breaks into a huge smile. “Welcome back! You’re a little late for services.”
I gesture at the people gathered on the lawn. “What’s going on?”
“Impromptu prayer circle. We thought it’d be nice to sit out here and soak in some sunshine while we pray. People kept getting distracted in the sanctuary.”
I glance at the front doors.
“Here to see Baby Cheesus?” Wendy asks.
I nod slowly, shifting my backpack on my shoulder. Yeah, I’ve already seen the cheese wheel, but I want a second look. Just hearing about it sent Mom scurrying back to her room last night. What did she see this morning when she looked at Baby Cheesus?
Wendy grimaces and gives a little shrug. “Daddy says it can only be displayed during services, so that we’re showing the proper devotion. Baby Cheesus isn’t a circus sideshow. Sorry. I’m sure he’ll bring it out next Sunday if you want to come back. You’re welcome to join us for prayer circle, there’s always room for one more.”