by J. C. Davis
“Of course I’d let you in.” I should apologize for running off but the words are stuck in my throat. I shuffle into the living room and flop down on the couch instead. Gabe follows and when he sits there’s an entire couch cushion and a world of unsaid words between us. The awkward silence grows until all the air is being sucked out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” we both begin and then break off with nervous laughs.
“I didn’t mean to flip out earlier,” I say. “I just can’t understand why no one else is questioning this stuff. I mean, I know why you’re going along with it. You’re a preacher’s kid so of course you have to believe in miracles. I shouldn’t get mad at you for something you can’t help.”
“Gee, thanks.” Sarcasm coats his words like a fine dusting of powder.
“I’m trying to make up,” I mutter.
“Your technique seriously sucks. I don’t believe in the miracles because my dad’s a preacher. I believe in them because I believe in God. Because I know there are things in life that can’t be explained. Admitting the miracles might be real isn’t a crime.”
“So you think God’s endorsing McDonald’s?” I try to keep my voice neutral but it borders on sarcastic.
“I don’t think God’s giving fast food his stamp of approval. But that window has everyone’s attention. If I was going to leave a religious message, I’d want maximum impact.”
“Why not make it appear at the church? I mean that’s where all the believers are.”
“Yeah, so that’s the last place you’d put it. This way even people who don’t go to church see, and maybe it gets them thinking.”
“Or buying more French fries.”
Gabe sighs. “Every time I suggest anything you either shoot it down or launch into a snark attack. I’m not going to just nod my head and agree with everything you say, Del. We’re allowed to have different opinions.”
I open my mouth to respond, but shut it just as quickly. My default answer these days is almost always sarcasm. “I’m sorry. I wish I could believe as easily as you do. But nothing makes sense anymore, least of all this.”
Gabe nods. “I know you’ve had it rough since Claire. But just talk with me, okay? Truce?”
His voice is so tired and I can feel the same weight pressing down on me. “Truce. But I can’t get on the miracle bandwagon. I just can’t.”
“No one’s asking you to. But it’s a big leap from not believing in the miracles to announcing they’re fake on TV. They could both be natural phenomena. There doesn’t have to be some mastermind behind it.”
“If it was just Cheesus or the drive-through window, maybe. But the two of them so close together? That can’t be coincidence.”
“Which brings us back to the miracle theory.”
“And the jerk with a warped sense of humor theory.”
Gabe nods reluctantly. “I guess it’s a possibility as well. But they’re just theories. There’s no proof either way.”
“We could find some. We could prove, definitively, that the miracles are fake. Or that they’re real,” I add quickly, catching Gabe’s annoyed expression.
“And how are we supposed to do that?” There’s a subtle emphasis to his words that twists my stomach into a knot.
“I’ve started a suspect list,” I admit, watching Gabe closely.
His eyes widen the tiniest bit and he blows out a breath. “Who’s on it?”
Before I can change my mind, I get up, grab the notebook from my backpack, and flop back onto the couch beside Gabe. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Might as well, you’re going to keep looking into it whether I’m helping or not. And you know what they say: two nerds are better than one.”
The old joke, the one we use to yell at my brother when he teased us for trying to build bottle rockets in the backyard, makes the muscles in my shoulders relax the tiniest bit. Gabe’s here and he’s listening. I take a deep breath and rattle off my list.
“What are their motives?” Gabe quirks an eyebrow.
“Motives?” I repeat, like it’s one of Mr. Sutherland’s fiendish math problems.
“Don’t you watch Sherlock? Detectiving 101: there’s always a motive,” Gabe adds.
“Bobby’s winning the church wars for the first time in forever and having a fun time doing it. Wendy’s a daddy’s girl so anything that benefits her dad makes Wendy happy too. Ken would sell his left kidney to bring in more customers and put the Exxon out of business. Andy … well, I’m not sure. Extreme boredom?”
“Mrs. Deardly?”
I flush, knowing she’s the least likely of all my suspects, but I felt like the list needed a bit of padding. “She’s a creepy old lady. And suspicious. You know she buys the same thing every time she comes to the Gas & Gut? A bottle of cough syrup and a pack of peppermint gum. She wears dentures, so she can’t even chew gum!”
“McJesus wasn’t painted with cough syrup or sculpted from chewing gum, so I’m not getting the connection. Acting weird doesn’t mean you’re a criminal. If it did, half this town would be locked up.”
“There’s a difference between quirky and weird. Quirky is okay. Quirky is Jim Wilco’s belt buckle collection. Weird is a little old lady who’s never had so much as a sniffle buying cases of cough syrup.” I pause, struck by a horrible thought. “Maybe she’s running a meth lab, like Breaking Bad. But with old people.”
Gabe snorts. “That’s your craziest theory yet. And how does that give her a motive for faking the miracles?”
“New customer base from all the out-of-towners? Distract the local police?”
“You need to watch less TV. Or at least better TV.”
“Shut up. You wanted motives, it’s not my fault you don’t like them.”
Gabe reaches over and grabs the notebook, yanking it free. He begins flipping through the pages. “I’m playing devil’s advocate. If you go accusing anyone of faking the miracles, you better have a ton of proof.”
“So you admit it’s a possibility?” This is more important than it should be. If I can convince Gabe, then maybe I can convince other people as well.
He sighs. “Maybe. But what happens if you start poking into things and you find out the miracles are real? What are you going to do then?”
I shrug. “I’ll deal with it.” Easy words. But I’m not going to have to deal with anything because there is no way those miracles are real.
“Fine. I’ll help you investigate. What do you want to do first?”
My chest burns and I suck in a deep, shuddering breath. “Really?”
“Really. But if we find out they’re real, we share that info as well.” His face is stern. He looks so much like his dad in that moment, every bit the preacher’s kid.
I lean over and hug him, squeezing as tight as I can. My notebook is smushed between us and the spiral coil digs into my skin even through the material of my shirt.
“Okay.” I pull back a little and we’re so close our breath tangles together. The tension from earlier morphs into a different kind of tension and I get up from the couch before I do something stupid, like kissing Gabe. My notebook falls, forgotten, into Gabe’s lap and I can’t quite meet his eyes.
“It’ll be okay,” Gabe says. “We’ll figure things out and everything will get back to normal soon.”
I’m not sure if he means the town, our friendship, or something else. I shrug off the awkward feelings and paste on a smile. “Let’s talk motive.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Good Morning, Clemency
The ABC news piece on McJesus runs during the ten o’clock news, right after a segment on a bungee-jumping Chihuahua. Gabe sticks around long enough to watch, trying and failing to hide a wince when my interview is aired in its entirety. Afterward he gives me a quick hug and then heads home. The next morning, there’s another article in the Ballard County Times about McJesus. I scan the words as I shovel down some Froot Loops. According to the article, Mrs. Abernathy, one of the school boar
d members, is claiming McJesus healed her laryngitis, and Reggie Groom, the guy who owns Groom’s Hardware, says his bum knee is suddenly fine.
Gabe is waiting for me by the school doors as usual.
“You see the paper this morning?” I ask, my voice too loud.
Gabe nods. “Yeah. Guess Reggie won’t be limping around the store today. But miraculous healings kinda point to, you know, a real miracle.”
“Placebo effect,” I scoff. “Like when the doctor gives you a sugar pill, but you think it’s medicine so you get better anyway. There was a show on Discovery Channel about that last year. Claire and I watched it at the hospital.” I don’t add that Claire laughed her butt off and said maybe she’d be better off if her doctors switched her chemo to sugar water. I brought her a glass of water and five sugar packets each day for a week after that; she mixed them with methodical care and drank every one. Sometimes, Claire and I were good together in that last year. It’s easy to forget with everything that came after.
“I guess,” Gabe says. But I can tell he wants to believe the healings are real. “Dad talked with Mr. Henderson yesterday, asked if we could hang McJesus in the church on Sunday. But Mr. Henderson said he wasn’t moving McJesus anywhere—the restaurant has been packed since the news van yesterday.”
“Your dad chewed Pastor Bobby out for putting Baby Cheesus on display. Why’s he want McJesus?”
Gabe shrugs. “Attendance is way down.”
“A splotchy drive-through window isn’t going to solve that.”
“Works for Bobby.” Which is a good point.
We walk into the school and at first, everything’s fine. But then the comments and looks start.
“Nice interview, Del,” someone calls. The words have jagged edges, meant to draw blood.
I whip my head around, trying to find the speaker, but I’m met with a hallway full of glaring people. Judging by the numbers, half the student body would like to kick my ass right now. It was just a stupid interview for goodness sake.
Gabe moves closer to me, so that our shoulders brush. “Just ignore them, keep going,” he mutters under his breath. We keep our heads up and shuffle to our lockers. By the time we get there, the muscles in my shoulders are so tight you could bounce quarters off them.
Wendy swishes down the hall toward us. Her hair is done up in a twisty braid and she’s wearing extra makeup, smiling like she won homecoming queen. The other kids move out of her way without being asked. While I’m being treated like something nasty found rotting on the side of the road, Wendy has ascended to celebrity status.
Wendy stops in front of me, her smile turning kind and extra sweet. I can feel a diabetic coma coming on in response.
“Del,” she coos. “Last night’s interview was just a bitty mistake. I’m sure you didn’t mean any of the things you said. That reporter swooped in and surprised you! Not everyone reacts well to the spotlight.”
Wendy preens, obviously replaying her time in front of the camera in her mind, and I am utterly speechless. But not for long. “I meant every word.” I keep my voice low and lethal.
“Del!” Wendy sounds genuinely shocked, like I’ve shoved a knife into her gut. “You’ve stood in the presence of God’s holy gift to this town. You saw the image of Jesus on that window. Now I know you’ve struggled a bit with last year’s unfortunate events, but there is no reason to spit in God’s face.”
“Last year’s unfortunate events?” I repeat, shaking with fury. “My sister died. A thirteen-year-old kid. Was that the Lord’s loving hand at work? His mercy?” Gabe puts a hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off and get right in Wendy’s face. I’m so close I can see every pore beneath her makeup, every blemish and imperfection. “Miracles don’t happen. That cheese wheel and the window are a joke.”
Tears fill Wendy’s eyes and her voice is husky. “It’s just pain making you say such awful things.”
I want to wipe that look of pity and understanding off Wendy’s face permanently. Gabe must sense the violence rising up in my gut because he grabs my shoulders and yanks me back against his chest, fingers digging deep into my skin so I can’t jerk away.
“Del’s just fine. She’s got a right to her opinion,” Gabe says, making Wendy frown.
“She hasn’t been to church in months,” Wendy counters. “She’s risking her soul by speaking out against God the way she did yesterday.”
“I said the miracles are fake. Get your facts straight,” I snap.
Wendy shakes her head slowly. “That’s as good as speaking against God. He sent the miracles.”
The warning bell rings, ending Wendy’s lecture. She sighs and pats my arm. “I’ll keep praying for you.” Then she walks off, head high and shoulders back.
I sag against Gabe. I wish he’d let me hit her, but it’s probably better he didn’t. I wasn’t suspended for any of my fights last fall, but I suspect things might be a bit different today.
“We should get to class,” Gabe says, close to my ear.
I shiver and nod.
In history class, I discover why Wendy’s dressed like a presidential hopeful and looking so smug. The ABC segment was rebroadcast on Good Morning America. Mr. Rayburn recorded the segment and plays it for us on the pretext this qualifies as current events. The whole segment lasts maybe three minutes and he switches it off after Wendy’s interview, just as my face appears on screen. Mr. Rayburn glowers at me for a moment before getting himself under control and turning to beam at the class. “This is the first time Clemency has been in the national news!”
A couple of boys in the back of the room high-five. I keep my back straight and ignore the sideways looks I’m still getting. After the confrontation with Wendy this morning, no one’s had the stones to say anything directly to me, but there are a lot of conversations that end mid-word as I pass by. Gabe goes out of his way to walk with me in the halls, even though it makes him late to class a couple of times. By the end of last period, I’m not sure if I want to cry or punch something. Things haven’t been this weird since the first weeks after Claire died, when everyone treated me like a bomb that might explode at any second.
After school, Gabe and I don’t make it farther than the McDonald’s parking lot. Cars are packed in so tight there’s barely room to maneuver and more cars line the street leading up to the restaurant. No way all those people are townies.
I slide my backpack off my shoulder and pull out my camera, snapping a picture. The Polaroid spits out of the camera and I fan it slowly, watching the image come into focus. Fast food has never been so popular.
“I’m going to fill up my entire wall at this rate.” I hold the picture up for Gabe and he smiles.
“Guess we’re not grabbing fries any time soon.”
I glower at the busy restaurant. “Stupid GMA segment.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cheesus on the Line
There’s a steady flow of customers at the Gas & Gut Friday night, including a surprising number of out-of-town cars getting gas. The painting in the window appears to be working and I ring up quite a few cheese wheels. I’m sure the Good Morning America segment helped.
At a quarter past seven, Mrs. Deardly wanders in. She wears thick glasses with ugly black frames. They must have been her husband’s, because they’re too big for her thin face and slide down her nose constantly. Her frizzy, yellow-white hair straggles past her ears, and tonight she’s dressed in a floral dress with a crisp white collar and a row of faux-pearl buttons down the front.
“Let me know if I can help you with anything,” I call out, keeping a close eye on her. Maybe she’ll do something suspicious I can add to our suspects notebook. Although, after talking through motives with Gabe, I still can’t come up with a single plausible reason Mrs. Deardly would be faking the miracles. Maybe I’m right about her running a meth lab though.
Mrs. D moves to the snack aisle and then the pharmacy aisle. She veers to the right and dithers in front of the tiny shelf containing soup cans, boxe
d dinners, paper plates, and all the other little sundries people forget or run out of quickly and might remember needing while they fill their gas tanks.
A few minutes later, she sets her selections on the counter in front of me: one bottle of cherry cough syrup, a pack of gum, and one Babybel cheese wheel. My eyebrows shoot up. First time her purchases have varied as long as I’ve been working here.
“Find everything you need?” I ask.
Mrs. D smiles. “Yes, dear. I thought I’d try one of those cheese rounds. If they’re good enough for the Lord after all.”
I bite my lip to keep from commenting and ring her up.
On the bright side, Mrs. Deardly doesn’t give me a dirty look or make snide comments about my TV appearance. Of all the townies visiting the Gas & Gut that night, she’s definitely in the minority in that regard.
Shortly after Mrs. D leaves, Ken wanders in holding a small brown box and wearing his usual dour expression. It morphs into a full-blown scowl as he stops in front of the cash register.
“You trying to run me out of business?” Ken demands.
“No, sir!” I straighten, wondering what I’ve done now.
Ken hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the front window. “That there cheese wheel has brought in more customers in the past week than we’ve seen all month. I don’t much care if it’s a holy relic or not. What I care about is that other people believe that nonsense and are willing to stop in here and buy stuff because of it. So imagine how pleased I am that one of my clerks went on national TV telling the world that cheese wheel is a load of horse shit.”
I keep quiet. I’m not apologizing, but I also don’t want to say anything that might piss Ken off more and risk my job. If he hasn’t decided to fire me already.
“You represent this store, even when you’re off duty. That better be your last media interview on the subject,” he growls.
I nod. For the first time, I think about how Ken’s going to react if I prove the miracles are fake. Based on this conversation, not well. My stomach drops into my toes. I can’t lose this job.