by J. C. Davis
“I get all the current events I need from Mr. Rayburn’s class.”
Gabe sighs. “Guess who was featured in one of the lead stories?”
“Wendy?” I ask in a small voice. But I already know the answer.
“Oh, they re-aired Wendy’s interview as well, parts of it anyway. But you got top billing. They led with you saying the miracles are fakes and then they brought in some experts to comment on the likelihood that the miracles are real. There was a guy from the Vatican and everything.”
“What was the consensus?”
“Because none of the parties involved are Catholic and Clemency doesn’t even have a Catholic church, the Vatican isn’t taking a stand either way. There was some preacher from Nebraska, a televangelist I think, and he said the miracles seem genuine. Then there was this other guy, I can’t remember his credentials, sorry, who said they had to be fake.”
“Has that televangelist even been to Clemency?” I demand, muttering under my breath.
“Don’t think so. But with the number of people passing through town lately, who can tell?”
He pauses and for a long minute it’s just the sound of our breath over the line.
Yeah, I’m glad other people are calling bullshit on the miracles, but that news story tonight is going to cause trouble. I glance at the answering machine. Is already causing trouble. If the entire town is out to get me, it’s going to make investigating hard. But maybe I won’t need to investigate anymore. Maybe that news segment will shame the town into dropping this whole miracle nonsense. Except I still want to know who did it and why.
There’s a burning knot of curiosity and anger in my chest and it won’t go away until I find the truth. If I can prove the miracles are fake, if I can find out who’s planting them, maybe things will start to make sense again. Maybe life can swing back to normal for me and everyone else.
“You still awake over there?” Gabe asks quietly.
“Yeah, still here. This doesn’t change anything. At least not for me. If you want to back out, though …”
Gabe makes a disgusted noise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Besides, the news segment gave me an idea. I want to look up how the Vatican determines if a miracle is genuine. Maybe we can use that to settle things one way or another.”
“Maybe,” I murmur. It’s a good idea, actually. If you believe in miracles. “Want to have a Google-off after school tomorrow?”
Gabe laughs and agrees. We chat for a few more minutes and then hang up. The red light on the answering machine glares up at me with malevolent persistence. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.
The next morning, when I step out the front door, Mayor Thompson is waiting for me with one foot on the first stair of our front porch. I freeze in the middle of pulling on my backpack.
“Ah, Del,” he says, peering past me into the entry hall. “I was hoping to talk with your mother.” His eyes shift back to me and he looks uncomfortable.
“She’s sleeping. Probably only got home an hour ago.” I keep my voice neutral.
Mayor Thompson dithers, stepping back so he’s not straddling the stair anymore, and smooths a hand down the side of his slacks. It’s a nervous gesture at odds with his sleek appearance. He’s dressed in a button-down dress shirt, cuff links at his wrists, shiny black shoes gleaming obscenely next to the caked dirt covering our porch.
Normally Mayor Thompson is all smiles, a born politician. Today he looks like he got caught with a prostitute on his lap and the story’s about to go viral.
“I see. Perhaps I should—but you’re here and—” He falls silent before sighing and then continues, “I suppose, given everything, it’s best to talk to you directly.” He doesn’t look happy about it, but stiffens his shoulders and nods. “Yes. That’d be best. Can we go inside, please?”
“I have to get to school. Mom will be up in a couple hours if you want to try calling her.” I try to deflect him back onto Mom. If he complains to her about me she’ll probably forget by the time I get home, no discussion necessary.
Mayor Thompson shakes his head. “No, I’d rather get this over with. I’ll call Cheryl and let her know you’ll be late.”
Cheryl is the school principal, Mrs. Candlewhite. The last thing I need is the two of them having a long chat about me. What if Mrs. Candlewhite decides to put me in detention for the rest of the year? I’m sure she could come up with a reason. The fact I have a dead sister is the only thing that saved me from being suspended last year after I started a couple fights. Ruining Clemency’s miracle claims, however, probably trumps the dead sister card.
Just then, Emmet comes barreling through the front door and almost knocks me over. He has a piece of toast shoved halfway in his mouth and his cell phone pressed to his ear. He stumbles to a halt, his arm banging against mine. I give him an annoyed glare.
Emmet looks from me to Mayor Thompson, frowning. He spits out the toast and mumbles, “Gotta go,” into the phone, then snaps it closed. Emmet’s cheeks flush and he quickly shoves the phone into his back pocket when he catches me eyeing it curiously. “What’s going on?”
Mayor Thompson steps forward and slaps Emmet on the shoulder. “Excellent game last Friday, son. You were a powerhouse. Keep playing like that and you’ll have your pick of scholarships.”
“Thanks.” Emmet’s on familiar territory and the flush quickly fades. My brother can talk football 24/7. “I certainly hope I can land a scholarship, sir. Can we help you with something?”
Mayor Thompson gives a fake chuckle. “I just need a moment of Delaney’s time. I’ll drop her off at school, afterward.”
Emmet narrows his eyes. “I’ll wait.”
Part of me wants to tell Emmet off for his ridiculous over-protective big brother act. The other half wants to hug him. I’m not sure what he thinks Mayor Thompson is going to do, but the fact that he wants to protect me from it is kind of endearing.
Mayor Thompson’s smile dies, and he gives a resigned nod. “Fine, fine. Can we go inside, please? I abhor lingering on doorsteps.”
I reluctantly lead the way inside and the three of us take seats around the kitchen table. This isn’t a comfy couch sort of conversation.
“Maybe I should get Mom,” Emmet says, glancing up at the ceiling.
I put a hand on his arm. “Let her sleep. I know what this is about.”
Mayor Thompson looks surprised. “Do you? That makes things a bit easier.”
“Can someone clue me in?” Emmet asks, sounding annoyed.
“ABC ran a new story on the miracles last night. My interview was kind of the centerpiece,” I say. “They called in experts and it turns out I’m not the only one who thinks the miracles are fishy.”
Mayor Thompson’s lips tighten and he doesn’t look as nervous and unsure anymore. “That news piece could be extremely harmful to this town. Since word of the miracles has spread we’ve had more tourist traffic through town than ever. Almost all of the local businesses are benefiting from increased patronage, more sales. I expect even more interest in the miracles as people return home and talk about them. If the number of visitors keeps up, we might even build a permanent display, cater to pilgrim traffic. The miracles have been good for our town and having one of our citizens disparage that is disgraceful and un-civic. Your interview could undo all the good we’ve seen. No one wants to come see a fake miracle. No one wants to listen to a teenage girl spew ridiculous accusations. We need to come together as a community, not cause dissension.”
I wonder if he practiced that speech in the mirror. Looked up some big words to throw in the middle. It sounds impressive. But I’m not going to be intimidated by a man who still has his mom iron his underwear. I heard two of the old ladies laughing about it at a church social last year.
Emmet answers before I have a chance. “Del already gave that interview. There’s nothing she can do about it now.”
“She can keep away from any more reporters and stop spreading rumors about the miracles be
ing fake,” Mayor Thompson fires back. “I don’t want so much as a line in the school paper hinting about it.”
“Or what?” I demand. “Freedom of speech is a thing, you know.”
“You’re a minor,” Mayor Thompson snaps. “You should think before you speak. There are plenty of community service projects around town that could use a hand. I imagine that might interfere with your work schedule.”
Great, now even the mayor is threatening my job. The thing is, I can only be pushed so far. I get up and lean forward, planting both of my hands on the table, eyes fixed on Mayor Thompson. “Maybe the miracles are real, but I doubt it. I have a right to know the truth.”
Emmet puts a hand on my shoulder, easing me back. “Don’t borrow trouble, Del,” he mutters. He focuses on the mayor. “Del’s taken Claire’s death hard. With the anniversary coming up …” He lets his voice trail away, playing the pity angle.
I shrug his hand away and whirl on my brother. “Don’t you dare bring Claire into this!”
Emmet shakes his head and gives Mayor Thompson a look like See what I mean?
My brother’s phone rings and I snatch it up before he has a chance, flipping it open. “He’s busy right now, I’m sure he’s available for a booty call later.”
The color drains from Emmet’s face. I snap the phone closed and fling it at him.
What I want to do is throw it at Mayor Thompson, but that would give him the perfect excuse to assign me community service.
“You’ve said what you wanted,” I tell the mayor. “I’m sure you don’t want to make me any later than I am, even with that call to Mrs. Candlewhite.” I give my brother a scathing look. “I’ll be in the car.”
Ten minutes later, we’re on the road and Emmet’s mouth is a thin, furious line. “Don’t touch my phone again.”
“Worried I’ll scare off your girlfriend?”
He glances away from the road long enough to study my face. For some reason I can’t fathom, he relaxes. He still looks pissed, but less likely to go all road warrior and kill us both with his insane driving. He eases back on the gas pedal slightly as we pull out of our neighborhood. “You’re great at screwing things up, you know that?”
I turn away from him so he can’t see the hit he just scored. I think of the last words I said to Claire and everything that’s happened since. Emmet doesn’t know how right he is.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Another Suspect for the List
We were half an hour late leaving the house and it doesn’t look like we’re getting to school any time soon. For the first time in the history of Clemency, there’s a traffic jam on Main Street. And it isn’t because of an accident.
The car ahead of us has a New York license plate and more bumper stickers than should be legal. I’m pretty sure the stickers are the only things holding that bumper in place. Rust Bucket inches along at a pace slower than Emmet fixing his hair in the morning.
We don’t see the problem until we draw level with McDonald’s. The parking lot is packed and one of the town cops is waving angry motorists past. New signs in front of the building next door say parking for feed & seed customers only!!! violators will be towed! I’m not sure where the Feed & Seed is going to get a tow truck, but the parking sign has four exclamation points so they mean business.
The cars that can’t get into the McDonald’s lot are circling the block and clogging up traffic even more. Some people must have given up and parked along the street in nearby neighborhoods because there’s a lot of foot traffic as well.
“Guess Mayor Thompson doesn’t need to worry about my interview chasing off tourists.”
Emmet curses under his breath and hits the steering wheel, glaring at the car in front of us. “This is ridiculous.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I say sweetly.
Emmet curses again and smacks his horn. The guy in the car ahead of us twists in his seat, looks Emmet right in the eye, and flips him off. My brother falls silent. This has to be a first. Road rage is unheard of in Clemency and you just don’t go around giving strangers the finger. We’ve got manners. Mostly.
“Damn out-of-towners,” Emmet snarls. He gives the guy the finger in return and hits his horn again. Before either of them can take their little pissing match to the next level, traffic moves forward and New York switches on his turn signal as though he’s going to be the one car the cop lets in the McDonald’s lot. He isn’t, but New York turns anyway, stopping beside the cop and rolling down his window to begin arguing.
Emmet pulls past him, glaring, whips around a white Toyota, and then plays a game of chicken with several cars attempting to get back onto Main Street. We hit the school parking lot minutes later. Emmet’s breathing fast and we’re now an hour late.
Should I say something to try to calm him down? Gloat about all the trouble the miracles are causing? Slink away while I can?
I opt for silence when Emmet smacks the steering wheel again. As I get out, Emmet says, “Keep away from Mayor Thompson and try not to piss anyone else off.”
“Love you too, bro.” I make sure to slam my door with a little extra force.
I don’t see Gabe until lunch. He’s standing by his locker, peering down the hall and checking faces. He smiles when he sees me. “Hey. Wondered what happened to you. You haven’t skipped class in a while.”
“It wasn’t intentional.” I stop beside him and wait as he gets his lunch bag.
“I’ve got a new suspect for the list,” I say.
Gabe quirks an eyebrow so I tell him about Mayor Thompson’s visit that morning.
“Maybe we should back off and leave things alone.” He closes his locker and twists the lock into place. “It’s not worth losing your job.”
“I’m not going to lose my job. We’ll be careful. No one other than you knows I’m trying to prove the miracles are fake, right? The only thing they know is that I talked to a reporter. But so did Wendy.”
Gabe’s mouth twists. “Wendy isn’t on the mayor’s hit list.”
“Please, he doesn’t have a hit list. But you have to admit, he’s got tons of motive.”
“Yeah. I’ll give you that point. But you should take his threats seriously. If he puts you on community service, Ken’s going to have to replace you at the store.”
“Like I said, we’ll be stealthy. No one will even know we’re looking into things. Besides, I have you helping me and who’d suspect the preacher’s son of helping disprove the miracles?”
Gabe sputters. “I’m not helping disprove them. It’s just as likely we’ll find evidence that they’re real.”
I wave his words away. It’s a minor point. He’s helping investigate, whatever he tells himself, and that’s what matters. But there’s a bigger threat to my continued employment than Mayor Thompson’s hissy fit this morning. Ken’s ultimatum is still hanging over my head.
“Would you mind if I came to services on Sunday? Ken switched up my hours,” I blurt out.
Gabe’s mouth drops open, but he quickly clamps it shut. He can’t keep the shock out of his voice, however. “You serious?”
“As a heart attack. I figure you could use the attendance bump. Besides, you’ve been asking me to go for years.”
It’s true. He’s never pressured me, but he’s dropped enough hints that I know he wants me to see his dad in action. Gabe says his dad is the best preacher in the entire southern United States. I’m thinking Gabe’s a bit biased, but I’ve always been curious. I like the feeling of peace, of absolute stillness, inside Holy Cross when Gabe and I clean up Sunday nights. Maybe I can find a bit of that peace during the day, something I haven’t found at St. Andrew’s in a long time. If I’m going to be forced into attending services, I’m going to do it on my terms.
“I’d love for you to come,” Gabe says.
I smile and shove down a tiny surge of guilt at how happy he looks. Gabe would understand if I told him about Ken and Maybelle, I’m sure of it. But I don’t say a word.
Th
at afternoon, things take a bizarre turn in history class. When Mr. Rayburn walks in, he’s cradling his right hand against his chest like it’s been scalded. He ignores our curious stares and points at the whiteboard with his left hand, to a quote filling the top half: The educated differ from the uneducated as much as the living from the dead.
“To whom is this quote attributed?” Mr. Rayburn asks.
No one answers. He waits, eyes moving over us. When it’s obvious no one is going to volunteer an answer, he sighs. “If you had done last night’s reading assignment, every single one of you would have the answer.”
Wayne’s hand shoots into the air and Mr. Rayburn frowns. Wayne never raises his hand.
“Mr. Hissep?”
“What’s wrong with your hand?” Wayne asks.
There’s a low snicker from the other jocks in the room.
Mr. Rayburn glowers and tucks his hand closer against his chest. “While that is none of your business, it’s clear none of you are going to focus on our lesson while you’re busy gawking at my hand.” He raises his right hand, like he’s saluting, slides his cuff up his arm several inches, and then waits expectantly.
The room is as quiet as when he first walked in. I don’t see anything wrong with his arm. My classmates look just as confused.
Mr. Rayburn huffs out an exasperated breath and points at a large mole on his wrist. “This morning I discovered this mole. It’s shaped like a cross. I’ve been touched by God.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. Mr. Rayburn is covered in so many moles and brown spots he looks like an off-color Dalmatian. How would he even notice a new one? And a cross-shaped mole? Gross. But it’s clear Mr. Rayburn thinks something divine has happened because he’s proudly waving his arm around and beaming at the class.
“I don’t want anyone to be distracted by this latest miracle, however, so let’s please try to focus on the lesson.”
The jocks are snickering again, and I have to agree with them. But, while this definitely qualifies as weird, Mr. Rayburn isn’t the first person in town claiming a so-called personal miracle. They’ve been cropping up everywhere.