Cheesus Was Here

by J. C. Davis

  I reach up, rubbing the short, tight curls covering his head. “You were cute bald. I think I did you a favor.”

  Gabe ducks away and shakes his head. “Whatever you’re planning for my room, don’t. I like it the way it is now. It’s relaxing.”

  “It’s boring.” I step around Gabe and run a hand over the bare wall. “I could donate a few pictures.”

  “Not a chance.”

  I frown, twisting to glance over my shoulder at Gabe. My hip bumps his desk and knocks a small wooden box loose, sending it crashing to the floor. Dozens of envelopes spill out—most are white but there are a few blues and greens mixed in.

  “Sorry!” I crouch down, snatching at envelopes and trying to make a neat pile.

  Gabe joins me and it’s like a game of 52-Card Pickup with very large, awkwardly shaped cards. Each envelope has a date handwritten on the back flap and none of them have stamps or an address.

  I look up at Gabe when I find an envelope dated last week. “You still write her?”

  His cheeks flush and he holds out a hand for the envelope. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

  “She doesn’t deserve it.” I lay the envelope in his hand, wanting to burn the sad pile of letters.

  “She’s still my mom,” Gabe says.

  I don’t have an answer for that. Gabe started writing Lila letters and making cards for her the first Christmas after she ran off. I thought he’d stopped years ago. What’s the point? She’s never coming back.

  For the first time since my dad got in his car and headed for Montana, I’m grateful for his random five-minute phone calls. He’s still a jerk for leaving us, but he’s making more of an effort to stay in touch than Lila ever has.

  We finish gathering the envelopes in silence, not looking at each other. When we’re done, Gabe places the box back on his desk and I try to think of something to break the tension. My eyes linger on the bare wall in front of us.

  Sudden inspiration strikes and I tap a finger against the wall. “We could use this as a pin board—like on one of those cop shows you’re always watching. We pin up pictures of all the miracles, write our notes and suspect list. We can add little arrows connecting things.”

  “You are not drawing on my walls.” Gabe grabs my shoulders and eases me away from his wall, not letting go until I’m standing in the middle of his room.

  “It’s a great idea! You have all this space.”

  “I like my space. I like my plain white walls.” Gabe sighs and drops into his desk chair, resting an elbow on the desktop.

  “What if I hang paper instead, then we can take it down when we’re done,” I say. “Or move it to my place.” Gabe still looks skeptical and I make puppy dog eyes at him. “Please?”

  After another dramatic sigh he drags a hand over his face and nods. “Fine. But only on paper.”

  “Yes!” I punch the air in triumph. “Go get me a stack of printer paper and some clear tape—it’s crafty time.”

  “This is your idea, grab your own supplies,” Gabe grumbles, but he gets up and heads for the door.

  I grin at him. “You know you love me.”

  Gabe hesitates a moment, shoulder brushing mine as he stops beside me. I look up, smile sliding away. I feel like I swallowed a baseball, voice trapped in my throat. Then Gabe shoves me and sprints out of the room, cackling.

  I stagger, catch my balance, and yell after him, “Just for that, you get to do all the taping!”

  After assembling our makeshift board—ten pages wide and six pages high—we hang it on the wall and then head out.

  “We just need a couple good pictures of the drive-through window so we can add them to the board,” I tell Gabe.

  “I think calling it a board is a bit of a stretch.” Gabe locks his front door behind him and then lopes over to his car.

  “We agreed to take this seriously. Don’t insult my new idea board.” I shake a finger at Gabe as I slide into the passenger seat.

  “I am humoring a clearly insane girl, only because of our long and baffling friendship.”

  The word “baffling” makes me wince. Does Gabe regret our friendship? I run my fingers over the edge of my seat, anchoring myself here and now.

  “I was only kidding about you being insane,” Gabe says. “Mostly.” His voice is falsely cheerful and I catch him shooting me sideways looks as he drives.

  “Ha ha. Don’t forget who’s running this mission, buddy.” I match his tone of voice, back to pretending nothing is wrong.

  McDonald’s is packed. No surprise there. In the parking lot I spot a news van, the Houston NBC affiliate, but otherwise it looks reporter free. There’s a sign taped to each of the restaurant doors, black Sharpie on baby blue paper: “Miracle Special: Two McFish sandwiches and large fries for $5.” Ew. Gabe grimaces as well, but I have a feeling it’s the “Miracle Special” bit and not the fish sandwiches upsetting him.

  “That is not what Jesus meant when he multiplied the fish and the bread,” Gabe mutters.

  “But it’s double the deep-fried goodness,” I tease.

  Gabe shudders. “Let’s get in there and get the pictures. No ordering the special.”

  Inside, I spot the news people right away, a well-dressed guy in a suit far too nice for Clemency and a couple other people hovering near him like small moons in orbit. They’re all too tanned and, although the reporter’s support crew aren’t dressed as nicely, there’s still something that clearly marks them as out-of-towners. Maybe it’s the way they move, in quick jerky spasms. No one in Clemency moves fast unless something’s on fire.

  In the middle of the restaurant, the drive-through window panel with McJesus hangs suspended from the ceiling by two thin chains. Below it, there’s a four-foot square roped off, the edge of each corner marked by a bright orange traffic cone with caution tape stretching between them. Very classy. But I suppose Mr. Henderson doesn’t want anyone getting fingerprints on his holy window.

  I was hoping to get a couple close-up shots but it looks like that’s going to be difficult.

  “Well?” Gabe prompts. He’s standing, head cocked and hands loose at his sides.

  I sigh and pull out the camera. Its solid bulk in my hands feels good, relaxing me.

  I step as close to the window as I can get, my knees brushing the caution tape. After checking the little number counter on the back of my camera to make sure I still have film left—nine shots to go—I press my eye to the viewfinder and line up the shot. A moment later a picture slides from the front of the camera and I hand it to Gabe. Working quickly, I take one more and then step to the back of the window and snap another picture.

  Something catches my eye. “Gabe, come check this out.”

  “Del, what are you up to?” a voice booms from the front of the store and I jump, glancing up to see that most of the restaurant patrons are staring at Gabe and me. The looks range from curious to downright hostile. The restaurant’s manager, Mr. Henderson, stands by the cash register and his eyes dart from the reporter in front of him back to me. I can practically see the gears in his head turning, panic ratcheting up. Del + reporter = disaster.

  I wave and flash him a broad smile, trying to look innocent and unthreatening. I hold up one of the Polaroids. “Getting some pictures for my wall.”

  Mr. Henderson tenses and looks ready to argue but just then the reporter in front of him checks his watch and Mr. H huffs out a breath. “Don’t get too close. That tape is there to protect McJesus.”

  I nod. “Sure thing.”

  As soon as Mr. Henderson turns back to the reporter, I drag Gabe over to look at the back of the window. “See?” I demand, pointing.

  Gabe squints and shakes his head. “What am I looking for?”

  “There, in the bottom corner. You can’t see it from the front, but doesn’t that look like a brush stroke? From a paintbrush?”

  Gabe leans forward as far as he can. “Maybe. It’s hard to tell.”

  “I need a better picture.” I press the camera close
r against my body. Mr. Henderson is still chatting away at the counter. A couple wanders up on the other side of McJesus, looking at the front of the window. This is our chance. I glance around the restaurant; it’s crowded and I’m still getting a few dirty looks but we’re never going to have a better chance.

  I shove Gabe to the left. “Stand there and don’t move.”

  Gabe splutters but I step over the tape and hold the camera close to the window. I snap a picture as Mr. Henderson looks up and notices me.

  “I said don’t cross the tape, Del!”

  I jump back over, grab Gabe’s hand, and begin tugging him toward the front door. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t resist.”

  We bolt, Gabe running beside me as we shove through the front doors.

  Safe in the car, Gabe twists to glare at me. “You know he’s going to call my dad, right?”

  “Totally worth it. We got the pictures we needed.” I hold up the four Polaroids, including the all-important close-up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mixed Signals

  We head to my house to pick up the other pictures. Gabe flips on the radio, blasting Alabama so loud my ears are about to start bleeding. He’s punishing me for getting him in trouble. Scratch that—potentially getting him in trouble. Because it’s not for sure Mr. Henderson will call his dad. And seriously, what’s the worst Mr. Beaudean would do? Ground Gabe? That’s happened like twice in the entire time I’ve known him and both times he just lost video game privileges for a week. Okay, so both times were technically my fault but who’s keeping track?

  I remain silent, though. Now is not the time for inspired logic. Let Gabe torture my eardrums—he’ll get over our little adventure faster.

  When we pull up in front of my house, Gabe cuts the engine and twists to face me.

  “You are pure trouble sometimes.” His voice is exasperated. A good sign.

  “You’d be bored without me.” I give him a small smile.

  Gabe slumps back in his seat, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

  A moment later, we slip inside my house. Mom is at work, as usual. I pause in the entry hall and listen for Emmet. The house is dead quiet. Maybe Emmet’s on a date. Best not to think about my brother playing tonsil hockey; I might throw up.

  “We’ve got the place to ourselves.” I fling my hands out as though welcoming Gabe to Buckingham Palace.

  “Remind me again why we’re not setting up our idea board here?”

  “You’ve got more space.” Upstairs, we walk down the hall to my room and I turn on the light, gesturing to my walls.

  Gabe winces dramatically and then squints at the area over my dresser. “I think you missed a spot; I can see some wall. Run out of film again?”

  “Shut up. The film packs might be insanely expensive, but I like my pictures. It’s like sitting in a room with a million little windows.”

  Gabe shakes his head but walks over and flops onto my bed, shoes and all. He looks ridiculous against the pink duvet. It was Claire’s, and despite being utterly hideous, it’s one of the few reminders that Claire once shared this room with me.

  “Feet off,” I tell Gabe, slapping the tops of his sneakers.

  He grumbles but shifts to dangle his feet off the side of my bed.

  “So, where are the other pictures?” he asks.

  I grab a pile of Polaroids from the dresser top and begin flipping through. “I haven’t hung them up yet.” Some have titles scrawled on the bottom, already destined for my proofs wall. Some are merely random snapshots that I can use to fill up space. Most, though, have something to do with the miracles.

  The front door bangs open, making me jump.

  “Anyone home?” Emmet’s voice booms down the hall. There’s a muffled giggle. Holy shit. He’s snuck a girl into the house. Who?

  “I’m sure my sister’s home,” Emmet says, sounding strained.

  Gabe levers himself into a sitting position and raises his eyebrows at me.

  “This is why we can’t use my house,” I hiss.

  “We’re in here,” Gabe calls out, grinning at me.

  I glare back.

  There’s a hesitation, another giggle, and then Emmet is standing in my doorway looking between me and Gabe. He seems oddly relieved.

  I’ll bet he thought I was making out with a boy up here. Clearly he’s not worried about Gabe feeling me up. That is so typically Emmet. So typically Clemency. Because Gabe and I have been friends since before we developed acne and hormones, everyone assumes there’s no way we’d ever be anything other than friends. It’s annoying.

  I rest both hands on my hips and give Emmet my best death stare. Sadly, he’s immune. Hovering in the hallway behind Emmet, Anna Jankowski gives me a little wave. What is one of Wendy’s clones doing in my house? Anna sidles up to Emmet and slips her arm through his. She’s wearing a baby-pink top so tight it looks like she’s raided her kid sister’s closet.

  Emmet glances down at Anna, and I swear sweat breaks out on his forehead. I bet he can see right down the front of that top. Guess he’s moved on from his mystery girl of a few weeks ago. Then again, Emmet’s not exactly a one-girl kinda guy and Anna is rubbing up against him like a cat in heat.

  Emmet’s phone rings and he untangles Anna from his arm and snatches the cell from his pocket. He checks the display, but instead of answering, he hits a button to refuse the call before slipping the phone back into his pocket.

  “Who’s that?” Anna asks with a dramatic pout.

  “No one,” Emmet mumbles.

  I bet it was another girl calling. My brother the player, ladies and gentlemen. I finally notice the i saw cheesus button Emmet’s sporting on his grungy white T-shirt. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Emmet scowls. “What?”

  “Why are you wearing one of Ken’s stupid buttons?”

  Anna breaks into a smile. “Isn’t it cute? All the players and cheerleaders are wearing them to show our support for Clemency and St. Andrew’s.”

  I look pointedly at Anna’s button free top. “All the cheerleaders?”

  She flushes and latches onto Emmet’s arm again. “This shirt is a Julie B. Taylor original. It was not cheap. I can’t put holes in it!”

  Emmet’s phone rings again and before he can make a move, Anna reaches into his pocket and pulls it free. I think she might have just groped my brother as well. Ew. I need to Lysol my eyes.

  “Don’t,” Emmet says, but it’s too late. Anna has flipped open the phone and answers with a throaty, “Emmet’s busy right now, can I help you?”

  Emmet goes dead white. He’s so busted. I can’t help smirking as I watch him squirm.

  “Oh,” Anna says, stiffening. Her voice loses the sex kitten vibe and she switches back to down-home cheerleader. “I’m his girlfriend, Anna.”

  Emmet looks like he’s going to strangle her. While I’m sure he’s earned whatever mess he’s in right now, I don’t want my brother to go to jail. I take a step forward, angling toward Anna. If I tackle Emmet it’ll be like hitting a brick wall—better to aim for the smaller target.

  Anna, meanwhile, is still busy on the phone. “Hang on, I’ll get him for y—” She pulls the phone away from her ear and glares at it. “That was rude. He just hung up on me.”

  She flips the phone shut and hands it back to Emmet. He snatches it away from her, glaring.

  “We aren’t dating,” Emmet snarls.

  Anna pouts. “So what was tonight all about? You asked me over just for sex?”

  This conversation has officially moved from awkward to “get me the hell out of here now” territory. I switch direction and move back to Gabe, shoving the Polaroids into his hands. He nods, knowing what I want because clearly he wants out of here just as much.

  “We’re gonna get going,” Gabe says. He tucks the Polaroids into his backpack and gets up from the bed.

  Emmet doesn’t spare us a look, still focused on Anna. “I didn’t ask you over. You ambushed me in the parking lot after prac
tice and said we needed to talk about Friday’s pep rally.”

  “You drove me here!” Anna stamps her foot.

  They’re blocking the doorway and neither one of them looks like they’re moving any time soon. I sincerely regret not keeping rope in my room so I can bust out my window and rappel down the side wall.

  “Hey,” I try, raising my voice. “I’m sorry, but Gabe and I need to go. Any chance you can move this to the kitchen? Maybe the driveway? Canada if possible?”

  Emmet turns his glare on me. “Not now, Del!”

  “Whoa, whatever’s going on, it’s not her fault,” Gabe snaps. “Chill out.”

  Emmet grinds his teeth and narrows his eyes at Gabe. He looks like an enraged bull. I step between my brother and my best friend, holding my hands up.

  “Guys, seriously.” I switch my gaze to Anna, “Why don’t Gabe and I take you home. You and Emmet can talk things out tomorrow.”

  Anna’s lips quiver and she gives a quick nod, keeping tear-filled eyes on Emmet. “I can’t believe you’re acting this way, after everything we’ve shared.”

  Emmet curses and storms downstairs.

  I snatch my bag and Gabe and I herd Anna out of the hall and down to his car.

  Everything they’ve shared? Has Emmet been hooking up with Anna for a while now? How did I miss that? Thanks to several disturbing mental images that pop into my head, I need to Lysol my brain in addition to my eyes.

  When we’re in Gabe’s car, Anna begins to sob quietly. She’s pretty even now, with red-rimmed eyes and chest heaving. I can’t help hating her, especially when I catch Gabe giving her concerned, sympathetic looks.

  I turn away and catch sight of Emmet sitting behind the wheel inside Rust Bucket. He’s on the phone, clearly arguing with someone, gesturing wildly even though whoever is on the other side of that call can’t see him. Suddenly Emmet rips the phone away from his ear and flings it at the windshield. I’ve never seen my brother out of control. It’s terrifying. A moment later, Rust Bucket peels away from the curb and roars off down the street.