Cheesus Was Here

by J. C. Davis

  Gabe, Anna, and I are completely silent, all staring after Rust Bucket’s rapidly disappearing taillights. Anna gives another little sob and that galvanizes Gabe into motion. We take her home. Gabe turns on the radio to fill the awkward quiet, but it just makes me more tense.

  At Anna’s house, she shoves out of the car and gives me a dirty look. “Your whole family’s crazy. I should’ve known better than to date your brother no matter how hot he is.”

  She stomps inside and I glare after her. “My brother’s too good for you!”

  Gabe puts a hand on my arm and I rein in my temper.

  “Sorry. But she’s a bitch.”

  “You want to call it a night?” Gabe asks quietly.

  My heart is beating too fast and adrenaline has me wanting to jump from the car and kick down Anna’s door. I’m not exactly feeling rational right now.

  I blow out a breath and nod. “Yeah. I guess the pictures can wait. We’ll go over them tomorrow?”

  Gabe squeezes my arm. “Sure thing.”

  I wish I knew where Emmet’s headed and what’s going on. The last year, we’ve barely spoken to each other. I don’t know who my brother is anymore and I can’t seem to find the words to ask him. But I want to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A Miraculous Mess

  When I step out onto the front porch Thursday morning, I get my first hint that Clemency has morphed into Crazy Town overnight. There’s a sign sticking out of the grass by Mrs. Abernathy’s mailbox: camping site available, $20 a night. Even more bizarre, there’s a neon pink tent sitting like a bloated pimple in the middle of her lawn, and a beat-up, black Volkswagen Beetle is parked at the curb. Mrs. Abernathy hasn’t owned a car since she ran over the Shaved Ice Shack last summer and lost her license. I’m still bitter over the lack of snow cones in town.

  There’s no way my sweet, deaf, older-than-death neighbor is renting out her lawn. And yet there’s the sign and there’s the tent and there’s the car. It’s a trifecta of evidence.

  I pull out my camera, ready to document this new insanity, but the Polaroid only makes an annoyed whirring noise when I hit the shutter release. I check the number of shots left and sigh. Out of film again. Damn. It’ll take a week for new film packs to get here if I order them online. My only other option: persuade Emmet to take me to Bob’s Classic Cameras in Ashby on Saturday. Fat chance. Lately, Emmet’s harder to find on the weekends than an open liquor store on Sunday.

  I’m still working on my mental sales pitch when Emmet strolls out of the house ten minutes later. His hair is sticking up on one side and there are bags under his eyes. Somebody missed his beauty sleep.

  “When did you get home last night?” I ask as he eases into the car.

  “None of your business,” Emmet mumbles.

  I don’t think there’s a single drop of hair gel in his hair this morning. That’s almost grounds for a 9-1-1 call. “Tough night?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Mystery girlfriend dump you?”

  Emmet tightens his hands on the steering wheel but finally mutters, “Something like that.”

  I consider patting his shoulder but the level of awkward in the car is already at Threatcon One proportions. Instead, I say the only thing I can. “Sorry things went to hell.”

  Emmet’s eyebrows go up, and he gives me a suspicious look, doubtless questioning my sincerity. That’s what I get for trying to be nice.

  Finally he nods and says “Thanks” low enough that I have to lean forward to hear him properly.

  I decide not to bring up Bob’s Classic Cameras. Maybe he’ll be in a better mood tomorrow and I can spring it on him then.

  The ride to school is slow and tortuous thanks to traffic. How do city people deal with this crap everyday? We’ve only been dealing with it for a week and I already want to ram every car on the road. It’s almost worth pulling my old bike out of the garage.

  I’m still contemplating the joys of road rage when we reach the town center. A giant red banner proclaiming clemency: the hometown of miracles! is hanging on the park gazebo. Emmet nearly rear-ends the car in front of us, he’s so busy staring at the thing.

  “What the hell?” I mutter.

  Emmet doesn’t bother answering. A car horn blares behind us and Emmet casually lifts his middle finger without looking back. The horn blares again.

  “We should get out of this mess and take the back roads to school,” I say, twisting to glare at the driver behind us. The black Mitsubishi’s pinch-faced owner glares back.

  Emmet nods.

  At the next stop sign, he whips our car to the left and we begin winding through tiny streets and back alleys, headed roughly north. I spot two more tents and more signs. It looks like Mrs. Abernathy is lowballing the others because most are asking $30 a night for camping space. Worse, cars are parked along the side streets and out-of-towners are wandering around, peering into yards like they’re strolling through Disneyland. We make only slightly better progress on the back roads and still arrive at school late. Judging by the half-empty parking lot, we aren’t the only ones having trouble getting in today.

  Gabe isn’t waiting for me on the front steps for once, not surprising considering the tardy bell rang ten minutes ago. As I pull one of the main doors open, however, I hear a shout behind me and turn to find Gabe jogging across the parking lot. He looks pissed.

  “Five years!” Gabe growls as he stops beside me. “Five years of perfect attendance and some jerk in a Ford nearly runs me over and makes me late.”

  “You are such a nerd.” I soften the comment with a grin.

  “I was going for a record!”

  “Hey, I’m late too. So are a lot of people. Maybe the school won’t count today against you.”

  More students trickle past, looking grumpy.

  Gabe’s expression turns thoughtful. “Good point. Maybe Mrs. Winnacker is stuck in traffic.”

  Unfortunately for Gabe, Mrs. W is waiting for us in homeroom and not interested in excuses. She marks both of us tardy. We sit down just as the morning announcements crackle over the aging PA system.

  “Good Morning, Shrenk High Snapping Turtles! There will be a special assembly for all students in the gymnasium at ten this morning.”

  Gabe and I share a look. Special assemblies mean trouble. This had better not be another one of those teen pregnancy talks they tortured us with last year. Just because a bunch of girls in some other state decided to collectively ruin their lives by getting knocked up, we had to listen to not one, not two, but three intervention sessions telling us about how babies will not solve all our problems.

  The assembly is not about teen pregnancy.

  Mrs. Candlewhite steps up to the wooden podium that’s now sitting beneath the away team basketball hoop. She’s dressed in her usual floral dress with white pearls gleaming at her ears and neck. Add a wide brimmed hat and a wooden porch and she’d be the perfect extra in a commercial selling ice tea, the quintessential southern belle. She’s a Georgia transport who somehow ended up in our town, and she’s never lost the slow twang in her voice.

  “Settle down, settle down,” Mrs. Candlewhite calls and the murmur of a hundred voices slowly dies away. “Now I’m sure by now you’ve all seen the news footage, watched a reporter or two, or even been front and center to witness one of the miracles our town has been blessed with. While the miracles have presented a few challenges in recent days, I want to assure you that your classes will remain unaffected by the media interest. There are to be no reporters on campus at any time. I would urge each of you to talk with your parents before giving any interviews. You represent this town in everything you do. Please keep that in mind. We are a strong community, united together, and that is what I want everyone outside Clemency to see whenever they turn on the TV or read a news article. Let’s show the world how wonderful our tiny town is and what makes Clemency so special. To that end, Mayor Thompson has provided T-shirts that he would like each of you to wear at the pre
ss conference he’ll be giving this afternoon. You may pick up a T-shirt in your size on your way out following the assembly.”

  Mrs. Candlewhite drones on about bus schedules being moved earlier and how it’s our responsibility to get to school on time, regardless of road conditions. There’s more crap about coming together and presenting a good face to the world. I didn’t miss her little jibe about not talking to reporters. Gee, I wonder who that could be aimed at? And while I knew Mayor Thompson was interested in the miracles, this seems like overkill. T-shirts? Really? The scales are definitely tipping in favor of the mayor being behind this whole miracle mess. How long does it take to order several hundred T-shirts?

  When we file out of the gym after Mrs. Candlewhite finally stops lecturing us, there’s a line of teachers handing out the bright red T-shirts. I ask for a large, and when Mrs. Winnacker hands me a rolled-up shirt, I promptly unfurl it. It has the same slogan as the banner I saw this morning: clemency: the hometown of miracles!

  I shove it in my backpack and shoot an exaggerated eye roll at Gabe. I will not be wearing that thing. We have to head in opposite directions for our next classes but I tap the T-shirt he’s still holding and say, “Top of the list. We need to find a way into Mayor Thompson’s office.”

  Gabe’s mouth falls open, but he doesn’t have time to protest. The stream of students exiting the gym carries him away and I head for class. One way or another, I’m getting into that office.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Proof Is in the Polaroids

  The press conference is set for five o’clock so Mayor Thompson can be sure to make the evening news. Unfortunately, my shift at the Gas & Gut also starts at five. That stupid press conference would have been the perfect time to search Mayor Thompson’s office. I tried to talk Gabe into doing it solo, but he flat-out refused. I’ll keep working on him. I am not giving up such a huge lead. Maybe I can find an invoice that shows Mayor Thompson ordered the T-shirts or the new banners hanging around town before Andy found Baby Cheesus.

  Gabe’s car is idling in the parking lot when I go off shift at ten.

  “How was the press conference?” I ask, sliding into the Taurus.

  He shrugs. “Mayor Thompson went on about how small towns are the heart of America. He’s creating a tourism board on the town council, and they’re going to set up a walking tour of the holy sites around town. Pastor Bobby has agreed to one extra showing of Baby Cheesus a week, on Wednesday evenings. But it’ll still be during services. Mayor Thompson invited everyone in the world to come see ‘Miraculous Clemency.’”

  “What about McJesus and the well?”

  “Mr. Henderson isn’t letting McJesus go any time soon, but it’ll be on the walking tour. Not sure about the well.”

  “Bet Mayor Thompson regrets not planting those miracles on public property. He’d have had a better chance of getting them and could open a museum.”

  Gabe presses his lips in a thin line. “We don’t know that he planted them.”

  “He called a press conference. Clearly he’s got some bigger agenda. It has to be him. I’m telling you, if we get in his office—”

  “I don’t want to get arrested for trespassing.”

  I grumble under my breath but let it drop. I’ll sneak in on my own later. Hopefully, there’s not an alarm system at the town hall.

  “Do you still have the Polaroids?” I ask.

  “They’re in my backpack. Front pocket.”

  “Perfect. We can add them to the investigation board.”

  When we finally get to Gabe’s house, his dad is just getting off the phone. Reverend Beaudean grins at the two of us, looking more relaxed and happy than he’s been in weeks.

  “Evening, Delaney. Bit late for a study session, isn’t it?”

  I stifle a yawn and give him a sheepish smile. “We won’t be long, just need to go over some stuff together.”

  “Well, don’t stay up too late.” Reverend Beaudean stops beside Gabe and pats his shoulder. “I got some good news tonight. Melanie agreed to donate the Marion Well to Holy Cross. I already have a spot picked out near the pulpit. Things are looking up for our congregation! Wait until I tell Bobby the news. He can darn well choke on his services-only viewing hours.”

  I expect Reverend Beaudean to break into a delighted cackle, but he resists. Just barely. He rubs his hands together instead.

  “Um, that’s great, Dad.” Gabe doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

  Reverend Beaudean gives Gabe a quick hug and then heads down the hallway toward his room, his ratty blue slippers making slapping noises against the linoleum.

  “Sounds like Holy Cross will be on the walking tour, as well,” Gabe says.

  I just nod, still staring after his dad. Guess the church wars are about to heat up again.

  Gabe yawns and it sets off a chain reaction, prompting an even bigger yawn from me.

  “We don’t have to do this tonight,” Gabe says. “The Polaroids and our notes will still be around tomorrow.”

  I wave him away. “We already put it off last night. I just need some coffee.”

  Gabe frowns, but heads to the kitchen to make a pot anyway.

  The coffee helps. A bit. We settle into Gabe’s room and he pulls out the photos, passing the stack to me. I flip through them again, looking for the ones directly related to the miracles. There are other pictures mixed in as well: the gazebo in the town center, minus the new banner; Mrs. Abernathy’s upside-down flower pot with a daisy growing out of the wrong end. That woman has to be certifiable.

  I can’t help studying each picture in turn. Trying to see beneath the surface of each small square. My truths. Blurry and messy and real. They’re all beautiful in their own way. Even my pictures of the miracles, but it’s a different kind of truth I’m looking for now. I pause on an image of Gabe, a silly grin spread across his face and a soda bottle balanced on his head. He’s such a goof. I took that picture four days ago in his garage, while we were trying to find the extra controller for his game system.

  I’m about to flip to the next picture when something in the background snags my attention. Behind Gabe, a small pile of junk sits on his dad’s work bench and a greasy rag hangs off a corner of the table. The soldering iron I saw in Reverend Beaudean’s office last weekend is out on the table and the little wood planks are there as well. Three cans of wood stain, recognizable by their obnoxious yellow labels, sit beside the planks.

  My breath catches and I look harder at the picture. No freaking way.

  “What’s up?” Gabe asks, angling closer. “You got naked pictures of the football team in there or something?”

  I lift my head and stare at him. There is no way I can tell Gabe about this. Because that isn’t a soldering iron in the picture. It’s a wood burner. I’m sure of it. And thinking back on the planks of wood in Reverend Beaudean’s office—they were the exact same color as Mel’s stupid little well. I can’t be right. I just can’t be. Reverend Beaudean would never do something like this. Why would he do something like this?

  “Del? Seriously, you’re freaking me out. What’s the matter?” Gabe steps close and rests a hand on my shoulder.

  I don’t know what to do. Before I can decide, he plucks the picture out of my hands and studies it. I set the other pictures down on his desk, my hands shaking.

  “I can see how my good looks might render you speechless but this isn’t even my best shot …” Gabe’s voice trails off and he squints at the photo.

  I think I’m going to throw up.

  His eyes dart to me and then back to the picture. He pulls it closer to his face, his nose almost touching the surface. He sees it too. I know he does. And I can tell the exact moment he puts it together. Gabe flings the photo onto his desk and whirls to glare at me. “You think I did this?” he demands in a rough voice.

  Crap. Maybe he hasn’t put it all together. I never considered for a second that Gabe could be the one faking the miracles. I’d sooner believe I’ve been fa
king them in my sleep than accuse him. He’s never lied in his life and he’d never do anything to hurt me. I know that with a bone-deep certainty I’m not prepared to let go. Although, five minutes ago I’d have said the same thing about Reverend Beaudean.

  “Of course I don’t think it’s you,” I whisper.

  Gabe lets out a breath but his frown gets deeper. “Then, what, you think someone’s been sneaking into my garage?”

  I grasp at the idea like a kid trying to snatch the string of a runaway kite. “Yeah, maybe. Someone could have gotten into the garage, right?”

  Gabe narrows his eyes. “Maybe. But that’s not what you thought, is it?” He’s thinking it through, following the logic trail, and I cringe the moment he connects the dots. His expression goes blank. “You think my dad’s been faking the miracles.”

  “I didn’t say that.” I force the words out. I want to be a million miles away from here. I want to be standing on the moon, lack of oxygen and everything. I can’t breathe right now anyway.

  “He’d never do anything like that!” Gabe’s voice keeps inching up. Soon he’ll blow the roof off the house with the sheer volume. And he’s going to wake up his dad. “You see conspiracies where there aren’t any. You see fakes where everyone else sees miracles. Don’t you dare drag my dad into your witch hunt.”

  He’s pummeling me with words and they hurt. Every single one hurts. Suddenly, I’m furious. I stop cringing and return glare for glare. I’m not some wilting little coward and Gabe is way off base. He’s the one flipping out.

  “If you’re so sure he’s not involved then why are you yelling at me? Deep down you know it’s a possibility, even if it is a crazy one. I never said your dad faked the miracles. I just want to follow the evidence.”

  Gabe’s shaking and he yanks the papers off the wall, letting them fall to the floor. “I’m done, Del. This is sick.”

  “You said you’d help,” I accuse. “Maybe it was someone sneaking into your garage. At least admit that’s possible.”

  “Fine,” Gabe snarls. He sucks in a breath and I can see him fighting to get his temper under control. I’ve never seen him so mad. It’s a little scary. Like maybe I don’t know Gabe as well as I thought.