by Laura Preble
OUT
Laura Preble
OUT
LAURA PREBLE
Copyright © Laura Preble 2012
Edited by Natalie Lakosil of Bradford Literary Agency
Cover Image Copyright © Dan McDowell
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by Laura Preble
Lica’s Angel
The Queen Geek Social Club
Queen Geeks in Love
Prom Queen Geeks
“Preble expertly handles the ups and downs of teenage friendship and romance, as well as...real characters who go through the typical trials of teenage life.” -School Library Journal
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Thanks and Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue All I wanted was to love her.
Because of this I’m a prisoner in this gray maze, where my name is no longer my own, where I can't tell if it's day or night. I’ll probably die in this place.
I know she’s here. They let me see her, just once, when they wanted me to help them. They held a gun to her head, she was bruised, shaking, crying…I wasn’t strong, I wasn’t a hero. I did what they asked. Then they dragged her out, and her eyes pleaded with me to save her, but I couldn’t. I was a coward.
I haven’t seen her since.
I say her name in my head like a prayer. I used to pray to God, but that was before all of this. I used to sit in my father’s church and stare at the angels on the ceiling, hoping for a blessing or a direction, just something to let me know I was noticed. And I was a good boy.
Until Carmen. Until I lit a single candle…
Chapter 1
My father paces in front of the congregation. In this church he is king; he stares down each couple, each family, good Parallels following the Word.
And I’m along for the ride. Son of a preacher man. Skinny dork doomed to goodness. Doomed to Goodness. Awesome name for a Christian punk band. I beat a rhythm on my knee, as if my hand is unconnected to my judgmental brain.
Old Mrs. Macaffrey sits next to me. She’s deaf anyway. Doomed to Goodness wouldn’t bother her.
“All rise.” David Bryant, warm and caring minister. Model father. Pushy bastard. If he had his way, I’d already be married and moved out, the sweet young husband to an influential gentleman with social connections and, preferably, a sizeable fortune. He’s been hinting around about it, too. Chris, you know it’s time you thought about your future. Chris, have you considered…Chris, maybe you should forget about school and get involved in the social circuit. As if I’m not smart enough to go to school.
I gently nudge Mrs. Macaffrey to get up. Her wife, Eleanor, died last year. Must suck to be old and alone. Of course, that’ll probably happen to me. Seventeen and never been kissed. She smiles, and squeezes my arm in that too-tight way grandmas tend to do, and I help her stand.
My father continues: “A reading from the Book of St. Adelphus. 'And in the west we listen to the voice of our God, who says: 'Trust in the Lord your God with your whole heart, and whole soul, and keep thyself pure for the work that is to come.' This is the word of the Lord.”
“Praise be to God,” everyone responds, then sits. The shifting of bodies causes the wooden pews to creak and groan. When I was really small, I crouched on the kneelers and pretended to be running a shoe shop, selling the shoes of the people kneeling. It was really fun until one day Warren caught me doing it and told David. I still have the scar on the back of my leg where the switch bit in too deeply. No more pretend shoe sales after that.
When David checks out the congregation before a sermon, it reminds me of a wolf eyeing its prey. He is committed to winning the souls of the people, no matter what it takes, fueled by the absolute conviction that he is more right than everyone else. Maybe he is. I’m certainly in no position to question his rightness. I’m a 17-year-old virgin with a latent case of acne, a great vocabulary, and a twisty psyche. I think my surrogate mother must have had some faulty genes or something. Maybe she was secretly reading banned literature while I was in utero. Listening to pirate radio. Dabbling in deviant art.
Right. No way David and Warren would have chosen a less-than-perfect-model-Parallel-citizen surrogate for their family. Conscious survival of the species and all that.
On today’s menu: David rattling on, again, about the Perpendiculars. The warm, buttery baritone of his voice lulls the congregation, makes them feel like he’s taking care of them. But I know what happens next. They know too, but they keep coming back.
“We must fight the good fight, save those sinners or convert them, do whatever needs to be done, with love, of course.” He stares up at heaven, as if waiting for a message. And then…a slight increase in tension and intensity: “We Parallels have a duty to uplift and support the misguided brothers and sisters, to save them from themselves. Perpendiculars are children of God also, simply children gone astray.” He focuses on the floor, hands folded. And then…wait for it…he lifts his chin and, eyes blazing, points at some unlucky person in the third pew. “What have you done today to help God fix the situation?” he thunders. People squirm uncomfortably.
Oh, yes. Perpendiculars. I know, it’s wrong, and if Perpendicular couples lived freely, society would go to hell, there’d be chaos and unplanned babies; God wants Parallels to be parents because they choose the experience. With Perps, it’s all lust and gratification, no thought to the future. Lust is one of the seven deadly sins, right? Parallel relationships are clean, safe, sanctioned by the church. You have to plan to have a child, apply for a license. It’s progressive evolution, and all that stuff they teach you in school. If we could just get rid of those opposite-sex couples, everything would be just fine.
I personally never saw what the big deal was. I mean, if you love somebody, anybody, isn’t that great? I’ve never loved anybody, I mean not romantically. Not even a little crush. I think I’m asexual. I’ve looked at guys, but I’ve never had that soul-crushing adrenaline rush people talk about, where your heart kind of stops, you forget to breathe, time stands still, and you’re in a movie musical in soft focus.
This is not where my mind should be, but I’ve heard this sermon dozens of times. You know what’s fascinating? Watching people watching David. Some have glazed eyes, but mostly I see fear and lust. Weird that they'd look all lusty when David is talking about deviants. Maybe they’re all imagining their own soft focus movie moments, and no one is really listening at all.
He finishes with one of his best tricks: “So, my friends, remember that when God asks for help in doing his almighty work, he asks all of us. He asks you,” points to a guy in pew three, “you,” a kid in row ten, “you,” a deacon in the front. “All of you. God sees into your heart, and knows if you are truly of the Word, or simply parroting what you’ve heard. Do, don’t just be!” His voi
ce echoes off the old stone walls.
Time to sing. People creak to their feet, and strains of Amazing Grace rasp from old throats. Almost communion time. I have perfected the art of swallowing as much wine as possible while still making it look like I’m only taking a delicate sip. It’s not enough to get buzzed on, really, but it’s sort of fun to do anyway. I’m not a drinker or anything, oh, no. My fathers like their grape; I’ve seen what merlot can do. It makes you tell the truth. But you know, communion is totally excusable. It’s a sacrament.
“Blood of Christ,” the deacon mutters as he wipes the rim of the gold chalice and hands it to me.
“Amen.” I do my deep-inhale suckage of cheap, nasty communion wine and start to choke a little…David would not like that. I cough to cover it. Saved. Amble back to my pew, and Mrs. Macaffrey is already kneeling and praying so hard her blue hair is smoking. Or maybe that’s just the incense, but either way, it’s a cool effect.
I sit because kneeling next to Mrs. Macaffrey is weird. She smells of peppermint and cat urine. But sitting is uncomfortable too; I’m supposed to be on my knees praying. David wouldn’t like this. I have to get up and move around…my eyes find an escape. I can light a candle!
Trying to look as holy and prayerful as possible, I shuffle toward the glowing red eyes of the votive alcove. What can I light a candle for? World peace? An end to hunger? A first kiss before I'm thirty? That last one sounds good, but I’ll probably burn in hell if I even consider praying for that.
Smelling of winter coats, a few people hover around the candles. At the votive station, I select a long, wooden match from the red glass holder, ignite it from another sputtering candle’s flame, and have my target in sight: third from the top, three over. I arch my forearm, lean in a bit, and brush against another presumably bored candle lighter's naked arm.
Our eyes meet, and I’m drowning in a sea of sapphire, blue electricity bulleting through my blood, thought banished by raw, pure feeling. A wave of heat, the liquid-fire burn of 100-proof whiskey combined with the sensation of careening wildly down an open road at 3 a.m. with the top down on a red Corvette.
Lust.
I stop breathing.
What happened?
I pull my hand back as if I’ve touched the flame, and stare, horrified, at the stranger. Her face is a blur of dark hair, her mouth a perfect open oval as if she's been surprised by an unexpected Christmas gift, eyes blinking, as if she, too, has been hit with this raw electric jolt. A scent of exotic flowers mingles with the smell of burning wax—I want to touch her again, to talk to her, dammit, dammit, why does it feel like I stuck my finger in an electrical outlet? She turns toward me, closes the gap between us. Caramel-colored skin, blue eyes—yes, they are blue, like an ocean—wonder, widen, and finally fill with panic; she grimaces at the floor, blinks, and walks quickly away.
Don't look at her. Don't look at her. Where is she sitting? I’m shaking, seriously, but I light the stupid candle. When I turn around, I scan the church for a sign of the red blouse. Can’t look too obvious, of course; if David notices me noticing anything other than the service—not good.
Minutes tick by, David goes on about going forth, etc., etc., and finally we’re released. I shuffle out of the church, maddeningly stuck behind the elderly who form a solid phalanx of snail-paced frustration in front of me. And I still can’t spot the girl in the red blouse.
What was that about, anyway? It was a girl, for God's sake. A female. I go hand-to-hand with my sister Jana all the time, put an arm around my best friend, Andrea. But there’s no kind of...spark...or whatever that was. Where is that girl?
The wave of geriatric molasses finally spills out onto the sidewalk in front of the church. Got to find Andrea. She’ll know what to do.
“Chris?” David’s calling to me. Dammit. I usually try to avoid him after the service.
“Yes, sir?”
“Chris, I want you to meet Jim McFarland.” He gestures toward a man, about thirty, with rugged features and the faint outline of a mustache that doesn’t seem too enthusiastic. “Jim is from the Garden Grove congregation in California.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Shake the guy’s hand. I focus on him just to be polite, and the man's eyes are a deep brown, small and narrow, not too kind. But Dad works with all sorts of people. Where is that girl in the red blouse? “Dad, I'll see you at—”
“Jim is from Garden Grove,” Dad says again, as if it’s important. “In California.”
“Right.” I still don’t get whatever secret message my father is trying to shoot out there, and I figure if I play dense, maybe I can get away. “Well, I need to find Andrea. We've got a project due for AP Art History, and we're way behind. So if you'll excuse me, Mr....”
“McFarland,” the man says, an easy smile creasing his lips. “Call me Jim. I've spoken to your father about you, Chris. I'm hoping we can be good friends. I want to help you.”
David’s now shaking hands with a pair of old spinster sisters in matching hats, but he glances over every few seconds to see how I’m getting along with McFarland, who inches a bit closer. He smells of some subtle aftershave mixed with sweat. “Your father says you've got great potential, Chris. I think we could do big things for you.”
“Great.” The guy seems nice enough, and since Dad’s watching, I attempt to smile as winningly as possible. All I can think about is getting away, finding Andi, and talking to her about this weird thing, this girl who made my hormones spike off the charts.
Father has brushed off the old ladies as quickly as he could while still being respectful, and he is at McFarland's side now, nodding and smiling. “Chris, Jim here is in charge of admissions at Westhaven.” Jim McFarland nods. Ah, so this is about college. This is definitely not the time for that conversation. I have more important things to think about.
“Dad, I'm sorry to rush off, but I really need to talk to Andrea or we'll fail this project.” I smile apologetically at McFarland. “It was so nice to meet you, sir.” I scoot away, and I don’t look back. Looking back is deadly.
Andi is leaning against the old oak in front of the churchyard, as if she’s waiting for me. “Hey,” she says, reaching up for a low-hanging branch whose last leaves have made a carpet of burnt orange on the browning grass. “Getting cold, huh?”
“Listen, I need to talk to you. Let's go.”
She peers over my shoulder. “I think the Reverend wants you for something. He's looking over here.”
“It's a college thing. That's why we need to get out of here. Come on.”
We trot through the church parking lot, to a brown lawn laid out behind the rear entrance to the sanctuary. In the center of the lawn is a wooden gazebo, scraped with the initials of lovers past who have used it as a meeting spot. I dive onto the worn-smooth floor, hunch my back against the side closest to the church door, and hug my knees.
“Are you having some kind of psychotic episode?” Andrea lays a hand on my forehead. “Fever?”
I swat at her hand. “No, no. I just...I'm having a crisis.”
“Really?” she asks sarcastically. “What a surprise.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I just mean that for you, a crisis is pretty much like clean underwear or tooth brushing: a daily event.”
“I’m serious, Andi. This is different.”
“Sorry.” Andi takes a stick of gum out of her pocket, offers me a piece, then sets about creating a turtle or a Volkswagen bug with the silver foil. She has a collection of gum wrapper sculptures. “Go ahead.”
“I don't even know how to explain it. I was lighting a candle in church, and—”
“A religious epiphany?” Andi grins. “About time.”
“Andi, listen to me. Shut up for once.” The sharp tone makes her stop chattering. “I brushed into someone. Into a girl. And I felt...I felt...”
Andrea searches my face, looking for the completion of the sentence. “You felt...a sweater? You felt stupid? Clumsy?”
The weight of the comment takes a minute to sink in. “Are you out of your mind?” Andrea chews her gum at a machine-gun clip, curly red hair bobbing with each wide-eyed chomp. “Are you insane?”
“I guess. Oh, God, what am I going to do?”
“Okay, tell me exactly what happened.”
I pull my stupid stork legs up straight. “I went up to light a candle, and bumped into this person, and then I got these weird chills and hot stabs and just felt like...like I was going to pounce on him and lick him all over. But it wasn't a him. It was a her.” I miserably pick up the silver foil Andi has dropped and start to fold it into the shape of a gun. “Oh, God, I am so dead. What if my dad finds out? I could be arrested. I could be sent away—”
Andrea grabs my hands. “Listen,” she says, mud-brown eyes widening as she leans in. “You've just got to forget about it, right? I mean, it's just a freak thing. It could happen to anyone. So, you touched a girl's arm, and you got the chills. So what? Nobody knows except you—”
“And you.”
She sighs as if burdened with my stupidity. “I'm certainly not going to tell on you. My point is, if you don't say anything else, it will just go away.”
I stretch out on the wooden floor, stare up at the symmetrical pattern of planks in the gazebo ceiling, and see the sign of the Parallel cross embedded there, as it is in everything. Hot guilt stabs at my stomach, along with a nauseous sense that my life is over, no matter what I do. “It’s not just against the law, Andrea. It’s not natural. It's a sin. I committed a sin. God knows about it. “
She picks up a pebble and throws it against the gazebo wall. “You've been listening to your father too much.”
“I probably have.” The gazebo ceiling gives me no answers. “Maybe it's not true. Right? I mean, it could have just been some weird reaction to her perfume, or to somebody else I saw. It doesn't necessarily mean anything. Who was that girl, anyway? I've never seen her before. Do you know?”