Out (3 page)

“What do you
know about it?” she asks again.

“All I know is
that Abbess Perry requested that you be sent to
Dartfell
Abbey for an internship. And you didn't go. And Dad was pissed.”

 
Jana laughs ruefully. “Yeah, well, there was
more to it than that. He wanted me to marry the Abbess.”

“What?! That
old windbag? She's, like, in her forties, isn't she? Why would he want you to
marry her?”

“Because it's a
political move.” She inches closer. “You know how the
Anglicant
Senate is always fighting with the House of Representatives for control?”

“I don’t know…I
don’t really follow politics.” I glance nervously toward the door and the
hallway. I definitely don’t want Dad to hear this conversation.

“Well, you
should.” She crosses her arms defiantly. “McFarland is in the Senate already,
and he’s probably in line to become the leader. They have a lot more power than
people think. You know how it’s supposed to be a balance, of the Senate church
and the civil government Reps?”

“I guess…” All
I can think about is how pissed David will be if I’m not ready to go.

 
“It’s not so balanced anymore. The
Anglicants
are pushing to put their guy in as president,
leaving the House powerless. And some members of the House don’t always approve
of the things the Senate does in the name of God. But without any control…”

“What? What
don’t they approve?”

“Like arranged
marriages. Like…other stuff.” We hear a creaking on the stairs.
 
“He's coming. Just remember...be careful what
you agree to. He can't make you do anything, really.” For a second I see a
shadow cross her face, with genuine emotions: doubt, fear. Nothing scares Jana.
But something did, I guess.

The door swings
wider. “Hey,” Dad says genially. “A little sibling bonding, huh? Well, there'll
be time for that later. Right now, we've really
gotta
get going, Chris. Is your homework finished, Jana?”

 
“Almost. See you later.”

He crosses the
room in two large steps, bends, kisses the top of her head, and she recoils
only slightly.

I follow Dad
out of the room unwillingly. I want to stay and talk to Jana, whose face is
still a mask of stone. What else could she tell me?

The Lamborghini
Gallardo
Spyder
: a work of art with wheels and an
iPod dock. Dad houses the holiest of cars in a separate garage to make sure it
is never dented, scratched, or used for mundane things like trips to the
grocery. I remember the last time I had been invited in there (because, after
all, you had to be invited); I’d been about eleven, and David
 
had shown me the car after I'd miserably
failed fifth-grade math.

 
The conversation had been about how if, at
eleven, you failed math, you'd never
own
anything
nearly as valuable or as awe-inspiring as this wondrous car. David had caressed
it lovingly, stroked the cerulean paint (that was the name of the color...no
ordinary blue for a
Spyder
), flicked dust from its
mirrors, and basically showed the damn car more affection than I remember
getting in my entire childhood. But it was a beautiful car.

The autumn
chill contrasts with the warmth and womb-like protection of the garage. Just as
I’m enjoying the sanctity of the car cathedral, Jana’s ominous warning bubbles
up.
Be careful what you agree to...he
can't make you do anything, really.

Dad flicks the
lights on, and the car gleams, a jewel in the pale fluorescent light. “Yep,” he
says, caressing the pristine paint job. “My baby.
 
Climb in.” The passenger door whooshes open,
nearly soundless, inviting. I sink into the tasteful leather seat, drink in the
elegance of the new car smell that somehow lingers despite the fact that the
car is now nearly a decade old.

Dad eases into
the driver's side, coaxes the
Spyder
from its cozy
nest, and swings it out onto the road. The top retracts soundlessly. Above the
purr of the engine and the rush of wind he says, “So, how's life?”

How's life?
Hmmm...well, Dad, I brushed against a girl at church and felt attracted to her,
so I'm now a sinner relegated to the pits of hell. How 'bout you?

I say to what I
always say: “Fine.”

To cover the
awkwardness, I flip on the radio, and a news talk station spews propaganda
against illegal immigration. “Can we listen to music?” I ask timidly. I hate
listening to the hate mongers.

“Hang on.” He
turns the volume up. “I want to hear what Dobson has to say.”

 
I tune out the yammering of the conservative
radio host, hearing only the occasional biting word: “illegal”, “deport”, “neutralize.”
Instead, I close my eyes and focus on the feeling of the wind in my hair. The
girl...her long, thin fingers winding around my hair...she had dark, straight
black hair, black and shining like a raven's wing...I shouldn't be thinking
about her! And lips...full, sweet, juicy like fruit...
Ahghgh
!
Stop it! I pinch my forearm so hard I leave a mark.

Dad turns off
the radio, and the wind and engine hum sweep all other sounds out of the way. “Chris,
you’re almost eighteen. Have you thought about your future?”

Not this. “Sort
of.”

He glances at
me, smiles slightly. “And?”

“Uh...I'm not
sure, really. I've thought about working with computers, maybe.” I already know
this answer will not be good enough. What I really want to do is astronomy, but
that’s even weirder than computers. David thinks staring at the sky is a waste
of time.

“Computers.”
The disapproval in his voice is obvious. “Well. A trade school would be all
right, of course, but Warren and I were thinking that a four-year college would
probably be more in line with your talents and ambitions.”

“Hmmm.” I stare
straight ahead at the open road, the blur of trees and flowers and falling-down
wood fences typical of the country. “I don't know, Dad. Academics are kind of
tough for me. But computers, programming and hardware, that's stuff I really
get. I was thinking maybe—”

“The reason I
ask,” he flashes me a dazzling smile, “is that we got a very exciting
offer.
 
I want to talk to you about Jim
McFarland. He's coming over to the house tomorrow, while you’re still on your
break from school, and...well, he's really interested in helping you.”

Helping me.
Right.

“Jim wants you
to apply to
Westhaven
. He thinks you'd be a really
good fit there. You'd definitely get in, he's given me his word. So, what do
you think?”

He just beams
at me, as if he's just offered a prize. As usual, I don’t know what to say to
him.
 
So I don’t say anything.

“That's it?”
He’s pissed. No surprise. He pulls the
Spyder
off to
the side of the road. We sit silently for a few seconds before he launches into
the inevitable lecture. “I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this,
Christopher. I don’t know if you were paying attention in government class, but
the person who runs the
Anglicant
church also becomes
the leader of the U.S. Senate, and that’s fully half the functioning
government. If the president is pro-
Anglicant
, the
House of Representatives becomes irrelevant, and then…well, then, the Senate
leader is pretty much running the country. Which is what we need, Chris, to get
this country back under control. Back to God’s plan. That’s going to be
McFarland. If you understood anything about the world—how things really
work—matches are made for reasons.”

“What about
love?”

“Love?” He
snorts. “Love is great for ordinary people, Chris, but for people like us…it’s
just not practical. You’re part of something larger than yourself. A church. A
government. You’re my son, and if I can find you a place, you can be part of
what makes this country great. We can be part of that. That means something.” I
sit silently, fumbling with my seatbelt. He hits the steering wheel, which
makes me jump. “I just wish you’d wake up and stop being so….”

 
I know the word he’s fishing for. Stupid. How
many times have I heard that? He doesn’t even have to say it. I want to yell at
him, scream that he’s supposed to just accept me for who I am, stupid or not,
and I want to take a sledgehammer to this stupid car, and I just wish he
could…be someone else.

“Warren told me
you wouldn't like it, but I said, no, of course he will! Even Chris would see
the value of a match like this!”

“Match?” I
shouldn’t speak, but I can’t help myself. “You’re talking about me getting
married. I’m not old enough. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life.”

A beat. A
breath. The rage subsides. Magically, he’s again the kind, caring,
compassionate man of the cloth that his parishioners know and fear. Kind,
caring David Bryant smiles reassuringly. “Sure. Sorry. I know it's a lot to
take in at once. I’m just really…I just want what’s best for you.” Yeah,
thanks. I wish I believed that.
 
“Just
think about it. Of course, I'd never want you to do anything that didn't feel
right. But he’s going to be the next bishop. I mean, this could set you up for
life. You could do anything you want, or nothing at all. But hey, I'm not
pushing...” He turns the ignition again. “Want to drive?”

“No, thanks.” A
large, gloss-winged raven sits at eye-level on a whitewashed fence, and as I
watch it, it launches into the clear blue sky. Lucky bird.
 

I dream of
black birds and fences, of a woman’s lips whispering to me in a darkened room,
and I wake up in a sweat despite the chill in the fall air. It’s the first day
of October break from our year-round high school, but it doesn’t feel like a
vacation.

 
I roll out of bed, hair drenched, and head for
the bathroom. Wash my face. I feel like something horrible has happened, and
something wonderful, but I can’t remember what. An image snaps into my brain,
wide eyes, full lips, dark hair. It makes me blush, makes me lightheaded, full
of delicious secrets. Then the whole conversation in the car comes rushing back
in all its horrific realness, and I feel sick. God, dating somebody like
McFarland, dating anybody, after what happened…what colossal terrible timing.
But David can’t force me. I know Jana is wrong. She has a way of making
everything a drama. But God. What am I going to do?

My phone
buzzes.
 
It’s
Andi
,
so I press ANSWER. “Hey.”

“Chris!”
Andrea's distorted voice sounds panicky.

“Let me call
you back. I’m in the bathroom!”

 
“Wait! Meet me in park, at the picnic shelter.”
The phone clicks dead.

 
Andi
can help me.
She’s always been good at figuring out how to get out of trouble. But this
isn’t just trouble. This isn’t stealing a calculator or hiding a frog in a
drawer or sticking a tack on a seat. This is life-altering, life-ending
trouble.

After quickly
washing and pulling on jeans and a tan sweater, I
pad
out of my room silently, hoping to avoid David. Maybe if I keep away from him
for long enough, the whole topic of Jim McFarland will just go away. Jim
McFarland, the girl, myself. I need to dive into a hole and disappear.

The house is
silent, except for Warren's singing from the kitchen. He’s belting some failed
Broadway musical.
 
I feel a pang of
guilt—he trusts me. He and his baking, opera-loving, bad-musical-singing honest
self, he loves me. I’ve never been that sure about David, but Warren…this would
break his heart. It would kill him. I’ve got to stop thinking about it. It’s not
true. It’s just not. Pretend to be normal.

“Hey, Warren.”
I hug his Buddha belly.
 
“Anything good
this morning?”

“Made some
muffins,” Warren says, a baritone Martha Stewart. “Banana nut. Some are still
hot.” He hands me a green porcelain platter loaded with treats, and wipes his
big hands on a LOVE THE COOK apron.

“You got flour
in your hair again.” I brush powder from his sideburns, and linger just a
second on his scruffy cheek. “Is Dad here?”

“Nope.” He
hands me a muffin.
 
“Want two?”

“Sure.” He bundles
the muffins in a cloth napkin while I put on my shoes. I doubt I’ll be able to
eat a bite. “I'm going out for a while.” He’s staring at me. Does he see
something? Does he know?
 
“What?”
 

“David talked
to you yesterday.”
 

Oh. That. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Warren sighs,
pulls up a kitchen chair and sits down heavily. “Chris. C'mon. What did he say?”

“Don't you
know?” I grab another muffin from the platter and bite into it, releasing
banana-nut steam, just to keep my hands busy.

“If I knew I
wouldn't ask.”

There are just
too many layers of emotional trauma piling up. I’ve just got to make it out of
this kitchen without totally breaking down and spilling everything. I say, very
reasonably, “He talked to me about going to college.”

“Hmmm.” Warren purses
his lips and stares at the black-and-white checkered floor. “Anything else?”

“He talked to
me about Jim McFarland.”

Warren's eyes
betray that he does not, in fact, know about that. “What?”

Maybe Warren
will help me. I don’t have to tell him everything. “Yeah. He said that Jim
McFarland is interested in me. Personally.” Please, Jesus, let him help me get
rid of that guy, at least.

Warren's face
turns red, flushing from the neck to the temple in seconds. “Did he?”