“in a few sundays”

It was that cross which first pulled my attention away from her. That maple -brown cross that hung over the preacher’s head, pointing down at him like a knife. If only a rather large and grotesque hand were to appear, grab the top part, and plunge it into him! Then we would have no preacher! This often struck me as insanely funny: the thought of the preacher being stabbed during his sermon with everyone there. It would happen just when he was getting worked up, when his face became cherry red and started to give off steam. The cross would take him and everyone would be shocked. Mrs. Risher, who always cut in front of me in her mammoth SUV with the Jesus fish swimming in the rear window would grab her husband and bury her face. Then, slowly, the men would start to tip-toe up to where what was left of the preacher would be,  pretending that they didn’t really want to run, throw up, or faint like their wives. Kristen would cry, and want to be my friend again, like we used to be, before “Jesus” found her. That would be funny!

It was getting hard to concentrate on the sermon. Even though we were so close, everything was fuzzy and my eyes were pulsing. I propped my shoes up on the back of the chairs in front of me.  We were in the “temporary” seating for the congregation, though “temporary” had turned into extended, which had turned into permanent. They were the cheap chairs that hook together on the sides, one male clasp, one female. The chairs were lined up like pews, but ended up resembling fluffy green spores,  growing in lines on a Petri dish. I had to push my toes in the openings between the seats to prop my feet up. Otherwise, my feet dangled. I didn’t like the feeling of dangling feet.  Kristen, my best friend of two years was next to me. I tossed my hair forward and looked over at her, blinking as my eyes adjusted. She had mud brown hair that was getting stringy, and her usual uniform on. A white shirt, long skirt, a skull-hugging hat and no makeup. Her sandals were cheaper than mine. I smiled.

Angie was on her other side, and they were whispering. This had been happening for exactly seven Sundays in a row. Angie was home-schooled, just like Kristen was. They had a group lab together on Tuesday mornings. I went to public school without anyone to talk to. My days had become endless parades of watery eyes and an emptiness in my stomach that I couldn’t wish away. Kristen and I would have gone to high school together if she hadn’t decided that public school was too secular for her taste. We would have even been in the band together if she had come. But she didn’t. She was dissecting frogs with Angie, and reading about Job amid a firestorm of cheerios launched from her baby sister’s highchair. She even said that I was becoming a “lax” Christian, whatever that means! Perhaps she was referring to how  I sometimes  missed Wednesday night church because it started before band got out, or how sometimes I didn’t make the Bible study she set up for her, Angie and me  because I didn’t want to wake up that early in the morning. Angie was always there, rising with, as she put it, a pop in her step to go meet the day. God I hate that girl! Kristen had been denying it, but I could see! I was being phased out, replaced with a newer model, and knowing that filled me with fear. It was a fear for everything said and all that is not.

 Kristen stopped whispering and leaned towards me.

“Angie wants to know why your pupils are so small,” she said. I blinked. Why does it matter?

“I don’t know! Tell her my pupils do that when they see a DYKE!”

Kristen scowled.

“That’s not funny!” She turned back to my replacement and whispered something I couldn’t make out. God! My skin was crawling! My eyes darted to the door. You  don’t  need to leave! Stay seated! Hold it together! I leaned back in my chair and drank in a large gulp of the air, laced with the humidity from outside. The preacher was still on his second point. In a Baptist church, there are always three points in a sermon. I had at least another forty-five minutes left of sitting here with the two of them clucking next to me, and my butt going numb.

 My body was taking on popsicle qualities though it was an even 79 degrees inside. I leaned closer to Kristen, and Angie looked at me, her nose rising higher as she did so, leaving me in full view of her rather wide nostrils. Her short, grayish hair puffed out with all of its volume and framed her mess of freckles. That girl loved sports, and sat with her legs spread like a man. There was no logical reason why this was happening! I watched Kristen lean into Angie, and was afraid. To be friendless at 15 is never preferable.

The preacher called for everyone to bow their heads. I did, letting my head fall like a bloated ball of lead. My eyes closed and a rush of nerves slipped through my veins, tickling its way up to my brow hairs. I thought about my reasons for still being firmly planted in that chair. I was no longer wanted, that was obvious, but I couldn’t just let this slip. I was like a failing government. The peasants were at the gates with pitchforks, but I stayed, wondering where everything went so wrong. I’m such a loser! Meanwhile, my body was raising its own revolution against me. All of the blood that had recently been in my feet was gushing up towards my head. I opened my eyes and looked around me. All of the lemmings behind me had their heads bowed, dutifully. I looked towards my parents in the back. The top of my mom’s bleach-frosted hair looked menacing. She would kill me if I got up and left, but I could feel flames of anger scoring my feet. I looked towards Kristen and Puffy Hair. My rage against the pair of them was shrill, lunatic, growing by the second.

Who do they think they are?  The tears were starting to brim. She was MY friend! I told her everything! Kristen leaned forward as the preacher crooned on. So far, in fact, it was surprising she didn’t topple over. Perhaps she was beginning to feel the burden of her spurious betrayal.

I thought of that day last summer, the surprisingly cool day with no wind.  She

and I had swum in my parent’s pool until our noses were toasted. We argued over whose wedding would be more lavish, and she had promised to be my maid of honor. It was then that a tear popped out and slid down my cheek like a drop of pregnant condensation careening its way down a glass of iced tea. I looked up, and Angie caught my eye. Each of our heads turned mechanically towards the others, and her lids widened as she saw the single glistening trail on my cheek.   

There was so much concentrated hate in her look; I’m surprised to this day that she didn’t make me explode! Time was still. Her lips parted. My heart pounded.

“Get out!” she mouthed.

The words had been a silent scream inside me that made me go slack from nose tip to toes. For just a moment, everything fell apart, I couldn’t breathe…and I knew. I knew that Kristen wouldn’t be at my wedding, I knew that it was different, and different felt horrible.

I heard the preacher wrapping up the prayer; thanking Jesus for all that he’s given us. Thank you? I was in a daze. I stood up, never breaking with Angie’s eyes, and I walked out. The door slid closed behind me. Then, in unison, hundreds of eyes opened.

The bathroom was empty, except for a girl in a white velvet dress trimmed in red lace.  She admired herself in the mirror, twirling slightly like a leaf caught in a gust of wind. She ignored me when I walked in, but that was fine. I wanted to be invisible.

I walked to the last stall, closed the door, and sobbed. The bathroom door clicked closed when she left a few moments later. I was alone with the dim light and electric buzz above me. Then, I freed an ocean of tears and shook open my bag with a violent rage. I wanted that slippery licorice release; there was no reason not to. With trembling, fumbling fingers, I tipped the soft powder I had cut with cocoa mix earlier that morning into the base of the empty coke can in my lap and mixed water from my syringe, yellow with use. I rocked the can back and forth and back and forth, dragging my head behind the action. Silently, I lowered the toilet cover and took a seat, huddling my tools close on my lap like I used to clutch my stuffed bear in the night. I almost lost my balance when removing my shoe, but the sock came off rather easily. Even through the shakes that were increasing with each suck of breath, my toes spread welcomingly. This movement exposed a crimson welt, inflamed from my poignant, repetitive stabbing.

It only hurt for a moment…the needle.

Then nothing hurt; not their words, not the abandonment, not my failure, not that oppressive loneliness. All time was stunted. In fact, the only thing that pricked was seeing that, in a few Sundays, I would know the tiles on that ceiling by name.