“I didn’t know.” It comes out sounding like a question.
“Oh, come on. Procrastinating procreators? Beckoning of the boss below?”
I just stare at my lap.
“I’m sorry,” says Matt, not sounding sorry at all. “On the bright side, you’re about to become a cult figure for frat boys everywhere, and that’s a wealthy demographic.”
A cult figure. Sure. I can already hear them laughing at me as they listen to the podcast on endless repeat.
7:00 P.M.
Converted Bookstore, Albuquerque, New Mexico
My spiel is getting better. Slicker. I cover the bullet points in five minutes, so I can get to the signing part of the evening a little quicker. Unfortunately, there are questions first, and this audience is prepared. I don’t know if someone—a teacher, a pastor, a state senator—made Hallelujah required reading or something, but they know it inside-out. And while I’d always hoped that people would discuss Hallelujah—spreading God’s word is the duty of every Christian, after all—I guess I hadn’t imagined there’d be several hundred of them in a single room, talking about my book like it really matters. Why not talk about the Bible instead?
Before long, they start discussing amongst themselves, like a well-trained class of overachieving students. I sit back and wonder if I’ll actually be required to speak again, or if I can just coast to the finish line, sign a couple hundred books, and phone Colin with the good news.
Every now and then I glance at Fran. It’s weird to see her here—she definitely stands out—and even weirder that she’s listening attentively. I wonder what she’s thinking—whether she’s impressed by the discussion, amazed by the turnout, or simply bored.
“I’m sorry to bring this up, Luke,” says a girl, interrupting my thoughts, “but I’ve heard parts of your interview from this afternoon and… well, I think what that student did was evil.”
Predictably, I turn bright red. Honestly, I change color quicker than a chameleon. “It wasn’t ideal,” I admit.
“No,” she says. “It was evil. Do you understand?”
This girl is younger than me, with a robotic voice and unreadable expression. As I nod in agreement, she doesn’t even blink.
“Good,” she says. “As you taught us in Lessons twelve, verse twenty: Evil is real. It is a living, breathing, destructive force. We must call it by its proper name.”
It’s true—I did write something like that—but hearing her say it, I wonder what the heck I was thinking. I’m clearly not the only one who’s freaked out either. Half the audience is gawking at the girl, and the other half seems to be checking for exit signs.
“Uh, I guess I’m pretty naive when it comes to this stuff,” I say. “Maybe a little too trusting as well. Still,” I add with fake enthusiasm, “I learned a valuable lesson today.”
“Do not blame yourself, Luke. Do not be ashamed of having pride, and faith, and values. If the man who interviewed you had any of these, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Conversation seems a bit of a stretch. This girl is monologuing. I’m starting to think she’s older than she looks—maybe thirteen or fourteen—but the asymmetrical braids in her hair and young-girl clothes make it hard to be sure. In any case, she’s like a snake charmer, commanding silence so her whispered words carry across the room, forcing us to listen and obey.
Sure enough, the audience’s enthusiastic hum has died down to an awed quiet. When the girl unexpectedly stands and begins clapping, almost everyone else seems compelled to follow her lead, as though she’s holding them at gunpoint. She has a future as a military dictator, this one.
Fran has morphed from attentive to uncomfortable.
When everyone is seated again, I wait for the next question, but all I get is blank expressions. No one knows what to say. Or perhaps no one dares to speak at all. None of the audience wants their sincerity doubted by this girl. To be found spiritually lacking.
Except Fran. She raises her bare arm, the only person brave enough to break the silence. I admire her for that, and nod encouragingly.
She produces a goofy grin, large eyes twinkling behind curtains of untamed purple hair. “So what exactly is choking the bishop, anyway?” she asks.
I can’t believe she said that. Even more amazing, I don’t much mind. Because I recognize this girl: She’s the old Fran, the one with a wicked sense of humor. She wants to defuse the atmosphere. And to be honest, so do I.
“Well,” I begin, daring to play along, “it’s like this—”
“Don’t answer that,” interrupts alpha girl. Not content with her cameo role, she’s staking her claim for top billing in tonight’s entertainment.
“Luke’s a big boy,” says Fran. “He can decide for himself whether he wants to answer.” Her voice is still teasing, but her expression has shifted: She’s sporting her I’m-about-to-win-the-debate look.
“You seem to assume these good people want to hear your question answered,” the girl replies.
“Is that how I should decide what to ask?”
“I think any Christian would take into account the sensibilities of those around her, yes. You disagree?”
Somehow Fran is still smiling. “Is that what you were doing when you decided to dominate the discussion?”
The girl’s eyebrows twitch, but otherwise she remains perfectly still. I wonder if she has a pulse. “I sense that you are angry with me, and I want you to know I mean you no ill will. If I have offended anyone here with my comments, I beg forgiveness.”
She looks around as if she’s waiting for someone to confirm her worst fear. There are two hundred people who’d probably like to do just that; but no one will, and she knows it.
“Well,” says Fran. “Your comments have offended me.”
The girl looks Fran up and down. “And you are in a minority of one. Yet you seem to believe you have the right to ignore everyone else. Perhaps you’d prefer that we all left.”
The bookstore owner steps forward with much hand-wringing. “Please don’t make a scene,” he begs Fran.
Fran laughs, but it’s anxious now. “I’m not making a scene.”
“Please don’t,” he tries again, as though she has pulled a knife.
“I’m not. She is.”
The girl shakes her head slowly—a gesture adults reserve for petulant toddlers.
“Well, you are!” Fran insists. “Everyone was into this until you made a big deal about that radio interview. Now everyone’s too scared to talk.”
She’s right, of course, but she’s just accused two hundred people of being cowardly, and it’s clear they don’t appreciate it. What’s more, they’ve decided now is the time to prove her wrong.
“Haven’t you said enough?” asks the man sitting beside Fran.
“Exactly,” echoes another.
Fran looks around for support, but finds none. She’s made them all choose sides—small, idealistic girl or outspoken, tattooed, purple-haired teen—and is only now realizing she’s an island. Aside from Fran, I might be the only person in the room who believes they all chose wrong.
“Any other questions?” I ask, my voice unsteady. “Anything?”
“Why do some people feel the need to sabotage your good work?” demands android girl, overriding the ten people whose hands are raised. “To insult you, hurt you…”
For the first time, she pauses—hardly an emotional gesture, but after her earlier weirdness, it’s the equivalent of anyone else breaking down in racking sobs. And the audience waits for her, supports her.
She takes a deep breath. “First the radio interviewer, now… this.” She raises an eyebrow in Fran’s direction.
But Fran’s not there. She’s being escorted away by a pathetic-looking guy in round glasses and a checked shirt.
When Fran reaches the door she looks over her shoulder and smiles bravely, but I’m not fooled. I can see her tears from across the room.
8:05 P.M.
Converted Bookstor
e, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Every signing line seems longer than the last. I’d never considered that even the most basic motor skills—smiling, nodding—take a toll after several days. I hear people’s names and I write them down, but the words mean nothing to me, and from my glazed expression I think they know it too.
A book slides in front of me, with a note asking me to inscribe it to “Teresa.” When I look up, she’s standing there, the gigantic cross bouncing off her chest.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She looks surprised. “I’m sorry?”
“You have some nerve, you know that?”
Teresa shares a shrug with the other people in line. “I think you must be mistaking me for someone else.”
“I’m not signing your book, Teresa.” I lower my voice. “That thing last night—the whole seduction routine—you probably thought it was really clever.”
She gasps. “Did you just say… seduction?” Her voice is loud. There are tears too, summoned so quickly that I wonder if she practices.
The conversations around us stop. Teresa has drawn them into our personal soap opera; belatedly, it occurs to me that she’s probably more experienced at this game than I am.
“I’m a sophomore in high school,” she cries. “I’ve never even met you before. And…”—her voice rises until she’s almost screaming—“and you accuse me of seducing you?”
There’s complete silence now, nothing but my breathing and the imaginary sound of crickets.
“Is there a problem here?” the owner asks.
Teresa grips the table for support. “He accused me of…” She shakes her head. “I can’t say it. It’s too horrible.”
“I don’t understand,” says the owner, staring at me wide-eyed, waiting for some sort of explanation.
“She’s a reporter.” The words dribble out of my mouth.
The owner stares at me like I must be crazy.
“I-I’m sixteen,” blubs Teresa, both hands wrapped around her cross.
I consider pleading my case, but the last thing I want to do is tell a couple hundred of my closest acquaintances that Fran—exiled villain of tonight’s event—has shocking photos of Teresa and me on the verge of making out. Since I have no other line of defense, I settle for turning bright red instead. I may as well hang a guilty sign around my neck.
“I’ve never been so humiliated,” says Teresa, filling the silence. She chokes on her tears. “If my daddy was here, he’d…”
On that note she flees for the door, the sounds of her wailing drifting through the store long after she should have exited. I figure she’s probably standing just outside the room. She’s a pro, I’ll give her that.
Unfortunately, she’s not the only one who leaves, much to the chagrin of the checked-shirted guy selling copies of Hallelujah. He implores them not to forget to buy a copy, but they’re not forgetting anything—they have no interest in reading my book anymore.
To be honest, I don’t blame them.
8:50 P.M.
Hotel Lobo, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Fran is on her bed, typing on Alex’s laptop while listening to a complicated piece of classical music. She turns it down as I enter, but she doesn’t look up.
“You’re back early,” she says.
It’s true, but I haven’t felt so tired since the tour began. “Don’t ask.”
“Okay. I won’t.” She turns the music back up.
I didn’t mean it to come out like that, so I walk over and turn the volume down again. Our hands are practically touching on the laptop keyboard. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
“No. I mean, I’m sorry for what happened at the event.”
She takes a swig from her bottle. This one’s brown. The sight and smell of it makes me pull back. I sit on the other bed, facing her.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says.
“Still, I’m sorry. I should’ve…” Should’ve what? Offended two hundred people by supporting a girl whose favorite evening activity is getting wasted? Yes. Yes, I should have. “I’m just… sorry.”
Fran doesn’t take her eyes off the laptop. There are several photos onscreen, but none of them involve paparazzi, thank goodness.
“Teresa showed up again,” I tell her.
“Wow. She’s persistent. So, you two make out this time?”
That hurts, but not as much as being thrown out of a bookstore, I guess. “What did you do with the memory card?”
She huffs. “I stuck it underwater and stomped on it.”
“Thanks.”
Another grid of photos appears onscreen: Fran and Alex kayaking together, swimming together, running together.
“You must’ve missed her this year,” I say.
She closes the computer, but her eyes remain locked on the same spot, as though she can still see every photo. “Yeah. I always thought I was running interference for Al—especially when she started applying to colleges as far away from St. Louis as possible. But last summer I realized we’d kind of been protecting each other really. And when she was gone…” Fran closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she turns to me. “This has got to stop. Right now. You’ve got five minutes, okay?”
“For what?”
“To ask me all the stuff that’s on your mind.” She finishes the bottle. “I promise to answer truthfully. I just can’t have this… thing between us anymore.”
My mind isn’t ready for this, but the look in her eyes tells me this is the moment that has been brewing for a year. I have to dive in.
“Four minutes, forty seconds,” she says.
“Okay. Why do you drink?”
“I don’t drink. I’m drinking.”
“Semantics. Fifteen–love.”
“Wrong. I haven’t touched alcohol all year. Just on this trip. Replay the point.”
“Why are you drinking now?”
“Because I can. Because whether I do or don’t, Alex will still love me, and apparently you’ll still hate me. What have I got to lose?”
I don’t agree with her logic, but then, I’m not convinced she does either. She just unscrews the cap on yet another bottle and takes a big gulp.
“Where did you get it from anyway?”
“There was a minibar in our first hotel room.”
“There was? I didn’t see it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, duh! You wouldn’t, would you.”
I guess she means that someone as straight and narrow as me wouldn’t even look for such temptations. I can’t tell whether she means it to be insulting or complimentary. Doesn’t really matter—I’m okay with being that person.
“Why are you rude?” I ask.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t used to be.”
She flares her nostrils. “So?”
“What about blasphemy?”
“I wasn’t aware blasphemy is the same as being rude. Love–fifteen.”
She’s right: They’re not the same thing. I don’t even know where I was going with that one. I only asked it because I haven’t gotten up the nerve to ask her what I really want to know. And I still can’t.
“You always seem angry now,” I say. “Is it because you don’t believe in God?”
She looks confused. “I do believe in God. It’s everyone else I lost faith in.”
“But you don’t go to church.”
“Love–thirty for thinking those are the same thing.”
“Okay. But why don’t you go anymore?”
Fran looks away. “I have my reasons.”
“You promised to answer my questions truthfully.”
She fingers her hair, takes refuge in another long gulp from her bottle. “My parents prefer not to be seen with me.”
“Oh.” Somehow this has never occurred to me before. “I didn’t know.”
“You do now.”
“But your parents aren’t to blame for everything else.”
“Naaaa. That’s an opinion, not a question. Love–forty. Break point. And you still have two minutes, fifty seconds left to ask questions.”
“Okay, okay.” I try not to smile as I spot a loophole in her rules. “Why did you give up on everything else as well?”
She shakes her head and exhales loudly. “Whatever. Just forget it.”
She stands as if she’s going to leave. Instinctively I reach out and take her hand. It’s warm. For years I dreamed of holding her hand; and here I am, doing it. I let go suddenly as my face turns red.
“I’m not contagious,” she says.
“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about you giving up. Please don’t go.”
She hesitates a moment before sitting back down. Our knees are so close they almost touch. “You’ve got two minutes, twenty-five seconds,” she says, holding up her scratched plastic watch so I can see she’s playing fair.
“Why did you stop joining in with church events?”
“Because I wasn’t welcome.”
“But they were important to us. To me,” I add.
“And they’re still important.”
“So come help out again. Do the Thanksgiving dinner this year.”
“And ruin all the photos?” She bats her eyelids.
“Can you stop playing the victim for a moment?”
Fran stiffens. “Who said I’m a victim? Not me. I’m just aware that for one day every year the shelter belongs to your congregation, so I stay away. I do Sundays instead. Turns out, homeless people like to eat then as well.”
“Every Sunday?”
“Almost, yeah. At least since my dad made it clear he wouldn’t be seen with me at church.”
“But why?”
Fran stares at her forearms. “Why do you think? Please don’t pretend to be shocked. Even you’re secretly grateful I haven’t been there this past year, right?”
I can’t answer that question, but my silence shames me.
“Whatever,” she continues. “It’s why I help at the shelter. It’s funny how easily people with no money, no home, no food can overlook stuff like that.”