FROM: Robert Ellis
TO: Rev Fletcher
SUBJECT: Obedience
If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, and who, when his father has chastened him, will not hearken unto him:
Then shall his father lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place, and he shall say unto the elders of his city, “This, my son, is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey my voice. He is a glutton and a drunkard.”
And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die: so shalt thou put evil away from among you.
“Rev. Hey. Rev.” Declan’s voice.
I blink. Look up. Half the cafeteria has emptied. Rowan and Brandon are gone, but Declan and Juliet are watching me.
How long have I been staring at my phone?
Too long, if lunch is over.
I know the verses well. Too well. Better than any other verses in the Bible.
The lines are from Deuteronomy. The Old Testament, which is full of vicious stories like this one. The verses actually include a mother, too, but my father has clearly altered them to suit his needs. He did it once before. I’m not surprised he remembers the exact wording.
“Rev?” Declan says again.
The e-mail has the potential to crush me. I think it was crushing me, until Declan pulled me free.
The bell rings. We have three minutes to get to class. Declan glances at Juliet. “Go,” he says. “You don’t need to get in trouble.”
She doesn’t move. “You don’t either.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “Go ahead.” But I don’t move.
Declan looks at Juliet. Something unspoken passes between them. She goes.
“Your father?” he says quietly.
I hand him my phone. He reads.
“Boys!” Mrs. James, my new favorite teacher, is rapidly approaching the table. “The first bell has rung.”
“Come on,” says Declan. He carries my phone with him.
I follow him.
“Do you want me to write back to him?” Declan says. “Because it’s taking everything I have not to.”
“No.” I snatch my phone back from him.
The men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die.
I cannot let this unravel me again.
I keep thinking about Emma’s note. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.
She was apologizing. Is this a sign that I should apologize to my father?
My phone pings. A text message slides down from the top.
It’s Dad.
Dad: Just checking on you.
I want to burst into tears right there in the hallway. I’m not alone. I’m not.
And maybe this is the sign I should be listening to.
I take a screenshot of my father’s e-mail. I send it back to Dad.
“Come on,” I say to Declan. I have to sniff back tears. He’ll think it’s allergies. Which is fine.
My phone pings again. Dad again.
Dad: You are not stubborn and rebellious.
You are kind.
You are thoughtful.
You are the best son we could have ever hoped for.
We love you. And we are proud of you.
The phone pings and pings and pings as his messages come through, and the words should be corny, but right now, each one is like an injection of reassurance into my heart.
We come to the intersection where Declan needs to go left and I need to go right. The hallways are almost deserted, and we have less than a minute until the bell, when we’re supposed to be in our classrooms.
“Do you want to skip out of here?” says Declan.
“No.” I scrub my face. My voice thickens. “No. I’m okay. I sent it to Dad.”
“Good.”
We part ways, and somehow I find my way to my seat in Precalculus. Students rustle around me, getting situated, ignoring me. For once, I’m glad for it.
My phone pings one last time.
Dad: Let me know if you want Kristin to come get you. It’s OK if you need a break.
I smile and write back.
Rev: No. I’m OK.
After a moment, I pull my phone back out of my backpack and add another line.
Rev: Thanks, Dad
Then I lock the screen, shove it into my backpack, and pay attention to the class.
THIRTY
Emma
As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.
Proverbs 27:17
I’m going somewhere with Dec after school, but I can meet at the church at 8 if you want to talk again.
Rev
Cait brings me the note at the end of the day.
I love that he wrote me a note back. I love his handwriting, neat and even, every stroke and slope controlled. It’s very much him. I want to press the paper to my chest and spin around with it. I want to trace his name with my fingers.
I’m practically skipping to the bus beside Cait.
“So you really like him,” she says.
Her voice is mellow. We spent lunch in the library, and I dumped my entire life in her lap. She knows about everything, from Mom and Dad and the divorce to Nightmare and his trolling. She knows about Rev and our secret meetings behind the church.
She knows what a screwed-up mess I am.
I stop skipping. “Am I being ridiculous? I am. You can tell me.”
“You’re not being ridiculous.” She pauses, and a small, secret smile finds her mouth. “He’s got a sexy voice. I never realized.”
“You talked to him?” I stop short and almost round on her. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t fling the note at me and walk away. Of course I talked to him.”
I want to shake her. “What did he say?”
“Let me think if I can remember it right … he said so much …” She puts a finger to her purple lips and gazes at the sky. “Oh, right. He said, ‘Would you mind giving this to Emma?’ ”
She says it in this low baritone impression of a guy’s voice that sounds nothing like Rev, but once I have the words, I can hear him saying it.
I want to spin in circles again.
I keep thinking about his back against mine, that day we sat in the rain. Our fingers wound together. The long slope of his jaw, the way his eyes are dark under the hood of his sweatshirt. His mouth.
I spend entirely too much time thinking about his mouth.
The bus pulls up in front of the school, and Cait and I climb on. We flop into the olive-green seats.
“Want to come over?” she says.
The words are casual, but there’s weight behind it.
Especially when she quickly adds, “If you want to go home and work on your game, it’s fine. I was just asking.”
“No,” I say, and her face falls, just the tiniest bit. I shake my head quickly. “I mean, no, I don’t need to work on my game. I want to come over.”
“Really?” Her eyes go wide.
“Yeah.” I shove my phone into the front of my backpack and zip it up tight. “I need a break from technology.” I pause, wanting to offer something, since she’s been so patient with me. “And since I have a date, maybe you could show me how to make my eyes look like that?”
Her face softens. “Yeah, Em. I can.”
I think about Rev’s note, the line about one person sharpening another. It seems that can work both ways, how you can turn someone against you as easily as you can build a friendship.
Or save one, I guess.
The bus doors close and the air brakes give way, and we rumble out of the school parking lot.
“I’m sorry for all the things I said,” I say quietly. “I didn’t realize what I was doing.”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly.
“It’s not.” I study her, noticing for the first time that she’s glued tiny green jewels along her hairline just belo
w her ear, matched by a few green extensions that make her look just the tiniest bit punk. “You’re really good at what you do.”
She blushes. “Thanks, Em.”
“No, I mean really good.” I reach out and touch the jewels on her neck. “Like, who would think of this?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve already forgiven you. You don’t need to kiss my ass.”
“I just—” I hesitate. “I never thought it was a waste of time. I think … I think I might have been jealous.”
“Jealous?”
I swallow. “Because your mom supports you.”
Cait studies me. “Em …”
“What?”
She sighs. “Maybe your mom would support you if you gave her a chance.”
My back stiffens—but then I think about breakfast with my father. I think about how distracted and distanced he was.
And much like my judgment of Cait reminded me of my mother, my avoidance of Mom reminds me of my father.
I look away. “You’re right.”
“Wait. What did you just say?”
I blush and give her a good-natured shove. “I said you’re right.”
“I’m right and I get to do your makeup? I think someone might need to pinch me.” She feigns a gasp. “Do you want to stay for dinner, too?”
“Sure.”
She puts her hands on my cheeks and stares into my eyes. “Who are you? What have you done with Emma?”
I laugh. “I’m your best friend.” My voice catches. “I think I just forgot for a little while.”
“Oh, Em.” She throws her arm around my shoulders and leans into me. “You’re going to make me cry.”
I hug her back.
Then she says, “Does this mean I can do your makeup like Harley Quinn?”
I snort. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Black Widow?”
That makes me smile. “Deal.”
THIRTY-ONE
Rev
It’s harder to get into prison than I thought.
Maybe that’s a good joke. Maybe I should say it to Declan.
Maybe not. He’s sitting beside me in the waiting room, his knee bouncing. The room is more cordial than I expected, with green-striped carpeting and yellow walls. The only thing that signifies we’re in a prison is the thick glass wall between us and the guards. And the heavy metal doors. The signs warning against smuggling contraband, stating that visitors may be required to submit to a strip-search before admittance.
Okay, it’s obvious we’re in a prison.
We’ve been sitting for half an hour, and that’s after the hour-long drive to get here. We each had to fill out an application and consent to be fingerprinted. The guard behind the glass still has our driver’s licenses, and we won’t get them back until we leave. Right now, we’re waiting for our background check to go through. Then we have to go through a pat down, and then we’ll be allowed back to visit his father.
If his father consents to a visitation.
I don’t think Declan was prepared for this torture. I think he assumed it would be like a TV show: we could show up, ask to meet him, and we’d sit on the other side of a pane of glass while his father walks out and has a moment of surprise as he tries to figure out who we are.
No, his father is going to be told that we’re here. And he’s going to have to agree to meet with us.
So now we sit. We wait.
Other people wait, too, but no one as long as us. I guess they all have background checks on file already. The waiting room isn’t crowded, though. Tuesday afternoons must not be a hotbed of activity at the Maryland State Penitentiary.
With a loud buzz, the metal door unlocks. Declan jerks like he’s been prodded with a red-hot poker. He’s done this every time the door opens.
This time, a guard does call us. The man’s voice is bored as he announces, “Declan Murphy and Rev Fletcher.”
Declan shoots to his feet. I’m right behind him.
“Are you sure you want me to come with you?” I say, my voice low.
“Yeah.” His voice is tight. No emotion. He’s afraid.
Declan is never afraid.
We have to go through three locked doors and down a small hallway, until we’re admitted to a small white room with no furniture. Declan’s face has paled two shades, making the freckles splashed across his nose stand out.
“Is this where we’re meeting him?” His voice is rough and quiet, yet steady.
“No,” says the guard. His name tag reads MARSHALL, and his voice is still bored. “Spread your arms. Are you carrying any weapons?”
Declan shakes his head.
The guard glances at him. “I need a verbal answer.”
“No.”
The guard begins a pat down. Despite the boredom in his voice, he seems to be thorough, going all the way to Declan’s ankles, and even running a hand through his hair. “Any drugs or paraphernalia?”
Declan shakes his head again, then clears his throat. “No.”
“You’re clear.” He turns to me, and his expression is dispassionate. “That sweatshirt is too baggy. They should have told you to leave it at the front.”
I freeze. Of course this is the one day I’m wearing short sleeves under the hoodie.
I’ve been standing here psyching myself up for the pat down, which will be bad enough. This is a new level. One I’m not prepared for.
The guard gestures with his hand. He thinks I’m hesitating because I don’t know what to do. “I can leave it at the desk for you.”
Declan looks at me. “It’s okay,” he says. “I can go alone.”
But I’m already pulling it over my head, and I spread my arms. The air feels cool and foreign on my bare skin. I can’t remember the last time I wore short sleeves without anything over them.
Declan knows every mark on me, and we have no secrets, but I brace myself for a comment from the guard.
He gives none. He doesn’t even stare. He pats me down, which is surprisingly clinical despite what it looked like, and asks me the same questions he asked Declan.
Then he says, “You’re clear,” and just like that, he walks to the door on the opposite side of the room.
Declan looks at me. “Thanks,” he whispers.
I shrug, like it’s not a big deal.
Inside, I’m flailing.
But—maybe not flailing as wildly as I would have thought. The guard’s disinterested manner helped. Maybe he’s seen so many people come through here that nothing would surprise him.
The door opens with a loud buzz, and we’re led into a room that looks a lot like a cafeteria. Fluorescent lights blaze overhead, but small windows sit at measured intervals along the ceiling. A dozen round tables are arranged throughout the room. Most of them are occupied. It’s easy to spot the inmates—they wear faded orange jumpsuits. A low hum of conversation fills the room. A very pregnant woman is crying at one table. Five guards line the wall.
I expected glass partitions and telephones.
I think Declan did, too, because his breathing quickens.
Then I realize he’s staring at a table two-thirds of the way across the room. A lone man has spotted us, and he stands up. He looks familiar, but there’s no way it can be Declan’s father, because this man appears smaller than I remember. Jim Murphy always seemed to tower, his personality bigger than life.
This man is tall, but no taller than we are. His hair is reddish brown and threaded with gray, and he wears a full beard. But his steely gray eyes are the same as the ones looking out of Declan’s face. His shocked expression is virtually identical to the one Declan wears.
Of course he doesn’t seem as tall. We haven’t seen him since we were thirteen.
We’re all frozen. No one moves.
Guard Marshall speaks behind us. “Your inmate can’t leave the table. Any contact is limited to three seconds. Keep your hands above the table. You can take a seat when you’re ready.”
Your inmate. It sounds so intima
te—and so alienating.
But the words spur Declan into motion. He strides forward, and I follow. We weave through the other visitors, then stop across the table from his father.
I hang back, just a bit, because I don’t know what Declan wants to do. Is he going to hug him? Shake his hand? Yell at him?
Declan might not know, either. He said as much in the car.
For now they just stand there staring at each other.
“Murphy!” a guard barks from the wall.
Both Declan and his father jump and turn. Which would be almost comical at any other time.
“You and your party need to be seated,” the guard says.
We all drop onto seats. The table is cold and steel and built into the floor.
Declan’s father can’t seem to stop staring. He and Declan have that in common, too. I can’t stop staring either, if I’m being strictly honest.
This whole moment is so … surreal. I thought I’d feel some familiarity, but this man is a stranger. He’s thinner than I remember, his expression more guarded. Declan and I have been best friends since we were seven, and my memories of his father are clear. Camping in the backyard, telling ghost stories with flashlights, and making s’mores around the fire pit. Eating dry Froot Loops on the couch and playing Xbox past midnight, until his mom would come down and shake her head at all of us. Backyard cookouts with our families, our dads shooting the breeze as they stood around the grill with a few beers.
I remember when Declan’s father had more than a few.
Declan’s memories must be twice as clear, twisted with many that aren’t so happy. He partly blames himself for his sister’s death. He always has. I wish I knew what he was after—an ending or a beginning.
“Hi,” he finally says. His voice is gravelly and quiet, as if he’s not sure he’s ready to speak. “Dad.”
His father puts a fist to his mouth, then lowers his hands to rub his palms against the orange pants, before bringing them back on top of the table. Until now, I hadn’t noticed that his hands are shaking. “Hi. Declan.” His voice carries the faintest tremor. “I wasn’t ready for—” He has to clear his throat. “You sound like a man.”
Declan seems surprised by that. “I’m eighteen.”
“I know. I know you are.” His gaze shifts to me. “And … Rev?”
I nod.