Saving Montgomery Sole

  Thomas scanned the park, presumably taking in the little kids playing. The moms and strollers. The citizens of Aunty. “Do you remember when we first met?”

  “Of course.” It was right after the Jefferson Middle School and High School merged. I was in seventh grade, and he was in eighth grade, but I saw him in the halls, walking to class, all the time. He had this crazy jacket on that was black and white checkers. Long, skinny black pants that were so tight I thought they were leggings. Lots of other kids thought they were leggings, too. Sometimes he wore a top hat. Sometimes that top hat had a feather in it.

  It was his circus phase.

  “You know, of course, that I did not want to be here. And that saying ‘I did not want to be here’ is a gross understatement.” Thomas shook his head. “When we moved to Aunty I remember pummeling the front steps of the house we moved into like, ‘This is not San Francisco!’” For dramatic effect, Thomas shook his fists at the sky.

  “Tragedy,” I mumbled.

  “Don’t mock. This is a serious story, Montgomery. Listen to my tone. Very serious. So. I thought I was doomed. Kicked out of the synchro team Olympic pool and dumped into a kiddie pool of Target shoppers.”

  “That’s being kind.”

  “I thought the possibility of finding signs of intelligent life here were slim to none,” Thomas continued. “But then there you were. My miracle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I was not expecting you, and there you were.”

  I squinted, turning Thomas into a blur. “So what are you saying?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I’m saying, I don’t know, you can’t know everything and everyone, Monty.”

  My insides were bubbling.

  “Oh yeah? How about this? The first time we met, you were sitting on the steps, crying. Because some idiot drew a picture of you in the bathroom. Remember that?”

  It was drawn in thick black marker. Thomas in his tight leggings and his big pompadour hair. And they had written, Thomas blow jobs for $5!

  Thomas took a deep breath. Blew it out slowly.

  “Tell me things have changed. Tell me I’m wrong about the good students of Jefferson High.”

  “Okay,” Thomas said, his voice teetering on exasperated. “Okay. Well, how about this? I’m not saying he’s the greatest guy in the world, but it seems to me like you’re pissed off at Kenneth White for no reason. As far as I can see, all Kenneth is trying to do is pass math. I don’t think he’s the one who glued the cross to your locker, and I think you need to chill out on Naoki, who just wants to be his friend because she knows what it’s like to be the new guy.”

  I pulled my knees up to my chin. “Naoki just wants a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t think it’s like that,” Thomas said. “Naoki is your friend, Monty. So am I.”

  I stood up.

  I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks and catching the cold of the wind. “My sister, Thomas, my sister is praying with one of those White crosses now! This whole world is just too messed up. I’m not a villain, Thomas. I’m just the only person who can see…”

  “What?” Thomas asked.

  What’s coming.

  My phone rang. Moms’ call.

  I reached down and flipped my phone to silent.

  “Montgomery.” Thomas grabbed my hand. His face was all swimming with some sort of sad that was hurting my insides to see. “Don’t leave. Let’s go for a walk or something.”

  “This sucks,” I said.

  It did.

  And it was getting late.

  And my heart hurt.

  So I left.

  11

  A cold wind stalked me down the street, pushing my hair into my face and making me wish I had something other than long sleeves on.

  I walked the long way home so I could go through my favorite street. I like it because it has big trees and, when kids are at school, it’s quiet. Like superquiet.

  The trees are huge, so you can feel kind of small and protected.

  And, like I said, it’s quiet.

  Momma Jo said that when they first moved to California, she was a little freaked out. Then she discovered how quiet it can be here, because there’s enough space around for people to go to their own separate areas to be whoever they want to be and make whatever noise they want.

  “So I can go be pissed off somewhere nice and quiet,” she’d say.

  “Then come back and have dinner,” Mama Kate would always add.

  At some point I realized I was heading home, and I stopped.

  Had Kenneth White reported me to the principal? Probably.

  Picturing my moms talking to the principal about me, again, and feeling all worried and disappointed felt like a punch. I couldn’t take one more person looking at me like Thomas. Like Naoki.

  I couldn’t go home. What would I say? Mama Kate would be a wreck. Plus who knew what else was going on with Tesla and her cross now?

  I turned around and started walking I-don’t-know-where. My brain was mush. Like old oatmeal that someone leaves in the sink, and then it gets water in it and it looks disgusting.

  Life sucks when you don’t know where you’re going, by the way. When you’re just walking and you don’t know when you’re going to be able to stop. Because you don’t have anywhere to go.

  If I were a crier, it would have made me cry.

  Instead it just made me feel cold.

  I wished I had a cushion fort I could just crawl into, be muffled into silence.

  Muffled into nothing.

  I walked for about an hour, pretty much across town. Past little shops, and the hardware store, and the new yoga place, and the old yoga place. I walked till my feet burned and I had to crash on a bench by Pete’s Taco, which was closed because someone found a really big fingernail in their taco last week. At least that was what I heard.

  Next to Pete’s Taco was an office where the AA people used to meet before they got moved to the mall. There was a light on behind the blinds. That was when I saw the sign taped to the door.

  VIGIL FOR THE AMERICAN FAMILY

  SAVE YOUR COUNTRY

  SAVE YOUR SOUL

  HERE!

  TONIGHT @ 7 PM

  I pulled out my phone. 7:35 p.m. Five missed calls. Texts from Thomas and my moms.

  The door was shut, but I could see a light on through the blinds. Before I could take a step forward, the door swung open and Percy came out. He was wearing bright blue pants and a blue-and-red-striped sweater. Like a French flag. Cashmere, probably. He put his head down and shoved his hands in his pockets. Then he turned right and disappeared down the street.

  Percy. The non-gay who looks like a gay. What was he doing there? I thought of texting Thomas. But then I’d have to talk to him. And explain where I was.

  And that would probably not be good.

  I waited. I could feel myself breathing, harder than a charging horse.

  The sound of Percy’s fancy shoes clip-chipping against the sidewalk faded.

  This was it. This was, like, the vortex of the Reverend White. Where he was gathering his troops to defend the American family. Against my family. He was probably in there, talking about sin and how gays aren’t human and they’re perverts.

  Right now.

  I looked at the building, hard. I wanted the whole thing to disappear. To explode. At that moment, I wanted to destroy it and everyone in it. Screw them all, I thought. What made anyone think anything like that was okay, attacking people they didn’t even know? Because of some ridiculous religious belief.

  In sight

  not see

  black light

  not be

  Not be, not be, not be.

  Nothing.

  Maybe it only worked on people.

  Except it didn’t work on Kenneth.

  What if it worked on everyone but the Whites? I thought.

  Great. The one group of people it would be good to obliterate.

  That’s what you want to do? Thomas
’s voice was a whisper in my skull. Destroy a building of people? Villain much?

  I felt my feet move before I decided where I was going. Step by step, I got closer to the door and finally closed my fingers around the metal handle.

  Maybe.

  Yes.

  Inside it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

  There were rows and rows of chairs set up, plastic chairs like the ones teachers put out on parents’ night. Someone had set them up for at least forty. Each chair had a flyer on it.

  Prayer for the American Family.

  God bless me with the wisdom to know your will. And the strength to see your will be done.

  “Welcome.”

  He was wearing his signature white suit. Up close, his hair was gray and thinning. He had icy blue eyes and a perfect white-toothed smile. He looked like someone advertising the perfect household cleaner.

  He took my hand and shook it with a strong squeeze. He smelled like baby powder.

  “Uh, hello?” I said.

  Do you know me? I thought.

  “I’m very glad to see you here today,” the Reverend continued, squeezing harder. “You know who else is glad?”

  “Jesus?” I guessed.

  “Yes! I believe so,” the Reverend chuckled. “Are you here to pray with us today?”

  His voice was warm. Like soup.

  “No,” I said. “I mean no, I—”

  “You just happened to be in the neighborhood.” He chuckled again. This time it was kind of a Santa Claus chuckle, except kind of forced. Like a mall Santa Claus. A mall Santa Claus with the 152nd of 450 kids on his lap.

  “Lost in prayer?” The Reverend White smiled big and warm.

  I must have been staring.

  “No. No, I just ended up here. I didn’t mean to,” I stammered.

  What did Naoki say?

  Cross paths.

  This wasn’t going as I’d imagined. Not that I’d imagined busting up a Christian prayer meeting or whatever they called them. But whenever I’d imagined any kind of, like, run-in, like this, when I’d peeled the Reverend White’s face off countless telephone poles, I’d never thought it would be this … cordial.

  Still holding my hand, the Reverend White clasped his other hand around mine so he had me in a double shake, the intimate and intense shake of politicians and, apparently, preachers. “You know, young lady, this journey that I am going to lead you on, that we will be taking together, starting today, is righteous. We will save those who need to be saved. We will set on the Christian path those who have gone astray. And we will do this because we are good, God-fearing, AMERICAN Christians. And that’s what you are, isn’t it?”

  “Um. No. Actually. That’s really not me.” I pulled back, though he didn’t release my hand.

  “Oh, not you?” The Reverend raised a white eyebrow.

  I leaned back farther. Still in his grip. “No.”

  “It’s perfectly all right to feel a little scared, my child,” the Reverend said. “You—”

  “I came. I came to return something to you,” I said. And I wrenched my hand out of his grip, reached into my bag.

  It was still there, the cross from my locker, its edges sharp against my fingers.

  I’d kept it there all this time.

  Foreshadowing?

  No, I thought. I just never clean out my bag. Maybe for good reason.

  I pulled the cross out, held it out in front of me.

  The Reverend looked at the cross and then at me. “A gift?”

  “I’m returning it,” I said, turning the cross so Jesus was facing him.

  The Reverend smiled weakly. “I’m sure I don’t understand.”

  “Take it,” I said, holding it up higher. “It’s yours.”

  “Young lady.” The Reverend put a delicate finger on the tip of the cross and lowered it.

  “You know,” I said, as conversationally as I could manage, “whoever glued this to my locker … It’s not the first time. Because I have two moms who are gay. Just because someone is queer doesn’t mean you get to slap your … your stupid hate messages on a locker. My locker.”

  I held up the cross again, this time flat on my palm.

  “This cross, this cross is a sign of God’s love,” the Reverend White said, delicately taking it from my hand. “Not a sign of hate.” His voice was even deeper than before. “Homosexuality is a sin. Homosexuality undermines God’s created order. As a servant of God, I am bound to hate the sin, but I am also bound to love the sinner.”

  “Well,” I started. Words swirled like smoke in my mouth. I was afraid if I spoke, nothing would come out. “This stuff, pretty much everything you do so you can save us, it feels like hate, so you know.” I could hear the tremor in my voice. “From here, it feels like hate.”

  I thought of the letters Tesla and I had gotten from my grandparents four years ago.

  I opened mine first. I unfolded the letter typed on thick white paper that was taped inside a card with a picture of an angel on it.

  “Wing women,” Tesla called them.

  I was reading it aloud, in the kitchen, because whenever I got a letter from my grandparents Mama Kate would always ask what it said. So I read it aloud.

  “‘Dear Montgomery,’” I said. My grandmother’s notes were always written in pen on the card; it was my grandfather’s messages that were typed and printed, trimmed to fit inside the cards exactly. “YOU HAVE A FATHER,” I yelled because it was all in caps.

  YOU HAVE A FATHER.

  Mama Kate dropped the spoon she was holding. It clanged against the table. “Give it to me please, Monty.”

  It was October. On the table, there was a pumpkin we were supposed to carve. I was twelve and Tesla was seven. I scanned the letter fast, my eyes devouring each word. My grandfather had opened an investigation to find who the donor was, the person who donated the sperm that helped make Tesla and me. After months of searching, someone at the clinic told him the man was a Christian.

  He is a good Christian.

  It stills my heart to know this.

  Mama Kate grabbed the letter.

  “Hey!”

  “Go find Momma Jo,” she mumbled through her fingers. Her eyes scanned the letter. They were big like headlights.

  I brought Momma Jo in the room, and they whispered. Then Momma Jo took us out for ice cream. Even though it was too cold. Tesla had too much whipped cream and got sick, and we came back early. That was when I found Mama Kate in the kitchen. On the phone. She told them she was not going to talk to them anymore.

  Then she threw down the phone. And the battery came out of the case and skittered under the fridge. And the rest of the phone slid toward me, almost to my foot.

  And I waited for Mama Kate to pick it up. Or look at me. Or say something.

  Something like, “It’s okay.”

  But instead she went to her room and cried.

  I followed, feeling so scared it was as if being scared had hollowed me out to almost nothing. To a skin. I sat by the door. Momma Jo put Tesla to bed, then she came over and shooed me away, but I slipped back when she went inside.

  I heard Mama Kate crying to Momma Jo.

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice muffled.

  “It’s okay.” Momma Jo’s voice was so soft and sad. “I got you.”

  “I can’t,” Mama Kate cried.

  All this might be the reason we don’t really do Christmas so much, except that we go out for Chinese food and get presents.

  All this might also be the reason I get a little tiny bit nervous whenever the phone rings at my house and Mama Kate answers it. Why I scan the mail when I get home, looking for my grandmother’s handwriting. For that special pillowiness that comes with printed pages folded inside a card with a wing woman on the front.

  How fair is that? I seethed, staring at the cross as the reverend placed it on an empty chair and stepped forward.

  “If you are not here to pray and if you have not come for salvation, young
lady, then I am afraid there is no place here for you.” His eyes narrowed. His voice was so deep it could probably break up concrete.

  “I’m not here to pray. I’m just here to tell you to leave us alone.” My voice echoed off the walls around me. I stumbled back and bumped into a chair.

  An empty chair …

  I looked around.

  A room of empty chairs.

  That’s when it hit me. It was after seven. The room was quiet because it was empty. The only person who’d bothered to come was Percy. But even Percy didn’t stay.

  “No one came,” I breathed.

  The Reverend cleared his throat. It was a yucky, phlegmy rumble. “I beg your pardon?”

  But he heard me. I know he did, because he looked around.

  “It’s like a crappy birthday party in here,” I whispered, turning around to take in the empty room. There was a sad little table in the corner of the room with sad little cans of soda and cookies in cellophane trays.

  That no one would eat.

  They were probably stale, I thought.

  “I think you should leave,” the Reverend said.

  I tapped the top of the chair next to me, imagining Madison’s nails clicking against the plastic. “Um, looks like there’s no one to help you save the sinners of Aunty.”

  The Reverend clapped his hands soundlessly together. “I’m telling you to leave now. You are trespassing on private property and you must go immediately.”

  “Private property?” I pointed at the floor. “This is where people go for AA!”

  “Young lady.” His voice had gone from soup to squeaky. “I will be forced to call the police!”

  The world melted away, and all I could see was him. His white suit with the yellowy cuffs. His thinning hair wagging as he shook his finger at me. A nervous giggle escaped my throat.

  “You,” he stuttered, “are a depraved soul. You will burn in hell with the rest of those who cannot or will not accept the love of Jesus Christ.”

  The Reverend White was just an angry old man who smelled like a baby’s butt and had the power to put up a bunch of posters.

  So what?

  I guess it’s easier to look big and important on a poster. Maybe that’s why he liked them so much.