Slain (25 page)

Every time I saw it happen, the same question glared in my mind like a neon sign at midnight: is it fake?
 

Could they all be lying, just like me?
 

I stopped faking it the second day of camp. It felt too false. And I thought it would help me listen. Listen and hear nothing.

Which brings me to this night, this one particular night. The last night.

The touring pastor/comedian was calling for people to come forward and receive the blessing of Jesus. His name was Pastor Max. He was done speaking, done telling his age-appropriate jokes for a Christian crowd that eventually led back to a message. The rest of the night was supposed to be for prayer and worship, which meant we’d probably be there until 3 a.m., caught up in a Godly teen hysteria that looks something like those videos of girls at a Beatles concert, except with all the panties firmly in place.

“Who will come forward and accept the blessing of the Lord in your life? He wants to bless you. All you have to do is humble your heart and ask.”
 

I watched someone step up toward the stage, another girl who seemed a lot like me. Not pretty, not ugly, not fat, not skinny. Just average. Long brown hair, modest jean shorts and T-shirt.
 

“Praise Jesus,” Pastor Max said. He turned to the side and positioned the girl in front of him. He hovered a hand over her head while holding the microphone in the other. “The Lord blesses and
keeps
His children!” he shouted, and his hand came down on her head. She crumpled to the ground. I swear to god. It was like a slow-mo video of a water balloon getting popped, all the water spilling out without a form to hold it in anymore. She just wilted.
 

And it wasn’t just that girl. The stage was littered with other kids just like her. Two waiting assistants dragged her to the side to make space in front. I watched as her head hung back, her jaw slack, watched the tears streaming down her cheeks. This was what I wanted, to be knocked out cold by the power of Christ.

I stepped forward, a little prayer humming in my heart: Show me you’re real, God. Please be real, please be real, please be real.

Pastor Max stood across from me. He raised his hand above my head. “I bless you in the name of Jesus!”

His hand smacked against my skull, so hard I stumbled from the force of it, tripped, and fell backward. But I was fully awake, fully aware. It wasn’t the power of Jesus. It was the power of Max.
 

So I stood back up. I stared at Pastor Max. Last chance, I prayed. Show me, I prayed.

The pastor turned back to me. A wrinkle crossed his brow, and a frown threatened the corners of his mouth. He was looking at me like I was intentionally making trouble. I wasn’t.

He set the microphone down on the pulpit and placed both hands on my shoulders.

“In the name of Jesus!” he said, and shoved me so hard I fell straight to the ground.

Even though my eyes were open, everyone took it to mean that I passed out. Pastor Max turned away to speak to the next kid who had come forward. I lay there for a moment, fully present, not basking in the glow of Christ, and not wanting to accept the clarity of this answer.
 

No one seemed to notice when I stood up and left.

“I
KNOW
WHAT
YOU
’
RE
going to say,” I say. “So don’t bother.”

“How could you possibly know what I’m going to say?” Miss Hope asks.

We’re sitting in the lounge side of Pastor Pete’s office. My parents have scheduled this meeting with Miss Hope before school today, hoping she can talk some sense into me.

“Let me guess,” I say. “I may not know it, but God is real. He’s in this room with us right now. I have to trust, have faith, and then I’ll be able to feel His presence.”

“God isn’t a genie, Emma. We can’t rub a bottle and expect Him to appear. There’s no formula that can make His presence felt. It’s up to Him when he chooses to reveal Himself to you. So sometimes you feel it, and sometimes you don’t.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Does that mean that He doesn’t exist? That if He doesn’t choose to show Himself to you—Emma Grant, in Denver, Colorado—then it means there’s no God at all?”

My heat rises. I feel all the arguments churning inside me, even though I know the best thing to do would be to stay silent, not engage her at all. “If He does exist, then why is it just me that He’s not showing himself to, and nobody else?”
 

“Ah. I see what this is about. Jealousy.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. That right there. The minute someone starts asking questions, real questions, then it’s always their fault. There’s always another reason to blame them. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but still, nothing.”

Miss Hope leans back in her seat for effect, which proves hard to do as we’re both in beanbag chairs. She fastens her gaze on me. “Really, Emma? You
really
think you’ve tried everything?”
 

“You’re right. Maybe I haven’t. But neither has anyone else. And the whole idea behind Christianity is that God loves us despite our faults. If that’s true, then why am I expected to be perfect in order to feel His presence?”

Miss Hope sighs. She shifts forward again, rests her elbows on her knees. “Let me let you in on a little a secret,” she says, her voice soft, a smile curving her thin lips. “I don’t care what you believe. I really don’t.”

I stare at her for a moment, dumbfounded.

“It has absolutely zero effect on me whether you think there’s a God or not. Absolutely zero. I’m not the one who’s going to have to answer to Jesus for your sins. I’m not the one who’s going to have to stand in front of our Savior and tell Him that I doubted Him, that I gave in to sexual temptation, and who knows what else you’ve been up to lately.” There’s a self-satisfied smile on her face and fire in her eyes. “James 4:4 says that whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God. And it sounds like you’ve been making pretty good friends with the ways of the world lately. That, Emma, is on you.”

Her words sting, and I bite my cheek to keep myself from crying. I will not cry in front of her. I look away, over her shoulder toward the door. If there was any way for me to bolt right now, I’d do it.

“I don’t care what you believe, Emma, because I know what
I
believe. I know that Jesus is real. I know He died for my sins and I know that one day I will see Him in heaven and He will welcome me with open arms. And don’t think that my path has been easy.”

I can’t look at her. My eyes drift back to Pastor Pete’s perfect collection of toys and games, and they settle on the pig, the one that Pastor Pete loved so much as a kid, sitting right next to me on a low shelf. But as I’m looking at it again, something feels off about that story. All my childhood toys, especially the dolls and the teddy bears, barely survived. They’re ripped and sewn back together, soiled and scrubbed a thousand times. Some of them barely have any hair left at all. I pick it up, examine it for any stains or tears. There are none. This doesn’t look like a favorite toy. It looks like a new toy. Even the manufacturer’s tag is still attached, printed with a clearly legible: Joya ToyCo.

“Emma, put that down. I’m speaking to you.”

My eyes flash back to Miss Hope’s, who is all but outright glaring at me. Sorry for not being riveted by your boring story, I want to say. I put the pig back on the shelf.

“As I was saying, God has tested me and tested me and tested me. I didn’t grow up like any of you kids here. I learned to trust God the hard way. I had four brothers and six sisters, and we were very poor. My mother died giving birth to my little sister, Mercy. My whole family had to work hard on that ranch every single day just to survive.”

Here we go again. Another inflated story of a sad-sack upbringing. I nestle into my beanbag chair and cross my arms. I’ve heard so many of these things before that I can predict where this one is headed. Soon she will find God, and everything will be magically better. It might be unfriendly of me to discount stories like this, but it’s because so few of them are actually true when you start asking questions.

“But luckily, God also granted me a God-fearing father, who raised us kids right. He raised us to trust in His plan, not our own. God’s plan for me is to be a pastor’s wife. He called me to it at a very young age, but it was no easy thing to believe in. How old do you think I am, Emma?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m thirty-two. Most women my age here have already given birth to all their children by now.”

“So?”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of miracle that, at my age, I was able to find not only a strong Christian man, but a pastor?”

I just shrug.
 

“My daddy named me Hope for a reason, Emma. God had a plan for me, and I had to hope, and to pray, and to trust in that plan to see it come true. But you’re failing to do that right now. Ezekiel 36:26 says, ‘I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.’ So you have a choice. Right now. You can either let your doubts rule you and be content with a heart of stone, or you can accept that God’s plan for you is on His schedule, not yours, and open up your heart to receive His Spirit.”

She stands up and walks to the door. “Up to you.”

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but I just don’t buy it anymore.”

“Very well,” she says.
 

She goes out into the hall, and I can hear heated whispers between her and my parents but I can’t understand anything they’re saying. Miss Hope was obviously hoping that her little story would get through to me. But it only seems to prove exactly what I’ve been feeling all along. Even if her story is true, it just feels like another broken person who makes up Jesus to feel like there’s some noble purpose to their pain. But what about me? What if I’m not broken?

I
MAKE
MY
WAY
over the overpass and toward the upperclassman hallway, still moving slower than usual with my ankle. The swelling has gone down a lot, but there’s still a pinch with every step. As I walk I try to put the whole conversation with Miss Hope behind me. It feels played on repeat in my mind. I shouldn’t let it get to me. It doesn’t matter what she thinks. It doesn’t.

I wish I could call Jackson. He was the only one I could talk to about this kind of stuff, the only one I knew would listen and tell me I’m not crazy. But I’m just too confused right now. I need to process everything first.

I hate that he wasn’t honest with me. I hate thinking of him with a gun, threatening someone. But a little part of me, the darkest part, wonders what I’m really more upset about—that Jackson lied about his past or that he cared about someone else so intensely (loved her?), enough to do what he did.
 

There’s still a little time before class starts. Instead of going to my locker, I slip outside and find a quiet spot between the high school and elementary school buildings where no one hangs out. I just want a little time alone to think. I sit under the biggest tree and lean against the trunk, closing my eyes and soaking in the morning sun.

“Em?”

His voice is like a mirage, like I conjured him up from my desire to see him, but when I open my eyes, he’s really there.

“Jackson? What are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you. I went to your house last night, but your dad wouldn’t let me in.”

“You did?” I was so exhausted. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

He sits down next to me, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I owe you an apology. You should have heard the real story from me. I’m sorry.”

“So it was like your mom said? You threatened someone with a gun?”

“Stupidest thing I’ve ever done. But it wasn’t loaded, Em. I swear. I didn’t trust myself with bullets.”

It’s hard to hear him say that, hear him acknowledge his own capacity for darkness. I honestly don’t know what to say.

“I get why it has you freaked out. You have every right to be upset. But I swear I had nothing to do with what happened to your friend. Back then things were different. I thought I loved Christy. I thought she loved me.”

“But you were wrong?”

“Yeah.”

It’s a moment before I speak, a moment before I can say the words out loud. “What if you’re wrong about us too?”

He turns to look at me, his dark eyes flashing. “No. That’s the one thing I’m absolutely sure of. Even more after what I’ve been through.”

He takes my hand, and I let him.

“When I got out of juvie, I promised myself I’d turn my shit around, and that’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since. Football helped. Getting back into school helped. Ditching my old friends too. I’ve done absolutely everything I could think of to make sure I don’t mess up again. That includes dating a girl like you.”
 

“Like me?”

“You’re good, Emma. You’re really and truly good. I wanted to be around someone who would make me a better person every day. You do that. You’ve changed me.”

My heart spills over. I want to tell him that he’s changed me too. That I was so sad before I met him, so heartbroken by the church and my life and that he showed me it wasn’t the end of the world, just the end of this one. I want to tell him that he makes a universe without God in it even more beautiful and exciting and wonderful than when I believed.

But before I can, a shadow blocks the sun. “Well isn’t this sweet?” Mike stands over us, stone faced and surly. “The harlot and her lover boy.”

Before I know what’s happening, Jackson is on his feet and throwing a punch. His fist hits Mike’s face with a hard thwack, and Mike goes down. Jackson rushes forward to hit him again.

“Jackson!” I yank his elbow and he pulls back. “That’s enough.”

He paces, shakes it off. “Piece of shit,” Jackson says. “You don’t fucking talk to her like that. You don’t fucking talk to her, period. Ever again, understand?”