Читать книгу Our Own Private Universe - Robin Talley - Страница 9

CHAPTER 2

“I can’t believe we have to sleep in there.” My paintbrush glided down the back wall of the church, leaving a thick wet trail of primer. “For a whole month.”

“I know,” Lori said. “I feel stiff all over.”

“The adults totally get to sleep in beds. And take showers. In houses, even.”

“My aunt said we’re staying in the church because we’re young and our backs still function. I told her my back wasn’t going to be functioning after this, but all she did was laugh.”

The night before, we’d slept on the floor of the town’s old church. The pews had been stacked along the walls to make room for the mats and sleeping bags we’d brought from home. My suitcase full of clothes was still somewhere in the Dallas airport, so I was stranded in Mexico with nothing but my duffel with my sleeping bag, a toothbrush, and some underwear, plus the clothes I’d worn on the plane. Lori had lent me an old pair of track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt to wear today, but I was a lot taller than Lori, so my ankles, wrists and part of my stomach were bare.

Plus, we had to shower outside in these camp shower things the chaperones had brought. They were basically really small tents with a bag of tepid water at the top that sprinkled on you if you pulled a cord. That morning I’d showered for about sixty seconds while a line of girls huffed and waited for me to finish. The experience had left me feeling decidedly unfresh.

Not that it mattered, given that our agenda for the day consisted of manual labor in an un-air-conditioned cement building. We were painting the town’s new Holy Life church. When it was done, this one would replace the old building where we were camping out.

“Is this how we’re supposed to do it?” I lowered my brush and frowned. The church walls were tall, probably twenty feet high, so we were only painting what we could reach. Our little patch of white primer looked kind of pathetic.

“Who knows?” Lori dabbed her brush in the paint tray. “Just keep going.”

I’d tried to pay attention during that morning’s painting lesson, but I’d been standing toward the back of the group, and Christa was at the front. I kept craning my neck to get a better look at her.

I hadn’t seen her after the party. By the time we got back to the old church someone had hung up a tarp to separate the boys’ half of the floor from the girls’, but the single lightbulb that lit the whole room was on the boys’ side. Our side was a strange dark cave, quiet except for a few people whispering and swarms of mosquitoes buzzing past the windows. There was no way to spot Christa in the dark. Plus, every time I saw a shadow move I was positive it was a snake. (I had a thing about snakes.)

“So, question.” Lori painted another slow, uneven line. “Regarding your new paramour.”

“She’s not my paramour.” I smiled.

“Only a matter of time, babe.” Lori glanced at me with her eyebrows raised. “But what’s your dad going to say about you being gay? I mean, bi?”

I’d carefully avoided thinking about that. I returned my focus to my paintbrush. “I don’t know.”

“What about your mom? And your brother?”

“Come on, they don’t all have to know everything. Mom isn’t even here.”

“Ooh, so you and that chick are going to sneak around Mexico having secret liaisons under preacher daddy’s nose? Gnarly.”

“Liaisons?” I laughed. “Gnarly? What is this, 1980?”

Lori laughed, too. “For real, though. If you’re not having secret liaisons, what are you going to do, lesbian it up right in front of everyone?”

I shifted again. “I met this girl five seconds ago. Nobody’s lesbianing anything yet. Besides, I still like guys.”

Lori tried to arch one eyebrow, but she couldn’t do that very well, so her face just wound up amusingly strange and contorted.

“You know what I really want to do this summer?” she said. “Have a fling.”

I laughed. “What kind of fling?”

“You know, where you have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend or whatever, but only for the summer. You hang out, you hook up, and at the end of the summer you go back to your regular life. Short, meaningless, but fun.”

“What’s the point of that?” I said. “Don’t you want a regular boyfriend?”

“Yeah, sure. But this summer is our perfect fling opportunity. Most of the guys here go to other schools, so we’ll basically never see them again. The girls, too.”

Hmm. “I sort of see what you mean.”

“I know what we should do.” Lori put down her paintbrush and grinned at me. “We should both have a fling. Let’s make a pact.”

I laughed again. Lori and I used to be really into pacts. When we were younger we’d make pacts to eat the exact same number of conversation hearts at the Valentine’s Day party, or to include the word hickey somewhere in our fifth-grade Life Science reports. In middle school, Lori was obsessed with having her first kiss, and she got me to make a pact that we’d each kiss someone before the end of the school year. But when I kissed Tim Mayhew at the school Chrismukkah party that December, she’d been furious. I’d actually forgotten about the pact by that point—I only kissed Tim because he came up to me at the party wearing one of those mistletoe headbands all the guys had that year and I liked the way his green eyes locked on mine when he smiled—but Lori remembered everything. She said I’d violated the pact because we were supposed to have our first kiss at the same time, even though I didn’t remember agreeing to that part at all. It turned out to be fine because Lori kissed Barry Tuckerton at his New Year’s Eve party the next week, but I still felt kind of bad. Barry Tuckerton’s breath smelled like cheese.

“We should do it,” she said. “For real. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

I thought about Christa’s face again. Her voice. I especially have a thing for preacher’s daughters...

“Yeah. Let’s do it.” I was getting excited now. “Okay, rules. We’ll each hook up with someone—um, how about three times? Three’s a good number.”

“Okay,” Lori said. “And it doesn’t have to be that girl and Paul—it can be anyone. Also—wait, how are we defining hookup, exactly? Is kissing enough, or does it have to be more?”

I acted surprised, even though I’d been wondering the same thing. “Wow, that’s—um. Do you really think—”

She started laughing. “Kidding. Of course kissing counts. I mean, that’s all either of us has done before, right? But whatever we wind up doing, we have to tell each other every last, sweaty detail, the way we always do. So, are we both in?”

She held out her hand, her little finger curved up, for our standard pact-agreement pinkie swear.

I glanced around the cavernous space of the church. I didn’t see any sign of Christa now, but I remembered how she’d smiled at me in the dusty shadows the night before.

I’d have given anything just to have her smile at me that way again.

I grinned and linked my finger with Lori’s. “I’m definitely in.”

“Hate to interrupt your girl talk, ladies, but you have too much paint on your brushes, there.” Lori and I turned slowly. Dad’s voice had come from far enough behind us that I was pretty sure he hadn’t heard anything, but still, when a parent sneaks up on you, it’s almost never a good thing. Especially when you’ve just finished making a pact that involves kissing other girls. “When you load paint onto your brush, you need to tap off the excess on the edge of the pan, this way.”

Dad took Lori’s brush and demonstrated. Globs of paint dripped off the brush. I could tell he was right, but I rolled my eyes anyway. Dad loved nothing more than telling me I was doing something wrong.

“Thanks, Benny.” Lori smiled as he handed her back the brush. She never understood when I complained about my dad. Her own dad had moved out when she was in elementary school, and she hardly ever saw him. She was supposed to spend a few weeks with him every summer, but her summers were always so packed with activities that it usually only wound up being a weekend trip. Maybe she didn’t realize how annoying dads could really be.

“You ought to be using rollers, though.” Dad stroked his chin. “I’ll see if I can pick some up in town. By the way, Aki, want to come talk to me for a sec?”

I groaned under my breath and followed Dad outside. The sun charged straight into my eyes, so I pulled on my baseball cap. My brother, Drew, and bunch of people were digging a ditch for the new fence, and they all had giant sweat stains under their armpits. I was glad I’d gotten an indoor job. Our whole family sweated a lot, me included, but Dad and Drew got it the worst.

“How are you liking Mexico so far?” Dad asked me, wiping the back of his neck.

“It’s okay. You didn’t tell me we’d be sleeping on a cement floor.”

Dad chuckled. “Why did you think we told you to bring sleeping bags?”

“I thought we’d go on a special camping trip or something. For, like, one night.”

“Well, don’t worry. Sleeping on the floor will build character.” Dad chuckled again.

“Whatever.” Mom and Dad both loved to say anything Drew and I complained about would “build character.”

“Listen, there was something I wanted to talk to you about,” Dad said. “You remember that our first Holy Life national conference is coming up?”

I nodded. Jake, the guy from Harpers Ferry, had said something about that at the party last night.

Some of my friends at school thought our church was weird, but it wasn’t, really. Holy Life started out in Maryland after a couple of nondenominational churches decided to start doing some activities together. Then some churches in other states joined in and even a few in other countries, like this one here in Mexico. Holy Life churches aren’t the kind where preachers talk constantly about how abortion is evil and how we should all vote Republican or anything, though. I mean, some people at my church probably do vote Republican, but mostly we don’t talk about that stuff. Instead we get together for picnics and ice-cream socials, and on Sunday mornings we sing hymns and listen to sermons about whatever Jesus did that week.

But now the different churches were trying to get more officially organized. Everyone had been talking about the conference since Christmas, but I’d sort of tuned it out. Usually, if I paid attention to church stuff, it was because I’d done something wrong that week and knew I should pray about it so I wouldn’t feel guilty.

“Well, the delegates who’ll be at the conference are very interested in this trip,” Dad said. “It’s the first time we’ve brought multiple churches together for an overseas mission project.”

“We didn’t come over the sea to get here,” I said. “It’s more of an overland project.”

Dad ignored me. “I’ll be giving a presentation about this trip at the conference, and one of the things the delegates want to hear will be how we worked with the local congregation. Since you volunteered at that clinic last summer, I thought you and some of your friends might want to take on a side project here with the local kids.”

A side project? Dad wanted me to do more work? “What kind of project?”

Dad shrugged. “Whatever you think they might enjoy. Could you teach them a praise dance or a worship song?”

“Dad.” I side-eyed him. After a moment he gave up and looked away.

My parents knew very well that I’d stopped all that. I didn’t sing in the church choir or the school chorus anymore, and I’d dropped out of the dance class I’d enrolled in the summer before.

I was done with music. After what had happened with MHSA, there was no way I could ever go back. Mom and Dad may have thought they were dropping subtle hints when they asked me to lead a worship song or left a brochure for my old music camp on the kitchen table, but I knew exactly what they were trying to do, and it wasn’t going to work. I’d made up my mind.

No more spending hours with my stupid guitar. I played lacrosse now, and I’d joined the math team, too.

No more music camp, either. I’d signed up to come on this trip the same day our church’s lead pastor announced it was happening. Mainly so my parents would stop bugging me about music camp.

“Well, maybe you could all do a presentation together at the end of the summer,” Dad said.

“Ugh, do we have to?” That would be even worse than doing a song. I hated standing up in front of people and just talking. In class, whenever we got assigned to do a presentation, I begged the teacher to let me do a separate extra credit project instead. In church I always kept my head down when they asked for volunteers to read Bible verses.

I didn’t want to present. I wanted to perform. But I wasn’t good enough for that, apparently.

“Well, it could be anything to keep the kids engaged,” Dad said. “What did you do at the clinic?”

“Crafts, mostly.” Last summer, after I’d dropped out of music camp at the last minute, I’d wound up volunteering at a health center in downtown Silver Spring for people who didn’t have insurance. I’d thought I was going to learn how to bandage people’s cuts and test them for viruses and stuff—I’d signed up to work there because I was into math and science, after all—but instead I was a glorified babysitter for the little kids in the waiting room. On my second day I brought in craft supplies from home and the next thing I knew, I was the most popular volunteer in the place. All the kids wanted me to show them how to make my special paper airplanes that were guaranteed to fly in loop-di-loops. “But I don’t have any craft supplies here, except for the jewelry materials Lori and I brought. Those are for us, though.”

Lori and I had been making jewelry since middle school. I’d found some bead patterns online and gotten obsessed with them. I loved anything that involved neat, orderly rows and following a bunch of steps to get it right. Lori and I started wearing our jewelry to school, and soon people were asking if they could buy it. We wanted to sell it online but our parents were afraid people would try to take advantage of us. Parents had no idea how the internet actually worked.

“Well, we could reimburse you for the materials,” Dad said. “I guess it’s my fault for not mentioning this before we left home. I thought you could do a dance or something that didn’t need supplies.”

“Dad.” I groaned.

Dad rubbed his neck again. “For the jewelry, do you think you could have them make Christian-themed pieces? You know, cross necklaces, that sort of thing?”

“Sure.” I didn’t know if we had any cross-necklace supplies, but Dad would probably forget he’d asked me that anyway.

“Good. Well, this is an excellent plan. You can start today after lunch. I’ll talk to Carlos about rounding up some of the girls and I’ll swing by to take photos of you for my presentation.”

“Today? Wow, okay.” It was a good thing we’d brought the jewelry stuff in Lori’s suitcase and not mine.

I went straight back in to tell Lori while Dad stayed outside to help with the fence work. I was trying to figure out how many supplies we’d brought with us and how we were going to teach jewelry making to a bunch of kids whose language we didn’t speak when I saw that a girl in a bright pink hat had taken my spot by the wall. She and Lori had their backs to me, and they were talking and laughing as they painted.

It was Christa. I recognized her by the pink streak in her hair. Which clashed horribly (and, somehow, adorably) with her hat.

I stopped walking. Suddenly I was...what? Afraid? Nervous? Jealous?

What was I supposed to do, exactly? What should I say? The night before everything between us had just sort of fallen into place, like magic.

But that night had been special. That night, I was special. Today I was regular old Aki, with too-short track pants and smears of white paint on my hands.

Lori bent to dip her brush into the pan and saw me. She waved. “Aki! Look who came to help!”

Christa’s face broke into a grin as she turned around. Her heart-shaped sunglasses dangled from a string around her neck. “Sorry! Did I steal your brush?”

She reached up to adjust her hat. There was a speck of white paint on the side.

That’s when I realized it wasn’t a hat. It was a beret.

A raspberry beret.

Wow.

Not only did Christa own a raspberry beret, she’d brought it with her to Mexico.

I didn’t know a single fellow Prince fan who was younger than my mother. It was as if Christa had been custom-made for me.

Just like that, things were easy again.

“Yeah.” I grinned. “But I guess I’m willing to share.”

“Okay.” Christa held out the brush to me. “I’m a big fan of sharing, myself.”

I took the brush from her and smiled when my fingers met hers on the handle. It was the first time we’d touched.

And I was certain it wouldn’t be the last.