Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
That’s when he tells me.
It’s okay, he says. I shouldn’t feel upset or bad for saying boys can kiss boys and marry boys if they want to, for saying girls are gross and boys are cool. But I should never say that again. Because it’s not what people believe. Because of our viewers.
“The word of God’s not clear on this. But the people who support Evermore are. We should remember to treat every person with the love of Christ. But sometimes if we want to please the Lord and keep the church’s members content, we can’t go against the grain.” His mouth flattens and tugs down at the corners. He looks like he did when our dog Flappy got run over by Brian, the lawn man. “The Christian Church has traditionally been against these sorts of…unproductive unions. There is much wisdom to be found in tradition.”
I’m nodding as he speaks—as if to say I understand. I’ve got my molars locked together so my eyes don’t do the stinging thing.
Abruptly, Dad stands up. He looks me over with his eyebrows pinched. Then he steps around his desk and holds his hand out. I grab it, and he shakes mine—like we’re both full-grown men.
“You’re a good kid. The best. You’ve got the world in front of you.” His mouth bends like it wants to smile but doesn’t know how, like something somber posing as a smile. “You’re a McDowell, and you’re my boy.” Now he does smile—small and tight.
Then he lets go of my hand and looks down at his watch. “We can talk about this later. I’ll talk with your mother.” He winks. “And you’re right. Sally Smith isn’t a nice girl. But some are.” He claps my back and points me toward the door. “Go sit in the green room and eat peanuts. We’ll talk later.”
But we never do. He never mentions it again.
Two
September 2016
Luke
I stare at the raindrops, watch them shimmer on the window as the runway rolls behind them. Then I count them. Twenty-five. His age.
Underneath my shoe soles, the floor trembles.
“Getting ready for a smooth and easy liftoff, people. Shouldn’t be real bumpy—not till the third hour, when we’re moving over a little bit of something in Illinois. But I gotcha. Got the ole girl tuned up and we’re ready for a good five hours and some change. Check your buckles, kick your feet up, just don’t get up and go to the latrine. Give me ten or fifteen and it’s that time. Mr. Panjic and me, we’ll be checking in with you again in just a little bit.”
I hear a click of static as Shauna goes over and out. Then we’re turning slightly, the plane’s wheels bumping over the runway as Shauna angles the plane into a straight-shot and, too soon, we start to pick up speed.
I start reciting a mishmash of verses from Isaiah, Psalm, Proverbs, Luke, 2 Timothy, and 1 Peter. It’s a litany from my UNICEF days—around the time I started to hate flying.
I can say my mishmash on a loop nine times as we go from horizontal to nose-up and finally level.
I hate nothing more than liftoff, right after the wheels come off the runway and we wobble, tilting sharply upward. It’s better after we level off. Unless it’s turbulent. Which is why Shauna was warning me.
I crack a small smile as I think of her resume. She’s a third-gen pilot from a small town in Georgia, granddaughter of one of the Tuskegee Airmen. Did two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and was test-crashing planes for Boeing when I lured her into dullsville. I pay her salary out of my own pocket, and I pay her well.
Thank you God for Shauna.
I slide my phone out of my pocket, wake it up. I get a deep breath, and my assistant, Pearl says, “Check you out!”
Her freckled face is animated, her red brows arched sharply as she swivels the seat across from mine and sits, swinging her sandaled, purple-toenailed feet. “You look chilled out, PL. Maybe even sleepy?” She screws up her face, exaggeratedly inspecting me. I widen my own eyes in denial.
Ansley Stevens, our associate pastor, sinks into the chair beside mine, the leather squeaking slightly as she settles. She blinks at me, frowning. “Noticed we were out of espresso beans first thing this morning. Did you miss your cuppa?”
“Nah.” I blink, then shift my gaze to Rufus White, our lobbyist, who’s got his head back, putting drops in his eyes.
“This Lasik recovery is killing me.”
Sometimes I dream in chitchat—just an endless, murmured loop of it. Like me telling Rufus I’m sorry about his eyes and him telling me that they should be better any day now, and me saying I hope so, and Ansley making a joke about how Rufus seems to be parking in his spot at Evermore with the same success rate—which is, as we all know because we’ve joked about it many times, not very successful because he’s always got a tire in Ansley’s spot—and then we all laugh. I think small talk must be no less than a quarter of my job.