Donut Days Page 9

  My skin was still showing a hint of my summer tan, and I’d applied some of my dollar-store bronzer to heighten the glow. I’d cleaned up my eyeliner so it didn’t look like I had circles under my gray-green eyes. My jeans were holding up too, and my Ramones T-shirt was tight, but not too tight. That was good, because I wasn’t built anything like Natalie, and I tended to carry extra weight around my middle.

  “Everything come out okay?” Jake O’Connor grinned, making the oldest potty joke in the world.

  I blinked, too mortified to speak. There he was, standing in the unmown grass like David among the stone tiles in Florence—perfectly at home. Had he really just seen me come out of the Porta Potti? I still hadn’t even brushed my teeth and was scared to open my mouth, lest my morning breath knock him out.

  I just stood there and stared at him. Which wasn’t so bad, really. He was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans and looked fresh from a good night’s sleep in his own bed. I wished I could say the same for myself.

  “He—Hey,” I stuttered.

  “Hey yourself,” he said. “Feel like a coffee from Java Nile?”

  My head was pounding from caffeine withdrawal already. I’ll be able to brush my teeth there, I thought. “Um, sure. But I have to be back at my tent by . . . by eleven-thirty or so.”

  “Really?” asked Jake, stepping into pace beside me as we made our way through the camp. “Why?”

  “There’s this Harley gang,” I said, opening my bag and scrambling to grab a piece of gum so I could talk without killing Jake with my halitosis. “They want me to go for a ride. I think I’ll take them up on it.”

  “Seriously?” asked Jake, turning his head to look at me fully while he walked. I tried not to smack my gum (“good manners are attractive,” my mom always said), as well as keep my eyes straight in front of me so I didn’t lose myself in Jake’s newfound hotness. It was a lot to take. And it was still early.

  “Seriously,” I said. And then, on a whim, “You wanna go?”

  Jake grinned. He stopped walking. “For real?”

  “Yeah. For real.”

  “Sure, that would be cool. I’m in.”

  “All right then.”

  “All right. So let me buy you coffee, okay? To say thanks for letting me come with the Harley gang?”

  For a second I didn’t think it was such a good idea. The rich O’Connors buying the poor Goiners one more thing? Not so much. But it was a small thing, and I didn’t want to disappoint him any more than I already had.

  “Okay,” I said. And that was that.

  I had finally brushed my teeth and now, with coffees in our hands, Jake and I took our time as we wove our way back to the Harleys. Some of the grills were fired up, and the smell of frying bacon and sausages wafted toward us.

  A donager approached us, holding a clipboard. “You all registered for the prizes we’re giving away?” he asked. He had bushy sideburns all the way down to his chin, and I noticed his knuckles had hair on them too.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “We’re just here for the, um, ambience.”

  “Fair enough,” said the donager, tipping his white hat at us. “Have a good morning.”

  “Thanks,” said Jake, and the donager moved on.

  We continued walking side by side for a bit, not really saying anything but still comfortable. It was so easy just to be next to Jake. I hope we’re past all the weirdness, I thought. We make such good friends.

  The feeling lasted for about three seconds, until I saw a girl around my age—but with long, dark hair and the shortest shorts ever—eyeing Jake hungrily. Jealousy flared inside me unexpectedly.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jake. “You look funny.”

  “Uh, I was just thinking about what we should do about those documents you found.” I wiped my forehead, which suddenly felt warm.

  Jake ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. That. I gotta say, I’m a little stumped too.”

  The dew in the field was making my toes wet. I looked down at my sandals, which were dark with moisture. “We could send the information to my dad anonymously, maybe,” I offered. “He wouldn’t have to know where it came from.”

  Jake reached out to pat a dog that had trotted up to us. The dog panted happily, then continued on. I heard a small girl’s voice in the distance call, “Buster! Come!”

  “I just don’t know how we’re going to get the information to your dad anonymously, yet still have him get it in time to influence the board’s decision,” Jake said. “I mean, we could stick an envelope under his windshield or something, but who’s to say he’ll actually read it? And I don’t think we can tip him off to it without giving ourselves away.”

  I nodded. Jake was right, plus planting the information anonymously seemed cowardly. I didn’t want to say that out loud, though. I knew Jake was wrestling with the fact that he wanted to tell the truth, but he didn’t want to hurt his family either. I could respect how tough that was.

  “I guess we could just sit on it and hope the board does the right thing,” I said. “It’s pretty passive, but we could always revisit this after they decide about my mom. You know?”

  Jake looked off into the distance, to where the tops of the trees met the bright blue sky. “I guess,” he said. He exhaled. “Then again, maybe we should take a risk on this one. I mean, your mom has taken risks. She’s gone up to the pulpit every Friday all summer long and given her sermons, and she hasn’t backed down once. That’s pretty ballsy, right? So maybe we should be ballsy too.”

  I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “Ballsy like we take this to the board ourselves?” I asked.

  Jake nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking. I suppose I’ll probably get in trouble, but maybe it’s the right thing to do. If my dad is running around masquerading as a prophet when really he’s just a liar, people should know. You know?”

  “Okay,” I said, relieved we finally had a direction to take things in. “We can give the board what we know, and then it’s up to them to decide what to do with it. At least we can say we gave them what we had. Once it’s over, we can wash our hands of it.”

  Jake smiled. “Just like Pilate.”

  Jake was referring to the Roman who reluctantly handed Jesus over to the masses. Pilate said he washed his hands of whatever happened next. Though bad news for Jesus, it at least meant a clean conscience for Pilate. “Yep,” I agreed. “Just like Pilate.”

  I heard the low rumble of a motorcycle and looked at my cell phone. It was almost eleven-thirty. Jake and I were going to be late to meet the Angelfire gang if we didn’t haul.

  “Come on,” I said, breaking into a run. “We need to go catch Bear and his crew before they take off. Once we get back, we can get all the documents to the board.”

  “Sure,” Jake said, and within seconds his long, tan legs had carried him yards ahead of me.

  “I think I can see them from here,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll hold them and make sure they don’t leave without you.”

  “Okay,” I yelled back, hoping Jake wouldn’t hear the wheeze in my voice. I was strong, but jogging wasn’t my thing at all. I watched Jake’s muscled back ripple under his shirt until he was a distant dot, and I slowed to a walk. I used my shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat off my face. Bronzer smeared the cotton. Fabulous.

  As I walked, I realized Jake and I were putting ourselves on the line for my parents and the church, but it felt a little weird, considering the fact that my parents had so clearly stopped talking to me about the prophecy. They ’d cut me off. And after the way they had treated me all summer long, should I really be helping them? I mean, sure, my mom had been ballsy by continuing to preach and lead the congregation alongside my dad, but she’d also been cowardly and secretive in other ways. Like how she’d acted before the church’s annual garage sale in June.

  It was early on a Friday and Mom had asked me to come to Living Word and help her price and set out sale items in the basement. Since Nat was sneaking t
ime with Carson and I was alone, I’d agreed—maybe a little too eagerly. My mom raised an eyebrow at me when I clapped once and said, “Let’s do this.”

  For most of the morning we’d organized all the old toasters, scarves, and plastic toys on tables in the church basement and tried to figure out what to charge for them. It was an okay time, though. It was just the two of us since my dad was talking to the local Kiwanis about integrity and leadership, and Lizzie was at a friend’s for a playdate.

  “Can you believe the stuff people bring for us to sell?” Mom had asked, picking up a ratty bra by a corner of one strap and throwing it into the trash. The way her pinkie curved, she could almost be a queen tossing cake to peasants.

  “Gross. That’s so wrong.”

  “We should have brought gloves,” she said, eyeing the rest of the clothes warily.

  “Hey, what’s this?” I reached into a box and pulled out a ceramic figure of a donkey butt—the kind you would put on the wall so it looked like the donkey was halfway through the plaster.

  Mom looked up from the clothes. “My goodness!”

  “What do you think we should price it?”

  Her mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. “You know what? I don’t think we actually have to price it. I can think of three or four people in the church who might take it home as kin.”

  For a second, I couldn’t believe my mom had actually slammed somebody in the church. And then I started laughing so hard, I almost dropped the donkey butt. My mom started laughing too, but she didn’t make a sound when she did it—she just opened her mouth, squinted, and shook. Her tongue, which I hardly ever saw in such full view, was like a pink mollusk enjoying a break from the dark shell of her mouth. I don’t know why, but seeing her tongue just made me laugh harder, which made my mom laugh harder, and by the end of it, we were both leaning against the basement tables.

  The whole experience helped cut through some of the tangled, rain-forest-thick tension between us since the baptism and the college blowup. Later, when we sat on Living Word Redeemer’s back steps getting some fresh air, it felt like we were closer—like we had shared something and were almost friends. So I decided to start talking.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  I picked at a fingernail. “So, um, when you said there were people in the church who were like that donkey’s butt—did you mean the O’Connors?”

  My mom looked off toward the end of the parking lot without saying anything right away. Her brown hair was shiny and velvety in the afternoon light, and she wasn’t wearing makeup or a suit. It was a nice change, considering she did her hair and makeup almost every day because she always said a church pastor couldn’t go anywhere without expecting to run into someone they knew.

  “Well, I guess it’s no secret we’re having some issues with Gary these days.”

  “Yeah, but about what? Is it just about women preaching in the church, or is there something else going on?”

  My mom sighed. “He just wants something we’re not prepared to give him.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  She looked straight at me when I asked that, her face so pained that I couldn’t tell if she was mad at me for asking or ready to divulge everything. But after a second, she took a deep breath and sat up really straight, like her spine had just been infused with iron. She pulled a fresh tissue out of her pocket and started wiping her hands with it. “I shouldn’t have made that joke about the donkey,” she said, forcing a smile. “That was inappropriate.” She put the tissue away and looked like she was going to get up.

  “Yeah, but the O’Connors, they ’re not being really great to you and Dad right now,” I said quickly, trying to get her to stay sitting, trying to keep the moment from vanishing. “What’s going on? Did that prophecy mean he wants you to step down?”

  “God tells us in Matthew not to talk publicly about our disagreements if we can handle them privately,” my mom said, standing up.

  I stood up too. “So there is a disagreement?”

  “If there was, I wouldn’t talk publicly about it.”

  “I’m not the public, though. I’m family.”

  “I really shouldn’t talk about it, Emma.”

  “Can you just tell me if you’re pissed at the O’Connors?”

  “I hate that p-word, Emma. Please don’t use it. And if you are talking about anger, then you should know that God commands us to love.” She turned away from me, pulled open the church door, and stepped inside.

  “Okay, but even Jesus got mad,” I said, remembering something in the Bible where Jesus overturned some tables, Incredible Hulk-style. I grabbed the door and followed her.

  My mom stopped so suddenly that I almost smacked into her back. She faced me fully, and even in the church’s dim hallway, I could see the severe look on her face—the kind Mrs. Dutton got just as the Jell-O salad was set out on the potluck table. The kind that said, There is no negotiating. There is only one way this can end. Sure enough, my mom uttered only one word in response to me: “Enough.”

  But what was it that she didn’t want to tell me? Did she really think I couldn’t see things weren’t right? I knew she didn’t lie on the couch anymore at night and let my dad rub her feet, the way he used to. I knew instead she prayed in the office until her hair was damp and matted and her cheeks were blotchy. Sometimes her eyes would be red and puffy when she was done, and when Lizzie asked her if she was sad, she’d smile and take Lizzie’s hand in her own and say no, she was just tired is all.

  Had Mr. O’Connor’s prophecy alone caused this, or was there something more? What was he, and his gobs of money, doing to the church?

  His gobs of money.

  Something on my face must have changed because my mom suddenly softened a little and asked, “Emma, are you all right?”

  His gobs of money.

  Were my parents not speaking publicly about whatever was happening with Mr. O’Connor because they wanted him to keep tithing? And if that were the case, what if Mr. O’Connor’s demands didn’t end with him saying women shouldn’t preach? I shuddered, thinking about all the women wearing skirts and being forbidden to cut their hair. Was it possible that we could turn into a cult that just worshipped the richest congregant? I swallowed and tried to find the right words to explain all this.

  But then, with my mom standing that close to me, I got a good look at her clothes, which, in addition to being dusty from all the work this morning, were also thin and ratty like they’d needed to be thrown out years ago. Her shoes were canvas and had hand-stitched threads around the eyelets and seams to keep all the material together. I could remember her having that same pair since I was little. What would she wear if her best donor were gone from the church? What would we eat? Would she have to stop buying nice clothes for Lizzie just so we could get by? Would God provide, or would we go on food stamps? We were broke enough as it was—we didn’t need to be poorer.

  Whatever Mr. O’Connor was up to, it wouldn’t be easy to deal with. How could my parents confront their biggest donor without risking him pulling the plug? Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they ’d just shut up and let him do whatever he wanted.

  “I—I’m just worried about you and Dad,” I said to my mom, keeping my eyes down and focusing on her dumpy shoes.

  My mom surprised me by putting a hand on my cheek. I looked up and met her eyes, noticing for the first time how the skin around them looked like an elephant’s—dry and cracked and grayish. “Your dad and I appreciate your concern, Emma, we do. But it’s not your affair, and we don’t want to involve you. Do you understand?”

  I could have been wrong, but it seemed to me that for the first time, I understood the situation perfectly: my mom was choosing to survive and get by, rather than to be right. I nodded, thinking, I wish I didn’t understand.

  “C’mon then,” my mom said, “let’s finish this work and get home.” She was trying to sound energetic and cheerful, but we both knew that we’d burned up all our
conversational fuel. And sure enough, for the rest of the afternoon we tagged all the items in the basement—in silence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All right, Emma, please ride with me,” said Bear. “Jake, we’ll put you on the back of Anita’s bike.” Bear threw one leg over his motorcycle and I crawled on behind him. He was so wide, my arms barely got around his back. He’d offered me his sidecar, which protruded from the side of his bike like a jelly bean on a stick, but I’d shook my head no. Being on the bike with Bear felt safer.

  I am going to write about my adventures on the back of a Harley with a born-again motorcycle gang, I thought, strapping a motorcycle helmet to my head, or I can even write about Anita’s waitressing problems. I pushed the helmet as far down on my head as it would go. “Anything we need to know before we do this?” I yelled above the din of the roaring motorcycles.

  “Just hold on,” he said, his black helmet with a yellow smiley face grinning at me from the back.

  Bear revved the engine and kicked his bike into gear. We pulled away from the camp in one fluid motion. I never would have thought that such a big man and such a loud machine could move so gracefully, but that’s exactly what it was when we pulled away: graceful.

  I suddenly understood why men going through midlife crises got motorcycles. The rushing air practically scrubbed away every concern I had. Forget midlife crises, I thought. These are great for any crisis.

  The knots in my muscles harboring all my worries about the prophecy, Nat, my parents, the donut camp, college, and Jake—they all seemed to loosen up and get picked off in the clean September air. I imagined them fluttering behind me as we rode, like leaves behind a speeding car.

  A few days before the campout, I’d read an article that talked about how overworked and stressed teens are. How doctors were seeing more teens with ulcers, with high blood pressure, and even with “control” issues, like eating disorders and cutting, so they felt like they could manage something—even if it was just their own bodies.