A Girl Named Mister (4 page)

“Are you deaf?”

My mother’s voice penetrates,

unwelcome,

reaching me easily from downstairs.

“What?”

“Is your homework done?”

she asks.

I trade
Mary, Mary
for my notebook,

and yell down “Soon!”

That’s as close to the truth

as I can manage.

Lucky for me, I’m a good student.

By the time she calls “Lights out,”

I’m done.

I flip the switch.

“Goodnight,” says Mom.

“Goodnight,” I answer.

I place
Mary, Mary
beneath my pillow

and feel a little closer

to God.

Where have I been?

I wake and look around

as if the world is new,

or old.

I can’t tell which,

only that

the fog inside my head

is lifted

and I can think again.

I can see.

Trey was bad for me.

Time to move on.

Off to school.

English lit to study.

Friends to concentrate on.

Volleyball to play.

Pray coach and teachers

don’t call on you.

Got lots of catching up to do.

Long as I can remember,

Seth and me,

we were two peas

in a pod,

exactly alike

in every way.

That’s no longer true

and there’s nothing I can do

to change things back.

We’re in different places now,

like I entered a room

Seth doesn’t have a key to

and the best we can do

is wave through the window.

I just hope one day soon

I’ll figure out how

to crack that window open

an inch or two,

without, you know,

smashing it to bits.

Somewhere between

bites of pepperoni

and a swig of milk,

Seth asks,

“So, what’s with you and Trey?

Are you, you know,

hooking up now?”

I almost choke,

no joke.

Milk sputters

down my chin.

I grab a napkin,

start dabbing away,

my brain on fire

from the fuse

she just lit.

“It was one time, Seth!”

I say, teeth tight.

“One time!

And I’m already sorry.”

“Okay, okay!” says Seth.

“I was—you know—

just wondering.”

I cut my eyes at her.

“Okay!” she says.

“I’ll shut up.”

That is

the smartest thing

she’s said

all day.

All through practice,

Seth snatches looks at me,

as if she’s wondering

what I’m doing here.

I want to yell,

“Virgins aren’t the only ones

who can sing!”

But who am I kidding?

I
do
feel weird being here,

singing about a God

I broke my promise to.

If everybody knew,

maybe they’d ask me to leave,

and maybe I would.

And maybe I should.

“Haven’t seen Sethany

around here much lately,”

says my mom.

“You two get in a fight?”

“No,” I say. “We’re both busy, is all.”

I study the wall

just right of her head,

hoping she doesn’t notice

how adept I’m getting

at avoiding eye contact,

wishing she wasn’t

so dang nosey.

“We broke up, by the way,”

I told Seth over lunch.

She quit munching her sandwich

long enough to look up

to see if I was okay.

I didn’t say anything,

just shrugged my shoulders

in a way that said
Don’t ask.

Not now.

She took the cue,

smiled to let me know

she was relieved,

and finished eating

in silence.

I miss the old days

before I pulled away from church,

when I trusted Seth

with all my secrets,

even face-to-face.

Funny how my fears

weighed half as much back then,

as if telling my best friend

split them in two.

I used to say or do whatever

and never worry

that she’d judge me

or love me less.

If only we could be

that close again.

What if I took a chance

and let her in?

“Here’s the ugly truth,”

I tell Seth after school.

“Trey never really

cared for me.

He just wanted

to add me to his list.”

I ball my fist,

fighting back the tears.

Seth slips an arm around me.

“It’ll be alright,” she chokes out.

“Besides,” she adds,

“he’s not worth the dirt

under your fingernails.

He’s a supercilious, joyless jerk.”

Clearly, Seth’s been

hitting the dictionary again,

which makes me smile

in the middle of my cry,

which is exactly why

I love her.

Later that week,

I finish up an essay for English

as my cell phone rings,

putting a period on my homework

for the night.

It’s Seth, of course,

calling to remind me

about Youth Group Video Night.

“It’ll probably be lame,” she says.

“Ya think? Bet you anything

it’ll be
The Princess Bride
.”

“Again!” we say in unison.

“Come hang with me anyway,”

pleads Sethany.

“We always have a blast.”

“
Escuchame, pero

yo no hablo Ingles
,” I say.

“Girl! Quit it!”

We ping-pong words

back and forth awhile

before I finally say yes.

I can’t help but smile

at the ease of it,

feeling like we’re almost

back to normal.

His heart must be

a light switch,

something he turns on and off

whenever the mood hits,

‘cause here he is,

weeks later,

pressing another girl

up against the hall lockers.

I can’t fly by

fast enough.

What was that line again?

“You’re killing me, girl.

You know I’m falling

in love with you.”

Yeah.

Right.

Color me stupid.

The school library

is suddenly my best friend.

I sneak there

for a quick rendezvous

with
Mary
.

Joseph joins my family

for the evening meal,

the first we have shared

since it happened.

Does it show?

Does my face glow

like the skin of Moses

on Mt. Sinai?

“Shalom, Joseph,” I greet him,

quickly dropping my gaze,

afraid my secret is sealed

in the glint of my eye.

“How was your day?”

“The trek to Sepphoris was grueling

in this midsummer heat,

especially the climb

up that last, steep hill.

But you know, Sepphoris is

our nearest metropolis,

and that is where the work is.

So, I go.” I nod to show

that I am listening,

all the while wondering

why Mother didn’t hear us,

why a man,

righteous as my father,

couldn’t sense

the presence of God

in his own house.

Unless God did not want him to
.

“I worked on cabinets today,”

says Joseph.

“Or should I say

they worked on me.

My muscles scream.

Surely, you must hear them.”

“Poor Joseph,” I tease.

“Maybe I can help.”

Rising from the table,

I plant my strong young hands

onto his stiff old shoulders

and knead the pain away.

“You are an angel,” says Joseph.

I smile to myself, thinking

No. But last night
,

I met one
.

When Mother greeted me

this morning,

my only answer was a nod.

I refuse to speak until sundown,

this one-day vow of silence

the least I can do

to help me focus,

sort truth from wild imagination.

After all, where is the evidence

that my visit from

Gabriel and God

was more than a dream?

The very idea seems

impossible to me now,

that somehow Jehovah

would place

his son in
me
.

Three days have passed,

and life remains common

as birdsong and morning

as I move swiftly through

the market at Sepphoris,

careful to guard my purse

from the sly fingers

of small thieves.

I am here to purchase

fresh coriander and thyme,

but a tumbling mound of

luscious pomegranates

tipping the scales

of a nearby merchant

tempts me to add a few

to my basket.

I reach for one,

only to drop it when I hear

“Gabriel?”

My heart races at the sound.

“Gabriel?”

I spin round to discover

the source of my distraction.

It is a young woman,

not much older than me.

Could it really be?

Does she see the angel too?

I rush toward her,

my mind fumbling for

words to ask that

impossible question.

Two steps away,

my lips part just as

a little boy darts

from behind a market stall.

“Gabriel,” she scolds, “how often

must I tell you not to run from me

in the marketplace?”

I lower my head and turn away,

feeling foolish.

And yet, I cannot shake the feeling

of that holy presence

in my bedchamber,

nor any longer deny

that the archangel’s voice

still rings in my ear.

Did he not say

he knew of my cousin, Elizabeth?

That Jehovah had visited her too?

Once and for all,

I must learn if it is true.

I head home to pack.

My puny purchases

can wait.

I must journey to Judah.

I must speak with Elizabeth.

Lamech, a servant of Joseph,

joins me, huddling beneath

an acacia tree.

The sun threatens to peel me

like a grape,

and I am grateful for

this circle of shade,

though I would hate

for these deadly thorns

to pierce my skin.

I slide to the ground,

and lean against the trunk,

tensing at the sound

of a lion’s roar

in the distance.

Thankfully,

judging from the direction

of the sound, we are downwind

of his scent.

“Here,” says Lamech,

offering his waterskin

before slaking his own thirst.

I smile at his kindness,

remembering the Bedouin proverb

my father never tired of repeating:

Always take care

of the stranger,

for one day,

you
may be the stranger.

“Learn this wisdom,”

my father said,

“for no one survives alone

in the wilderness.”

“Drink deep,” says Lamech.

“Only a camel travels miles

on a single sip.”

I reach for the waterskin,

and drink my fill.

“Come, Lamech,” I say,

springing to my feet.

“We must not allow this heat

to slacken our pace.

The hills of Judah call to me,

and I wish to see my cousin’s face

by nightfall.”

Zechariah meets us at the gate,

smiling wordlessly.

I assume, as priest,

he has taken a vow of silence,

and think no more of it.

He leads us to the inner court.

Elizabeth welcomes us

with cups of pomegranate juice,

as Lamech and I having been

spotted some distance away.

“Shalom!” Elizabeth calls to us.

As I draw near,

I rehearse what I will say,

what I will ask:

Cousin, what do you know

of angels? Of Gabriel himself?

I have to know!

But, before teeth touch tongue

and my words begin to flow,

Elizabeth declares,

“Blessed are you among women,

and blessed is the fruit of your womb!”

God’s spirit descends on me

like mist, and through my tears

I notice the swell

of Elizabeth’s belly.

Six months with child,

Gabriel had said,

and so it seems.

I drop my cup

and lift my hands to heaven.

“My soul does magnify

the Lord!”

Elizabeth has a word for this

disease churning my stomach

like rancid butter,

for the way my nostrils swell

at the very smell

of warm goat’s milk,

for this faint feeling of floating

miles from lake or ocean swell.

It is a feeling Cousin

has come to know well,

and she calls it

Proof.