Chicken (12 page)

“It is good to be here tonight!” 

A murmur rolls through the church, mostly drowned out by the rustling of skirts and pages as everyone settles in, although I don’t know why they bother since as soon as announcements end we’ll just have to stand up again for singing. Mackey shakes his head at our dull response, a smile twisting his left cheek, distorting the circle of stubble he wears around his mouth to hide his weak chin. 

“I said it is good to be in the house of the Lord tonight! Let me hear an Amen!”

“Amen!” shouts Brother Dean from his seat on stage behind Brother Mackey.

“Praise the Lord!” shouts Sister Edie from her wheelchair in the center aisle.

“Hallelujah!” shouts Sister Bonnie, my neighbor, employer, and also Mackey’s aunt. 

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Mackey points a finger at the ceiling. “We’re not gonna let a little rain keep us from praising Jesus are we, Sister Janet?”

Everyone shifts in their seats to get a good look at my mother’s deflated hair. There’s a reddish tinge around her roots, and I fight back a smirk. A chuckle runs through the congregation, and Mama responds with a smile, tight and pissed.

Mackey grins, showing off teeth pearlier than Heaven’s gates, and shakes his finger. “We better not since we prayed it here! How ’bout another Amen?”

The congregation erupts into applause and Amens. I hear Daddy, loudest of all, thumping his fist into his palm. Even though he’s forsaken agriculture and sworn allegiance to fast food, he’s been taking this drought personally, standing at the back door of our trailer every morning, slurping black coffee and frowning as more dead leaves blow in from the woods. 

Brother Mackey takes the mic off the pulpit and paces the platform. “Sometimes it feels like the Lord isn’t listening to our prayers, but that’s just our impatient flesh. The Lord knows what he’s doing. He is always gonna provide, but he’s gonna do it in his own time. Praise Jesus. Amen.”

Brother Mackey goes on and on about the rain and God’s faithfulness, conveniently skipping over the fact that Sister Bonnie’s garden died and the Mitchells and several other families had to take out loans to feed their livestock. 

My borrowed shirt got damp during our dash from the truck to the front doors, and I shiver underneath the whirring ceiling fan. Hannah rests her hand on my arm, taming the red hairs bristling from my goose bumps. I tried shaving my arms when I first started getting furry, but then my skin just looked like a freckled chicken corpse so I stopped. Just one more losing battle in my life. Hannah says it makes me look like Ron Weasley, and ever since then I’ve suspected she’s only dating me to fulfill her personal fantasy of being Hermione Granger. But that’s fair, I guess, since I’m only dating her to fulfill my personal fantasy of not being queer. 

She picks up my arm and arranges it over her shoulders. Because these pews face the opposite side of the church and not the platform, we sit tilted to the right so we can see Brother Mackey. This puts Brant on the blurry edge of my vision, but I know he’s got one knee propped up on the blue-cushioned space between us and one elbow slung over the back of the pew. I picture us in another universe, one where it’d be okay for him to slip that arm behind my shoulders and rub my neck with that sandpaper hand. 

But we’re here in this universe, and it’s not okay, so I do the thing that is, the thing that’s good and right, and put my arm around my girlfriend and play with the feathery hair curled under her ear because I know she likes it, and I like it too—the sensation of hair slipping between my fingers—just not the way I ought to. Sometimes we’ll be hanging out and get to laughing so hard about some dumb thing or another, and I get overwhelmed by how pretty she is, not Emma Watson pretty, but Hannah Plunkett pretty, and I want to break up with her so she can find a nice, smart boy with a beard and a pompadour, someone who writes scathing essays about capitalism that include lots of humorous GIFs and memes. But I don’t. Because I’m selfish and enjoy having one person in this world who looks at me like a god, even if I am a false one.

“Now before Brother Dean leads us in worship, I’ve got a few announcements to make. First, I would like to congratulate our youth group on a successful fundraising effort. We’ve got half of what we need to make it to Eureka Springs for The Passion Play. Praise the Lord for our youth!”

Loud applause from the adults, especially Daddy and Sister Sharon who did all the work. Minimal applause from the youth group. Some are brazen enough to groan. 

“The second announcement—well, maybe it should have been a prayer request, but I didn’t want to spring it on y’all without explaining. So please just keep this matter in your hearts this week. Dear Sister Cindy brought this to my attention just before the service—”

Mackey nods at Brant’s mother seated on the front row. She closes her eyes and nods back. Like she’s giving him permission to speak. My heart crumples up like a dying spider, and I beg Jesus not to let Mackey say what I know he’s going to say, but apparently, when it comes to me, Jesus, like his Father, just sticks his fingers in his ears and goes La la la!

“—after she had to explain the situation—”

Jesus Christ. Don’t let him—

“—to two very concerned young men. Praise the Lord for good boys like Brant and Casper.”

Oh. My. God.

“For all our good boys. Fine young men. Tyler. Harry. Colton. Jamie. All y’all.” Mackey takes a tissue from the box on his pulpit and blots his eyes. “I’m sorry. I just get so touched when I think about our youth and the challenges they are facing so bravely in this depraved world.”

Concerned murmurs ripple through the pews. Brother Mackey takes a deep, shuddering, ridiculous breath, but what makes it so awful is that he’s completely sincere. 

“I hadn’t heard anything about this so I did some quick research—praise Jesus for smart phones, can I get an Amen?—and it turns out this has been going on for a while now, but recently, some liberal activists have been turning up the heat, threatening to organize a boycott if Wings of Glory won’t stop donating money to Bible-based organizations that support traditional marriage.” Mackey wipes his forehead with his crumpled tissue. “Now. It might seem frivolous to get this worked up over the trials and tribulations of fast food chicken, but at this point in history, my friends, we cannot afford to give an inch to the homosexual agenda.”

I don’t move. Worse, neither does Hannah, and neither does Brant, and I think they know. They have figured me out. Liquid gushes from my armpits. I want to pull my arm off of Hannah’s stiff shoulders before the sweat soaks through Brant’s shirt and gets on her blouse, but I can’t. There is no right move right now. 

“Think of all the employees who depend on this company. This is not a time to be putting people out of jobs in order to advance your own sinful cause. The selfishness of these people—I just don’t get it. We—the Church—have to show them that we will not tolerate these flagrant attacks on our freedom of religion, because you know what, folks? True freedom doesn’t come from the Constitution. It comes from Christ.”

Thunderous applause. Daddy’s fist punching his palm, over and over and over. Sister Helen plays a few chords on the piano to underscore Mackey’s point. Brant’s father slips his guitar strap over his neck, preparing to take center stage after Mackey the Bulldog lets go of this bone.

“The Bible tells us—” Mackey raises his voice to be heard over the ruckus. “The Bible tells us that marriage is between a man and a woman. That’s the way our Creator intended it to be. And you can’t just change that because you don’t want to change yourself. These people—these homosexuals—they just have to get it through their heads that we are talking about the Word of God. And it is the same yesterday, today, and forever! Amen?”

Amens. Hallelujahs. Praise the Lords. Behind me, Mathis mutters loudly about teaching those fags. Sister Helen transitions into the opening notes of “I Shall Not Be Moved.” Sister Cindy jangles her tambourine. Hannah relaxes, rests her hand on my knee. 

I risk a glimpse at Brant. Eyes meet, dart away. He gnaws on the edge of his thumb. 

Then I spot something odd. Sister Bonnie. Giving her nephew a look that must have silenced thousands of rowdy children in the Hickory Ditch Public Library. Lips pursed. Eyes narrowed. Head shaking but just barely.

Behind the pulpit, Mackey keeps smiling, too big and too bright, but I see the wrinkles on his forehead that weren’t there a minute ago. He looks down at his notes like he’s trying to figure out if his aunt’s disapproval was on the schedule. 

The congregation settles down, and Brother Dean takes his place at the microphone between the pulpit and the piano. “Son, how ’bout you come help me on this one?”

Brant drops his thumb and points it at his chest, like who me? Brother Dean laughs and waves him up, but anyone can see he’s irritated. Brant squeezes past me and the girl and jogs up to the mic beside his father’s. For a second, he just stands there, looking down at his boots. Then slowly, his heels start bouncing to the beat, like a kid waiting for a jump rope to come around. He starts clapping, loud and sharp, like rifle reports. He lifts his head, grabs the mic, and sings. 

Transformation complete.

My favorite thing about the Pizza Arcade is that it’s called the Pizza Arcade. No double entendres needed. There’s pizza. There’s an arcade. Neither of which are great, but that’s okay. It’s not called Amazing Pizza Arcade.  

I sit at a table in the corner with Hannah, Lauren, and Brant. My posse, as Daddy says. A bunch of the other kids are crowded around a crooked line of pushed-together tables in the middle of the restaurant. A large group of parents and a couple of old folks are gathered around another line of tables—they’ve managed to keep theirs pretty straight. Brother Mackey discourages the formation of cliques, but ours isn’t intentional. Three of us just happen to be unanimously hated.  

Hannah rubs my thigh under the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. My left arm hangs over the rounded back of her chair. Brant sits across from me, elbows on the table, wiggling his butt to some worldly pop song those of us with reasonably sane parents get to listen to whenever we want. Lauren’s arm is brushing against his, which is most certainly too close for the Mitchells’ comfort, or maybe just mine.

A waitress drops off a large order of breadsticks and four drinks in red, frosted glasses. Brant takes the straw out of his water and sets it on the napkin beside his knife and fork. Lauren slurps her soda, side-eyeing him.

“How can you stand it?”

“Stand what?”

“Water with pizza.”

Brant shrugs. “Why couldn’t I?”

Lauren shrugs. “I don’t know. Just a lot of guys say they can’t eat pizza without soda.”

“Or beer,” Hannah says, sliding her fingers up and down her straw.

Lauren wrinkles her nose. “Ew. I don’t know how anyone eats anything with beer.”

“You’ve got to start with the beer.” Brant swigs his water. “So you’re too buzzed to notice it makes everything taste like shit.”

He whispers the last word like it’s a secret he’s telling our table. Lauren squeals with scandalized delight. 

Hannah rolls her eyes. “Like you even know, Brant.”

“I’ve been around.” He smirks at me. “Casper knows.”

“I don’t know anything about you and beer, Cookie Monster.”

He gets a dreamy, dimpled grin. “Mmmm. Me could go for cookie now.”

Lauren leans on the table, closer to Brant. “This sounds like something I want to know about.”

Brant shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s not a mixed company sort of thing. Y’all ladies got delicate ears.”

Hannah kicks Brant under the table. He laughs, spitting bread crumbs on the table. “See, Casper? They’re so fragile they can’t even handle hearing about how fragile they are.”

Lauren backhands him on the chest. “I need feminism because you’re an asshole.”

She whispers the last word, and we all crack up. Hannah squeezes my leg, and I tilt my knee so its touching hers. There’s comfort in her nearness if nothing else. I remind myself to tell her that she really does look like Emma Watson with that haircut. It’s not true, but it’s a lie she’d like to hear, and that’s both the least and the best I can do. 

She offers me the little cup of ranch, and I dip my breadstick. Lift it to my mouth. Open wide. 

Huge hands clamp down on my shoulders, fingers gouging between my bones. “There you go, Casper. Show Hannah how it’s done. Sometimes they just need a few lessons from an expert.”

I like to think I’d be on my feet if he weren’t holding me down, but that’s just a lie I’d like to hear. I drop the breadstick, try to hunch out of his grip, but there’s no way. He puts all his weight on me, leaning toward Brant, resting his stomach on the back of my head. 

“The guys want to know if we can come over again tomorrow.”

Brant leans back in his chair, folds his arms over his chest. “Get off him.”

Mathis shakes me side to side. “Get him off? Ain’t that what he wants you to do?”

Brant’s chair squeals and he’s on his feet. “Yeah? And what if I wanted to? What would you do then?”

Mathis bears down, and I wait for my collarbones to snap. “I reckon I’d tell your daddy.”

Brant balls ups his hands, those blue lightning bolts once again striking out across his wrists. “Tell the guys they’re welcome to come over, but if you show your ugly face on my property again, I’ll break your damn neck.”

“Jesus, Mitchell.” Mathis lets go, backs up. “I’m just playing around. Get a grip.”

Brant bares his teeth like he’s going to speak, but Mathis walks back to the table where Harry and Colton and Jamie Taylor wait, slack-jawed and googly-eyed. Across the dimly-lit restaurant, some of the parents are squinting our way. Daddy frowns at me. I stare at my plate.

Brant keeps standing, like he’s gotten stuck or something. Lauren takes him by the wrist, tugs him into his seat. When he doesn’t resist, she starts rubbing his arm. His eyes seem out of focus, and the muscles in his neck twitch like a nervous horse. I nudge his water toward him. He grab its and glugs the whole thing. Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.