Donut Days (11 page)

Nat turned around. “Huh?”

“I mean about the board. I thought you’d have heard that they ’re supposed to make a decision about my mom soon.”

Nat’s green eyes went round, like she was shocked that I was crazy enough to bring all this up in the middle of a GaSmart in the middle of a donut camp. But I felt like I
had
to say it, like I was one of those captured soldiers in the old war movies my dad was always watching. They’d all come to this point in the film where they had to take some kind of drastic action—like attempt a risky escape or cut off a limb—or else they ’d be stuck in their situation forever. It was balls-out, all or nothing.

“Yeah, I heard about the board,” Nat said slowly, her eyes readjusting to their normal size. Only her pupils gave her away—they darted back and forth across my face as if she was trying to figure out what I was getting at.

“If my mom’s no longer pastor, you think you’ll celebrate?” I asked. “Maybe here at the camp with Molly?”

It was a harsh thing to say, but I wanted her to know I knew she was at the camp with Molly. Her new best friend.

There was a pause that was probably only a half second, but it felt like the time it took for God to create the earth. Then Nat opened her mouth. “I can’t believe I almost forgot why we were fighting. Now I remember.”

“Huh,” I said. “Funny you have such a selective memory.”

Nat huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, just that you can remember why we’re fighting, but you can’t seem to
remember
what a great pastor my mom is and how much good she’s done for you and your ungrateful family.”

Nat’s head twitched and her eyes glossed with hurt. “That’s not fair. I
do
think your mom’s a good pastor, Em. It’s just that—”

“Just that
what
?” The question came from Molly, who had approached us from behind the pretzel display, unnoticed.

Nat inserted herself between us. “Just that Emma helped me pick up a display of Ricochet cans,” she said. “Can you stand that I just knocked them over in front of everyone? I’m so embarrassed.”

Molly shrugged. “Sounds like you.”

“I have to go,” I mumbled.

“Really?” Molly asked, too sweetly. “Where?”

“Where you’re not welcome,” I said. I started walking away, but Molly wasn’t done.

“Nat told me about your
Paul Bunyan
scholarship,” she said. “And I thought you’d want to know I’m trying for it too, even though I don’t really need it like you. But I did find the
perfect
story.”

My heart cracked at the idea of Nat telling Molly how much I needed the
Press
money, but even still, the associate editor in me wanted to know what Molly ’s story was. “Yeah?”

Molly was standing with her hands on her hips, her fake hair slung over one shoulder. “Yep. It’s about this family that lets women preach when they’re not supposed to. Then their daughter goes to a campout, eats too many donuts, and has to go on Jenny Craig for six months. The whole thing is called . . . what’s the word? Oh yes, a
tragedy
.”

For a second I actually expected the GaSmart walls to start bending and wobbling, like I was in some kind of universe warp. Because how was it even possible that Molly was the one slamming
me
when it was
her dad
who was causing all the trouble to begin with? What’s more, Nat, who was biting her nails and staring at the Ricochet cans, was clearly not going to stick up for me at the GaSmart—not even a little bit.
Again
.

“I’ve got a story too, Molly,” I said, adjusting my knit bag over my shoulder. “It’s about a local rich man who thought he’d pull a fast one over on the church by selling them polluted land. You know anything about that one?”

Molly’s small lips looked like they were suddenly stapled together. Nat too got a surprised look on her face like she just ate one of Mr. McDaniel’s spicy sausage biscuits at a church prayer breakfast—the kind topped with jalapeños.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Molly said tersely.

“Yeah? Well, then maybe your dad could give a prophecy about how people get rich, even when they screw people over.”

Molly shrugged like she didn’t care. “I can’t help what God’s will is. And neither can you.” She turned toward the GaSmart door and Nat followed. “Have fun at the camp,
goiter,
” Molly said as she pushed the door open.

Before I could get out a comeback, Molly and Natalie were gone. Crap, why did I always let Molly get the last word in? For crying out loud.

I licked my lips self-consciously, aware that I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth. How had I looked, fighting a battle with Molly when I’d just gotten out of bed? Probably pretty pathetic. And I doubted I’d look much better for the rest of the day, now that I’d lost my place in the GaSmart line. Connie and Jana and Heidi had already peed and gone, so there was no way I could ask them to let me in again. I’d have to get ready in a Porta Potti.

Not wanting to put off the inevitable, I made my way toward the edge of camp, where the blue plastic structures stood like stinky idols. While I walked, I thought about a show I’d seen on the Sci Fi Channel,
Ghost Hunters,
about these guys who are plumbers by day and paranormal experts at night. And they go into all these houses where people think they’ve had encounters with spirits, but a lot of time the Ghost Hunters can show them the real reasons behind the so-called experiences. It’s everything from paint fumes to leaky pipes to drafty windows.

“Most of the time it’s not a haunting,” one of the Ghost Hunter guys, Jason, had said.

And that got me thinking right then that maybe the most complicated and scary things in life are really about something a lot more simple. Like, maybe the reason Molly hated me so much right now wasn’t one hundred percent because of her dad, or women in the church, or any of it. After all, Nat and I were always doing stuff without her, and we never bothered to hide the fact that we were
best
friends and she was just
a
friend. Maybe Molly had just gotten so sick of me and Nat always being so tight that when she finally saw a way to elbow in, she’d done it.

And maybe the reason I hated Molly right back wasn’t totally because of her dad either. Maybe a big part of it was because Molly was smart and rich and good at a lot of things and never really had to just plain
work
like I did. Which really pissed me off, because with me, if I didn’t completely work my ass off, there would be consequences. I wouldn’t get into college, and then I wouldn’t get a decent job, and then I’d be stuck in Birch Lake forever, probably cleaning Living Word Redeemer’s toilets because God knows I’d never be qualified to do anything else there.

I almost got a headache thinking about it all again, but then I got mad too. I got mad at Living Word Redeemer and the O’Connors, and Nat and Christians, and I was so frustrated about all of it, I looked around for something to kick—a pop can, a rock, anything. But the only things nearby were tents and grass. So instead, I bolted, full speed, toward the Porta Potties, sprinting like the devil himself was after me.

Because if I didn’t run, then I was going to start screaming my damn head off.

A
fter holding my breath for way too long in the smelly Porta Potti, I stepped out and breathed in fresh air until I was light-headed.

I’d managed to do a passable job getting ready. Not great, but it would do. I had a small mirror in my bag, and when I pulled it out, I could tell that my bangs were in a straight line. Hair had survived the night intact, and that was a definite plus.

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.”