Never Sit Down in a Hoopskirt and Other Things I Learned in Southern Belle Hell (7 page)

Speaking of sweet Jesus, what I did NOT tell Brandi Lyn when I issued the invitation to church on Sunday was that I kinda sorta had an ulterior motive. Guess whose family goes to the Episcopal Church?

You got it.

I was dying to know: did Luke Churchville know I was back in town? Yes, of course, he had to. I'm sure the gossip mill had jettisoned that into his in-box the minute I crossed the Dauphin County line.

The real question was: how did he feel about my return?

Was he thinking about me?

If so, was it in a good way? Perhaps he has been imagining a scene such as this: I am looking supercute in my favorite lucky 7 jeans, and I am in a restaurant, maybe The Revelry downtown, with friends (to be determined), and it's super-crowded, so we have to wait in the bar for a table even though we can't legally drink. I am pushing through the crowd to the bathroom, when I feel eyes on me. I know it's him. I turn slowwwwwwly to see that he is as handsome, as adorable as ever, only taller and with broader shoulders. Luckily, my lipstick is perfect, and I, too, am as adorable as ever. Powerful magnets of destiny draw us together.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you back,” I reply.

We live happily ever after.

Awwww.

Or was he thinking of me in a bad way? Something along the lines of… it's the hottest, most humid day in Bienville history. There is no water left in the bay because it has all been sucked into the air. If you live in Minnesota or California or someplace that has no such thing as humidity and you have no idea what I am talking about, go get in a steam room at the gym and sit there. All day long. And try to go about your daily business.

No one can breathe, and anybody who curled their hair today lost it the minute they stepped out the door, even though it's only six feet from the air-conditioned house to the air-conditioned car.

For some reason, I have chosen this very day to go jogging, and not only that, but I have chosen to go at high noon. My body is drenched in forty-seven layers of sweat. Seriously, I feel it running down between my boobs, down my back, down my legs.

Suddenly, I hear someone call out my name. I turn and see a car—I'm thinking a Jeep Cherokee, black. In the passenger side, someone waving at me. I can't tell at first who it is… wait, it's Luke Churchville! Despite the fact that I feel like overwatered shower scum, I smile and wave. Delighted to see him.

His response? He throws a wad of chewed gum at me. It lands on my cheek, slides off. The Cherokee races off, peals of cruel laughter trailing behind it.

There is nothing good about that fantasy reunion. Nothing.

So it was with some trepidation that I eluded Grandmother's attempts to drag me to First Presbyterian so that I could instead cart Brandi Lyn off to First Episcopal, but I just had to do it. I swiped the keys to the Caddie and drove out to Government Boulevard, a.k.a. God and Gun Road because along it lies church next to gun shop next to church next to gun shop as far as the eye can see. At Faith Joy's Live Bait and Bible shop (the sign reads,
GIVE A MAN A FISH AND HE'LL EAT FOR A DAY. TEACH A MAN TO FISH AND HE'LL EAT FOR A LIFETIME.
), I took a right into Mac's Woods, where Brandi Lyn lived.

I immediately thanked God that Ashley wasn't with me. If she had been, she surely would have figured out a way to make Brandi Lyn's place of residence a cause for double secret probation. Let's just say that the style of Mac's Woods didn't exactly mesh with that of the historical district of Old Bienville. For one, big pickup trucks that slurp way too much gas were parked in driveway after driveway. Other than that, though, the recycling/reusing/repurposing habits around here were a testament to reducing the carbon footprint. Almost every front yard was filled with broken-down pickups, boats, trailers, and truck cabs to be fixed someday, one day. Then there was the yard art: old clawfoot bathtubs and wheelbarrows that served as planters, rotting tractor tires that had been converted into sandboxes for the kids. Ancient La-Z-Boys and prehistoric sofas, rather than expensive Lowe's lawn furniture, adorned the front porches, providing comfy seating for passing the happy hours away.

Brandi Lyn's house was no different. Three pickup trucks stood at attention in the front yard, one of them JoeJoe's monster truck. When I drove closer, I noticed that JoeJoe was messing around under the hood. “Gun it!” he yelled, and a guy in the driver's seat mashed the gas pedal, causing the truck to let out a mighty burp followed by a nasty screech. JoeJoe yelled for his helper to shut it down.

“Hey, JoeJoe,” I called as I made my way by them.

“Hey, Jane, how ya doing?” He introduced me to the guy in the front seat and another one under the hood—Sammy David and Eddie Dean Corey, Brandi Lyn's older identical twin brothers. We shook hands, or we would have, except there was so much grease on all of them, I just ended up doing a little wave. “Nice to meet y'all.”

“Go on up to the house,” said JoeJoe. “Brandi Lyn's waiting on you.”

“Up to the house” a man in a wifebeater stained with chewing tobacco pushed the screen door open for me, his eyes never leaving the early morning NASCAR commentary playing on a TV from the last millennium.

“Sammy Dean Corey, get a shirt on! Letting that girl in like that on a Sunday morning!” Brandi Lyn's momma called out from the breakfast room, where she was ironing a dress to wear to her Sunday morning service. “I swear, am I the only one with any class around here? Sammy Dean, you hear me?!” Mr. Corey grunted and tore his eyes off the TV to head out of the room.

“Hey, Jane, hey!” Brandi Lyn ran down from upstairs, her hair in curlers and her body encased in a bathrobe. She gave me a quick hug.

“Brandi Lyn, why aren't you ready? We're going to be late!”

“My curling iron broke! It took me forever to find my hot rollers. They're just about cool, though. Have a seat and I'll be ready in two shakes of a billy goat leg.” She skedaddled out of there so fast, she nearly ran into her father, who returned with a plaid shirt that he rebelliously left completely unbuttoned. He parked himself back in his La-Z-Boy, not acknowledging my existence until the NASCAR show went to commercial. “You part of this Magnolia crap Brandi Lyn's all up in arms about?” he asked.

I giggled. “Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Corey looked up from her ironing. “Sammy Dean, don't call it crap, honey.”

“It's all right, Mrs. Corey. I kind of think it's crap, too.”

Mr. Corey hooted with laughter, while Mrs. Corey frowned at him. “Sammy Dean, we agreed, what Baby wants, Baby gets.”

“I didn't agree to no seven thousand dollars when I signed that permission slip, though, now did I, Cora? No siree. Seven thousand dollars for a dress. Goddamn Queen of England don't dress that good.”

“Daddy!!!!!” Brandi Lyn yelled from her bedroom.

“Sorry, Baby.” Mr. Corey threw a quarter into a giant pickle jar overflowing with quarters. “Brandi Lyn don't like me cussing.”

Mrs. Corey shook her head. “I done tole you, Sammy Dean, the dress ain't gonna cost seven thousand dollars because Baby's gonna make it herself. It's just a thousand for the fabric.”

“Oh, what a great idea,” I jumped in, trying to calm them down. “Really? Brandi Lyn's gonna make the dress herself?”

“Well, sure. Baby makes most her clothes.”

“Wow. She must be a really good seamstress. Those dresses are so complicated.”

“Oh, child, yes. That girl can do anything, right, Sammy Dean?”

“Girl's got more talent than any of those screamers on
American Idol
.”

“I'm sure she does,” I replied.

Moments later, as I drove us out of the neighborhood, Brandi Lyn pulled down the sun visor and started teasing her hair with a pick and a rain shower of Aqua Net.

“Okay, you know what?” I asked. “This is going to have to be part of the change.”

“I know. I got to get me a new curling iron and fast.”

“No, I mean your hair is just a wee bit too… big.”

“Big!” Brandi halted mid-tease, she was so horrified. “Hair can't be too big!”

“Look, Brandi Lyn, I know people love their big hair down here in the South, but what you're doing? It's the Mount Everest of hair.”

She looked so defeated. “Really?”

“I'm afraid really.”

Brandi Lyn reluctantly returned the Aqua Net to her purse.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot of First Episcopal, it was already more than half full. Shoot. I had hoped to get there early so that I could stake out the best position for observation. Oh, well. As we joined the people filing through the front door, Brandi Lyn asked me how long my family had been attending First Episcopal.

“We don't. We go to First Presbyterian.”

She looked confused. “Then why didn't we go there?”

“Because Ashley and Mallory and Mizz Upton and all of those folks attend here, so I figured that it would look good if we made an appearance.”

“Oh, Jane, you're so smart!”

I led Brandi Lyn up the stairs to the balcony, checking everywhere I went for the likes of Luke. Historically, his family sat downstairs in the second row, right under the nose of the priest. With a name like Churchville, you've got to be a staunch Episcopalian, right? When Grandmother allowed me to attend with Luke, however, his mom would let us sit up in the balcony, the known hideout for all lapsed Episcopalians, squirmy kids, and bored teenagers. We'd perch in the very last row, giggling and drawing pictures all over the fellowship log. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance that he would be up in the balcony now.

Brandi Lyn and I took seats in the front row of the balcony. We could see everything from there: the altar and podium, the organist playing the prelude, members of the congregation milling around on the floor below. I waved at Mizz Upton and Caroline, who waved back. Mizz Upton tersely nodded her head. The only thing we couldn't see from where we sat were the pews underneath the balcony. But I figured if Luke Churchville was here, I'd most likely be able to spot him easily.

And then what?

Well, I didn't have the least little idea of that. I didn't have a five-year plan for this endeavor, let alone a five-minute plan. I was just curious, okay?

Meanwhile, Brandi Lyn and I performed fashion espionage, examining the sea of heads and coifs down below us for hair, makeup, and clothing tips. Brandi Lyn sighed and shook her head.

“But Jane, they all look so boring, don't you think?”

“Hey, I'm the one with the tattoo and the butt-hugging jeans. To me, everybody looks about as interesting as a five-year-old wearing Garanimals. I'm just saying that if we want to kick it Magnolia style, this is probably what Mizz Upton is expecting.”

Brandi Lyn pondered that, which is when I noticed that—gasp!—the Churchvilles had arrived! They were down below, with Mr. Churchville leading his pack, followed by Mrs. Churchville, Lindsey (who was no longer a pesky little nine-year-old, but an achingly awkward pubescent teen), and little Betsy (who had grown into an adorable ten-year-old). I scanned the aisles behind them, but no Luke. Hmm. Where in the world could he be?

Unfortunately, I had no more time to look. The organist launched into the processional, and the priest marched down the center aisle followed by the associate priest, the altar boys, and the choir. Brandi Lyn and I leapt to our feet along with the rest of the congregation. Together we limped through the very mysterious thing called the Episcopal Church service. I had forgotten how confusing they always were to me. The Episcopalians don't print a bulletin the way we do at the Presbyterian Church, so it's hard to know what is happening and when it's happening and when to stand and when to sit. The most confusing thing of all is when to kneel. Presbyterians don't kneel at all, and apparently they don't at Brandi Lyn's church, either, because we were both left sitting in the pew when everyone moved to the kneelers in front of them. We quickly rectified the situation, slipping onto our knees and bowing our heads. To my surprise, Brandi Lyn actually prayed along with the priest, throwing in her own amens after just about every sentence he uttered. I jabbed her in the ribs and shushed her.

“What?” she mouthed.

“Don't say ‘amen' unless the minister tells you to, or at the end of the prayer,” I whispered back. I glanced around to see if anybody had heard her… and almost choked on my own breath.

He was here. Not ten feet away in a row two back from us, on the opposite aisle. He must have slipped in during the opening hymn. I could easily have thrown a prayer book at him. Easily.

And y'all, all I can say is that time, good genes, and the soccer team or swim team or whatever it was had been more than generous to Mr. Luke C. He was more magnificent than even the most magnificent fantasy I had invented in my head. All blond curls, cupid-esque ringlets (where had those come from?), broad shoulders, lean muscled arms encased in a vineyard vines oxford.

And I finally had the answer to the question that had plagued me since the moment I returned: how would I feel when I saw Luke Churchville again?

Like I wanted to run all the way to China. That's how. What had I done? Sneaking into his church on his turf was the
worst idea ever
! I was such an idiot! Had he seen me? Please, God, no. Maybe, if I just sat real, real still, then he wouldn't see me during the rest of the service. Brandi Lyn and I would wait until everyone had left at the end, then we'd sneak out and I'd be safe, completely and totally safe. Yeah, that was a good plan….

A plan that was completely and totally ruined five minutes later when the choir stood to sing a breathtaking rendition of “In Christ There Is No East or West.” Brandi Lyn became so overcome by the beauty of it all that she stood up and pulled out a lighter—a lighter! She flicked it on, raised it into the air, and waved it back and forth like people did at U2 concerts in the 90s, like you see in old video footage on YouTube. Kids stopped squirming and teenagers stopped writing notes to each other as every eye in the balcony swiveled in our direction… including LUKE CHURCHVILLE'S! The corners of his lips curled up as he watched her sway in time with the music, then his gaze traveled in my direction.