Redemption (5 page)
“Why don’t you try to fit in at the Abbey, Dayton?”
I looked up at her, my eyes meeting hers before we both looked away. We both knew what she was asking. It wasn’t about getting along with her or the Order. She wanted me to feel a desire for service. I had none.
“You’re old enough now to be considering a place in the Order,” Aunt Kyra said.
I didn’t so much as blink. She knew my thoughts on the matter.
“I don’t want the same thing as the Sisters. I have aspirations outside the Abbey.”
My answer was blunt. Aunt Kyra sat down beside me. I looked over at her, startled. This was new.
“Sometimes destiny doesn’t give us a choice on what we do with our lives, Dayton."
I sat still a moment. What was she getting at? I didn’t want to be a part of the Order. Was she telling me I didn’t have a choice? As the only Abbey in a state dominated by Baptists, Methodists, and Presbyterians, I knew my aunt struggled with the low number of initiates called to service. What I never understood is why we didn't have a bigger congregation or a larger number of Sisters. There was a Catholic church in almost every county. As the only Abbey, I always wondered why she wasn't swamped with women who would otherwise have to leave the state. I certainly didn't feel the calling.
“Destiny has nothing on free will,” I finally said.
She put her hand on my shoulder, and I froze. I waited for a feeling of warmth to overcome me. It was finally here, a show of affection after seven years of living under the same roof. Seven years of no hugs, no tenderness, no emotion had culminated into this moment, a comforting hand on my shoulder. And all I felt was cold.
“You should give the Order some thought, Dayton."
Her hand was beginning to disturb me. Maybe something
was
wrong with me. I should be enjoying this moment. But when I looked up at Aunt Kyra, I realized her gaze wasn’t for me. It was for Amber. Her eyes were frozen on the organ below. I sighed heavily and shook Aunt Kyra’s hand from my shoulder. I used the sigh well.
A sigh, if done right, could translate a lot of different emotions. This one spoke three languages: irritation, weariness, and acceptance. The last was reserved for my sister. It made me feel good knowing Amber had made choices that assured she would belong. She was in her first year of college, did everything the sisters expected of her, and asked questions that hinted at a curiosity for service. I couldn’t make those same decisions. I wasn’t capable of it. I had an innate desire to make myself happy, not to please a collection of women I’d never had a chance to get close to.
“I
have
given it some thought,” I said.
Aunt Kyra shook her head and stood up. The music downstairs had changed. The service was about to commence. I kept my seat in the balcony. Aunt Kyra moved away from me, and I watched as she walked back down the stairs. The long black robe she wore made her look like she was gliding, and her short blond hair glowed as if she were wearing a halo. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs to converse with four other Sisters, and I cringed as they glanced up at me simultaneously. I felt like a sinner in a room full of Angels. I had been judged and been found lacking. The women looked away, and I relaxed only slightly. My nerves were raw. Aunt Ky's presence had shaken me. She had
sought
me out. I should be pleased, but I was alarmed instead. I couldn’t help but wonder why.
Lounging against the pew, I snuck a book out from under my blouse. It was a weathered copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. It was the book I always read in church hidden within my Bible. It probably made no sense why I liked reading Austen during a sermon rather than something more gothic like Bronte. Maybe it’s because the sermons seemed less intimidating if I read something light. I flipped to a marked page and tried to immerse myself in the book. But Aunt Kyra’s words wouldn’t leave me alone. Why did she suddenly care about my choices?
She is being watched. His interest in her has brought her to the attention of unsavory sources. He will endanger her. He will get her killed.
~Bezaliel~
The weekend wore on me as I walked to my car the next morning, balancing my backpack in one hand and a paper cup full of sugary coffee in the other. I just couldn’t shake the weird sense of foreboding the weekend had left me with. It had me peering over my shoulder.
“Damn,” I grumbled as coffee sloshed slightly over the side of my cup, burning the edge of my hand.
I shifted my bag onto my back and sucked on the burn. Damn, but that stung! My car should really be closer to the Abbey, but my aunt refused. It was a pain in the ass, but at least I was burning calories. I was an optimist at heart.
The old metallic purple ’86 Pontiac came into view and I grinned. My aunt hated the old clunker, but I’d earned it working for old Elsie Davis one summer cleaning out a rundown shed and doing odd jobs on her property and, to me, it had character. My aunt claimed it represented shame since the work I’d done had been for charity; therefore, I shouldn't have expected payment of any kind. I didn’t disagree. After all, Elsie
had
been charitable. She’d finally convinced my aunt it was a gift. When it wasn’t in use, Aunt Kyra made me park it behind the Abbey near an old shed. It was such a shame.
“Hello Lady,” I whispered to the old vehicle as I threw my backpack into the back and climbed in.
Taking a sip of coffee, I flipped on the radio and pulled out of the drive. It wouldn’t do to be late for school and I still had to swing by Monroe’s. We took turns driving to save on gas.
I had just noticed how bad the trash had piled up on the passenger side of my car when I pulled up to the curb near Monroe’s. She was waiting impatiently. I rolled down the passenger side window and whistled.
“About damn time,” she muttered as she marched over.
One look through my car window and she paused. I could see the green flush that rose up over her cheeks at the sight of the old drive thru McDonalds’ bags strewn haphazardly on the seats, and for the first time all morning, I felt myself fight not to laugh. According to Monroe, the Goddess had a sense of humor when Fate proclaimed I be born under the sign of Virgo. No one would ever describe me as tidy, and a perfectionist I was not.
“You should really clean this thing out soon,” she muttered as she threw open the door.
I leaned over and started knocking junk off the passenger seat and smirked.
“And give my aunt a reason to think I’m becoming responsible? I think not."
Monroe delicately swiped crumbs off the seat before sitting down, plopping her bag beside her gingerly. It was beaded, big, a loud minty green color, and ugly.
I snorted. Only she was allowed to complain about my car, and I her accessories. This morning, I managed to refrain, but I was sorely tempted to tell her the bag was entirely too retro for our era. Even if vintage was in.
“Ugh! It’d take a lot more than a clean car to do that,” Monroe declared nasally as she pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers.
I threw her a quick glance before shifting the car into drive.
“Wonder if your aunt knows how often you sneak fast food.” Monroe said.
She kicked at the trash on the floor and cringed.
"Better yet, I wonder if she knows you pay for it by filching money from the congregation."
I coughed. I didn't filch. I simply did side work my aunt didn't know I was being tipped for.
"You'd take tips too if you had to help Mrs. Gunther clean out her closets and wash her cat. Her house smells like moth balls and the cat scratches," I complained.
Monroe moved a McGriddle wrapper to the side gingerly.
"Her house probably smells better than your car."
“Are you insulting me, Roe?”
She sat back, flicked a crumb off the seat cover, and grinned.
“If you feel it’s an insult, then you know it’s true."
I thumped her in the arm quickly, the car swerving a moment before I looked back at the road. Silence stretched between us, our thoughts occupied. She moved a piece of gum around in her mouth and snapped two bubbles before finally looking over at me.
“I’ve been worried,” she said quietly.
I knew what she meant, and I didn’t comment. My silence was answer enough. The minutes stretched on.
“This weekend—” Monroe said, her voice fading as she looked out the window.
I peeked at her before focusing solely on the road. It was obvious we had the same thing on our minds, but we seemed uneasy discussing it
.
Skirting the issue somehow seemed safer. It wasn’t like us not to be direct though. I scowled.
“Has been a strange one,” I supplied. “I’m a little bothered by it."
Monroe blew another bubble with her piece of gum and let it pop before shifting slightly. I could tell the vision was foremost in her thoughts.
“Yeah—”
The weekend
had
been eerie. Even the energy at the Abbey felt different. More intense. I waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. I shrugged. I wasn’t going there if she wasn’t.
“Maybe it’s nothing. I
am
naturally paranoid,” I whispered. Monroe coughed.
“Hell, we both are."
We shared a shaky laugh as Monroe moved her feet awkwardly on top of the trash. She squealed when there was an audible "squish" and looked down at the floorboard in horror.
“I seriously do
not
want to know what that was,” she muttered thinly as I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
Monroe was a genuine neat freak and germaphobe. I saw my chance, and I took it. Monroe made it
soooo
easy.
“You remember that cat I picked up for the Abbey? The one that went missing a few months back?”
Monroe nodded.
“You just found him,” I quipped as I parked somewhat lopsidedly in the school parking lot. Monroe started wheezing.
“Oh I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
She threw open the door and leaned over into the parking lot, her head between her legs to keep from retching. I giggled.
“Couldn’t handle the Dayton Mobile?” a voice asked wryly from beside us, and I turned to see Conor Reinhardt leaning casually against the side of his black Mercedes. His sandy blonde hair was impeccably groomed, and his navy Ralph Lauren tee went well with the American Eagle brand jeans he always favored. I knew without looking that, not unlike the pristine white Cadillac Monroe drove, the inside of his ride was clean enough to eat off of. I had to squelch the urge to stick out my tongue. After all, we weren’t in grade school anymore.
Monroe tucked her shining blonde hair behind her ears before standing up slowly.
“Someone should burn that thing!” she complained dramatically as I leaned in to grab my ratty back pack. I’d been carrying the hunter green Jansport since my sophomore year and just never felt the need to replace it.
“Hey, don’t insult the Lady,” I warned as she flipped me the bird.
Conor moved in between us.
“Alright Marilyn and Morticia, the mighty halls of Brownstone High awaits no one. Even you self-righteous know-it-all bestie freaks.”
Conor arched his eyebrows in a flirtatious, mocking manner. I snorted. Morticia, my ass. I liked my eye liner a little on the heavy side when I could get away with makeup, but that’s where the similarities ended.
“They haven’t turned cannibalistic yet, have they? Or better yet, built the impenetrable Wall of Silence?” Lita Delgado asked as she sauntered up behind us from the parking lot.
I tried not to groan. Being around the same people for years tended to invite the jibes. There wasn’t much we didn’t know about each other. The silent treatment of 2006 applied as such.
“Watch yourself,” Monroe commented in a gravelly voice as she pointed crone bent fingers toward Lita’s forehead.
This time I did groan, drowned out by the shrill ring of the tardy bell. Students poured around us as they rushed to class.
“Incoming!” Monroe warned.
I looked up. Jacin Young walked toward us from down the hall, his head bent and hoodie pulled low over his forehead. The sight of our shoes kept him from plowing into us. It was a good thing he didn’t walk with his eyes shut.
At 5’6, Jacin wasn’t a tall guy, but what he didn’t cover in height, he more than made up for in muscle. As the quarterback on the school's football team, he was an instant school celebrity. And he had it pretty bad for Lita, our resident punker.
Lita made most girls look tame, but she did it in a "my attitude doesn’t match my look" manner. With shining black hair highlighted in neon blue, tribal tattoos on her dark Hispanic skin, piercings in places that the school board hadn’t yet managed to make her take out, and leather dominating her wardrobe whenever she could get away with it, she was, surprisingly, the quietest girl in our group.
“You could hear the bell if you pulled your ear buds out occasionally,” Monroe joked as she tugged at Jacin's iPod. “Btw, class is
that
way.”
