Small Town Sinners (29 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

It’s early, but I text Ty from my driveway anyway and start heading toward Ulster Park. It’s too far to walk, but soon I hear his loud red BMW behind me. He pulls to the side of the road and leans over, swinging open the passenger door.

“Get in,” he says.

I flash back to the first night he pulled over for me, how nervous and rebellious I felt just talking to him. Could that have been just a few months ago?

We drive in silence to Ulster Park. We don’t have the sleeping bag with us, so we sit right on the grass. I lean into him and he puts his arms around me. There’s a square of sunlight on the ground, and I ease my toes into that spot. Even though it’s almost seventy degrees today—a gorgeous fall afternoon—my feet are always cold.

“I heard about last night,” Ty says. “Sounds like you were really moved by the spirit.”

He’s not being sarcastic, but I can tell he’s wondering what I’ll say, how I’ll interpret the fainting incident.

“I lost it,” I say. “All the blood and Jeremy’s angry lines and Pastor Tannen—and the burger baby!”

“The burger baby!” howls Ty, and he laughs so much that I have to readjust my position.

“Dean is really good at shaping that burger baby,” I say, settling back against Ty’s chest.

“There is no way that burger baby looks remotely real,” Ty says.

“Don’t tell Dean that, but you’re right,” I say. “It’s just a gross ball of meat. Dean has to keep a few of them in the church freezer, ready to go.”

“No wonder you got sick,” says Ty. “So you really fainted?”

“I really fainted,” I say.

“Well, you picked a good moment,” he says. “You were in a hospital bed, right?”

“True,” I say. “My timing was impeccable.”

“So does this early-morning rendezvous mean you’re not going to church today?” he asks.

I look at him, surprised.

“Of course not,” I say. “We’ll go at eleven.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Just checking. I was surprised to see your text on a Sunday morning—I didn’t know how much things had changed last night.”

I let out a loud sigh.

“What is it?” asks Ty. He bumps his shoulder against me so I have to sit up and face him. He’s good at insisting on eye contact when he knows I might otherwise stare at the grass.

I push a strand of stray hair out of my face and tuck it behind my ear.

“I’m quitting Hell House,” I say.

“No, you’re not,” Ty says.

“I am,” I say. “I’m going to tell my dad this afternoon so Laura Bergen can do the rest of the rehearsals.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Ty. “Laura Bergen couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag.”

“But she believes,” I say.

“And you suddenly don’t believe anymore, after living your whole life in this church?” he asks. “I don’t buy that.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe,” I say. “I still do. And I may come back to every belief I had, a hundred percent. Who knows? But I want to think about things. I want to figure out what I believe, in my own time, with my own experiences.”

Ty takes my face in his hands then, and he kisses me. It’s long and hard, it’s letting go. It’s a kiss that feels like more than lust. It feels like something real.

“I love you for saying that,” Ty says, when our lips finally part.

It’s not quite an “I love you,” but it’s close. I feel my cheeks get red and I bury my head in his chest so he doesn’t notice.

“But, Lacey,” Ty says, putting an arm around me once again. “You’re not dropping out of Hell House.”

“I have to,” I say. “It isn’t fair for me to have these questions in my head.”

“You just said you’re trying to figure things out,” Ty says. “Hell House is part of that. It’s been your dream to play this part for so long. And you’re brilliant at it! Aunt Vivian says you’ve raised the stakes for the other actors.”

“That’s only because they think I’m channeling God,” I say. “What I was channeling last night was confusion and repulsion—it’s a little different.”

“And you can tell them that,” he says. “You can tell the truth and they will see what they choose to see.”

“My dad still thinks it was God,” I say.

“Maybe it was,” says Ty. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways.”

“Does he work through a burger baby?” I ask, smiling.

“Could be!” says Ty, grinning back at me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It seems weird to act out a scene when I’m so confused about it all.”

“You just said it yourself—it’s
acting
,” Ty says. “And the mission is still to bring people to God. Lost people, maybe. People who are searching.”

“Ty Davis, you’ve been anti-Hell House this whole time, and now you’re trying to convince me to stay in it?” I ask.

“I do think it’s good to bring people into the fold of the church,” Ty says. “I was raised in West River, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were,” I say affectionately.

“I may not be down with everything at the House of Enlightenment, but I do believe the church’s main mission is sincere,” he says. “Besides, you’d regret dropping out. It’s
your
role.”

And he’s right about the acting thing—it
is
a play, after all. And maybe it will help me figure out more about myself. Last night sure was a learning experience.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.
If
you promise to walk through Hell House next weekend.”

“That’s the spirit, Abortion Girl,” Ty says. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Then he leans in again and kisses me. And there’s at least one thing I have no doubts about anymore: he is what I want.

Chapter Thirty-two

Through the whole week of rehearsals, I go to church and nail my part. I don’t faint like I did at the first dress rehearsal—I think that was a one-time thing. But I manage to turn up the sobbing and tap into my confusion. I let it feed a deep sadness that comes out in the scene. It feels like real acting. Everyone congratulates me on my performance, and Pastor Tannen continues to hold me up as the star of the show. It feels good in one way and awkward in another. I’m still sorting out my thoughts on everything, but this has been my dream for so long. Ty was right—I couldn’t just drop out.

By the time Friday comes, we’re ready for our opening night. There are lines around the corner outside the church, and our parking lot has been blocked off for tour buses that come through carrying youth groups from other counties. They know we’re the biggest Hell House in this area.

At seven dollars per ticket, we’ll make up the production costs and raise some money for the church too. Before we open the doors, I peer out the window at the crowd. Some kids are dressed up in Halloween costumes—most are made up like devils or angels—and some are just in normal jeans and sweatshirts. All of them seem to bounce with nervous energy that has more to do with their mood than the chill in the late October air—they’re ready for a good show.

I know Ty will come through and see Hell House for the first time tonight, and that makes me all the more determined to do a great job. But the thing is, although I do believe in leading souls to Christ, I’ve acknowledged—at least with Ty—that I’m uncomfortable with parts of the show. It’s getting harder and harder to hear the Demon Tour Guide’s lines, which strike me as harsh now that I can relate them to the girls at Saint Angeles and Tessa.

Still, I lean back in the bed and say the words I’ve memorized over and over again as crowds of about twenty people come through every five to ten minutes. I scream, “It’s my choice!” and then, “I killed my baby! I made a mistake … I want my baby back!” After every scene they clean up my legs, but the table stays bloody—we don’t have enough sheets to change them out continuously. I hear gasps from the audience each time a new group walks in—it’s easy to become immune to the red stains and the burger baby, but they’re seeing it for the first time, and hearing their sharp intake of breath helps me remember how shocking this part of the show is.

I hear lots of the girls begin to cry as the abortion plays out—this is always the scene in the show where tears start to flow. Maybe they know someone who’s had an abortion or a baby, or maybe they’ve been in this situation themselves. Maybe they’re just moved by the thought of a baby dying—I know I broke down during this scene the year that I turned thirteen, which was the first time I could walk through the full performance. I cried so much I had to wipe my nose on Starla Joy’s scarf, and it got so gross that she just gave it to me after the show. Now we’re both here, starring in Hell House.

I hear Starla Joy’s group coming toward me now. She’s in the hall talking about young love, and as she enters the room, I notice that Ty is in this crowd. I start to thrash and scream, wanting to be great in this scene for him. For me too. I feel like I have something to prove.

When the blood flows on my legs, I once again hear the gasps I’ve heard all evening. And then I hear something else.

“Starla Joy! Starla Joy!” Mrs. Minter’s voice echoes down the hall. It sounds like she’s running. And screaming.

The door bursts open, and Starla Joy, in full demon costume, turns to see her mother, hair frazzled, eyes wild, burst into the room.

“It’s Tessa!” Mrs. Minter says. “She’s in labor. We have to go—
now
!”

Starla Joy tears off her mask and looks up at me. I’m already untaping the IV and getting myself off the table. Ty is at Starla Joy’s side, and Randy Miller is nervously trying to save the abortion scene.

“You can’t get off the table, miss,” he says. “The abortion has just started.”

“Be quiet, Randy!” I shout. Then I look at the surprised faces in the audience. “I’m sorry. I have to go. Our understudy, Laura Bergen, will take over and do the scene for you.”

I throw Laura my hospital gown, and I don’t even look back or concern myself with how my exit gets handled from there. Mrs. Minter, Starla Joy, Ty, and I rush out the door. We have to push past a bunch of kids waiting to get into the next showing, and when we get out into the parking lot I see that Mrs. Minter had to park all the way across the field.

I look back at the church for a moment—should I tell my dad where I’m going? But I don’t have to think about that for too long because suddenly there he is, in full devil regalia. His devil is a powdery white figure, not the red horns-and-tail costume that you see in commercial Halloween stores. He’s covered in cobwebs with those long nails and that hooked nose. He’s wearing ragged clothes that Mom bleached and sewed together for him—they drag on the ground like tattered robes. The only part of him that looks like my dad is his gaze, and it’s right on me.

“Lacey Anne Byer!” he shouts, still using the Satan voice because he’s been doing it all night. “You will not get in that car.”

“Dad, I have to,” I say, running back to where he is, wanting to explain and have him understand, maybe even send me off with a hug. “Tessa’s having her baby. Starla Joy needs me. I want to be there.”

“I forbid it,” he says, still using that awful tone.

“You can’t do that,” I say. “I have to go—let me make my own choice.”

“You’re covered in the blood of your choice,” says my father, pointing at me with his long nail. I look down and remember that my pajamas are smeared in Dean’s red dye. Is my dad still playing a role?

And then I see that there’s a crowd gathering around me and my father in the parking lot. They want to see the devil and Abortion Girl fighting. They probably think it’s part of the show. I can’t believe that my dad is still acting. But I’m not.

“You’re not the devil,” I say. “And I’m not Abortion Girl. Dad, I’m not a bad person. You can’t forbid me to go with the Minters. It’s the right thing to do. Please trust me to know that.”

“Lacey Anne, you
will not go
,” Dad says, and now his voice is more his own. I even hear it waver a little bit, like maybe I’m scaring him.

Then I see a short, determined figure in a pale pink jacket striding toward us. Mom.

I can’t let them team up on me.

“Mom—I have to go,” I say as she sidles up next to Dad. “It’s Tessa …”

“I know, honey,” Mom says. She doesn’t make any move to stop me, just puts her hand on Dad’s arm and starts to turn him around back toward the church. She’s on my side.

“Ted, come back inside,” she says calmly, softly.

I look at her, surprised, and she nods at me. “You’re a good friend, Lacey Anne,” she says.

Mom being there seems to snap Dad out of his devil persona. His shoulders sink, deflated, and he listens to her.

“Thank you, Mom,” I say.

She looks over her shoulder and gives me a warm smile. “Go,” she says.

I turn and run to Mrs. Minter’s station wagon, and I see that Dean has piled in, too. He, Ty, and I buckle up in the backseat just as Mrs. Minter pulls out of the lot, narrowly avoiding the gawking stragglers who are about to line up for the show.