Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (22 page)

I could’ve handled this situation. I didn’t need Fran to swear, to turn a routine event into a riot. It didn’t need to be this way.

“Is she really your girlfriend?” asks a small girl
in the front row. She fingers the ends of her blond pigtails, face pulled into an anxious expression she should never have to wear. I swear she’s about to cry.

“No.” The answer just slips out—even catches me by surprise—but is lost amid the din.

“Really?” she presses, dubious, or perhaps afraid.

I shake my head. “No.”

More people hear me this time, and their earnest hushes combine, silencing the room in only a couple of seconds.

“Are you sure about that?” Teresa leans back in her chair, those narrowed eyes like thunderclouds waiting for all hell to break loose.

I can imagine the pleasure she’d get from seeing these people leave in protest—all because Fran couldn’t keep her mouth shut. But I won’t give Teresa that victory. Not now. Not ever.

“I don’t even know her,” I say, calm and confident, my eyes never wavering from Teresa.

I expect Teresa to fume—beaten once again—but she doesn’t. She tips her head back and brings her hands together like she’s offering a prayer of thanks.

That’s when I realize what I’ve done.

I wait for a crash of thunder—something appropriately biblical—but the room simply returns to normal. No one is paying any attention to Fran anymore. My words have confirmed their desire that she is merely
an intruder; and now she’s history. We’ve moved on without her, joined together in celebrating the oneness of our lives. Our shared values.

But that’s not all. Everybody in the audience—consciously or not—turns away from her too. Having conquered their adversary, they shun her. Worst of all, they’re doing it in support of me. I gave them permission to treat her this way, and now I just want to throw up.

Fran doesn’t shout or scream, or lash out at them. She simply stares at the words on her arm, reading them over and over. Finally, as tears well in her eyes, she nods just once, like the world that had been off-kilter for the last few days has returned to its proper axis. I can tell it’s killing her.

It’s killing me too. I need to fill the silence I’ve created, but what should I say? I feel empty, and now I know for sure what I’ve suspected all along: My words are empty too. Everything I’ve written, everything I’ve said… it’s all just nothingness.

Fran is already out the door. My legs are shaking so badly that I’d fall over if I weren’t leaning against the lectern. I’m so focused on not crying that I have no energy to spare for forming words.

I want to go back in time, before this evening, to the day I started writing
Hallelujah
. I want to
tell myself to stop before it’s too late. I want to tell myself I don’t deserve to own those words. I want to warn myself who I’m destined to become.

But when I recall that day, I know that my younger self would never believe me. Really, how could he?

Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri

The signing is over in record time. There’s not much to say anymore, nothing to top the drama of what has just unfolded. Floral-dress lady takes the microphone again, but there’s no applause. People head for the exits so fast you’d think the room was on fire.

Colin grabs my arm as I walk to the signing table. “Fiction?” he whispers. “This is
fiction
?”

“Yeah. I never said it wasn’t.”

“It’s subtitled:
A Spiritual Chronicle of a Sixteen-Year-Old St. Louisan
.”

“There are lots of sixteen-year-olds in St. Louis.”

“You told the audience of
The Pastor Mike Show
that it was one hundred percent truthful!”

“Did I?”

“Don’t play innocent.”

“I’m not. I just don’t remember. I’ve never watched it.”

Colin looks seriously depressed. “
Hallelujah
is about a sixteen-year-old boy from Missouri who bears an uncanny resemblance to you. Nowhere does it state the whole thing is made up.”

“Not the whole thing. Just parts. Anyway, I thought you knew. That’s why I wrote it in the third person.”

Colin has more to say, that’s obvious, but a few people still want to buy a book in spite of what they’ve witnessed. “Go,” he says. “Before everyone runs away.”

The line moves quickly. People want to ask questions, but they’re tongue-tied. I think they’re still in a state of shock, unsure what tonight’s disaster really means. The only words they exchange concern “that freaky girl,” which makes me so tense I can’t even conjure a polite smile.

Then someone ups the ante—calls Fran a
freak
—and I accidentally screw up the name of the dedicatee. It’s just an accident, but the bookstore owner gives Colin a nudge and I know we’ll be paying for that copy ourselves.

The last person in line places a book on the table. “The name is Chastity.”

I look up and find myself eye to eye with Teresa. She has a large manila envelope in her right hand; her
left rests on
Hallelujah
as though it’s the Bible. “What do you want?” I ask.

“I’m a fan. Heck, I’m not even offended that you got angry at me for pretending to be someone I’m not. Although,” she adds, frowning, “that was quite hypocritical of you, in retrospect.”

“I’m not pretending to be someone else. You know exactly who I am.”

“I do now. And so will everyone else. Soon.”

“What do you want, Teresa?”

“It’s Chastity.”

“I know who you are.”

“No, Luke. You just think you do. But as I’m last in line, we have time to address that.” She holds out her hand. “Chastity Hope.”

“Very funny.” I don’t shake.

She gives up and pulls out her driver’s license. There’s a picture of her. Her name is Chastity Hope. She’s nineteen.

“I’m glad you find my name funny. So did every kid at every school I ever attended. Especially when I showed up in clothes like these every day. Even in summer.”

She hesitates, and I realize she’s actually telling the truth, giving me a glimpse of who she really is.

“I used to beg my parents for jeans,” she continues, “but they wouldn’t let me have a pair. Kept talking
about modesty and godliness. Well, you know what? I don’t think God gives a crap about what I wear. But the kids at school sure did, and they spent all week bullying me for it—even the ones I saw at church every Sunday. When I told my parents, they just reminded me that nothing compares to Jesus’ suffering.”

“True.”

“What do you mean,
true
? It’s irrelevant. Saying Jesus had it worse is
not
a justification for bullying. And you know the worst part? I never believed in God in the first place.” She stops, allows her words to sink in.

“Then I’m sorry for you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re only sorry for yourself—that’s how self-centered you are. Come on, Luke, you just dumped your girlfriend in public to save face. You’ll tell anyone what they want to hear—and let them spout whatever crap they want—just so they’ll buy your book.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? Remember our
date
? I told you the other kids at school had stoned me. I kept making up this crazy stuff, waiting for you to call me on it. But you never did. Didn’t want to spoil your chances of making out with me over something as minor as a bare-faced lie, did you?”

“I didn’t know you were lying.”

“Yes, you did! I could see it in your face.” She smiles.
“And what about your first signing? Yvonne Bethel—who’s a freakin’ con artist, by the way, and everyone knows it—says you’ve performed a miracle, and what do you do? Nothing! And today we discover that your book is a pile of crap, even though you claimed it was all true.”

I shouldn’t have to explain myself to Teresa, of all people, but I can’t help it. “I honestly don’t remember saying that.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient.” She shakes her head. “God, Luke, you have no idea how cathartic this whole week has been for me. My editor at the magazine told me not to make it personal. She said I just needed an interview, a couple statements that revealed the
real
Luke Dorsey. But when I saw you on
The Pastor Mike Show,
spouting all this self-righteous crap like the kids at my school used to, I knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime assignment.” She’s almost tripping over her words now. “Exposing who you really are has been a crusade for me. Bringing you down may not undo all those years of torment, but it’s coming pretty damn close.”

I push the book back to her, unsigned.

Suddenly she’s back in Teresa mode, misty eyed and uncertain. “But
why
won’t you sign it?” she whines loudly.
Really
loudly.

I can’t risk another scene, so I take the book back.

“My writing may not be legible,” I say as I scrawl the name
Chastity
across the top, and follow it with a squiggle that has no connection to my signature.

“I understand. You’ve signed a lot of books this week. Still, I’m sure you’ll look back on this one fondly. After all, it’ll be your last.”

I hand it over to her.

“No, no. You keep it,” she says. “Think of it as a souvenir.”

I can think of another, more satisfying use for the book right now. But what would that prove? Years of bullying have brought Chastity here in the first place. Besides, I still want to prove her wrong.

“Blessed are the pure in heart,” I say, “for they shall see God.”

“Matthew five, verse eight.” She nods approvingly. “Well, I guess that rules both of us out. Good-bye, Luke.” She hands me the manila envelope. “And good luck.”

As she walks away I read the words written across the envelope:
And I only wanted first base.
It takes a moment, but I have a feeling I know what I’m about to find inside. And it breaks my heart.

There are five glossy 8×10 photographs. They’re grainy, because they were taken at night, with nothing but the amber glow of a security lamp to reveal the subjects. But it’s us, all right—Fran and me—our arms wrapped around each other, faces turned toward
the camera. By the third photo, we’re kissing. And finally there’s the money shot: Fran and me making out, sprawled on the grass, her body under mine as we kiss with open mouths. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a whole lot more than that going on too.

I’m sure Colin will agree.

The alleyway outside Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri

I’m standing in the alleyway where I was kissing Fran just two hours ago. I can still feel her lips, see her large eyes shining at me with nothing but joy and a self-confident glow that had been missing for twelve long months. It’ll be missing again now. I wish I had the energy to hate myself more.

Today, my dream finally came true. Tonight, I changed the dream.

“You okay?” It’s Matt, hands stuffed deep in his shorts pockets.

I shake my head.

“I know it’s hard,” he says, “but trust me: You should go and apologize right now. Waiting won’t
make it any easier.” He pauses for me to show I’ve heard him. “She’s your girlfriend, Luke.”

“
Was
his girlfriend,” says Alex, joining us. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

Matt touches her arm gently. “Look at him, Al. He knows he messed up.”

“No.” She shakes off his hand. “Just for once, can we call it like it is? You
lied,
Luke. How could you do that after she’d told you…” Alex turns away. She can’t even face me. “She loves you.
Loved
you. Do you understand what that means?”

“Give him a break,” says Matt. “He’s under a lot of stress.”

“Don’t tell me you’re taking his side.”

“I’m not taking sides. I’m just saying he’s overwhelmed. This has been a pretty intense experience.”

She steps back. “Three times did Peter deny Jesus. Three times!”

“
Now
you start quoting the Bible? Come on. Fran isn’t Jesus, Alex.”

“Well, neither is Luke! Not by a long shot. Doesn’t stop everyone from acting like he is.”

Matt takes a deep breath. “How about this one: Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Alex’s shock is quickly swallowed behind a thin-lipped smile. “Egghead Kegs, Matt? Ring a bell?”

Matt’s face turns ghostly white. He seems to shrink before my eyes.

“I know you paid the bill,” she says. “Just like dear Brianna told me you would.”

“Who’s Brianna?” I ask.

“Yes, Matt, who’s Brianna?”

Matt can’t even meet our eyes, let alone reply.

“I didn’t believe her at first,” Alex continues, “so I called Egghead Kegs to check. One hundred and seventy-eight dollars for two kegs of beer consumed a month ago. Must’ve been some party.”

“I don’t really remember,” he says.

“Liar. You paid the bill for the entire sorority. Did you honestly believe you could buy their silence for one hundred and seventy-eight dollars?”

Matt grips his hair like he wants to pull it out. “It was one night.”

“Apparently it was a pretty special night. I looked Brianna up on Facebook, by the way. I can see the attraction.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself? Why did you make me find out through an illiterate e-mail from some skanky girl I’d never even heard of?”

Suddenly the bundle of self-confidence known as Matthew Dorsey crumbles entirely. “I was drunk.”

Alex winces, and anger gives way to tears. “I wish you hadn’t said that. How can you sleep with someone else and expect it to be all right because you were
drunk
?”

“I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“I did, you idiot. I never would’ve come on this trip otherwise. And you know who convinced me to give you a second chance? Fran, that’s who. She said three years together means something. Said everyone makes mistakes. Said she was sure you loved me… and that I still loved you.” Tears stream down her cheeks. She rummages in her pockets for a tissue, but can’t find one. “Fran is the reason we’re still together, Matt. Not
you
.”