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  “No.” Andrea lies down next to me, still chewing. “And you don't want to know.”

  “Why not?” I turn on my side to look at her. “I've got to find her again. I've got to find out if this was just a stupid mistake, or hormones, or if I have a brain tumor or something that's screwing up my judgment. And I won't be able to do that unless I see her again.”

  An image of the girl comes rushing back, brief, luminous, dark hair shining like a curtain of watered silk, full pink lips drawn into a surprised smile, eyes crinkled at the edges as if they'd endured too much laughing, the second our eyes had met. That split second stretches on into an infinite horizon of inappropriate urges and potential excommunication.

  “I just brushed into her, just for a second,” I mutter. “It was probably just some mistake or something.”

  “Do you remember what she looked like?” I can feel Andi squinting at me.

  “Dark hair, blue eyes, really pretty lips. Red blouse. And she had these cute wrinkles around her eyes, like she laughs a lot. And I think she had on some kind of jasmine perfume, something I've smelled before but I can't remember—”

  “Whoa.” Andrea holds up her hands to stop me. “Yeah, I don't think it was a freak, meaningless thing if you can remember where she had lines in her face.”

  “Not lines. Just those cute little laugh wrinkles people get. Anyway, I just brushed into her. It could've happened to anybody!”

  “Sure. But if I brushed into her, it wouldn't be a big deal. Hey, there's a thought. Maybe I could start dating her, and then I could tell you all about it, and you could live vicariously through me.” She grins leeringly.

  “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  “Of course I’m not.” She sighs. “It’s nothing. I swear, you find things to make you crazy. Isn’t being related to Minister Bryant enough to make you nuts? You don’t need to go looking for more drama!”

  I peer over the banister: no sign of my dad or his California friend. Or the girl. “You really think it’s nothing?”

  “I think it’s less than nothing.”

  Relief washes over me. Andi knows me so well…she’d know if this was something to worry about. “Well, I'd better get back. I'm sure Dad has something for me to do.”

  “Hey,” Andrea grabs my arm as we step out of the gazebo. “Really, just forget about it, Chris. It's just something that happened. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe you were thinking of somebody else. Maybe...she has a brother!” She scampers down the steps and runs across the dry grass toward my house, the sprawling two-story at the edge of the property. “Can't catch me!”

  I catch up to her even before we reach the steps. “Not even a race,” I pant. “You need to work out more.”

  Dad comes out onto the porch. “Chris!”

  I grab onto the porch railing. “Yeah, Dad?”

  “My cue to leave,” Andrea mumbles as she bows her respectfully. “Good afternoon, Reverend.”

  “Afternoon, Andrea. Tell your parents I said hello. I wish I saw them more at church!” He grins at her, but she knows the message is genuine. David hates when people skip church.

  “Yes sir.” She shoots me a secret smile, then dodges down the path toward the tree-lined street and home.

  Crap. There’s really no way to avoid the college talk now. All I want to do is race up to my room, shut the door, and stand in the shower to drown out my thoughts.

  Dad drapes an athletic arm casually around my shoulders and walks me to the door. “I thought we could go for a drive. In the Spyder.”

  The Spyder? That’s his baby, his dream car, his most sacred possession. Reserved for only the most serious discussions. He holds the door for me.

  “Maybe I'll even let you drive,” Dad says as the screen door bangs shut behind us. “Get out of your good clothes. We're gonna have the top down.”

  Great. I take the stairs two at a time to my bedroom. At least if I’m going to get chewed out, it will be in style. He's going to let me drive the Spyder? He's never done that before. Is that good or bad? Maybe he's going to let me start driving it on my own sometimes. What about that girl? Andrea’s probably right. Maybe—

  “What's the rush?” My year-older sister, Jana, hears me galloping up the stairs and barges into my room. She plops down on my bed, uninvited, and leans back into the pillows. “Going somewhere?”

  “Dad and I are going for a drive. In the Spyder.” I rummage through my drawer looking for a sweatshirt.Jana just laughs, a snide, I-know-more-than-you chuckle. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She swings herself off the bed and ambles out the door. Without looking back she says, “Better watch out, though. The only time I got to drive the Spyder, he threatened to disown me.”

  “Because you're such a crappy driver?”

  “No,” she answers quietly. “It was when he wanted to sell me off to Abbess Perry, and I said no.” She smiles sweetly. “Have fun.”

  God, I hate her. I know it’s wrong, but I do. She’s managed, again, to ruin one small thing that might bring me a little temporary happiness, a skill she's perfected over the past seventeen years. When I was a little kid, she told me Santa Claus was a myth. She told me that the cute little pigs we raised for 4-H were going to slaughtered and turned into a side of bacon at the local pancake house.

  I do not need this today. Sold her off? What does that mean? What does it have to do with me and ride in the Spyder?

  As usual, I take the bait.

  “Jana!”

  “Yes?” She turns, crosses her arms, and smiles, a cat watching a canary begging to be eaten.

  “What do you mean, Dad was trying to sell you to Abbess Perry?”

  The smug expression disappears and is replaced with a hard, stone mask. “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Hey, you brought it up.” I catch her arm as she turns to go. “What happened? I can't believe Dad would do anything like that. You must be interpreting it all wrong.”

  She hesitates, glances down the stairs, then walks back into my room. “What do you know about what happened?”

  “Chris?” Dad calls up the stairs. “You coming?”

  “Just have to use the bathroom real fast! Be right there!” I turn to my manipulative jerk of a sister. I don’t need her drama, but now, of course, I have to know what she’s talking about. I’m curious. “Hurry.”

  “What do you know about it?” she asks again.

  “All I know is that Abbess Perry requested that you be sent to Dartfell Abbey for an internship. And you didn't go. And Dad was pissed.”

  Jana laughs ruefully. “Yeah, well, there was more to it than that. He wanted me to marry the Abbess.”

  “What?! That old windbag? She's, like, in her forties, isn't she? Why would he want you to marry her?”

  “Because it's a political move.” She inches closer. “You know how the Anglicant Senate is always fighting with the House of Representatives for control?”

  “I don’t know…I don’t really follow politics.” I glance nervously toward the door and the hallway. I definitely don’t want Dad to hear this conversation.

  “Well, you should.” She crosses her arms defiantly. “McFarland is in the Senate already, and he’s probably in line to become the leader. They have a lot more power than people think. You know how it’s supposed to be a balance, of the Senate church and the civil government Reps?”

  “I guess…” All I can think about is how pissed David will be if I’m not ready to go.

  “It’s not so balanced anymore. The Anglicants are pushing to put their guy in as president, leaving the House powerless. And some members of the House don’t always approve of the things the Senate does in the name of God. But without any control…”

  “What? What don’t they approve?”

  “Like arranged marriages. Like…other stuff.” We hear a creaking on the stairs. “He's coming. Just remember...be careful what you agree to. He can't make you do anything, really.” For a second I see a shadow cross
her face, with genuine emotions: doubt, fear. Nothing scares Jana. But something did, I guess.

  The door swings wider. “Hey,” Dad says genially. “A little sibling bonding, huh? Well, there'll be time for that later. Right now, we've really gotta get going, Chris. Is your homework finished, Jana?”

  “Almost. See you later.”

  He crosses the room in two large steps, bends, kisses the top of her head, and she recoils only slightly.

  I follow Dad out of the room unwillingly. I want to stay and talk to Jana, whose face is still a mask of stone. What else could she tell me?

  The Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder: a work of art with wheels and an iPod dock. Dad houses the holiest of cars in a separate garage to make sure it is never dented, scratched, or used for mundane things like trips to the grocery. I remember the last time I had been invited in there (because, after all, you had to be invited); I’d been about eleven, and David had shown me the car after I'd miserably failed fifth-grade math.

  The conversation had been about how if, at eleven, you failed math, you'd never own anything nearly as valuable or as awe-inspiring as this wondrous car. David had caressed it lovingly, stroked the cerulean paint (that was the name of the color...no ordinary blue for a Spyder), flicked dust from its mirrors, and basically showed the damn car more affection than I remember getting in my entire childhood. But it was a beautiful car.

  The autumn chill contrasts with the warmth and womb-like protection of the garage. Just as I’m enjoying the sanctity of the car cathedral, Jana’s ominous warning bubbles up. Be careful what you agree to...he can't make you do anything, really.

  Dad flicks the lights on, and the car gleams, a jewel in the pale fluorescent light. “Yep,” he says, caressing the pristine paint job. “My baby. Climb in.” The passenger door whooshes open, nearly soundless, inviting. I sink into the tasteful leather seat, drink in the elegance of the new car smell that somehow lingers despite the fact that the car is now nearly a decade old.

  Dad eases into the driver's side, coaxes the Spyder from its cozy nest, and swings it out onto the road. The top retracts soundlessly. Above the purr of the engine and the rush of wind he says, “So, how's life?”

  How's life? Hmmm...well, Dad, I brushed against a girl at church and felt attracted to her, so I'm now a sinner relegated to the pits of hell. How 'bout you?

  I say to what I always say: “Fine.”

  To cover the awkwardness, I flip on the radio, and a news talk station spews propaganda against illegal immigration. “Can we listen to music?” I ask timidly. I hate listening to the hate mongers.

  “Hang on.” He turns the volume up. “I want to hear what Dobson has to say.”

  I tune out the yammering of the conservative radio host, hearing only the occasional biting word: “illegal”, “deport”, “neutralize.” Instead, I close my eyes and focus on the feeling of the wind in my hair. The girl...her long, thin fingers winding around my hair...she had dark, straight black hair, black and shining like a raven's wing...I shouldn't be thinking about her! And lips...full, sweet, juicy like fruit...Ahghgh! Stop it! I pinch my forearm so hard I leave a mark.

  Dad turns off the radio, and the wind and engine hum sweep all other sounds out of the way. “Chris, you’re almost eighteen. Have you thought about your future?”

  Not this. “Sort of.”

  He glances at me, smiles slightly. “And?”

  “Uh...I'm not sure, really. I've thought about working with computers, maybe.” I already know this answer will not be good enough. What I really want to do is astronomy, but that’s even weirder than computers. David thinks staring at the sky is a waste of time.

  “Computers.” The disapproval in his voice is obvious. “Well. A trade school would be all right, of course, but Warren and I were thinking that a four-year college would probably be more in line with your talents and ambitions.”

  “Hmmm.” I stare straight ahead at the open road, the blur of trees and flowers and falling-down wood fences typical of the country. “I don't know, Dad. Academics are kind of tough for me. But computers, programming and hardware, that's stuff I really get. I was thinking maybe—”

  “The reason I ask,” he flashes me a dazzling smile, “is that we got a very exciting offer. I want to talk to you about Jim McFarland. He's coming over to the house tomorrow, while you’re still on your break from school, and...well, he's really interested in helping you.”

  Helping me. Right.

  “Jim wants you to apply to Westhaven. He thinks you'd be a really good fit there. You'd definitely get in, he's given me his word. So, what do you think?”

  He just beams at me, as if he's just offered a prize. As usual, I don’t know what to say to him. So I don’t say anything.

  “That's it?” He’s pissed. No surprise. He pulls the Spyder off to the side of the road. We sit silently for a few seconds before he launches into the inevitable lecture. “I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this, Christopher. I don’t know if you were paying attention in government class, but the person who runs the Anglicant church also becomes the leader of the U.S. Senate, and that’s fully half the functioning government. If the president is pro-Anglicant, the House of Representatives becomes irrelevant, and then…well, then, the Senate leader is pretty much running the country. Which is what we need, Chris, to get this country back under control. Back to God’s plan. That’s going to be McFarland. If you understood anything about the world—how things really work—matches are made for reasons.”

  “What about love?”

  “Love?” He snorts. “Love is great for ordinary people, Chris, but for people like us…it’s just not practical. You’re part of something larger than yourself. A church. A government. You’re my son, and if I can find you a place, you can be part of what makes this country great. We can be part of that. That means something.” I sit silently, fumbling with my seatbelt. He hits the steering wheel, which makes me jump. “I just wish you’d wake up and stop being so….”

  I know the word he’s fishing for. Stupid. How many times have I heard that? He doesn’t even have to say it. I want to yell at him, scream that he’s supposed to just accept me for who I am, stupid or not, and I want to take a sledgehammer to this stupid car, and I just wish he could…be someone else.

  “Warren told me you wouldn't like it, but I said, no, of course he will! Even Chris would see the value of a match like this!”

  “Match?” I shouldn’t speak, but I can’t help myself. “You’re talking about me getting married. I’m not old enough. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life.”

  A beat. A breath. The rage subsides. Magically, he’s again the kind, caring, compassionate man of the cloth that his parishioners know and fear. Kind, caring David Bryant smiles reassuringly. “Sure. Sorry. I know it's a lot to take in at once. I’m just really…I just want what’s best for you.” Yeah, thanks. I wish I believed that. “Just think about it. Of course, I'd never want you to do anything that didn't feel right. But he’s going to be the next bishop. I mean, this could set you up for life. You could do anything you want, or nothing at all. But hey, I'm not pushing...” He turns the ignition again. “Want to drive?”

  “No, thanks.” A large, gloss-winged raven sits at eye-level on a whitewashed fence, and as I watch it, it launches into the clear blue sky. Lucky bird.

  Chapter 2

  I dream of black birds and fences, of a woman’s lips whispering to me in a darkened room, and I wake up in a sweat despite the chill in the fall air. It’s the first day of October break from our year-round high school, but it doesn’t feel like a vacation.

  I roll out of bed, hair drenched, and head for the bathroom. Wash my face. I feel like something horrible has happened, and something wonderful, but I can’t remember what. An image snaps into my brain, wide eyes, full lips, dark hair. It makes me blush, makes me lightheaded, full of delicious secrets. Then the whole conversation in the car comes rushing back in all its horrific realness, and I feel sick. G
od, dating somebody like McFarland, dating anybody, after what happened…what colossal terrible timing. But David can’t force me. I know Jana is wrong. She has a way of making everything a drama. But God. What am I going to do?

  My phone buzzes. It’s Andi, so I press ANSWER. “Hey.”

  “Chris!” Andrea's distorted voice sounds panicky.

  “Let me call you back. I’m in the bathroom!”

  “Wait! Meet me in park, at the picnic shelter.” The phone clicks dead.

  Andi can help me. She’s always been good at figuring out how to get out of trouble. But this isn’t just trouble. This isn’t stealing a calculator or hiding a frog in a drawer or sticking a tack on a seat. This is life-altering, life-ending trouble.

  After quickly washing and pulling on jeans and a tan sweater, I pad out of my room silently, hoping to avoid David. Maybe if I keep away from him for long enough, the whole topic of Jim McFarland will just go away. Jim McFarland, the girl, myself. I need to dive into a hole and disappear.

  The house is silent, except for Warren's singing from the kitchen. He’s belting some failed Broadway musical. I feel a pang of guilt—he trusts me. He and his baking, opera-loving, bad-musical-singing honest self, he loves me. I’ve never been that sure about David, but Warren…this would break his heart. It would kill him. I’ve got to stop thinking about it. It’s not true. It’s just not. Pretend to be normal.

  “Hey, Warren.” I hug his Buddha belly. “Anything good this morning?”

  “Made some muffins,” Warren says, a baritone Martha Stewart. “Banana nut. Some are still hot.” He hands me a green porcelain platter loaded with treats, and wipes his big hands on a LOVE THE COOK apron.

  “You got flour in your hair again.” I brush powder from his sideburns, and linger just a second on his scruffy cheek. “Is Dad here?”

  “Nope.” He hands me a muffin. “Want two?”

  “Sure.” He bundles the muffins in a cloth napkin while I put on my shoes. I doubt I’ll be able to eat a bite. “I'm going out for a while.” He’s staring at me. Does he see something? Does he know? “What?”