Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always by Elissa Janine Hoole Page A
Authors: Elissa Janine Hoole
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care. I’m not going. Eric can give in, but there’s no way I’m going to go. Not tonight, not after the stupidity in the hall this morning with Drew—I can’t face her. What if she tries to give me more poetry? It’s not my fault she can’t write. It’s not my responsibility to stick up for her when the stupid mean girls insult her. I didn’t laugh like the wind-up girls. I didn’t say anything to hurt her. It’s not my fault, and I’m not going to be the next one they target either. I’m going to keep my mouth shut, mind my own business, and try to get the most out of this opportunity to be a part of the newspaper. For my college applications. For my Song of Myself, maybe, I don’t know. Do I have to justify everything?
You know what? I didn’t get a tardy from Franklin today, and it was all because I said I was helping Annika and Britney on the newspaper. See? Even the teachers play by their rules.
Okay, so I have to come up with a good reason to skip church. None of this anxiety headache crap like Eric tries to pull. What’s making him so anxious every Wednesday and Friday night? So far, he hasn’t figured out a way to wiggle out of Sunday morning services, but at least there’s only fellowship and Bible Study Luncheon afterward, no youth group.
“I have homework,” I say, failing at the creative work of excuse-making. “It’s a huge assignment, and I’ve fallen behind on it already.” It’s a complete lie, unless you count that stupid Walt Whitman assignment, which I’m definitely not doing. It’s not due until Friday. I’m not going to youth group, and I’m not writing poetry.
“So I can’t go,” I say. A zing of something daring lurches through my chest cavity, a tingle at the back of my neck. I don’t think I’ve ever refused to do anything before, not like this. Sure, I’ve resisted passively—listening to family prayers without participating, forgetting my Bible—but I’ve never actually said no.
Dad sighs. It’s clear he’s frustrated by this pretense of democracy and wishes he could order me to get in the damn car. “What’s the project?” he says.
“Yes, and what do you mean, falling behind?” says my mother. “You’re perfectly aware of your responsibilities as a member of this family, and one of those responsibilities happens to be attending church services. You should be able to schedule your homework well enough in advance to make all of your commitments.”
The tiny thrill of my defiance keeps me from caving in, keeps my shoulders straight and my eyes firm. “I need to stay home.”
“Leave Cass alone,” Eric says, surprising me. I figured he’d save his defense for himself. “She’s only missed, like, twice in the last five years.” He sighs. “Look, I know you’re upset with me, but you don’t have to take it out on her.”
“And you!” Mom moves seamlessly from one target to the next. “Eric, this is the third time this month you’ve been too sick to go to youth group. What am I supposed to say? What do I tell people when they ask about you?”
“Tell them to mind their own damn business.” I can’t help it. The words come out before I can filter.
Dad slaps his hand down on the dining room table, making the salt and pepper shakers jump and clatter together. “Fine,” he says. “I’ve had enough of this. We’ll all be late if we keep this up.” He points at me. “You. Get your priorities clear. Got it?”
I nod, but I wonder what happens if my priorities are different from his. What if my priorities are all my own?
“And you,” he says, turning to Eric. “You get yourself to bed and don’t come out for anything. Friday evening you both will be coming to church, no excuses. As a family .” Dad brushes his hands together and stands up. He looks at Dicey. “Get your Bible and get in the car.”
I sneak a sidelong glance at Eric. His eye has swollen almost all the way shut and the bruise is a colorful mass of
You know what? I didn’t get a tardy from Franklin today, and it was all because I said I was helping Annika and Britney on the newspaper. See? Even the teachers play by their rules.
Okay, so I have to come up with a good reason to skip church. None of this anxiety headache crap like Eric tries to pull. What’s making him so anxious every Wednesday and Friday night? So far, he hasn’t figured out a way to wiggle out of Sunday morning services, but at least there’s only fellowship and Bible Study Luncheon afterward, no youth group.
“I have homework,” I say, failing at the creative work of excuse-making. “It’s a huge assignment, and I’ve fallen behind on it already.” It’s a complete lie, unless you count that stupid Walt Whitman assignment, which I’m definitely not doing. It’s not due until Friday. I’m not going to youth group, and I’m not writing poetry.
“So I can’t go,” I say. A zing of something daring lurches through my chest cavity, a tingle at the back of my neck. I don’t think I’ve ever refused to do anything before, not like this. Sure, I’ve resisted passively—listening to family prayers without participating, forgetting my Bible—but I’ve never actually said no.
Dad sighs. It’s clear he’s frustrated by this pretense of democracy and wishes he could order me to get in the damn car. “What’s the project?” he says.
“Yes, and what do you mean, falling behind?” says my mother. “You’re perfectly aware of your responsibilities as a member of this family, and one of those responsibilities happens to be attending church services. You should be able to schedule your homework well enough in advance to make all of your commitments.”
The tiny thrill of my defiance keeps me from caving in, keeps my shoulders straight and my eyes firm. “I need to stay home.”
“Leave Cass alone,” Eric says, surprising me. I figured he’d save his defense for himself. “She’s only missed, like, twice in the last five years.” He sighs. “Look, I know you’re upset with me, but you don’t have to take it out on her.”
“And you!” Mom moves seamlessly from one target to the next. “Eric, this is the third time this month you’ve been too sick to go to youth group. What am I supposed to say? What do I tell people when they ask about you?”
“Tell them to mind their own damn business.” I can’t help it. The words come out before I can filter.
Dad slaps his hand down on the dining room table, making the salt and pepper shakers jump and clatter together. “Fine,” he says. “I’ve had enough of this. We’ll all be late if we keep this up.” He points at me. “You. Get your priorities clear. Got it?”
I nod, but I wonder what happens if my priorities are different from his. What if my priorities are all my own?
“And you,” he says, turning to Eric. “You get yourself to bed and don’t come out for anything. Friday evening you both will be coming to church, no excuses. As a family .” Dad brushes his hands together and stands up. He looks at Dicey. “Get your Bible and get in the car.”
I sneak a sidelong glance at Eric. His eye has swollen almost all the way shut and the bruise is a colorful mass of
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