glassclinking against one of my rings. âGood to see you in church, Preacherâs Kid,â she says, her breath sugar-laced, lips tinged red with her own drink.
âCheers,â I say, clinking my bottle against hers.
I step over a piece of the roof that has collapsed since the last party. The conversation starts up again, the anomaly of Alexâs presence fading fast while everyone chases their own goals for the night, whether itâs at the bottom of a bottle or in someone elseâs pants. Alex follows me, her eyes combing the crowd of our classmates as I do the same.
Itâs already dark, but someone was thinking ahead tonight. Everyone has to raise their voices to be heard over the hum of a generator, loud and persistent, lighting the strings of lights thrown around the walls and feeding the space heaters. There are fires too, made in the places where the stone floor has been torn up, exposing the black earth underneath. The whole place smells like fire and ash, sweat and vomit, rain and rot.
We love it.
I bet our parents loved it too, when they were our age. Once some of us made a game of trying to find them in the graffiti, names and dates mixed in an obscene smear, a town history more colorful and honest than the stories on paper. I found my mom, her name paired with Parkâs father, and then I stoppedlooking. I knew my dad didnât write on the walls of any church, collapsed and broken or not. But I donât doubt that he came here.
Sometimes after Iâve had a few beers I think about their parentsâour grandparentsâand then back further, to people who loved this place for a different reason. People who pulled rocks out of the ground to make the walls, cutting timber for a roof that has now rotted mostly away. The supports still in place are stained black from ashes of the generations that followed, our hands hard at work to tear it back down.
There are only five pews left, the rest cut up for fire over the years. Those that remain are high-value real estate, the only place to sit before you find somebody to sneak into the woods with. Branley has set up court at one, her eyes already artificially bright, her voice loud and brassy while Adam sprawls next to her, one arm thrown possessively around her shoulders. I flinch at the sight and look away to find Jack Fisher coming toward us, a beer in each hand, happier to see me than heâs ever been in his life.
But he walks right past me, gives a bottle to Alex and takes her other hand, leading her over to a pile of rubble where the less fortunate sit once the real seats are taken. I take another swig of beer and my eyes slide back over to Adam. Heâs looking at me. I jerk away, following Alexand Jack. I perch next to her on a rock, trying to find a spot to put my ass so that Iâm not in pain.
âI bought a phone,â Alex says to Jack. Her words come out smoothly, her voice more accustomed to use from hours of us talking at the shelter, sentences shared over dog shampoos, punctuated by the snip of the nail clipper.
âHereâs my number,â she adds, with a note of confidence she wouldnât learn even in years of conversation with me.
Jack snatches the piece of paper she hands him like heâs afraid itâll evaporate, punching the numbers in. He raises his phone to snap a pic of her, then puts it back down, cautious.
âIs it okay if I take your picture?â
She smiles hesitantly, but her arm goes around my shoulders, barely resting on my skin. I lean in, surprised at the contact, and whatâs left of my beer sloshes onto my pants. âShit,â I say, just as Jack takes the pic.
âOh, nice,â he says, laughing a little as he turns the screen toward us.
Iâm staring at my lap, my lips pursed right on the i in shit , mild annoyance stamped on my features like my own crotch offended me somehow. Alexâs arm dangles awkwardly near my neck, as if sheâs not
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
John O'Riley
Brenda Sinclair
Christopher George
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Karl Iagnemma
Celya Bowers
Jill Gregory
Aria Cunningham