saying, while a susurrus of crowd noise hit the roof and poured back down like rain. “But we changed all that! We’re free now! Now we live under Christ Jesus, and we’re happy about that! There’s no hunger in Murica. There’s no violence, no crime, no bad government! We’ve got the Lord and he’s got us. We’re lucky to live in Murica, and we’re proud of our young people. You are the future, the warriors against sin and temptation. You’re the fighters Jesus Himself talked about!”
My stomach cramped and growled. He went on through the speech, but I’d shut off. Usually you can tell where it’s gonna go in the first thirty seconds well enough to fake an answer in Discussion later. Just one of the many life skills you learn at Sunday school and polish at Holy Camp if you’ve got any synapses still functioning by the time they get done with you in elementary school.
The music swelled, and there was a glitch in the feed. For thirty whole seconds the telescreen was dark and the music kept twitching, a disc on skip. I craned my neck, the lights flashing aimlessly, and was kind of hoping I’d see Rob’s beaky face. He had this weird way of looking just when I did. Either that or he was always watching me.
No Rob.
It ended up not mattering, because halfway through the sermon, while we were all swaying with our hands in the air and the ginormous pastor on the screens was mumbling along some endless prayer about Feeling The Grace, frog-faced Miz Susan, a lay pastor (because women are always lay, in all senses, don’t you know), suddenly appeared in the aisle and grabbed me.
I thought I was derezzed. She dragged me out of the Community Building and we were whisked by lectrocart down to the Main Offices. Me with a sick sourness in my still-growling stomach and a need for a smoke burning everything else, and when the camp director ushered me into his office personally I found out I was going home.
My father had died.
* * *
“Don’t worry.” Uncle Irving perched on a stool, his watery brown gaze fastened on my mother’s ass as she wandered around the kitchen. “We’ll take care of you and Julie. Harry would’ve wanted that.”
Mom nodded, her cheeks tear-chapped and her long brown hair uncombed. She wasn’t even wearing a kerchief to hide her head, which gave me a weird feeling way deep in my bones. Plus her sweater was slipping down and showing a slice of her shoulder, and good old Irv was eyeing her skin like it was steak.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, fluorescent glare and sunlight mixing to hurt my eyes. I hadn’t even set down my duffel bag yet—by now I’ve got packing for Holy Camp down to an art . The house was the same as it always was: two story, tofu-colored, double garage and postage-stamp yard mostly kept up by the boys on mission at our local Community instead of indentureds with names like Rico or Jorge.
Father was a low-level pastor who hadn’t even made the trek to Colorado Springs yet. But he was Going Places. Everyone said so. He had a hard core of the Neighborhood Faithful and the only problem was Mom swallowing enough pills to keep her smiling and his Troubled Daughter.
That would be yours truly.
“Julie!” Irv slid off the stool. Long arms, long legs, pinchy knobbed fingers, and Dad’s perpetually blushing cheeks, the turkeyskin neck of an older man and a lipless mouth—that was Irv. He had cold-coffee eyes instead of Father’s yellow-brown pin-you-to-the-wall stare. He even had a black armband, cinching the short sleeve of his white button-down. “You’re home! Hey, kiddo!”
As if I’d come back from the Springs or something. I swung my duffel, “accidentally” catching him in the shins as he went to hug-grope me. Mom swayed near the sink, grabbing onto it, her vacant gaze sliding over both of us like we were an unfunny comedy routine. I made apologies, Irv limped to the table—stacked with paperwork and all sorts of crap; Father would’ve had a
My stomach cramped and growled. He went on through the speech, but I’d shut off. Usually you can tell where it’s gonna go in the first thirty seconds well enough to fake an answer in Discussion later. Just one of the many life skills you learn at Sunday school and polish at Holy Camp if you’ve got any synapses still functioning by the time they get done with you in elementary school.
The music swelled, and there was a glitch in the feed. For thirty whole seconds the telescreen was dark and the music kept twitching, a disc on skip. I craned my neck, the lights flashing aimlessly, and was kind of hoping I’d see Rob’s beaky face. He had this weird way of looking just when I did. Either that or he was always watching me.
No Rob.
It ended up not mattering, because halfway through the sermon, while we were all swaying with our hands in the air and the ginormous pastor on the screens was mumbling along some endless prayer about Feeling The Grace, frog-faced Miz Susan, a lay pastor (because women are always lay, in all senses, don’t you know), suddenly appeared in the aisle and grabbed me.
I thought I was derezzed. She dragged me out of the Community Building and we were whisked by lectrocart down to the Main Offices. Me with a sick sourness in my still-growling stomach and a need for a smoke burning everything else, and when the camp director ushered me into his office personally I found out I was going home.
My father had died.
* * *
“Don’t worry.” Uncle Irving perched on a stool, his watery brown gaze fastened on my mother’s ass as she wandered around the kitchen. “We’ll take care of you and Julie. Harry would’ve wanted that.”
Mom nodded, her cheeks tear-chapped and her long brown hair uncombed. She wasn’t even wearing a kerchief to hide her head, which gave me a weird feeling way deep in my bones. Plus her sweater was slipping down and showing a slice of her shoulder, and good old Irv was eyeing her skin like it was steak.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, fluorescent glare and sunlight mixing to hurt my eyes. I hadn’t even set down my duffel bag yet—by now I’ve got packing for Holy Camp down to an art . The house was the same as it always was: two story, tofu-colored, double garage and postage-stamp yard mostly kept up by the boys on mission at our local Community instead of indentureds with names like Rico or Jorge.
Father was a low-level pastor who hadn’t even made the trek to Colorado Springs yet. But he was Going Places. Everyone said so. He had a hard core of the Neighborhood Faithful and the only problem was Mom swallowing enough pills to keep her smiling and his Troubled Daughter.
That would be yours truly.
“Julie!” Irv slid off the stool. Long arms, long legs, pinchy knobbed fingers, and Dad’s perpetually blushing cheeks, the turkeyskin neck of an older man and a lipless mouth—that was Irv. He had cold-coffee eyes instead of Father’s yellow-brown pin-you-to-the-wall stare. He even had a black armband, cinching the short sleeve of his white button-down. “You’re home! Hey, kiddo!”
As if I’d come back from the Springs or something. I swung my duffel, “accidentally” catching him in the shins as he went to hug-grope me. Mom swayed near the sink, grabbing onto it, her vacant gaze sliding over both of us like we were an unfunny comedy routine. I made apologies, Irv limped to the table—stacked with paperwork and all sorts of crap; Father would’ve had a
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