Chapter 2 #2
His sermon … well, it wasn’t like any sermon I’d ever heard before.
The man wandered aimlessly around the stage, shouting so loudly into the microphone that spit was flying past, illuminated by the unnecessary spotlight aimed at him.
As he harped on about blasphemy and people being ungrateful for the gifts God had given them, I turned to Kent.
He was completely zoned out, staring at the back of the pew with a far-away look in his eyes.
I watched him for a while. He almost seemed like he was in a trance.
His fingers drew shapes and figures on the legs of his slacks, and a few times it almost looked like he’d been doodling hearts into the fabric.
Without thinking, I reached over and drew one right above his knee.
I must have tickled him, because he giggled before tapping the top of my hand with his finger.
He traced a K against my skin like he was branding himself into my flesh.
I could almost feel the fiery heat sizzling on my skin.
The music kicked in a little while after; a strong beat with blaring guitars accompanying.
Sister Fox stood and made her way to the center of the stage, taking the microphone from Kent’s daddy.
She sang a song about shackles coming off her feet so that she could dance, and as she did, half the congregation stood and did just that.
A trail of men and women flooded the aisles and made their way to the front of the church, dancing like nobody was watching.
Sister Clifton clicked her heels a few times, swaying her hips side to side as she reached for the sky.
Beside her, a woman with blonde hair and a stuffy attitude shuffled modestly to the beat, looking uncomfortable, like she was only taking part due to obligation.
The other two women who’d been sitting next to her in the pews, Ms. Dottie and Sister Thorpe, shimmied around, singing every line right along with Sister Fox.
A man zoomed down the aisle, and for a second, I thought there had been an emergency.
I worried someone was choking or having a heart attack and he was trying to alert the pastor.
When he reached the end of the aisle, he hopped up on the pew right beside Kent.
Kent turned and stared at me, rolling his eyes.
“What?” I whispered.
“Just wait. You’ll see.”
The man was facing the back of the church, and he hiked one leg up, resting his foot on the back of the pew. I grabbed Kent’s hand and squeezed.
"He's going to run the pews," Kent pointed out. "He always does it. It's the one interesting thing about him."
"I heard that, young man," the gentleman said.
"And I'll say it again," Kent bit back. "It's the only interesting thing about you.
" The man stared at the wall ahead, his fingers twitching with nerves.
Kent leaned closer and brought his voice to a whisper, his breath tickling my ear.
"This is the part where he acts like a total drama queen for five minutes before finally doing it, once everyone's looking. My mom says he's a narcissist."
“He’s gonna fall.”
“I wish,” Kent said with a snort. He darted his eyes back at the man who was still staring ahead, like he was trying to work up the nerve to do something.
Eventually, he smiled down at Kent and gave him a nod.
The man hoisted himself up on the back of the pew …
and then he ran. He hopped and hopped, his feet touching down on each of the pews backings without fault.
When he reached the final one, he stood on the ball of his heel and twirled around like a ballerina.
Hop after hop, he landed with ease until he finally reached our pew again.
When he jumped forward and landed, he clapped his hands in the air, and then he danced right alongside Sister Thorpe.
Kent grabbed my wrist and gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “Are you okay?” he mouthed.
I leaned in and pressed my mouth against his ear. “I’m fine.”
“You want to go outside anyway?” He must have known I was freaking out.
I’d never seen anything like it in my life.
All around, people were losing themselves to the music, and it scared the heck out of me.
Kent looked up at his dad with a quirked eyebrow.
Pastor Fox nodded, motioning toward the chapel doors.
I gave Kent’s dad an apologetic smile, but he mouthed that it was okay, and I could tell that he meant it.
We walked around the back of the church to the small, fenced-in yard. There were picnic tables all throughout, and Kent mentioned that they sometimes used them for potlucks like the ones we had at school on Fridays.
We took a seat at the farthest one from the chapel, back by the fence. The grass was overgrown, like no one had thought to mow it all summer. I was on the stool, but Kent hoisted himself up and sat on top of the table, his feet right beside me.
“So, we have to talk about God?” I asked.
“If you want,” he said with a shrug. Kent didn’t really seem to take the religion seriously, I’d noticed.
I didn’t know if it was down to him resenting being born into it, or if he just really didn’t believe.
I didn’t want to think about him not believing and maybe ending up in Hell when this life was over.
“That music was really pretty. The dancing was kind of scary, but the songs were beautiful. We didn’t have that back home. It was just a piano and Mrs. Maverick singing off-key hymns.”
“Sounds dreadful,” he said, tracing circles across the table with his fingers. “I like the slower songs. People usually stand still and pray during them. I always feel like Mom and Dad expect me to be front and center, dancing with everyone else. It’s nice to just relax, you know?”
“You shouldn’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I know. But I’m the pastor’s son. It’s expected.”
I laid my head against his thigh, my face inches from his stomach. “I bet you dance good.”
He blushed. “I have my moments.”
I tapped his thigh and traced circles into his slacks, the same way he’d done to the table earlier.
Kent reached down and ran his fingers through my hair.
We didn’t say anything for a while. We just stared at each other.
Everyone I knew—Momma, Daddy, Trevor—they were never comfortable with the quiet.
They talked in circles just to fill the empty space, but sometimes, I just wanted to be without having to perform.
I’d get nervous sometimes, trying to think of topics to keep the conversation flowing, but I never felt that with Kent.
It was like he got me. He understood, because he was the same.
Eventually, I broke the silence. “I sing sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
“Momma says I have a pretty voice, but she’s my mother. I think she has to say that.”
His fingers tugged my hair, gentle, but enough for me to feel him. “You can sing for me if you’d like. I’ll tell you if you’re good.”
“I don’t know,” I said, dropping my gaze back to his shirt. I wished I hadn’t brought the subject up. There was something about putting myself out there, opening myself up to his judgment, that sent a wave of panic crashing through me. “You might laugh.”
“I wouldn’t.” His fingers scratched my scalp. “Promise. Go on. I want you to.”
“Right now?”
“It's okay,” he said. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’d love to hear you.”
I closed my eyes, letting myself get lost in the feeling of his fingers running through my hair. The gentle massage cracked me open like an egg, letting out all of the parts I kept hidden from the rest of the world.
“Is there any song in particular that you want to hear?”
“Nah. Just something for me.”
For Kent. A song meant just for him. I racked my brain trying to think of one.
There was Lord I Lift Your Name on High, which was poppy and a little sassy.
It was in tune with who Kent was as a person, but it didn't feel right. Glorify Thy Name would have been a good choice. I’d have glorified Kent’s name any day. Still, it wasn’t him.
I pictured him in my mind. I imagined him as a grown up, blasting through life like the ringleader at a circus, all passion and flair and over-the-top antics.
I could see him so clearly in my mind. All that power and charisma overflowing like communion wine.
The funny thing was, I could picture myself right there beside him.
Smiling over at him like he held the whole world in his hands.
My life hadn’t had a bit of purpose until we moved to West Clark.
It was almost like it only took form and unfolded the day I met him.
He was my beginning, and I was pretty sure I wanted him to be there with me right up through the end. In life. In death. Right by my side.
I slid my hand over his, holding it closer to my scalp, and then I sang.
“Abide with me,” I began.
Every word—every single lyric—felt like it had been written about him and me.
Life would be hard for me. I didn’t know why, but I felt it deep down in the pit of my stomach.
I knew if he was there, standing right beside me, I could face it all with pride.
When the world was dark and cold and lonely, he’d make it all better.
When the outside world held little to no interest to me, he’d be all the interest I needed. That was the song. That was his song.
When I looked up at him, his eyes were a little misty, and he was staring at me with such intensity, I didn’t know how long I could stand it.
“Just for you, Kent,” I whispered. “Just for you.”