"I just don't get why it's never enough for kids these days, first you have to be gay and when that doesn't satisfy you need to cross-dress and get into this gender nonsense. It's not natural." My mother titters under her breath as we get out of the car. My teeth make a loud click as they slide clenched together.
"Everything's inherently gay if you don't have a gender."
She sniffs loudly and purses her lips.
Before she can speak again, I interject, "At least I have a friend."
We go inside without another word. After an astounding three and a half seconds, a rather rotund women with freshly hair-sprayed flat-iron curls comes bustling over.
"Andrea! Oh my goodness, it's so nice to see you again!" My mom shakes the red from her cheeks and pulls her mouth into a grin.
"Beth-Anne!" I can almost hear her holding back a sneer.
Beth-Anne is my mom's biggest rival, only after trans fats (and youths). They are in a constant head-to-head for the position of Church's Biggest Kiss-Ass. Every year, every holiday, every gathering; pie baking contest "for charity," chili cook-off, bible-verse-memorizing, tithing, whatever it is, if it can show the other and every other person within a thousand mile radius that they are better, they will do it.
"You haven't been to bible study lately, Andry, I've been worried about ya!" Beth-Anne gleams.
I slip away to the kitchen before they start spitting on each other.
You can say anything you want about church, but you can't say they don't have refreshments. On that front, the lord doth provide. I help myself to a healthy pile of grapes, pretzels, and cinnamon raisin bread and hide myself in a chair behind an egregiously dusty fake fern in the back corner of the room and open my phone;
"Duo misses you! Better practice! Esto es una amenaza!" I swipe away the notification and continue to Tiktok.
"I was about to go to sleep, but this is too important not to–"
"Breaking news! This week in–"
"Don't scrol–"
"Put a finger down, but I'm not going to tell you what it is until the end," I like these more than I should. I hold up a mental hand and pick up a grape with my real one. "Put a finger down if you don't see yourself getting married." Never, check. "Put a finger down if you had a fictional character or characters that you just thought were really cool as a kid." Check. "Put a finger down if you don't really get crushes that easily." Really calling me out on a Wednesday night but go off I guess. "Put a finger down if you get along better with boys or nonbinary people than with girls." Does it count if they're my only friend? "And finally, put a finger down if you can't drive." That's not even fair. "If you have all five fingers down, you might just be ga–"
"Julia."
My head snaps up, only to lock eyes with my mother who stands above me, looking highly irritated with the remnants of a banana nut muffin clenched in a tight fist.
"The service is starting, you're going to make us late."
I want to tell her to just leave me out here then, but I don't want to piss her off even more than she already is. It doesn't take doing anything for her to be mad at me, she doesn't need an actual reason.
I don't know why I keep going along with all of this, why I don't tell her straight up I hate going to church. I think maybe it's the only thing holding us together.
Oh god, maybe I'm using this as a filler for all the gaping holes in my heart.
It would make sense, anyway, and I can see why she does it. It gives you a sense of purpose and belonging, even if you think absolutely all of it is bullshit. At least I'm not trying to fool anyone, though. I'm not preaching what I definitely don't practice. I keep my mouth shut and mind my own business. I guess her holes are a little bigger and need a little extra filling. I can feel my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
"Julia will you please pay attention!" The hiss of my mom's voice hits my face in a sharp gust and I can smell the Church Service Peppermint on her breath.
Ok Andrea.
I stand up with the rest of the congregation while they say their vows,
"Our father, who art in heaven–"
Honestly I'm a little jealous of everyone here. They have a purpose, and their lives have meaning; that must be nice, anyway. But I can't do it. I would rather have a meaningless, hollow, depressing life for the rest of my existence, then spend an eternity in a fiery, tortuous afterlife, than spend one more second than I have to with these people. And I am generalizing. Every single one of them is the same. They wake up, pray to their god for preemptive forgiveness, go complain about a corporate issue to a cashier, stop for lunch at Panera, ignore a homeless person on the street, commit tax fraud, eat a glutton's portion of pork for dinner, brush their teeth, and then ask daddy god to wipe their slate clean again. Rinse and repeat. Again, I don't think I can blame them, I've done most of those things (in that order) too, but I don't pretend to know better. I'm just a stupid kid, these people are supposed to be grown adults.
Finally the longest 37 seconds of my life ends and I can return to my seated position in the hard auditorium chair.
A squat man I don't recognize walks on stage, who I'm presuming is the new pastor. He doesn't look as old as I thought he would be. He has thick blond hair and wears a beard to match. You can tell he used to be the head of youth group in his prime–he wears a button up shirt cuffed at the sleeves, and not quite buttoned to the top, but he addresses the room full of adults like they're five.
"Good evening, everyone! My name's Pastor Michael, and I am so excited to be serving you in this new chapter we all just started together."
A bit of bile burns my throat as I glance around the room to see if anyone is eating this up like he expects them to.
There is a curt applause, many gleaming faces, and then my mother's own pursed smile. I join them because I think it's compulsory.
"Before we begin tonight, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Jenny."
A tall, honey-haired woman joins him on the stage and smiles at us. She's pretty, and looks rather young. She seems quiet, and I would wonder how they ended up together, but we have a pastor named Michael who was the leader of his youth group, so I don't think I need to wonder too much on that one, actually.
Michael grabs Jenny's hand and continues, "And this is my daughter, Heaven."
My breath catches in my throat. It's hard to see at first, but a girl walks onto the stage with the same long coppery blonde hair as her mom, tucked behind one ear, wearing a gingham dress she gently smooths down with both hands. I catch myself brushing my hands down the front of my jeans in the same motion. I cross my arms instead and bite at my thumb.
I watch her walk across the stage, take up the spot on the other side of her dad, and fold her hands softly on the front of her dress.
Michael continues talking. I don't listen; that's nothing new. What is new is my sudden inability to look away from the stage. A bead of sweat falls down the back of my neck; a cold shiver follows it down my spine. I sneak a glance at my mother who is still nodding at our new pastor with a tight smile. My shoulders relax slightly, but my chest is tight. I think I'm having an anxiety attack or something, but I haven't gotten this way in church in years. I can't excuse myself now or else everyone will stare at me and that'll only make it worse, so I just continue to sit here in all of my jitteriness.
I look nervously back to the stage and bite at my nail some more. The three of them are still standing there together, until Michael finishes his introduction and his wife and daughter sit down in the front row. I watch them take their seats, and I'm sure the remainder of the sermon and activities are super impactful, but I wouldn't know, because for the rest of the night I can't take my eyes off of Heaven.
