Beautiful Dreamer

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sunday was the day that Edith Hummel accused me of being possessed by the devil.

It was church day; mass was at seven A.M., and I had an obligation that week as lector for the second reading. But that morning, I was late. Apparently, making it through the night unscathed was such a feat that my body decided to keep me asleep for half an hour longer than usual, forcing me to speed through my morning. Which would have gone by much quicker, as I reminded my mother in the car, had I not been obligated to wear a ridiculous dress whose zipper seemed hellbent on getting stuck every time I tugged at it.

At seven-oh-nine, my mother and I entered through the side door. She was fuming at our tardiness, so much so that she practically punched the tub of holy water and sent droplets spewing all over my clothes. By the time we got inside, Blessed Trinity Catholic Church was brimming with people, and the first reading was just about to begin. The lector, a doe-eyed girl named Avery, shook as she walked up to the pedestal. I should have been with her, sitting in one of the stiff-backed wooden chairs that were hidden just out of sight. Biting my lip, I sped up, resisting the urge to let out a stream of expletives as I hurried down the side aisle. Heaven knows the kind of hell my mother would give me for cursing in God's house.

Father Lucas, the main priest of the church, saw me from his perch at the right side of the altar. We made eye contact, and he made a discreet motion with his head toward the back wings of the church. There was an entrance from outside that would take me onto the altar without disrupting mass.

“I'm going around,” I whispered to my mom, as Avery began the reading in a quivery voice. My mother nodded curtly, then stepped purposefully into a nearby row of pews.

I hurried out through the back door, tossing a quick wave at Logan as I passed the place where he and his dad were sitting, and had reentered through the back moments later. I passed a white-clad altar server, who smiled at me, before slipping out into the church and hastily making the sign of the cross as I dropped into my seat.

A glance at Father Lucas revealed his bemused smile; no doubt I'd get a lecture for being late later, but for now, it was funny. Though, it appeared, not to Avery, because her entire face was red by the time she finished her reading and sat back down.

“Good lord,” she whispered, glaring at me, “do you know how nerve wracking that was? Never do that to me again, Parker Elway!”

I didn't get to respond, because just then, the cantor announced, “Please join in singing number 373 in your Spirit and Song books, Open My Eyes. That's 373 in the Spirit and Song.”

Avery and I rose, but I could still feel her dagger-eyes on the side of my face as I mouthed through the song. She swished her blonde bangs from left to right, gray eyes flashing. Avery was a nice girl—a year younger than me, active in community service, avid church attender, blah blah blah—but I swear, sometimes I felt like her babysitter.

When the song drew to a close and the voices of the congregation faded, I smoothed the puffy pink front of my dress, preparing to mount the stone steps of the pedestal. I heard the creak and moan of the old wooden pews as people sat down, and knew that was my cue.

At the top of the stairs I cleared my throat, adjusted the microphone, and glanced down at the sheet of paper before me. I always got nervous before a reading, even though there were only about a hundred people in the church and I knew every single one by name.

Like I said: Callery was a small town. The majority of people were either Catholic or Christian, particularly the former, but only about fifty percent of that group attended church weekly. Those of us who did were either diehard Catholics, fond of a typical Sunday routine, or forced into going by their crazy parents.