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There’s no excitement or real interest in his tone. It’s merely a question. He could be asking if I did the dishes and his voice would have the same monotone drone.
“I did,” I say.
He nods, not saying anything else. I stop him before he can close the door as he backs out of my room.
“I start Monday officially, and my shifts will be only a few hours around noon like I told you, but for the first few weeks I have to go in early for training,” I tell him, hoping this new information won’t make him change his mind.
He nods again, slowly, his hand still on the door knob–ready to pull it closed again.
“Okay,” he says and backs out of my room, closing the door behind him.
Okay. That seemed too easy. I’m not one to question when good things happen, though.
Adelaide Johnson would be my arch nemesis if I was the arch nemesis having type. At nineteen, the same age as me, she’s Pastor Johnson’s oldest daughter. She has long, light brown hair that she wears straight, hanging loose down her back. Her eyes are more gray than blue and her teeth are perfectly straight, even though she’s never had to wear braces like I did when I was twelve. She’s standing up in front of our group at Sunday school, the too old to be with the kids but not married off yet, group–talking about how she’s been praying daily for a husband. She’s only nineteen, for Christ’s sake. If I said that out loud right now, I’d be met with gasps. For taking the Lord's name in vainandfor questioning the perfect Adelaide Johnson.
I suspect now Adelaide could tell when we were young that I wasn’t as devout as I should have been. She must have known even before I did that one day I would question my faith and everything her father preaches. She’s never wanted to be my friend. Of course she’s perfectly nice to me, friendly even, because if she wasn’t she wouldn’t be perfect Adelaide Johnson.
I wonder how many times my parents have prayed I was more like her. I’ve never been a particularly bad daughter, or bad member of the church–as far as anyone knows at least. But I’ve never been what Adelaide is. An example to be looked up to. A vocal warrior of Christ. I’ve always been quiet, reserved–rarely sharing my convictions. I suspect that’s why Dad let me take the job. It’s the first time I’ve shown interest in spreading the teachings of Pastor Johnson. At least, that’s what he thinks it is. Really, it will be my ticket into the world. A chance to make and save money. To see more up close and personal how people who aren’t tied to this church live. A way to plan an escape.
Church finally ends and we’ve just made it home. I’m supposed to be reading my Bible in my room and reflecting on the day's sermon. I’m not. Sunday is the one day I never ask to go for a walk or a run. I know better. Sundays are the Lord’s day, the day we go to church and we sit quietly thinking about what we learned in church. A day for praying, lots of praying. I’ve been sitting quietly on my bed, my Bible propped on my knees for the past half hour, in case Mom or Dad comes to check on me. But, I haven’t been reading it, I’ve simply been staring at the wall. Thinking about starting my first job tomorrow.
I’m full of excitement, nerves, apprehension and a million other sensations that are foreign to me. I wonder if I’ll get to make deliveries tomorrow. Who will those deliveries be to? When I learn how to drive the scooter–which can’t be too difficult, will any of the deliveries to the college be for the boy from the library? This thought sends a tingling sensation coursing through my body.
Oddly though, it makes me think of Emmett and his proclamation about the bakery after I told him I’d be working there. I hope he’s disappointed when he realizes I won’t actually be working in the shop often. For someone I don’t even know–don’t want to know–he’s taking up an awful lot of my mind. His annoyingly cocky grin and his insistence at following me yesterday after I tried to walk away. The way he grabbed at me. The way my skin reacted to his touch.
It was the first time a boy had ever touched me in that way. In a way that wasn’t a formal handshake or an accidental brush. I’m nineteen years old and I’ve never hugged a boy.
Dating is only allowed under the careful supervision of my parents and the church. If I were to date, or rather court as the church calls it, it would be with a boy that was chosen for me by my parents and Pastor Johnson. Even then, we’re not allowed to touch unless we get engaged. And once engaged, the only touching allowed before marriage is hand holding and side hugs. I’ve gotten lucky and my parents haven’t brought up trying to set me up with any of the guys from church. I’m hoping I can be out on my own before that happens.
These days, most matches within the church happen because Pastor Johnson says he’s communed with God. I call bullshit. It’s purely his way of aligning families in a binding way that benefits him and his church. Just last year he declared Jennifer, a girl my age, was to marry a man nearly ten years her senior. They married within a few months of the declaration. Thehappycouple recently announced their first child is due in six months.
It didn’t go unnoticed by me that the Groom in this situation owns a furniture store and only recently happened to find it in his heart to donate all new office furniture to the good pastor shortly after the marriage. The fear of being married off is another reason of many to get out as soon as I can. That doesn’t mean I don’t still have anxiety about what leaving really means.
When I think about leaving my parents’ house, abandoning the church, I get a little queasy. The church and living this simple life with my parents is all I’ve ever known. What if I regret it? What if my parents can’t find it in their hearts to still love me? What if I can’t survive in the real world? As much as I’ve grown to resent them over the past few years, they’re still my parents. The thought of losing them still hurts.
Worst of all, there are still the tiniest of whispers of, what if I’m wrong and Pastor Johnson is right.
I fall back onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how drastically my life will genuinely change when tomorrow comes.
Chapter seven
Emmett
Mysleepingpatternscanno longer be considered patterns. It’s erratic and inconsistent. Some days, I have so much energy I feel like my old self again and sleep soundly at night. Others, I don’t fall asleep until I see the first streaks of the sunrise coming through my window. Those mornings I still try to appreciate the fact that I’m alive another day. I watch as the light leaks in from outside. It goes from a dim glow to vibrant rays of color while the birds begin their morning chirping.
Last night, I slept like a hibernating bear, passing out early around seven. The downside, it’s not even six in the morning and I’m wide awake. Ready to do something, anything, when my schedule is filled with a whole lot of nothing. I can’t believe I’m thinking this… but I cannot wait for winter quarter to start in a few weeks.
After trying for an hour to fall back asleep, I finally give up, get out of bed, and get dressed. Dad is already gone for the day and has likely already made it halfway through his to-do list. Emily, my little sister, is still asleep. She doesn’t have to be at school for another hour and she always wakes up at the last minute. Which is fine by me, because as much as I love that little monster, she is not a morning person.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” mom says as I walk into the kitchen.
She’s standing on the other side of the large marble island, a coffee cup in one hand and her phone in the other. Likely getting a jump on her workday, too.
Mom and Dad work a lot but aren’t the type of workaholic parents that neglect their kids or each other. They’ve somehow found a happy balance between the careers they love and the lives they enjoy outside of those careers. I’ve never really understood what they do for work. I know it’s something to do with buying and selling properties all over the world–and I know they make a shit ton of money doing it. Honestly, it sounds boring as hell.
Anyone in my situation would probably take my dad up on his offer of following in his footsteps after I graduate. Not me. I want my own career, my own life, my own path. Too bad I’m completely clueless about what that path looks like right now.
“Good Morning,” I tell mom as I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit on one of the plush, cream bar stools across from her.
