Repossessed (14 page)

I chose the door directly in front of me, opened it, and walked straight ahead.

The ground did
not
crack open and swallow me whole.

The walls rose high, and when I tilted my head back, I saw that above them floated a ceiling crossed with beams, heavy like the doors, dark and solid against the same calm yet glowing whiteness that I'd seen in the room I'd just passed through.

This was the sanctuary. Was it a holy place?

Yes and no.

This was not the Creator's dwelling place, no more than any other on earth. But the air, the furniture, the walls all seemed to me to be laden with the hopes, the prayers, the love and despair of generations of humans. All that they felt toward their Creator lingered here. And that made the place expand beyond its actual dimen
sions. I could feel the immensity of it—a tiny shred of the true immensity of the Creator, but immense enough for all that.

There
was
something comforting about it. In some ways it bore a resemblance to bathing in Shaun's tub: the feeling of floating in something thicker than air, something that pressed around me and bore me upward even though I was still on the ground.

I walked a few steps down the center aisle, then stopped. On each side were pews, the backs made of smooth-looking wood, the seats cushioned with a dark red cloth that looked very soft.

I sat on one. It didn't feel as soft as it looked; it was stiff and a little scratchy.

The back of the pew in front of me had a long bin running all along its length. It was divided to hold things. There were empty holes for writing implements. And scattered here and there in the bin were books with red or black covers. I knew what they must be: Bibles and hymnals. I picked one up.
HOLY BIBLE
, the cover said.

I opened it and started reading.

A rather casual, conversational meeting, seemingly contradicting those who call the Boss “the Enemy.” As if he is the opposite of the Creator. As if he exists in spite of, and to spite, the Creator's will.

I do try not to think how unfair it all has been. How hard I worked to push aside my nature, wrap it up and lock it away and feel nothing but the pure joy and acceptance that is the Creator's gift to the angels.

But my worship grew to be a burden, not a gift. And so I unwrapped and unlocked the fullness of creation that had been stored inside me.

I was given this nature, but it seems I erred in even acknowledging it, much less exercising it.

Now I shut the book in my hand, sat in the silence, and wondered.

Am I a joke of some kind?

A mistake?

A failure of free will?

A test that was not passed?

One of the aspects of my function is to reflect sorrow. For a long time, I had only felt the sorrow of others. I'd forgotten how blunted and deadened that is, compared
to the sorrow that comes from one's own heart.

I had not felt my own sorrow since I truly understood that my Creator would never turn His face to me.

Silence rose, cool and still, into the high reaches of the ceiling. I set the book back into its bin. And then, for the first time ever, I spoke to my Creator in actual words.

“Hey,” I said tiredly, into the air. “I'm here.” Just putting it out there, just in case. “If You want to get hold of me
personally
for any reason. One on one. This is where I am.”

Silence, in this physical world, is not just lack of sound. It's a hollowness that hangs full and thick. It drains the heart as well as the ears.

I knew He wouldn't answer. Not me. He would never speak to
me
. I just thought—well, you know. I thought I'd try.

I
walked from the church all the way to Lane's house. I couldn't have said what my state of mind was by this time. Much like Shaun's messy room, it was a confusing jumble—of finality, fatalism, and melancholy hope.

The only thing I knew I could count on:
Lane
would notice me. She'd even be
glad
to see me.

On her front porch, I pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened. No ring. No buzz. It didn't make sense; she had to be here. She always came straight home after school.

I pressed it again, but this time held it down, listening intently.

I still couldn't hear anything.

Apparently doorbells sometimes work even if you
can't hear them. The knob in front of me suddenly turned, the door opened, and there she was.

Lane Henneberger's lovely face broke into a smile. “Oh! Hi, Shaun. I was just thinking about taking Bailey's books back.”

“You already read them?”

“Yes. They're good. I'm going to borrow some more.”

“Bailey will be pleased.”

“I'll get them and we can walk over there together. Just give me a sec; my grandma's taking a nap and I need to leave her a note.”

A napping grandma?

Hey! Was I actually having a bit of
luck
?

“Is it okay if I come in for a while?” I suggested.

“Um.” She hesitated, with a glance over her shoulder. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

Lane's house was the first one I'd been in that didn't have carpet. The floors were made of wood. Lane had on rubber-soled sneakers that made no noise, but my feet, in Shaun's oxfords, made a hard sound with each step, something between a thump and a click.

In the living room was a huge three-sided couch. It wrapped around the floor like a rectangle with one side missing. Bailey's books were stacked on a low glass-topped table in the middle of the rectangle.

Lane sat on a side of the couch that faced a wall with a
window. When I lowered myself down next to her, the cushion sank in and she tilted sideways, almost into my lap.

“Oops,” she said, and readjusted, moving onto a separate cushion. “Are you thirsty? I think we've got iced tea and Diet Sprite. Oh, and water.”

“No thanks.” I was busy studying her face. I wasn't sure how well I'd be able to recall physical details of this existence once I was out of Shaun's body, but I wanted to try to memorize everything anyway: the pores on her nose, larger than the ones on her cheeks; the way light created white glossy spots that cut across her pupils and irises.

“Um.” She smiled, and shifted under my steady gaze. “So. Have you read those?” She waved a hand at the books in front of us. “They're pretty good. There's already some differences cropping up between the anime and the manga. Did you say you'd read the manga?”

“No.” I didn't care to spend time on small talk. “Lane. May I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“You're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.”

I thought she looked a little startled. Then her gaze darted away—to the books on the table, to my knees, to the wooden floor. Everywhere but my face. “Let's not do that again,” she said vaguely.

“Do what?”

“I
know
I'm not beautiful,” she told the floor in front of the couch. “So stop saying it.”

It was puzzling. Those words were the exact ones she'd stated—
specifically stated!
—that she longed to hear. “Does it make you unhappy?” I asked, unsure.

“Yes.”

“Then…I'll try to stop.” I watched as a light breeze came in through the open window and lifted the ends of her hair. “It's just that…well, you
are
beautiful.”

“Shaun,” she said with dignity. “Cut it out. We both know that
beautiful
is somebody like Lauren Giotto. Or Sarah Hunter. Or Victoria Becklesworth.”

I thought about the girls she meant. “Or Emily Rice,” I added. That was the girl Shaun lusted after.

Lane's shoulders seemed to hunch a little.

“I see what's going on,” I said. “You're confusing beauty with this society's current idea of perfection of visual form.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Perfection of…
what
?”

“Visual form.”

“‘Visual form?'” she echoed slowly, as if trying to understand. “‘Perfection of visual form'?…But that's what beauty
is
, Shaun.”

“You're wrong,” I said with finality. I didn't care to dissect the subject at this moment. I wanted to get straight to the matter at hand. To throw myself off the proverbial cliff.

She seemed stiffly surprised when I scooted over and took her in my arms.

Until I kissed her. Then she began to relax.

And soon she was kissing me back.

It felt entirely different from Shaun's T-shirt.

It was amazing. The moment drew out longer and longer; minutes expanded and grew and seemed to wind sinuously around us. Pleasure stretched inside me, growing tighter and more intense as it lengthened, rather like one of the rubber bands in Shaun's desk drawer.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed when Lane drew back with a sigh to rest against my neck.

So. That was a kiss! I could see why she wanted to pause and absorb the pleasure of the moment. That was my darling Lane; she appreciated the things around her.

Her cheek was warm against my skin. “Oh, Lane,” I breathed against her hair, “I'm so glad your grandmother's napping. You're going to enjoy this, I promise.”

“Enjoy what?”

I was glad now that Shaun hadn't cut
his
hair, because I could feel her fingers caressing it. “Everything,” I sighed.

“Everything of what?”

“Everything I'm going to do to you.”

Her fingers stopped moving. “What are you going to do to me?”

I remembered that I'd forgotten to tell her I loved her. No matter; she'd asked a delicious and seductive question, one that I had already considered in some detail. “Lots of things,” I told her.

“Like
what
?”

“Like—” I began, but then stopped.

Because she was pulling away to sit up.

I didn't have a finely developed instinct for conversation, but it occurred to me that now was not a good time to delineate the methods I'd been mulling over for our mutual journey to sexual climax. Even the really good ones.

I peered into her face. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, the mouth shut more tightly than usual.

“What are you talking about, Shaun?” she asked.

Her tone did not strike me as tender. It sounded more like a warning to me.

“Nothing,” I said.

“No, really. What were you about to say?”

“I don't know. I forget.”

Lane stared at me intently.

“Shaun. You know I'm not going to have sex with you.”

No, I didn't. Lane had spent hours concocting scenarios
with Shaun as the deflowering romantic lead. Now she had him ready, willing, and able. What had gone wrong?

“Your grandmother's asleep,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but I'm not…I mean, we just
kissed
for the first time.”

So what? A lot of people had sex after kissing for the first time.

I didn't point that out, though. Quickly I thought back over what I knew of Lane's desires.

Well. Her writings had—now that I recalled—been very vague when it came to the mechanics of coitus with Shaun. Now that I thought about it, there had always been a leap from about the time he touched her breasts till they lay drowsily together, post-deflowering, in each other's arms. Although Shaun did remove his shirt in many of her entries, the chest she described on him was nothing like the real Shaun's thin and somewhat scrawny build. I didn't recall any scene where his pants actually came off, and there had been zero mention of his sexual organs. Or hers, for that matter.

Uh-oh. Could I have misjudged?

Yes. Most of Lane's expressions of desire had dwelled on the before and after; none had mentioned the
during
. Her imagination had never taken her to any of the places I wanted to explore, and certainly not to the wild dark corners of lust that I was familiar with—
theoretically
familiar with, anyway.

Lane had only ever mentioned the most basic wants: to be held, kissed, loved.

I could get those things, or something very like them, from Shaun's bony-handed mother.

Blast! Out of all bodies, why had I taken
this
one? I should have taken one that was already doing all the things I wanted to do.

Of course, I hadn't known what I'd wanted to do until I was already here, but still. It's not like I'm unfamiliar with human desire. I should have anticipated.

“Are you mad?” Lane asked as I slumped back on the couch.

“No,” I said. My mouth still felt a little tingly from kissing her. The sensitive skin on my lips must not be used to that particular source of touch, friction, and dampness.

It wanted more. It seemed to have desires of its own now, my mouth did.

And there were other parts of this body that had desires; in fact, Lust incarnate strained at the zipper of Shaun's pants. It reminded me uncomfortably of Wrath, the way it was trying to squeeze out rational thought. It didn't care who got hurt. It wanted to bind me to its will, much as a belt and a pair of pants want to bind an untucked shirt.

So I tried to ignore Lust incarnate.
Okay
, I thought,
maybe lower the sights a little?
We could get similar results
without intercourse. We didn't even have to remove all our clothing. It wouldn't be the full experience, but could still end in mutual sexual satisfaction.

“Because I do like you and everything,” Lane told me. “It's just that I'm not…”

She didn't finish. We sat there in silence for a bit. Sunlight came in the window before us, creating an elongated patch of brightness on the wooden floor.

It felt wrong to be sitting there apart from Lane on this, my last afternoon here.

“That's the first time I ever kissed anybody,” I heard Lane say.

I looked over at her. Her face had taken on the pink tinge I adored. “Me, too,” I told her.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it.

“I liked it,” I told her, referring to the kiss. It was true; I hadn't realized how compelling such a thing could be. Each of my five senses had seemed to be mingling with hers, when in reality I was still maintaining a single point of view. It was a truly absorbing experience.

Lane darted a glance at me. “Would…would you like to do it some more?” The pink on her cheeks began to turn a pervasive red. “Just kissing, I mean.”

“
Just
kissing?” What a shame. There were
so
many
non-intercourse options open to us. “Is that what you want?”

She nodded. The reddish color rose all the way up to her hairline, as if the capillaries had suddenly expanded.

Well. Rather than struggling to clear a route to the sheer peak of orgasm, I
could
explore the myriad delicate facets of making out.

Nothing on this vacation was turning out as I had hoped or expected.

But then, when had anything ever?

I looked outside, at the trees and grass of what must be Lane's backyard. It was a gorgeous afternoon, made so by a million small pieces of chance and imperfection, down to individual tousled blades of grass and small leaves scattered almost carelessly along their branches—everything in its momentary place because of innumerable actions and forces that knit the physical world together.

“You think I'm being stupid, don't you,” I heard Lane say.

It's all good
, I thought.
Ketchup, tomatoes, just kissing—all of it
.

I turned to Lane. “No, not at all,” I said. “I'm quite looking forward to it. Shall we?”

 

It was some time later when we heard footsteps shuffling down the hall. Somehow we'd ended up lying on the
couch, arms wrapped around each other, legs intertwined.

Now we sat up.

Our senses had definitely mingled. Logically, I knew such a thing wasn't possible—but you couldn't tell my tongue that, for example.

“I'd better get going,” I told Lane reluctantly as she straightened her blouse.

“Already?”

“Yes. I need to be moving on.”

“Hi, Grandma,” Lane said in a loud voice as an old woman waddled into the room. “This is Shaun.”

“Beg pardon?” Lane's grandmother had fascinating skin. It looked very soft and fragile, drooping and draped over her face. Like lace, I imagined, or cobwebs.

“THIS IS SHAUN,” Lane said again, almost shouting.

“Oh. Hello, John. It's nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you, too,” I told her, standing up. “But I have to leave now.”

“What's that?”

“GOOD-BYE,” I said.

“Oh, are you leaving?”

I didn't answer, just nodded. I would have liked a closer look at her, but no matter. Lane's grandmother gave a friendly nod back, then began to make her way over to the side of the couch that faced the TV.

Lane walked me to the front door, but when we got
there she seemed to remember something. “Oh,” she said. “Would you mind taking Bailey's books with you?”

“I'm not going to Bailey's.” A parting gift to both of them. Let her take the books back and get more, and the two of them could bond over their beloved large-eyed cartoon characters.

“Oh. Okay.” She opened the door, and I stepped outside—but then we just stood there for a moment, looking at each other.

“Lane!” her grandma called. “Where'd you put the remote?”