Small Town Sinners (2 page)

“So?” asks Dean later that afternoon when I get to the clearing in the woods where we’ve been meeting since third grade. Even though it’s eighty-five degrees out, he’s wearing a flannel shirt with jeans.

Starla Joy is sitting next to Dean on our fallen log, stringing dandelions together into a bright yellow circle the color of the sundress her sister wore in church yesterday.

I hold up the item they’ve been waiting to see. “I am an officially licensed driver!”

“Praise the Lord,” says Starla Joy, barely looking. “Now I won’t be the only one who has to drive Dean’s ass everywhere.”

Dean thumps her leg hard.

“Ouch!” she shouts, breaking into a laugh and rubbing her shin. “I was just kidding.”

“Don’t say ‘ass,’ Starla Joy,” I chastise.

“Okay, Mrs. Byer,” she says, and I guess I do sound like my mother.

“Let me see the picture,” says Dean, holding his hand out for my license.

I give it to him and he studies it for a moment, a long piece of hair falling over his face. His fingernails are painted black today—he started doing that last year, though sometimes he mixes in Wite-Out and makes them gray.

“You look kind of …,” Dean starts.

Starla Joy snatches the license from his hand and doesn’t hesitate to fill in the blank.

“Intense,” she says. “Wow, Lacey, I’ve never seen this kind of concentration in your eyes.”

“Does that mean I’m usually unfocused?” I ask, not quite sure if I’m offended.

“No,” says Starla Joy. “You’re just usually …” She pauses, like she doesn’t want to insult me. And I know that if she were talking to anyone else, she’d barrel on ahead and not worry what they thought. That’s her way. But with me she’s careful. Everyone is.

“You’re usually softer,” Starla Joy continues. “And you’re not even looking at the camera—you’re paying attention to something behind it.”

“Let me see that,” I say, reaching out for my newest and dearest possession.

In the picture, my long blond hair falls limply over each shoulder, despite my efforts this morning to use a little mousse at the roots and blow it dry to create volume. Why do magazine beauty tips never work for me? I wore a bright blue tank top because I thought it would look nice in the photo, but that made no difference since my dad made me put a white cardigan on over it. And Starla Joy’s right. My hazel eyes
are
looking over the camera and they’re burning. They’re focused on the guy I saw at the DMV.

“So when’s the first Hell House meeting?” I ask, looking down at my dusty, blue flip-flops and hoping to stop the photo analysis.

“As if you haven’t had it circled on your calendar for months!” says Dean. “August 12. You know that.”

“Back to this picture,” says Starla Joy, not falling for my change-of-subject attempt. “What caught your attention so much that you looked away?”

“I don’t even remember,” I lie. “But anyway, isn’t it like a law that you can’t have a good driver’s license photo?”

“I plan for mine to be smoking hot,” says Dean, tucking the ends of his hair behind his left ear.

I smile at him, glad he can be this way around us still—mock conceited and teasing like he used to be all the time, back before he started wearing flannel in the summer.

Dean pulls a small bag of carrots out of his front pocket and starts munching. Last year he gained like forty pounds and his mom put him on Weight Watchers. He doesn’t talk about it much, but at least he’s open enough to eat his healthy snacks around us.

Starla Joy ignores Dean’s carrots and reaches into her own bag for Doritos.

“Torturer!” shouts Dean.

“They’re both orange,” she says, grinning at him.

“Starla Joy,” I say. “You know that isn’t fair.”

Dean and Starla Joy have always fought like siblings; I play the middle.

“I’m allowed to have a snack too,” says Starla Joy.

I give her a look.

“What?” she asks. “Am I supposed to starve while he’s over there chomping away?”

Dean turns his back on us and stares out into the woods. I can’t quite tell if he’s mad or just pretending to be. I see the sunlight streaming through the trees behind him. This clearing looks the same as it always has. It’s a central point between all of our houses and the church; a secluded, shady place where we used to build forts and play hide-and-seek. Now we mainly sit and talk, but it still has this magical energy to it, like God is here, or at least one of His angels.

“Can we divvy?” I ask, using the word we used when we were little and we’d share all of our Halloween candy.

Dean turns around slowly, eyeing Starla Joy.

“Okay,” she says. “I’d like a carrot stick.”

They both hand me their snack bags and I give each of them the same amount of Doritos and carrot sticks.

“You don’t want any?” asks Dean.

“Nah,” I say. The truth is that I’m kind of hungry, but there’s not much in these bags and I’d rather my friends stop snipping at each other than have, like, four Doritos and two carrot sticks.

Starla Joy smiles. “Portion control,” she says to Dean.

“Yeah, I know all about it, smart-ass,” he replies.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Smarty-pants,” he says. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” I say. “Much.”

Starla Joy chuckles. “You’re such a mom, Lacey,” she says.

I smile, but I don’t like it when she says that. I don’t want to be like a mom. They never get the spotlight.

Chapter Two

Dean was right—August 12 is circled on my calendar in red. On this Wednesday, the full two-dozen members of Youth Leaders, our high school group at church, are seated in the sanctuary, voices buzzing about Hell House. Some people will volunteer today for behind-the-scenes jobs, like set design and lighting, but I’m planning to hold out for what I really want—a lead role in the show.

I’m only going to be a junior and I should wait until next year to get a meaty role, but I want one now. I’m ready … I think.

Last year I watched Julia Millhouse play a pregnant teenager. When the lights went up in the nursery, where they staged her scene, she said her lines with so much emotion that people in the audience started to cry. I’d see them come through the lobby after the show and hear them talking about her performance. I want that spotlight. I want to be able to affect people that way too.

I’ve grown up with Hell House all my life, but Dean’s cousins in the next county over think it’s something weird that religious nuts do. It’s not. It’s a way to show people the right path. After all the scenes of sin, Satan threatens the audience. My dad always plays the devil—he thinks it’s funny to be the children’s pastor
and
the Antichrist. And Pastor Frist’s Jesus bathes Hell in white light at the very end, leading the audience into Heaven (also known as the church library, all done up in white sheets and cotton clouds), where they get decision cards. Most people fill out the cards and agree to at least explore a Christian life. It’s a magical weekend and an incredible outreach, especially for young people who don’t have a path to Christ like I’ve grown up with. Mom always reminds me how lucky I am to have that.

I’m sitting with Starla Joy and her sister, Tessa, who’s finger-combing her wavy brown hair as we wait to hear about this year’s production. Tessa played an EMT last year in the drunk driving scene, and she got to say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kerner, your daughter is dead.” Everyone thinks she’ll get a big part this year since she’s pretty much the senior girl with the most rank here. Even in church—especially in church—there’s a social hierarchy.

Dean’s late, as usual, and when he finally comes in I have to remind him to pull off his hoodie while he’s in the sanctuary. His hair is all over the place and I help him pat it down and tuck it behind his ears so he looks semirespectable. He has a Fiber One bar in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and he’s sneaking bites.

“What?” he asks when I look at him sideways. “Like you’ve never snuck in a snack, Miss Pop-Tarts.”

He’s right, I did used to eat strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts during church … when I was five years old.

My father and Pastor Frist get up to start the meeting, and I look around the pews anxiously. I should be focusing right now, but I can’t seem to clear my mind. I’m annoyed by how much I’ve been thinking about the guy from the DMV, and now he’s in my head during the most important church meeting of the year.

“This year, we’re using a new script that a bunch of pastors have worked together to create,” says Pastor Frist. “And Pastor Joe Tannen wants a report on our outreach so he can learn more about Hell House’s influence.”

Everyone gasps excitedly, and I’m immediately paying attention. I can’t believe Dad kept this information from me, but he does love a surprise. Pastor Tannen has a congregation in Oklahoma, and even though he’s like eighty years old, he’s always been a huge figure in the evangelical world. It’s amazing that he wants to know more about Hell Houses. They’re kind of like haunted houses, which is why we do ours over Halloween weekend. Tour guides dressed as demons take the audience through the church, room by room, to view scenes of sin: a drunk driving crash, a suicide, domestic abuse, and an abortion. My dream role—the one Julia played last year—is Abortion Girl.

“All right, all right,” says Dad, waving his hands to quell the energetic whispers. “We’re primed for this too. And it means there’s going to be some intense material this year—even more than in years past.”

I look over at Dean, who’s resting his chin in his hand. I elbow him and he sits up straight. I don’t know why he’s not more excited—this script is going to be amazing.

“The first scene—or should I say
sin
—is Gay Marriage,” says Dad. “I’m sure we all know about people who’ve chosen this path. Some are even famous celebrities.”

A low “boo” rises up from the crowd, mostly led by Geoff Parsons—the kid who hasn’t stopped calling Starla Joy “butterfingers” since she dropped a key fly ball during a church softball game in eighth grade—but Pastor Frist quiets it quickly.

“Now, now. Hate the sin, not the sinner,” he says, and his broad smile makes the skin around his eyes crinkle fiercely. “This scene will be a very powerful opening for our best Hell House yet.”

That gets a cheer.

“The sacred institution of marriage between a man and a woman is further disgraced by the unholy union of a man and a man,” continues Pastor Frist, “and Satan wouldn’t have it any other way, would he, guys?”

Sometimes Pastor Frist smiles to punctuate a rhetorical question, and his big white teeth look like they’re living entities. Like they could jump right out of his mouth and beam at you up close, in 4-D. It’s always freaked me out a little.

Another low “boo” rumbles, and my dad takes the mic. “This scene will be done carefully,” he says. “We’ll have a married couple playing the role of husband and husband, because there will have to be physical contact here.”

There’s a ripple through the crowd as we imagine two men kissing. I’m relieved it’ll be a husband-and-wife couple performing. It’s only right.

“I think Mrs. Wilkins could play a guy,” whispers Dean, and Starla Joy cracks up. I hit Dean on the leg—Mrs. Wilkins can’t help her whiskers. Tessa rolls her eyes at us like she’s so mature and goes back to inspecting her split ends.

The Hell House prep meeting always goes like this—I’ve sat in on a few just to be with my dad. He and Pastor Frist go back and forth, introducing each scene and its underlying message, why Jesus calls on us to cover certain topics this year. But today, in this meeting, I’m on the edge of my seat. I actually get to audition this year—I get to be considered for a lead role, and whoever plays Abortion Girl becomes a part of town history.

“Now, we haven’t worked out all the scenes yet,” says Pastor Frist. “We’ll have another meeting soon. But we did want to tell you about Pastor Tannen’s involvement, what the opening scene would be like, and we also wanted to show you an incredible new addition to the prop closet.”

Pastor Frist gestures to Dad, who reaches under the pulpit and pulls out a gun. And I mean a
gun.
It looks like something a drug dealer would have—black and solid, scary looking.

“That isn’t real, right?” whispers Starla Joy.

I blink. I’m not sure.

Dad holds it flat in his hand, moving his palm up and down to demonstrate that it’s heavy, not like the plastic guns we normally use as props. “This baby is from Utah,” he says. “It has the weight of a real gun and it sounds completely authentic when fired.”

Then he turns to the back of the church, points right at the dove shape in the giant window, and pulls the trigger. A huge
bang!
echoes through the sanctuary. Every single person jumps, Tessa screams, and Maryanne Duane, who carried around a note last year that got her out of gym class every day at school, starts crying.

“You can’t say it’s not dramatic,” whispers Dean. I see him smiling. Well, if it takes a real-looking gun to get him into Hell House this year, then I’m glad we have one. I’ve never shot a real gun, but I know most of the guys in town have been to the rifle range. Even Starla Joy’s mother has a handgun that she carries around with her since their dad left. People say she sleeps with it under her pillow, but I’ve never asked Starla Joy about that.