This Side of Salvation

CHAPTER 6

THREE YEARS TO SLIGHTLY LESS THAN TWELVE MONTHS BEFORE THE RUSH

After my confession and saving, my parents decided that public school was a “corrupting environment” for their juvenile delinquent son. So Mom quit her real estate job to homeschool me and Mara.

Surprisingly, it rocked. As long as we didn’t fall behind, we could make our own work schedules. I finished two years of math, English, French, and history in nine months, along with a semester each of chemistry, geography, religion, and earth science. After the first year, we took online courses and community-college classes, rather than being taught by Mom. It was almost like being a grown-up.

Rather than turn into asocial shut-ins, we had more outside activities than ever. Mara followed her two passions: choir and cars, while I still played for the high school baseball team. My fastball was reaching legendary status across the Delaware Valley, and scouts were sure to start sniffing around next spring.

Mara and I joined an accelerated-math homeschool group taught by a community-college professor. “Math Cave” was the students’ affectionate-turned-official term for the classes in Mr. Ralph’s basement. It was like a one-room schoolhouse, with a whiteboard and desks for the twenty or so students split into two sections. We ranged in age from twelve to sixteen, though we were all taking eleventh-grade trigonometry.

One day, halfway through what would have been my sophomore year, I was at my desk before class, double-checking my homework. Francis (the kid from Stony Hill who’d told me, “Dude, we just got saved”) was sitting in front of me. He kept turning around to allegedly get hints on the last problem, but I suspected he was just checking out his current crush sitting behind me: Mara.

My sister was talking in a hushed voice on her cell with her best friend, Jackie, discussing Middle Merion High School’s Valentine’s dance.

“I do like Sam, but I can’t go to dances until I’m a senior. Mom says they count as one-on-one dates, even if we go as a group. Besides, I can’t subject Sam to my dad’s inquisition.” She snorted. “No way I can sneak out. They changed the security on our bedroom windows so the screens can’t open without setting off the alarm. Only my parents know the disable code. Thank my criminal brother for that.”

She flicked the back of my head, hard, but I ignored her. Mara was lying to Jackie—we all knew the disable codes. She just didn’t want to risk her status as the “B-E-T-T-E-R child,” as she would chant at me while doing a little shimmy dance, whenever I screwed up.

From the front row, Eve and Ezra Decker turned around with the precision of synchronized swimmers, giving us the stinkeye.

When Math Cave had started in the fall, I had insta-hate for Ezra, a skinny, thin-haired guy with a triple-size Adam’s apple. He wore shirts and ties to class, used any excuse to mention his perfect SAT scores, and spoke to girls’ chests instead of their eyes. The kind of guy who gave homeschoolers’ social skills a bad name.

His little sister, Eve, was only a year younger than me, but she always smelled like bubble-gum-scented shampoo, the kind little kids use. She hardly ever talked. Maybe the Deckers had a spoken-word-sharing plan—the way some families share cell phone minutes—and Ezra was using them all up.

Francis turned around again, whispering, “What’s Mara’s favorite snack?”

“Why?”

“Study group’s at my house tomorrow.” He rubbed his nose hard, then gave in to a sneeze. “I want to have what she likes.”

I tried to think of a nice way to say, Trust me, you don’t have what she likes, but my attention was drawn to the basement stairs beyond him. The door at the top had just opened, letting in a new voice. A girl’s voice.

A golden shaft of sunlight streamed down the stairwell, illuminating a pair of bright blue high-tops. Then tan legs that kept coming and coming and coming, ending in tight shorts that matched the shoes. Then a bare arm cradling a notebook against a lacy pink tank top. A thick, dark-blond braid swung over one shoulder.

The place went silent as the new girl descended the stairs, sun-yellow shoelaces flopping with each step.

“Jinx!” Mara shrieked.

Jinx was Mr. Ralph’s cat, who loved to stretch out on the third stair from the bottom, a cat who was the same beige as the carpet and therefore camouflaged.

Geographically, I wasn’t the closest guy to the new girl, but I was the first out of my seat as she slipped on the cat, yelped, then faceplanted at the bottom of the stairs.

I dropped to my knees beside her. “Are you okay?”

She winced and cradled her right wrist as she rolled over on her back. “What happened?”

“Jinx happened.”

“Huh?”

“The cat.”

“Oh no, is she okay? Or he?”

I tore my gaze away to see a ruffled Jinx on the bottom step, vigorously grooming her right side. “She’s fine, see? If she was hurt, she probably couldn’t lick herself.”

“Bailey, are you all right?” Mr. Ralph hurried down the stairs, his thin face full of panic.

“Mostly.” With her left hand, she pushed herself to a sitting position and frowned at her scattered books. One notebook was splayed open, showing a doodle of a squirrel wearing a jet pack. “But I think I hurt my arm.”

“I’ll call your mom,” he said, “and tell her to meet us at the emergency room.”

By this point, the other students had crowded around, the guys jostling closer to Bailey. Francis started to reach down for her trig textbook. I snatched it away and gathered the rest of her books and notebooks into my arms.

“That’s okay,” I told Mr. Ralph. “We’ll take her.”

As I’d guessed, Mara was happy to skip class to take Bailey to the hospital. At sixteen and a half, my sister had just earned her junior license and therefore jumped at every chance to drive.

“That poor cat.” Bailey clutched the ice pack Mr. Ralph had given her against her right wrist. “I hope I didn’t crush any of her internal organs.”

“She’s probably fine.” I was more worried about my own innards, knotted up in her presence as I sat with her in the backseat.

My eyes were drawn again and again to her bare legs. Was that a bird tattoo peeking out of the top of her Chucks? Why was she wearing shorts in February? Then again, it was almost seventy degrees, one of those weird Pennsylvania warm spells usually followed by a foot of snow.

“Bailey, where did you move from?” Mara asked.

“I grew up over in Swarthmore,” she said. “My mom’s a psych professor there. But she had a temporary teaching gig at McGill, so we’ve lived in Montreal for the last two years.”

Il fait plus froid là, non? I wanted to say, asking about the weather there, but by the time I’d reviewed each word for accuracy, the moment had passed.

One of Mara’s favorite songs came on the radio, by some Christian pop band. She turned up the music and started singing along softly.

“How’s your wrist?” I asked Bailey.

“Hurts like hell, but let me check something.” She lifted her uninjured left hand, slid her tongue along the side of it twice, eyes closed. Then she brushed the same hand behind her ear, like a self-grooming cat. Finally she looked at me, sliding her ring finger beneath her mouth to wipe her chin. “Can’t be that bad, since I can still lick myself.”

I just stared at her.

“Isn’t that your criteria?” she asked me. “You said Jinx was okay because she could—”

“I know.” My pulse slammed my throat so hard it hurt, like when I’d run on a cold winter morning. “It’s just that, I kinda missed it, so if you could do that again, only slower . . .”

I met her eyes, which widened briefly, then narrowed as she smirked and turned her face to the window. “You wish,” she said with a guffaw.

Mara turned down the radio. “What’s so funny?”

“Never mind,” I told my sister. “You had to be there.”

Bailey cringed as she adjusted the ice pack against her wrist. Then her shoulders twitched in a sudden shiver.

I slipped off my Windbreaker, leaned over, and draped it across the back of her bare shoulders. “Sorry, I should’ve offered sooner.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She tugged the material over the seat-belt strap to cover her right arm. The gesture drew my attention to her chest and what the cold air was doing to it.

Look away, I commanded myself. If she catches you staring at her nipples, that’s a game changer.

“Bailey, was that your Volt parked in front of Mr. Ralph’s house?” Mara asked, thankfully breaking my reverie.

“It’s my dad’s. Why?”

“I’ve never driven an electric car. Do you like it?”

“It’s awesome. I’ll let you guys try it out if you want.” She smiled at me. “As a thank-you.”

“David can’t drive yet,” Mara said. “He’s only fifteen.”

I glared at my sister. Not that I would’ve lied to Bailey about being younger, but I would’ve waited to tell her after she liked me—if she ever liked me. Now she could disregard me right off the bat.

The car lurched as it went over a pothole. Bailey cried out and clutched her wrist.

Mara covered her mouth. “Sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Bailey gasped, but her face was turning so pale, her freckles seemed like its only color. Traffic was getting thicker, so it’d be almost ten minutes to the ER.

I had to distract her from the pain. “It’s a tradition in my family, when we drive people to the hospital, that we play Twenty Questions.”

Bailey gave me a look that said, You’re making this up, but I’ll play along. “As in, I’m supposed to guess what you’re thinking of?”

“No, twenty random questions about each other. Three rules: We take turns, answer only yes or no, and always tell the truth. Wait— four rules. No pauses: just ask the next question that pops into your head. Ready? Go!”

She hesitated, then asked, “Is math your favorite subject?”

“No. Have you ever bungee jumped?”

“No,” she said with a frown. “Do you hate Valentine’s Day, like most guys?”

“Yes.” Uh-oh. “Do you wish I’d lied about that?”

She laughed, then winced. “No. Um, let’s see, holidays: did you dress up for Halloween last year?”

“No.” I scratched the edge of my jaw, remembering the zit that was forming there. “Do you miss Montreal?”

Bailey looked at me sideways through her pale-brown lashes. “Mmm, no.” Her answer seemed to surprise her. “Do you celebrate Halloween at all?”

“No.” I put a self-conscious hand to the cross around my neck, checking that it was tucked inside the collar of my long-sleeved T-shirt. “Do you ever wear your hair down?”

“Yes.” She stroked the end of her long, thick braid. “Do you want to see it down?”

“Yes!” I rubbed my lips, embarrassed at how loud and quick that came out. “Um, not right now,” I added, breaking the rules. “Have you ever . . .” My mind flailed for a question, but all it could think of was what her hair would look like splayed over her naked chest. “Have you ever been to a Phillies game?” Baseball was my natural fallback.

“Yes. Have you ever read a book in one sitting?”

“No. Have you eaten bacon today?”

“Gross, no. Do you like your middle name?”

My dad’s name is John David Cooper. John was John David Cooper Jr., while I got the names reversed: David John Cooper. I guess a third son would’ve been named Cooper Cooper. Probably better not to be born.

“Yes. Is that a real tattoo on your leg?”

“Yes,” she said. “Have you ever gone to regular school?”

“Yes. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, would you last longer than a week?”

“Definitely not. Do you have any other siblings?”

The song on the radio segued into a soft part, accentuating the sudden silence. Even if I could’ve figured out how to answer in simple yes-or-no form, my lungs felt like a cold hand was squeezing them. Usually when that happened, I mentally recited the twenty-eighth Psalm (it’s like the famous twenty-third, but more emo and with a happy ending) until my breath returned.

But right then, I couldn’t think of the verse, and Bailey was staring at me, waiting for the answer to what should have been a simple question.

“We had a brother,” Mara said finally. “He died in Afghanistan three years ago.”

“Oh,” Bailey whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

I kept my eyes on the floor, where a crumpled receipt poked out from under my sneaker. “That question didn’t count, since I didn’t answer. Ask another one.”

Bailey’s voice came soft and close. “Do you miss him?”

I was stunned she hadn’t changed the subject like most people did. “Yeah. Do you know what that’s like?” I’d never made friends with other kids in grief groups. Who’d want to look into that mirror of mourning every day? For Bailey, I would’ve been willing to try.

“No.” Her brows scrunched together, then parted as her face softened. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, be grateful.” I cleared my throat. “Does your wrist still hurt?”

“Yes. Hey, you went out of turn. I get two questions in a row now.”

She switched to pop culture, asking who I thought would win the latest talent reality show, mentioning the contenders one by one until she got to my favorite, on my nineteenth question.

“You’re kidding,” she said. “She has no chance.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I love her, but she’s too oddball to win. She barely follows the rules. When they told them to cover a Beatles song, she did Ringo Starr instead.”

“Who’s Ringo Starr?”

Mara snickered. Bailey rolled her eyes at me. “Are you hopelessly lost in the twenty-first century?” she asked.

“Is that an official question?”

“Is that an official question?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” I met her gaze. “But I do like some old stuff. I have Arcade Fire’s first album.”

She let out a full belly laugh, and the sound was like the first hit of a drug I knew I’d soon be addicted to. “So your idea of old music is from 2004?”

“Hey, that was a long time ago. Back then, everyone had tiny flip phones that didn’t even play music.” I gave her a brief smirk to let her know I knew I sounded ridiculous, then dropped the irony. “I’m also into Johnny Cash.”

Bailey examined me as we turned in to the emergency room driveway. She looked skeptical, which I could understand; my fashion stylings sprawled between geek chic and jock slob. Nothing like the Man in Black. “That’s kind of random,” she said.

I picked up my jacket from the seat, where it had just fallen from her shoulders. “Only because you don’t know me.”

•••

Bailey had broken her wrist falling over Jinx, so for the next month I tried to be her substitute right hand. Since she couldn’t write lefthanded fast enough to keep up with Mr. Ralph’s lectures, I recopied my class notes in careful print, then scanned and emailed them to her. I’d purposely include illegible bits, so she’d have to call me to clarify. And then we’d talk, sometimes for minutes.

I couldn’t ask her out, since I wasn’t allowed to date until I was a senior. Even group dates were forbidden until I turned sixteen. Mom and Dad had found these rules in a popular Christian parenting handbook and had never made an exception for Mara. I hoped my sister’s hundred-percent-compliance rate would buy me some leniency.

But just as I worked up the courage to ask permission, my father got laid off from his finance job, and our family fell into another mourning period. When Dad still hadn’t found a job after two months, my mom went back to work part-time, but the housing market sucked, so she made hardly any money. Mara got a job as an “intake specialist” (receptionist) at a local mechanic’s, and I started mowing neighbors’ lawns, in addition to my already busy regimen of school, volunteer work, and baseball.

So I barely had time to think about Bailey—though I absolutely made time—much less try to get her alone. As summer approached, however, I had to take action or risk losing her forever.

Hoping for a little guy solidarity, I ambushed my father one night while he was out in the front yard weeding. I brought a small bribe, of course: a glass of iced tea with the perfect amounts of lemon and sugar.

“Hi, Dad.”

He startled, then smiled when he saw the iced tea. Before taking it, he pulled the thick leather work gloves off his hands and the earbuds from his ears.

I handed him the glass and a paper towel with a loaves-andfishes design on it. “What are you listening to?”

“Every word of God is flawless. He is a shield to those who take refuge in him.”

“Oh.” That seemed like a long title for a podcast. Ever since he lost his job, Dad had started sprinkling more and more Scripture into his conversation. It was disturbing at times, but Stony Hill had turned me into a bit of an aspiring Bible geek, so I liked the challenge of interpreting his meaning. “That sounds good.”

He nodded, sipped, wiped his mouth. “Don’t you add to his words, let He reprove you.”

“Yeah. Okay.” No idea what that meant. “The roses look great.”

He nodded again, sipped again.

“So, um, I was wondering. There’s this girl Bailey from Math Cave. You met her when you picked me up from class last week?”

He nodded but didn’t sip.

“I know I’m not sixteen yet, but now that it’s May and Math Cave is almost over for the summer, I was hoping I could still hang out with her. Not, like, one-on-one or anything.” He raised his eyebrows skeptically, and I added, “Well, that is what I want, but I know I can’t do that until I’m a senior, so I was thinking that maybe we could go out in a group.”

This time Dad sipped but didn’t nod.

Instead he looked past me, past the Sharmas’ house on the other side of the street, into the dark woods beyond. But in his mind, he was probably picturing Bailey’s lush, flowing hair and revealing outfits. I couldn’t blame him: It’s what I saw every night when I turned out the lights to be “alone with my thoughts,” as they say.

Finally he got to his feet with a grunt, then shuffled over to a fig-tree sapling, which he knelt beside. “Blessed is the man who doesn’t walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stand on the path of sinners, nor sit in the seat of scoffers.” My father ran his bare fingers through the dark, moist mulch at the base of the sapling. “He will be like a tree planted by the streams of water, that produces its fruit in its season, whose leaf also does not wither.”

“Um. Sorry?”

Dad stood and dusted his hand against his faded blue work shirt. “The ungodly are not so, but are like the chaff which the wind drives away.”

His meaning started to dawn on me. “Are you saying Bailey is ungodly?” Was it that obvious she didn’t go to church?

Dad handed me his empty glass and patted my shoulder. “Abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul.” Then he picked up his work gloves, shook off the dirt, and headed for the garage.

“Wait!” I started to follow him but stopped when he didn’t answer or even turn. “I guess that’s a no.”From that day on, Dad spoke in nothing but Bible verses. It was like living inside a sermon.

Mara and I were afraid to ask what had triggered his abandonment of plain English. Maybe it was a bad job interview, or a fight with Mom when we weren’t around. All we could do was try to hide him from our my friends, making excuses why no one could come to our house:

1. We just had it fumigated for bedbugs.

2. Our air-conditioning was broken.

3. Our mom had the Ebola.

But soon it was finals time and long past our turn to host Math Cave study group. Everyone else had hosted at least twice, except for the proudly antisocial Eve and Ezra Decker. Dad promised (not with words but with a nod and a shrug) to stay upstairs so he wouldn’t embarrass Mara and me in front of our friends.

Including Bailey. After finals I might not see her again until the fall. What if some other guy stole her attention over the summer? The thought burned a hole in my chest.

On study group day, she stood with me at the whiteboard we’d set up in a corner of the living room, helping me with inverse trigonometric functions.

“So up here where we have complementary angles, why do we—” I raised my arm to the top equation. My shoulder spasmed as I stretched. “Ow.”

“You okay?” Bailey asked.

“Just a little sore from lifting. But it’s a good pain, from the muscles breaking down and getting stronger.” Did that sound too macho? She wasn’t the type to be impressed by jock talk.

“I read an article that said vegan bodybuilders don’t get sore after lifting.”

“Give up meat and cheese? No way. I need protein.” “You can get protein from plants. Brendan Brazier’s vegan and he’s a major triathlete.” She adjusted the thin strap of her “Easy as π” tank top. “If plants have no protein, then my hair and nails would be all dry and brittle.” Bailey cast a sidelong glance at me, as if daring me to deny she was beautiful.

She had me. I couldn’t dismiss veganism without dissing her looks. But maybe her challenge was the opportunity I needed. I glanced across the room at the other students, sitting on the floor and sofa near the big round coffee table.

“You’re obviously doing something right,” I told her. “But I don’t have a clue about diet.” This wasn’t strictly true. I knew what athletes should avoid: junk food, caffeine, and alcohol; and I knew to carbo-load before a game.

“Then I’ll help you.”

Yes! An excuse to talk to her over the summer. “You’ll cook for me?” “No, but I’ll give you recipes so you can cook for yourself.” She watched my hand as I erased the “arc” from “arcsin” on the board with my little finger. “On one condition: You have to invite me over for dinner with your family when you do.”

My elation dimmed. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Peace be to you!” came a shout from behind us.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the whiteboard in shame. “That’s why.”

“Hi, Mr. Cooper.” Francis smiled at my father, who was coming down the stairs at the far end of the living room. “How’s it going?” Dad grinned. “I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.” He walked past them, a spring in his step.

Brooke and Tori grimaced across the coffee table at each other. Austin raised his eyebrows and turned back to the notebook in his lap. Even Francis’s smile faltered, and he’d been immersed in Bible-olatry his whole life.

Mara jumped up from her seat at the end of the sofa. “Dad, can I bring you a snack or a drink from the kitchen?” She took his arm and turned him back toward the stairs. “That way you don’t have to listen to our boring math talk.”

Dad shook his head. “I have all things, and abound.” He broke away from her and went to one of the living room’s built-in bookshelves.

Mara gave me a pleading look. I held out my hand palm down, using the “Chill out” signal Kane sent me from behind the plate when my pitching rhythm was too fast. The less we engaged our father, the sooner he’d get bored and go away. I hoped, anyway.

Then Dad spotted Bailey standing next to me. He smiled and said, “For the lips of a strange woman drips honey. Her mouth is smoother than oil.”

I wanted to die. At least he’d substituted “strange” for “loose,” which was the version I’d always heard. Thank you, Jesus, for small mercies.

Bailey didn’t get the context. She just smiled back. I dropped the marker on the whiteboard tray and retreated to the kitchen, where she quickly followed me.

“I’m sorry.” I took an apple from the fruit basket on the counter and went to wash it—urgently, as if hunger had driven me in here, not embarrassment.

“Don’t be sorry. He seems sweet.”

“He’s not.” I shook the water off the apple and wondered if I should tell Bailey what my father had been saying about her. “I mean, he can be. But the Bible talk gets old after the first hundred conversations.”

“He does it all the time?” Without me having to ask, she tore off a paper towel and handed it over. “How long’s he been like this?” I waited a moment, until I heard Dad go upstairs again, leaving Mara and my classmates with another Peace be with you! “About a month,” I told her. “We’ve tried everything to stop him: giving him weird looks, asking questions that should be impossible to answer with Scripture—”

“Like what?”

“‘What’s for dinner?’ or ‘Think it’ll rain today?’ or ‘Hey, how about that Phillies bullpen?’”

“He has quotes about dinner and rain and baseball?” “There’s a lot of food and weather in the Bible.” I dried the apple and set it on the cutting board. “If he can’t answer, he just gestures or stays quiet.”

“Have you asked him to talk to a counselor?”

“Yeah, we’ve asked. Begged, even.”

“What does he say?”

“Not much.” I yanked a knife from the wood block. “Mostly he breaks things. So we stopped suggesting that,” I continued. “We’ve adapted, learned to speak his language—or hear it, at least. Or better yet, avoid him.” I started slicing the apple, trying not to wield the knife with hostility. “It sounds sick, but you do what you have to, to keep going.”

“It’s normal.” Bailey leaned her elbows on the counter, her hair tumbling forward over her shoulders. “My granddad’s an alcoholic. He lived with us for a year, after Grandmom died and before he went into the nursing home. He could be really fun and loving one minute, and then the next minute he’d be volcanically pissed off over nothing.” “Dad used to drink a lot, back before he found Jesus. I don’t know if he was an alcoholic—is, was, whatever.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Sometimes I think he’s just given up one drug for another.” Her face softened. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Being right doesn’t make it easier.” With the back of the knife, I pushed half the apple slices toward her.

“I love my grandfather, and I feel sorry for him, but I was glad when he left. Some people are just hard to live with.” Bailey came to stand next to me, close, before taking an apple slice. “But we find a way, right? It’s like when software has an unfixable bug. We come up with work-arounds.”

That was exactly it. I wanted to thank Bailey for understanding, but couldn’t get the words out. I hated the thought of anyone yelling at her the way Dad yelled at us. I wanted to go back in time, stand in front of her drunk grandfather, and shield Bailey from all the angry words flung her way.

“You’ve got red on your head.” Bailey reached up and brushed her thumb above my eyebrow. “Whiteboard marker.”

I froze under her brief caress. “Is it gone?”

“No. It’ll come off when you shower. I mean, when you wash your face. I mean, that might be in the shower or it might, um, not.” Bailey Brynn, Queen of Self-Confidence, was blushing. She scooped up a handful of apple slices. “I’m gonna go do math now.” She spun away, face hidden by her waves.

“Wait.”

As she stopped and turned, I realized I didn’t know what I was going to say, just that I didn’t want this conversation to end. My gaze dropped below her skin-tight capris to her matching flip-flops, which each had a cute little black-winged skull on the big toe.

“Your tattoo. What kind of bird is that?”

“They’re Galapagos finches.” She twisted her left leg to show me the back of her lower calf, where a pair of delicate gray-andblack birds perched on a twig. “In honor of Darwin, not to mention Atticus. Two of my heroes.”

“Atticus?”

“Finch. From To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“Oh. Right.” Mara had a copy of that book. I vowed to read it that night, despite the trig final. “It’s very cool.”

Her smile did me in.

When she was out of sight, I rubbed my forehead where she’d touched me, wishing I could stamp the imprint of her finger into my skin.