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mistaking me for Jehovah again, son. But I do 'preciate the quote.”
    Maybe he did sound happy. I
tried to picture the old man, years from now—and all I could see was that same
frayed blue robe, and the cigarillo, and the constant mutterings of the TV. I'd
never gone in for his congregation—which was perhaps the biggest point of
contention in our ever-strained relationship—but who was I to begrudge an old
man some creature comforts? In my heart of hearts, a part of me looked forward
to graduation day, when I'd no longer be beholden to Pastor Bill Sterling. If I
lived in Colorado, I wouldn't even have to come home for all the holidays, and
spend time in that silent, smelly house with its constant perfume of terrible
memories. And if Pop had a lady to make him casseroles and ensure he took his
medicine—well, that had to be a good thing. Didn't it?
    “Sir, I'm glad you called me. That's truly wonderful news.
When are you planning to—when's the ceremony?”
    “I figure I've been a patient man all my life, and when a
good thing comes I've got to seize it. Don't you think you've got to seize a
good thing, son?”
    Yeardley slammed his play book shut at last, giving up the
ruse. I let the words 'good' and 'thing' bounce around in my head for a beat
too long, where they collided with my memory of chasing Doll around the gas
station. Her ass, snug in those jeans. Good. Thing. Her hair. I slammed
a palm into the concrete wall, suddenly livid at myself. Why couldn't I stop
thinking about her? Why?
    “Seize away, sir!” I said, a little too loudly. I heard
Pop's recliner shift in the background. He'd be preparing for an afternoon nap
right about now, if I knew the bastard. And up until this phone call, I could
have sworn I did.
    “Mmm-hmm. She's a god-fearing congregant. Has the spirit and
the vessel. She drew a short straw in this life, but we've found one another.
I'm fixing to make my intentions known this evening, and I'd like you to be
beside me on the day, everything being equal.” I swallowed. It was remarkably
rare for Bill Sterling to demonstrate pride in his famous quarterback son. I
had to grab that shit where it came.
    “I'm honored, Pop. Truly.” I angled the phone away from
Yeardley, so he wouldn't see the moisture dangling off my eyelashes. “Hey.
What's her name? The lady?”
    The old man cleared his throat. I thought I could actually
hear him smile, through time and space and wire.
    “Anya Bennett,” he said, lovingly.

Chapter Six

    Ash
    June 2 nd
     
    I kicked my locker for a fifth time, enjoying the vibration
of metal on metal as my steel-toed boot attempted to injure the yellow tin. The
late bell had just finished sounding, and yet again my locker was jammed.
    And literally jammed—as in, cemented shut with a
gooey concoction of jelly, gum, and what appeared to be rubber cement. It's
something I still don't get about high schoolers. Like, who has the time to
haze the new kid so elaborately? And what disgusting bully spent his afternoon
mashing up shit into a paste, and then some of his precious morning targeting
me with it? Surely there were better ways to spend that time.
    It was just about the end of my tenure at Lee High, and
since about day two I'd been playing the victim to everyone. The jam thing was
an unpleasant new twist, but I was no stranger to asshole classmates. It would
go down like so: the first week in a new city, everyone would try to pin me
down. They'd wonder why I was so dark and brooding, and why I wore all black,
and why I didn't speak up in class. Then they'd see me get As. Guys would elect
to notice the boobs that had been failing at discretion, my whole teenage life.
And somewhere in there, some Queen Bee would make an executive decision that
Ashleigh Bennett was an uppity slut freak, who thought she was better than
everyone else. Rumors would begin to circle. Shit like, “At her last school,
she gang-banged her whole lacrosse team.” (Thank you, Des Moines High.) And