I've never been to church. Actually, I was not raised with any religion, but after Mom married Patrick, he decided that we all had to attend church every single Sunday. It matters to him, so Mom puts on a dress and obliges him. When I declined, it caused a fight in the house, which means I have to go to keep the peace. I would rather be sleeping.
At first, Patrick suggested that I carpool with some other kids to get there. I objected because I am embarrassingly short and would be made to sit in the middle. I would be car sick. The other kids objected because after a car ride with me, they would be sick of me. I hang my head out of Patrick's car window in a disdainful way.
The ride there is silent and uncomfortable, but these kinds of silences have become common in our house, so I ignore it and flip to a page in my sketchbook. Drawing in a moving vehicle is hard, but I've been itching to get a cool car (not the dumb Prius that Patrick drives) out of my head. "Mom, do you have a pen?"
She sighs and ignores me. She doesn't even look at me from the front seat.
"Patrick?" I try.
He also ignores me, his teeth clenched, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I roll my eyes. "Guys, I said sorry for calling Jesus fake. I'm here now. Can we move on?"
"Indra," my mom warns.
Since I don't have a pen, I use my nail to trace indents onto the page where I would normally put down ink. My fingers tremble in anticipation, wanting so badly to get the image in my head onto the page. It's all I can think about, daydream about, even as the car is parked and we walk up to the church and sit in the pews. Patrick picks seats in the front. I sit next to Mom and fish through her handbag, where indeed there is a pen. I begin sketching immediately.
Ugh, fuck. Now I wish I had markers. Shading would have to do for now.
"Indra," Patrick says, leaning over Mom, who is sitting between us, "I want you to pay attention. Or at least pretend to. I have a reputation here. Today is the new pastor's first day. You will respect him and make him feel welcome."
Saying 'you're not my dad' is on the tip of my insubordinate tongue, but the guy isn't so bad outside of this forced church stuff, and he makes Mom happy, so I just bite my cheek. "Kay."
"And you're going to mingle with the other kids after service," he says, "I promise it's not a punishment. They're good kids. You'll like them."
I especially did not like the "other people" part of church. I had "does not interact well with peers" on all my school reports. If they had been more precise, they would have written "does not know how to shut up around stupid people," but that was teachers for you. "We'll see," I say, and ignore everything else he tells me before the service starts.
The new pastor has blonde-gray hair, blue eyes, and impeccable bone structure. He's one of those 50-year-old men who are somehow hotter than they were at 25. "Mom, look," I whisper, "He's—"
"Shh," she says sternly.
I shrug and lean on her, looking up at him as he begins speaking. I close my sketchbook since that's what Patrick wanted. I try to pay attention. I'm not sure why I assumed it would be interesting, but it's not. The pastor says words I barely understand and quotes books I definitely cannot pronounce as neatly as he can. My eyes begin to droop.
Mom smacks my knee as my head lolls onto her shoulder. "No sleeping."
I prop up my sketchbook on my knees. "Fine." I tilt the book away from her and finish the sketch of the car. I'll have to redo it later with color. And since this is the only thing keeping me from dosing off to the monotone of the pastor's voice, I decide to draw the pastor himself. I draw him as a zombie to demonstrate how boring he is.
After the service, Mom takes away my pen and makes me wait in some room where Patrick says the kids are supposed to 'mingle.' I find another pen discarded on the ground and use it to finish my drawing of the pastor.
I do not speak to any of the others crowded into this room. They seem to know each other already, and I am no good at breaking into a friend group that has been formed before I've arrived. One kid moves between groups like he belongs to all of them, smiling like he's already everyone's favorite. He's blond and broad-shouldered, taking hold of hands and shoulders in polite greeting with the smug quality of a kid who thought he was wiser than his years. I deign him Barbie.
Barbie leans over and speaks to a little boy in a Spider-Man t-shirt, then turns away, leaving the kid staring with shining eyes. Barbie obviously forgot about the boy instantly, moving on to the next person. Several girls look at him when his back is turned, so I know immediately that he's going to be popular. I plan to be rude to him when he gets to me.
I sign my name and add the date at the bottom of my drawing as I always do. That's when Barbie approaches, all perfect teeth and confident stride. He looms over me, and I know that he will be much taller even if I stand, so I decide not to stand. "Hello," he says, and holds out his hand. "My name is Jaron Ashcomb—"
"Ass comb?"
"Ashcomb." He frowns.
I snort. "Ass comb." After I finish making fun of him for this, the whole duration of which he just stands there looking confused, I wave my hands to shoo him away. "I'm not here to make friends. There's plenty of others, though." I gesture to a group of girls looking directly at us. Well, looking at him.
He also turns to look at them. Then back at me and at my sketchbook, his lip curling in what seems to be amusement. "Is that the pastor?"
I grin back, thinking he approves. "Yeah. Dull as hell, huh?" I turn the drawing to show him properly.
"That's my father."
I snap the book shut. "Oh." I clear my throat. "Sorry." I should have guessed. Same handsome face and golden hair...I realize that the curl of his lip wasn't a smile at all, but actually a scowl. "I said I'm sorry," I say.
He turns his head away.
"Come on, man, be real. Your dad is boring. I mean the faith stuff is cool, but like, he's boring."
Jaron glares at me.
I take that as my cue to shut the fuck up. "Okay, sorry again. Forget I said anything."
He says nothing else and walks back to one of the several clusters of kids that have formed. And now I'm embarrassed and can't draw, so I scroll on my phone, pretending to have something to do.
When the hour is up, Patrick comes to find me. I hurry over to Jaron (since he's the only person I know in any capacity here), throw my arm around him, and laugh when Patrick pushes the door open. I want Patrick to think I 'mingled.'
Jaron picks my hand off of him and frowns. I punch his shoulder and say, "Great meeting ya, man! See you next week." Jaron doesn't say anything, but he does rub his shoulder where I touched him. I push Patrick out of the room. "Are we leaving now?" I ask.
He runs his hand through his hair. "Yes, we can go."
I beam. "Great." I reach for his keys in his pocket and jog to the car so that I don't have to wait for him and Mom to say 30-minute-long goodbyes to all his friends.
In the car, Mom twists around in her seat to look at me. "Did you talk to anyone, honey?"
"Yeah. The pastor's kid." I smile. "He was nice."
"Did you really?" Patrick asks.
I nod.
And that makes Patrick smile too. "Good. You should try and make friends with him. Maybe invite him over. We could make it a family thing—"
"I'm not inviting the pastor's kid anywhere, and you're not going to get the chance to monopolize that pastor first. I see you, Patrick."
They both sigh, and Patrick starts the car. I use my church pen to start doodling a wet mop labeled 'Jaron' because that's what I think he is. Jaron the mop does not get the glory of a full page and dated signature. He doesn't deserve it. He only gets a corner doodle.