Slain (12 page)

My heart races my hands to shaking. I’ve done it.

There are still major problems to deal with. But this one, this neon sign of danger, is solved. I feel lighter as I walk up the stairs to check in with my parents. So light I could float balloon-high.
 

It’s gone. The gun is gone.
 

The downside is that it might not be discovered for a long time. How often are those couches moved? At least whoever finds it will probably be an adult who wasn’t even there that night. No one will be hurt by this action, especially not me.
 

The best part is that it will be found eventually, and maybe there’s a clue with it. Probably not fingerprints; the killer has been too careful. But maybe DNA, or fibers from their shirt, or a tiny hair from their dog—something that will tell the police who actually did it. Something that will tell the police it wasn’t me. I have half a mind to phone in an anonymous tip, but it’s too risky.

As I walk out onto the top floor, someone calls my name.

“Emma!”

It’s Pastor Pete. His face lights up to see me. That’s one of the best things about him. And it’s not just me, it would be the same reaction for anyone. He’s genuinely happy to see people, especially teenagers.

He waves me over from his door. Well, one of his doors. Pastor Pete has two sides of his office. The office side, where his desk is, and a lounge side, with beanbag chairs and games and toys and stuff so students can hang out and talk to him.

“So, what’re you doing here today?”
 

“Nothing,” I say, which is universal teenager language for something.

“Wanna hang out for a minute?” he asks. “I could use a little break”

“Sure,” I say. Visiting Pastor Pete is as good a reason as any for being here.

“Awesome sauce,” he says. It’s an expression he uses a lot. I think he thinks it makes him sound cool.

He opens the door to the lounge side, and we go in. He goes to the mini-fridge. “Want something to drink?”

“Water?”

“Coming up.”
 

He hands me a water, and we settle into beanbag chairs.

“I really appreciate what you did at the vigil the other night. Several people mentioned how special that was.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“So how have you been holding up with all this?” he asks. He’s the first person who seems genuinely concerned about me, and it feels nice. I wish I could tell him everything. Or maybe I wish telling him everything would lead to a solution.
 

“I don’t know. It’s been hard, I guess,” I say.

“It’s rough to lose a friend.”
 

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“But?”

I sit there for a moment, thinking. Maybe there’s a part of this, a small part, that I can talk to him about.

“I don’t know how great a friend I really was to her. It feels like I could have done something to save her. Like I should have been there for her more.”
 

“I think we all feel that way. I know I do,” he says. “It’s natural when something like this happens, but I don’t think it’s actually the truth. It’s just our minds trying to make sense of something really hard.”

I look up at him.

“I saw how great you were to June. You invited her to really be a part of things around here. And she was.” He looks at me with a keep-this-between-you-and-me sort of look. “You and I both know that she needed a little extra love and patience sometimes. You gave that to her. That’s an amazing gift.”

“But I should have been with her. And I wasn’t.”

“I know it’s tough to hear, but God has His own plans that we don’t always understand. And that night those plans didn’t include you getting hurt too.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

I hear the truth coming out of my mouth before I can stop myself from saying it. “It sounds like something we say to make ourselves feel better. If it’s part of a plan that’s bigger than us, then it’s a lot easier to deal with. But I just don’t get how this can be something God wanted to happen.”

He sighs. “I get it. I really do.” He leans back in his beanbag, propping his feet on a puffy footstool and folding his hands over his stomach. “Those are some tough questions, and I won’t try to bullshit you with simple answers.” Every now and then, Pastor Pete swears. He’s careful about it, though. He never does it around adults, or kids prone to tattle. What I can’t decide is if it’s an old habit he can’t break, or a new one he’s using to relate to us.
 

“You want to know a little secret, though? You wouldn’t be a real Christian if you didn’t struggle with those questions sometimes. I think God likes us to ask tough questions. I don’t think He wants a blind follower. I think He appreciates someone who comes to Him after they’ve been through the desert of their doubts. I think asking makes you a stronger believer in the end.”

I want to spout off a hundred verses that disagree with that particular idea, but I don’t.

He scoots forward, and the awkwardness of it, his navigating upright in a beanbag chair that wants to suck him under, helps me quell my desire to argue. The action is nearly as useless a fight as my arguments would be.

“The important thing, though, when you’re asking, is to make sure you listen too. As long as you do that, He will show you the answers, or at least give you enough peace to handle the uncertainty. Can you promise to do that for me? Just keep listening?”

“Of course,” I say. Of course it’s my fault if I don’t hear something that doesn’t exist.

“Let me pray with you?” he asks.

I nod yes.
 

He finally maneuvers the mass of the chair to his favor. He leans forward and takes my hands and prays. The words brush my ears, but I don’t absorb them. There’s nothing he says that I haven’t heard a thousand times before. Circles and circles and circles of logic that always eat their own tail.

“Amen,” he says.

“Amen,” I say.

“How about I give you a minute?” he says. He does this every time, with everyone. He prays with you, then lets you have time to pray by yourself. It has happened so many times I’ve lost track.

“Okay,” I say, knowing prayer won’t help and wishing I could leave.

After he goes, I wander around the room, staring at the posters on the wall, at the collection of toys on the table, looking for something to fidget with. There’s Chinese fingercuffs, one of those triangular board games with the pegs, and a handful of bouncy balls. On the shelves is his collection of figurines and toys, each one in pristine condition. Some are even still in the box. There’s a Luke Skywalker, and a plush chipmunk with giant felt teeth. There’s a collection of Pokémon dolls and a stuffed pig.

Something about the pig pricks at a little pocket of my memory. I pick it up and try to remember what it was. The pig is soft and bright pink, its tiny paws a furry white on the bottom.
 

Then it hits me. June’s testimony. The story about the toy slipping out of her hand and her dad saving her.

There’s a gentle knock as Pastor Pete comes back in.

“Looks like you’ve been acquainted with Mr. Wiggles,” he says with a smile. “That was my favorite toy growing up. I carried it everywhere until I was six.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “It reminded me of June.”

He tilts his head, confused. “Why is that?”

“Her testimony. I watched it online with Paige the other day. Remember that story she told about riding the swings at Six Flags and losing the pig?”

A look of recognition dawns on his face. “Yes. That’s right.” He shakes his head, deep in thought. “What a miracle.”

I was thinking something else. I was thinking that if there was a God, it seems like he had it out for her, even back then.

When I get home, there is an e-mail from Jackson. I open it, and a picture of Central Park fills the screen. Green trees frame a stone bridge that stretches over a lake. A boat floats beneath it, carrying lovers who gaze at each other as if they are the only two people in the world.

Below it, his message:

I’m going to kiss you here.

Love,

Jackson

Despite the day I’ve had, my heart soars. How does he always do it? Remind me that the world is bigger than this moment? Remind me that we have a future together, no matter how hard things might be right now?

I type a message back to him:

And I’m going to kiss you back.
❤

Miss you like crazy. So much to tell you, but not safe to meet yet. I’ll let you know.

Love,

Emma

W
EDNESDAY
MORNING
COMES
TOO
fast. We arrive at the church just in time to open the doors for the men delivering June’s casket. She’s in there, inside that box. The thought thins the air around me.
 

Paige and Mike come in a few minutes later.
 

“I hate funerals,” Paige says. “Don’t let them give me one, okay? Just burn me and dump me somewhere pretty.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I say.
 

“Yeah. Don’t be stupid,” Mike says. “Of course you’re having a funeral. Everyone has a funeral.”

“Not if she doesn’t want one,” I say.

He glares at me. Apparently, he expects me to agree with him about everything in addition to pretending I don’t find him disgusting.
 

“Whatever,” he says. “Ready to go inside?”

“I guess so,” I say.

Mike grabs my hand, so hard it feels like it might break. His palms are sweaty, and it makes me wish there was a condom for hands. We find a seat together, me sandwiched between both him and Paige. Whenever we’re in regular service and not youth service, the youth group kids sit together in the section farthest to the left side of the stage. We’ve been doing it so long I don’t remember when it started.

All the other kids join us as they filter in: Ruth, Katie, Ben, Chuck, and all the others. Nicolas is here early too, but he’s not sitting with us today. He doesn’t even say hello. He’s sitting in front, staring at the casket like if he stares hard enough she’ll be alive again. His mom holds his hand, and his dad drapes a supportive arm around his back.
 

Soon, the five thousand-seat church is packed with people who barely knew June. Except for the kids in the youth group, maybe ten of the people here have had more than a five-minute conversation with her ever. Reporters take up a whole section marked for the press. Our own media team has the cameras going too, like they always do. In such a big space, people spend more time watching my dad on the three jumbo screens than they do watching my dad. The word spectacle was made for moments like this, and it makes me mad on June’s behalf.

“I can’t believe this, can you?” Paige says.

“No. It’s ridiculous.”
 

Paige looks at me funny. She likes it that so many people showed up to mourn June’s death.

“Just, all these people didn’t even know her.”

“I know, but she would have loved this.”

She’s right. June would have loved it. She always seemed so awestruck every time the audience clapped after a dance number. So seeing everyone here, just for her? She would have been bowled over. And here I am, getting defensive.

“There she is.” Paige says, her voice cracking a little as they open the casket for viewing. “She looks so sweet.”

 
June’s coffin is up at the front, surrounded by flowers and propped wide open. There’s a big photo standing on an easel with her smiling in it, broad and hopeful. I’m pretty sure the picture was taken before one of our dance performances, because she’s wearing what looks like our white costume, the one we used to play angels at Christmas, but without the wings.

Paige pulls me up with her as she stands. “Come on,” she says.

I’m scared to get closer, scared to look over the edge, but there’s no getting out of this.

“Coming?” Paige asks Mike.

“I’m fine here,” he says.

We get in line, Miss Hope and Pastor Pete just ahead of us. Miss Hope is crying softly, leaning on Pastor Pete’s shoulder for support. He drapes an arm around her shoulders and gives it a squeeze. It’s actually a little weird to even see that. They’re always careful about PDA around us, even though they’re engaged. But today no one is going to call it inappropriate.

“How are you girls doing?” Miss Hope asks. Her eyes are red, and the tissue in her hand is crumbling.

“Okay,” I say, though my voice says I’m not.

“I still can’t believe it,” Paige says.
 

“It’s tragic,” Pastor Pete says. He looks gray and empty, like an old balloon deflated and stretch-marked on the sidewalk.

Miss Hope hugs us both and sobs into our hair. It sets Paige off crying too, but I feel too empty to cry. Miss Hope finally lets go and kisses both of our foreheads.

“You call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Paige says, and they turn back around.

The line moves too fast. As we get closer all I want to do is bolt.
 

June’s mom sits in the front row, at least I think it’s her. I’ve never met her. She’s crying a lot, and loud. A woman next to her, maybe June’s older sister, holds her hand but seems irritated with the crying, like maybe she wants to crawl under her chair. I would be too. I wonder how the church found them. As far as I know, June is the only one in her family who is a Christian.
 

Dad said the church is paying for everything. The only thing I really know about June’s family is that they’re really poor. She never wanted to say so, but you could tell. I think, more than anything, June just wanted us all to believe that she was just like us. Only she wasn’t. Nobody was like June.

I take the last few steps up to the stage, Paige's hand clutched tightly around mine. And suddenly June’s there, and my throat closes up. She’s beautiful, but not the right kind of beautiful. June never wore makeup, but they have her painted like a beauty queen, too glossy and too perfect. She’s wearing a sky-blue silk dress I’ve never seen. It’s brand new, the kind she never had. Somehow that look of a lost little girl is gone. She looks too grown up, too generic. She could be any one of us, even me. And it makes me sad, because that thing that wasn’t like us, that thing that made her June, is gone.