Maranatha: Chapter 3.

if you’re just joining us: go here, then here.

- Chapter 3 -

The random “chastity checks”—a concept that, even now, sounded alien and nefarious to Maranatha whenever she tried to explain it—began during her junior year. It was February and things were already at an all-time weird by then.

Back in October, Jacob Rich, who’d sat behind her two years ago in French, had been held after school in a private detention for a full week, just before Thanksgiving break. No one had ever been pre-assigned a week’s detention. Usually, when you were written up for disobedience in class, the penance for most infractions a simple hour or two of eraser-clapping and bible verse memorization.

Jake had found a letter from Principal Harris in his locker. No one knew exactly what it said—Joe never told—but everybody around him in the hall noticed the way his olive skin flushed as he read. And after he finished, he shoved the leaf of school letterhead between his jacket and backpack, slammed the locker door, and fled to the nearest bathroom.

Maranatha had always liked Jake, with his soft voice and fluttery fingers. She liked how easily he blushed and how he seemed to always be near to help her scoop up her books when someone deliberately bumped her hard enough to knock them out of her hands. His long eyelashes reminded her of perching butterflies. A tiny mole inked his right cheek, like a drawn-in beauty mark.

She couldn’t imagine him doing anything that would warrant a week’s detention.

After Jake got the letter, Maranatha noticed a few immediate changes. He stopped wearing the sweater vests he’d favored, in lavender and sea foam and peach, and took to sporting blacks and greys and Rockport boots. His full loose curls had been cropped much closer. Stubble sprouted on his usually clean-shaven face. And within a month of his detention, he’d asked some freshmen to be his girlfriend.

Maranatha was perplexed, almost enough to risk public humiliation by asking Demetria if she’d heard anything. But  answers came soon enough. During the basketball unit of gym, she overheard the girls who’d faked periods gossiping about Jake on the bleachers.

“… but I thought he was gay.”

“He was, but Principal Harris and some other teachers and church elders prayed it off him.”

“Why would that take five days, though?”

“I heard it was seven—the number of completion.”

“He must’ve had a whole lotta spirits on him.”

“’Legion, for we are many….’”

The basketball walloped Maranatha’s bicep. She stumbled and the group of girls swiveled at the thud. Hurriedly scooping up the ball, she kept her head down and shuffled back to the fold of players.

That night, Maranatha didn’t sleep. Her mind was too busy conjuring images of Jake, surrounded by crusty old faculty insistent on loosing him of the gaggle of green gargoyles clinging to his argyle sweater vest. She asked herself where in the building would their teachers have most likely staged a seven-day exorcism, and after careful deliberation, she decided it’d all gone down in the band room where, when the demons trembled at the name of Jesus, all the cymbals on the drum sets would clatter.

Maranatha: Chapter 2.

for those just joining us: start here.

- Chapter 2 -

Holy Pentecost Academy hardly seemed the same place, with its potholes in the sidewalk, flimsy plastic flapping across broken windows, and ripped flag sagging at half-mast. Maranatha parked her car and sat for a minute, half-debating heading back home. Just being here, outside but on the grounds, made her feel defensive and nauseous and ashamed.

The postcard on her dashboard noted that she only had five minutes before this thing got started in earnest. Her decision needed to be quick. She grabbed the card and her patented leather clutch and stepped out of the car.

She’d known all along she’d go in.

The side door truants used to use to dash was locked, so she navigated a slalom of orange cones, nestled in ditches of crumbled concrete, to the front entrance.

Her skin prickled. Holy Pentecost still chilled her to the bone upon entry. The sickening scent of cheap cleaning solution, reconstituted meats, and powdered eggs still wafted right up to her from the cafeteria. But there was another smell here, too, something like vinegar and mold.

She looked at the banners hanging from the ceiling above the main office. State Girls Volleyball Champions, 2006, Division C. Pastor’s Award for Excellence in Stewardship, 2008. 2001 Winners of District Youth Evangelism Challenge. Oratory Competition 1998 Runner-Up.

There were others, but she moved on, almost stumbling into a sign taped to a music stand. It read, Town Hall Meeting, Auditorium, 7:30 pm. And underneath, a big red arrow, like anyone who’d be here wouldn’t pivot left by rote.

She heard the screech of a microphone, then keened her ear to see if she recognized the voice mumbling, “Testing, testing.” She didn’t.

A group of women swanned out of a door 200 feet ahead and she froze as they filled the hallway. From here, they looked to be about her age. They were well-dressed, in silk blouses with skirt suits or swishing wide-legged slacks. Their clacking heels rang in her ears. Sweat beaded in her palms. What if she knew them? What if they were former tormenters, like Patra Davis—or worse yet, what if one was Demetria Simmons who had, by graduation, become a kind of frenemy?

She hadn’t seen any of these people in twelve years. Occasionally, in her desperate attempts at holiday small talk, Maranatha’s mother had leaked a few updates about alumni here and there. She knew, for instance, that Cammi Shaw, who barely waited till eighth grade to have sex, then swapped Maranatha’s name for hers when recounting her grand tales of exploit, had recently bought a three-bedroom townhome in Owings Mills. Demetria married a surgeon. Bryce Hall, the cutest boy in their graduating class, was a recovering alcoholic who lived with his mom. Some other boy whose name she hadn’t retained had beaten some type of rare cancer.

Maranatha wasn’t ready for any of this. She tried to square her shoulders, as the cluster of ladies approached. Then she saw them squinting and whispering, trying to place her. Panicked, she turned on her heel and headed for the bathroom at the other end of the hall.

Maranatha: Chapter 1.

in the past, when i’ve posted excerpts of longer works of fiction, i haven’t prefaced them with any type of summary. a friend of mine told me this was a problem for him and deterred him from reading. so, in an effort not to deter you, here is yet another excerpt and the summary is as follows:

this is the story of maranatha miller, a lifelong loner at a private, pentecostal school who, at the age of seven, has a chance encounter with a troubled graduating high school senior named gideon. years later, gideon returns to the school as a teacher, when maranatha is a senior herself. forbidden, mostly repressed romance ensues as the two forge undeniable bonds, in spite of themselves.

their story is set against the backdrop of a larger scandal, as parents and former students form a class action suit against the school for unethical policies and abusive practices, and maranatha and gideon–both victimized by these practices over the years, in different ways–are called upon to testify.

the story spans three decades and each chapter represents a different period in time. this first chapter is the chance encounter i was telling you about. enjoy!

- Chapter 1 -

Whenever the primary-schoolers made their way to the Main Building, they were dwarves in a city of giants. The second grade class at Holy Pentecost Academy clasped hands so tightly they dampened and it became trickier to keep their slippery grip on one another. The wanton giants tromped about, jostling them without ever looking down. The tots trembled, inching through the halls of the Big Kid School, where assemblies were held in a massive, musty auditorium.

They should’ve been beside themselves with glee and anticipation. It was Friday, October 30: Hallelujah Day. Every year, the whole school gathered for candy, costumes, and a fantastical filmstrip about druids, witches, and all the satanic trappings of Halloween.

It was one of the most exciting days on their academic calendar.

But first they had to get past their initial ten minutes in Main, all of which they spent in wriggling in taut-eyed, primal fear. Usually, a third of the kindergarten class wet itself in anticipation. Then, slowly, as they made their way toward their candy-paved utopia, everyone settled down and suddenly, sharing space with students three times their size wasn’t such a Herculean feat, after all.

Maranatha smiled at the littler kids. She remembered kindergarten fondly. When she was five, she blended in. The other children shared their pipe cleaners and tissue paper in Arts & Crafts; and no one spread the word that her PB&J was covered in cooties when she tried to lunch-swap.

But now that she was seven, everything sucked. By second grade, all the kids knew what it meant to have a mom and dad who’d never married. Just yesterday, Demetria Simmons leaned over and hissed, “You were conceived in sin,” during story hour. Maranatha’s cheeks had raged, her eyelids hot and wet, as she looked around at the nodding heads and giggling lips. Everyone had heard.

Lately, she’d been learning to keep her head down. She knew the number of stitches in her sneakers. She knew how many Formica tiles stood between her and the cafeteria. It was comforting to focus on her own her footsteps, so comforting that when she really thought about it, the big kids bumping her on their way to the auditorium had never really frightened her at all. Maranatha felt dwarfed, no matter where she was and the size of things couldn’t bother you if you never looked up and noticed them.

*  *  *

The boy was like other boys his age. There was nothing special about him. He was tall and thin and the color of brown M&Ms. His close-shaved hair had been trained by a barber to swirl counter-clockwise at the crown. As a senior, he was immune to the lures of candy and conscience-pricking. He’d stopped caring about Halloween when he was 11. Getting out of class for the assembly didn’t especially excite him, either. He cut class at least once a week, anyway.

That afternoon, he smelled like Gain and Newports. He and his boy, Gerald, were fresh off a smoke break out behind the softball diamond. Now, in the crowded hall, they were tossing a ball of foil back and forth, pretending to be Jordan and Bird. Since they were charming and popular, the other kids and even a couple teachers simply laughed it off when they stumbled into them.

No one ever told them to stop.

an inarticulate description of faith.

Sometimes, when I look into a mirror, my body becomes fleetingly, fully aware of how temporal it is. And in that instant, it ceases to exist. My spirit sloughs it off and regards itself with calm, matter-of-fact detachment.The whole thing takes about .05 seconds.

But this is why I’m certain of eternity and confident that a God presides over it.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to adequately capture those half-seconds and still find them entirely inexpressible.

That is why I don’t proselytize.

pith.

it only hurts because of the intimate pods: the love-zippered pockets that held us together under the pelt of showerwater, when your skin was at once smooth and ridged and your hair smelled like loam in an herb garden; the hope-sealed silos where the drizzling grain laid tracks for our bodies’ ballad; the ark your back made of our bedsheets as you rubbed my temples, we inhaled the soapy wind and you whispered, let’s get zen with this shit; the bubble of fused breath in a grocery store line, when your phantom chin rests on my shoulder and your lost lips ripple against my ear: we should get gummi lifesavers; the forcefield of whispers at the cinema, when i turn for your eyes in the dark and find nothing more than gilt flecks of projection.

it only hurts because of the orbs wherein it worked before it didn’t. we were a galaxy once: cosmic, foreordained. and now, we’re one again: distant, irretrievable. without these hallows, there would only be indifference. and though indifference is a useful shroud now that love is immaterial, you should know that i remember.

i loved you. i swear it.

for proof, you need only peel open the pods.

top 5 things i’ve learned in my newly single state:

1. don’t date dudes you had massive crushes on in high school.

2. salvage yourself.

3. avoid playing to others’ expectations.

4. relish, then release each stage of grief.

5. trust the future.

… brought to you by the letter s and the number 30.

i feel like there should be more to say than this, after having been out of school for 2.5 months now. but i really don’t have much to show for summer, save two novels read, a ton of relaxation, a renaissance of enthusiasm about the NE corridor, a twitter addiction, a break-up, and the completion of a chapbook manuscript.

yeah. that last thing comes as a total surprise to me, too. i thought poetry and i had parted ways for the very last time, circa 2003. then, this april, during the web’s 30/30 poetry month challenge, i started fooling around with free verse.

then i actually wrote a poem with a bit of promise. and things got a bit more serious.

i challenged myself to write 30 poems and bind them into a small, self-published collection called T h i r t y.

i turn 30 later this year.

i’m kind of looking forward to it, though if my 16-year-old self could see me now, she’d be more than a little disappointed. “this is as far as i got?” she’d say, stealing up and down glances when she thinks i’m not looking, attempting not to be rude when she can’t help but be.

yeah, that’s right, brooding adolescent version of stacia. this is where we are. no home. no car. no fam of my own. a seasonal gig w/o medical. one short story publication. a few magazine clippings. a master’s degree from a storied, artsy new york institution. good friends. a random affinity for wine. first trip abroad. and, finally, as of this year, a driver’s license. reading glasses. a seriously twisted history with a guy that’ll provide years and years of source material. and now, poems.

it’s actually a pretty decent place to be. i think we should be proud of ourselves.

but still. our 30s have got to be a lot awesomer than this, right?

i’m really looking forward to them.

diversion.

(for coloreds only)

we are sequestered in the balcony, a nest
of blackbirds, pecking kettle corn. you call
me your candy apple as sweat rolls down
the long, cool necks of our colas. in the dark,

i can hear the wiry whisk of your beard, thin
fingers flitting absently against your chin, the
futile whir of fans. onscreen, a phonograph
churns Billie’s gravelly alto upward. as it wafts
toward the rafters, you turn and whisper:

junkies have the most beautiful voices.

i watch, as filmic light softens the lines
of your face, and fleetingly forget integration.

combat.

i felt your face, disfigured,
kissed the pleats of keloid
puckering your jaws. you
were cold, flushed with
camphor and distance.

my mother warned of this,
not long after you enlisted:
war transmogrifies the men
and suffocates the wives
with silence.

i know now. i am not the
balm we thought i’d be.

you twitch in your sleep:
reflex, regret. your body a
hollowed rind. when sleep
rescinds, i press an ear
to your rib and listen
for farsi or fruit.

Loss.

When I was three, I had an imaginary friend named Silas. He was tall. I can’t remember his ethnicity. He didn’t talk much. He wasn’t the kind of imaginary friend you pinned your indiscretions on. He was just your run-of-the-mill road dog, the very necessary playmate of an only child in a house full of women.

My mother still chuckles recalling how I’d walk away from her in a huff, lifting my tiny hand to reach up and grasp his, saying, “Come on, Silas….”

I miss him.