The feeling I had was like I’d been given another gift, too. Only this one was from God. Because only from God could there come a feeling as wonderful as this.
We spent some time, maybe half an hour, reviewing material for the test. But it was a history test, after all, and Will hardly needed to work. So really it was more like he was helping me study. But even though his perspective on things was more interesting than any I’d thought of, my mind was on other things. I couldn’t help asking him about the girls he’d been seeing.
He shrugged. “It’s just study sessions. And I don’t mean like the one you and I are having. I don’t ask them out on dates, though. I won’t lie. I just don’t feel the need to give anyone a direct response to personal questions unless I feel like it.” He kissed me. “With you, I feel like it.”
“Why?” It was out before I knew it.
“Why what?”
“Why me?” I’d been wondering this ever since study hall, ever since he’d asked about getting together with me for anything.
He cocked his head at me, a question in his eyes. “Why would you ask that? Don’t you know how sexy you are?” I just blinked. Well, I guess I must have shaken my head, too, because then he said, “You don’t worry about those other idiots.” He pushed me down onto the floor on my back, his hands propped on either side of my head. He kissed me again. “It’s just who you are, Ty. You’re your own person. It’s a kind of self-confidence.”
The funny thing was, that’s exactly what had attracted me to him. Other than the fact that he’s gorgeous. Self-confidence in someone is seductive, you know? Makes you want to be with that person. Makes you want that person to call you a special name. Like Ty. No one had ever called me that before. I decided not to call attention to it, just to cherish it.
What I said instead was, “But I’ve never thought of myself as self-confident. That’s you, not me.” And it’s true. If I seem not to care about whether I’m in a clique, or a group, it’s because I don’t want anyone to figure out what I really want. I don’t want to make the same mistake I made with Jim. It’s isolation more than self-confidence. But maybe the two have some things in common.
Will gave me another kiss, and I thought, I could get used to this. Then he said, “Truth is, self-confident people are attracted to self-confident people. We feel comfortable with each other. We understand each other.” He pulled away, but he was smiling.
I sat up again and said, “But wouldn’t it make more sense for someone who’s self-confident and someone who needs that in someone else to pair up?”
He shook his head. “That happens, sure. But usually it’s not really self-confidence. It’s more likely to be arrogance. And that person actually wants to be with someone who’s less confident, so they have the upper hand. They may not take unfair advantage, but they know they’ve got it.” He reached out a hand and lifted my chin just for a second. “And if there’s one thing you are not, Taylor Adams, it’s arrogant.”
“And are you?”
“Can’t be, if I’m attracted to you.”
I looked at him out of the corners of my eyes. “I think you might be, just a little.”
That’s the first time I remember him flashing that lopsided grin at me. That grin that makes me smile back, that pulls pleasantly on my dick. “Well, maybe just a little.”
I have to stop this. He’s not here now, is he, Ty? You’re trapped in this place, and he’s out there. Christ!
I have to stop thinking about Will kissing me, touching me, even just grinning at me, or I’ll have to report it in my MI.
Ha! Like I’m going to report anything important. Morality Inventory? How can anyone take an inventory of morality? It ought to be Immorality Inventory. That’s what they want to hear about.
It’s in this Booklet someplace. I’m supposed to be memorizing this stuff, but…here it is. I’m to write up any struggles, thoughts, or temptations that have to do with sex, drugs, violence, or disobedience. Step One clients must complete four MIs per week unless otherwise instructed.
That’s me. Step One. In the Program under four weeks. It goes all the way up to Step Three—in the Program eight or more weeks. Eight weeks! And I’m praying to get out in six. Hell, just to survive for six!
Demerit.
If only they’d freakin’ let me talk to someone! I feel like I’m going insane. They call this SafeZone, but it feels downright dangerous to me. My roommate, Charles, Step Two, has been here five weeks now. He can talk. I can talk after tomorrow, but not until then. I hate how sanctimonious Charles is. Seems. I’m not sure anyone is what they seem to be in here.
He was called to the office on Sunday, the day my folks brought me here, just after the program director, Dr. Strickland, read me the riot act. Strickland sat under that all-too-realistic crucifix on the wall behind his desk and kept looking at me over the tops of his eyeglasses, I guess to make sure I was listening. Or maybe to see if there was a devil whispering into my ear.
“We’re not going to talk about the reasons your parents have brought you here, Taylor.”
I tried to look into his piggy eyes so he’d think I was following him, but that crucifix kept screaming at me: Look! Look at me! You think you’re suffering?
My dad was listening, though. He boomed, “What do you mean, we won’t talk about that? It has to be addressed!” He sat forward on his chair, the last strings of hair still attached to the front of his scalp flopping around. He swiped at them distractedly with one hand.
I’ll give Strickland this: he spoke only to me. He didn’t try to calm Dad down, didn’t get defensive, didn’t even turn toward my folks. Looking at me still, he said, “You’ll meet other residents whose sins are the same as yours, and others whose sins are different. The important thing is not what the sin is. The important thing is that it is sin. Your entry into this Program represents a clean slate for you. It’s a chance to start over, to be born new into the Church, into God’s ways. When you leave this office, your roommate, Charles, will give you an orientation and then take you to the chapel, and Reverend Bartle will pray with you and cleanse you. You’ll stay there with him until your sins are forgiven. Only then will you be ready for the Program here at Straight to God.”
Dad sat back with a thud, arms crossed over his chest. He’d probably been hoping they’d give me thirty-nine lashes or something. You remember the thirty-nine lashes? The Old Testament says that you aren’t supposed to actually kill anyone with a whip, just hurt them really bad. They figured that for the average guy, forty should be the max. But the Jewish lawmakers wanted to be really sure they never overstepped the limits; after all, forty-one might kill somebody, right? Where forty wouldn’t? Sticklers. Anyway, to make sure they never went beyond merely getting the guy to wish he were dead, they always counted to thirty-nine and stopped. And I figured that would be my fate here. They’d only make me wish they’d go ahead and put me out of my misery, but they wouldn’t actually do it.
Strickland went over the Program Rules. All of them. My folks were following along in the Booklet (not to be confused with the Book, you understand), or at least my mom was, and we read through everything in painful detail. He told me that as soon as Reverend Bartle was done with me (not his words), I would be in SafeZone, which would mean I wasn’t allowed to speak. With anyone. For anything. For Three Fucking Days.
And then he reached into the file cabinet behind his desk and pulled out, of all things, a digital camera. I was clueless and just sat there, arms crossed on my chest, a look on my face that basically said, “Do your worst, all of you. And fuck off while you’re at it.” My nothing brown hair was falling in that stupid curl just a little left of center on my forehead, my eyes were clouded with repressed fury, and the crooked part of my nose—from when I fell out of a tree when I was ten, and the spot Will likes to lick—offset the curl. I know this because I’ve seen