to her mouth, and her tongue, lizard fast, darted out for a taste.
"Pretty good but the birds woke me up," I answered. I would have broken the news about my stolen bike but I didn't want to spoil her breakfast. I poured myself a mug of milk and sat down at the kitchen table, where I took a knife and, in a swashbuckling manner, cut a chunk of coffee cake.
"Mom," I said. "I'm going to church." Last night I had remembered the church bumper sticker on Jessica's car and had a hunch that she would be there that morning.
"You're what?" Mom appeared confused.
"I'm going to church." My mouth churning a piece of coffee cake, I repeated my Sunday morning plans before I dipped another piece of cake into my milk. Crumbs floated on the surface, but there was no escape for them. It would be only a matter of time before I drained the mug.
Mom put the wooden spoon down and shifted her oatmeal to the back burner. She squeezed me affectionately.
"I'm proud of you! My little monkey is going to church all by himself."
"Yeah, Mom, I thought I would try it out." I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.
Moved by my apparent holiness, Mom spooned me a bowl of oatmeal and blessed it with a handful of raisins. Then she rushed from the kitchen and returned holding up a Sacagawea dollar.
"Take this for the offering." She dropped the coin into my shirt pocket.
After our breakfast dishes were steaming on the drainboard from a good scrubbing, I looked in the phone book for the name and address of the church. The sticker, I remembered, showed something like a cross with a red scarf. Maybe I could find the symbol in the church's listing in the Yellow Pages. When I did, I saw that Jessica was United Methodist. I didn't know the church, as our household belonged to St. John's. We seldom went to Mass, which, Mom said, was a sure sign we were Catholic.
I checked the address. "Easy," I whistled. "I know where that is."
The church was downtown. I looked up at the Porky Pig clock on the mantel. It was 9:35.
"I'd better hurry," I muttered.
I would have asked Mom for a ride, but she was sweetly content in her recliner, a blanket around her knees. She was tapping a finger as she waited for the San Francisco Giants, her favorite team, to come on television. They were playing back East.
I dressed in my best clothes, sprayed my throat with cologne, and brushed my teeth until they hurt. While I was slipping into my dress shoes, an idea came to me.
"My trike," I murmured. I realized that I would look absurdâa thirteen-year-old dressed in Sunday clothes riding a trikeâbut I needed a way to get to church pronto. My skateboard was lent out and my bike was stolen. If I stood up on the pedals I figured I could still get there faster than by walking.
I pulled the old trike from the garage, wiped its seat and handlebars free of dust, and spurted oil on the front and back axles. I swallowed my pride. If I pedaled really fast maybe no one would recognize me. My face will be a blur, I tried to convince myself. People will just think I'm big for my age.
A horde of kids along the way, plunging Popsicles into their stained mouths, recognized me. But what did I care? I was resolved to get to church on time. I guessed it would probably start at ten o'clock, but I was late by ten minutes. I raked the sweat from my brow and upper lip, shook at my shirt to cool my back, and strode into the church. But I braked immediately.
"Uncle!" I cried. Shouting on holy ground was probably bad form. I punished my mouth for its outburst by slapping a hand over it.
"Ronnie," Uncle Vic greeted. He was dressed in a brown suit and white shoes with silver buckles. His socks were orange. His tie was eggplant purple and rippled with wrinkles. I wasn't up on churchy fashions, but it was my feeling that Uncle was dressed weird. I wondered if he was color-blind.
"So this is the church you go to?" I sensed my mouth was hanging open and I closed it. "Mom said you were going someplace
"Pretty good but the birds woke me up," I answered. I would have broken the news about my stolen bike but I didn't want to spoil her breakfast. I poured myself a mug of milk and sat down at the kitchen table, where I took a knife and, in a swashbuckling manner, cut a chunk of coffee cake.
"Mom," I said. "I'm going to church." Last night I had remembered the church bumper sticker on Jessica's car and had a hunch that she would be there that morning.
"You're what?" Mom appeared confused.
"I'm going to church." My mouth churning a piece of coffee cake, I repeated my Sunday morning plans before I dipped another piece of cake into my milk. Crumbs floated on the surface, but there was no escape for them. It would be only a matter of time before I drained the mug.
Mom put the wooden spoon down and shifted her oatmeal to the back burner. She squeezed me affectionately.
"I'm proud of you! My little monkey is going to church all by himself."
"Yeah, Mom, I thought I would try it out." I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.
Moved by my apparent holiness, Mom spooned me a bowl of oatmeal and blessed it with a handful of raisins. Then she rushed from the kitchen and returned holding up a Sacagawea dollar.
"Take this for the offering." She dropped the coin into my shirt pocket.
After our breakfast dishes were steaming on the drainboard from a good scrubbing, I looked in the phone book for the name and address of the church. The sticker, I remembered, showed something like a cross with a red scarf. Maybe I could find the symbol in the church's listing in the Yellow Pages. When I did, I saw that Jessica was United Methodist. I didn't know the church, as our household belonged to St. John's. We seldom went to Mass, which, Mom said, was a sure sign we were Catholic.
I checked the address. "Easy," I whistled. "I know where that is."
The church was downtown. I looked up at the Porky Pig clock on the mantel. It was 9:35.
"I'd better hurry," I muttered.
I would have asked Mom for a ride, but she was sweetly content in her recliner, a blanket around her knees. She was tapping a finger as she waited for the San Francisco Giants, her favorite team, to come on television. They were playing back East.
I dressed in my best clothes, sprayed my throat with cologne, and brushed my teeth until they hurt. While I was slipping into my dress shoes, an idea came to me.
"My trike," I murmured. I realized that I would look absurdâa thirteen-year-old dressed in Sunday clothes riding a trikeâbut I needed a way to get to church pronto. My skateboard was lent out and my bike was stolen. If I stood up on the pedals I figured I could still get there faster than by walking.
I pulled the old trike from the garage, wiped its seat and handlebars free of dust, and spurted oil on the front and back axles. I swallowed my pride. If I pedaled really fast maybe no one would recognize me. My face will be a blur, I tried to convince myself. People will just think I'm big for my age.
A horde of kids along the way, plunging Popsicles into their stained mouths, recognized me. But what did I care? I was resolved to get to church on time. I guessed it would probably start at ten o'clock, but I was late by ten minutes. I raked the sweat from my brow and upper lip, shook at my shirt to cool my back, and strode into the church. But I braked immediately.
"Uncle!" I cried. Shouting on holy ground was probably bad form. I punished my mouth for its outburst by slapping a hand over it.
"Ronnie," Uncle Vic greeted. He was dressed in a brown suit and white shoes with silver buckles. His socks were orange. His tie was eggplant purple and rippled with wrinkles. I wasn't up on churchy fashions, but it was my feeling that Uncle was dressed weird. I wondered if he was color-blind.
"So this is the church you go to?" I sensed my mouth was hanging open and I closed it. "Mom said you were going someplace
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