going, but it’s in the opposite direction of Sunlake. Everything around me is alive, bursting with feeling, meaning. But I’m a little sad for the other cars, their destinations.
I can’t believe this is happening. But somehow I can.
We turn off the parkway, enter a service road. It’s easy to see where we are going now. A massive wall of gray-and-crimson buildings pushes itself in front of us: the Wal-Mart Rule the World Super Center. I’m surprised. Not as many shoppers this late, but it still feels a little too public.
Ah.
Now I see where he’s going. We circle around back to auto repair and park away from the lights next to a line of stunted trees. I’m on the left, he’s on the right. We sit.
First Act of Societal Defiance: getting into his car.
This is not as simple as it sounds.
Stepping out, touching the silver handle of his door, hauling it open, heavy in my hands—each action shimmers in my brain like an aurora borealis. His car could be touched with St. Elmo’s fire. It’s not a car, but a ship at sea in some far northern place. Taking me somewhere.
Sit down.
“Hello,” he says, as if we haven’t been talking for the last couple of hours.
“Hi.”
But everything is new. The interior makes me dizzy for a moment, the exciting scent of his concentrated presence. There’s a stack of papers on the floor; he reaches down self-consciously while I hold my feet up and tosses the stuff in the back. I look, making the moment last. There’s some kind of case on the backseat. I don’t know what it is; he never brings anything but slides and printouts to class.
Seeing the teacher sticker on the windshield in reverse, the way he sees it every morning, makes me feel a little weird; this place is amazingly forbidden. I’ve broken and entered.
“Does this make you feel uncomfortable?” he says.
I don’t want to answer the question. I turn to look at him.
“It’s okay. I like it.”
“Really?”
“It’s okay. Really.”
I’m not sure what to do. I’m waiting for him. He seems to be waiting too. Maybe I should say something.
“Are you an atheist?” Too much. Way, way too much.
“No. No, I don’t think so. No.”
“So you believe in an afterlife?”
“Sure.”
I like that he doesn’t hesitate on that one. Bonus points: he doesn’t question my question. I talk quickly, suddenly afraid of thinking.
“Nothing against atheists. But, I mean, look at the world.”
He smiles. “But an atheist might say the world is evidence there is no God.”
“I’m talking about nature.” I point my fingers at the strip of woods straddling a culvert where a stream used to run. “The real world. You have to believe in God to believe in trees.”
“Oh.”
Be quiet. I settle back in the seat. I’m talking too much.
“So, your family, do you go to church?” he says.
“No. We used to when I was little. We’re Methodists. I think my parents finally just got tired. All that extra stuff you have to do when you belong to a church. Fund-raising for stuff that doesn’t really matter, plus all the social junk. So I kind of have my own thing.”
“Church? Or religion.”
“I don’t know what you’d call it. It’s really important to me. Being spiritual. It’s just that—it ’s just I feel closer to it in a forest, under the stars, than I do in a building.”
“Yeah. I understand that. Me too.”
If I gulp air any faster, I’ll be hiccoughing. But I can’t stop; stopping might let in too much.
“See, I have this theory. In the afterlife we’re all gods. So after I die, I’ll come back to Earth and stitch together all the overlooked, abandoned pieces of city forest into an Undiscovered Country. Then I can be its king.” He’s supposed to laugh at this last little part, but when it comes out, it doesn’t sound like something funny.
“King Carolina. I like that.” He touches my hand—it ’s the first time he’s touched me since I got in his car. It sends a delicious
I can’t believe this is happening. But somehow I can.
We turn off the parkway, enter a service road. It’s easy to see where we are going now. A massive wall of gray-and-crimson buildings pushes itself in front of us: the Wal-Mart Rule the World Super Center. I’m surprised. Not as many shoppers this late, but it still feels a little too public.
Ah.
Now I see where he’s going. We circle around back to auto repair and park away from the lights next to a line of stunted trees. I’m on the left, he’s on the right. We sit.
First Act of Societal Defiance: getting into his car.
This is not as simple as it sounds.
Stepping out, touching the silver handle of his door, hauling it open, heavy in my hands—each action shimmers in my brain like an aurora borealis. His car could be touched with St. Elmo’s fire. It’s not a car, but a ship at sea in some far northern place. Taking me somewhere.
Sit down.
“Hello,” he says, as if we haven’t been talking for the last couple of hours.
“Hi.”
But everything is new. The interior makes me dizzy for a moment, the exciting scent of his concentrated presence. There’s a stack of papers on the floor; he reaches down self-consciously while I hold my feet up and tosses the stuff in the back. I look, making the moment last. There’s some kind of case on the backseat. I don’t know what it is; he never brings anything but slides and printouts to class.
Seeing the teacher sticker on the windshield in reverse, the way he sees it every morning, makes me feel a little weird; this place is amazingly forbidden. I’ve broken and entered.
“Does this make you feel uncomfortable?” he says.
I don’t want to answer the question. I turn to look at him.
“It’s okay. I like it.”
“Really?”
“It’s okay. Really.”
I’m not sure what to do. I’m waiting for him. He seems to be waiting too. Maybe I should say something.
“Are you an atheist?” Too much. Way, way too much.
“No. No, I don’t think so. No.”
“So you believe in an afterlife?”
“Sure.”
I like that he doesn’t hesitate on that one. Bonus points: he doesn’t question my question. I talk quickly, suddenly afraid of thinking.
“Nothing against atheists. But, I mean, look at the world.”
He smiles. “But an atheist might say the world is evidence there is no God.”
“I’m talking about nature.” I point my fingers at the strip of woods straddling a culvert where a stream used to run. “The real world. You have to believe in God to believe in trees.”
“Oh.”
Be quiet. I settle back in the seat. I’m talking too much.
“So, your family, do you go to church?” he says.
“No. We used to when I was little. We’re Methodists. I think my parents finally just got tired. All that extra stuff you have to do when you belong to a church. Fund-raising for stuff that doesn’t really matter, plus all the social junk. So I kind of have my own thing.”
“Church? Or religion.”
“I don’t know what you’d call it. It’s really important to me. Being spiritual. It’s just that—it ’s just I feel closer to it in a forest, under the stars, than I do in a building.”
“Yeah. I understand that. Me too.”
If I gulp air any faster, I’ll be hiccoughing. But I can’t stop; stopping might let in too much.
“See, I have this theory. In the afterlife we’re all gods. So after I die, I’ll come back to Earth and stitch together all the overlooked, abandoned pieces of city forest into an Undiscovered Country. Then I can be its king.” He’s supposed to laugh at this last little part, but when it comes out, it doesn’t sound like something funny.
“King Carolina. I like that.” He touches my hand—it ’s the first time he’s touched me since I got in his car. It sends a delicious
Similar Books
