Read Online Virgin Territory by James Lecesne - Free Book Online Page A

doing nothing but eating chips and painting her nails. It was definitely time to go.
    The next day they drove straight through to Texas. Neither of them saw much in the sky above Lubbock—a few birds, some clouds, planes.
    “But something was there,” Angela tells me. “Call it whatever, but it was something. I felt it. For one thing, there was a ton of people. And none of them were from Tucson.”
    After Lubbock, they traveled on to Estill Springs, Tennessee, where the BVM was appearing in a refrigerator; then up to Fostoria, Ohio, where she had been seen on the side of a soybean-oil storage tank; then to Stone Mountain, Georgia, where you could just barely make out her face on a Pizza Hut billboard. Angela and her mother were having the time of their lives, and somewhere along the way Angela regained the use of her legs.
    “And now?” Angela says, leaning into me and putting her face very close to mine. “As you can see, I’m walking. I’m totally one hundred percent fine. I don’t care that my mother gives all the credit to the Blessed Virgin Mary. I mean, who knows, right?”
    “What about school?” I ask. “Did you just drop out?”
    “I took the year off,” she tells me as though it’s no big deal. She flips her hair back over her shoulders, and I think maybe I remember her from a past life. “I’m supposed to go back in September. We’ll see. My mom’s a big believer now. And it’s a good thing. She’s less stressed; she’s even having some fun, meeting people.”
    “What about
your
mother?” Desirée asks me. “Is your mom a fan of the Blessed Virgin?”
    It takes me a second to decide on a response to a question that I can’t answer. Even if I’d been given an hour to think it over, I couldn’t have responded. But I have to say something.
    “My mother?” I mumble. I’m clearly stalling.
    “Yeah,” says Desirée. “Does she live here with you?”
    “No,” I answer. “It’s just my dad and me. And my grandmother.”
    And I leave it at that.
    “In a few cases, maybe a miracle actually happens,” Angela says, in what I consider an effort to swerve the conversation away from my personal tragedy. “But we don’t believe that these healings are brought on by a supernatural being named Mary who appears, for instance, on a tree. No way.”
    “And we don’t believe that rosary beads turn to gold, either,” Crispy interjects as though he’s some kind of expert on the subject. “That’s totally bogus.”
    “People see what they want to,” Desirée says. “Everybodywants a miracle so bad. They make stuff happen. Then they give all the credit to Mary.”
    “But what about your own miracle?” I ask, turning my attention back to Angela. “What about your legs? How do you explain that?”
    Angela exchanges looks with the others and then turns and stares at me as though she’s taking my temperature, waiting for the invisible thermometer to register the intensity of my need to know.
    “Look,” says Angela as she leans toward me. “We think miracles are caused by two things: (a) You have to really want something badly, and (b) You have to take a risk. My mother wanted me to get better, and she risked everything to make it happen. That’s what the Virgin Club is all about—wanting something and then taking a risk.”
    “Obviously, you guys have given this some thought,” I say.
    “Plenty of time riding shotgun with our mothers,” Crispy offers by way of an explanation. “It gets you thinking.”
    My phone buzzes in my pocket. There’s a fresh text from Doug, and it reads: NO MARIE, GET YR ASS N GEAR & 2 CAR. NOW .
    I quickly maneuver my thumb across the keypad: QUIT SCREAMING. ON MY WAY .
    “I should get back,” I announce as I stand and brush my pants. “I mean, my dad and all. I can’t keep him waiting.”
    We walk back the way we came, through the moonlight. Whenwe reach the clubhouse, we can see Jack Felder still standing at the window and still yakking into his