By E.B. Hale
The time has come... You better not never tell nobody but God... It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... Once upon a time...
Jaide rehearsed through these lines, along with others; they were the same opening hooks that had carried her away through the years. Book after book, they had come and swept her along on their journeys. Each one a time machine, an inter-dimensional portal. But on this evening, their portals were failing her and she couldn't escape.
I'll just keep walking then. Jaide resolved.
Though she wasn't sure how much longer she could. Her toes throbbed and her heels ached from nearly two hours of pounding the pavement already. Jaide didn't know what hour that made it, but the sky was showing off its last strands of pink and purple, left behind by the sun's rapid descent. Rapid was just the word for it too; Jaide had stared at it long enough to know just how rapid it was.
It’s beautiful even through my tears. Jaide admitted to the blackening heavens. At the risk of sounding morbid, it's really most poetic. But at least I'm not Poe.
Who was she even talking to? Jaide halted right as the thought entered her mind. Basically due to the uncanny place she found herself when it chose to enter. Glancing to her left, Jaide took in the steps. Steps, leading to the doors, which lead to the inside of the town's Presbyterian church. Jaide knew this because the name sounded so romantic. Other then that, she knew nothing more of it. Did she really want to start now? But then, where else could she go? The library was closed and she wasn’t ready to arrive home this early.
Her achy, breaky feet pulled a ninety-degree and moved up the walk and over the seven stone steps. The entire building was reinforced with gneiss rock, and had been shaped in the Romanesque style; minus a few modern touches, such as the telephone wires and the stained glass windows. They were indeed an oddity, given the time period they were representing. The architect must have been wanting to score points on curb appeal rather then authenticity. Jaide grabbed the church's door handle, wrestling with her desires. Did she wish it locked or unlocked?
The handle turned, the bolt kicked back, and the door's slow creak showed Jaide into a dim foyer. The carpet was the color of cranberry, and spilled through wooden arches into a dome-shaped worship hall.
Jaide tilted her head back as her feet took her deeper in, her corneas bulging at the mass of carpentry that met them. The supporting pillars, the pews, the rafters... all had been chipped and chiseled, and varnished into visions of angels, animals, or humans with angelic faces. And all eyes- every last pair, Jaide was sure- were turned to gaze ahead. At the altar of the sanctuary.
No, not the altar... the strong, gleaming gold cross that was stemmed behind it. It rose perhaps nine feet, bathed in a light from behind. Jaide held back the chills at its glorified sight, but they were persistent. Though perhaps it was more to the effect of her damp clothes.
They are ruining the awe. Jaide half-pouted. She debated whether sitting down was wise. The benches of the pews were wood. But weren’t they coated with a waterproof lacquer? Ugh, they would dry.
And so, Jaide sat.
Minutes ticked on. Jaide had no way of knowing how many. She opted out of wearing a watch when she could. She didn't like it when time bugged her. She sat in the church's pew, coming to stare up at the cross. It seemed… to stare back at her! Not with a pondering stare, nor a condescending one... just a stare. Like the stare of one to another, when they found you interesting.
But there's no one there. Jaide reminded herself. Right? But then, if there's not...
"I got invited to a slumber party." Jaide's timid voice boomed out in the empty space. It gave her pause, yet surprised her confidence into speaking further. "Everyone calls it a sleepover, but 'slumber party' is more elegant. I like elegant things." She finished awkwardly.
The cross didn't say anything. After a moment, Jaide went on. "That's an explanation, not an excuse. People prefer the latter. By people, I mean my classmates."
Jaide wavered here, mind aghast in fresh, cruel memories. Her eyes jerked up at the thought of spotting movement. Did that cross... did it just lean forward?
It was a beautiful thought, but it couldn't have happened. Just the same, the idea of a friendly ear- made of flesh or wood- appealed to Jaide and loosened her tongue. "I was invited to this slumber party by girls that I've hung out with before. They were excited about it and so was I. I- I've never been invited to one."
Tears, hot and hateful, filled Jaide's eyes again. "I still haven't, really. When I got there, to the house that is, they wouldn't let me in. I rang the doorbell, wondered what was taking so long, and then rang it again. The door opened and what met me was a gallon of cold water."
Jaide held up the moist sleeves of her sweatshirt in emphasis. "My sleeping bag, everything got drenched. The force knocked my glasses off, but I was too shocked to pick them up..."
The tears were coming full swing now and Jaide's arms folded to catch her head as she leaned on the back of the pew and sobbed. She let the tears break out and fall where they may. Maybe they were coming so hard because she had made a point to never cry about it before. Was there a reason to cry about it? About how different she was; or how different everyone perceived her to be.
I just like books! Jaide's mind screamed, sobs robbing her of speech. I like learning and going to school. I enjoy being smart.
It wasn't like she had ever skipped a grade or gotten an outstanding academic award. She simply read all the time and read fast. No topic was too dry for her to absorb. All that knowledge naturally expressed itself with good grades, and the exhaustive impulse to inquire. Jaide's history teacher had actually put a limit on the number of times that Jaide could raise her hand in a single class period. To have this enthusiasm shoved back in her face was...
Is this where people begin to think about suicide? Jaide blinked down at the cranberry carpet, blotted with her tears. She could admit that all she wanted to do for the past hour was die. No, not die- maybe- but get the loneliness and embarrassment to stop...
Go on.
Jaide's head snapped up, fearful of someone witnessing her mental break. One more thing for someone to hold against her. She glanced around, but only found the sanctuary empty. But she had heard a voice; a whisper, really. Jaide narrowed her gaze, going back over the chapel. Her survey stopped at the cross. It remained where is was, tall and illuminated as ever. Still seeming to reach out to Jaide. The wooden posts could easily represent arms... so much so, that she could've sworn there was a hand. Or the warm phantom of one. How could she feel such a touch from so far away?
"Do you know what they said to me?" Jaide stayed her eyes on the cross; what did she expect, movement? “After they took pictures with their phones... Kortney held the door and said, 'Sorry. There's no room for any wet blankets at this party.'"
More tears at the thought of the spiteful expression that had accompanied Kortney’s words. "And she shut the door. Locked it too."
The cross remained soft in its light. Though it was notably warmer then when Jaide had first entered. She took comfort in it. She needed it. Would it be this comforting, to not wake up tomorrow, to not face a discriminating world of social peers? After all, who would bother her in death?
But the questions weren't as pressing now, like they'd been moments ago. Now that everything was out, Jaide felt better. She stirred from her lock on the cross, suddenly overwhelmed with the sound of her breathing. Did people ever listen to their breathing anymore? Sylvia Plath had put it 'I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.'
What am I? Jaide closed her eyes on a long inhale. Do you know?
She was someone who loved her own passions and standards. Even if no one else did... no, that was an exaggeration. Jaide had people who loved her. Her parents marveled at her wealth of knowledge, neither being studious themselves. They would care, if she died and couldn't show them something new every day.
Her grandparents might too; Jaide was pretty close to them. She walked to Gran's house every other week for tea. It was there that she had learned to love books and not TV or video games. It was electrifying, rubbing her brain cells together, and challenging what she knew against others research and opinions. Wasn't she supposed to be proud of that fact?
What good are super-charged brain cells if you don't have anyone to engage them with? Jaide quizzed the solemn cross. My brain is only a small part of my anatomy; the rest of which needs social interaction and stimulation.
She thought of her uncle, who was a college professor in British literature and history at Cambridge. He was the family genius and Jaide's favorite relative on holidays and reunions. He always had a new book to recommend to her. He would miss their talks about various topics.
The kids reading program... Jaide reminded herself. She was in her third year of getting seven to ten year-olds to compete their Book-Its on time. They would show her each one, filled in, title upon title, big grins on their faces. And Jaide would grin back. Always.
Yes, if nothing else, those kids would miss her. Jaide couldn't quite pinpoint where the certainty was coming from... if the church's atmosphere was any indication, it was likely the cross. But why would the cross care? And why did Jaide just refer to 'the cross' in the sense of a pronoun? The thought trailed Jaide's eyes to two words that she had spotted earlier. They were stamped on a blue leather cover, tucked in the pocket that ran the length of the back of the pew she'd been crying over.
Holy Bible.
Jaide stared at the title for a moment; then she looked back to the cross. Neither its stance nor presence had changed. Jaide wondered if it ever did. Her fingers tingled as she opened them and formed around the edge of the book. She raised it out of its resting place, still studying the cover. A title could say so much; but this one confounded her. Jaide met this with her usual determination, opening the cover. Maybe, until the thoughts went away- the thoughts of leaving- she could do what she did best.
Read.
THE END
God said to Moses, "I AM who I AM." ~Exodus 3:14