I Choose the Highway
I Choose the Highway
By Charlotte Hilton Andersen

I hate flowers. Seriously, who did the flowers for this thing? My mom probably picked them out. They’re all carnations and mums and other frilly looking things that are definitely not me. If they’d really wanted to represent me, they’d have picked - oh, I don’t know – a cactus maybe? You’d think a guy’d at least get his way at his own funeral. Still I guess it probably had to be flowers. You know, social convention and all that. Do roses come in black? Heh. Now that would be cool.
“Ah, man, check this out! This is the new Element Fiberlight deck!” Van’s voice pulls me away from the flowers.
“And these are Grind King titanium trucks, baby!” Kyle says too loudly as he grabs my skateboard away from Van and runs his hand lovingly over the shiny metal chassis. Sister Jonelle, my neighbor, shoots him a nasty look from her perch, presiding over the buffet of finger foods the Relief Society set up right next to the table showcasing all the memorabilia from my seventeen years of life. I didn’t think there would be that much, you know, but the table’s pretty much packed. So’s the church, actually. I really didn’t think there’d be this many people here. “I didn’t know he had these!” he sighs with obvious envy. I grin. Just got ‘em a week ago, pal.
“I bet he got killer air on this,” Van says quietly as he spins the wheels - the Spitfire Backstabber wheels I customized with Black Panther bearings. I got bigger air than you’d ever believe. Seriously.
“Yeah, probably coulda jumped a whole freakin’ highway,” Kyle says with his hyena laugh. My stomach clenches as he finishes, “If he’d a wanted to.” Another glare from Sister Jonelle.
“Dude….” Van stares at Kyle, white-faced, before turning away to look blankly at the picture of Christ on the wall, as if it’s suddenly going to come to life and tell him the answers to everything. Well, I’ve got news for you Vannie-boy – I’ve been on this side of things for, oh, well a few days now I guess, and I certainly don’t have any of the big answers yet. If He’s talking, He sure ain’t talking to me. Of course, I haven’t exactly been looking for Him either. I mean, I know I wanted to leave in a bad way but somehow, it’s just more…comfortable here, where I still have all my old stuff. Even if all I can do with my board now is watch as Kyle fondles it. Dude! Already I’m beginning to forget what exactly was so bad about my life.
“What do you think they’re going to do with this?” Kyle asks casually, dropping my board and kicking it easily into his hand. I see the gleam in his eyes. Hands off my board, dude. I reach to slap it out of his hands but of course I can’t. That still throws me.
Van shrugs and shifts his gaze from Christ to my mother’s blanched face and searing eyes. Her flowered dress looks too hopeful for this setting but it kind of matches the room, so maybe she’s got a whole motif going on. I hate seeing her like this. Even more than I hate the awful flowers. I didn’t think it would be like this - I thought it would be easy. Easier for me, anyhow. Certainly easier than going through the whole process of trying to make it all right and then realizing I couldn’t. Just cut to the end, you know. Except this isn’t the end I planned on. I mean, clouds and halos and singing it ain’t, but it isn’t hell either. It’s more like I’m, well, stuck. Like I’m waiting for something but I don’t know what. I still feel like me. That’s the problem, I guess.
My father returns from his fortieth trip to the bathroom in the last two hours and resumes his duty propping my mother up. Sister Jonelle brings them both a glass of red punch. Relief Society punch. The kind with floaties in it. I know they’re supposed to be artsy or flavorful or something but in the end they’re still floaties. Just like the kind I used to get when I backwashed into my Mountain Dew. I miss Mountain Dew. If this was really my gig, they’d be serving Mountain Dew and barbecue chips. Breakfast of champions. I watch as Mom waves Sister Jonelle away, but Dad takes both glasses and throws them back. He winces as if he’s swallowing two-buck chuck, even though I’m sure there’s nothing stronger than sherbet in there. I do not miss two-buck chuck.
“So should we….?” Kyle motions Van towards the line of people waiting to talk to my parents. He’s still holding my board, the slim green wood eased casually against his leg, the trucks still shiny in their newness. If anyone gets it, I hope Van does. Kyle’s a hack, he’ll have my deck smashed in a week flat.
Van picks up my board and gently places it back on the table, even artfully draping my armor over the edge – just like it was when they found it. When he looks up, he has tears in his eyes. Not the sobby, weepy kind like my sister’s been oozing, the kind that line her face in black and matt her long eyelashes into clumps. My sister - she has beautiful eyes. She never needed mascara; I probably should have told her that. I left a lot of things unsaid.
“Do you think it hurt?” Van’s voice squeaks just a little, like it used to when we were deacons, like it never does anymore.
“Ah, wha…?” Kyle stammers, looking uncomfortable for the first time since they walked in.
“Do you think, you know, he felt it?”

Blink.

“Son, son,” I hear the voice loudly in my ear, “can you feel this?” No and I can’t see anything either so I have no idea what he’s even talking about. “Are you in any pain?” No, I don’t think so, although strangely I’m not sure. There was pain. At the moment of impact. Now there’s more of a numb, floaty feeling.
“I can’t find a pulse,” another voice says in a tight tone.
“Did you try his leg?”
“Which one? They’re both crushed.”
“That’s what happens when you go under a semi,” is the clipped reply. “It’s a lost cause Joe.” Go under a semi? So I did it. Huh.
“Maybe so.” The first voice, the one who called me son but doesn’t sound like my father, huffs, “Maybe so.” He grunts rhythmically and I realize he’s doing CPR. Strange but I can’t feel it. I did CPR once - on a dummy as part of my lifesaving merit badge at Scout camp last summer. I remember the dummy was shaped like a woman except she had no hair and she was wearing this ugly brown seventies zippered sweatshirt. We had to pretend like it was the real deal and get her shirt off before we could start compressions. I remember I felt totally weird about that.
“You call life flight?”
“As soon as I got the page,” not-my-dad gasps. It sounds like he’s working really hard. CPR wasn’t that hard on a dummy but maybe it’s different on a person. “Boy meets semi. Didn’t even have to see it to know.”
There’s a long pause and then, “You sure you want to keep this up? Pat can’t find a pulse anywhere.”
“There’s nowhere to find a pulse!” Pat says indignantly as if her medical skills are being unfairly maligned.
“There was a pulse when I got here,” not-my-dad grunts.
“An erratic one.”
“A pulse.”
Why can’t I feel anything? Am I paralyzed? For the first time since the idea entered my head, fear chokes my already-muted throat. I hadn’t considered that possibility. Being a quad would be worse than either living or dying.
I hear boots crunching by my head. “Now slow down, sir, and tell me one more time what happened here.” I can tell just by his voice that he’s a cop. I hate cops. They always ask you questions they already know the answers to like, “Do you know how fast you were going?” Once I answered, “No sir, I’m too dumb to read a speedometer. That’s why I had to drive as fast as I could – so you would pull me over and tell me!” I got a ticket. A big one.
“I uh, uh,” a deep male voice stutters and then retches. I hear the splatter down by my feet. At least the spot where I think my feet are. Honestly, I’m not sure how tall or short or thin or wide I am anymore. In the few minutes my eyes have been closed I’ve lost all sense of myself. Is that a sign of paralysis?
“Calm down, sir, calm down,” I hear the cop moving the man away from me. Good.
“I was just, um, driving my usual route,” the low gravelly voice starts, “when that kid, he just popped into my headlights. Like a ghost or something.”
A ghost. Heh, that rocks. I wonder what I look like now.
“I was real surprised. I mean, my route’s rural so I never see no one, right? It just happened so fast.” His voice cuts off with a choke and then a cough. When he starts again he’s much quieter. “He jumped. Right in front of me. I didn’t even have time to hit the brakes y’know!” Another cough.
“Jumped right in front of you.” The cop says it as if he hears stuff like this all the time, like kids just jump in front of semis for weekend fun; check out the special on 20/20 if you don’t believe me. It really pisses me off, you know? These cops - they think they know everything. Well, he doesn’t know everything.
I miss the trucker’s reply because a deafening sound blocks out all peripheral noise. All I can hear is not-my-dad yelling something about checking for debris so it won’t get caught in the rotor wash. Life Flight must be here. There’s a veritable stampede of footsteps running towards me and then a commanding voice, “Call it.”
“Excuse me?” not-my-dad says, and I hear the emotion in his voice. He sounds genuinely upset. Maybe I know him after all? I had a Scout leader once that was an EMT, but I can’t even remember his name anymore.
“Stop CPR. He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do. Call it.”
“Time of death….” Not-my-dad’s voice is the last thing I hear. The white light of the semi was the last thing I saw. Exhaust was the last thing I smelled. Blood was the last thing I tasted. I already can’t remember the last thing I felt. I think it was pain.

Blink.

I wince painfully in the bright sunshine. “Halley!” I yell, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s running fast, arms bent and pumping, ponytail swinging, highlights throwing around the early morning light. I cover my eyes with one hand, trying to compensate for my altered pupils. Still, she looks sexy. “Halley!” I yell again as I pull up next to her and thump the side of my car with my hand.
She stops with a jerk, yanking her earphones out, and stares at me with a panicked expression. “Oh, Cole,” she pants. “You scared me.”
“You shouldn’t run with those things in,” I scold, feeling suddenly protective of her.
“And you shouldn’t be driving,” she says bluntly, crossing her arms over her thin tank top. “I thought I hid your keys. What are you doing out here?”
I bristle at her accusation. I’m perfectly fine to drive. “What are you doing out here?” It’s the only thing I can think to say. I’m fine to drive and all, but my mind isn’t exactly up to a debate right now.
Surprisingly, she drops her arms and sighs heavily. “Oh, you know - just trying to run off last night.”
I glance at her slight figure and smile. “I don’t think you need to worry there.”
“Not that way.” She frowns, her eyebrows creasing. I grin. I know I look like an idiot, but I can’t stop myself. She’s cute. Plus I’m still flying a bit. “I just needed to get away, get out, breathe some fresh air.” She looks pensively over her shoulder, even though we’re blocks away from Jimmie’s house and all its unconscious contents. “I figured you guys’d be out cold until at least eleven. I didn’t think anyone would miss me.”
“I missed you,” I say, surprising myself. Halley and I have known each other practically forever. We grew up in the same ward, went to the same stake dances and youth conferences, even shared a seat on the bus in middle school. In fact, she’s pretty much the only one from the old church crowd I keep up with. And yet I’ve never really liked her before. Why now? I shake my head. It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is she is unbelievably hot. Stretching out my hand, I brush her arm. She jumps back like a startled deer. The look on her face is not welcoming. I have to say I’m a little shocked. Not that I’m Don Juan or anything, but I’ve never had to try very hard to get the ladies to come to me, you know? Besides, I watched her hit on Jimmie all last night, and I know, I know, I’m better than him. “So you want a ride back?”
She laughs! “Actually, the point of running is to, well, run.” It takes me a moment to get the joke, but I laugh good-naturedly. I can take a joke. I love jokes. “Besides,” she says smiling again, “I really don’t think you should be driving.”
“I’m fine,” I reply, exaggerating and extending the lone syllable. “I’m so fine. In fact, I’ve never been more fine!” That should convince her. It’s true too. I’m fine fine fine.
“Okay, now I know you’re still high.” She gives me a look I can’t quite figure out and then jerks open my door. “Move over,” she commands, “I’m driving you home.”
“Not home,” I moan. My mom will kill me and I’m sick of having this fight with her. The first thing she always does when I walk in the door is sniff me like she’s some dog.
“Then back.”
I should probably protest but instead I slide over, then rest my head easily on her shoulder as she starts the car. “You smell like sweat,” I say. “I like it.”
Pushing me back onto my side of the seat, she mutters, “I’m sure you do.”
“Aw, Halley,” I croon. “Why don’t you like me?”
“I do like you,” she replies in a tone that suggests we’ve had this conversation before. In fact, I think we have. Last night maybe? I can’t remember. I start to scoot closer again but she pushes me back. Hard. “Just not like that.”
“Why?” I ask plaintively. She doesn’t respond. “Seriously.” I try to sit up a little straighter and look at her. “I really want to know.”
“Cole,” she says impatiently, as if I’m a two-year-old.
Anger flashes through me, and I glare at her. “I just want to know, okay? What’s wrong with me? Jimmie’s a total sleaze and yet you were all over him last night, so it’s not like you’re that picky.” I know it’s a low blow but the girl pissed me off.
Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and she takes a deep breath as she pulls my car back into Jimmie’s driveway, which is actually his front lawn, but whatever. Waiting, I stare at Jimmie’s dilapidated, trashed-out country rambler. It has “crack house” written all over it, and that’s not too far from the truth, actually. “You want to know what Jimmie’s got that you haven’t,” she says flatly but when she turns to me I can see the emotion in her tight lips and flared nostrils. She’s trying to appear calm, but I can tell I got under her skin. I have that effect on people. Really, you should see me fight curfew with my mother. Heh. “With Jimmie I know what I’m getting.”
“Ah, wha….?” I stammer, badly masking my surprise. I’d expected her to say something about how he’s older or in a band or has a hot motorcycle. Maybe even that he’s better looking. Except he isn’t.
“Who are you Cole?”
Now she’s under my skin. “I’m not a strung-out junkie gas station attendant who thinks he’s the next Kid Rock, I can tell you that much.”
Narrowing her eyes, she just shakes her head at me.
“What do you mean who am I?” I continue indignantly. “You’ve known me your whole freaking life! You know who I am!”
She shakes her head again and gives me a smile sad enough it would break my heart. I turn and stare out the window so I don’t have to feel the accusation in her eyes as she finishes, “Not anymore, I don’t.”
“What are you talking about?” I spit out the window. And then I remember exactly what she’s talking about. I groan and run my hand through my hair. I’d apologize for last night except that we’ve been here before– at least with the apologizing– and it hasn’t made me quit being a jerk yet. “Stop judging me,” I growl instead. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Nope, you sure don’t.”
But I feel compelled to try anyhow. I wouldn’t do it for anyone but her. “I wasn’t saying that I don’t believe it. I know it’s true. I just, well, I just…”
“Don’t act like you do,” she finishes for me. “See, with Jimmie, he lives what he believes. Now I may not entirely agree with what he believes, but at least he’s honest. At least he’s true to himself. At least I know what to expect.”
“Oh, so what you’re saying is it’s fine for him to smoke pot because it’s practically his religion but it’s not okay for me because I’m supposed to know better or something?” I know my argument isn’t really to the point and sounds childish but I can’t help it. I’m going from my gut now.
“You’re better than this,” she waves at the house, the pile of old cars, the collection of No Trespassing and Anarchy signs.
“Okay, right, so now I’m better than them, than my friends, because some Sunday School teacher somewhere along the line told me what was wrong and what was right? I hate that crap. It’s such crap. All of you are so condescending like that all the time! You think you’re so superior because God picked you to be special in the premortal life and you have all these special talents and so now you have to be special and live up to all your special potential, and whatever you want for yourself be damned. Well I’m sick of it. I’m sick to death of being judged all the time and held to this impossible standard.”
I see the tears well up in her eyes, but there isn’t an ounce of “sorry” in me now.
“I’m not judging them,” she whispers, “or you. I’m the last person that could judge anyone else.” A shadow passes over her eyes as I realize she’s talking about last night. Guilt involuntarily clenches my stomach.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Hal.” I sigh and touch her hand. She looks so vulnerable. “You’re a good person, you really are.” And I mean it. Maybe that’s why I suddenly love her.
“Um, thanks.” She tries to laugh it off. Then she turns her large lovely eyes to me and repeats, “Cole, I mean it. I may not know who you are anymore, but I know this isn’t it. You’re better than this.”
Finally it hits me what she means. A parade of images flashes through my mind as I remember who I used to be—the master of strategy that led the teachers to win every game of capture the flag during Wednesday night activities, the brownie baker that won rave awards from his family for his Family Home Evening culinary achievements, the geek who loved math and biology, the deacon passing the sacrament for the first time- they’re all alive in my head. But they’re not in my heart anymore. That’s what she doesn’t understand and what I finally get. I get it. The kid—the one with all the godly gifts and potential—he’s gone. He’s gone because I killed him.
I bite my lip so hard it hurts. “If this is such a bad place to be then why are you here, huh? Is it so easy for you to sit in your meth house with your junkie boyfriend—who you can’t save no matter how much love you pour into him—and give me advice?” “Jimmie doesn’t have the background in the church like you do. He doesn’t know what you know, about life and eternity and stuff.”
“Ah, your double standard again. Well at least I know I’m not better than this,” I say huskily. “Not anymore.”
She considers me for a long time before saying shakily, “If that’s true, and I don’t think it is, but if you really believe that this is what you are then I don’t know how you live with yourself.”
As soon as the words drop from her lips, everything becomes crystal clear. This is the first moment of real clarity I’ve had since I entered my pot haze yesterday. Maybe the first moment of clarity I’ve ever really had. The feeling vibrates throughout my being, cutting through the fog of ever-increasing anxiety and depression that had defined the last six months of my life. She’s right. I can’t live like this. I can’t live with myself. I say the words slowly in my mind, testing them out. If I can’t live up to my grand potential, then I shouldn’t be living at all. I’ll never be that kid again but I don’t have to be this one now, either.
Now that I know what I have to do, the chronic knot of fear in my gut is completely gone. I’m no longer afraid of myself or my potential or my squandered gifts. The answer is simple and complete and clean.
“You’re absolutely right,” I whisper, not meeting her eyes for fear she’ll see the sudden passion that has taken control of me. She nods and I think again how beautiful she is. I realize it’s because I can see her potential. Limitless. She hasn’t screwed up like I have. Yet. “You deserve better than Jimmie, you know that right?” I say seriously.
She laughs a little. “Yeah, probably.”
Pushing the door open, I step out into the sparking sunshine. A thought forces its way through the muck in my mind– it doesn’t have to be this way; there is another way even now. The words of the long-ago memorized sacrament prayer filter through my mind and I pause, thoughts straining. How many Sunday school lessons on repentance have I sat through? I should know this stuff. Then the last few months come crashing down, their weight crushing the air out of me. “I can’t,” I mumble to myself, shaking my head. It would be too much. It’s just too hard. “Thanks, Halley.”
“For what?” She looks concerned as I grab my skateboard off the seat and back away from the car. “Wait, where are you going?”
“I’m just going to walk down the road a bit,” I call resolutely over my shoulder. After months of crashing, it’s time to fly. “To the highway.”

Blink.

“It’s my way or the highway, dude, so just live with it,” Jimmie intones sagely as Kyle complains about the one-square toilet paper rule he just arbitrarily imposed on the house.
My way or the highway chants in my mind in an endless loop. “Hey that rhymes,” I giggle, breaking up their quarrel.
“Dude,” Kyle says as if this revelation is the most important thing he’s heard all day.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Jimmie exclaims as we watch Pete fall backwards down the steep stairs to Kyle’s basement, his head striking the corner with a surreal thwack. Pete doesn’t answer immediately, as he’s too busy rolling around the floor like a puppy chasing its tail, except Pete’s chasing his head. Kyle starts to laugh, setting the rest of us off, which only serves to make Pete more frantic.
“My eye! My eye!” he yells. “I’ve got a hair on my eyeball! I can see it but I can’t get it off!” He claws spastically at his eye, making us laugh even harder. “Help me!” Finally Halley comes down the stairs from where she’s been talking with Van in the kitchen.
“Dude!” Kyle laughs as Halley wrestles Pete’s hand away from his face, where he’s actually managed to draw some blood.
“Stop!” Halley orders Pete, and he finally listens. “There’s no hair on your eyeball, okay sweetie?” Pete nods like a child. “So stop scratching it; you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Du….” Kyle starts again but Halley silences him with a glare.
“The next one of you to say ‘dude’ sleeps in the backyard. Got it?” She pushes her hair out of her face and looks at each of us to make sure we get it.
“Hey! My house, my rules,” Jimmie whines. “It’s my way or the highway.” It still rhymes. I giggle.
Halley rolls her eyes, “Say whatever you want, just don’t start it with ‘du-’”
“Don’t say it!” Pete shrieks, “Or you’ll have to sleep in the backyard!”
Even Halley smiles at that one. “You guys ready to watch the movie? I made caramel corn.”
“Ooooh! That sounds deeee-viiine,” Kyle says slowly drawing out each word until Halley looks ready to smack him.
“Come here, baby,” Jimmie tugs her down onto his lap. “You’re too uptight.”
I watch, interested to see what she’ll do. She stays.
“I love you,” he nuzzles her neck.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She shakes her head and starts to stand up, but he pulls her back down.
“Why don’t you take a drag?” he says coyly, holding out his joint to her. “It’ll loosen you up, make the movie a little funnier, make Pete here a little less obnoxious, and, you know, just smooth out these rough edges.” He runs his hands down her arms as she shivers.
“No thanks.”
“Aw come on, baby. You’re no fun.” He pushes as Pete, Kyle, and I all watch. I’ve never seen Jimmie push her like this before; usually he just waits for girls to come to him. And they usually do.
“No.” Halley is more insistent this time and tries again to stand.
Jimmie wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly to his chest. “Just give me one good reason and I’ll let you go.”
Halley looks nervously around the room, her eyes settling briefly on me, and I can tell she’s trying to think of an answer to pacify Jimmie.
I wish I could help her out, but all I can think of is my way or the highway.
“I don’t want to.”
“Uh-uh, not good enough.” He laughs, warming up to his game. “Trust me- you want to.”
“Jimmie….” She sighs and I wonder where Van is. He always knows how to shut Jimmie up when he gets like this.
“Don’t you trust me, baby?” he coos and kisses her cheek. “Or is it the Mormon thing?” I see Halley go rigid in his arms. “Are you still playing like you’re a good little Mormon girl? Because I don’t think good little Mormon girls would be in a house of sin like this one in the first place, would they?” He’s toying with her and I find a deep sense of irritation intruding on my otherwise pleasant buzz.
“House of sin,” Kyle chuckles. “That rocks.”
Maybe Van left. I should really go try and find him, except I’m just so comfortable.
“Come on,” Jimmie urges her, “we won’t tell your bishop. Will we guys?” I wince at the mention of her bishop. Technically, he’s my bishop too. We’re in the same ward.
“Lay off her, dude,” I say loudly, surprising even myself. “It’s a real buzz-kill,” I add, trying not to make this into a big deal.
It doesn’t work. “Ah, the prodigal son speaks. That’s right, Cole. Tell little Miss Molly over here about all the benefits of the bud.”
“It’s great.” Heh. I can’t help myself. Halley glares at me and then I realize I’m back on the wrong side of the argument. “Seriously, man, just let her go. Being LDS isn’t really my thing anymore, but it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it.”
“Nothing wrong with it?” Jimmie says, facing me with a cocked eyebrow.
I know that look. He’s about to launch into one of his famous mind-bending logic games that I can’t even keep up with sober, much less stoned. Talking people in circles is his favorite pastime, and generally it’s pretty funny. Unless it’s you.
Jimmie sneers, “We don’t smoke, we don’t drink, we don’t screw, we don’t do anything. In fact, we have so many rules that it pretty much ensures every single one of us is a walking hypocrite.”
“Halley’s not a hypocrite,” I snap, feeling a strange churning in my gut.
“Oh really? Is that true, baby doll?” Jimmie turns the full force of his intense eyes on her, and I watch her wither. “You’ve never done anything against your principles then, Molly?”
“I didn’t say that,” she mumbles.
“Oh, so you’re not perfect then,” he sighs dramatically. “Too bad. Guess you’re going to hell.”
“It’s not like that,” I intercede. I hate watching him do this. I hate watching her take it. And I hate that I’m too stoned to even work up a good hate about it. “That’s not true.”
“Oh listen, everyone,” he replies with mock excitement. “Doped-up Cole is about to tell us the Truth with a capital T.”
“I’m not saying that,” I mutter defensively. “It’s just, well, you don’t understand.” The churning feeling works its way up into my chest cavity.
“And you do?” he says dismissively then stops. “Wait. Are you saying you still believe all that propaganda they fed you?”
When I don’t immediately answer him, the whole room goes silent, and all I can see are Halley’s big eyes. She still believes all that church stuff, I can tell. I want to deny it, deny everything. I mean really, talk about a buzz-kill, but I can’t do it. Maybe it’s years of processing like Jimmie says or maybe…
“It’s true,” I whisper, my heart thudding so hard I can feel the blood pulsing in my fingertips, in my eyeballs.
“What?” Kyle hoots. I don’t know how he does it but he seems to have escaped all of the inner conflict I’ve had since we both took our first drink together at that party up the canyon. Our soft-core rebellion had seemed like a joke then, a crazy, wild, fun way to impress the college girls we were partying with, but now I realize there is no punch line. And honestly, I wish I could take his tack. It would be easier. Much easier. Right now my guts feel like I just downshifted from 5th to 2nd on the highway.
“I know it’s true.”
“You’re a fool,” Jimmie says snidely. I don’t argue.

Blink.

“Stop arguing with me and just do it!” Kyle hisses.
“I can’t! I really don’t think I can.” I balk, feeling a little sick to my stomach.
“If you don’t do it then your parents are totally going to be on to us!” He presses the sacrament bread into my hands. “Just say the prayer and get it over with. It’s not like you don’t already have it memorized.”
It’s true; I’ve had the sacrament prayers memorized ever since I turned twelve. I considered it an honor then. “I’m sorry.” I can still smell the pot in my hair since I didn’t shower after I got home last night- well, this morning. I can’t bless the sacrament with the scent of pot in my nose. It’s too much. Even for me.
“It was just one joint and we can talk to the bishop right after, I swear.” He’s sounding more desperate now and I hear the panic in his voice. “Come on, man, my parents are already suspicious– this’ll be just what they need to ground me for life.”
I look out at the congregation blithely singing the sacrament hymn and shake my head. “It would be- wrong,” I hiss. “Besides, the prayer wouldn’t mean anything. Would it even take?”
“Yeah, dude, of course it will. You’ve done this tons of times, and it’s not like God is going to hit you with a lightening bolt or anything.”
I glance at the ceiling. I can’t help myself. “Besides, the symbolism is the important thing, right? We’re not really doing anything to the bread by saying a little prayer over it.” I stare at him as he wheedles, “Come on dude, no one’s going to know the difference.”
“I’ll know,” I whisper and start to back away from the table, motioning Matt to take my place. Kyle grabs my arm and jerks me back into position as the hymn ends and an entire roomful of heads bow in anticipation. My stomach is in my throat and I swallow the bile, wishing to God I could take back last night. As I kneel hesitantly, it occurs to me that if I’m not worthy to bless the sacrament, I certainly can’t take it. Panic hits me as I search for the nearest exit. I think I’m going to throw up.
I start the prayer, the words flowing smoothly from my lips as my heart races. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be here at all. I want to scream. The words I speak over the bread don’t feel rote today– every single one burns into my mind until I think I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take this hell. I know what I have to do. I have to make a choice. By the time the congregation is to amen, I know: after today, I’m not coming back. It’ll be easier for everyone this way. The bishop gives me a considering look as I step back and clasp my hands in front of me.

Blink.

The bishop clasps my hand in his and shakes it firmly. It’s the well-practiced shake of a successful businessman, and he finishes it off with a hearty pat on the back. “Come in, come in, boys.” He ushers the priests into his office for our lesson. “So glad to see you, Cole,” he nods at me, “and Kyle. Missed you two at young men’s the past few weeks. Where you been?” The question is casual, but I squirm as Kyle shoots me a knowing look.
“Cow tippin’,” Kyle jokes, slugging the bishop in the arm.
“Midterm project.” I blurt simultaneously.
“Wow, a midterm project about cow tipping!” He laughs, and the other guys laugh with him. “I bet your research was intense!” The pressure’s off us now as the bishop goes around the room, greeting each priest by name and asking about his weekend. Actually, we were at a party. It was awesome, totally amazing. We closed down the house after the local skate show and battle of the bands.
“How’d you do last night?” Dell leans over and whispers as the bishop readies his array of dry-erase markers for the lesson.
“Good, good,” I whisper back, letting the pride leach into my voice. “I’m getting a name for big air on the ramp.”
“Awesome,” he replies and I can see the envy in his eyes. I deserve it. I’ve been working really hard to jump this big.
“It’s all in the takeoff,” I say, a little too loudly. “I’ve finally learned how to control myself, hold off until that absolute last second before I kick the board. It makes all the difference, dude.” I’m just about to offer to show him on the ramp I built in my backyard when the bishop interrupts.
“Ah, Cole, funny you should bring up the topic of self-mastery! That happens to be our topic for today. And you’re right, it does make all the difference, dude.” The class snickers as the bishop hands me his triple combination, “Maybe you could start us off by reading this scripture?”
I make a face but take the large scriptures from his hands and read aloud. “Alma 34:34. ‘That same spirit which doth possess your bodies at the time ye go out of this life, that same spirit will have power to possess your body in that eternal world.’”
“So, what do you think?” The bishop is looking at me.
“About what?” I ask demurely, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“What does that scripture mean to you?”
“It means that Alma must be one cool dude since he can use the word ‘doth’ in a sentence.” I know I’m being dumb, but it cracks Kyle and Dell up something fierce. Heh.
The bishop looks at me over his glasses, “This is serious stuff, Cole.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, “ my eternal happiness and all that. It’s a big deal. I get it.” How could I not get it? They’ve been drilling this into my head since I was three. Probably younger, except I can’t remember back that far.
“I’m not sure that you do.” The bishop counters my bantering tone with his soft one. “Today, right now, every choice you make is shaping the eternal being you will someday be.” Okay, now he’s getting deep on me. “I hope that you particularly understand this Cole. You’ve only been a priest for a few weeks now, but it’s more than just a name change. Part of your priesthood means you bear the responsibility of acting for our Lord, in His name. Like when you bless the sacrament, for instance.”
I feel the smirk sliding off my face as the weight of his words hits me in the chest. He’s right; I know he is. There’s something special about the sacrament. I’ve felt it ever since I can remember first taking the bread and water, even before I was baptized. And to bless it- well, I’ve been working up to that since I first heard my dad say the prayers.
“The sacrament, well, that is a big deal,” he finishes and settles back onto the edge of his desk.
I nod solemnly. “I know, I’ve had the prayers memorized since I was twelve.”
He smiles at me and I detect a tinge of relief as he replies, “I know you have, Cole. I know you have.”
“Ah, Cole-sy’s such a gwooood boy!” Kyle pats my head. I squirm uncomfortably.
“He is a good boy. And he’s going to be a wonderful missionary someday.” The bishop rests his hand heavily on my shoulder. I smile at the floor.

Blink.

“I believed him.” The girl’s voice trembles, jerking my attention away from Halley’s pale ethereal face. “I don’t know why. But I did.” Believed who? About what? I’d missed the beginning of this conversation due to my preoccupation with Halley. She looks beautiful in black. Really amazing.
“I’m sorry,” my dad squints down at the slight girl, inadvertently unbalancing my mother, who had been leaning heavily on his arm. “Who are you?”
“Oh!” The girl covers her mouth in embarrassment. “I’m, uh, Leigh. I was a friend of Cole’s.” Right! Leigh. Van’s girlfriend. I knew I recognized her. “Well I guess, I am still a friend of Cole’s. Or something. Since he’s still around and all.” Halley’s eyes widen and I think my mother might faint. “I’m sorry,” she stammers, her voice going high and tight, “I’ve said the wrong thing. I’ve never been to a Mormon funeral before and I, uh, don’t know much about this whole ‘next life’ thing.” She glances at Halley, who just shakes her head. Leigh sighs. “I don’t know what to say except that I’m sorry he’s dead. I really really am. He was a good kid. Or is a good kid. Or whatever.”
“Why did you believe him?” My mom asks hoarsely. Thanks Mom.
“Um….” Leigh stammers. I wait. I have to admit I’m interested. “I dunno. There was just something that I felt, I guess, when he talked about stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Like religious stuff. About God and heaven and whatever. I could tell he really believed it.” She shrugs. “And I believed him.”
My parents look at each other, the confusion obvious in their faces.
My dad clears his throat. “Why?”
Leigh shakes her head slowly and I find myself wanting to give her the answer. If I could whisper it in her ear, I would. I mean, I know what she felt. But I can’t tell her anything any more. At last her eyes settle on the casket in the room. It’s closed, thankfully. “I don’t know, now.” She shakes her head again. “My feelings are all screwed up.”
Regret. I finally feel a shock of real regret and this is what brings it on. Why? Staring directly at my mom, she finishes, “I’ve been kind of a mess ever since I heard.”
Mom hugs her. Hard. “Me too.”
“Thank you. Thank you for telling us that,” my dad says creakily. For the first time today I notice tears behind his rimless glasses.

Blink.

I’m flying. At least it’s the closest to flying I’ve ever come. The air rushes like liquid over my skin as I aim for the sun. The earth has no hold on me. At least until I land. But that only lasts until I can skate around my back yard, ramp up again and jump.
- posted by Charlotte @ 3:26 PM