I ain’t got nothing to say but it’s okay. Good reading, good reading, good reading-ah.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

“Well,” she says, directing her attention to me, “it’s time we went home. We still have to wash that hair.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. I pick up my mug and drain the now cold hot chocolate out of the cup. I bring it out into the pantry and put it in the sink with the three other mugs already there.

Mom, Dad, and I get our coats from one of the bedrooms and file out through the sitting room into the plastic-covered living room. We say our good-byes to Gramp and Gramma.

As we head out the door from the living room to the front stairs, Gramp puts his hands lightly on my shoulders. He leans into my left ear and whispers, “You have the confidence. It’s there to use. And I don’t just mean with the girls.”

I thought for a moment about talking to him about the dance. But it was too late.

We all file out into the chilly night.

I get in back as Mom and Dad climb into the front seats of the car. The back seat is chilly now that Gramp isn’t there. We drive home in silence.

Dad pulls into the driveway and Mom and I get out. Like before, he stays in the car.

Mom is ahead of me as we go through the living room into the den.

“Hello, Mrs. Joyce,” says Audrey. “How was the play?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Mom says. “Kids okay?”

“Oh, yes, they were no trouble, as usual,” she says. “Hi, Francis.”

“Hi.”

Audrey gets up from the couch. She has long black hair that she flicks off her big breasts. She heads to the den closet and gets her coat off the hanger. Meanwhile, Mom has fished out some money from her wallet.

“Here you go, dear,” Mom says, handing Audrey the cash.

“Thank you very much,” Audrey says as she puts the money in her coat pocket.

“Mr. Joyce is waiting outside for you,” Mom says.

Audrey brushes by me and heads out the door. “Thank you. Good night.”

“Francis, what are you staring at?” asks Mom.

Her question jars me from watching Audrey’s chest.

“I dunno,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.

Mom looks at me in silence. “Why don’t we get that hair washed?”

“Okay,” I say as I leave the den without answering. I want to say something but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that my anger will burst out of me like an A bomb for treating me like a kid.

On my way upstairs, between my legs feels funny. It’s a little difficult to walk up the stairs. I reach my and Harry’s room. I change quickly into my pajamas. The feeling has gone. I head into the bathroom.

SUNDAY

I hate Sundays. We have to get up early and get dressed up, too dressed up, and go to Sunday school. It’s like having another day in school. It just doesn’t last as long. It’s a good thing Mick goes or the Sunday school would be so awful. It’d be worse than Mr. Tringale’s bookkeeping class.

Harry and Kathleen are already downstairs in the kitchen, I can hear them talking with Mom.

I lie in bed, warm and cozy. The heat is on but it must have just come on. The room still feels cool. I want to lie there and wait for the room to heat up but that would take all day. The conversation downstairs has moved to the dining room. I smell French toast cooking. I can also smell the coffee. I don’t like the taste of it but I sure do like the smell. I lie there until my stomach starts growling. My hunger overcomes my comfort and I push the covers off and stand up. I put on my robe and slippers, use the toilet, and head downstairs. On the way down, I smell chocolate. Mom has made hot chocolate, I bet. Boy, chocolate and coffee would make a great combo.

Harry, Kathleen, Dad, and I are walking out the door. Dad always walks us up to the church and then Mom will meet him later at the 10 a.m. service.

“Oh, it’s chilly,” says Kathleen as we start our short walk up to the church.

“Brrr, yeah,” says Harry. He shoves his gloved hands deep into his parka pockets.

Dad looks up at the sky. “Might snow later.”

“Maybe no school tomorrow,” says Harry.

“That would be nice,” says Kathleen. “My National Park project for science is due tomorrow. Part of the project is a presentation and I hate standing up in front of the class.”

“Yeah, I know, me, too,” says Harry.

“You don’t like being in front of the class, either?” Dad asks Harry.

“Naw!”

“Francis likes being in front of everybody.” says Kathleen. “He’d talk all day.”

Dad looks over at me. “That right?”

“Yeah, but not all day.”

“Then maybe Francis could do both your presentations,” says Dad.

“I don’t think Mrs. Tivnon would go for that,” says Harry. “How would she grade it?”

“Good point,” says Dad.

We cross the street to the church. The other three go off to the right entrance and I go to the left one. In fact, I go through the same blue door I did on Saturday. The meeting hall is empty. My dress shoes echo in the room as I cross to the set of stairs on the other side of the stage. A flashback of Saturday interrupts my vision and I quickly push it aside. Climbing the stairs, I can hear voices above me already. I’m early so I’m a little surprised that anyone up is there. At the top of the stairs, I cross to a large room. There are folding wooden chairs set up in rows. A few of the goodie-goodies are the ones talking. On the other side is Mick. He’s wearing a blue suit with a yellow shirt and a red and yellow tie. He has Beatle boots on. I wince at the memory.

“Hey, Professor, I’m glad you made it,” he says.

“Yeah, me, too,” I say.

Looking down, he says, “Where’re your boots?”

“Got stolen last night.”

“What, at the play?”

“Yeah, I owe my dad for the boots, according to him.”

“What a lousy deal that is. It’s not like you lost them on purpose.”

“I know, I know, but that’s what he told me.”

“You’re going to have to combine lawn mowing with snow shoveling to pay for those beauties.”

“Yeah.”

The place fills at a leisurely pace. Mick and I talk about the play and girls. We avoid talking about the band.

The teacher, Mr. Matthews, strolls in, Bible in hand. He’s a tall guy with long arms like an orangutan. His hair is the same color as an orangutan. He has a black suit, white shirt, and a black tie. He doesn’t smile and his eyebrows are stuck in an arch all the time.

He gives these lectures on God, Jesus, the Bible, and sin. He drones on every Sunday on one of these topics. He can quote from any verse in the Bible. He always saying things like, “As it says in First Corinthians…” or “According to the Gospel of Saint Luke…”. He’s smart and all but couldn’t he crack a joke once in a while? I bet Jesus could tell a good joke. Otherwise, how else could he be so popular?

Although I tried not to notice, Peter is here. He drifts in behind Mr. Matthews, along with a few others.

“Hey,” whispers Mick, pointing to Peter, “there’s Mr. Perfection, himself.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say.

“All right,” says Mr. Matthews, “it seems you are all present. Peter, would you please close the door for us, thank you.”

As Peter gets up, I notice his shoes or rather his Beatle boots. There’s a piece missing from the back of the left boot, too. I thought he had ordinary shoes on last Sunday. They were brown to match his suit. He has the same brown suit on today. Where are the matching shoes now?

“Hey,” I whisper to Mick, “I think I found my boots.”

“Yer kiddin’. Where?”

“On Peter.”

“Oh, yeah? But how do you know?”

“You know my sister is a fashion nut and is always talking about that with Melissa and Joan. Well, there are times when they see Peter and they say everything always matches. You know, the suit, the shirt, the tie, the socks, the shoes.”

“Yeah, so, you’re saying the boots don’t match?”

“Right, but my boots have a piece taken off from the left boot just like Peter’s.”

“Mr. Joyce and Mr. Clarke,” cuts in Mr. Matthews, “I am explaining original sin here and I keep hearing you both. Do either of you wish to contribute to the lecture? Is there something about original sin you would like to share with us? Because if you don’t, I would like you both to stop talking and pay attention.”

See? Just like school.

We stayed quiet for the rest of the time. The usual question and answer period followed the lecture and, as usual, the goodie-goodies had question after question after question. Finally, mercifully, it’s over.

Mick lightly grabs my arm as I start to stand. “Let’s wait a sec.”

“What for?”