Part One
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” -John 8 -- 32

So many faces stare at me. They stand- their hands colliding, apart then together again. To them, I am just a subject, something to waste precious moments of their lives scrutinizing. I know them very well. I recited everything I have ever learned verbatim. To them, I am nothing more than a domesticated parrot. Jesus Christ saved my soul. Jesus Christ loves me; He died for me. See, in every song, we mess with the notes and octaves, try to make it seem as if they aren't all recycled themes. Society itself is recycled. You and I, we create our own stories full of distinctly personalized characters and vivid settings and unique plots. But the truth is, there are roughly eight billion breathing organisms who believe that the world is theirs to conquer. Who's to say it isn't? I bet, even though this they don't admit, every person in this gymnasium secretly feels the same. Because we are all the same. And, yet, I don't really know these people at all.

“Meg!” Jade comes up, nearly tackles me on the stage. She smells like cinnamon; she loves experimenting with excess kitchen ingredients.

When she pulls away, I share my prediction.

“Apple dumplings,” she runs her hands against her black Jansport jacket. In an instant, particles collapse to the floor. With a cracked grin, she adds, “You know me so well, Meg.”

I shrug. People stare at us even though it's time for them to go home and make something out of their lives. “What did you think?”

Her sea green eyes widen as she laughs, “Are you kidding me?” I roll my eyes and cross my arms modestly. “Meg, you sounded amazing!”


I can't help smiling. If anyone, Jade knows how to give compliments. “Thanks,” I mutter, gazing my mother's eloquent high heels on my feet. They annihilate my ankle, but it was either a shoe three times too big or a Hello-Kitty pair.

Behind me, I hear a loud slap. I don't even realize that it is my own back being hit. His voice makes me shudder. “Megyn Peters, Megyn Peters,” Parker says.

He slips a cool arm around my waist. He is wearing a blue and white checkered shirt, khaki pants. His jet black hair looks like shark fins. I can feel my face turn hot but am unable to do anything to stop this. “Who knew you'd be such a delightful singer?”

Out of everyone, only he can call me Megyn without being nailed in the mouth. We are standing so close that our bodies generate beautiful energy. His hot breath melts my neck.

“I bet you weren't even paying attention,” I sneer playfully. “What song did I sing?” Jade and somebody else are near but are nothing more than background effects.

“What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

“No.”

“This Little Light of Mine?'”

“Not this time.”

“At the Foot of the Cross.”

“You know what -- it's OK.” I try not to let this upset me, but unfortunately it is. Turning away, I pretend to be interested in talking to Jade. He cranes towards me; I ignore him. It hurts every inch of me. I hear a soft curse slip out, then another after he remembers where he is. I believe he thinks cursing a second time cancels the first. Too bad God heard both -- in His house. Does that alone deserve punishment?

His grasp is electrifying. Spinning to him, I hiss, “Parker, I don't c-.”

Parker squeezes my hand, tight -- it suddenly feels engulfed in flames. His fingers press against my palm. “Look, I care about you, okay? I know- I know you don't think so.”

I seriously don't want to listen, but I don't want to leave either. These are the inevitable moments where someone random has to enter and f*** up the whole situation. It is doomed to happen. Probably knowing this, he continues as if we are isolated more than just in our minds. “I think -- I think you sounded...really beautiful,” he says.

And that's when Megyn Peters dies, folks.

Nah, not really. Though he might have thought so, as he is now waving his hand in front of my face. I realize that I fell into an imaginary world of extreme bliss, even if just for a few seconds. Please, God, don't let anyone come in and ruin this moment. I know You have this all sketched out. You have already mapped out what everyone says, but please. Please, please, please.

Parker straightens his posture, his tall frame raising slightly. He looks both ways. Heading to the right seems to satisfy him, as my hand plunges in that direction.

“Where are we going?” I demand as we rush past people, all of whom sweetly praise my performance. They don't seem phased by a teenage boy nearly dragging me someplace. When I ask the question, he plays deaf and increases his pace.. My heart beats faster than the church's chocolate cake gets devoured.

He forces his body against a door, pushing it open. We soon escape into the brisk, dark night.

I feel five years old, as I stomp my feet, cross my arms, and bite my lip. Causing lip bleeds -- a horrible, yet relatively new habit. It is, in my eyes, the best cure for anxiety. “Parker.” My tone surprises me. “I want to know why you brought me out here. Tell me right now.” Two weeks ago, Hell, two days ago, I can't imagine speaking to him in such a way. I don't know why; I suppose he just holds such a power over my soul. Hypnosis. Adoration. Fixation. As creepy as it sounds, I don't want to be with anyone else. Ever.



I remember a particular conversation with Jade -- in fact, she stated that “his every wish was my command.”

He breathes on to his trembling hands then stuffs them into his pant pockets. He straightens his back, once again. “I just want to make sure we are on the same page,” he tells me.

From the corner of my eye I watch crystalline snowflakes fall from the sky. They are absolutely incredible. I heard once that, comparable to humans, no two snowflakes are identical. Their components, however, are all universal. In other words, we are unique and recycled ideas simultaneously.

Once again, he has to almost snap his fingers to gain my attention. I only subconsciously focus on the sky now. “You mean a lot to me,” he goes on. “And I guess what I'm trying to do here, is, uh-.”

I close my eyes. Father God, don't let him renege now. He can be a doofus sometimes, but he really, truly deserves to be happy. I'd like to think the same about me.

I attempt to help him out. “Parker.” My tone is firm yet consoling. “No matter what it is, I'll always l-” No, I can't keep going with that. According to my mom, I have the slightest indication of what love is. My feeble mind cannot comprehend its complexity. I just stare, holding his gaze, and whisper, “I'll always be your friend.”

Scrunching together, his caterpillar eyebrows indicate his awkward state. “Yeah, Meg,” he replies, and when he breathes, a thick cloud arises from his lips. I want to kiss them so bad. I have envisioned the potential scenario, switching things around in my mind to make it the most realistic. Never once here, though. “That's the thing.”

I taste copper next time I bite my lip. “What is?” I ask.

Heavily he sighs. Parker, his eyes darting across my face, cringes. I know this face. It's the one he makes whenever he knows exactly what he wants to say yet feels compelled not to. For years we have dancing around this, faces blushed, eyes embarrassed. Since the earliest years of Sunday school, passing a football around the courtyard, licking brownie covered whisks, chasing each other with squirt guns. I don't want it to end, but something inside me tells me it has already.

It is worth it. Knowing beats the not-knowing, the endless nights tossing and turning, asking God for signs left and right. If it lands on heads, he loves me. If it starts raining, he sees me as one of the boys. If I get an ‘A’ on this test, that has to mean good things are yet to come, and good things obviously include Parker.

The wind is picking up. He nestles in his fur jacket while my bare legs tremble. Only because he is a king.

“About the friend thing?” he continues. I lose my ability to breathe. “Megyn, I think you're beautiful and smart and all around a wonderful girl.”

Why does he always have to stop? It reminds me of the lovely Spanish class. Even talking about the colonization of South America makes him freeze. Only, instead of receiving an ‘F’, he is going to get a deathly glare. He finally spits it all out, the venom spewing from his tongue, “I just want to be friends with you.”

Overdue, his cousin- her eyes shining brighter than the moon- bursts from the door. “What are you doing?” Amber laughs, tousling his hair.

My mouth gapes open. He takes pride in his spike -- I couldn’t imagine ever messing with it. I don't know her, but she looks to be at least four years older than us. Her sunny blonde hair, the color I envy, dangles to her breasts. Covering his shoulder, she wraps herself around him, on her tip-toes a bit, and smiles at me. Pink pieces of metal cover her teeth. “And who is this?” she inquires.

He steps back a bit, his stance crooked. “She's Megyn,” he tells her softly, winking. “But she likes to be called Meg.”

Blondie holds out her hand. “Amber.”

I take it, wondering who gives hand shakes anymore, and feel my flesh gripped. The moonlight highlights her glittered acrylic nails. She adjusts her indigo shirt collar. I don't know how she stands the silk constantly scratching her neck. The three of us stand there -- three people with nonexistent voices.

Not even two minutes ago I felt the “peak” Pastor Dylan often discusses. “The moment you know God occupies your soul.” Like Pastor Dylan, Joseph Campbell often said the key to happiness is finding your own bliss. Being with Parker always brings me extreme bliss. What they never elaborated, though, was what to do if your bliss isn't compatible with somebody else's?

I need this dragging moment to die. I take a stab at the silence, “You guys get along good for cousins, huh?”

They erupt in howling laughter. Amber's eyes leak a little, similar to Parker's whenever he watches South Park. I bring my legs together, still feeling the cold. At this point, I'm not sure if it's because of the weather, or because the feeling of being left out. Being on my own brings me complete distress. The concept of allies I hate, when I have none. Through the window I see Jade enjoying herself inside, tilting her head back and laughing at lame jokes. The only place I can look without crying, the ground looks ever-so-intriguing.

Swiping tears, the mascara oozing onto her cheeks, Amber asks disbelievingly, “You think we're COUSINS?”

“Well, yeah,” I snap back.

She shakes her head. I fear Parker has stopped speaking to me permanently.

Until, of course, he clutches her hand, sways it a little, and cracks an enormous grin. This ties a knot in my stomach, but not the kind I am used to. This one, volatile, sends daggers as well. He straightens, his back erect, and exclaims proudly, “No, she is my girlfriend. She's coming to youth group from now on.” He smiles brightly again. “That's why I brought you out here, to tell you all about her. I think that, since you two are the most important girls in my life, you should meet.”

He catches my gaze and holds it with perseverance. “And hopefully, be friends.”