Twenty Grace Redeemer

Nestor Camarillo ambushes us at the door.

“Daya—finally! We’re going to need your people at the ticket station in about two minutes.”

He gives B’Rad a quick sweep, but B’Rad is distracted by the ginormous neon Make Room for God wall, not to mention everything else that would freak a person out if they’ve never been here before.

“I don’t remember you,” Nestor says to him. “What committee are you on?”

B’Rad rappels his gaze down the towering neon wall. “I’m her plus-one.”

Nestor seems too frazzled to process this information.

“Your group can tell you what to do.” He turns back to me. “Have you seen Beckett?”

My pulse reverbs at the sound of her name.

“Uh. We just got here, so—”

“Well, if you see her, let her know we need to start taking tickets in, seriously, like, two minutes.”

I’m not sure how this ticket thing got dumped in my lap when there’s a whole committee for this that I never technically got added to. Nestor has already started to move on to something else when I remember the duffel bags slung over B’Rad’s shoulder.

“Hey,” I call out. “Where are we supposed to put our stuff?”

“I’ll show you.” The words sweep in from the side, brushing just below my ear.

I flame out as I turn.

Beckett shimmers behind me like the most beautiful mirage I could imagine.

Nestor calls out. “Beckett! We need your committee to get set up now.”

But her eyes never peel away from me as she says, “Just let me show Daya where to put her stuff.”

“I’ll hang out here,” B’Rad says, handing the bags to me. “In case he blows a fuse before you get back.”

“You sure?” I ask.

B’Rad goes pffft. “I can handle him.”

I can’t take my eyes off Beckett as she leads me through the mini-mall-style foyer. But instead of going into the huge auditorium where they had services last Sunday, she takes me to what must be one of the side towers, if that’s what those three looming facades out front are called. This section of the building is more of a sprawling meeting hall than an auditorium. Inside, a net has been stretched across the length and width of the room, keeping hundreds of balloons from floating all the way to the top. Their curling-ribbon tails drip down into the room like a wall-to-wall curtain of delicate tentacles. Meanwhile, a DJ in a booth up front is testing out his light show, the same kind of moving, strobing, multicolor lights they seem to use for every event at Grace Redeemer, from church service to youth group to concerts to summer camp. And now, apparently, prom.

Beckett keeps going, and pretty soon we’re headed down a long hallway that leads to a small storage room, tucked into what must be the farthest corner of the building.

“They want everyone to put their things in the coatroom,” she says. “But that’s all the way on the other side. No one ever comes in here, so... I dunno. It just feels safer.”

I nod like I understand what could possibly feel safer than already being in church.

I follow her into the room, and she turns, the strap of her duffel bag sliding off her shoulder.

“I wanted to text you last night,” she says.

“Why didn’t you?”

“My mom took my phone after you left, because... I guess I was being disrespectful to her.” She hesitates, then turns and tucks her bag under a metal table stacked high with books. I toss our bags under as well. She doesn’t stand up right away—she stays crouched, looking through her stuff. I use the moment to absorb the details of her without anyone else around. My drifting gaze lands on her back like the first snowflake of winter up in Flagstaff, tumbling across her shoulders, catching on the sequins and sparkles of her pale pink dress, then up again, into the braids and spirals of her done-up hair. A hundred different kinds of ache press against my chest.

Beckett stands up suddenly, tucking a phone into a pocket hidden in the fluff of her skirt.

“They still have mine,” she explains. “This one’s a burner.”

I lift my hand to my mouth, clear my throat a little, hoping I can get out some of what I’ve been wanting to say to her since yesterday. To ask her about what happened with her mom. About why her parents are so worried about her so-called choices. Why her mom was so intent on leaving the bedroom door open. It’s not like she was in there with—

“So... where’s Cason?” I hear myself ask instead.

His name makes the air in the room feel dirty.

“He’ll be a little late—they made a pit stop first.” A look crosses over her face, like she just got caught in a lie. She goes, “Honestly, he was like, If we have to be locked up with no in-and-out privileges, I’m gonna burn a few before I’m stuck in there all night.”

“Gotcha.” I look at the floor, try to think of something else to say, since I can’t seem to say what I want. “How come you didn’t go with him?”

“It’s not my thing. Sometimes I wish it was, though.”

I’m pretty sure that by sometimes she means tonight.

She leans against the metal table like we have all the time in the world. Like the two minutes Nestor gave us before we have to start taking tickets haven’t already passed, plus several more after that. Like Nestor won’t lose his super-organized shit if we don’t turn up soon. Like people won’t talk, or even wonder, about us if we stay here one minute longer than we’ve already been here. The sheer layers of Beckett’s skirt float around her, little specks of silvery thread shining through like sugar stars in one of her coffee-cup galaxies.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, and just like that, I’m out of my head and back inside the storage room at Grace Redeemer Church.

“Me? Nothing. Why?”

She shakes her head like she’s trying to keep from saying something, then blurts, “You look unbelievable, Daya.”

I know she means it. I can tell by how she’s looking at me, by the way my body responds, that she means it. But there’s something else there that I can’t shake loose from. Like she wants me to look incredible so I can fit into this world—her world. Like she wants me to belong, when it’s pretty agonizingly obvious that I don’t.

We both start talking at the same time.

“You go first,” I say.

“No, it’s just... we should probably head back, that’s all.”

Yeah. I guess she’s right. But I leave the storage room hoping that’s not all. Aching for more time alone with her, however I can have it.

I follow Beckett back to the ticket station, to the long tables covered in black stretchy fabric, set up for us to scan everyone who comes in.

When we get there, B’Rad is sitting next to Cason and Lucy, with Lucy’s date, Javi, on the end. I’m not sure why they need six people to do tickets, but it’s not my place to crit, since I made zero contributions to this committee.

Before long we get into a kind of rhythm—Beckett, B’Rad, and I scan each person’s e-ticket, while Cason, Lucy, and Javi attach the vinyl club-style bands to everyone’s wrists. But the brainlessness of the task does nothing to water down the vibe at our table. Not the unignited heat sparking between Beckett and me. Not the buzzed horniness of Cason Price, spewing like a shaken beer can over every girl who comes to the table. Not Lucy’s loyalty toward Beckett that’s strung like a wire cable between the two of them.

Half an hour in, give or take, someone makes an announcement that it’s time to get the party started, and a few minutes later, they announce that they’ve locked it all down. Nestor comes by to tell us we can go into the dining hall with everyone else.

I stay where I am for an extra moment, to avoid the crush of all those people moving in the same direction at once.

Beckett floats by, two steps behind Cason. “You two coming?”

B’Rad and I bounce a look off each other, and we get up in unison, following loosely behind Beckett.

The dining hall is set up in the third tower section, where most people had to walk through to put their overnight bags in the coatroom. Round tables are set up all around the room, with eight chairs at each table. The lights in here are low but not dim. It smells like food even though there’s no actual food on the tables yet. The whole thing has this incredibly surreal filter to it.

I look over at Beckett, laughing at something someone must have said, but all I can see is us kissing in her room and in mine.

Not surprisingly, we end up at a table with Beckett, Cason, Lucy, and Javi. No one sits in the other two seats. On one hand, I’m relieved to be at a table with just them, since they’re the only people here I really know. On the other hand, the only person I like besides B’Rad is Beckett, so that’s not super helpful.

A college-aged-looking dude with an in-ear microphone stands in front of the sweeping window that makes up the front of the tower from the outside. He’s wearing a powder-blue tux with a white T-shirt underneath that says something on it, probably True Love Waits, and navy-blue Chuck Taylors with no socks.

“Good evening, brothers and sisters... welcome! I’m so glad you’re here. I’m Pastor Ben, the youth pastor here at Grace Redeemer.” A huge cheer rises into the dining room. “It’s amazing to be in this room tonight, in this mood tonight, with love and light all around us. Are you ready, Grace Redeemer?”

More noise from the Pure Prommers.

Pastor Ben laughs. “Well, we’re gonna feed you first, so let’s take a moment to praise Him for this opportunity. Lord, we thank you—”

I close my eyes, my hands twisted in a sweaty knot on my lap, until Beckett nudges me under the table. I shoot her a look of panic as she reaches for me, until B’Rad also fumbles for my hand on the other side, and I realize this is what’s happening all around the room. I give him a stealth eye roll and shove my hand into his. We both hold on for dear life.

“Father, we ask that You bless this food to our bodies and our bodies to Your service.”

Beckett’s hand is soft and warm. There’s no agenda in the way her fingers thread through mine, no expectation in her clasp, not even a reminder of who she is or what we’ve done together. I’m the one who can’t seem to forget.

“Lord, You’ve promised us salvation. You’ve promised us eternity, and all You ask in return is for us to commit to You.” His voice builds to a crescendo. “All You’ve asked is for us to remain pure and ready to fulfill Your perfect plan for us, and Lord... we’re here to commit to that tonight.”

Beckett flinches at the word pure.

“We ask these things in the name of Jesus,” Pastor Ben says. “Amen.”

A small army of parents and siblings pours out of the kitchen, carrying prepared plates of chicken, and mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables that look like they’re from a can.

Beckett leans close and whispers in my ear.

“Mexicorn?”

I smile, and she laughs a little, and a puff of her breath tickles the side of my cheek. I catch Lucy watching and instantly back away.

Cason Price is chewing on B’Rad’s ear like they’re bros from all the way back in the day. I’m pretty sure if Cason wasn’t stoned right now, he wouldn’t be bro-crushing on B’Rad so hard. I kick my foot out to the side and tap it against his foot. He looks over at me, his eyes going comic book huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

Help me, he mouths, and I mouth back, I’m so sorry.

Cason doesn’t seem to notice. He never seems to notice anything that doesn’t directly involve him. Every time I start feeling guilty about kissing his girlfriend, he does some jerky thing that makes it hard to go all the way there.

Dinner is quickly becoming a hellscape of awkwardness. I have no one to talk to, since B’Rad is currently being held hostage by Cason, and Beckett seems to be splitting her attention between Lucy and Cason and whoever else orbits around her. But her smile isn’t real. It’s that fake smile I’ve seen her put on before, so that no one can see she’s having some real kind of emotion that isn’t grateful or joyful or blessed. I wonder which one of a thousand things her fake smile is a cover for tonight.

Finally, Pastor Ben’s voice explodes into the room.

“Grace Redeemer! Are we ready to Praise God all night long?”

Cheers from the Pure Prommers, who spring out of their chairs, leaving the dishes and chicken bones and uneaten Mexicorn-wannabe for their parents and siblings to clean up. Everyone rushes to the dance hall on the other side of the building.

The music is already bumping when we get there. The DJ puts one hand on his oversized headphones, the other in the air.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” he shouts into the room as we swim through a sea of colored lights and all those ribbons hanging down. He gradually dials the volume down, and the bass-heavy song eases into something more gentle and aching. It plays in the background as he talks.

“Father, we’re here tonight to give You praise. Hold these young hearts in purity and light tonight. Remind us where we belong, and to Whom we belong.” The crowd begins to call out and cheer. “Remind us that our joy... lies not in the flesh... but in the spirit!” A small cluster of nearby girls look my way when he says this, I don’t know why. “Let us praise His name with dancing!”

And with that, the room erupts in cheers as everyone starts jumping up and down in time to the music.

My gaze wanders across the dance hall. No one would ever know this wasn’t any other high school prom, in any town, anywhere. Except for all the praise hands in the air. And the deliberate lack of PDA. And the sudden realization that every single prom dress here is some variation of a pastel. I spin a slow circle so I can verify this. No one’s wearing red. There are no jewel tones, no deep blue, or emerald green, or royal purple, and for sure no silver or gold. I’m wearing the only black dress in the room. I’m also showing the most skin of anyone else here, which, given the minuscule expanse of my exposed shoulder, is saying something. None of the gowns are strapless or even sleeveless, and all of them have necklines that don’t come close to revealing collarbones, much less cleavage.

Beckett floats up beside us, her cotton candy gown swirling around her. I bet her mom picked it out. Beckett hates pastel-anything.

She points to B’Rad’s tux, and because it’s too loud to hear anyone talking, she gives him a thumbs-up and he gives one back to her. Cason grabs Beckett’s hand and pulls her onto the dance floor like a caveman dragging his woman by her hair.

Cason. Price. Disgusts. Me.

B’Rad taps me on the arm and dips his chin toward the dance floor. He makes sure I know it’s a question by the look on his face. But I don’t feel like dancing. I don’t want to stay in this room if it means watching Beckett and Cason do whatever heteronormative purity ritual they’re doing right now. Not when all I’ve been thinking about all night is going back to the storage room with Beckett, even just for a minute or two, if for nothing else so I can breathe her in.

I tip my head toward the door leading out to the mini-mall. That’s where prom photos are being taken. Where the selfie station is. Where the gift shop is still open for those last-minute prom purchases, whatever those might be.

B’Rad and I leave the dance hall, walk over to a bench under the MAKE ROOM FOR GOD sign. At least out here we can almost hear ourselves think.

“You don’t look like you’re having any fun,” he says, adding in a whisper, “Must be hard watching her get manhandled by you-know-who.”

“I guess I don’t have my game face on.”

“You mean, your praise face?”

I bump him with my exposed shoulder. “You’re as bad as Stella.”

He looks around. “This is wild, man. You should have warned me.”

“You never would have believed it,” I say.

“No,” he snickers. “I wouldn’t.” He looks over at the selfie station. “I’ve sold bud to a bunch of those guys.”

“Go ahead and get baked,” I say, “as long as you’re celibate while you do it.”

“Right? There’s... a... lot of talk about purity tonight. But show me where it’s written Thou Shalt Not Burn One?”

“I think that’s in Cannabis 4:20.”

We both laugh.

“We’re going to hell for that, aren’t we?” he whispers.

“It’s not the only thing, but yeah. Probably.”

B’Rad pretends to notice the massive neon sign behind us for the first time. He drama-flinches from it, and even though it’s not that funny, we both giggle hysterically.

We sit there a while longer, watching as people take selfies or prom pictures, listening as the music reaches out to us from inside the dance hall. I know at some point, B’Rad will want to take pictures, too. I just want to get through this night with the least amount of damage to my heart as possible, since things are already going sideways and it’s not even midnight yet.

“You look like you’re a million miles away,” he says. “Where are you?”

“Honestly? That party up in Oviedo. I’m starting to think I just should’ve gone to that instead.”

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s not the company.” I lean into him. “It’s just... right now... anything would be better than sitting here... stupidly wishing I could be Cason Price for one night.” I say this last part right against his ear, in a whisper so soft, no one else could possibly hear. I know it’s wrong for me to say it out loud, in this room, under a neon sign that says Make Room for God. Maybe worse than saying Cannabis 4:20.

I look up from whispering in B’Rad’s ear to the sight of Beckett headed our way.

“I wondered where you went.” She pushes back a strand of hair that worked its way loose. “Are you guys out here to take pictures, or...? Because I can text everyone to come join us.”

I’m not sure how to tell Beckett that I really don’t want to take prom pictures. I don’t need a souvenir of this dance, or this dress, or these people, once tonight is over. I don’t need a nonstop reminder of Beckett’s purity promise. Or that the person I want to be with more than anything is only okay if she’s flirting with me in my teensy corner of the world, because who am I kidding? This church is her whole world, and even though this world is massive enough to contain a trillion secret rooms, there would still never be room for us to hide here.

B’Rad leans in and tells me, “I’m gonna hit the bathroom real quick. I promise, I’ll be right back.”

I try to stop him, but he vaporizes into the crowd coming out of the dance hall.

“Maybe we should go get in line,” Beckett says. “Looks like it’s moving kind of slow.”

I follow her to where the photo area is set up. She takes her phone out, and not long after, Lucy and Cason and Javi are headed our way. Cason’s trying to drink a cup of punch he brought out with him, and Javi keeps pretending he’s going to bump his arm and make him spill it. I hope he does, to be honest. I hope Cason spills bright red punch all over his pale pink tuxedo.

Beckett and I don’t say much as we stand in line, but I can’t stop remembering. Her hair in my hands when we kissed. Her lips curved into a smile against my mouth. Her body on mine. My body on fire. And it still is. Even now. Even here. Standing in line for pictures. Aching to be alone with her. Still wondering how to manifest that impossible fantasy in this unforgiving space.

Some girl calls Beckett over to join their group photo.

“I’ll be right back,” she says as Cason chucks his empty cup into a trash can and scuds right for me.

“Dude!” He drapes himself across my shoulders. “Where’s your weird friend?”

“He’s not weird,” I say, but Cason doesn’t hear me.

And he smells nasty.

Lucy goes, “Get off her, Neanderthal.”

Only she’s not defending me, if that’s what I’m thinking. As soon as he moves away again, she visually dissects me from head to toe.

“Classy,” she says.

I don’t give her the satisfaction of a response, and now that Beckett’s back from making a cameo appearance in that other group’s prom pictures, Cason switches from pawing at me to pawing at her.

“Get off me,” she whispers to him.

“It’s prom night, Becks,” he says. “Jeez. Loosen up.”

I panic-search the mini-mall for B’Rad.

“Come on, Becks.” Cason nuzzles the side of her neck. “I thought we were gonna have some fun tonight.”

“What’s wrong with you?” she whispers, shrugging him off.

Javi jumps in and goes, “Man, let’s just chill and take our pictures,” which catapults Lucy into Beckett-defense mode, and the volume starts dialing up, and one by one, people turn and stare.

Too much drama. I’m out.

I start to walk away, but Beckett comes after me.

“Wait, where are you going?” she says. “It’s almost our turn for pictures.”

“I’m just gonna go find B’Rad,” I say, looking in the direction where I think he might have gone.

She goes, “Okay. But. Do you want us to wait for you?”

“You don’t have to,” I say.

“Daya—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I call out over my shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“Daya!”

I pick up the pace, not stopping to look behind me. I duck into the prom hall, weave my way through dancers and balloon ribbons and music that sounds like an excited heartbeat filling the room. It does not sound like a heart that’s breaking.

Beckett catches up to me when I’m halfway down the long hallway leading to the storage room and wraps her fingers around my wrist.

I whip around.

“What?”

She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, holding on to me.

I pull out of her grip, but I can’t pull away from her eyes. They’re searching for something in mine.

“I can’t do it,” I finally say, blinking away the tears I’ve been fighting. “I thought... I thought we’d have a chance to... But obviously, that’s not why you’re here, and I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” she asks.

Her confusion confuses me.

“I can’t sit here for the next ten hours, watching you through some blurred window and pretend I don’t feel things for you. I can’t watch you sidestep your drunk boyfriend all night and not want to punch him in the fucking face.” I sniff, wipe tears away. “And I can’t put on a dress and fake like I’m straight to make everyone else think I belong here. And I sure as hell can’t spend all night wondering whether you’re faking straight, or faking like you’re into me, and...”

She blinks and tears spill down her face too.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I say. “That’s all. And I just... I can’t do it anymore, so. I don’t think I can be here.”

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz against the ceiling, casting a yellow glow into the hallway.

“Then let’s go,” she says, wiping her tears away with the tips of two fingers.

“What?”

“Let’s get out of here. Go... somewhere. I don’t even care where.”

My head tips heavy to the side. “Beckett...”

“I’m serious, Daya.”

Why don’t we head out to nowhere, girl...

“Hey!”

I spin around, beyond elated to see B’Rad jogging down the hallway toward us.

He looks flustered.

“Where’ve you been?” I ask.

“In the coatroom, looking for our stuff,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I was afraid someone was gonna come in there and bust me for trying to steal shit.”

“Our bags aren’t in—were you trying to steal shit?”

He makes a face at me. “No.”

“Then why were you—?”

“They keep the service door unlocked,” Beckett cuts in.

We both turn to face her at the same time, and for a few breaths, no one says anything.

She goes, “It’s literally right there. All we have to do is grab our stuff and go.”

I turn back to B’Rad, and we lock eyes. A whole conversation transpires between us in the next few silent seconds. At the end, I give him a minuscule shrug, and he pops one back, punctuated by a microscopic nod.

Minutes later, we’re on the expressway, putting as much distance between us and Grace Redeemer Church as humanly possible.