Five Club Meetings

At seven fifteen Monday morning, I swing through the short wooden gate and knock on the front door of Stella’s house.

Stella’s hot mom answers.

“Good morning, Daya!” she says with a huge smile. Unlike Joanna, Stella’s mom rolls out of bed gorgeous. My mom’s lucky if she wakes up looking just this side of rough most days.

“Good morning, Mrs. Howell,” I say.

“It’s Avila again. I’m sure Stella told you?”

Stella did not tell me.

“I’ll try to remember,” I say anyway.

Stella comes around the corner with a triangle-shaped piece of toast sticking out of her mouth. She pulls it out long enough to say, “I wouldn’t get too attached to that name either,” before shoving it back in.

Ms. Avila playfully swats at her as she walks by, but Stella deflects, grabbing another slice of toast off a plate on the counter.

“Have a nice day, you two,” her mom tells us on our way out.

Stella rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

The door closes behind us, and Stella drops her Notorious RBG skateboard onto the street and hops on. She holds the strap of my bag like a towrope.

“My mom’s such a tool,” she says as we pass the fancy new restaurant with the 3D mosaic sugar skull sticking out over the door.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s Avila again,”she says in a mocking tone. “I’m sure Stella told you.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me, so she kind of had to. And I’m glad she did. I don’t want to keep calling her by the wrong name.”

“She changes it so often, what difference does it make?”

She chucks her last bite of toast into the gutter and toes her board up into her hand, and my early warning system kicks into high alert. Her energy’s way off, like when the weather shifts suddenly right before a storm hits and the sky goes from blue to black in a matter of minutes. You can feel that shit coming from miles away.

“It does matter,” I say. “It’s no different than if you kept calling Mercedes García by her old name.”

“That’s not the same at all,” she says.

“It kind of is.”

“Daya—”

“No, Stells, be objective about this for one second. You would never use Mercy’s deadname now that you know who she really is.”

“That’s about identity,” she says. “It’s a core thing, an essence.”

“You really think your mom identifies as Mrs. Howell, though? After the horrible things your stepdad did—”

“It’s not the same,”she says.

I stare at her as we walk, but she’s carved in stone right now.

“Why are you being an asshole about this? She’s your mom.”

“Right, Daya. Because you’ve never been an asshole about Joanna.”

I feel a whoosh of heat shoot through me for a second. That’s different. I want to tell her how that’s different, only I can’t because it’s not that different, actually. I mean, I call my mother by her first name when she’s not in the room. And, yes, it’s true that some level of asshole with our moms is justified from time to time. I just don’t think this is one of those times.

“Everyone defends poor little Gina Avila,” Stella says. “Not because she’s a delicate flower that needs to be defended but because she’s a flower. Period.” She drops her board onto the sidewalk half a block from school and says, “Face it, Daya. Beauty is its own kind of privilege.”

I watch Stella roll in the direction of school without me, not even sure what just happened. But I don’t think it’s really about her mom changing her name back. I think Stella’s still pissed at her for hooking up with that Howell guy in the first place. Some pretty shitty things went down with her stepdad—things Stella still hasn’t shared with me. I know the basic shape of it, but not the details. She won’t talk about those, not with anyone. I definitely think she should, though.

Campus is pretty sleepy this time of day, I notice as I make my way across the commons. It’s not that I mind getting here this early, but once Stella’s gone off to AP US History, I’m alone with nothing to do.

I wander a bit before turning down the 300 wing, where there’s light pouring through the open choir room door. Even from this end of the hall, I hear talking coming from inside. I move closer, close enough to read the neon-green posterboard propped up on an A-frame partially blocking the walkway.

THE GREAT WAIT

TODAY @ 7:30 a.m.

FREE FOOD!!

A hit of adrenaline kicks against me, knowing Beckett’s probably inside. Schr?dinger’s Beckett. Because right now, from where I stand on this side of this door, both versions of Beckett exist: the one from Grace Redeemer yesterday and the one from Justin Tadeo’s party Friday night. Only the act of going inside will confirm for me once and for all which version of Beckett Wild is the real one. And whether my feelings for her would have any room to breathe, no matter where we both were.

A couple of kids push past me as I stand in front of the door, trying to decide if I want to go in and find out. Another guy starts to swerve around me but stops and says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off,” and motions me ahead of him.

Before I fully process what’s happening, I’m at a Great Wait meeting at seven thirty on a Monday morning.

And yes. So is Beckett.

She must have seen me before I saw her, because she’s waving me over, and my heart does the zapateado, as Stella calls it. I edge through the crowd toward her.

“Hey!” she says, inviting me to take the empty seat next to her that was probably meant for Cason, only he’s not here yet. “You know Lucy, don’t you?”

I start to say “No,” because I really don’t know Lucy Davis, other than having junior honors English with her this year. We’ve never even sat on the same side of the room in that class.

But Lucy goes, “Yeah. I know Daya,” and I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t respond at all.

Beckett leans in close to me and says, “Seriously, it’s so cool that you’re here.”

I smile as the heat from her arm melts into the rest of my body.

The chairs in the choir room curve in half circles that stagger up these short, wide steps, with a kind of stage area left open in the center. That’s where Nestor Camarillo stands. He nods once to cue the acoustic band—two kids on guitars plus a drummer—to start playing. The guitar players sing in harmony on a song that sounds likeImagine Dragons but with salvation. They’re pretty good, though.

The club officers, including the band, are all in matching sports-style jerseys I recognize from the Merch! shop at Grace Redeemer. Only instead of an athlete’s name across the upper back, theirs have books of the Bible. Nestor’s says 2 Timothy, and where the jersey number would be, it says 2:22.

The music settles to a few hushed chords as Nestor calls for us to bow our heads in prayer.

I lower my eyes without closing them.

He thanks God for everything from helping Tina Morgan get to State Tennis Finals to the music boosters coming through with new clarinets for the marching band. Meanwhile, I try to pretend there isn’t a smolder of energy between me and Beckett. Because there can’t be. She’s straight, for starters, plus we’re in a room full of people who might be actively looking for evidence that someone is not.

After the prayer, Nestor and his vice president, Alexa, talk about prom committees and spending limits and task lists, and because none of this is relevant to me, I click out. Beckett’s taking notes, at least that’s what I assume she’s doing, until she flips her notebook open to a blank sheet of paper and scribbles something on it. She nudges my elbow with hers.

My whole arm incinerates from the touch.

She wrote: I’m really happy you’re here.

I slip the pencil out of her hand and write: Same—but only because she’s sitting next to me, not because The Great Wait lights me on fire.

“Group leaders, raise your hands,” Nestor calls out, pulling at the bottom of his Bible jersey, and before I give the notebook back to Beckett, I write, Hey, can I ask you a question? and show it to her.

She nods.

What’s 2 Timothy 2:22?

It takes longer for her to jot down an answer than I would have thought. I look around the room as she writes, so it doesn’t feel like I’m staring at her. It’s way too easy to stare at Beckett Wild when I’m not being careful about it. My eyes catch Lucy’s for a beat, but she cuts away quick as Beckett hands the notebook back to me.

“Flee the evil desires of youth and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace, along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.”

This time I can’t help it—I stare at her with my mouth open a little.

I scribble: You know all that by heart??

She smiles and leans in close enough to whisper, “They made us memorize it.”

Having Beckett lean into me is a lot like stretching out on the hot sand on a warm beach, letting the sun heat up my skin, licking salt water off my lips, wishing I could stay in that one amazing moment forever.

I take the pencil again but not the notebook. I lean over instead, halfway into Beckett’s air space, and write: What about ...? and signal the girl in front of us who’s wearing a jersey with 1 Thessalonians 4 on it.

Our fingers touch as she slips the pencil from me and writes: For this is the will of God, your sanctification; that is, that you abstain from sexual immorality.

Holy crap. I always knew the purity stuff was pretty thick with The Great Wait, but... wow.

Beckett scribbles another note and hands it to me.

So does this mean you’re going?

I look at her, confused, then write: Going where? and hand her the pencil.

Prom.

I scramble to figure out why she’s asking me this, until Nestor says, “I just want to thank everyone for all the hard work you’ve put into making this year’s Pure Prom the best ever.”

PureProm?

Beckett’s still waiting for me to answer, but I just shake my head like I’m not sure, because I feel kind of spun by the whole Pure Prom thing right now.

The band plays a few more songs that everyone sings along to, and they keep playing softly as Nestor closes out the meeting with a prayer. We’re finally invited to come get donuts and cocoa from a table near the piano, and Beckett and I funnel that way along with everyone else. Everyone but Lucy. She stays put.

At the snack table, two Great Wait officers in those same biblical sports jerseys place a donut on a napkin for us with their gloved hands. Alexa pours warm water into tiny Styrofoam cups, hands them out with a cocoa packet, a plastic spoon, and a strip of paper with a Bible verse on it.

“Have a blessed day,” she says, over and over again.

Back at our seats, I stir my cocoa into the warm water and eavesdrop as Beckett and Lucy chat about random stuff and giggle like besties. I think back to Friday night, the way Beckett sweated me about Stella and me being inseparable, and feel a wash of embarrassment that I’m kind of doing the same thing with her and Lucy right now.

But then Beckett says, “I’m going for more. Anyone want anything?”

Lucy shakes her head like the thought of a donut disgusts her. I give Beckett a thumbs-up as I inhale cocoa-scented air, trying to get the last few marshmallows unstuck from the bottom of my otherwise empty cup.

With Beckett gone, Lucy’s stare becomes ninety percent challenge and ten percent curiosity. I don’t know what the challenge part is about, but I’m pretty good at the staring game when I want to be. I put my cup down, pop the last bite of my donut between my lips, and lick my fingers, all without breaking eye contact.

“How was it?” she asks, twirling her thick braid around one finger.

I’m not sure if she means How was the donut? orHow was the meeting? so I just say, “Fine.”

“I’ll be honest, Daya. I was a little surprised to see you walk in here.”

“Were you?” I ask. “I’m surprised you have an opinion about seeing me literally anywhere.”

“I saw you at church yesterday.”

I don’t know what’s happening right now, exactly. But I’ll keep playing along.

I go, “You must’ve seen a lot of people at church yesterday.”

And Lucy goes, “I’m just saying.”

She adjusts herself in the seat, leans toward me. She doesn’t have a donut or even a cup of cocoa in her hand. She probably doesn’t eat donuts. Maybe her mother doesn’t let her. Maybe her mother has unrealistic expectations of her, and anything less than a perfect daughter won’t cut it, and that’s why every single strand of dirt-blonde hair is in place and her outfit is Pinterest perfect. I could relate to a mother with impossible expectations, even empathize with that, but honestly? I don’t know what Lucy’s problem is.

“What are you saying?” I finally ask.

“You might think it’s funny to play someone like Beckett,” she nearly whispers. “You follow her to church, you follow her to a Great Wait meeting, score some brownie points, maybe a free donut or two. But for her? This isn’t a game.”

“I don’t think it’s your place to judge me,” I tell her. If she thinks I’ll be intimidated by her, she can suck it.

But Lucy just lifts her hands like she’s ready to back off.

“You’re absolutely right,” she says. “That’s between you and God.”

Beckett comes back, licking chocolate icing off her fingers.

She goes, “Did I miss anything?” But the homeroom bell rings before either of us can answer.

Lucy hops off the chair like it’s wrapped in barbed wire.

“See you later, Becks,” she says, crossing the entire length of the room.

Beckett’s gaze ricochets from the door Lucy disappears through back to me. She gives my arm a little squeeze.

“Everything okay?” she says.

But everything is not okay. Everything is... it’s Lucy, and Pure Prom, and my mom freaking out, and... no. Everything’s kind of messed up, actually.

And I don’t want to lie to her, so I just say, “See you in fifth, Beckett.”

I can’t get out of this room, away from Beckett, away from Pure Prom, from the whole Great Wait industrial complex, fast enough.