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Though the church wouldn’t be sharing a venue with these carpetbaggers in the first place if I hadn’t destroyed their barn.
Twenty-nine hours down. Three pageant performances to execute. Opening night—tonight—and two tomorrow, for Christmas Eve. Eleven more hours, and I would be free from carrying wood, painting sets, sweeping floors, and climbing on catwalks to replace burned-out spotlights. The opening-night curtain would go up soon.
Yet somehow I’d found time to kill, just so I could be near Gracie. She’d always been nice to me—especially nice—but not the kind of nice that makes you wonder what percentage is actually pity. Since I started my community service, I’ve had exactly seven encounters with her. Not that I was counting. I caught her watching me a lot, but it was always while I was in the act of watching her, or while her boyfriend was around, so I tried not to obsess about it too much.
Her boyfriend wasn’t around right now.
Even though I’d looked for opportunities to talk to her, when she’d sat down beside me on a bale of hay, my mind had gone completely blank. I believe that saying nothing at all is better than saying something stupid, so I waited for her to start the conversation.
And waited.
And waited.
I’d been fidgeting with a tangled string of fairy lights and giving her belly the side eye for at least five minutes when she reached into her fuzzy purple robe, pulled out a watermelon-shaped piece of foam, and handed it over. “Please,” she said. “Inspect my womb.”
“It’s … nice. Plushy.” I gave it a squeeze and handed it back to her. I wasn’t up on faux-womb etiquette. I couldn’t even believe she’d said the word womb.
“Thanks to you, I got upgraded to cooling-gel memory foam. I can’t wait to see the rest of my costume.” She smoothed down the lapels of her bathrobe. “Assuming they get it made in time.”
I glanced around. Moms and dads were frantically putting the final touches on costumes that were replacing the ones that I’d turned to ashes. From what I could gather, robes and halos weren’t too difficult, but angel wings were a real pain in the ass. Possibly because of the glitter, but I didn’t offer up the herpes analogy. ’Cause you know. Church.
“I’m sorry.” I stared at the lights in my hands. The past week had been enlightening. Main Street Methodist had been presenting the nativity play for twenty years, and I’d wrecked it in one minute. “I keep waiting for the thunderbolt.”
“Stop looking over your shoulder. I didn’t say that to make you feel bad.” Gracie touched my knee for a split second before pulling away and tucking her hand into her robe pocket. “If my dad’s forgiven you, the Lord certainly has.”
I stared at my knee. “If the Lord and I started talking forgiveness, I’d be in a confessional for the rest of my life.”
She gri
“Your father did more than forgive me,” I blurted out. “He kept me from going to jail. On Christmas.”
So, so awkward.
“Good thing, right? I don’t know if Santa visits juvie.”
“He wouldn’t come for me anyway. I’m on the naughty list.”
She should have been furious with me. Her acceptance rendered me as impotent as a vice president.
Gracie Robinson was simply nice.
Her reputation was the exact opposite of mine. She was captain of the safety patrol in elementary school, a student council rep in middle school, and, most recently, homecoming queen. She was currently in line for valedictorian of our senior class. She always had an extra pencil, and it was always sharp. Girls like that and guys like me don’t mix. Except when there’s a pending court order.
“It’s too bad we couldn’t get the barn repaired in time,” she said. “We tried.”
A pang of guilt, somewhere below my left rib. Maybe I could work in some public self-flagellation. I doubted it would help. I gestured to the confederate flag and the mini-ca
I didn’t say Rebel Yell, because I couldn’t without wincing at the Civil War–as-entertainment reference.
Gracie pursed her lips. “We ended up here thanks to Richard Baron.”
Father of Shelby.
“He owns this franchise,” she said, not meeting my eyes.
Right. Of course he did. He bought his son a Mini Cooper. Obviously, sound judgment climbed high in that family tree.
She continued, “When we figured out we wouldn’t get things ru
“I’d say.” It had stadium seating and a huge, dirt-floor arena.
“Even so, claiming our own territory has been hard.” She shook her head. “But I guess you’d know about that.”
The job parameters of my community service ran the gamut. I’d done everything from helping the church move in the remaining props that I hadn’t set ablaze to serving as a stagehand for the actual production. Sorting out what belonged to whom involved pawing through an eclectic mix of Confederate memorabilia, oversized scrolls, and shepherd’s staffs. I still didn’t know if the trumpets belonged to the Civil War buglers or a heavenly host of angels.
“I’m surprised your father didn’t cancel it,” I said.
“It would’ve been easier, but this is the pageant’s twentieth a
Put another jewel in the Baron family crown. “Why did he offer?”
“Shelby is playing Joseph.”
“Gotcha.”
Just then, Gracie’s father rushed to the center of the stage, holding a clipboard and an enormous cup of coffee. He looked too young to head up a congregation of five hundred people. Like, boy-reporter young. Gracie shared his dark hair but not his eyes. They looked older than the rest of him.
He waved to get the attention of the people arranging the set. “Okay, let’s finish blocking these scenes so we can do a run through. I’m sorry, but that horse—when it’s replaced by a donkey—will have to take a left, behind the Wise Men, after they approach the Holy Family. Can you move that bale of hay to make it easier? Donkeys don’t jump.”
As adept as I am at predicting outcomes, I had to ask the obvious question. “What happens if that horse poops?”
As if it had been cued, the horse lifted his tail and took his evening constitutional.
“Wow,” Gracie said.
Pastor Robinson’s coffee sloshed onto the ground as he tucked the clipboard under one arm. I waited for the anger—for him to yell at someone to clean it up, to throw the clipboard, or to slam down his coffee cup. I’d never seen him show anger, but that’s what would happen if someone screwed with my dad when he was conducting business.
I heard Pastor Robinson’s reaction before I saw it. It didn’t register because it was illogical, to me at least. When he lifted his face, it was wet with tears.
A horse dropped a dump in the middle of his rehearsal, and the man was laughing.
“Not … what I expected,” I said. Humor wasn’t a typical emotion at my house even when my dad lived with us. Especially when he lived with us.
“If you don’t do bathroom humor, we can’t be friends.” She elbowed me in the side. When I didn’t respond, she said, “It’s fu
Pastor Robinson’s hand rested on his shaking, Christmas-plaid-covered stomach. His wedding ring shone on his finger. It surprised me. Gracie’s mom had died when we were in the second grade.
“Vaughn?” She touched the top of my hand. “You can laugh, too.”
“Right.”
I pulled away and grabbed a shovel.