Quarterback Bait

“He's a Longhorn, sweetheart!” Anya plowed on, obliviously fa

“Not interested, Ma. And Carson told me to focus on my studies next year. I'm not trying to get in with some son of a preacher man.”

Anya whirled on me and gri

“The only boy who could ever reach me...” she began to warble. I threw the pillow back at her face, but this only seemed to make Anya louder. “...was the son of a preacher man! The only boy, who could ever teach me –,”

“Anya, cut it out!”

“...WAS THE SON OF A PREACHER MAN!”

She bent over the couch and grabbed my wrists, turning my palms upward and covering them with her own. I laughed, in spite of myself. My crazy Mom did know how to have fun, I'd give her that. I grumbled out the rest of the chorus:

“Yes he was...was...”

“Ooh yes, he wa-as!”

Before we could butcher any more Dusty Springfield, the doorbell rang. My mother immediately righted herself, smoothing out her ankle-grazing skirt like a woman in a Jane Austen novel. She reached for her hair and mouthed at me, “How do I look?”

I rolled my eyes a final time, but conceded my mother a thumbs up. I'd decided, under Carson's advisement, to try being optimistic about this new step-father. Maybe Pastor Sterling would be the one to make my mother happy. If he was a man of the cloth, that at least eliminated certain other vices—he probably wasn't an addict, for instance. And his having a son at UT had been a grounding fact to learn. People with sons at good schools couldn't be huge failures at life, could they? Even if the sons were Neanderthal jocks?

My mother ran to the door and I stood to take stock of my own appearance. Today, I'd opted for ratty jeans, a maroon tube top, and a navy blue hoodie that had been part of my mother's wardrobe since before I was born. I had blue streaks this week, though my hair was getting longer, so the dye was looking patchy. I wasn't trying to impress anyone, though. If anything, Pastor Sterling and his dickie-clad frat boy son needed to impress me.

“I'm so excited!” my mother mouthed again, with one hand at the ready on the door knob. She'd tried to arrange this meeting weeks ago, but I'd successfully hedged. There had been whirlwind boyfriends before, I figured. Some could be waited out. But not, apparently, Pastor Sterling.

“Baby!” she cried, in a strange, high voice on opening the door. I leaned forward to get a gander. Pastor Sterling wore a pristinely white Houston Astros cap, starched-looking pale blue jeans, and a terse smile. He had big whiskers, in the way of the Marlboro Man. I was surprised to see that he was tinier than my mother; the top of his head just barely reached her cheekbones. His entrance was preceded by a long, mahogany cane.

“Pastor, this is my daughter, Ash,” Anya gushed, guiding her man-friend towards our single armchair. I raised a hand in hello, but Pastor Sterling only spared me a glance from the corner of his eye. His attention, to his credit, seemed fixed on my mother. He held her forearm lightly as she eased him into the La-Z-Boy.

“Now, where is your handsome son?” Anya asked, turning her head around the room like the son of her preacher man could be hiding in some corner. “I made lasagna for four!” I stared at the grubby area rug. Actually, Russell Stouffer had made a lasagna for four, but this didn't seem to be the time to quibble.

“Landy's ru

“I didn't know he had a lady love,” Anya said carefully, in a tone I understood was for my benefit. I felt my face flush red. What was it about mothers? Even the craziest among them were like, programmed to be embarrassing. Suddenly hot, I took off my hoodie and tossed it aside.

“That'll be his highness!” croaked Pastor Sterling, who appeared not to have heard Anya's implication. We all three turned our heads in the direction of the darkening sky, and the road in front of our condo. Ours was a poorly-lit street, so the headlights of the Saab tooling towards our driveway stood out against the twilight. I stepped closer to the window, as if I'd been pulled there. There was something about that Saab...it reminded me. But then again, plenty of people had Saabs.

“Anya, do you need me to take the lasagna out of the oven?” I asked, sweeping my hair behind my ears. Pastor Sterling seemed to stiffen at my address, but I didn't spare him a glance. I'd been calling my mother by her first name for as long as I could remember.

“Would you, baby? You're a peach!” I turned toward the kitchen as the car's lights clicked off in the street, and the driver shifted his vehicle into park.

My mom and the Pastor murmured softly to one another as I attempted to negotiate the pasta pan without oven mitts. (We'd never owned oven mitts. Be

“Landon!” Anya cried, as I bent low over the melting cheese. The meal didn't seem quite done, but I'd never minded a slightly gooey Stouffer. Carefully, using a handful of rags I kept handy for just this purpose, I began to remove di

“You've got a lovely place here, ma'am. And it's nice to meet you, too.”

My throat caught. I fumbled. And suddenly, the lasagna had slipped from my hands and clattered all over the floor. Hot, violent streaks of sauce popped against my legs, seeming to sizzle against my bare skin. I yelped.

“Jesus! Sweetheart?”

“Jesus what?” The Pastor gasped.

Anya caught herself.  “Oh, Bill—forgive me…”

“Never mind. What was that banging?”

“That's my baby, Ash—honey?”

I sca

He was the first one through the door. Landy. The nickname seemed strange—somehow at odds with the breezy, impulsive oddball I'd met on that roof.

Yet he looked the exact same, if not ta

“Hi,” he breathed. Then he frowned, and his jaw fell open with realization. I swallowed, before hiding my face in a handy rag. Toddler logic: the problem will just go away if you can't see it.