The Girls I've Been(24)

My eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“Every bully needs someone to bully, baby,” she says. “And you’re tough, aren’t you? You can take anything he throws at you.”

I lick my lips. My fingers rub against my thumb before I answer. Back and forth, back and forth.

“Of course,” I say.


Act 2: Don’t Tuck Your Thumb

Jamison Goddard is the princeling of Mountain Peak Ministries. The apple of his father’s eye. The ringleader of the youth group boys.

He’s not just a little shit or a bully. He’s a fucking terror.

He’s never heard the word no without trying to push his way right through it.

He doesn’t notice me immediately. Haley is supposed to be kind of meek, with her golden fall of hair and her modest dresses and the little white-gold cross she wears around her neck. So he doesn’t notice me at first; girls are treated as lesser in quiet and loud ways in this kind of Christianity (in the entire world, too, let’s be honest).

I do what my mother asks: I let his reaction guide my actions. I stay on the edges that first Wednesday and the Sunday that follows, watching, smiling sweetly, and speaking softly when spoken to. But the next Wednesday, I make my move. I get there early, before anyone else but Michael, the youth pastor, who has a goatee that he really needs to shave off because it does not make him look as cool as he thinks it does. But I don’t tell him that. I help him set out chairs and then make sure to sit in the spot where I’ve seen Jamison holding court.

I’ve watched him; he steals pizza slices off his friends’ plates and no one even blinks. He laughed twice during the last meeting: once when someone made a fart joke—my mother would say that tells you he’s a boy—and once when Michael tripped over his chair—which tells me he’s mean.

So I slide into the chair that he thinks of as his and wait like a canary in a mine that I already know is toxic.

He notices me the second he walks into the room. The hair rises on my arms. Something inside me whispers: Run.

It’s the first time I ignore it.

“You’re in my seat,” he says.

My eyes are big already, but I make them go even bigger, doll-like. “Oh no, I’m sorry.” I get up instantly, moving over a few chairs, and then to really clinch it, I hesitate in front of the new chair and look at him. “Is this one okay?” I ask, like I need his permission.

He nods, and when he turns back to his friends, I catch the smirk.

Abby is right: Every bully needs someone to bully.

So I make Haley the perfect target, and he homes right in.



* * *



—

The con takes forever, because Elijah’s more concerned with appearances than some of the other marks. He refuses to take their relationship public—Jamison doesn’t even know about it. Haley isn’t supposed to know, but of course, I get a blow-by-blow account of each of their meetings and a breakdown of what Mom’s done to twist further into his life.

When she sees the bruises on my wrist, she arches an eyebrow. “What a little shit,” she mutters. “Can you handle him, baby?”

“It’s fine.” I tug the cardigan sleeve down so it covers me up properly.

It’s not fine. Jamison has four inches and three years on me. And even if he didn’t, I’m not allowed to fight back. Haley doesn’t know how to throw a punch. A girl like her would tuck her thumb into her fist if she tried. She’s a slow-moving target.

“He’s gonna be mad,” I warn her when she shows me the ring Elijah’s finally given her.

Mom smiles. “Then we’ll just use that anger, won’t we?”



* * *



—

“You’re dating her mom?” Jamison demands.

“Jamison, manners,” Elijah scolds from across the brunch table.

“It’s fine,” Mom says. “I know this might come as a surprise to both of you.” She takes my hand and sets it, wrapped in hers, on the table.

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together since Maya volunteered to take over the scheduling when Mrs. Armstrong broke her leg,” Elijah says. “And we’ve prayed on it hard, haven’t we, angel?”

Mom nods, her gaze on him soft and worshipful. She positively shines up at him. “We have.”

“The Lord’s spoken,” Elijah tells Jamison and me. “He’s worked to bring us all together.”

“To be a family,” Mom says, reaching over with her other hand and grasping Elijah’s.

“What does she mean?” Jamison’s looking hard at his father, his eyes narrowed.

“I’ve asked Maya to be my wife,” Elijah tells him. “She’s agreed.”

“What do you think, baby?” she asks me.

We worked through my response the night before. Jamison is going to be the troublemaker in this scenario, which makes me what Mom calls the golden child.

“I want you to be happy, Momma,” I tell her. “You, too, Pastor Elijah.” I smile, making it tremulous, my shoulders hunched just a little. “You’ve helped so many people, Pastor Elijah. You deserve this.”

That last sentence, the last part, is very true. He does deserve exactly what’s coming to him. He’s a con artist, just like us. He doesn’t worship anything but money, and he doesn’t speak any kind of truth, just careful words designed to strip naive people of their cash. Love offerings, my ass. More like Elijah’s private jet’s fuel offerings.