The Last Harvest(61)

“I’m not sure, but I think they’re pretty strict about that. Why?”

“There’s somewhere I need to go … something I need to check on, but it’s all the way in Murpheyville. If it’s too far, I can—”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says with a smile as we pull away.

The farther we get from town, the lighter I feel. Maybe it’s Ali, or the relief of seeing Midland in the rearview mirror, but by the time we cross the county line, I tell her everything. All about the dreams. Miss Granger. My Catholic baptism. Sheriff Ely. Lee Wiggins. Tyler and the Preservation Society. The worries I have about my mom and Jess and Noodle. I tell her everything that’s in my heart. Almost everything.

I don’t think I’ve talked this much in my entire life. And she just listens and holds my hand and tells me everything’s going to be okay. And by some miracle, I believe her.





42

ALI AND I walk hand in hand up the steps to the church. I open the door and step inside, but Ali doesn’t move.

“Don’t you have to invite me in?” she teases. “Since I’m possessed by the Devil and all.”

It makes me laugh. “Fine. Miss Alison Margaret Miller, won’t you please come in?”

“Why thank you, Clay Riley Tate.” She takes my hand and we walk down the long grim aisle.

“This is it.” I point to the altar with the baptismal font. “They were standing right up there.”

“But they never spoke to you?” Ali asks.

“Not directly … not in English.”

“So they could’ve been saying anything. They could’ve been talking about their grocery list.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I laugh. “And this is where I had to put on the robe.” I point to the screen.

Ali ducks behind it. “Very scandalous,” she says as she peeks her head out. “What was it like?”

“Creepy.”

“Did the priests give you the pin, or did Miss Granger?”

“She did, but only when we were outside.”

“So you stood here?” She plants herself directly in front of the altar.

I nod, circling around her, watching the tiniest beam of sunlight filtering in through the stained glass, bending to her face.

“And then what happened?” she asks.

“They asked me to disrobe.”

“Miss Granger asked you to disrobe,” she clarifies, as she steps up on the altar.

“Yeah.” I nod. “I closed my eyes and they splashed holy water on my skin.”

“Like this?” She dips her fingers in the baptismal font and flicks me with the water. “Oh no! My hand … it’s burning,” she cries.

I rush over to the edge of the altar, taking her hands in mine.

She starts cracking up. “I’m just kidding, Clay. See, the holy water has no effect on me.”

“Very funny.” I swing her down from the altar. When I put her down we’re standing so close to each other, but neither one of us moves.

And just like that, I’m back to when we were kids again. The first time I thought about kissing her I was ten years old. We’d just seen Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon on TV and we were doing all these karate moves in the woods. She got her foot stuck in a rotted-out log and lost her balance, falling over in the mud. And when I reached in to pull her out, she had mud all over her face, in her hair, but I think that’s the first time I ever thought, wow, she’s really beautiful.

And when her cat Mittens died, I made him a box. We had a funeral for him and everything. I didn’t say much, just how I liked him and how I was going to miss him. Ali leaned into me, and I swear I felt her lips brush my arm. Maybe it was just her chin or her nose, but in my mind, it was her lips, and I kept thinking what if she kissed me and I didn’t even know it. Like a secret kiss. So later that year, when we slow danced at the Preservation Society for Cotillion, I kissed her hair. I don’t know if she felt it, but when the dance was over, she smiled up at me like maybe she knew and she didn’t really mind.

But the one moment that sticks in my mind the most is the pep rally, ninth grade. She ran out of the gym in tears because she fell off the top of the pyramid and flashed the entire school. Even though the guys were razzing me, I took off after her. I pulled her in for a hug, and when she hugged me back, something happened. It wasn’t a lightning bolt of lust making me want to rip her clothes off, like something from one of Mrs. Harrison’s smutty romance novels—it was the exact opposite. I wanted to cover her up in my arms and protect her from all that. I didn’t want to let go. But from that moment on, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I thought about her when I was doing farmwork, wondering what her chores were like. I thought about her when I was eating dinner, wondering what she was having. I thought about her during class, wondering what college we’d go to, how I’d propose. I even wondered what kind of house I was going to buy her when I went pro. I had it all planned out, and yet, I never said a word. Never made a move.

And then I didn’t talk to her for an entire year, so of course she moved on, or at least she tried, which is more than I can say for myself. I was so hung up on the past that I didn’t know how to move forward. I had a certain life, a certain version of myself that I wanted to give to her, and when that all went up in smoke, I didn’t feel like I was worthy of her anymore. And maybe I’m still not, but it was selfish and cowardly to take that choice away from her. I see that now.