I picked up my jacket from the seat, where it had just fallen from her shoulders. “Only because you don’t know me.”


•••


Bailey had broken her wrist falling over Jinx, so for the next month I tried to be her substitute right hand. Since she couldn’t write lefthanded fast enough to keep up with Mr. Ralph’s lectures, I recopied my class notes in careful print, then scanned and emailed them to her. I’d purposely include illegible bits, so she’d have to call me to clarify. And then we’d talk, sometimes for minutes.


I couldn’t ask her out, since I wasn’t allowed to date until I was a senior. Even group dates were forbidden until I turned sixteen. Mom and Dad had found these rules in a popular Christian parenting handbook and had never made an exception for Mara. I hoped my sister’s hundred-percent-compliance rate would buy me some leniency.


But just as I worked up the courage to ask permission, my father got laid off from his finance job, and our family fell into another mourning period. When Dad still hadn’t found a job after two months, my mom went back to work part-time, but the housing market sucked, so she made hardly any money. Mara got a job as an “intake specialist” (receptionist) at a local mechanic’s, and I started mowing neighbors’ lawns, in addition to my already busy regimen of school, volunteer work, and baseball.


So I barely had time to think about Bailey—though I absolutely made time—much less try to get her alone. As summer approached, however, I had to take action or risk losing her forever.


Hoping for a little guy solidarity, I ambushed my father one night while he was out in the front yard weeding. I brought a small bribe, of course: a glass of iced tea with the perfect amounts of lemon and sugar.


“Hi, Dad.”


He startled, then smiled when he saw the iced tea. Before taking it, he pulled the thick leather work gloves off his hands and the earbuds from his ears.


I handed him the glass and a paper towel with a loaves-andfishes design on it. “What are you listening to?”


“Every word of God is flawless. He is a shield to those who take refuge in him.”


“Oh.” That seemed like a long title for a podcast. Ever since he lost his job, Dad had started sprinkling more and more Scripture into his conversation. It was disturbing at times, but Stony Hill had turned me into a bit of an aspiring Bible geek, so I liked the challenge of interpreting his meaning. “That sounds good.”


He nodded, sipped, wiped his mouth. “Don’t you add to his words, let He reprove you.”


“Yeah. Okay.” No idea what that meant. “The roses look great.”


He nodded again, sipped again.


“So, um, I was wondering. There’s this girl Bailey from Math Cave. You met her when you picked me up from class last week?”


He nodded but didn’t sip.


“I know I’m not sixteen yet, but now that it’s May and Math Cave is almost over for the summer, I was hoping I could still hang out with her. Not, like, one-on-one or anything.” He raised his eyebrows skeptically, and I added, “Well, that is what I want, but I know I can’t do that until I’m a senior, so I was thinking that maybe we could go out in a group.”


This time Dad sipped but didn’t nod.


Instead he looked past me, past the Sharmas’ house on the other side of the street, into the dark woods beyond. But in his mind, he was probably picturing Bailey’s lush, flowing hair and revealing outfits. I couldn’t blame him: It’s what I saw every night when I turned out the lights to be “alone with my thoughts,” as they say.


Finally he got to his feet with a grunt, then shuffled over to a fig-tree sapling, which he knelt beside. “Blessed is the man who doesn’t walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stand on the path of sinners, nor sit in the seat of scoffers.” My father ran his bare fingers through the dark, moist mulch at the base of the sapling. “He will be like a tree planted by the streams of water, that produces its fruit in its season, whose leaf also does not wither.”


“Um. Sorry?”


Dad stood and dusted his hand against his faded blue work shirt. “The ungodly are not so, but are like the chaff which the wind drives away.”


His meaning started to dawn on me. “Are you saying Bailey is ungodly?” Was it that obvious she didn’t go to church?


Dad handed me his empty glass and patted my shoulder. “Abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul.” Then he picked up his work gloves, shook off the dirt, and headed for the garage.


“Wait!” I started to follow him but stopped when he didn’t answer or even turn. “I guess that’s a no.”From that day on, Dad spoke in nothing but Bible verses. It was like living inside a sermon.

Mara and I were afraid to ask what had triggered his abandonment of plain English. Maybe it was a bad job interview, or a fight with Mom when we weren’t around. All we could do was try to hide him from our my friends, making excuses why no one could come to our house:

1. We just had it fumigated for bedbugs.


2. Our air-conditioning was broken.


3. Our mom had the Ebola.


But soon it was finals time and long past our turn to host Math Cave study group. Everyone else had hosted at least twice, except for the proudly antisocial Eve and Ezra Decker. Dad promised (not with words but with a nod and a shrug) to stay upstairs so he wouldn’t embarrass Mara and me in front of our friends.


Including Bailey. After finals I might not see her again until the fall. What if some other guy stole her attention over the summer? The thought burned a hole in my chest.


On study group day, she stood with me at the whiteboard we’d set up in a corner of the living room, helping me with inverse trigonometric functions.


“So up here where we have complementary angles, why do we—” I raised my arm to the top equation. My shoulder spasmed as I stretched. “Ow.”


“You okay?” Bailey asked.


“Just a little sore from lifting. But it’s a good pain, from the muscles breaking down and getting stronger.” Did that sound too macho? She wasn’t the type to be impressed by jock talk.


“I read an article that said vegan bodybuilders don’t get sore after lifting.”


“Give up meat and cheese? No way. I need protein.” “You can get protein from plants. Brendan Brazier’s vegan and he’s a major triathlete.” She adjusted the thin strap of her “Easy as π” tank top. “If plants have no protein, then my hair and nails would be all dry and brittle.” Bailey cast a sidelong glance at me, as if daring me to deny she was beautiful.


She had me. I couldn’t dismiss veganism without dissing her looks. But maybe her challenge was the opportunity I needed. I glanced across the room at the other students, sitting on the floor and sofa near the big round coffee table.


“You’re obviously doing something right,” I told her. “But I don’t have a clue about diet.” This wasn’t strictly true. I knew what athletes should avoid: junk food, caffeine, and alcohol; and I knew to carbo-load before a game.


“Then I’ll help you.”


Yes! An excuse to talk to her over the summer. “You’ll cook for me?” “No, but I’ll give you recipes so you can cook for yourself.” She watched my hand as I erased the “arc” from “arcsin” on the board with my little finger. “On one condition: You have to invite me over for dinner with your family when you do.”


My elation dimmed. “That’s a bad idea.”


“Why?”


“Peace be to you!” came a shout from behind us.


I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the whiteboard in shame. “That’s why.”


“Hi, Mr. Cooper.” Francis smiled at my father, who was coming down the stairs at the far end of the living room. “How’s it going?” Dad grinned. “I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.” He walked past them, a spring in his step.


Brooke and Tori grimaced across the coffee table at each other. Austin raised his eyebrows and turned back to the notebook in his lap. Even Francis’s smile faltered, and he’d been immersed in Bible-olatry his whole life.


Mara jumped up from her seat at the end of the sofa. “Dad, can I bring you a snack or a drink from the kitchen?” She took his arm and turned him back toward the stairs. “That way you don’t have to listen to our boring math talk.”


Dad shook his head. “I have all things, and abound.” He broke away from her and went to one of the living room’s built-in bookshelves.


Mara gave me a pleading look. I held out my hand palm down, using the “Chill out” signal Kane sent me from behind the plate when my pitching rhythm was too fast. The less we engaged our father, the sooner he’d get bored and go away. I hoped, anyway.


Then Dad spotted Bailey standing next to me. He smiled and said, “For the lips of a strange woman drips honey. Her mouth is smoother than oil.”


I wanted to die. At least he’d substituted “strange” for “loose,” which was the version I’d always heard. Thank you, Jesus, for small mercies.


Bailey didn’t get the context. She just smiled back. I dropped the marker on the whiteboard tray and retreated to the kitchen, where she quickly followed me.


“I’m sorry.” I took an apple from the fruit basket on the counter and went to wash it—urgently, as if hunger had driven me in here, not embarrassment.