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I nod, alluding to the idea that I understand what she’s talking about, even though I’m intrigued to ask and actually find out. It’s clear that Laine has some things from California that she doesn’t want to talk about, judging by the way she clams up whenever her dad is mentioned or the way her mom changed the subject so quickly at dinner when my mom asked where he was.

I know in some capacity, I could be able to relate to her. I’m not sure what she knows about my dad, or if she even remembers what he was like when we were younger, but maybe if she did know more, she would feel comfortable opening up to me. And I know the only way to get to that point with her is for me to open up to her, too, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that conversation either.

Then again, why do I even care whether she wants to open up to me? And why do I suddenly want to let her into all of my shit? It’s not like we’re besties or anything.

For some reason, though, I find myself wanting to know more about her and her past. Maybe it’s because she’s the mysterious new (but not really new) girl? Or maybe because it feels like there are parts of her Ishouldknow from when we were (allegedly) friends before? Whatever it is, it’s making me want to learn about her in ways that confuse, yet excite me.

4

Laine

Ican’t stop thinking about the way Drew seemed so at

home in a room she has no use for. Even worse, the way she gently turned my head to face her with a careful finger on my chin as she rubbed the paint off my forehead runs through my mind probably a million times.

God, I must’ve looked like an absolute fool having to have paint wiped off me like a toddler who just discovered their mom’s makeup drawer. I feel drawn to her, like part of me feels tied to her in order to pay her back for her kindness in the art room.

Ever since the blowup with my father in California, I’ve felt extremely self-conscious about my mistakes. I have a bad habit of latching on to everyone who has seen my flaws in a sad attempt to make sure they can’t go anywhere, and I definitely don’t want to do that to Drew. I’ll just have to avoid her from now on and pretend like our earlier encounter didn’t happen. It shouldn’t be too hard.

Ever since we came back to Georgia, Mother has insisted on taking us to a different church every Sunday until we’ve tried all the ones on her long list. She says it’s crucial we find the right one. I say you can make any church the right one with a good community. But I can tell this is important to her, which makes it important to me.

Of all the churches we’ve tried so far, I liked the second one the best. It was slightly smaller than the one we are headed to next, though still one of Georgia’s well-known mega-churches. I told myself not to get too attached, though, because Mother complained about the smell as soon as we stepped foot inside, saying something along the lines of how the smell of a church can tell you how the Lord is treated there.

I had checked out of the rest of the conversation as she droned on about the importance of finding a church with similar values to us, and how that one just wasn’t it.

We set on down the road to the final church on the list: Holy Trinity. The place feels dry inside, but what it lacks in humidity, it makes up for in stained glass. The stained glass row on the bit of wall right before the ceiling is beautiful, with multi-colored crucifixes displayed along every six or so inches. Between them are cartoony-looking sheep, each stained with a light gray, circular shard of glass for the body and a darkened, transparent black for the head. I’m not sure how they managed to make a Shaun the Sheep cartoon-looking creature so alive, but they pulled it off.

The service is insightful, but nothing special compared to the multitude of mega-churches in Atlanta we’ve already tried. After mass, the man who I assume is the priest introduces himself as Father Robert and tells Mother about the philanthropic programs offered here and the community lifestyle. He hands her a brochure that I peek over to glance at, titled:The 7 Deadly Sins (and how to redeem yourself).

She flips through the pages, and my eyes dart away to the stained glass again. I find myself not wanting to look at the brochure any longer for fear that I might start overthinking whether I’ve committed any of the sins listed. As I stare intently at the high walls of the church, the glass feels all the more captivating.

The drive home is long. Mother rambles on about the pros and cons of each church while I stare out the window, trying not to doze off again. It certainly doesn’t help that most of the scenery is endless fields of who knows what.

About two minutes out from home, we pass my old elementary school. Nothing looks like it has changed from the outside. The familiar maroon brick walls are still intact, strong as ever, and the dark beige pillars still stand.

I shift up in my seat to get a quick glimpse of the playground in the back behind the building. The nostalgia hits like a rock to the head, and suddenly I feel a strange pull to go back and visit for old times’ sake. Luckily, downtown Atlanta has enough action to keep the cops busy, enough to not bother checking whether teenagers sneak onto their old suburban elementary school fields.

Honestly, I need to clear my head; today felt so long. I make a plan to go after dinner, and Mother agrees, implying that it would be a good way to think about which of today’s churches I like best, though I don’t bother telling her that I actually don’t have much of an opinion after she ruled out my favorite.

******

I make my way over to the playground after dinner and make sure to bundle up since it’s cold and dark, and the streetlights are already on. This will be the first time I’m truly left alone with my thoughts since we’ve moved back here, and I’d like to do it comfortably. However, part of me is scared that seeing and being on my old playground will bring back memories I don’t want to resurface.

Don’t get me wrong, a lot of great things happened in elementary. I had a great childhood, and that’s what scares me. Reminiscing over that part of my life that I’ll never get back, because what’s the point of wallowing over something you can’t control? It’s how I adapt so well to change; I just don’t thinkabout it. It may not be the healthiest thing to do, but it’s always worked for me, and I don’t plan on messing that up now.

As I make my way around the bend and down to the playground, I notice a shadow coming off the swings, then a dark figure sitting atop one of them as I slowly walk closer.

My heart pounds as I approach the playground, contemplating turning back before it’s too late and I become another true crime victim on the podcast girls my age listen to as they drive to school without a worry in the world. Okay, maybe I listen to too many true crime podcasts myself, but seriously, who else could possibly be here at this hour? I step quietly, careful to avoid the leaves on the ground that look the crunchiest.

I step closer, and closer, and closer, and closer.

It’s Drew. Of course, Drew comes here all mysteriously at night. I should have known.

“Drew?” I call out, revealing myself from out of the shadows.

She squints and raises a hand, hovering it over her eyes. “Laine? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it is. What are you doing here?”