Small Town Sinners Part 1

Small Town Sinners.

Melissa Walker.

For Dave, who is always asking questions.

(like, "Shouldn't this book have paranormal beings and action sequences in it?").

Chapter One.

"Take the wheel," says Starla Joy, sticking the grape lollipop she's been working on into her mouth. She doesn't even wait to see if I've followed her instructions-she just lets go and strips down, pulling off her light cotton sweater to reveal a bright red tank top dotted with white hearts.

I lunge across the front seat to make sure her old truck stays straight. A little dust kicks up as we skim the edge of the road.

"Starla Joy!" I shout. "I don't even have my license yet."

She grins at me as she takes control of the car and says, "Just two more days!"

I sit back, glad she's driving again. At least we're on a straight stretch-last time she pulled this around a curve and I nearly peed my pants. I think she did it on purpose.

Starla Joy takes the lollipop out of her mouth and holds it in one hand next to the wheel. There's a ring of bright lipstick around the stick. She's recently started wearing really strong colors. She has dark brown hair, blue eyes, and fair skin, so a ruby pout makes her look like an old Hollywood actress-from the neck up anyway. I don't think those movie stars wore tank tops and cutoffs.

"Do you think your parents will loosen up a little once you're driving?" she asks.

I stare out at the flat plains ahead of us. "I don't know," I say. "I mean, they're not that strict now."

"Ha!" she says, sticking the grape candy back into her mouth. "I love your parents, Lacey, but they're definitely strict."

I smile. "A little more freedom would be nice," I say. My mom and dad aren't draconian or anything. I mean, I have a summer job and I spend plenty of time with my friends. I've never really wanted to stay out past my curfew. Nothing much happens in my town after nine o'clock anyway.

But sometimes, when I'm in the truck with Starla Joy, driving down a dusty road and looking out at the wide-open s.p.a.ces around us, I think it would be nice to have this much room to breathe all the time.

"Lacey Anne," says Starla Joy, "let's have a wild summer."

She throws her head back and laughs then, and I just smile and look out the side window, glad that I have a best friend who's as fun as Starla Joy Minter.

When we get to my house, I open the door and I can already smell Mom's brownies baking. Starla Joy and I sidle up to the kitchen counter and Mom hands Starla Joy a beater with chocolate batter still on it.

"Just don't ruin your dinner," she says. "You will stay over, won't you, Starla Joy?"

"I'd love to," says Starla Joy. "I'll text Momma."

Mom winks at me and goes back to the sink, where she's peeling potatoes. Sometimes I think my parents like having my friends over for dinner just as much as I do. Starla Joy's been licking Mom's brownie batter since we were in preschool, and though I've lost my taste for it, she's still got a huge sweet tooth.

When I'm sitting in church and the light hits the stained gla.s.s just right, I think I can see G.o.d. The sunbeams stream through the clearest parts of the multicolored dove and olive branch scene above the pulpit, and there are dancing rays of heat that seem directly linked to something sacred. Starla Joy says I'm hallucinating, but my dad agrees that it's definitely the Holy Spirit. "G.o.d is all around us," he likes to say, opening his hands wide, as if he's welcoming the Lord in for one of his famously strong hugs. But I don't see G.o.d everywhere-just in those beams of sunlight, which are especially bright on this Sunday in August.

I look across the pews and see that Starla Joy's in her usual uniform of a T-s.h.i.+rt and jean skirt. Her sister, Tessa, sitting next to her, has on a bright yellow sundress, and her light brown hair spills over her freckled shoulders.

I catch Starla Joy's eye, and she mouths an exaggerated yawn. I shake my head at her disapprovingly. She's kidding, but her att.i.tude sometimes gets her in trouble.

Me? I never get in trouble.

My other BFF, Dean Perkins, says that's because I scare easily. "Lacey," he'll say, "you've lost all your color from fright!" I know he's just joking because my hair is such a pale yellow that it's almost white and my skin is near translucent. Sometimes in bright light I can see blue veins through my forehead, and my mom makes me wear SPF 50 sunscreen every day, even in the winter, so I don't burn. People say I have a sensitive const.i.tution.

Maybe that's because I've always been really close to my parents. For my sweet sixteen last week, we had a family party, complete with red velvet cupcakes and a new white Bible from Mom and Dad. As pretty as my new leather-bound Word of G.o.d is, I'd rather have a car. I picture myself in a bright blue convertible, not worrying about sunblock or the speed limit or even what people say as I race past them with the wind in my face. My very own movie moment.

I'll never be alluring in my mom's old Honda-it's not a car that makes heads turn, at least not in a good way. Still, it's something, and I know I should be grateful.

Past where Starla Joy's sitting, I see the Raymond family, all in jeans. Not many people dress up for church anymore, which drives my mom crazy. I glance down at the sleeve of her new pink velour blazer-she got it on sale at TJ Maxx, but it's an Anne Klein original. My mother always finds designer stuff when she shops at outlet stores-it's part of her picture-perfect life. And even though the pink blazer looked stuffy on the rack, Mom makes it cla.s.sy with her tiny gold angel pinned to the lapel. Her black slacks are well pressed, as always, and I look up to see her flawless rose-colored lipstick mouthing the words to the Lord's Prayer.

Oops! Head down, I fold my hands in my lap and join in with Pastor Frist and the congregation. Church is almost over. Usually I don't mind lingering in the sanctuary, shaking hands and accepting the glowing smiles that come my way. I'm Lacey Anne Byer, daughter of Ted and Theresa Byer, pillars of the community. What does that expression mean anyway? I've heard it my whole life. Does it mean the whole town would collapse if we weren't upright, holding its weight? We are longtime members of the House of Enlightenment, an evangelical church that serves as the center of West River. My dad has been the children's pastor here since forever. Well, since my forever, meaning my whole life.

As soon as Pastor Frist finishes his sermon, I stand up and make my way down the aisle and out into the parking lot-I don't even pause to say good-bye to Starla Joy or Dean, though I do give him a wave. He nods from behind his shoulder-length curtain of hair, which looks greasier than usual.

I push open the church door and walk outside. I need to get home and go over the DMV manual one more time before my driver's test tomorrow-I expect to pa.s.s the test with flying colors, but I don't want to be overconfident. I start to sweat as I lean against my dad's white Ford Taurus and wait for my parents to bob and weave through the polite Sunday greeters. I'm sure they all want to shake hands with Dad and compliment Mom on her new pink jacket.

I told my parents that a quick exit was important to me today, though, and I think they listened. I smile as I see them come through the double gla.s.s doors of the House of Enlightenment.

Ken Wilkins is walking rapidly behind my father-trying to talk about some committee or church dinner or child-care issue, no doubt-and Dad is nodding but not slowing his pace. Ruth Wilkins ambles behind her husband. She has an unfortunate problem with facial hair, and I can see her whiskers in the sunlight from twenty feet away, though I try not to look. When Dad and Mr. Wilkins reach our car, Dad gestures at me and says, "Well, Ken, I do hope you understand that we have to get Lacey here home to study for her driver's test."

Mr. Wilkins looks over at me. "Sixteen," he says, emitting a low whistle.

"Yes, sir," I say back, turning to open the car door so he'll know we really have to go.

"You be careful now, Lacey," says Mr. Wilkins. "Cars are dangerous, in more ways than one."

"I will, sir," I say, wondering when people will stop telling me to be careful. Don't they know I've been careful my entire life? I wouldn't even sit down in the bathtub as a toddler till Mom told me it was safe-not too hot, not too cold. That's me, careful Lacey Byer.

"We'll see you later this week, Ken," says Mom, hustling around to the pa.s.senger side of the car.

I shoot her a grateful look.

"Bye-bye now," says Dad, opening his door and ducking his head to fit his six-foot-three frame inside the Taurus.

I smile at the Wilkinses and they wave back. Mr. Wilkins looks slightly dissatisfied that he didn't get to resolve whatever issue he had, but I don't let him bother me. Tomorrow I won't be waiting by the car anymore, I won't even be in the pa.s.senger seat of Starla Joy's truck-I'll be behind the wheel.

The DMV isn't a good place to have a movie moment. There's a long line of people, and Dad has to stop and shake hands with almost everyone while I stand at the back to hold our spot. I tap my toe impatiently and look around.

I see a new person, someone I don't recognize, near the front of the line. In other towns, I guess that might be normal. But in West River, where you know everyone from the mail carrier to the pharmacist to the pet store owner-and their family histories-new people don't walk into your life every day. Especially not new people who look like this.

He's wearing a pink polo s.h.i.+rt, the kind that the football guys would definitely make fun of at lunch-I can hear Geoff Parsons's voice now, calling it "girly" and "gay"-and as he raises his dark sungla.s.ses up onto the top of his close-cropped, golden-blond hair, I see that he has blue eyes, even from across the room. As he hands a form to the DMV lady, he grins and makes a joke that I can't hear, but it gets her laughing. He is utterly sure of himself.

I've so been looking forward to this day-I mean, how many times in a girl's life does she take her driver's test? Well, if you're Starla Joy you take it three times, but I'm planning on just taking it once, G.o.d willing. Now, though, I can think of nothing but this guy. Who is he? Where did he come from? How does he put the DMV lady-who is truly one of the most grouchy people in town-at ease?

He looks like he walked out of a movie. He makes me think that maybe I don't need a convertible to turn heads.

"Lacey, your form." Dad touches my arm and I snap to attention. The line moved quickly, and I'm up next. I hand over my license application to the waiting clerk. She stamps it and tells me my road-test evaluator will be right out. Dad and I sit down in the waiting area, with its brown-gray walls and buzzing yellow lights, and I concentrate on not looking at the golden boy. He can't just breeze into West River with a Hollywood smile, wearing a pink polo s.h.i.+rt and charming the DMV lady. People are going to talk.

"So?" asks Dean later that afternoon when I get to the clearing in the woods where we've been meeting since third grade. Even though it's eighty-five degrees out, he's wearing a flannel s.h.i.+rt with jeans.

Starla Joy is sitting next to Dean on our fallen log, stringing dandelions together into a bright yellow circle the color of the sundress her sister wore in church yesterday.

I hold up the item they've been waiting to see. "I am an officially licensed driver!"

"Praise the Lord," says Starla Joy, barely looking. "Now I won't be the only one who has to drive Dean's a.s.s everywhere."

Dean thumps her leg hard.

"Ouch!" she shouts, breaking into a laugh and rubbing her s.h.i.+n. "I was just kidding."

"Don't say *a.s.s,' Starla Joy," I chastise.

"Okay, Mrs. Byer," she says, and I guess I do sound like my mother.

"Let me see the picture," says Dean, holding his hand out for my license.

I give it to him and he studies it for a moment, a long piece of hair falling over his face. His fingernails are painted black today-he started doing that last year, though sometimes he mixes in Wite-Out and makes them gray.

"You look kind of ...," Dean starts.

Starla Joy s.n.a.t.c.hes the license from his hand and doesn't hesitate to fill in the blank.

"Intense," she says. "Wow, Lacey, I've never seen this kind of concentration in your eyes."

"Does that mean I'm usually unfocused?" I ask, not quite sure if I'm offended.

"No," says Starla Joy. "You're just usually ..." She pauses, like she doesn't want to insult me. And I know that if she were talking to anyone else, she'd barrel on ahead and not worry what they thought. That's her way. But with me she's careful. Everyone is.

"You're usually softer," Starla Joy continues. "And you're not even looking at the camera-you're paying attention to something behind it."

"Let me see that," I say, reaching out for my newest and dearest possession.

In the picture, my long blond hair falls limply over each shoulder, despite my efforts this morning to use a little mousse at the roots and blow it dry to create volume. Why do magazine beauty tips never work for me? I wore a bright blue tank top because I thought it would look nice in the photo, but that made no difference since my dad made me put a white cardigan on over it. And Starla Joy's right. My hazel eyes are looking over the camera and they're burning. They're focused on the guy I saw at the DMV.

"So when's the first h.e.l.l House meeting?" I ask, looking down at my dusty, blue flip-flops and hoping to stop the photo a.n.a.lysis.

"As if you haven't had it circled on your calendar for months!" says Dean. "August 12. You know that."

"Back to this picture," says Starla Joy, not falling for my change-of-subject attempt. "What caught your attention so much that you looked away?"

"I don't even remember," I lie. "But anyway, isn't it like a law that you can't have a good driver's license photo?"

"I plan for mine to be smoking hot," says Dean, tucking the ends of his hair behind his left ear.

I smile at him, glad he can be this way around us still-mock conceited and teasing like he used to be all the time, back before he started wearing flannel in the summer.

Dean pulls a small bag of carrots out of his front pocket and starts munching. Last year he gained like forty pounds and his mom put him on Weight Watchers. He doesn't talk about it much, but at least he's open enough to eat his healthy snacks around us.

Starla Joy ignores Dean's carrots and reaches into her own bag for Doritos.

"Torturer!" shouts Dean.

"They're both orange," she says, grinning at him.

"Starla Joy," I say. "You know that isn't fair."

Dean and Starla Joy have always fought like siblings; I play the middle.

"I'm allowed to have a snack too," says Starla Joy.

I give her a look.

"What?" she asks. "Am I supposed to starve while he's over there chomping away?"

Dean turns his back on us and stares out into the woods. I can't quite tell if he's mad or just pretending to be. I see the sunlight streaming through the trees behind him. This clearing looks the same as it always has. It's a central point between all of our houses and the church; a secluded, shady place where we used to build forts and play hide-and-seek. Now we mainly sit and talk, but it still has this magical energy to it, like G.o.d is here, or at least one of His angels.

"Can we divvy?" I ask, using the word we used when we were little and we'd share all of our Halloween candy.

Dean turns around slowly, eyeing Starla Joy.

"Okay," she says. "I'd like a carrot stick."

They both hand me their snack bags and I give each of them the same amount of Doritos and carrot sticks.

"You don't want any?" asks Dean.

"Nah," I say. The truth is that I'm kind of hungry, but there's not much in these bags and I'd rather my friends stop snipping at each other than have, like, four Doritos and two carrot sticks.

Starla Joy smiles. "Portion control," she says to Dean.

"Yeah, I know all about it, smart-a.s.s," he replies.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Smarty-pants," he says. "Is that better?"

"Yes," I say. "Much."

Starla Joy chuckles. "You're such a mom, Lacey," she says.

I smile, but I don't like it when she says that. I don't want to be like a mom. They never get the spotlight.