I should be shocked at how easy it is for the Prophet to control thousands of people with nothing more than words. But I’m not. After all, he controls me too.
We’re led to our chairs. The cold wood sends a shiver up my spine, the thick fabric of the robe doing nothing to stop the chill. Eve trembles beside me and keeps her head down, the veil hiding her from view. I peek up at the small stage set at the front of the pavilion. The Prophet’s perch, no doubt. Other pavilions decorated with Christmas swags circle the huge wooden tower, each of them already filled to capacity with congregants spilling out the sides. The Heavenly Police force creates a wide perimeter around the center, guiding wayward children away from the structure whenever they venture too close. Even the little girls seem to be wearing long dresses, no pants to fight the lurking cold of this starless night.
I tuck my hands into my sleeves and close my eyes. Georgia appears again. Whole this time, young and beautiful—the way she’ll always be in my memory.
Georgia flops down onto my bed and yelps.
“What?” I sit at my computer desk and try to write a paper on criminal psychology.
“How do you sleep on this?” She smacks the mattress.
I shrug. “I like it.”
She lays on her back, her gold hair spilling across my rumpled bedspread. “It’s torture.”
“It’s better than what I have at home.”
“Oh.” She reaches out and grabs my elbow, a look of sincere concern on her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say—”
“No, it’s okay.” I don’t like talking about what life is like back at my mom’s house. Not anymore. The drugs have made visits unbearable. She’d sold my bedroom set, so whenever I’d go for the weekend, I’d sleep on the same lumpy couch we’d had since I was five.
“Really.” She squeezes my arm. “You know I love you.”
“Of course.” I give up on my paper and plop down next to her, both of us staring at the water stains on the ceiling. “I’m just glad you came to visit.”
“Me too. Are you going with me to Heavenly in the morning?”
“Hell no.” I crinkle my nose at the thought.
“Why not?” She smacks my arm.
“I don’t believe in any of that. And the Prophet creeps me out.”
She smacks me harder. “You’re going to hell for that.”
I laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think he’s handsome? A total silver fox.” Her voice goes dreamy. “And you can just tell he talks to God.”
“No one talks to God.”
“He does.”
“No, he probably just talks to himself. He definitely thinks he’s a god.”
She giggles. “Blasphemy.”
“Pfft. He’s just a man, like any other man. Don’t fall for that nonsense.”
“I’m not falling for anything.” She shrugs. “I believe. You have to have faith, you know?”
“I do have faith. In me. In you. And that’s about it.”
She sighs. “Well, as long as you believe in me, I guess that’s okay.”
“Thanks for the permission. And I’m beginning to suspect you only come visit me so you can see your silver fox prophet.”
“What?” She waves a delicate hand in the air, swatting the idea away like it’s a gnat. “Of course not! I also come so I can compare Alabama parties versus LSU parties.”
I snort. “You’re such a bitch.”
She laughs, the strength of it shaking the bed and loosening my tightly-bound soul. “I know. But you still love me.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, what’s the verdict? Which parties do you like better?”
“Alabama is fun and all, but I prefer LSU.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “I think the booze is better somehow?”
“Bad girl.” I’m not much for parties. Really, I only go whenever Georgia is in town. Even then, I stick to the wall, religiously guarding my drink and hers the entire time while she dances and flirts.
“Not bad enough.” She sighs. “I still have the v-card.”
“You better still have it.” I elbow her. “That’s a definite phone call sort of thing.”
“I couldn’t just text you about it?” I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Texting is like breathing for you. You text me when you sneeze or when you see a butterfly or when you’re on the can. No—news like that deserves a phone call.”
“Having to call someone on the phone is enough of a deterrent that I’ll never want to lose my virginity. What about you?”
I wriggle away from her. “What about me? I’m not allergic to talking on the phone like you are.”
“You know what I mean.” She rolls over so she’s lying half on top of me, her Bath and Body Works scent as familiar as my own reflection. “Have you met the right guy yet?”
“Get off.” I playfully shove her aside, and we settle down next to each other again, the afternoon sun striping through my blinds. “And no. I don’t have time for guys. Double majoring in criminology and psychology doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”