And It Was Good (Jessica Christ Book 2) Page 2

  “I have zero idea what that means,” Jess said. “Is it good?”

  Chris scoffed. “You don’t get better.”

  A loud cackle of laughter from a few tables down pulled at Jessica’s attention, even though she could already guess which small group felt the burning need to attract all of the eyes in the cafeteria.

  Courtney Wurst and Sandra Thompson leaned in on either side of Emma Sanderson to get a good look at something on the ever-popular girl’s tablet. Despite Jessica’s desperate hope otherwise, Emma was still the It Girl of their class, and she had yet to fully reject Sandra, Courtney, and Stephanie, though the latter two often sulked around for days at a time whenever Emma decided to give the silent treatment as penance for one social faux pas or another. Sophomore year seemed to be bringing them closer together, though, as they all began to inter-date among a few select boys, oftentimes switching so rapidly that Jess couldn’t keep up with who was in love with whom. More than once, she’d wondered how Chris had managed to steer clear of the fray when better men than him—namely, Greg—had fallen victim to it.

  Once the cackling at the table subsided, Sandra turned toward Greg, who sat next to her, gripped his thin bicep with both hands like a bear trap, and then tugged him toward her for a kiss on the lips.

  Thou shalt not smite, thou shalt not smite …

  The mantra was a basic reflex now, and it’d served her well whenever she was unlucky enough to spy one of her former friends pawing at Greg. She wished there’d been a formal falling out in the social group so she could more openly hate the other girls for their exclusion of her and Miranda, but instead it’d been completely unspoken. Literally. One day they were all friends, then out of the blue began a complete lack of communication, a drop-off of invites and unreturned calls and texts between eighth and ninth grade, and Jess and Miranda had both been left to take the hint.

  Once Sandra finally pulled away from Greg, and Emma sat back down from leaning across the table to french Drew Fenster, her flavor of the month, the two girls resumed their gossiping, ignoring their boyfriends entirely. Greg sighed and gazed around the room until his eyes met Jess’s. He smiled and because he didn’t look away, she was forced to. She knew better than to be caught relating to him outside of their AP courses, where Sandra wasn’t around to mark her territory.

  As the bell rang and it was time to leave, Chris gathered up his math homework and stuffed it haphazardly into his backpack, and Jessica and Miranda followed him out of the cafeteria.

  Jess felt a hand run down her forearm as soon as she was out of the crowd and heading to AP Biology. She turned to find Greg behind her. Thanks to his growth spurt last spring, she had to crane her head up to look him in the face, a face that was starting to lose its roundness and gain a defined jawline. She glanced around for Sandra, but didn’t see her, so when Greg nodded toward their next class, Jess allowed herself to walk alongside him.

  “You trying out for anything this year?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Miranda thinks I should. I was thinking softball, maybe cheerleading.”

  He stopped walking and pivoted on his heel to turn and look down at her again. “Are you for real?”

  She paused and met his gaze. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He chuckled. “I just remember having PE with you last year. Plus, cheerleading?” He lifted a skeptical eyebrow before starting back down the hallway.

  “What’s wrong with cheerleading?”

  “Sandra is trying out for cheerleading.” They paused outside the science lab’s door.

  Did he not think Jess was cool enough to do cheerleading? That stung.

  “Who knows,” she said, trying her best to sound mysterious just in case that was the one thing she’d been needing to do this whole time to win his heart. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

  He didn’t seem particularly captivated, though. “The fact that you’re thinking about being a cheerleader already surprises me. Why don’t you think about things that play to your strengths?”

  “Like what?” she said curtly. “Watching nature shows?”

  “Huh?”

  Oh right. Only Miranda knew about her obsession. “Nothing. What?” There was no way her official membership to the Sir David Attenborough Fan Club would win her any cool points with Greg. Best if he never found out.

  He did her the favor of moving on. “You’re good at a lot of things, Jess, but sports … it’s just not one of them.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit athleticism might not be a strength that I fully realize yet. But what strengths do I have? Nothing.”

  He held up a hand. “Please. You’re in all the advance classes you could possibly be in.”

  She scoffed. “Okay, so geek strengths. Great. That’ll help me get a boyfriend.”

  It was out of her mouth before she’d realized it was traveling up her vocal cords, and instantly she grimaced, then realized grimacing only made it more awkward and tried to wipe her expression of any emotion.

  Now I probably look like I’ve just had a stroke.

  She tried to stop focusing on her own face and tapped into what was going on with Greg’s face. The mention of a boyfriend had clearly tripped up his thought process, though she suspected it was likely because he’d never imagined her dating anyone.

  “Um. Not geek strengths necessarily. Stuff like debate team, Shakespeare’s Players, something like that. You’re good with words, so why not try those?”

  Really? Greg was all for Sandra doing cheerleading, but Jess? Ooooh no. He wanted her to stick to the fringe of society. “Oh I don’t know,” she said sarcastically. “I guess because those are nerd things and I’d prefer not to be forever branded as a geek.”

  “First of all, nerd is not synonymous with geek. But more importantly, would you call me a geek?” he asked, leaning a little closer to her. She could smell his shampoo.

  “No. Of course not. You hang out with … cool people.”

  “Well”—he shrugged a shoulder—“I’m trying out for debate and Shakespeare’s Players.”

  Debate and theater it was. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’ll try sports and something geeky like you.” She frowned as if it were a begrudging compromise. Better not to let on that the simple idea of being in a club or on a team with Greg gave her heart palpitations.

  She harrumphed, turned, and led the way into AP Biology before she said or did anything to ruin her small moment of happiness.

  As it turned out, Miranda came from a softball legacy spanning generations of Forte women, starting with her grandmother Fiona, who played shortstop for Sam Houston State University before she’d gotten pregnant by one of the soccer players and dropped out of college in her sophomore year to raise her daughter—Miranda’s mother—Cheyenne. Cheyenne grew up to be an even better softball player and was the starting pitcher for the Longhorns freshman year until she’d gotten knocked up by a lacrosse player and dropped out to raise Miranda. Miranda seemed to be on course to be an even more skilled pitcher than her mother, and the Forte women apparently had high hopes that she might continue the softball legacy without continuing the legacy of unplanned pregnancies.

  Jess didn’t worry about that with Miranda, though. Not after Dr. Fractal’s eye-opening sex education. Plus, Jess had much more important things to worry about, especially after her weekend boot camp with Miranda and Cheyenne in the backyard of the Forte house where she conclusively determined that none of her miracles involved softball, other than perhaps the miracle that she survived the training without critical injury, outside of an arm that felt like it might just fall off (and maybe it would be the best for everyone if it did).

  She slung her heavy backpack over her dead arm and used her other hand to hold the strap in place as she dragged herself into Mooremont on Monday and all the way across the building on her way to her first period.

  Though she hated AP World History, at least she wouldn’t need to use her sore arm to raise her hand. She never had any questions in that cla
ss, mostly because she was too busy trying to filter out all the extraneous information God shouted into her brain.

  But she hadn’t heard from Him in days, which meant that maybe she would be left in peace to simply learn the mostly incorrect facts Mr. Gonzalez taught them—as in the material she would actually be tested over—rather than trying to ignore God’s much less important commentary that would never find its way onto a standardized test.

  Last Monday it was, NEANDERTHALS WERE CROSS-EYED. EVERY LAST ONE.

  Last Thursday it was, SO I WAS ALL, “LET THERE BE LIGHT,” AND THERE WAS. WELL, YOU CAN IMAGINE MY SURPRISE…

  And last Friday it was, NO, NO. LIFE CAME AFTER THAT. IT WENT LIGHT, GRAND UNIFICATION THEORY, MATTER, STARS, PLANETS, BOOMERANGS, LIFE. IN THAT ORDER.

  Before she made it into AP World History, Miranda spotted her in the hall and ran up.

  “How you feeling?”

  Jess stared at her, trying to gauge if she was serious. She was. “Awful.” She leaned close so only Miranda could hear. “Last time I tried to lift this arm, I peed myself a little bit.”

  Being the stalwart friend she was, Miranda gritted her teeth until her desire to chuckle died in her chest. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t realize we were working you that hard.”

  “You didn’t— I threw up! Three times!” When Jess realized she’d spoken loud enough for a small group of eleventh grade boys passing by to overhear, she grimaced and tried to hide her face.

  “Ugh, right?” Miranda replied even louder. “Last time we pound Irish car bombs with college freshman!”

  Jess chanced a look at the juniors and while they seemed highly dubious, they also resumed their conversation and kept walking.

  “Did you at least hydrate?” asked Miranda, lowering her voice again. “You should hydrate after you throw up that much.”

  But hydration had definitely not been on Jessica’s priority list between yesterday afternoon and this morning. Sleeping and thinking of excuses to avoid softball had taken up most of her mental energy. “I just … I think it’s pretty obvious that softball isn’t my miracle. So I should probably just focus on—”

  But Miranda threw her hands onto her hips and kicked out one leg exasperatedly. “You can’t give up on everything that you don’t have God powers for. Welcome to real life, where people have to practice things to get better. That’s what I did, so why shouldn’t you have to?”

  Jess found herself momentarily speechless.

  Immediately Miranda’s posture softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I know you’re naturally intelligent and you’ve worked hard for what you have and you don’t rely on God for things.”

  Jess nodded along, her mouth still hanging open slightly. “Dang right.”

  “I just … I think you should try softball anyway. It would be really cool if we could play on the same team this year!”

  Flinching as she adjusted her backpack on her shoulder, Jess begrudgingly agreed, said goodbye to her friend, and headed to class to start her day.

  When she saw Miranda again in Algebra II just before lunch, there was no talk about softball, for which Jess was endlessly grateful, since it allowed her to focus on numbers. Numbers were simple. Numbers didn’t cause her lasting physical pain.

  At lunch, when Jess lifted her arm too suddenly to tuck her hair behind her ears and whimpered, Chris began probing about the weekend’s training. While Jess shoveled food unceremoniously into her mouth so she didn’t have to reply, Miranda was kind enough to think of the nicest ways possible to describe Jess’s miserable failures.

  “She’s got a naturally strong grip,” really meant, She kept forgetting to let go of the ball when she tried to throw it.

  “She’s not afraid to take a real swing at the ball,” really meant, The bat never actually made contact with the ball.

  And, “I was impressed by how she hung in there,” obviously meant, She projectile vomited three times and then started begging God and Jesus to give her a sign.

  And when Jess finally interrupted her friend and said, “Please. Miranda’s like a pro,” what she really meant was, Who knew wispy Miranda could throw a pitch that would hurt so bad when it nailed me in the pelvis?

  In AP English, students were given most of the class to work on their first major literary critique of the year. Greg had already finished his, and Jess had no plans of starting it two weeks before the due date, so they were able to relax for the most part while Ms. Miller busied herself at her desk, grading papers for her less advanced classes, pausing only occasionally to sigh, massage her temples, and take a quick glance around the classroom before returning to her work.

  “Now, the claim or argument is the basis of the debate,” Greg explained excitedly.

  Jess didn’t share the enthusiasm. “You think anyone’s ever been killed playing softball?” she asked, bringing his lecture to a screeching halt.

  He blinked hard twice to reset. “Wait, what?”

  “Do you think a person could get killed somehow playing softball?”

  He eased in slowly, feeling his way for a trap. “Um, I suppose so. I mean, there’s an infinite number of ways someone could be killed. You could be playing softball when a meteor hits.”

  “Or an earthquake,” she added, nodding and staring absentmindedly at the Mistakes Are Proof That You Are Trying banner posted on the wall over Ms. Miller’s desk. “So what you’re saying is that death is lurking just around the corner, so why bother evaluating the risk of any particular activity?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. But I guess you have a point …”

  So much for making myself less killable.

  “Hey.” He waited till she was looking at him. “You’re not going to die in softball tryouts. And if you did”—he seemed to consider stopping there, but he bit back a smile and pushed on—“wouldn’t you just rise again in three days?”

  It took a moment for her to catch on then another moment more to justify how it’d been Greg who had said it. His attempt to keep a straight face was doomed the moment Jess cackled, punched him in the bicep, and then immediately groaned at having used the muscles in her right arm.

  Their laughter drew the attention of Ms. Miller who looked up, realized it was just Greg and Jess, and then returned to her fevered grading.

  “So even if you do die,” Greg said, “you’ll be back in time for debate tryouts on Thursday. Which means you should probably know how it works …”

  This time, she was able to listen to what he had to say. After all, she was the daughter of God. No way He would let her die from a wild pitch to the temple.

  It was just softball. What was the worst that could happen?

  * * *

  Greg found his seat beside Jess in AP Biology the next day and once he took in the sight of her, he was kind enough not to laugh. “The cheerleading coach is going to know you don’t mess around,” he said. “Only the real badasses of cheerleading try out with a black eye.”

  “Shut up,” she grumbled.

  Destinee had done all she could that morning to help Jess mask the swelling that remained from the afternoon before, but no amount of concealer seemed to do the trick. The thick, puffy, navy blue boomerang of swelling underneath her right eye would not be covered, and her attempt to wear sunglasses to school was quickly nipped in the bud by the Mooremont assistant principal. Jess had considered appealing up the chain of command to Mrs. Thomas, now Principal Thomas, knowing that the woman would side with her on it, but Jess simply had no fight left in her, so she tucked the sunglasses into her backpack and accepted her fate.

  The silver lining was that the pain in her eye socket took her mind off the screaming muscles in her arm. So maybe she could still attend cheerleading tryouts.

  “You know what you don’t need hand-eye coordination for?” Greg said cheerily. “Debate. Theater.”

  “Shut up.”

  “What? It’s true!”

  “Okay, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear
it right now.”

  Greg’s joking tone softened. “Is it super painful?”

  Jess sighed and nodded.

  He placed his hand gently on her jaw and turned her head toward him to get a better look. “You shouldn’t worry about covering it with makeup. Wear it proud. Besides, you look great without makeup.”

  She turned her head away from him quickly. “Psh, whatever.”

  Obviously he was trying to compliment her, but she didn’t care. His playful flirting, which normally would’ve lifted her spirits, only agitated her. She was humiliated, in pain, and he was dating someone else. She was in no mood for it.

  “I’m being serious,” he added, leaning his head slightly to the side without taking his eyes off her. “Some girls, like Sandra and Emma, need makeup to look pretty, but you don’t.”

  “I really wish you’d stop comparing me to your girlfriend.”

  That shut him up. For a little while.

  With nothing else to do, she opened her textbook and began reviewing the chapter she’d read the night before. She only got a few paragraphs in before Greg decided it was okay to start speaking again.

  “Are you really trying out for cheerleading?”

  “Yes,” she said defiantly. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  Maybe it was because she’d just snapped at him, but he hesitated before responding. “It just … you’re not like that.”

  “Like what?” Her smirk issued a challenge. He was digging himself into a hole, and in her cynicism, she enjoyed watching him do it.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Like … um, super chipper and happy.” And before she could snap at him for saying she wasn’t super happy, which she wouldn’t necessarily disagree with, he added, “And bitchy.”

  “Oh. Wait. So you think Sandra’s a bitch?”

  He shrugged. “Not what I said.”

  “No, it’s what I said. And it’s true.”

  “So why do you want to be a cheerleader?”

  Jess sighed. He was breaking her down. “Because I want to be good at something.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re already good at something. You want to be popular.”