Sara Shepard - Wicked

Holy Trinity was one of the oldest churches in Rosewood. The church building was made of crumbling stone, and the little cemetery out back had messily arranged head-stones that reminded Emily of rows of crooked teeth. Around Halloween in seventh grade, Ali had told them a ghost story about a girl who haunted her younger sister’s dreams. She’d dared Emily and the others to sneak into this very cemetery at midnight and chant, “My dead sister’s bones,” twenty times without screaming and running away. Only Hanna, who would’ve streaked naked through the Rosewood Day commons to prove to Ali that she was cool, had been able to do it.

The inside of the church smelled just like Emily remembered, a strange mix of mildew, pot roast, and cat pee. The same beautiful but slightly scary stained-glass windows, all depicting biblical stories, lined the walls and the ceiling. Emily wondered if God, whoever he or she was, was looking down on them, horrified that Emily was in such a holy place. She hoped he wouldn’t send Rosewood a locust attack for this. Mrs. Fields waved to Father Tyson, the kindly, white-haired priest who had baptized Emily, taught her the Ten Commandments, and gotten her hooked on the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Then she grabbed two coffees from the bar that had been set up next to a large statue of Mary and led Emily toward the stage.

As they settled in behind a tall man and his two young children, Mrs. Fields looked at the music program. “Up now is a band called Carpe Diem. Oh, fun! The people in the band are juniors at Holy Trinity Academy.”

Emily groaned. Between fourth and fifth grades, her parents had sent her to Camp Long Pines, a sleepaway Bible camp. Jeffrey Kane, one of her counselors, had a band, and they performed the last night of camp. They covered Creed songs, and Jeffrey made the goofiest, most contorted faces, like he was having some sort of godly epiphany. She could only imagine what a Catholic school band called Carpe Diem would be like.

Twangy chords began to fill the room. Their view of the stage was partially obscured by a large amplifier, so Emily saw only a scruffy-haired guy playing drums. As the instrumental progressed, Carpe Diem sounded more emo rock than Creed II. And when the singer started the first verse, Emily was surprised that his voice sounded…good.

She pushed around the man next to her and his kids to get a better look at the band. A lanky guy stood in front of the microphone, a honey-colored acoustic guitar slung across his chest. He wore a threadbare oatmeal-colored T-shirt, black jeans, and the same burgundy Vans skater shoes Emily had on. It was a nice surprise—she’d expected the singer to be a Jeffrey Kane clone.

A girl next to Emily started mouthing along to the words. Listening to the lyrics, Emily instantly realized the band was covering her favorite Avril Lavigne song, “Nobody’s Home.” She’d listened to it over and over on the plane ride to Iowa, feeling like she was the confused, empty girl Avril was singing about.

When the band finished the song, the singer stepped back from the microphone and peered out into the crowd. His clear, light blue eyes landed on Emily, and he smiled. Suddenly, electricity rushed through her, starting at the top of her head and zipping down to her feet. It felt like her coffee was pumped with ten times its usual amount of caffeine.

Emily glanced surreptitiously around. Her mother had wandered over to the coffee kiosk to talk her choir friends, Mrs. Jamison and Mrs. Hart. A bunch of older ladies sat upright in the pews as if it were a church service, staring confusedly at the stage. Father Tyson was by the confession area, doubling over laughing at something an older man had just said. It was amazing no one had witnessed what had just happened. She’d felt this lightning strike only twice before. The first time was when she kissed Ali in her tree house in seventh grade. The second time was when she kissed Maya in Noel Kahn’s photo booth last fall. But it was probably just a reaction to swimming so hard at practice today. Or an allergic reaction to the new flavor of PowerBar she’d eaten before practice.

The singer set his guitar on a stand and waved to the crowd. “I’m Isaac, and this is Keith and Chris,” he said, gesturing to his bandmates. “We’re going to take a quick break, but we’ll be back.” As Isaac stood up, he glanced at Emily again and took a step toward her. Emily’s heart hammered and she lifted her hand to wave at him, but just then his drummer dropped one of his cymbals. Isaac turned back to his band.

“You moron,” Isaac said with a laugh, punching the drummer in the shoulder before following the other guys through a pale pink curtain that led to the church’s makeshift backstage.

Emily clenched her teeth. Why had she waved ?

“Do you know him?” an envious-sounding voice behind her asked.

Emily turned. Two girls dressed in the Holy Trinity Academy uniform—white blouses and crisply pleated black skirts—were staring at her.

“Uh, no,” Emily answered.

The girls turned back to each other, satisfied. “Isaac’s in my math class,” gushed the blonde to her friend. “He’s so mysterious. I didn’t even know he had a band.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?” her dark-haired friend murmured.

Emily shifted from one foot to the other. They were Catholic school versions of Hanna Marin: super thin, with long, glossy hair, perfect makeup, and matching Coach bags. Emily touched her own limp, chlorine-frizzed hair, and smoothed her Old Navy khakis, which were at least a size too big. She suddenly regretted not putting on any makeup—not that she usually wore it.

There wasn’t, of course, any reason to feel competitive with these girls. It wasn’t like Emily liked this Isaac guy. That electric feeling that had passed through her, and still resonated in her fingertips, had just been a…fluke. A blip. Yep, that was it. Just then, Emily felt a tap on her shoulder. She jumped and turned around.

It was Isaac. And he was smiling at her. “Hi.”

“Uh, hi,” Emily said, ignoring the fluttering in her chest. “I’m Emily.”

“Isaac.” Up close, he smelled a little like Body Shop orange shampoo—the very same stuff Emily had used for years.

“I loved your cover of ‘Nobody’s Home,’” Emily said before she could stop herself. “That song really helped me get through this trip I took to Iowa.”

“Iowa, huh? I guess it can be pretty rough there,” he joked. “I went with my youth group once. Why did you go?”

Emily hesitated, scratching the back of her neck. She could feel the Catholic school girls staring. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring up Iowa—or that she identified with such desperate, hopeless lyrics. “Oh, just visiting family,” she finally answered, fiddling with the plastic top to her coffee cup. “My aunt and uncle live outside of Des Moines.”

“Gotcha,” Isaac said. He stepped aside to let a bunch of kindergarten-age kids playing tag dart past. “I hear you about identifying with the song. I got made fun of when I first started singing about a girl, but I think the song applies to everyone. It’s like…all those feelings of ‘Where do I fit in?’ and ‘Why can’t I find anyone to talk to?’ I think everyone feels that from time to time.”

“Me too,” Emily agreed, feeling grateful that someone else felt the same way she did. She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. She was still deep in conversation with her friends by the coffee kiosk. Which was good—Emily wasn’t sure if she could handle her mother’s scrutiny right now.

Isaac drummed his fingers on the worn church pew next to them. “You don’t go to Holy Trinity.”

Emily shook her head. “Rosewood Day.”