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  Dan stared out the front window, the way Lo did when she was completely irritated and needed to count to ten. “No. That is not what’s going on.”

  Now I felt like an idiot. I asked him to face me. To tell me what he wanted to say.

  “It’s too late.” He was hurt.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “I’m listening. Now I’m listening. I’m really really listening.”

  He kept his eyes forward. Now he wasn’t talking. He turned on the ignition and stepped on the gas. “Just forget I ever wanted to say anything. I’ll take you home. So you can work. So you can worry about yourself.”

  He was hurt and mad. I still had no idea why.

  If I weren’t in such a morose mood, I’d tell him to stop. But since I was now feeling crappy and guilty, I said nothing. I let him drive. I turned on the all-talk station. (It was really hard sitting in a car in total silence.)

  Crime and poverty were up. A well-known celebrity just adopted a baby from Haiti, and a bunch of people thought she did it just to keep her figure. The Pennsylvania teen had made it to the next round of some station’s most-desperate-to-be-on-television/willing-to-make-an-ass-of-yourself competition. Don’t forget to vote, everyone. Charlene is counting on you!

  I tried to apologize. “I’m a jerk,” I said. “You’re right. I’m selfish.” He didn’t disagree. “Please tell me what you were going to say.”

  He drove in silence.

  When we were two miles from my house, I swallowed every ounce of pride I had left. “Come on, Dan. I’m sorry. I mean it.”

  He might have softened up if my phone hadn’t vibrated again. But it did. Twice. Dan said, “Tell Abe I said hi.”

  I opened my purse. It was Lo. “What’s up?” I asked.

  She sounded more upset than Dan. “Do you have plans? Can you go somewhere for a while?”

  I looked at Dan. “Not really. I’m almost home. What’s going on?”

  Before she could explain, we pulled up to the house. There were at least thirty people hanging around. Some sat on the grass. Some stood. Others sat on the stone wall by the garage.

  I didn’t have to ask what the fuss is about.

  Dave Armstrong was here. I would recognize his thick white hair anywhere. He stood on the driveway, his arms above his head, reaching up to the heavens.

  He was waiting for me.

  SEVENTEEN

  He looked like an aging movie star.

  His hair was short. His clothes were pressed. His cordovan shoes shone without looking cheap. He wore a dark navy suit, wine-colored tie, and kimono-cloth pocket square—a color palette Dan and I had admired in last month’s issue of GQ. This was a guy who knew what looked good. He was comfortable in front of a camera.

  For a second, Dan forgot that he hated me. He said, “Look at that suit. Brioni? Or maybe something Neapolitan. Look at the soft shoulder—”

  I shook my head. “The man is a preacher. He’s supposed to look pious.”

  Dan told me to lighten up. “And because he’s religious, he’s supposed to dress like a slob?”

  I didn’t really have a problem with Dave dressing well. In fact, if it were up to me, everyone in the universe would care more about his or her appearance. It was just that Dave’s motives were so transparent. He was playing to the camera. Even though he shook hands in a friendly way and talked to people and acted like this was all about faith, he never stopped smiling. He always stood with his better side to the camera.

  “Hey, look who I see,” Dan said pointing to a small crowd of people. “I thought he was supposed to be in the hospital.”

  It was Abe. “He shouldn’t be here.” I couldn’t believe they let him out. He looked terrible.

  His left leg was in a bright red and orange cast—the same colors as Dunkin’ Donuts—and his left arm was bandaged up, too. You didn’t need to be a doctor to see he was in a lot of pain. He didn’t look stable.

  I almost felt sorry for him, until I realized whom he was talking to. She was a woman in a gray skirt suit. She had long, dirty blonde hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. It was Roxanne Wheeler. She was here.

  This was my nightmare. It was the worst thing that could possibly happen. (At the same time, I knew I shouldn’t have been completely surprised.)

  I took out my phone, and even though it was not easy to do, I texted Abe. “Look up.” And also: “Don’t say anything.”

  Twenty seconds later, we watched him pull out his phone, read my messages, and start hobbling toward us. It was painful to watch. His face was bruised under both eyes. He walked slowly.

  “Would it kill you to help him?” I asked.

  Dan didn’t move. “Why don’t you?” He half-laughed—it was a little bit catty. He knew I wouldn’t. My lawn was a mob scene. Too many people. Way too many cameras. There was no way I was getting out of this car until all these people were gone—I didn’t care how mad Dan was.

  By the time Abe made it to the car, he was sweating like crazy. I opened the door. “Get in.”

  He was out of breath. “Give me a sec.” He reminded us he had a fractured fibula, six broken ribs, seven bad contusions, and a dislocated elbow. He threw his crutches into the back seat, fell in, and moaned in pain.

  He smelled sour—like old milk or a dirty sponge. Dan said, “You’re not going to have a heart attack in my car, are you?”

  At that moment, I wasn’t sure which one of them made me madder. First, I told Dan to shut up. Then I turned to Abe. “I can’t believe you sold me out. Don’t think I don’t know that you spent two hours with Roxanne Wheeler. But Dave. That was low.”

  He had the nerve to look offended. “I did not sell you out. I didn’t tell her anything.” He took a couple of deep breaths. “Check your phone. I must have called you a hundred times.” He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. “You should be thanking me. I came here to stop them.”

  He refused to say another word until I read or listened to every single message, until I felt like a total jerk, until it was clear that Roxanne camped out first, followed by Dave and the believers. Then, last, Abe.

  His face looked feverish. “When you didn’t call me back, what else was I supposed to do?”

  I didn’t feel the need to thank him. “So tell me everything. Where did all these people come from? Has Lo come outside? Have the police been here?” Her car was still here—so she should be, too.

  Dan half-laughed again. “Sharon is going to have a conniption.”

  Abe said, “The people are from Dave’s mission. They’re actually nice.” As for Lo, she hadn’t shown her face—and he’d been here over an hour. I rolled my eyes. He winced in pain. “You know, J, you could act a little appreciative. I discharged myself against medical advice. Believe me—I’d rather be in bed.”

  I told him to elevate his leg. His toes looked swollen. Blue.

  On the porch, Mrs. Demetrius started singing a song about the power and grace of God. Her red-and-orange dress flapped like a sail in the wind. A few people from the crowd joined in. Soon they were clapping and swaying. The cameramen loved it. They ran around getting close-ups of almost every person.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I couldn’t stay here. I didn’t want to open the door. I definitely did not want to face these people.

  When the song ended, Dave turned up the volume and offered some gospel passage about the meaning of life. Every time he paused, someone shouted, “Amen.” Or “Praise the Lord.” A couple of shirtless guys ran in front of the cameras, hoping that this was live TV. One pulled down his pants.

  Now I was scared. “Dan, I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m really, really sorry. Let’s get out of here. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

  “Yes you did. I get it.” He opened his wallet and took out the picture of the two of us from one of those cramped photo booths and ripped it in four pieces.

  We were breaking up.

  He said, “Now get out of here. You shouldn’t keep your fans waiting.”

/>   In the rearview mirror, I could see Abe cringe. Apparently, even with all his injuries, our awkwardness was what pained him.

  Roxanne pointed her microphone toward the car and grabbed one of the cameramen. She strutted in her black patent-leather pumps without stumbling or getting those spiky heels caked with mud. I slumped in the seat when Roxanne rapped on the window. Her nails looked like daggers.

  This was turning into a disaster. “Look, Dan. You have to believe me. I’m sorry. I mean it. Let’s get out of here.” Dan was a good guy. We liked the same things. He had my lip gloss, my denim jacket, and three library books that were due next week. We’d been dating too long to end like this. He knew I never cared or wanted anything to do with my fans.

  Roxanne rapped on the window again. “Janine Collins? Can I ask you a few questions?”

  The cameras rolled. I covered my face. Dan said, “No, J. I mean it. Get out of here. Now.”

  This couldn’t be happening. I turned around to face Abe. “Can you get them to back off?”

  Abe opened the door, said something to Roxanne and thank God, twenty seconds later, she motioned to her guys and walked back to the porch to talk to Armstrong. I got out of the car and faced the crowd. And just like the water in the Bible, the sea of people parted.

  EIGHTEEN

  Up close, the believers looked like regular people.

  The truth was a lot of them were. I recognized some of them: the lady from the library desk, the butcher Lo went to, the guy from the mini-mart who always gave me a mini peppermint patty—on the house. If I ran into any of them anywhere but here, I’d say hello.

  I never pegged them for zealots. Maybe they were just here to get on TV.

  “Hi Janine,” my eighth-grade math teacher said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Someone with a stump for an arm said, “Humanity has been waiting for you.”

  There was a guy without a leg, one with no legs at all, and a girl with massive scars on the entire left side of her face. There were six people with walkers, five more in wheelchairs. One of them looked like he was my age. I tried as hard as I could to focus on the door, the tree, the window—anything but his smiling, eager face—but it was hard not to stare back. The guy was looking at me. They were all looking at me. They wanted me to look at them. I could feel it.

  They all wanted something from me that I couldn’t give.

  It didn’t matter. Every step, their hands reached out to me; they touched me; they asked me, please, to touch them back. They told me their troubles. One man told me he was in severe pain. Someone else was sick. Pretty soon there were requests and cries and hands all over me—on my face, my clothes, my arms, shoulders and legs.

  “Please don’t touch me,” I said. It was overwhelming, intense, scary. I wanted to scream for help. I wanted all of them to back off. “Please give me space.”

  I needed air.

  Now.

  The boy in the wheelchair—the one who smiled at me—he had a really cute dimple—rolled forward and shouted, “Back away.” He also had big shoulders and arms. Nice hair, too. In a flirty sort of way, he balanced on his back tires. I felt sort of nasty even noticing. This wasn’t a party. He wasn’t here to ask me out. But if we had been at a party, I might have said yes. That’s how cute he was.

  A lady in a vintage preppy pink cardigan and kelly-green skirt stood next to him. “My son was not born in this chair. He shouldn’t have to live the rest of his life this way.” He looked a little embarrassed, the way I did when Lo offered her yoga wisdom to my friends.

  I looked at him—not her. “You’re right. He shouldn’t. Nobody should.”

  It really was a shame. He had such a sweet smile. And really green eyes, too. The way he looked at me, I could almost shut out everyone else here. When he held out his hands, I forgot to pull mine back. Our fingers almost touched. “Will you bless me?” he asked, not moving his fingers. “Will you give me a chance to heal?”

  I froze.

  There were a hundred people and twenty cameras. They were all staring. It was absolutely silent.

  I couldn’t heal him.

  But I couldn’t move either.

  Before I could figure out what to say, he lunged forward and grabbed my hands. He had a tight grip. A few people gasped.

  I stumbled forward, and the hamsa dangled in the air between us. “I’m sorry you can’t walk.”

  His hands were sweaty and hot. He didn’t let go. “Just you watch,” he said. “Someday, I’m going to. Someday, I’m going to be strong enough to get out of this chair.” He sounded just like a wounded soldier or an athlete when they were getting carted off the field. Thumbs up. All optimism. He was the kind of guy who probably made others feel good about humanity.

  He was also strong. I tried to pull away, but he would not let go. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get away. This was making me really uncomfortable.

  My hands were burning.

  I should have worn something with pockets. I should always have pockets. I should make a mental note to never ever go outside again the rest of my life without pockets.

  Even when he closed his eyes and started praying, I couldn’t squirm away.

  I looked for someone to help me, but every single one of them had their eyes shut. They were smiling, too, like it was a beautiful day and everything was possible. It made me feel left out. Even here, surrounded by people as unlucky as me, I was still alone. I was still the different one. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the things I never wanted to see again.

  He squeezed my hands one more time and asked me for strength. Then he let go. “Thank you,” he said. His eyes were hopeful.

  The whole thing made me feel terrible. This kid was probably no older than me. How did these people believe in a God that would do this to him? Why did he believe that the same God that made him paralyzed still cared? How could all these people continue to pray and hope and close their eyes and smile?

  I turned away and started walking through the crowd, but now more hands smothered me. I opened my mouth to breathe or scream, but my throat was closing fast—my hands prickled, like when you slept the wrong way. I dropped to my knees. No one backed off. I was back in the synagogue, and the boy was covered in bombs. No one noticed that I couldn’t move or get up—that I was dying here—right in front of all these people.

  Except for Dave.

  He heard me. He knew.

  He told them to back off, and he pushed through the crowd. By the time he was standing over me, I was gasping for air; my hands burned. He picked me up and held me like he did ten years ago. He told the group in a very loud voice, “Janine Collins is here. Please greet her with love. And faith. And compassion. Welcome her. I know you are all anxious, but for now, let her relax. We want her to feel safe. We want her to come to us when she is ready, so that we can all pray together.”

  When he put me down, people surrounded me. They said, “Amen.” Others rocked back and forth. One girl pointed at me. “Look at how the light reflects off of her.” When I passed by, they all bowed their heads.

  From the center of the crowd, Dave Armstrong exalted the power of God. “We are your servants,” he shouted. “Deliver us!”

  The front door flew open.

  Lo stepped onto the porch. She pushed her way through the crowd and grabbed me hard by the arm. “Go inside,” she told me, shoving me with enough force that I almost fell into a girl about my age. “Now,” Lo said. She glared at Dave.

  He embraced her like they were old friends. “Leora. I tried to call you, but …”

  “Let go of me,” she said.

  As I pushed my way toward the house, past the girl and an old woman with two black teeth, Roxanne shoved her business card into my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Abe told me so much about you. He’s lucky you two are friends.”

  I said, “I’m not interested in making a statement.”

  She said, “That’s your prerogative.”

  That was a lie
. This wasn’t my decision. I no longer had a choice. She was never going to let this drop. She had a story, maybe even a big one. My mother would have done exactly the same thing.

  NINETEEN

  Lo slammed the door. She drew the curtains. She yelled at Sharon to get away from the window. “Stop staring at them. That’s just what they want.”

  Sharon didn’t think it was safe to turn our backs. “Leora, please. Let me call the police. You really don’t have any idea what these people might do.”

  Lo would not agree. “I don’t want to make a scene.” She dropped to the floor into savasanah, the corpse pose, as if that would make everyone disappear.

  It was almost funny. I said, “Lo, get up. It’s already a scene.”

  She didn’t laugh. “The last thing we need,” she said, still not moving, “is Roxanne Wheeler or anyone else telling the world that I had a bunch of God-fearing people hauled off and arrested. Trust me. Then we’ll have a scene.”

  She closed her eyes while, outside, Dave began a call and response. To drown them out, I turned on the TV. Unfortunately, it was the worst hour on the schedule, the time when the stations resort to reruns of Housewives, game shows, or messed-up people telling their secrets to the world. Weekday afternoons were about full disclosure and airing your dirty laundry; there was no market for privacy.

  On one show, a mom bragged that she gave her fourteen-year-old son condoms—so he would be prepared—and the entire audience applauded. They thought she was being smart. Proactive. On the next channel, a former child star sat on a red couch talking about the recent death of her sister. Breast cancer. The doctor said it was one of the number-one killers of women. Sharon tried to remember the woman’s name but couldn’t. “I remember that girl. She was always so cute. I saw her movies a hundred times.” Now her mascara was too thick. Her skirt was way too short for the talk show camera angles, so as it rode up her thigh, she had to sit with her legs crossed and her arms glued to the bottom of her hem. I didn’t understand why this woman had to share all these personal details about her family. She wasn’t running an organization for better access to mammograms. She was just talking … to get on TV.