Chapter 1

Sixteen candles make a lovely light
But not as bright as your eyes tonight
Blow out the candles, make your wish come true
For I'll be wishing that you love me, too
Sixteen Candles, Luther Dixon and Allyson Kent

When you turn sixteen, you're a woman. In the state of North Carolina, you can legally have sex and drive, these two aspects of life being perhaps the most essential for success in survival. So here, tonight, somewhere in a valley of brilliant mountains in North Carolina, I am a woman--and I have all I need to be happy.

Well except, of course, for a car . . . and sure, someone to have sex with. But technically, if I had these things, I wouldn't be committing any crime in a court of law. Okay, so truthfully, I've only committed a crime once, in the first place. See, I was at Food Lion, and it happened. You know, the visit from my red-headed friend, O.B. The monthly burden of womanhood. Frankly . . . okay, so maybe we won't talk about it frankly. Now I was thirteen then, and I hadn't grown accustomed to carryng a purse. I had to think fast, and even though I had to bear the shame of walking down the feminine hygiene aisle, I did it. I mean, Food Lion is rarely busy in the first place, so I had nothing to worry about. Customers - not a problem. My hurdle? Zac was working the cashier's aisle.

Zachary Hanson who sat next to me in Pre-Algebra that year, and let me copy the answers to the more difficult problems in exchange for answers to the Lit questions. Zac Hanson who cracked jokes when Mrs. Brooks turned her back in P.E. There was this way he pretended to be one of the jock guys from when Dana Carvey still performed on SNL. He cracked me up everytime. This was Zac who in the fourth grade, many years before, had told my best friend, Ashley Allison, that I was the one girl in the entire class of twenty-four he would go out with. Now, the main reason was because I owned the Hermit Crab that "escaped" from his cage on Pet Day, only to wind up in Mrs. McMahan's top desk drawer, but I bet there had to be more reasons than Herbie going for me, too. Sure, he ate Jell-O with his hands that year at lunch, but let's face it. There were no spoons. The point was that I had crushed on Zachary Hanson in February of fifth grade, Thanksgiving weekend of sixth, and an entire two consecutive months of seventh. Zac was a heavy duty twelve-year-old dream.

And that is why, under no circumstances, could I let him know I was having my period. Especially that I was buying feminine supplies from his father's store, solely for that purpose. So, as any street smart, seventh grader in a bind, I slipped the Tampax under my jacket, and made my way to the exits.

What I didn't count on, however, was that the store was safely secured by sensors at the doorway. In fact, I didn't take them into account at all. So much so, that I only realized the glitch in my perfect plans when the bells themselves sounded in quite possibly be the loudest recorded decible point reached in a general store in the history of Black Mountain, North Carolina, perhaps even the entire Swannanoa Valley, itself! I remember standing there, feeling the world collapse beneath my very own feet. I couldn't, in my guilty, low-down, no good, dirty position, bring myself to look into the eyes of Zachary Hanson. Zac who probably never stole anything in his entire life.

Knowing it was right thing to do, I walked slowly, painfully back into Food Lion, and . . . lied. I lied like Pinocchio on one of his more growthful days. "WHAT'S GOING ON?" I shouted. Growing up North Carolina made me naturally dramatic. I flailed my arms and stomped my feet. "I DIDN'T STEAL ANYTHING AT ALL!"

Zachary, taken aback, shrugged his shoulders, and cracked a roll of pennies into the register. "Sometimes it goes off when you've been in other stores. Like . . . were you just at Video Stop? Sometimes when you rent movies, they make the alarms go off. You got a movie?" Trembling, I looked around to see I was attracting a tiny, but intrigued audience. I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into my own private web of destruction, and nodded my head, ever so slowly. Up . . . down. Up . . . down. Not taking my shameful eyes off Zac's second shirt button, I closed my gaping mouth, gulped, and made a silent prayer to Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, not for forgiveness, but to help me have a fast getaway.
   
"Oh, then that's it. Paper or plastic?" he turned to his customer. What went through me then was perhaps the strangest, most shocking jolt of pain through my heart. Heated, embarrassed, angry . . . and guilty, I began to cry. Not the silent, romance movie kind of tears. Big, fat, sobbing-woman tears. Not to mention the wailing noises that flew from my lips. "Are you okay?" the customer asked me as she went around me through the sliding exit.

"No-o." Breathe. "Noooo." The woman patted me on the shoulder.

"It'll be okay," she assured me, and took her plastic bag, loaded down with Whiskers Catfood on out of the shop. Zac, I'm quite positive, was clueless as to what to do. Dead in his tracks, he only stared at me in fear. I made my move.

Slinking to the counter, tears streaming down flushed cheeks, I took the Tampax out, and sat them on the table before him.

"Please don't tell anyone," I begged in a hushed whisper. "You win." Zac didn't quite comprehend the pain I was going through, I think. I didn't wait around to explain. I ran . . . hard. I didn't stop running until I was in the shower, cleansing myself of the entire despicable sin on my part. I had learned my lesson.

As God as my witness, I would never go without Tampax again.

And also, I’d managed to keep my nose out of trouble for awhile. Basically, I
didn’t see the need to go out and get pregnant, have my brain cells killed off by crack, or drink Zima with Alma Jenkins and her gang of bad girls. I must’ve done something right, because I was, after all, fairly popular. It’s not like I was Mary Auten, the designated queen of society. I’d always felt it was fairly wrong that the girl who spent one summer in sixth grade growing boobs before every other female could get the chance, should rule the comings and goings of her class throughout the remaining time. The thing about Mary was that she wasn’t rude and snobby. By any means. She was fairly nice--and that’s why you felt guilty talking about her behind her back. I was happy with my place, anyway, somewhere in the middle and feeling quite happy about it. I’d managed to gain at least several friends in each clique, so when I was annoyed with Adam and the other kids in drama, I ditched them for Cindy in chorus. It always worked out well; I think when I was younger, I had best friends. Around seventh grade, though, I ditched the policy. Why should one friend be valued over another? They were all pretty fine by me.

And I guess that at the end of sophmore year, I was ready to graduate to
upperclassman. I was definitely beside myself to be turning sixteen. But I think it wasn’t until Justin Bridges stopped me in the hall to ask if I was throwing a Sweet Sixteen that I realized maybe I was sheltering myself a little. It wasn’t in me to throw parties. I went to parties. I didn’t throw them. For starters, my house was not much of a partying house anyway. It was a basic suburban home that my parents pretty much put their entire lives into owning. And I didn’t exactly want to screw what they’d done with it up. If I was going to throw a Sweet Sixteen for myself, it would have to be somewhere else. I knew, as every sixteen-year-old does, that to throw a decent party, you must have food, music, and efficient things to throw. I think the best party I ever attended was thrown by Adam Andrews. We raided his bathroom, and ended up throwing toilet paper everywhere. Not too mention the cake fight. Mom throws dinner parties every once and a while, and I know for a fact she must be boring her guests out of their minds. One day, I think I'm going to tell Mom I want to attend one of her parties, bring a bowl of seedless grapes, and pelt the guests. That's what I call a time.

Enter Shaded Creek Golf and Games. Alma might’ve dared to call it lame, but she didn’t, because I invited her. In fact, I invited everyone who was interested in coming. My, what a time it was. My forty-three guests all remembered to bring gifts, so I was in Heaven for about twenty-six minutes playing with my new stuff. There was lots of good music, too. The dance floor was upstairs, and we’d decorated it so that it looked like a decent Sweet Sixteen location. Food was taken care of. Stephanie’s mother is a chef at the Olive Garden. The cool thing about Shaded Creek is that people were given a choice about what to do. They could eat, dance, play video games downstairs, or Putt-Putt. That’s what the owner, Mr. Rogerson, at least, thought what we were doing, anyway.

I can’t speak for Alma or Justin, but I have a good idea of how they were
celebrating. Adam said he saw Justin getting a hole in one with her on the sixth course. I don’t know who invited Justin’s little brother, Josh, but he came and told me he thought Adam was lying. Said they hadn’t even taken golf clubs with them. I almost told him what that it wasn’t that sort of hole-in-one, but then I realized if I mentioned it, Josh would most likely tell his parents, and I wouldn’t see Justin for the entire summer. So anyway, I left Justin off to enjoy his time, and played truth or dare with Cindy, Zac, and Adam on the eighteenth hole.

It was around nine thirty, stars out, and we’d situated ourselves beside the
windmill when Zac suggested the game. Of course, I rolled my eyes. I was newly
sixteen-years-old; that was a kid game. “We can make it interesting,” Zac had said, and I trusted him. He had definitely become a good friend since the tampon incident, and I had no problems with him.

“Sure, fine by me,” I said. “Let’s do it. Zac, it was your idea; you go first.”

“Cindy, truth or dare?” she hesitated a moment before answering.

“Hmm . . . I guess dare.”

“Good,” Zac was quick in deciding her task. “I dare you to kiss . . . Natalie. Don't be skimpy on the tongue, now."

"Zac, you dork!" I said. "This is Cindy's dare; it shouldn't involve me."

"Nat, you've never had a problem in helping with other dares before. How could you be labeled a truth or dare wuss after never skipping a dare your entire life? You've run naked through the streets of Black Mountain. You've even pretended to hump a couch cushion at Justin's house," Adam's opinions weren't important to me, but he had to share them at all times. I watched him spread out on the astro-turf to watch his own private movie.

"Fine! I'm not a wuss. You know that," I grumbled, leaning over to do my task. I'd keep my eye on the job, and nothing else. But by hell would I let myself enjoy it. I mean, I couldn't . . . let myself like it.

"Guys, maybe we shouldn't--" Cindy began.

"No, kiss me," I said. "Let's just get it over with it. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Zac Hanson who at one time was innocent enough to make me wonder what it would be like to hold his hand and never dream of going further, rub his hands together, slyly and study two pair of very feminine lips about to connect together in a bonding ordered by probably the master of Southern daring.

Leaning forward, I pulled my fingers through my hair as I do before every kiss. Eyes drifting to a close, I met her in a lip lock, letting myself take in her lower lip. We clumsily stayed that way for a moment, before I let my tongue slip over her gloss coated skin. Never in my life have I tasted a sweeter mouth. You could taste the strawberry, and say to yourself, "This is a girl who takes care of her lips." If guys only realized how much better their kisses would become if they wore Bonne Bell, I have a feeling we'd see record numbered sales at Wal-Mart. We drew apart, slightly, but met again. How long had it been? Ten seconds? Fifteen? I'd lost count. Finding her mouth again, I felt shivers streak down my back as her tongue traced my own lips and made its way inside. Cindy's hand grazed my cheek, and I rested my palms on her upper thighs to keep steady. Our lips pulled out again, and caught each other together, locking. "Fuck you, Natalie. You weren't supposed to like holding her mouth like this. Just break apart. It's been long enough. What would Pastor Owens say? What would your mother say?" Thoughts whizzed through my brain, causing my eyes to flutter open. I opened my mouth slightly, letting just enough for air to escape my mouth. Her eyes opened then, confused expression, soft hands falling from my cheek. I don't believe I was aware of anything else that night. An amazing occurrence happened--I was able to block out the roudy cheering of two teenage boys, testosterone pulsating through their bodies. I was turning sixteen right before the eyes of the only town I'd known my entire life and a Heaven, filled with space I would never be concerned in knowing. I think I was even able to block out Cindy, herself. Because it wasn't the kiss itself made me realize something about myself. It was that very night, the very sound of the crickets chirping all around us. I was older now, and if I wanted to entertain teenage boys by kissing those of the same sex, I could very well choose to.

I just got home from the party, and I'm not quite sure what I think I've learned. It's something, but I can't quite pin point where Cindy's lips ended and my commencement began. Here tonight, I know that I am a woman. I have a thousand nights ahead of me, and a thousand different places to go. I have everything I need to be happy, and this is the only my beginning.

Chapter 2

Tell me your troubles and doubts
Giving me everything inside and out
Don't you forget about me . . .
Rain keeps falling
Down, Down, Down
"Don't You Forget About Me," Simple Minds

"How does it feel to be sixteen years old?" Mom's presence could give a mug of coffee jitters in the morning. She's one of these people who has managed to teach herself into becoming a morning person, and likes to start off her day--and yours--by asking what you would fancy for dinner. This usually leads to disappointment in an otherwise happy household, because when I'm just waking up, the only possible thing I could think of fancying is a bowl of Sugar Smacks and a glass of Coke.

Should I tell her I feel more like a woman than when I first got my period, and she went around chanting, "Congratulations! You're a woman now!"? When I begged and pleaded for her not to tell my father, yet she insisted on letting him know all the charming details? He'd reacted just as I expected him to. He gave me a high five, and has since been extremely fearful of walking near my bedroom, worried I might be changing inside. Should I tell her that now that I can legally have sex and drive, my entire universe is becoming more pleasing to live on? Nah, I'll just tell her it feels the same as it did the day before yesterday.

"It feels the same as it did the day before yesterday." I moan and roll over, my back facing the sunlight.

"What would you fancy for dinner?" she asks, eyes bright and smiling.

"Sugar Smacks." I bury myself deeper into the bed.

"Oh! How can you be tired?" Her voice resembles a young Tammy Faye Baker in the morning. "This is a beautiful day that God has given us!" Silence. In fact, I think I'm saved until I feel my warm blankets jerked away from my body, and listen to her open her mouth in praise. "Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory. Rise and shine, and give God the glory, glory. Rise and shine and...! Come on Natalie! Child, sing it with me!" I cover my face with the blanket, light shining through the worn holes in the carnation-colored knit.

"Give God the glory, glory. Children of the Lord," I sing, voice muffled underneath the fabric.

"Atta girl! Atta girl! Now . . . get out of this bed! You're wasting away! Look at all the Lord has given us to be thankful for! Praise him! Praise him, Natalie Jean!"

"I'm praising," I mutter. She's got me rolling onto the carpet and padding my way to the bathroom, before I realize I've actually made it that far from the bed.

Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory, children of the Lord.

****

"I think "Unsolved Mysteries" has pretty much defined my life as a young adult." Zac always likes to say things that make him sound bigger than he really is. Thunder cracks outside and somewhere in the distance, there's lightning hitting something drastically important. Watching cable on rainy summer Saturdays is what life is about. We'll keep it on until Mom rushes into the room telling us we're endangering the entire neighborhood what with a television set turned on.

"That guy used to scare me as a kid," Cindy notes.

"It's the sound of his voice," I say. "Guys, shut up, it's coming back on."

"You're the one who was talking in the first place, Nat." Zac stretches out on his loveseat.

"Shut up! They're about to do the exorcism."

"You don't believe that--do you?" Cindy has a way of phrasing things.

"Cindy, whatever! Of course I don't." I peak around to see if they're  looking at me; I'm safe.

"Well he just said that it was a real exorcism that they were videotaping.  If it's shown on TV, it's real."

"Zac? I think she meant if the demons inside the woman were real."

"No, Nat. I meant if you thought the exorcism they were showing is real. Zac's right."

"Great, shut up. Oh my God. Listen at her voice."

"Pamela Matteray is a forty-five-year-old woman who has been struggling with demons since she was in college. She hopes to solve the problem with the FAITH Program's exorcisms. Of course, we know that it takes more than one exorcism to completely rid our patients of the demons that have taken life inside their victims. This is Pamela's third exorcism--and the FAITH program says it won't be the last." I think Robert Stack knows so much, because he has the sort of voice that could say absolutely anything, but whatever it is, you believe it.

He once held an episode in Asheville that got everyone here in an uproar. We're suburbs of the city and that particular day we were holding a car wash for drama. We were trying to buy this lightboard, but our chocolate sales didn't bring in enough. Adam, I'm sad to say got into a major debt after eating our entire supply of Carmo-Cremes. It's understandable, because his mother just joined "Fit and Trim." It's like this religious weight-loss program. A bunch of women get together and eat cabbage soup and pray. They also feel their families should be empathetic to the cause, and eat the soup along with them. The women usually quit the diet after a couple of weeks, but Adam's mom wanted to win a new crock-pot. To get the prize, you have to stay in "Fit and Trim" for exactly two months. Adam had finished his first month and Mr. Heart, the theatre teacher, was tempting him with that chocolate. It's the truth.

So I was holding the "GET YOUR CAR WASHED BY A GROUP OF OVERDRAMATIC CAR WASHERS" sign in--get this--the exact  spot where Alma Jenkin's third cousin's grandmother was brutally murdered! It as also the best spot on Vance Avenue to hold up a sign and have just about everyone driving by see it. Then the camera crews showed up, I didn't want to give up the stop. We needed the money--badly. And no, I didn't know that Frances Jenkins died there! Robert Stack, himself, had to fight me for the spot. I gave in when he gave me a twenty dollar bill and autographed my sign. Well to make a long story short, I moved my location farther down the street, and of course nobody saw it. Or maybe no one needed their car washed that day. Anyway, I still blame Robert Stack for not having that light board. And I'm still a little guilty over buying myself a milkshake with the money, rather than donating it. Ah well, c'est la vie.

"I cannot begin to express how completely disappointed I am," Zac shifted in his seat.

"I know. You can't even see her face or anything." Cindy picked up the remote, ready to switch channels.

"No, don't change it. Maybe they'll show her eyes in a second. I bet they're green."

"Sure, Nat. Oooh, what if they're yellow?"

"I bet you my blue sweater they're green."

"You're on. You get my new sandals."

"I'm there, Sweetheart." I love the sound of rain tapping on the roof. We sit in that comfortable silence for a moment Zac hesitated before speaking. "They could be red."

"What people don't realize is that they could so simply open up doors to this entire universe we know absolutely nothing about."

Robert Stack's voice interrupts the nurse on the screen and does an overdub. "...The FAITH program's registered nurse provides hints about how regular people become trapped in the occult."

"Tarot cards, Ouija boards, misused witchcraft, you name it. Such innocent games can lead to a serious pathway of destruction." The screen flashes back to the exorcism, and once again Pamela Matteray is screaming demonically and causing us to giggle.

"We should be ashamed," I say. "This woman has a serious problem. I could hardly imagine what Hell she's going through what with being possessed and all. No pun intended." We're giggling again and Zac's going through my supply of Goldfish crackers.

"What does FAITH stand for anyway?" I grumble. The skepticality is setting in.

"The shirt said "Finding Alternate Ideas to Heal." Zac has all the answers. It's just the way it's meant. "Natalie, you have an Ouija board, don't you?"

Zac sits there, eyebrows raised in the most peculiar way, desperately attempting to transmit his wicked new idea to us.

"Sure do. Got it last Christmas. It's a waste of money; I was pretty convinced it came with some sort of battery-operated gadget that moved the little marker. To Hell with spiritual influences; I was so disappointed."

"Who'd you try it out with?"

"Mom." Zac starts to laugh and I smile. "What can I say? I think she hides her majick in the ruffled apron. Zac's laughter becomes stronger and he dramatically buries himself in the couch. Cindy just sits, continuing to stare at my family TV set. "Cindy, didn't you get it? Majick in Mom's apron?" Cindy doesn't bother to acknowledge me with her hazel eyes. She just parts her lips, ready to speak.

"They're brown."

Huh?" In addition to the naivety I naturally possess when it comes to demonic possessions, Ouija boards, and just about everything else, I find Cindy one of the most confusing people in the world.

"Pamela's eyes. They're brown."

"Goddamnit." I speak for everyone, I think. A collective lull settles into the room. A louder crash of thunder hits and our cable fizzes to the blackish gray snow I've grown accustomed to seeing in weather like this. "Did you know that if you slowly turn the volume up and down, it sounds like the ocean."

"My brother Isaac does that a lot."

"Maybe he's crazy."

"Then that would make you crazy, too."

"Shhhh." Silence bangs a drum. I turn off the TV, and unswitch the light. "Do you think that God doesn't want us to watch the exorcism?"

"Well I think God was probably watching it too," Cindy sighs.

"You idiot! God doesn't need a television. He probably watched it live."

"Whatever, Zac. I'm sure God watches Dawson's Creek, too."

"Oh my God!" I scream. "What if Heaven doesn't have a television set?"

"Like it would matter to us anyway . . ." Zac lowly decides.

"Then what if the Devil doesn't have cable either?"

Zac smiles. "We're pretty much screwed." Silence again. I know we're all thinking at once about how it was probably Satan himself who wanted us to miss the exorcism. Satan was responsible for everything that happened on television . . . except for the Praise-a-Thon channel. That was probably God's idea. But if God was all-powerful, why did he let such idiots get air time? Didn't he realize his ratings were pretty bad?

"You know what this means." Cindy is so strange. Kissing her has somehow created a repulsion towards her, I think. I mean, sure, it was a great kiss. But talking to her and having my tongue in her mouth are two completely different things.

"What does it mean, Cindy?" I slow my speech. Why am I like this? Why am I acting so rude toward someone that just yesterday was one of my closest friends? Why do I change my mind so . . .

"The magick is afoot."

"Now what is that supposed to--" If I had a nickel for everytime thunder struck just like the movies--in the most suspenseful parts, I mean--I would have maybe one nickel. Because, I swear, that is the only time that has ever happened in my entire life. But the fact that the lightning and thunder combination managed to hit a power line on our street is beyond explanation. So therefore, I won't explain it. I'll just discuss what happened after we decided that the Devil didn't like Robert Stack.

****

It was Zac who decided on taking out the Ouija board and lighting candles inmy bedroom to set the mood. He was right, too. The problem was that I didn't have any spiritually pleasing candles; I just had leftovers from the box that Mom got for my birthday. There were about twenty there, so what we did was raid the Dad's Moon Pie supply and stick two candles in each Moon Pie. Then we went around sticking pies around this cardboard box we set the gameboard on. But what really made the Food Lion box mystical was the yin yang bandana that we set across it. I bought that bandana from Claire's Boutiques in the fifth grade.

Anyway, when we were sure that the marshmallow wouldn't melt, we gathered around the board to channel a spirit.

"My Uncle Ted likes Moon Pies. I bet we could get him," Cindy decides.

"Are you sure he's not busy?" I can't help but wonder if Uncle Ted is doing something more important.

"No, he's Catholic. I bet he's in purgatory."

"Do you do anything in purgatory?"

"Nah. You just sort of dangle between Heaven and Hell."

"Would you get hungry dangling?"

"I'm fairly positive."

"Cool. Let's do it."

"Let's hold hands and close our eyes," I say.

"Why?"

"Since when did you ever see anyone call up a dead spirit without linking hands and holding hands?"

"Well excuse me, Natalie, but I've never seen a spirit come due to the aroma of melting Moon Pies either."

"Cindy, we checked. They aren't going to melt."

"Whatever."

"God. Just hold my hand."

"Guys, guys," Zac intervenes. "I know it can be Hell the morning after, but please let's not mess this up. Uncle Ted is wasting away!" Zac's right. Hand slipping into Cindy's right and Zac's left, we create a circle around the cardboard box, inviting spirits to come our way and grace my bedroom.

"Uncle Ted, we know you're busy . . . what with dangling and all. We understand that purgatory can be a very tough thing to go through. But if you're hungry--at all--we've got Debbie Cakes just for you," I say in a monotone almost musical voice. It's just like the voice Gaby Hoffman used in"Now and Then."

Cindy's quick to correct me. "Moon Pies, not Debbie Cakes."

"Right, Uncle Ted. Moon Pies. Sorry. Noooo neeeggaaatttiiiivveee eeennnerrrgggyyy." I begin to hum. "Hum with me."

"Mmmmmmmmmm." We're all humming. A sort of one-note musical bonanza that would've caused Frank Sinatra to roll over in his grave.

"I feel it!" Zac. He feels a presence among us. "I feel a presence amongus."

"Do you think it might be Uncle Ted?"

"It's got to be," Cindy sighs. "I mean, if he knew that there were new moon pies in the kitchen, this about the right amount of time for him to get there. He's not fast, but he speeds up when there are Debbie Cakes."

"Debbie Cakes?!" What if she's made a mistake? What if we've channeled someone else?

"Fuck. I mean, Moon Pies." Zac and I gasp in relief. Thank God, or whoever it is that presides over purgatory.

"Let's put our hands on the marker." We drop sweaty palms and each lightly touch the the message indicator.

"Did this thing come with any instructions?"

"Just on how to put the felt-tip things on the indicator. The mystifying oracle does the rest."

"Oh. Okay. I think we're supposed to ask a question. Cindy? You do the honors?"

"Uncle Ted?"

The indicator slowly moves to yes. We're holding the air inside of our bodies. It's him. Uncle Ted is here tonight, and he's answering us through the board.

"Oh my God. I don't know what to ask," Cindy whimpers.

"Did you know Ted very well?" I ask, attempting to be helpful.

"No. Not really. I mean he always ticked Mom off when he smoked cigars in the den."

"Okay! That's good! It's a start. Uncle Ted, can you smoke cigars in Purgatory?" The indicator doesn't move for a moment and I look up to see two frightened faces, sweat dripping off of Zac and Cindy's foreheads on this sweltering June night.

The thunder has retreated, but water in the gutter continues to gush out beside the porch and the deck. The window of my room is open and magnifying the night sounds that normally are shut out by the pane. There's a sort of chirping. It's probably a cricket or some sort of owl. But during the hottest summer nights, I hear a lazy moaning in the higher mountains outside my window. There are panthers that live in the woods and sometimes terrorize the small, independent farms like the one Papa owned before he died. They're beautiful creatures, panthers, but very frightening, especially when you've seen the tense look on your grandfather's face when he's sure there's a panther going near his stables.

We are so close to nature here; I really like that about this place. And I think the panthers should be crying in the distance right now--just so I could see Zac's hands trembling intensify. He's trying to pretend he's not scared, but is only succeeding in shaking more.

The indicator begins to move. Ever so slowly, the letter "A" is captured in the clear, plastic circle of the mystical indicator. "Oh my God. It says 'A.' Cindy?! What does that mean?"

"It's still moving," Zac's strangely calm tone-of-voice is eerie and downright creepy. The mystical oracle is controlling all our senses and magnetically attaching our eyes to the letters.

"'A - L - E.' Okay, he can't smoke cigars, but he can drink ale?" I'm caught in the excitement and attempting to make sense of everything Uncle Ted is throwing at us. "No, it's still going! Oh my God."

"'C - B - A - L.' What? I don't get it. Write it down, Nat." Zac's in charge, and I grab an old envelope beside my desk and a red pen. "ALECBAL." The indicator glides across the board.

"'D - W - I.' Okay. He wants to drink the ale, but he'd get slapped with a Driving-While-Impaired charge?" Cindy is . . . well she's pretty, God-bless-her.

"I don't think there are police in Heaven."

"This isn't Heaven," Zac reminds me. "It's Purgatory. And Purgatory is a completely different story."

"You're right. Okay, there's one more. 'N.' ALECBALDWIN."

"Alec Baldwin? What does he have to do with anything?"

"Hell if I know, Zac."

"How many times do I have to say that it's Purgatory?"

"You know that's not what I--"

"It's got to move more. I swear," Cindy is frantic. I can understand how she feels. I mean, if I had an Uncle Ted who is dead, Catholic and in Purgatory . . . and then when I finally reach him, all he can say to me is, "Alec Baldwin," I would probably die. Well not really. But maybe. Because then if I went to Purgatory, I could ask Ted what was so special about Alec Baldwin. "It's not moving," Cindy heaves an exasperated sigh.

"Maybe he just wanted you to know he was a fan of "Backdraft?" I pat her on the back and try my best to console.

"Oh my God. That's it!"

"What? The movie? It was decent, but--"

"UNCLE TED DIED IN A FIRE!" Astonishment. Pure astonishment. To think that Parker Brothers had created Cindy's one connection with her dead uncle.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm suddenly getting this warm feeling in my chest?"

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean," I scoot beside Zac. "You feel closer to God, don't you?"

"Yeah. I just suddenly want to sing . . ."

"Here, have a moon pie." I blow out candles and toss pies towards the two of them.

"This is kind of like a camp fire, isn't it?" Cindy smiles. She's so fulfilled, I think. She's received the one sign she needed for her unresolved relationship with her Uncle Ted. "I feel a little like singing, too."

"Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory . . ." I smile and wait for my friends to join in.

"Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory. Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory, children of the Lord!"

"To friends," Zac lifts his moonpie over the Ouija board in toast.

"To friends," Cindy and I repeat. Quietly, we begin to clean up the scattered mess in my room. Blowing out the last candle, I switch on the lamp to brighten up my room.

"I'm going to go on, guys. I have to work tomorrow." Getting a Moon Pie for the road, Cindy picks up her keys and leaves the room. I pull the covers back to sit on the bed with Zac joining me. We stretch out our socked feet and Zac lifts my foot into his lap. I tensely hold my foot up, fearful of what tickling may come, but Zac surprises me by asking a question.

"Can you keep a secret, Natalie?" I think I've always really liked the sound of people asking me that. He knows I can keep a secret. I've kept several about him, even the really juicy ones, so I'm sure he can trust me.

"Sure, Zac. What is it?" I can't help but use that gentle tone. I still sort of like him a little, maybe. Well not really. I've gotten over it, but there's still a little hint of "maybe."

"I moved the Ouija marker."

"You're kidding?"

"No, I wrote Alec Baldwin. I just thought she'd laugh, but--"

"ZAC! CINDY THINKS SHE'S MADE A CONNECTION WITH HER DEAD RELATIVE! DO YOU REALIZE HOW SICK AND EVIL THAT IS?!"

"I wasn't thinking. I figured you guys would take the joke, but--"

"We've got to tell her. We can't let her live a lie."

"Do you really think she'd care so much? I mean, she's happy. Can't we just drop it?"

"I don't know if I--"

"You promised." I hesitate. Zac is leading me in the sort of direction the Baptist Church warns me about. I should be honest. I should tell the truth.

I should--well, I should do what I want to do. Not what the Pastor says.

Those puppy dog eyes; he's done it.

"Fine. I won't tell her. But only because she'd be way too hurt to deal with it." Zac smiles and holds the back of his head in his palms like a pillow.

"Thanks, babe," Zac says, as I follow suit and lay in the bed, my feet to his head and likewise. "I think I'll stay tonight, okay?"

"As if you needed to ask," I smile and reach over to turn out the lamp.

"I wasn't raised in a barn, Natalie Jean." He sighs a little and closes his eyes. "Shouldn't I brush my teeth, though?"

"Nah, Moon Pies aren't that bad for your teeth."

"Cool. Night Nat."

"Night Zac." I close my eyes and drift to sleep, more confidently understanding the ways of the universe, astrology, oracles, and all that . . . jazz. Tomorrow I think I'll take on tarot cards. Yeah, that'll be cool.

Chapter 3

Walking tall, head high up and singing
I went to the city
Carhorns, corners and the gritty,
Now I am the proudest monkey you've ever seen.
"Proudest Monkey," Dave Matthews Band

"Goodnight, Mom," I say to the retreating figure, closing my bedroom door. Lights off. Summer heat. Alone, but not for long. Because I should be sleeping, but why sleep at night, when there are a million and one mornings built for that purpose. Dawn to dusk--to sleep, to stay home, to relax. Twlight to starlight--to live, to leave, to love. I wait silently in bed as the house begins to settle, because I only go out at night.

Mom has a tendency of drifting off just as her head hits the pillow. Dad, however, is much more complicated. Just before bed, he eats a stick of hard candy. It's as much of a ritual for him as saying grace before dinner. And then he has a way of pacing the hallway that connects the bedrooms of me, my twenty-two-year-old brother who is never seen, and his and Mom's. All together in a safe hallway hub. Perhaps he thinks the pacing will tire him, but exercise has been proven to actually stimulate the body and make falling asleep even harder. Which makes it harder for me to get out of this place. But I know he was once like me.

Sunlight for sleep. Starlight for play.

He's in bed, I think, when the first pebble hits my screen window. Why won't Zac be patient for once? Why can't he just relax while I climb down out the window and shimmy across the deck? The screen that replaces the pane each summer is starting to rip. I need to check on that. I've got a pillow placed under the bed, but if my parents really wanted to catch me, it'd be way too easy. Who cares? At least they can't catch me now. I sit on my desk and slide on out, feet landing on the wooden patio that surrounds my house. Surface under my feet, I place the screen back on and climb onto the railing of the banister. I wonder how much longer this thing is going to be sturdy enough to hold me up, as I jump off and land foot first onto the bank. Much practice has taught me to do that. I've bruised places on my body that shouldn't be bruised, doing that very thing.

"I didn't think you were going to make it this time." He says this every night.

"You know my Dad."

"Your Dad needs to learn a trick or two about falling to sleep easier."

"Are you suggesting what I think you are?" He nods his head. "Fine, tomorrow night, I'll dip his hard candy into liquid Tylenol PM."

"Good."

"So what are we going to do tonight, Zac?"

"Same thing we do every night, Nat. Try to take over the world."

****

"A disco? What in God's name made you decide to take me to a disco?"

"He's a bad motha--Shut yo, mouth! I'm just talkin' 'bout Shaft." Zac likes to do the different Shaft voices. And I think he also enjoys saying "private dick" without having to worry about someone questioning his sexuality.

"Did you even hear me? Our parents went to discos."

"You did like Boogie Nights, didn't you?"

"Well yeah, but that's just because of--"

"The thing was fake, all right? It was fake. Prosthetics."

"I was going to say the music," I huff. "I mean, what are we going to do when we get carded?"

"Ingrate. We aren't going to get carded."

"What makes you so sure? A disco. Dear God--"

"My uncle is the doorman and he promised he'd let me in if we stayed away from the bar."

"You're positive he's working tonight?"

"Well not really, but if he isn't I've got a backup plan."

"Which is?" Zac retrieves two laminated cards from his pocket, setting them on my thigh and using the excuse for having his hands on my legs, to leave them a moment longer in order to pat them down. Fake I.D.'s being very slippery things of course.

"Are you going to feel me up or keep driving?" I roll down the window to let some air in.

"Who says I can't do both?"

"Well I don't think the DMV is really big on--"

"You haven't taken your driver's test yet. How would you know?"

"No, but I did get my permit and I got the question about head-behind-the-wheel right."

"Getting your permit does, in fact, require having a parent or legal guardian in the vehicle with you, so I think that question had to do with something completely different. Head with a friend, however--"

"Since when do I have blonde hair?" Looking at Louise Adam's driver's license is a humbling thing. It makes me feel almost amazed that while I'm out trying to decipher which guys are gay and which are straight at a disco, Louise might be baking brownies in her Texas home.

"Since you dyed it on your twenty-first birthday, got a new license picture done, went home and washed out the twenty-four hour dye."

"Who is going to think I'm twenty-five?"

"It'll be dark; just walk tall and don't think of it. I'm the one who has to really worry. My guy is twenty-six."

"And so much growth happens between the those years, of course."

"Just shut up. I have to think."

"Make me."

"Make me, make you!"

"Make me, make you, make me."

"Make me, make you, make me, make me . . . damnit."

"Ha! Spoken best by twenty-six-year-old, Alfred Shoeman, from Dallas, Texas." I fold my arms and turn up the radio.

We're off into the night, so to speak, windows rolled down in Zac's car, opposite arms dangling out of the windows. Speeding into Asheville, we leave our small town with all of its closed businesses for a city with people who love the nightlife . . . who love to boogie.

****

Drinking alcohol will never be as fun in the future as it is now. If I were twenty-one, I bet I wouldn't touch a drop, period. There is so much more to drinking alcohol for a sixteen-year-old, than there will ever be for anyone legal. It's one of the many necessary stamps on the ticket to adulthood.

The appeal, definitely, resides in the thrill of the hunt. Teenagers are no casual drinkers. When we drink, we are expected to get drunk. Now I've found that due to the fear of damaging such essential organs as . . . well, livers, I never drink anywhere near the amount that would make me justifiably drunk. But being drunk is such a key effect of the alcohol in the first place, I have to pretend to do it. Some people might doubt me on this, but I still say that acting drunk eventually becomes more of a psychological thing--to the point, in fact, that I actually believe I am drunk.

Just when I've got myself good and "drunk," I have to sneak back into the house, sometimes encountering even a parent or two. To these such people, I have to pretend to not be drunk, while simultaneously pretending to be drunk. If I can succeed in all these pressures, then I am left to the security of my bedroom where I may quietly vomit. Of course, I don't really need to vomit in the first place, but vomiting is part of the territory of being "drunk," so often, I am only pretending to quietly vomit. All of these things are insanely important when faced with alcohol, and one must never leave out the step of faking the hangover the morning after such activities of wildness and rebellion.

Zac's uncle was at the door tonight, so the fake I.D.s remained unused in our pockets. The uncle-in-question did, however, give us a moving diatribe about the dangers of alcohol and more specifically, why it was imperative we stay away from the bar.

Which happens to be the exact reason we have positioned ourselves in the bar stools to the far right of the counter. The bartender, I think, has a crush on Zac, because he keeps checking him out, slyly, while mixing drinks. I was wrong to expect a reasonable number of heterosexual males at this disco; it seems as though Zac and his uncle are a precious minority of men tonight. Or at least I think Zac's uncle. Could be wrong.

"Zac, is your uncle--"

"Huh?" he snaps his head to me at the sound of my voice.

"I can't believe it. You were staring at the bartender."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

"I swear to God I wasn't!"

"Zac, you lie! You lie, you lie, you lie; you were looking straight at him. You're in luck, Pal. Seems interested."

"I was merely wondering what it would be like to be a bartender."

"More like what it would be like to do one." I pop a peanut into my mouth, crack it in my jaw, and spit the shell on the ground.

"Oh, that's attractive," Zac quips.

"Not like I have to worry around you."

"Will you shut up about that? It might've been funny for five seconds, ten minutes ago, but now it is not approp--"

"On the house." The bartender breaks our conversation and slides a peach schnapps Zac's way. My jaw, if anything like Zac's, is gliding gently across the countertop. The bartender's wink stirs a gulp in Zac.

It doesn't take me long to get over the initial shock, however. This cannot be more unfair. Zac is not getting a free drink without me. "Excuse me, Sir," I butt in all snotty-like.

He gives me a murderous look, but asks in a sickeningly sweet voice, "Yes, Mam?"

"Might I trouble you for two straws?" Zac doesn't quite know what to think, I'm sure. I've managed to ruin his chances of having something he probably didn't want in the first place. The bartender pauses for a moment, attempting to collect himself before producing two flexi-straws from the soda cart behind him.

Now I'm quite positive my request was entirely too suspicious, but let's face it: there was only one drink and to be honest, Zac has a history of backwashing.

****

I think halfway through Do a Little Dance, Make a Little Love, Get Down Tonight, the tiny amount of peach schnapps started to go to Zac's head.

"Woo! Get down tonight!" he yelps, as we move across the dance floor. He's working his crowd, I can tell, and he just finished a very Saturday Night Fever-ish routine, center floor. He likes to have an audience, and I'm starting to realize that if I want to be a friend, I'm going to have to be a sidekick. Zac's getting a congo line going when he gets the brilliant idea to harass the deejay. "Hey, Mr. Deejay!" he lets it rip. I've seen and done this sort of thing many times, so I know the behavior. Zac Hanson is pretending to be drunk.

The deejay nods his acknowledgement and Zac makes the request. "How 'bout some of that YMCA?!"

Pink rises to my cheeks. I don't know whether to be embarrassed or happy that he's not afraid to let loose. I guess I just never imagined him as . . . loose as he is right now. The music fades in and Zac's jumping like he's on a Pogo Ball. "It's fun to stay at the YMCA!" he cries. I let myself back up away from this dancing madman, and into a little growing circle that's forming itself around our hero. Zac jumps to the ground, doing a sort of split that is enough to pain even the toughest of men. We're clapping and shouting, and I know that if the bartender ever thought he had a chance with Zac, this is when the ideas of his sexual preference are determined. How could a straight boy break dance like that?

Lord, how could anyone dance like that?

I'm having no trouble staying on the sidelines enjoying this show, and wondering if he'll regret it later. Wondering if he's going to need an ice pack or heat pack or any sort of pack to pack up against his own pack. In fact, I'm as satisfied as I could possibly be in a ninties disco. But when Zac rises to his feet, and puts his hand out to drag me in, I'm at once in fear. I used to dance to Life is A Highway in the third grade my bed. I'd really break it down, go all out. But I think that's the last time I really did break anything of any sort down, period.

I try to follow his jump step and form the letters with my arms. This I can do. But this isn't what Zac wants. I can tell from the way he's gyrating his pelvis that he wants me to be Jennifer Grey to his Patrick Swayze. But how could anyone dirty dance to YMCA? I scoot closer to Zac and we're sort of swaying, maybe, and he says, "What are you thinking?" What am I thinking? I'm thinking, please don't embarrass yourself in front of these friendly homosexual men. I'm thinking, I have to pee like anything.

"I'm thinking about the peach snobbs." Now God only knows why I slurred that. I'm immediately giggling at the word. Peach Snobbs. How 'bout those peach snobbs? Zac backs away and looks into my eyes, thinking I'm surely the weirdest disco-duck in a sea of quackers. YMCA thins out and the circle has morphed into more of a group of random dancers trying to get the best out of Thelma Houston's Don't Leave Me This Way. Zac and I maneuver ourselves closer to the side, anyway, and he laughs.

"Peach snobbs?"

"You know what I meant." He's finally tired and I think the haze is clearing out of his mind.

"Peach snobbs!" And for some reason, we start to giggle. Madly. Like this insane never-ending laughter and it almost hurts the pit of my stomach. We keel over and I sort of grab his arm, like he's going to steady me, but he's wobbling, too. "Peach snobbs!" he shouts, as though it's the first time, and for some reason, it's the most hilarious thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

But the truth is that it's just a word! Two, to be precise, but basically, it's nothing that should be causing tears to slide down my cheeks. "Peach snobbs are so stupid. They only care about themselves." Zac squeals, like those pigs in Babe. We're forcing air into our system, because we have nothing left to use.

"They think they're the peach's fuzz!" I could definitely die tonight with a grin on my face. I have never laughed harder at anything in my entire life--even when a monkey at the Nature Center threw a big 'ol monkey turd right at Andrea Parker in the first grade. And believe me when I say, that was probably the single most laughter-initiating moment of my entire life.

"PEACH SNOBBS ARE THE PITS!" I yell, and I know that no other peach pun could ever beat that one. We're resorting to the silent sort of laughter. We can only hear each other's breathing and our stomach's are pulsating in and out at a speed that requires tickets on most highways. And here we are pretending to be drunk, so well that we are, discussing the the social order of a highly delicious and nutritious fruit.

"I . . . need . . . air," Zac chokes out and we continue to giggle our way out the door of the disco, music pumping behind us. Zac lowers the top of his convertible once we're inside sitting and trying to relax again. He shares that convertible with his family, but often calls it his own. It's so beautiful tonight. The breeze is cooling just enough to turn my flesh back to it's original tone. A sort of peach color. I smile to myself again. Zac turns to me, grinning slightly, "I'd hate to find out how humorous we could make . . . say, nectarines."

He makes me laugh. I love that about him. Gliding into the seat, I yawn. "You driving us home or are we just going to sit here?"

"The latter."

"Cool."

"You have your guitar," I notice. I'm surprised he's got it in his car, since he usually keeps it hidden away in his room. He strums when no one's around, he's said before. Lies on his bed, props up his legs, and picks out music in the most awkward of positions.

"Yeah, I thought I might want to play it sometime tonight."

"Do you now?"

"Do you want me to?" I laugh at him. Of course, I do. I slowly nod my head and he gets a sort of secret pride, turning around to grab the instrument. He backs his seat up so as to have room to put it between us.

"Blackbird," I say. He nods his head at me. The Beatles' Blackbird is one of my absolute favorite songs, and I think he sings it really well. His fingers strum cords and I close my eyes, listening to the familiar melody.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise"

This is so crazily perfect. I think that there are only a few amazing nights a person is allotted in a lifetime, and I'm afraid I'm using all mine up way too soon.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free"

I suddenly realize that I had a huge outlet to use for peach jokes. Remember that song? Presidents of the United States of America. It's called . . . well, Peaches, appropriately enough. Really old song. Why am I thinking of it now?

"Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise"

That song is so . . . so. I think so anyway. And I smile at Zac to let him know I'm pleased. He always waits for that after the final chord. He waits for me to look at him and say, "That was beautiful. Just beautiful." But the strangest thing is that he doesn't really need to ask me. Of course I'm going to think it's perfect.

"Let's go home," I say. It's time. I'll have a couple of hours before dawn. I'll be sleeping, I'm sure. Zac carefully puts away the guitar and starts the car up to leave. This is the way that everyone should spend their nights. Everyone's always waiting for something big to come their way and change things. But what I think is that we should all just change what we want change, and make ourselves who we want to be.

Even if it is a disco duck.

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