Young Writers Society

Jesus Freaks (Part Two of Thirty)

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Remember how I said I hated Jesus freaks? Well, my hatred increased when the Wilcox family bought the house three doors up. They impressed me at first. As a matter of fact, I thought they were very nice, plus they had a kid my own age.

I first heard them when I heard voices in the woods behind my own house. I took a spear I made from scratch and entered the brush. There, I found three kids: a preteen boy with a bad haircut that made him look like a fifteenth century Franciscan monk (I later found out that his mom gave him his haircuts), a ten year old girl with bulging eyes and an expression saying “I’m curious, I’m curious!” and, finally, a black teenager who looked far too tired for his age. I approached them. We made contact. “Hey,” I called as I moved my hand upward in a waving motion.

“Hello,” said the tween-boy as he and his party came down the hill, closer to me. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” I replied awkwardly. “I heard you guys are new to the neighborhood. How do you like it so far?”

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by his little sister. “Mom says it’s too big and the houses are ugly,” she said. “She says we’d be much better down in Williamsburg, where we used to live, or over in Fairfax City, closer to D.C. That’s where Dad works, you know.”

I was secretly offended. This was a nice neighborhood with nice folk. Plus, I was asking their opinion, not “Mom’s.” Somewhat aggravated, I opened my mouth again. “Although this is a nice neighborhood, I suppose your mom is entitled to her own opinions,” I said, snidely. ”But, I was asking what you think, not your mom. I really don’t care what she has to say.”

The girl looked offended. “You should care what Mom says. Really. You should. She knows best! That’s what she always tells me. Mommy knows best!”

“But you still never answered my question,” I said, folding my arms with a sneer.

“If Mom says this is a bad neighborhood, then it’s bad. She’s so smart and I trust her so much,” the girl said.

I didn’t care, honestly. I just wanted to learn more about this family. I turned back to the novice monk. “You guys are from Williamsburg,” I said, half a question and half a statement. “My family has a place down there.”

“We’re from Virginia originally, but we just moved back here from Australia.”

“Australia!” I thought. “Damn, these guys are all over the place!”

“I’m Rash,” the little girl declared, ignoring what her brother had just said and extending her little arm out to shake my hand. I returned the gesture.

“Your name’s Rush? You mean like the band? I take it you’re Tom Sawyer then,” I said to the boy, who kind of smirked as if he knew something I didn’t.

“Don’t make fun of my name!” the girl bitterly hissed. “It’s Rash, not Rush!” She was breathing heavily, obviously upset by my lame attempt at making a joke. “Besides, that is on a list of bad bands at Church. I listen to what Jesus says. Mom and Dad say I need to if I want to be good. Rush is bad and so is Kiss. So is Led Zipline!”

“You mean Led Zeppelin?” I asked. She didn’t bother listening.

The girl was still angry with me for botching her “good name.” I felt kind of sorry. “Look, I’m sorry for making fun of your name,” I said.

She immediately changed her expression from one of disdain to one of perky excitability. “It’s okay,” she said, “it happens a lot.”

“I’m Parker,” I said, smiling.

“Well, as you know, I’m Rash.” She smiled as she giggly spoke her own name. She pointed to her brother. “That’s Mical. And that’s Tony over there.” She pointed at the black teen who gave a small, nervous wave and a slight smile. Rash leaned in closer to me and muttered, “he’s adopted.” Any idiot could tell that. He was black.

Before I continue telling you this story, let me say that, with an exception of Mrs. Fullgraham, I had very little experience with Jesus Freaks. While I was a devout Christian in my younger and more vulnerable years, I really never knew any people from other religious backgrounds. To be honest, I actually preferred the company of other little Christian girls and boys. I guess I kind of hoped that this new family would also be Christian. As it turned out, the Wilcox’s were Christian. They were definitely Christian. They were too Christian. I guess God sent them into my life as a joke. Lesson learned: be careful what you wish for.

“So,” little Rash started, “where do you go to church?”

“St. Johns,” I replied.

“You know that Catholics aren’t really Christian, right Parker? I thought you were a true Christian!” Rash said this in a way that sounded as if she were deeply concerned for the welfare of my eternal soul.

“And what makes you think I’m catholic?”

“Because only Catholics believe in saints, who are idols and fake gods. They also think Mary is a god.” Rash’s expression did not change.

“Well, that’s your opinion. Catholics believe in Christ, making them Christians,” I corrected. “Plus saints aren’t gods. Neither is the Virgin Mary. And I am not catholic,” I said in a very matter-of-fact tone. “I go to the Episcopal Church.”

Rash looked embarrassed. All she could say was, “oh.”

I turned to Tony, to whom I had not yet spoken. “So, Tony,” I said, “how many siblings do you have besides them? Is it just you three?”

All three kids started laughing at once. “Not at all!” laughed Tony. The laughing died down. “Let’s see,” he said, “there’s me, I’m the oldest, followed by Josh, my cousin, who is also adopted, and his little sister Jessie. They’re fifteen and thirteen. I’m sixteen.”

“A family of five must be a lot for your parents to handle,” I said.

“Oh, I wasn’t done,” Tony said shaking his head. “Mom and Dad’s oldest biological child is Tim. He’s fourteen. Next is Mical here, who is twelve. Followed by Rash and our little sister Marcy. Marcy’s eight and Rash is ten.”

I couldn’t believe all of these children this family had. But Tony continued listing off names!

“Next are the twins, Malachi and Lucas, who are both five. Georgie is four and little Tommy just turned two. On top of all of that, Mom’s pregnant with little Josephina.” He sighed, shaking his head. I couldn’t blame him. Eleven children. That was insane! I mean, I love my three siblings, but the prospect of having ten brothers and sisters, with an eleventh on the way, made me sick. Someone obviously doesn’t believe in birth control. That was the first thought that went through my mind. I mean, would it hurt for Mr. Wilcox to pull out every so often?

We talked for a while longer, then I decided that I wanted to make friends with this new family. Mical invited me over to his house to meet the rest of the family. I was eager to meet Tim most of all. The houses in my neighborhood are…large, to say the least. Some could consider them mini-mansions as they are spread out and have four to five stories. You know, just perfect for a family of fourteen. Now that’s the American dream right there. Eat your heart out, Gatsby!

As I walked inside their house, their dog ran up to me and started to lick me. The thing was this ugly mutt, almost as large as little Rash. I later learned that Benji was part dingo or some shit.

I was introduced to the whole crew. Josh was waiting at the door. I said hi to him, but the kid just waved.

“He doesn’t really talk,” Rash said, whispering in my ear as we walked through the foyer. Whilst they took me on the grand tour, I came across Jessie flirting with a neighbor boy who hardly seemed interested, the twins fighting over a toy in the messiest basement I had ever seen in my life, and Georgie whining over not being able to watch his favorite TV program due to the fact that Marcy was hogging the remote. The only one I didn’t meet was Tommy, who was down for his nap. I later found out that he woke up after Tony played me a solo on his pride and joy: a brand new drum set. He played me that epic drum solo from the second half of “Behind Blue Eyes.” I still hadn’t met Tim, though.

I found him in the family library, which was a converted bedroom on the third floor. He was reading The Hobbit, a favorite of mine. Rash tapped Tim on the shoulder. “This is Parker,” she said, as if she and I were lifelong friends.

“Hey Parker,” Tim said, quickly dog-earing his page and putting Tolkien back on one of the mahogany bookshelves. “I’m Tim.” We shook hands.

“It’s one of my favorites,” I said, “The Hobbit, I mean.”

“I like it so far. I want to read The Lord of the Rings next.”

“Great series,” I replied. “Ever read the Harry Potter books before?”

“Nope,” he said, “never. My parents wouldn’t let me. It’s satanic, you know.”

“Says who?” I asked.

“The banned book list at church!” he exclaimed, expecting me to know what he was referring too. “It’s right up there with Golden Compass, A Game of Thrones, and Catcher in the Rye.”

“It’s really not bad. It’s a great series. Plus, I’m pretty sure it has some Christian symbolism.”

Tim scratched his head. “That’s what some people say. But didn’t you know that J.K. Rowling wants to kill God?”

I laughed inside but still couldn’t hide a smile. “One does not simply kill God,” I said in a voice as close to Sean Bean’s as I could muster, although Boromir would always remain more badass than I could ever hope to be.

“I know,” he said, “somebody should tell him that.”

“Umm, J.K. Rowling is a woman,” I said, startled by this poor boy’s lack of culture.

We got better acquainted with one-another over the course of the day. He was eight months older than I was, a history buff, a reader, and homeschooled. I later learned, however, that his family did so for some bullshit religious reason. He also liked videogames, but in spite of his nearly fifteen-year-old status, his parents only allowed him to play one teen rated game: Age of Empires, which, as it turns out, was a favorite of mine as well.

We took a walk through the neighborhood, having a random conversation about history. “I’m an expert on all things suicide, you know.”

It was quite a random statement, but I acted interested anyway. He was my new friend, after all. “Really?” I said.

“Do you know that in May of 1945, the Russian army entered Berlin with the hopes of capturing Hitler, who was held up in a bunker with his girlfriend. Well, he didn’t want to be taken alive, so he and his girlfriend planned on swallowing cyanide, and they did, but it was too slow, so he shot himself in the mouth instead.” At the time, I was impressed by his knowledge, but now I realize how commonly known that stupid fact is. Also…suicide expert? Really? Give me a break! Either way, at the time, I believe that the both of us were convinced that we’d become great friends.

After I went home and told my parents about the new neighbors, my mother baked a pie. My mom makes the best damn pie. That’s why Thanksgiving is probably one of my favorite holidays. Her pie, and all the other food. I swear, I gained ten goddamn pounds last Thanksgiving.

Anyway, my mom sent me and Julia Annemarie to deliver this pie to the Wilcox’s. Julia Annemarie is my twin sister. She’s great. She really is. She’s funny smart, and beautiful. If I’d pick a favorite sibling, it’d probably be her. We’re twins, so we have this special connection, you know. She’s also like my best friend in the whole world. I love her. I really do.

I’m three glorious minutes older, but she acts like she’s older. She’s so mature compared to me. I act like a thirteen year old. That’s where my maturity level is. She’s had many a suitor. Most are just a bunch of pathetic douchebags. She’s also very inexperienced. Julia Annemarie has only ever had one boyfriend, and all they ever did was kiss. He was a nice kid, but he ended up moving to Wisconsin or something. I’m really protective of my sister. I really am. She’s innocent. Who knows, maybe I have some sort of inner, subconscious reason for doing so. I want to shelter her. Maybe I just want to lose my virginity before she does. I’m the biggest virgin you’ll ever see. I swear. But, my sex life is a story for another time, I suppose. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.

So, Julia Annemarie and I take this pie up to the Wilcox’s, and Rash opens the door along with her mother, nursing Tommy, who seems rather old for such things.

“Hello,” I say, “I’m Parker Charlton, and this is my sister, Julia Annemarie. Welcome to the neighborhood.” I hand them the pie. Nobody makes an attempt to take it. There is an awkward silence.

Rash spoke up. “What is it?”

“Apricot-peach pie!” proclaimed my dear sister.

“Eww!” Rash reacted, “is it for sale? I don’t want to buy it! We don’t like pie!” It was the rudest fucking thing I’d ever heard anyone say in my life. At that moment, I just wanted to take the pie and shove the whole damn thing down Rash’s lousy mouth.

Mrs. Wilcox, a fat, would-be lady in her mid forties said nothing. She looked as if she just wanted me to go away. I was waiting for her to correct or scold her daughter’s insolence. Not a word.

“Rash, take the pie inside and put it on the counter,” Mrs. Wilcox said, without changing her gaze or her expression. She looked tired. That’s what giving birth eight times and excessive fucking does to a person. “I hear you homeschool,” Mrs. Wilcox said as her baby sucked on her fat tit.

“Sort of,” I said. “My parents have hired me tutors.”

“You do know that homeschooling is the superior form of education, right?” she said, ignoring my previous comment. “Do you know the filth they teach in school these days? Lies about how we are descended from gorillas.” She looked pissed. She was right, it was stupid to think we are descended from gorillas. Any smart person knows that gorilla is a sub-species of ape, just like homo sapien-sapien. Both homo sapien-sapiens and gorillas are descended from apes. Anyway, I damn well knew that’s not what the woman meant. “You’re Christian, right?” I shook my head. She nodded approvingly.

At that moment, Tim came to the door. “Hey,” he said eagerly. “What’s up?”

“We just came to drop off a pie to welcome you to the neighborhood. Welcome to Blackwood Estates!” I gave a mock bow. I didn’t even notice Mrs. Wilcox slip away. Tim stepped outside. He closed the door behind him.

“Thanks,” he said, “it means a lot, I guess.” Tim Wilcox, that is one son of a bitch I won’t ever forget. He had brown hair and was one of those tall, dark, and handsome fellows, you know, the type of douchebag who’d look good in ROTC.

“And it was nice talking to you earlier,” I told him. “There’s a lack of intelligent individuals in this neighborhood.” My sister sighed.

“No problem,” he said, but he quickly turned his gaze toward my sister. “And what’s your name?” Tim asked. He smiled. My sister blushed.

“I’m Julia Annemarie,” she replied, grinning.

“That’s a pretty name,” Tim told her, softly, in a manner in which you’d think he’d forgotten I was standing right there. He snapped back to reality. “Parker, you never told me you had a sister.”

“I saw no reason to. It never came up in our conversation. Plus, I couldn’t even say the word ‘sibling’ after I found out you had so many.”

“Fair enough,” Tim said, whilst nodding. He turned back to Julia Annemarie. “So, you made that pie?”

She gave a goofy, phony smile. You’d think she was Cinderella and he was Prince Fuckme Wilcox. “Well, my mom and I, actually.” She giggled.

“Give me a break,” I thought. “I helped too!” I exclaimed. “I love to bake.” It’s true. I do. I love eating even more though. I used to sneak behind the couch and eat junk food. I snuck sweets like the little piggy I was. I was fat. I started losing weight and growing around age fourteen. Exercise is the fountain of youth. It really is. Nobody seemed to give a crap about what I said, though, my sister especially. The poor thing was goo-goo-eyed for Wilcox! That’s the thing. Nobody ever gives two shits about what I think.

“I’ll be sure to eat your pie, Julia Annemarie,” Tim said to her. Did he really just say he was going to eat my sister’s goddamn pie?

“This guy has some serious issues,” I thought to myself, silently condemning him.

Luckily, before I had a chance to punch my new friend in the mouth his mother called him inside. “I have to go now,” he said brusquely. “It’s time for dinner now. I’ll be sure to eat your pie!” There, the bastard said it again! “Bye Julia Annemarie. Oh, and to you too, Parker.” It felt amazing to know that I came second, right after my sister, whom Timmy Boy had just met two minutes earlier! He slammed the door in my face and I blinked a couple of times, standing there like a goddamn idiot. We could hear Tim whistling “Johnny Appleseed” as he walked down his foyer. I can just see him now, skipping down the hall like a magical pixie pony with the delusion that he was in love with MY sister.

We began to head back to our own house. It was a few minutes before I had actually registered what had just happened. I turned to my dear sister. “Did he just say he wanted to taste your pie?” I exploded with laughter.

“Yes he did. He didn’t mean it that way, and you know it!” She looked cross at me. “You are so immature, Parker.”

“Tim wants a slice of your pie!” I taunted. She slugged me on the shoulder. We walked home in silence. We still joke about it today.

Later that night, I told her, “They don’t even like pie.”

My friendship with Tim Wilcox continued over the next few months. The bastard even took my sister out on a date or two. It came as no surprise when she refused to have anything to do with the boy after he tried to have his way with her in the middle of some lousy movie. He tried feeling her up. Sleazy bastard. She was an inexperienced prude, my sister. She and I have that in common. I can’t do casual sex. The whole idea of “sport fucking” makes me feel uncomfortable. It was the same with Julia Annemarie.

She didn’t actually tell me that Tim had tried anything on her until after he and I had our falling out. She knew if she would’ve told me, I would’ve gone and punched him in his lousy face, which would be a one way train to “Parkerville, population: one fewer friend.” I love my sister. It’s great that she does stuff like that. I think she loves me too. Plus, she always complains about me not having enough friends. I guess I find it strange too. I’m a very pleasant person. I really am. At the moment, Brett and Nolan are all I need. I’ll probably end up mentioning them later.

I met Tim around Thanksgiving and we remained friends through February and into early March. Over those few months we were inseparable. We had sleepovers, played Age of Empires over the internet, played laser tag, and saw movies. I remember seeing Narnia with the old bastard. His family often invited mine over to their place as well. Once, we went over for Tim’s fifteenth birthday party in the middle of December. Then, right before Christmas, they invited Julia Annemarie and me to see a movie at their church with them. Looking back, I realize that it was probably just an excuse for Tim, the bastard, to see my dearly beloved sister.

I learned a lot about the Wilcox family and their religion that night. First off, the youth center at Cornerstones Christian Community Meeting Chapel, the church just outside of Blackwood Estates, was called “Eagle’s Nest.” Seriously? Eagle’s Nest? What was this, the church youth or the Hitler Youth? Secondly, there was this poster of this bullshit Bible verse bashing gays. Apparently they aren’t fit to enter the Kingdom of God, or something. Next, the youth pastor, while a nice guy, constantly cited Glen Beck and Rush Limbaugh. Come on, if you’re going to cite a conservative, the least you can do is Bill O’riley! Or, you could be like everyone else and quote the goddamn Daily Show! Jon Stewart’s the best. He really is.

What really caught my eye, though, were the “bullshit lists of banned shit” of bullshit, which those bullshit people with those bullshit fundamentalist beliefs think is bullshit. The first list that truly caught my attention was the banned booklist.

Banned Books That Any Good Christian Should Avoid

10.Twilight(Of course. It’s on my banned book list too, after all.)

9.The Shining(Come on, it’s not like the book has Shelly Duvall running around, screaming her head off!)

8.The Power of Now(Downloaded it on audio the next day)

7.Animal Farm(What the hell?)

6.The Communist Manifesto(Expected, seeing as if you are all a bunch of ultra conservatives who hate socialism.)

5.Mein Kampf(Wasn’t expecting this one, seeing as your youth center is called Eagles Nest)

4.The Crucible(Of course. Because witches are bad, Proctor sinned, and Joseph McCarthy was the greatest man who ever lived.)

3. The Golden Compass(Never even heard of it)

2.The Catcher in the Rye(Well, it wouldn’t be a banned booklist without it, now would it?)

1Harry Potter (Oh, well I sure as hell wasn’t expecting THAT, now was I?)

Honorable Mentions: This Island Earth, Leviathan, the Prince

Well, now I know that Christians have nothing against Fifty Shades of Grey! Makes me wonder what kinky shit the youth pastor does in the bedroom. Actually, come to think of it, it makes me wonder what kinky shit Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox do. No wonder they have a shit-ton of kids.

Next, I took a look of “evil bands.” It was stuff like the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Def Leppard, Black Sabbath, and Led Zeppelin. I was also surprised to see Pink Floyd on the list. It had a list of sub-reasons. Apparently the cover of the Dark Side of the Moon has a satanic message. Apparently the prism on the cover bore an “uncanny resemblance” to the pyramid on the dollar bill with the all-seeing eye which is, apparently, a symbol for a new world order and the antichrist. Now it makes sense. The Dark Side of the Moon was a ploy of the devil to seduce fans such as myself to help him destroy God and create a new world order! That explains the shrine to Lucifer in my room. This was utter bullshit.

It also said that the cover of Wish You Were Here implied a deal with the devil, which it does. Only, I don’t think these Christians get that it was meant to be satirical. They seem to take things way too literally. They really do. Anyway, apparently there is some satanic message if you play “Shine on you Crazy Diamond” backwards.

Praise be to Satan, who sits on his fiery throne,

He who judges, lies in wait, in his hellish home,

He who covets to gain the world and fill it with sin,

He shall find his victory, e’ery soul he shall win.

A cute little poem, to be sure. I’d love to meet whoever wrote it. Was it Waters or Gilmour? Anyway, it still wasn’t clear if that was the message if you play parts 1-5 in reverse or parts 6-9 in reverse. Damn, forget to ask.

Anyway, Mr. Wilcox came to pick us up from the movie in his giant, white, VW pedophile van around eleven. He was a very short, stout, and awkward man with a very pervy moustache that made it look like he had a ferret on his upper lip. In other words, he looked exactly like Zach Galifianakis in The Campaign. He was like a squirrel. Mr. Wilcox was friendly enough, but he was a pretty big phony. He was never clear as to what he did. He was vague. I mean, a simple “I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” would’ve been nice, at least. I still think he was CIA. He was sketchy enough. Plus his family went all over the world. Wilcox was definitely CIA.

Anyway, the old sport came to pick us up in the pedo van. “How was the movie?” he asked. It was the Count of Monte Cristo.

“Good,” everyone said at the same time as we piled into the van. I could see him shaking his head in the mirror. He later told me that they always played inspirational movies at church. After all, there was nothing more inspirational and wholesome than a 19th century French prison break.

One day, in early January, Tim came over to my place. We found ourselves discussing a variety of things, until the topic of our discussion became about Bridget, this girl in our extracurricular writing class we took. I sorta had this crazy crush on her. It was stupid. I just thought that dumb blonde was pretty. She turned out to be a bitch. Most girls I like turn out to be bitches, horrendous ones at that.

Anyway, we’re talking about how hot Bridget is. I saw to the old bastard, “I got dibs!”

“And what makes you think that now, Parker?” Tim said, smiling.

“Because I saw her first and I’ve known her longer.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he said, closing his stupid eyes and making sex noises.

“I liked her first!” I was starting to get rather infuriated.

“Too bad,” Tim said, “I was just in bed with her.”

“Shut up, Tim!” I yelled.

“Why?” he replied.

“Because,” I said, “first you hit on my sister, next you are going after somebody you know I like!”

Tim rolled his eyes, somewhat irritated with my overly anxious attitude. “You’re a little fucker, Parker aren’t you?” he could see the expression on my face change into one of rage. Nobody had ever talked to me that way before. I was a bit of a goddamn prude back then. I never swore until, well, after that shitty day, actually. He continued. “But I’m a fucker too. I did take Bridget’s virginity just like your sister’s.”

“Damn you Tim!” I shouted. “Damn you to the lowest goddamn circle of hell!”

He looked offended, Jesus freak bastard. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain-“

“I don’t give a damn, Tim. That’s bullcrap.” I couldn’t handle this kid. “Get the hell out of my house!” He obeyed me and got the hell out of there before I got a chance to go ape-shit on his ass. Luckily, Julia Annemarie found me and calmed me down a bit. Later I had told my mom what had happened with Tim and she, in turn, called Mrs. Wilcox who allegedly grounded Tim for a month. She never followed through. I found that out when Tim was bragging that his mom forgot tall about it when the Wilcox’s came over for dinner a week later. The Whore of Babylon must’ve been too busy tending to her other children that she forgot about her eldest son’s outburst.

The Wilcox household was an utter mess. It was so large that it was it’s own thing, a political machine. The children were all the cogs working together to support the queen bee. It was the duty of the older children to serve as wet nurses to the younger. The grew up too fast up there, I’m telling you. They were forced to take on the responsibilities that no growing kid should. They all had to wake up at five and clean and cook while the parents slept in. It seemed as if they only adopted the older ones so they could have built in babysitters.

We witnessed all of this firsthand when my poor mother, bless her soul, offered to babysit them all. It was on her birthday too! Poor woman. The baby was unsupervised by the pool and fell in. My mom saved little Tommy whilst all of the other Wilcox degenerates were nowhere to be seen. To this day, that was the worst goddamn birthday my mother ever had.

Sometimes I wondered how those poor bastards were treated up at Wilcox Manor, as my sister and I dubbed it. We finally found out one evening in February when poor Jessie ran down to our house while we were in the middle of dinner.

She was wearing this ugly, turn of the century sundress intended for six-year-old girls from the Welch countryside. She was crying. Crying her goddamn eyes out. She was one of the nicer ones, unlike that bastard Tim and his little brother Mical. God, Mical was so annoying. Plus, he talked about me behind my back to my little brother. He was also pretty damn delusional. He thought he could talk to animals. His family thought it was his “God-given gift.” Apparently he instructed an elephant at some lousy zoo to pick up a log and the elephant did it. When I told him to prove that he could by talking to Benji, he said that Benji was the only animal he couldn’t talk to. Little bastard.

Anyway, poor Jessie showed up at our door one night in this obsolete sundress, ready to go to Church. She came down to our home, seeking asylum from her family. My mother and Julia Annemarie comforted her while I watched. I don’t know what they did to her, but apparently she was physically punished for not wanting to wear that stupid dress. I couldn’t blame her. Poor girl. She was saying things like, “I hate them all,” and “I can’t live with them anymore.” Apprently Tim, my former friend and pervy bastard extraordinaire, poked holes in the shower curtains so he could see his sister naked, or so she claimed. How much of it was true, I don’t know. She could’ve made it up so we would be on her side. It could’ve been true. It’s something Tim would’ve done. I guess it is up to you to decide.

We calmed her down and called her family who came and picked her up.

These Wilcox’s only increased when it came to the obnoxious factor. One Sunday, just before March, Rash came down to borrow some sugar. She asked how church was, and when we proclaimed that we took the day off, she seemed very offended and basically told us, “You’re bad people, go to hell.” Of course, she didn’t use those exact words. You get the idea.

I did try rekindling an inkling of comradeship with Tim and invited him to spend the night in early March. Before we went to my house, we went mini-golfing. It was hot out. Virginia weather is bipolar, especially in the spring. As I recalled, it actually snowed a week later. One time, the only time it ever snowed one year was in October. It’s crazy. Damn global warming for that, if it exists. It probably does, or else Virginia would have more snow.

Anyway, we went mini-golfing and, because of the heat and the extensive sweat on our brows, my mom made us take showers when we got home. Tim seemed offended at first but finally gave in. As it turns out, his mother had a problem with it after Tim told her the next day. She called my mom and expressed her anger that she made her son take a shower when he was all stinky and crappy smelling. Mrs. Wilcox felt uncomfortable. Then, she started going on about how she was self-conscious about her goddamn stinky feet in college.

Showering was a rule in our house, just like the Wilcox’s had various rules in theirs’. Apparently, one rule was not to make fun of poor Rash’s name. I was over at the Wilcox’s house once and I came across a binder of Rash’s homeschool shit. On the front, it said “Raschalou.” I didn’t know that was Rash’s full name. In my stupidity of not being able to put two and two together, I asked Mrs. Wilcox who that was. Only when I asked her who that was, I pronounced her name as “Richelieu.” You know, like the cardinal from the Three Musketeers?” Anyway, Mrs Wilcox, old cow, was beyond pissed. She yelled at me to stop making fun of her daughter’s name. When I proclaimed that I didn’t know, she told me to stop lying, to get out of her house, and that she would call my mother and have me quote on quote “grounded.” She said the same thing after she caught me wiping sweat on her Bible once. She said she’d have me grounded. Like she possessed that kind of authority! Maybe she was starting to think I was her own child. I was always at the Wilcox’s house. My parents later stopped wanting me going to the Wilcox’s house. At the time, I thought it was because they didn’t want me to get in the way since they all ready had so many damn kids, but now I realize the true reason. My parents didn’t feel comfortable with me there since Mrs. Wilcox disliked me and my blasphemy.

I had finally had enough of entire Wilcox family by about a week later. It was snowing. It was the last of the season. We had just gotten back from our writing class. We carpooled. He was a god-awful writer. He wrote some shit story about a turtle. We were playing in the snow when we saw an Arab-looking man walk by.

“You do know he’s going to Hell, right Parker?” Tim said it with disgust as he watched the man walk away. “He’s going to get left behind when the rapture comes.”

“But he’s a person!” I replied, startled by his lack of empathy. “Doesn’t the Good Book say that God loves all of His children?”

“Yes, but He’d rather them be Christian. That’s why True Christians like me should try to convert those of lesser religions who believe in fake gods like Allah.” He was being such a goddamn know-it-all, even thought the bastard didn’t know anything. He wasn’t the smartest Christian in the Bible.

“No Tim,” I said in a tone meant to make a stupid moron understand me, “Allah is the same as your god. All Abrahamic religions have the same goddamn god.”

“Is He not your God too? You sounded as if you are an unbeliever!” The moron seemed confused. It was funny to see him react. “And don’t take His name in vain.”

I talked down to him. “Tell me, Tim,” I said, “What other religions will be left behind?”

“Catholic will. You too, probably, if you don’t change your ways.” He pointed at the crucifix around my neck. “You wear a cross around your neck. That’s wimpy and lame.”

“You’re wimpy and lame!” I yelled back at him.

“You practice idolatry!” he exclaimed. “Take it off and save your soul!”

Now, I must say that I wasn’t very religious anymore. I wasn’t an atheist or anything, but I only believed that God was a presence or energy in the center of the universe. Although I still wear a crucifix, I am more spiritual than I am religious. I was, and still am, a very spiritual person. I meditate. I like incense too. In other words, I don’t believe that God is just some Gandalf guy up on a cloud smoking a cigar. It would be cool though! It’s wrong to anthropomorphosis God. I still think it’s sort of cool though. Anyway, it is all make believe. Just mythology.

“Is that was your god told you?” I asked. “That anthropomorphic asshole you believe in?”

He looked flustered. Tim’s face began to go red. “Take that back or you’ll go to Hell!”

I laughed. “Hell sure as hell sounds a whole lot better than living in a hell with a douchebag who thinks he’s a god.”

“Take it back!” Tim started walking up to me as if he were looking to fight. I didn’t want a confrontation. I’m a big wimp. I really am. I was going to avoid a fight at all costs. He may have been bigger, but I was smarter and faster.

“Or what?” I replied.

“You’ll go to Hell,” exclaimed Tim.

I chuckled this time, in a belittling fashion. “I don’t fear Hell!” I yelled as loud as I could. I walked up closer to him. “I will survive this rapture of yours.” Frankly, I didn’t want to be raptured. I walked closer. He backed away. “I don’t fear Hell!” I yelled, louder than before. I’m surprised the whole neighborhood didn’t hear me. Tim backed into a tree on the edge of the snow-covered wood. “But you do fear Hell. And you fear me!” I said assertively. I spat at him and kneed him in the gut.

I left Tim there, in the snow, riling in pain. I could even hear him muttering some prayer to his precious Gandalf. It was getting dark by the time I got home. I just knew there’d be a phone call. I waited. There was none. I made my self a pot of tea. I waited. Still, no call.

My sister got back from a friend’s house. I told her what had happened. She said to me, “I would’ve kicked Tim in the balls so hard, even his grandchildren would be sterile.” I don’t remember the last time I laughed so much. I showered. My mom and brothers arrived. Still no call. My Dad got home from work. We ate dinner. I went to bed. The Wilcox’s never called my house. Not that night, night ever again. I have not seen a single one since.

We’d later heard from a neighbor that those modern-day puritans ended up moving to Scotland that May. They didn’t sell their house. They are renting it out, meaning they may one day return. A nice family lives there now, still Christian, but not crazy. Those goddamn Wilcox’s still haven’t come back, but when they do, I guarantee that old Mrs. Wilcox, bless her soul, will come back with another baby…and pregnant.