{Jon}

Jon huddled on the vinyl bus seat, watching the setting sun transform concrete apartment buildings into towers of gold. He was shaking. He thought he should pray for Cary. Crossing his arms tightly, he put his head down on the bus seat in front of him, but he couldn't pray.

For eight weeks, he'd lived in a constant state of dread, expecting Todd around every corner. That was Cary's everyday life. Jon got stuck thinking about how long, how many times Cary had stood there like that, taking it from his father. He tried to quit shaking, quit feeling like he was about to burst into tears.

Tears came anyways when he stepped inside the door of his home. It was cramped and filthy compared to Cary's entryway but it closed around him like a hug, the safest place he knew.

His mother came out of the kitchen. "Jon, where have you been? Supper was half an hour ago."

He bent and made a big deal of unpicking the knots in his shoelaces so she wouldn't see he'd been crying. "Cary's house. Sorry, the bus back was slow."

"Did you have supper at Cary's?'

He shook his head.

She turned aside into the kitchen. "I put a plate aside for you. I'll just warm it up."

His father's voice in the kitchen stopped him just as he was about to escape to his bedroom. "Jon, come in here please."

He went and stood in the kitchen doorway. His father was sitting at the table, his coffee cup in his hand. His mother's cup was on the table across from him. Parent conference. Jon's face heated.

"Your mother would have appreciated a phone call to let her know you wouldn't be eating with us," Pete said.

"I said I was sorry."

Pete's face was grave. "I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to be spending time at Cary's house, while he's serving a suspension at home."

Twenty minutes ago, Jon would have done anything to get out of Cary's house. Now he wanted to fight for the right to go back. "He's not under house arrest, dad," Jon said. "I think he can have friends over after school if he wants."

His parents exchanged glances. The microwave beeped and his mother set the plate at his place at the table and pulled the chair back.

Jon took the plate without looking at either of them. "I'll eat in my room."

As he walked away a part of him hoped they would call him back, sit him down, and demand to know what was wrong. He had never worked harder to keep them out.

"Kurtis called," his mother said. "I think he was wondering about worship practice?"

That was supposed to be tonight. Right now. He stopped in his tracks, his face burning. "Crap."

"I can take you," Pete said. "I have some things I can work on at the church."

Jon looked at his father. He couldn't say "Forget it, I'm not going. God might as well be dead." Instead he said, "I'll get my guitar."

///

Jon leafed through his binder of worship music in the van on the way to the church. He'd played most of these choruses a hundred times: Amazing Love, Mercy is Falling, God is so Good. He shut the binder and stared sightlessly out the window. How was he supposed to sing those songs?

Kurtis just needed him to play guitar. He didn't have to sing; he used to just for the joy of it. He didn't hear himself sigh, long and shaky.

Pete glanced at him. "How was your day?"

"Fine."

"Did you have a good time at Cary's house?"

"Yeah." Jon tried to think of something his dad would appreciate. "He did a lot of work on our project while he was home."

"I'm glad he's using his time constructively."

Jon closed his eyes. He saw red, purple and black, striped like the art on the twenty foot walls. He licked his lips. "Dad?"

"Jon?"

"Can Cary still come over? To our house?"

"To work on your project?"

"Yeah."

"With his parents' permission," Pete said.

Jon looked steadily out the window. "He's not a bad influence."

"I didn't say he was."

"You were thinking it," Jon said.

Pete was silent.

///

Jon was late. The group was gathered in the front pews in the sanctuary, heads bowed and praying, when he arrived. He slid into the end of the third pew back, glancing at the others: a couple adults, a couple kids and Kurtis. One of the girls from the youth group was praying aloud. Jon knew her name: Kadee Yoshenko. She went to his school. He had admired her straight shiny hair and brilliant smile for a couple of weeks.

Kadee was praying for a friend, earnestly asking God to save him and turn him back to the truth. Jon was jiggling his leg and not really listening until he heard his own name. Kadee was praying for him. He opened his eyes to look at her and found Kurtis' eyes on him. Kurtis' ears turned pink and he looked away. Jon sat rigidly for the rest of the prayer time, eyes open and fixed on the wood grain of the pew back in front of him.

When it was finally over, a couple of people noticed him, sliding their eyes over him quickly and getting up to go onstage. Kadee gave him a little smile. There were actually tears in her eyes.

"Hey Jon, can I talk to you a second?" Kurtis asked.

Jon stood and crossed his arms, conscious of everyone on the stage shooting them glances while they plugged in their instruments and shuffled through their music. "Sorry I was late," he said.

"Yeah, I was hoping you'd call me back before you came." Kurtis looked around at the pews and the light fixtures like he was searching for inspiration. "The thing is, you're off worship team."

Jon planted his feet. "Why, what did I do?"

"You know," Kurtis said vaguely. "The way things are right now, I wasn't really comfortable with putting you on stage."

"The way things are."

"I mean, you're getting in fights now and the company you keep—"

"Your brother picked a fight with me, not the other way around."

Kurtis lifted his hands. "It's how it looks, right? Jon, maybe you haven't figured this out yet but the kids you hang out with –they're drug dealers. Everyone knows that. This church has standards for the people in leadership. If you're going to be on stage you have to be able to set an example for the youth–a good example. The way it looks... well, you're not the kind of person you ask to lead worship."

Jon sucked in his breath, speechless for a second. "That's complete bullshit." His voice cracked on the swear.

Kurtis looked steadily at him. That certainly hadn't changed his mind.

Jon stormed out of the sanctuary, slammed his dad's office door shut and punched it. The rattle was almost worth how badly his hand hurt afterward.

He dropped onto the couch and put his head in his hands, thinking of the brilliant things he should have said: "You don't know anything about me. You never took the trouble until there was something I could do for you. And by the way? Your brother is a sick asshole who likes to hurt people."

There was a tap on the door and his dad pushed it open, looking wary. Jon thought he seemed relieved it was him. And there was something else.

"You knew," Jon said. "You knew they were kicking me off."

Pete shut the door and gathered a few books off his desk to return to his briefcase. "Rob Klassen is the head of the worship committee. They met last night." He looked up and saw Jon's white, furious expression. "I wasn't there, Jon. But when I heard—I thought something like this might happen."

"I didn't do anything. Everything they're saying about me is lies."

Pete stood still, his fingertips resting on his empty desk. "I know, son. It's going to take a few weeks for the truth to get around."

"Maybe you should call the prayer chain—see how fast it gets around then," Jon said in a soft, edged voice.

Pete was quiet. Jon had never known him not to meet his eyes.

"What?" Jon asked.

"They called already," Pete said. "One of the ladies called your mother today to pray with her over the phone."

Jon's ears rang, he was so angry and stunned. "They should mind their fucking business." The word made his father wince, and Jon was viciously glad.

"This isn't like other jobs," Pete said. "We talked about that a long time ago. They think you are their business. You're held to a higher standard. So am I."

Jon jumped to his feet. "I hate your job. I hate being a pastor's kid. You had a choice. I never did."

Pete turned his cheek. "I know, Jon."

Jon's fists clenched. "You don't know." His voice didn't sound like his anymore, snarling through his teeth. "You have no idea what it's like to be the firstborn son of Pastor White. I wish I had died and your perfect Judah was standing here right now."

The color drained out of his father's face.

Jon's own face was so hot he could feel it in his eyeballs. "I don't take it back. I know you wish he was here instead of me screwing things up. I wish he was, too. Then I could quit." He grabbed his binder of worship music and chucked it at his dad. "I quit anyways."

Pete caught the binder against his chest. It flew open, spraying chord charts all over the desk.

Jon stood, shaking, with his fists closed. Was he supposed to leave now and walk home? His dad was his ride. Pete would pass him in their van and get home before him.

His father folded the binder around the mess of its contents and laid it on his desk. His voice was very quiet. "Was there anything else?"

Jon exhaled. "No."

"Maybe if I gave you a hand with tossing that couch, we could quit together."

Jon's laugh felt close to hysteria. Or tears. He turned aside, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Whatever."

Pete got his jacket and keys, moving slowly like he might scare Jon off. "Okay. I'm finished here, and I would like to go home."

Jon picked up his guitar and followed his father out the door. They could hear the worship band playing as they passed through the foyer. Jon's guitar felt like it weighed one hundred pounds.

Pete didn't speak until their van pulled to a stop in their driveway. He left the keys in the ignition, wrapping his hands tightly around the steering wheel.

"I didn't know you felt that way," his dad said. "About your brother." Pete caught Jon's eyes and Jon was surprised by the heat and the darkness in his look. "I would never have chosen you instead of him. Never."

That struck Jon with the same force as if Pete had tossed the couch at him. He threw the van door open and climbed out. He turned, still gripping the handle to steady himself. "That doesn't change what I want."

"To no longer be my son?" Pete was leaning across the seats to look at him.

Jon couldn't hold his father's look for long. "I'm not going back there. I'm not walking back into your church where they think I'm a drug addict and a fuck up. So you tell me if I'm your son or not." He shut the door with a thud and went into the house.

*Do you think Kurtis is right? Should Jon still be able to play on worship team?*

1969 words.