Believing In Faith (without Any Jesuses)

Chapter 1 The first time I truly thought my older sister was crazy was when she started picking on Mr. Hatchski, and then lied to a policeperson. I mean, even kids don’t lie to either one (the police person or scary neighbors). Though, we weren’t kids anymore, that was for sure. The three Harper sisters—my older sister Faith, me, and my younger sister Edie, were playing with Curiosity, in the front yard when Faith accidentally chucked Curiosity’s favorite ball into Mr. Hatchski’s yard straight across the street. “Curiosity!” we all yelled, but it was too late, and she was already gone with the wind. “Damn dog,” said Faith, because everyone knows that swearing fixes things. Anyways, we crossed the street and stood up against his old white picket fence, trying to see or hear Curiosity. Mr. Hatchski’s yard is wilder than the jungle. There’s a blanket of ivy covering the ground, and these huge old trees pushing up against the sky, and in the middle there’s these huge poofy bushes that are kind of prickly-looking. Right when Faith had half of herself over the fence, Mr. Hatchski’s front door stood open and there he stood, in all his plaid-bathrobe-wearing glory. “Miss Trescott!” he shouted, and came barreling down his walk, really fast for a guy who claims he can only walk with a walker when he’s crossing the street to get to the mailbox and you’re sitting in your car, waiting for him to move so you can move the car. “Miss Trescott!” he shouted really loud again, only Faith wasn’t paying any attention. “This isn’t going to work on him,” I hissed, because I knew what Faith was going to do, and I also knew it wasn’t going to work on Mr. Hatchski; he was too old-age. “Miss Trescott!” Finally, Mr. Hatchski, huffing and puffing his way to the fence. “Get out of my yard!”

Finally, my sister turned around. “Who, me?” she asked with a wide-eyed look on her face. “Yes, you!” said Mr. Hatchski, waving his arms around in the air like he was trying to imitate a flying bird. “Oh,” said Faith, “I didn’t know you were talking to me.” “There’s no one else in my yard, is there?” he looked challengingly at Edie and me, as if any second one of us was going to vault over the fence and join Faith and the nut parade in his yard, too. “No,” said my sister, her lips pursed, getting annoyed. “It’s just that my name isn’t Miss Trescott.” “Yes it is,” Mr. Hatchski blatantly informed her, “and get out of my yard this instant! You—” he said, swiveling around to face me, pointing an old stubby finger at me, “young Trescott—get your sister out of my yard right now!” “No, it’s not,” continued Faith. “It’s Miss Harper. As with my sisters. My dad’s name is Trescott. Have you got a problem with that?” “No,” blustered Mr. Hatchski. His arms had stopped wind milling, I noticed, but now they started up again. “Whatever the hell your name is, I want you out of my yard!” My sister began picking her way back toward the fence very slowly. “I will get out,” she said calmly, “when you apologize.” “What?!” Mr. Hatchski was too outraged to even yell. He look crazed, standing in the midday sunlight in a shabby old bathrobe and uncombed hair and a 5 o’clock shadow even though it was only noon, yelling at a woman tidy in jeans and a swept-back ponytail. “That’s right,” said Faith, stopping three feet from the fence. “Apologize. For making the terrible and anti-feminist conclusion that I have assumed my dad’s name and that so have my sisters. Oh, and for being so rude as to not know either of my sisters’ names.” “I’m Cal,” I said patiently, not about to let him suffer while he wracked his brains. I mean, Mr. Hatchski was at least eighty. “And this is my little sister Edie.”

He squinted at me. “Huh,” was all he said. “Huh.” Then he turned back to my sister. “I will not apologize! And you’re trespassing!” “You don’t have a sign up,” she pointed out. “What?” “One of those ‘No Trespassing’ signs. I mean, how was I supposed to know?” “From the last fifty times I’ve told you to get out of my yard!” “Oh, really!” my sister was getting seriously ticked off. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared. “I will apologize if you do, but you need to go first.” “I refuse! Get—off—my—PROPERTY!” “We need to talk, Mr. Hatchski,” Faith said, giving him her version of a death glare. At that moment, Curiosity burst out of the shrubbery, proudly bearing her favorite ball, and Mr. Hatchski let out a shriek that would wake the dead. “That…that…that thing…get it…get it OUT of here!” he sputtered. My sister sighed, apparently sick of the whole thing. “Okay, guys, let’s go,” she said, and vaulted back over the fence like nothing had ever happened. Mr. Hatchski stood there, yelling insults at us like a madman as we retreated back across the road to our house. Edie and I just stared at her. Faith can get a little out of hand with the whole feminist-kick thing. “I’m not really in the mood to play with Curiosity anymore, what about you guys?” I shook my head. “Seriously, Faith, I don’t think it’s good to tick Mr. Hatchski off.” She shrugged. “Whatever. Hey, did I get my new issue of Seventeen?” I shook my head again, but this time for two reasons: 1) Faith had not yet received her magazine, and 2) I was in awe of her. Honestly.

We were eating my pizza when the doorbell rang. My mom and dad had been at some art-show exhibit in the city this whole time for their 20thyear-of-marriage anniversary, and so I’d made my sisters and me pizza in order to go along with the rented movie we were watching. It was Music and Lyrics, which was old and I seen a thousand times but I loved the sappiness of it. Besides, some of the lyrics were really good. “Want to go scope it out?” asked Faith, as the person knocked twice, and pizza sauce dripping down her chin and onto her T-shirt. Truthfully, I don’t know how anybody could ever mistake her for an adult after watching her eat once. “Mom says we aren’t supposed to get the door when she’s not home,” said Edie, with all the loyalty of a younger sibling. “Edie! How old am I?” asked Faith, puffing herself up. “Eighteen,” replied Edie, her mouth full with pizza. “So?” “So I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. And anyways, I didn’t say get it. I just said go scope it out, see who it is. Just don’t let them see you. Anyways, Edie, what are you, ten?” “Twelve,” Edie spat back, and Faith just rolled her eyes and gestured toward the door. Grumbling, Edie left her pizza to go, as Faith said, “scope it out.” Ducking back around the corner a few seconds later, Edie looked absolutely terrified. “It’s a policewoman!” she practically hyperventilated. “And I think she saw me!” “Well,” said Faith, without even a hint of concern in her voice, “I think Mom’s rule doesn’t apply to policepeople, huh?” And she left her pizza, too, to go answer the door. Naturally, Edie and I tagged along behind. The policewoman was all decked out in the uniform and everything. I decided that she looked pretty official, standing there like that in our doorway. “Hello,” she said to all of us, and flashed a polite-but-not-too-unfriendly smile. “I’m Officer Rhodes, with the Jillian Police Department. May I please speak to a certain Miss Trescott?” The policewoman peered around us, as if she was

hoping another someone was going to appear there. She double-checked her notepad hopefully, then sighed. “I am she,” Faith said proudly. “Oh,” the policewoman stuttered, clearly a little confused. “I have a report from a certain neighbor regarding the fact that you were trespassing at twelve o’clock this afternoon.” “What?” said Faith, looking totally perplexed. “We—” she gestured behind her to Edie and me, “stayed inside all afternoon, watching Music and Lyrics. Have you seen it? Best movie ever!” “Oh,” Officer Rhodes said again. “A neighbor called in to complain about you and your dog.” “We don’t have a dog,” said Faith. Edie and I stared, dumbfounded, at each other. “Really?” asked the policewoman. “Mr. Hatchski seemed pretty sure of his statement.” “Ohhh,” said Faith, and gave Officer Rhodes this confidential-but-I’ll-tell-youanyways look that I’ve seen my mother give my aunt a million times when they’re talking about my grandpa’s sanity. “Mr. Hatchski,” Faith stated, and when Officer Rhodes gave her a confrontational nod, she went on. “So we were in his yard at noon? Doing what this time, I suppose? Killing his elephants? Tribal dancing on top of his palm trees? Making bubble gum under his—” “Elephants?” Officer Rhodes looked dumbfounded, but I could see a hint of beginning-to-comprehend behind her eyes. Faith sighed an I’m-so-sorry-for-him sigh, accompanied by a dazzling smile. “Yes, whenever she comes to visit, I keep telling his daughter that maybe it’s time for him to…you know…move out, but she hasn’t listened to me yet. He called the house around one, demanding to talk to a Mrs. Trescott. Of course, my mother wasn’t home then, but he confused me with her and told me to get my children out of his yard, saying they were out of line. I told him off for assuming that all our names were Trescott, because that’s our dad’s name, but not ours or my mom’s. So rude, the elderly, always assuming such antifeminist things. I’m sure you get a lot of that yourself, no?”

Officer Rhodes was in Faith’s grip. “Oh, yes,” she said. Then, her tone of voice changed and became more like that of a gossiping friend: “Elephants?” “Hmmm,” said Faith conspiratorially. “A few months back. Came to talk about how we were killing off all his elephants with dog, which kept driving our herd of cattle into his herd of elephants and spooking them.” “But you don’t have a dog.” “Right. But sometimes, like now, we’re watching our friends’ dog. They like to travel a lot, so sometimes she stays here for two months at a time. But we love her. Her name’s Curiosity,” Faith said happily. “She’s adorable, but I swear, she’s never even been in Mr. Hatchski’s yard. She’s really wellbehaved. Do you want to see her? She’s great with strangers.” “No thank you, I think I’ll be on my way now.” Officer Rhodes smiled at Faith. “But thanks for the tip, and I hope Mr. Hatchski won’t bother you all again. Have a nice evening, girls.” And with a tip of her hat, Officer Rhodes drove her squad car away. Edie and I turned and just stared at Faith. “I could go for some ice cream, couldn’t you?” she said. “Get on some clothes. We’re going to the grocery store.” Faith drove with a purpose. She went two miles over the speed limit at all times, kept two eyes on the road and two hands on the steering wheel, one at ten o’clock and one at two o’clock, played a Bach CD to cut down on her road rage, and chewed a piece of mango-peach gum when things got heated. “You know what we’re doing here?” she asked, eyes still riveted on the pavement ahead of her. “Getting ice cream?” volunteered Edie. She was sitting in the center of the backseat, arms spread over the backs of Faith’s and my seats. “Nope,” said Faith happily. “Cal?” I looked out the window for a second. “Making memories,” I said finally. “Yes!” said Faith, grinning at me. “Edie, what’s the point of life?” “Memories?” “Cal?” “Finding happiness.”

“Happiness is spelled with an i, did you know that?” Edie was grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I said, smiling back at Edie, and saluted her. “I knew that,” she pouted. “Megan Johnson got it wrong on her test. Señorita Prescott wrote in felicidad, and she wrote in h-a-p-p-y-n-e-s-s.” I was quiet for a little, and then I said, “Isn’t it weird, all these rules we have? Humans have to classify everything.” “What do you mean?” said Faith. She was fiddling with the tracks on her Bach CD. “I mean, everything has to have a name. You know that book, Coraline? One of my favorite lines is from that book. Remember when Coraline meets the cat, and asks its name, and the cat says: “ ‘Cats don’t have names,’ it said. ‘No?’ said Coraline. ‘No,’ said the cat. ‘Now, you people have names. That’s because you don’t know who you are. We know who we are, so we don’t need names.’ ” ” “Hmm,” said Faith. “I like that. “ ‘We know who we are, so we don’t need names.’ ” “Wouldn’t that be confusing?” Edie asked, rolling her window up and down and up and down and up and down again. “If everybody just said you instead of Faith or Macey or Edie.” “We have a pointer finger,” I added. Faith drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Besides, it’d be fun. You could call people in your heads what you wanted, like if you thought someone looked like a Caitlin instead of a Laurie.” “What if you were trying to get the ball in a sport, and you were yelling Laurie but she thought her name was Caitlin?” “Edie, put down your needle and leave my bubble alone,” I said. As she drove, Faith checked in the rearview mirror. “Well, look, we got a Jesus BeDazzler behind us.” I smiled. The person had punked out their old brown car with glittery crosses and rhinestone-covered images of a crucified dead guy. Attractive. “Funny,” she said, eyes on the road again, “how some people think that Faith is like religious faith.”

I nodded and patted Faith’s arm, because that was her favorite story. “I’ve heard. Mom and Dad named you that so that you would have faith in yourself. Speaking of faith, isn’t it funny how when two religious people go to war, they always think that a god is on their side. But how can a god be on both sides at once?” Edie was getting into it too. “And how do we know if god’s a man? And why do they always capitalize the he that stands for god?” she turned around, and yelled to the person behind us. “Here’s what I say: he-with-a-lowercase-h is dumb!” “Sh-h, Edie. Believe in the religion of kindness.” Edie humphed. The Jesus BeDazzler sped past us. “I’m thinking peanut butter ‘n chocolate, huh?” I smiled as we whizzed past, the trees turning into shapeless lumps. Bach played a fierce chord, and Edie groaned. “Faith, please, good music?” Grumbling still, Faith switched on the radio— I’m nothing I’m not But a t-shirt and jeans And warm brown eyes With sweet sunshine begging please Falling harder than ever on the ground, Too much to absorb, The sun won’t rise, hot and round, But the moon will come up A rainstorm of light With no clouds to mop Tea, please, Just one cup, My kind of favorite “Hmm, this is a good song,” Edie said. “Leave it here, Faith!” Faith turned the wheel slowly, easing us into the grocery store parking lot. “Everyone out!” she shouted. “We scream for ice cream!” “Oh yeah,” Edie said. “Cal, let’s go!” I hopped out of the car, and that’s when I saw it. “Faith!” I yelled.

The speed of reaction is not equal to the motion of cars. The Law of Conservation of Energy stood still. One energy from this earth disappeared. The other? A bump in the bumper. Chapter 2

“In life, my sister weighed about 122 pounds, was 5’6½”, and never sat still (with the exception of when food was placed in front of her). In death, my sister weighs 5 pounds, 4 ounces, is 1½ feet tall, and sits perfectly still. She could be considered,” I said, biting down on my front lip to keep in from trembling, “the perfect daughter. Still.” There were a few chuckles and a handful of laughs, but that wasn’t what mattered. My knuckles were turning white from gripping the podium in front of me. I pulled back and slipped a piece of mango-peach gum into my mouth, even though gum-chewing is a #1 Speaker Must-Not. Things are getting heated, my Faith said. “In life, my sister meant a lot to me, particularly on rainy afternoons and before I turned 16.” More laughs. “In death, my sister means what I wish I could become—the perfect human being. There was a lot more to Faith than what anyone could see. Her personality, her speech, her quirks, and everything else made up her outside. But her inside? I’m not sure I’d ever fully understand. I know that my sister hated it whenever people assumed that her name, Faith, was a reference to anything religious. Her faith in herself is what held her strong. And now, I suppose that the rest of us left surrounding her must have faith in ourselves, because Faith isn’t here to do for us. Religious faith, to me, is defined as following something because it’s there, and other people have told you do so. For me, Faith Harper was more than that. She never told me to have any sort of faith, and I developed on my own. That faith? In her…” And here I paused to gulp. On my computer, several miles away, there was much more to say. Paragraphs, innuendos, similes,

metaphors, rhetorical questions…any English teacher would have been proud. But thing about speaking is that it’s not just speaking. It’s communicating. And I was about to lose that. So I stepped out from behind the podium, glancing down at Edie, my mother and father, aunts, uncles, grandparents, people who claimed to share Faith’s blood, and people who claimed to have shared part of Faith’s life. “So I ask you all to not lose faith in this world, where someone you loved has gone. Rather, have faith that your life will go on…because that is the nature of Faith. Thank you all.” On my way down the stairs, to emotional and strong applause, I ran my fingers softly over Faith’s urn. I scooted in next to Edie, who had her notebook and recorder out. She pushed stop when I sat down and whispered, “That was really good. I’m serious, Faith would have been proud. Can I quote you on that?” She jotted down some more scribbling in her notebook, but I just smiled. Edie was dealing with Faith’s deaths with facts. Newspapers, with backbones of facts, were perfect for her. My mother and father dealt with all the personal aspects—her room, her cremation, her not-quite-a-funeral, and everything in-between. I considered myself to be one of those in-betweens, something that didn’t quite have a place anymore. I wasn’t Faith’s anchor, her anything…I was someone who existed when she did not. Technically, she did, where she usually sat on top of the mantel above the fireplace in the family room. But if she wasn’t being crazy, I thought, she didn’t really exist. Katelyn, one of Faith’s friends, was climbing the podium, mascara already streaming down her cheeks.

I couldn’t stand it, suddenly. I had to be out, out of here from all these people who thought that this ceremony was for Faith. It wasn’t—it was for us, the selfish ones left behind—and therefore, I wanted out. I had just enough control to make it out of the maze of benches surrounded by willow trees in the park before I started to cry. Then they came, long and heavy and exhausting, and before long I was so cried out that my insides had shriveled up, from the lack of water. Or maybe from something else, too.