Rockets Versus Gravity Read Free Page B

vandal’s most recent blasphemy.
    Pastor Okonjo, in one of his more rousing sermons, intones that the vandal has declared Holy War, and that reaction from the church will be swift and just.
    Within a week, the billboard will have a new message:
JUDGMENT DAY is COMING
    No one will have the gall to mess with that message, the pastor reckons. No one will have anything funny to say about that .
    And, as it turns out, no one does. The vandal will not strike again.
    In the shadowy back left corner of the church, a young man in a black leather jacket sits quietly in an otherwise unoccupied pew, casually twisting the simple silver ring that encircles his left-hand ring finger.
    Clockwise, counter-clockwise . Clockwise, counter-clockwise .
    No one in the agitated congregation seems to notice him, no one but Clementine, that is.
    â€œMother,” she asks at the end of the service, “are we staying for the after-service luncheon?”
    â€œNo,” her mother says, shooting an icy glance at Clementine’s father. “It’s cheaper for us to eat at home.”
    â€œWell,” Clementine says, all saccharine sweetness, “would it be all right if I stayed behind to help the ladies pour the tea?”
    Of course this is all right with her mother! She wants to see Clementine kept busy. The Devil makes work for idle hands.
    As soon as she sees her parents drive away in their pickup truck, Clementine walks across the street to where the young man in the leather jacket sits on a park bench beside the cenotaph.
    â€œSo, you’re new to the church, aren’t you?”
    â€œI’m pretty familiar to the church, actually,” he says, pausing to light a cigarette. “But if you mean that my presence is unfamiliar inside this particular building, then yes, you are correct.”
    Slender tendrils of smoke curl around his wrist like ghostly serpents.
    She asks him, “Is that black spray paint on your fingers?”
    â€œIs that a halo hovering over your head?”
    She blushes a little. “No. Definitely not.”
    â€œGood,” he says. “Saints are boring. Most of them, anyway.”
    â€œYou know a lot of saints, do you?”
    â€œAll of ’em. Every single one.”
    He holds the lit cigarette out toward her.
    â€œI don’t smoke,” she says.
    â€œAh. Not a sinner, then.”
    â€œI don’t think smoking’s a sin,” she says. “Spray painting graffiti on billboards probably isn’t, either. But I’m not sure that doing either one is good for your health in the long run.”
    â€œI was just being funny. Jesus doesn’t mind. Neither does Brooklyn Tripp. They’ve both got a sense of humour.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    He takes a long drag and then exhales white smoke. “I just do.” He raises the cigarette to his lips once again. “Want to sit?”
    She does.
    Her heart throbs. It’s like he’s from another time. Not from the days of her namesake great-grandmother, but not from this era, either. He is from someplace in between, a more liberated age, a place in time where Clementine wants to be.
    â€œYou should probably get some blinds for your bedroom window,” he says.
    Clementine’s breath catches in her throat.
    â€œSomebody might see you,” he says. “Somebody might start believing in love at first sight.”
    Clementine’s mouth drops open. Could he see her in her bedroom from his perch upon the billboard? Clementine knows that she should find this weird. She should find this creepy. But she doesn’t. She finds it stimulating. She finds it sexy. She is filled with want. “You’ve got a beautiful mouth,” he says.
    She is drawn to the calm confidence in his cool blue eyes. She wants to reach out and touch his sculptured-stone jaw. She longs to lean forward and kiss his round, moist lips.
    She hears herself saying, “Thank you.”
    â€œYou