Small Town Sinners Read Free

Joy.
    “Okay,” she says. “I’d like a carrot stick.”
    They both hand me their snack bags and I give each of them the same amount of Doritos and carrot sticks.
    “You don’t want any?” asks Dean.
    “Nah,” I say. The truth is that I’m kind of hungry, but there’s not much in these bags and I’d rather my friends stop snipping at each other than have, like, four Doritos and two carrot sticks.
    Starla Joy smiles. “Portion control,” she says to Dean.
    “Yeah, I know all about it, smart-ass,” he replies.
    I raise my eyebrows at him.
    “Smarty-pants,” he says. “Is that better?”
    “Yes,” I say. “Much.”
    Starla Joy chuckles. “You’re such a mom, Lacey,” she says.
    I smile, but I don’t like it when she says that. I don’t want to be like a mom. They never get the spotlight.

Chapter Two
    Dean was right—August 12 is circled on my calendar in red. On this Wednesday, the full two-dozen members of Youth Leaders, our high school group at church, are seated in the sanctuary, voices buzzing about Hell House. Some people will volunteer today for behind-the-scenes jobs, like set design and lighting, but I’m planning to hold out for what I really want—a lead role in the show.
    I’m only going to be a junior and I should wait until next year to get a meaty role, but I want one now. I’m ready … I think.
    Last year I watched Julia Millhouse play a pregnant teenager. When the lights went up in the nursery, where they staged her scene, she said her lines with so much emotion that people in the audience started to cry. I’d see them come through the lobby after the show and hear them talking about her performance. I want that spotlight. I want to be able to affect people that way too.
    I’ve grown up with Hell House all my life, but Dean’s cousins in the next county over think it’s something weird that religious nuts do. It’s not. It’s a way to show people the right path. After all the scenes of sin, Satan threatens the audience. My dad always plays the devil—he thinks it’s funny to be the children’s pastor and the Antichrist. And Pastor Frist’s Jesus bathes Hell in white light at the very end, leading the audience into Heaven (also known as the church library, all done up in white sheets and cotton clouds), where they get decision cards. Most people fill out the cards and agree to at least explore a Christian life. It’s a magical weekend and an incredible outreach, especially for young people who don’t have a path to Christ like I’ve grown up with. Mom always reminds me how lucky I am to have that.
    I’m sitting with Starla Joy and her sister, Tessa, who’s finger-combing her wavy brown hair as we wait to hear about this year’s production. Tessa played an EMT last year in the drunk driving scene, and she got to say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kerner, your daughter is dead.” Everyone thinks she’ll get a big part this year since she’s pretty much the senior girl with the most rank here. Even in church—especially in church—there’s a social hierarchy.
    Dean’s late, as usual, and when he finally comes in I have to remind him to pull off his hoodie while he’s in the sanctuary. His hair is all over the place and I help him pat it down and tuck it behind his ears so he looks semirespectable. He has a Fiber One bar in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and he’s sneaking bites.
    “What?” he asks when I look at him sideways. “Like you’ve never snuck in a snack, Miss Pop-Tarts.”
    He’s right, I did used to eat strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts during church … when I was five years old.
    My father and Pastor Frist get up to start the meeting, and I look around the pews anxiously. I should be focusing right now, but I can’t seem to clear my mind. I’m annoyed by how much I’ve been thinking about the guy from the DMV, and now he’s in my head during the most important church meeting of the year.
    “This year, we’re using a new script that a bunch of