How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,71

doesn’t. No.”

“But your heart‌…‌?”

“No, my heart pretty much approves, too.” I give him a faint smile and squeeze his hand.

“So what’s the problem, then?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“You’ll think it’s weird.”

“What, like, did you see Jesus in your pancakes this morning?”

“Okay.”

“Did an angel appear to you in the iHop bathroom?”

“See.”

“Repennnt! Mortify your flesssssh! Order the Smokehouse Combooooo!”

“You’re getting all judgy.”

“I’m getting judgy? I don’t judge anyone!”

“You get judgy about religion.”

“So? I think I’m entitled.”

“So it’s complicated for me.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” He twists his mouth and tilts back in his chair. “So here’s what I don’t get. You met with Father Mike that one time, and he gave you that stupid Step On the Brakes book and quoted the Bible at you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you fight him?”

“What, like‌…‌” I make a fist, mime a punch.

“No, goofass. Why didn’t you argue with him? Tell him you didn’t believe God was really like that? And don’t say you were scared, because I know you have balls. I’ve seen them. In action.”

I shrug, blushing. “I don’t know. It’s like, how do you argue with Leviticus?”

“I do. So do tons of people, right? Aren’t there gay theology people? Those churches with rainbow flags and shit?”

“Yeahhh, but‌…‌” I rub at a water splotch with my thumb. “He’d just tell me they were wrong.”

“Which would be his opinion.”

“Right, but‌—‌”

“And why is his opinion more valid than yours?”

He’s hiding a trap in a stupid question. I roll my eyes. Pass.

“I’ll tell you why.” He points at me with his fork. “Because you’ve been conned into thinking anything that makes you too happy is some kind of sin.”

“Oh, okay.” I kick at the table leg. “I guess I’m stupid, then.”

“No! Not at all. That’s just what organized religion does, Bran. I’ve seen it before.”

Mom serving stew at Our Daily Bread. Candlelit “O Holy Night” at Christmas Eve Mass. “That’s not all it is.”

“Well, that seems to be the key feature.”

“You just know about the bad parts. You’ve never seen the good stuff.”

“Oh, well, pardon me, Mr. Sudden Random Piety.” He’s shredding a napkin. Angry eyebrows. “You tell me one good thing about it, then. Tell me what’s so awesome, huh? The guilt and shame? The weird OCD rituals? The no-condom rule? The priests who‌—‌”

“Stop! That’s cheap.”

“Facts are cheap?”

“People do great things because of religion, too.”

“Uh-huh. Like Bec can’t do charity work because she’s an atheist?”

“I’m not saying‌—‌”

“In fact, it means more because they’re not just doing it to get to heaven. Next!”

“Well,” I squirm. “The sacraments, I guess‌…‌and like, the sense of community.”

“Aha. Okay. Sure.” He taps his chin and squints. “Whispering your sins in a little closet‌…‌eating a flat tasteless cookie once a week‌—‌”

“All right.” It’s stuff I think myself, but when he says it I hate him for it.

“‌—‌The sublime joys of singing hymns with folks who think you’re earmarked for eternal doom. Now it makes sense.”

“You’re just being shitty now.”

“I’m trying to understand‌—‌”

“Well, you never will!” I shoot back. People glance over. “You never will, because you didn’t grow up in it.”

“Yeah, thank fuck for that.” He mashes the napkin shreds into a ball. “My parents weren’t sadists.”

My mind tangles up with sweet memories. Mom adjusting my pipe-cleaner whiskers on the tiger costume she stayed up all night sewing. Dad narrating backyard batting practice: Number 44, Brandon Page, steps up to the plate in the bottom of the ninth‌…‌

“Don’t talk about my parents,” I say, evenly.

Abel blushes.

“I’m sorry. I am.” He picks at the spotless tablecloth. “I’m sorry, Brandon, I just‌—‌I’ve been burned by this. Like, seriously.”

“I know.”

“We’ll talk later. I’ll play nice.”

“Kay.”

“I want to have a good dinner. Okay? Can we do that?”

I nod.

“Sure. We can.”

***

We can’t.

The lasagna tastes like a tire and he stabs at his lobster tortellini the whole time and the conversation starts and stalls. On the cab ride back to the campground, you can feel a fight brewing thick in the air, like that time Dad spilled Mom’s embarrassing aerobics-class story at her high school reunion and the whole ride home was a tense tick-down to her explosion.

Bec’s curled up on the vinyl couch, watching TV with her phone at her ear.

“Heyyyy, kids,” she sings. “How was it?”

“Perfect.” Abel keeps his back to her, grabs a carton of milk from the fridge and takes a few glugs. I force a smile. It’s dark; she can’t tell.

“I’m watching an old X-Files with Dave.” She points to her phone. “Wanna join? It’s the one with the killer cockroaches.”

“Nah, I’m tired.” Abel slams the fridge.

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