Redemption Prep - Samuel Miller Page 0,44

into the chapel. Aiden followed him in without hesitating.

It was cool and damp inside, like the public library. The murals on the wall were bright, leaning forward out of their two-dimensional space. He’d never taken the time to look at them, but as he stared, he could feel them coming to life in all their strange splendor. In one enclave, a bearded man, Moses, huddled over a bush that burned like a fallen star, so radiant with heat that it almost looked metallic and smooth. In another, hippie Jesus handed the homeless men around him something that looked like Percocet. He wanted to go to it and take a Percocet from Jesus, but then he saw Eddy.

He sat alone in the center of the chapel. He wasn’t looking anywhere, or doing anything, or talking to anyone. Aiden’s footsteps were the only noise in the room as he approached.

“Eddy,” he exhaled.

Eddy didn’t turn around. His face was frozen forward, staring at the mural in the front of the church: the story of Noah and the ark.

Aiden sat a row ahead, resting his arms atop the pew between them. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but . . . wait, do you remember me?”

Eddy didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. The outer rims of his eyeballs were swollen and purple; a cut across his forehead, hastily covered with a loose Band-Aid, still looked fresh and bloody. His hair was thrown over it, unwashed and sticking in strange places. He was younger than the picture of him in Aiden’s head; his cheeks were soft; his eyes were buried and harmless.

“Oh my God.” Aiden cringed. “I did this. I did this to you.”

He couldn’t stop himself. His hands levitated upward, straight for Eddy’s face, sliding along his cheeks and grasping him by the neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I hurt you. I half-nelsoned you and body-slammed you into the ground.”

Eddy’s body reacted, not away from his hands but toward them. The tension in his neck released beneath Aiden’s grip; the creases on his face dissolved into smooth skin; his hands floated upward to meet Aiden’s, gripping onto the tops and squeezing.

“I don’t know what I was doing,” Aiden said, the words pouring out. “I thought I was being a hero, but . . . but I hurt you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Eddy squeezed him more powerfully, more lovingly, reassuring him he was on the right path. The murals danced around them; the air got warmer and softer.

He felt tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes. “This is supposed to be the best week of my life but all I can think about is how I want it to be over. And her. I thought I was helping Emma, but . . . but I was just helping myself, and I fucked that up too—”

Eddy’s eyes snapped open.

“Eddy?”

“The flood,” he whispered.

The words chased away immediately, evaporating to the ceiling of the chapel and plunging the room into a cold and incoherent silence. Eddy’s hands hardened, suddenly unfamiliar, squeezing him tighter, trapping him there. He couldn’t tell what was real.

“I don’t—I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“The flood,” he said again, louder and more viciously, accusing Aiden. “The flood!”

“Eddy, I don’t understand—” He tried to pry his hands loose, shaking them, but Eddy squeezed more violently. “Eddy, please!” he screamed, and tore his hands away.

He took off running up the center aisle, leaving Eddy alone in the chapel without looking back. He sprinted all the way across the back lawn, unsure of where he was going, or why.

“Aiden!” someone was shouting at him. He spun—it was a Year One plebe, a recruit from Bosnia who barely got scrimmage minutes. “Dude, practice started thirty minutes ago. They sent a bunch of people to come look for you.”

“Thirty minutes? I just got in here like ten minutes ago.” Aiden spun wildly; the sun was starting to set. “How did I . . .”

“Come on, dude. Coach’s pissed.”

His chest burned; he needed something to pick him back up. “I gotta run to my dorm—”

“No time, dude. He said get to the gym or you’re not playing tomorrow.”

Neesha.

“FIRST OF ALL, your handwriting is terrible. Second, what’s up with all these little pro-Emma editorial comments? If anyone deserves heaven, it’s Emma. What the fuck is that? Neither of us even said that.”

“She’s very religious,” Evan said quietly. “That’s an objective judgment.”

“It’s not ‘objective’ where I come from.” Neesha took a Sharpie and drew