Outside the Ordinary World by Dori Ostermiller Read Free Book Online

the parking lot, the bottoms of my feet scraping rough asphalt. Pastor Wilkins’s words echoed down, sliding over hoods and windshields. The cars seemed to know some glittering truth about each person in church, and I’d run my finger over their paint, stare into vacant windows, discovering stacks of sweaters, empty soda cans, comic books.
     
     
    One Saturday late in June, after fleeing a sermon about the Mark of the Beast, I peered into the tinted window of a black Jeep Cherokee and saw a girl I recognized from school—the freckled nose, the deep chestnut eyes—Theresa Chapman. Her legs were stretched across the back and she held a book with a half-nude woman on the cover. She made a face at me, then slid across the seat and opened the door, motioning for me to get in.
    “Hurry up,” she said.
    “What for?”
    “Get in. Hurry, before someone sees.”
    I hopped up, scooted in beside her. My bare legs stuck to the seat. She reached over me and grabbed the door handle, slamming it shut. The car’s heat was stifling.
    “Hi,” I said feebly. “Can’t we crack a window or something?”
    “Nope—power windows.”
    “Oh.” I nodded. “You look different for some reason.”
    “It’s the dress,” she suggested. “I never wear them at school. Have to here, even though they know I sit in the car most of the time.”
    “I didn’t even know you came here.”
    “We don’t. My mom wants us to try—her friend Barbara comes. Part of the new Family Togetherness thing, I guess. Ever since Davey came back from the war.”
    “Oh. But you’re not together. You’re out here.”
    “Yeah, well.” She licked her plump lips. “We support freedom of religious expression.”
    I dropped my shoes and stockings on the car floor, staring at Theresa’s flushed cheeks and damp auburn bangs. She smelled of Dr. Pepper lip gloss and Suave shampoo.
    “I’m not sure this church believes in free expression, ” I said after a pause. “This church believes in the Second Coming, and Sabbath on Saturday, and not eating meat, or wearing jewelry or reading books like, like that—” I pointed to the Harlequin paperback on her lap.
    “Oh, no one knows about this.” She smiled primly. A cool trickle of sweat inched down my left side.
    “Can’t we at least crack the door a little?”
    “What are you doing looking in people’s cars anyway?”
    “I just—nothing,” I stammered, feeling foolish and caught. “I should probably go back.” Cracking the door, I peeled my right thigh from the seat.
    “Wait. The sermon’s not over yet. You can’t just stroll back in now. ” She rolled her eyes, then began reading again as if she didn’t care whether I stayed or left.
    “Listen to this,” she said. “‘He parted her lips with his hot tongue, and she yielded, felt his calloused hands searching beneath the silk blouse—’ I’m just getting to the good part. Should I keep on?”
    I hesitated, thinking of Mom in church, fanning herself with the bulletin. Our father who art in heaven… I pictured her looking up, wide-eyed and grateful as I slipped back into our pew. Theresa smiled, exposing two large and shining front teeth.
    “Okay. Read it, then.” I hoped that being here together made us equals. We preferred the sticky backseat to a velvet pew, the warmth of our guilt to the air-conditioned church. I shut my eyes and slouched as Theresa began to read, trying to erase my mother’s face from my mind, picturing instead the heroine stretched over some glowing bed. Theresa was a good reader—her words were pleasantly rough, like scoops of beach sand. I imagined the man’s face as he undressed the golden-haired woman, his hands caressing her. Would his hands be gentle or cruel? Were his fingers soft and thick as babies’ thighs, or knobby and crooked, like my father’s? I pictured my father’s fingers, quick and treacherous as they stung across my cheek, or suddenly tender, handing me a yellow rose from his garden,