A/N: Ha! You all thought I was dead, but it turns out I was only hibernating. Now that spring has arrived, and I am finishing up the novel that's consumed so much of my time, I decided it was time to revisit my comedy - the FicPress "fan favorite". But don't think for a second I am doing this just for you, because as much as you love reading, I still love writing it. Todd puts a smile on this worn-out writer's face! And to those of you who think the chapters are too short, I agree, but I also know it's the easiest and most convenient way to deliver them to you. "The Student Bible" has always been a spare time endeavor. If I ever stopped to concentrate on it, well, I don't think it would stay as silly as it is! So sit back, relax and enjoy. Yours humorously, Iced Tea Junkie.

23

Sanctuary

"Todd Gafferty, daring to show his face in a church?" Jane chuckled from the passenger seat, looking quite distracting in a tight, gray sweater. "That's something you don't see everyday!"

I decided to bring her along for the ride, figuring this otherwise dreary outing could double as a first date. There was a cutesy coffee shop nearby: "The Sugar Cube." Plus, I wasn't sure if I could do it alone.

When we got to Sugar Congregational, I made the rookie mistake of parking next to a minivan. I could barely suppress my gag reflex as a buxom church mom and her four rosy darlings, all frilled out in their Sunday best, spewed forth from the dumpster-on-wheels, giggling and batting each other with their bibles. I hated them in an instant, not for the present, but for what they, with help from their sheep-brained mother and serpent-tongued pastor, would inevitably become. Freethinkers were a minority in my red neck of the woods.

Jane, noticing my frigid death stare, placed her small, yet manly hand over mine. I say manly because it was covered in scars, calluses and unwashable grease-stain tattoos. But I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. It showed that she actually did something with her time, something that benefited society, unlike me: the pale, scrawny result of a broken condom.

"You're feeling sorry for yourself again, aren't you?" she guessed, hitting the nail on the head, of course.

"Maybe."

"Gods, Todd, you've got to stop doing that!" She leaned in closer, and I could smell the eau de autoshop on her skin. "Your parents' marital troubles are no fault of yours."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"Because you're you, darling. Any reasonable parent would be proud! You get good grades -"

"Decent grades."

"You're clever, and talented -"

"At getting into trouble."

The tough Brit wriggled her nose and frowned.

"If you won't shut up, I must shut you up."

Instinctively I pulled away, fearing another "Ogden Special": a sharp-knuckled fist to the face. Mabel gave it to me once my freshman year, on the day the twins moved in next-door. I'd been helping Mom weed the garden, minding my own business, when a short, feisty brunette tramped up behind me, said, "C'mere, Pansy Boy!", and then punched me in the face for being a pansy. In my defense, just because I was surrounded by flowers at the time does not make me a pansy! (It's my cowardly actions that do that.)

But this Ogden had something different (and less violent) in mind. She grabbed me by the collar and pressed her lips onto mine. Her kissing was, if not as experienced, definitely as aggressive as her punching, but I was eager to teach her a thing or two. We might have made out for another five minutes if my elbow hadn't slipped into the horn, refocusing my attention and drawing stares from angry sheep. They scowled as if they spied a wolf in their midst.

"Yeah, yeah, nothin' to see here!" I barked through the rolled-down window. "Go sing your hymns, ogle your crucifixes and whatnot."

Jane was all smiles afterwards. It made me feel lousy for feeling so lousy!

"I might never win the Nobel Prize," I thought, "Or even pass eleventh grade, but whatever the hell I think I am - a crappy student, a disappointing son, an unreliable friend - I am enough to make this girl happy."

Just because I couldn't make myself happy was no reason for playing down-notes. I had to act happy, for Miss Ogden's sake. I had to let go of my own and mirror her feelings. An organ-grinder's monkey will dance to anything.

"Speaking of organs, let's mosey it on into church!"

"You weren't speaking of organs, Todd," Jane corrected with all the quiet smugness of an English grammar teacher.

Jeez, my girlfriend's a sharp one!

When we got into the building, I almost wished I had some rosaries to clutch. It didn't look much from the outside, but the inside of Sugar Congregational was a wall-to-wall Jesus fest. There were stained glass pictures, giant, wooden crosses, country music flyers . . . oh, gods, it was awful! Even worse than my nine-year-old brain had allowed me to remember it.

I reached for Jane's hand. She squeezed my fingers, whispering encouragements. The dingy, wine-colored carpet seemed to stretch out for miles before me, the crowd parted into rows of pews on either side like a Spartan gauntlet. All eyes were on me, the noisy latecomer. The black sheep in the flock. The atheist in God's house.

"Uh, hey, guys," I muttered apologetically, navigating past shiny loafers and tan pantyhose, afraid to look up. We took a seat in the very back, as far away from the preaching as possible. When eventually I did find the courage to raise my head, I regretted it immediately. Reverend Starky caught my eye and held it, transmuting a painfully clear message, an almost audible warning:

"You, Todd Gafferty, are not wanted here." He smiled sideways. "You'd best get out before I release the hounds."

Needless to say, it was a very long sermon. After the service I confessed my fears to Jane, who merely shook her chestnut head and told me I was being silly.

"He won't release the hounds on you," she joked. "Hounds are a strictly British thing. A Southern man would just fetch his shotgun!"

When the ushers had herded every last sheep out the doors (the older the sheep, the harder to get rid of), I grabbed the last of the stale Munchkins from the entry hall and shoved them down my throat, followed by two Dixie cups of apple juice. I was not about to confront the Devil on an empty stomach.

The Reverend was lingering by the pulpit, no doubt waiting for me. Jane nudged me forward. He was dressed in a plain, black frock with wide sleeves, a typical Protestant minister. His crisp, white hair and beard reminded me of Colonel Sanders. (I carried that bit of humor with me to keep me from trembling with fear.)

"Ah, young Mr. Gafferty, long time, no see!" He extended an amiable arm. I shook his hand with gritted teeth, distrust written all over my face. "Son of Albert and Marion, those old rascals. Stopped coming to my church 'bout seven years ago, am I right?"

I nodded firmly, smiling now. I wanted to show him I was proud of my parents. Proud of their choices.

"They probably don't believe in God, and raised their son to believe the same. And now here you are, and I can't help but wonder - forgive me, Lord, for thinking this - I can't help but wonder what it is you want from me."

"Well, wonder no more," I confirmed. "I want to rent this place out for my parents' anniversary in June." I paused, adding glumly, "That's hoping they'll make it till then."

The Reverend softened up. He removed his small, round spectacles and wiped them clean with a handkerchief, wanting, I suppose, to get a better look at me.

"Are you having trouble at home, Todd?"

I nodded again.

"We'll just see what we can do about that, then, and in the meantime, Sugar Congregational opens her arms to you." Starky wrapped his arm around my shoulders for effect. "You are always welcome here, son."

I hate to admit it, but I did feel welcome. Everything about this place - Colonel Sanders, the colorful Christ-scapes, the food - was suddenly warm and inviting.

Who ever thought I'd find sanctuary in a church?