Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always Read Online Free PDF Page B

expected. The heavy lump in the plastic bag bounces against my leg as I half walk, half jog along the highway. Okay, so “highway” is an exaggeration, but it’s the main road that cuts through town.
    I’m crossing at the second light when I hear the honk—not an angry, get-out-of-my-way kind of honk, but more like a hey-I-know-you tap on the horn. Still, it startles me, and I spin around to see a semi-familiar minivan pulling over to the curb and a manically waving woman at the wheel. Mrs. Johnson, my old Sunday School teacher. Hallelujah. She leans over and pops the passenger door open.
    “Cassandra, good gracious, climb in, darling! What are you doing out here, walking in this weather?”
    I slide up onto the seat, tucking the bag underneath my feet. “I—I was hanging out at the mall.” I stammer a bit as I search my brain for an appropriate response. If she asks me what I bought, what do I say? Besides, there’s no “if.” She will totally ask.
    “Whatcha got in the bag there, honey? Buying books for school?” Mrs. Johnson leans toward me though she keeps her eyes on the road. One mile, maybe a little less, and we’ll be at my house. I slide my feet backward, wishing I could make the bag disappear.
    “Oh, you know. I have … an English project.” True, in a way. Won’t hold up under scrutiny though. “And how about you?” I stumble into a subject change. Talking to adults can be so freaking awkward. “Did you enjoy your holidays?” Holidays, yes. Totally safe topic.
    “A blessed time, to be sure,” she says with a happy sigh. “The kids all came home, except for Mark, of course. You know he’s doing missionary work in Ecuador, right?” She chuckles. “Oh, silly me, of course you know. You were at the sending service, weren’t you?”
    As if she doesn’t know. At the Joyful News Bible Church, church attendance is a matter of great importance. I would bet that Ruth Marie Johnson could tell me exactly how many times I’ve missed services since my baptism.
    I nod. “Oh, yes, it was a beautiful send-off. Is he doing well?”
    “Very well, hon. Doing the Lord’s work.” Mrs. Johnson
clears her throat and my stomach plunges. I can tell that something is coming—something tart and slightly unpleasant, which she will try to roll in sugar before serving to me. “But tell me, Cass. You can tell me. Is something wrong at home?” Her foot lets off the accelerator a little as we approach the turnoff for God’s Armpit, delaying the end of this conversation.
    I shake my head and smile, my right hand sweating around the plastic handle of my shameful birthday burden. “No, everything’s great at home!” My voice is bright and chirpy, oozing with happiness. A baby bird on Prozac. Three blocks. Two and a half. The car slows down, impossibly slow. A toddler on a big wheel could pass us up.
    “It’s just … ” She lowers her voice and leans closer until I have no idea how she can see out the windshield. “We’ve noticed your brother has been staying home sick an awful lot. I know your family has been through a lot already, so we’ve been worried … is there … something serious ?”
    I scoot a tiny bit closer to the door. One more block. “Oh, no, nothing serious, really.” A smile, a nonchalant toss of my hair. Nothing serious, but I also can’t let her think he’s not coming because he isn’t a good churchgoer. “He’s got, like, a sinus infection or something? Headaches. Lots of headaches.”
    Mrs. Johnson makes a clucking sound and straightens up in her seat. She nods slowly as she makes the turn into my driveway. “He’s in our prayers,” she says, serious and stern—is it a promise or a threat? “We’ve been worried about you all.”
    I have no idea who “we” includes. Has the entire church been worrying about Eric’s absence, about the lamb straying from the fold and the family that’s failed to shepherd him? Or is this a more personal “we,” maybe Mrs. Johnson