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Lazby’s waiting.”
    He towered over us from the apron of the stage. Imagine John Travolta with a belly, a beard, and a bad attitude about the acting biz, and you had Mr. Lazby. Still, he was a fantastic director, and even though he was known to throw a tantrum without warning, everyone loved him. His sheer bulk seemed to cast a shadow over all of us, and almost instantly it got so quiet, you could hear the proverbial pin drop.
    “Welcome,” he said, his voice somehow low and still carrying all the way to the back row. “Emily, please call the roll.”
    Things went quickly for a minute or two, but then Emily called out, “Marissa Stephens?” and someone answered, “She had a dentist appointment.”
    “What?” Mr. Lazby roared. “Well, if Ms. Stephens doesn’t want to be in
West Side Story
enough to come to the first meeting, then just scratch her off the cast list, Emily.”
    Around the room, a few girls who were on backstage committees and didn’t have roles perked up, thinking maybe they’d get Marissa’s spot, but we veterans knew Mr. Lazby was just blowing off steam. If you looked up drama queen on Wikipedia, you’d see his name for the definition.
    For the first time all day, the worry I’d been carrying around in the pit of my stomach dissolved. With all my friends around and people laughing and the excitement of the show, I totally forgot about my dad and the R&R. Emily handed out rehearsal schedules, Mr. Lazby talked a bit about the history of the musical, and then we played a few improvisation games to get us on our feet and release some energy.
    After rehearsal, I dropped off my friends and headed for home. Twice I had to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans because they slipped on the steering wheel, and I didn’t think my nervousness had much to do with the traffic. That chill from Saturday night crept through me too.
    It took me three tries to get the stupid Beast parked, and in the end, the front tire was wedged tightly against the curb, with the back stuck out into traffic a little. I gave up. There was a big stack of cardboard boxes on the porch, and my pulse flickered with excitement. Maybe Dad had ordered me the new bedroom suite from Ikea like he’d been promising. But then I saw they all had U-HAUL printed on the sides of them and decided they must be more of Mira’s things.
    I was just about to stick my key in the front door when I saw the light blue envelope taped to the top of one of the boxes. It had my full name, Jamie Lexington-Cross, scrawled across it in my father’s handwriting. Puzzled, I yanked it off, slicing my finger on the edge of the envelope as I opened it. A single slip of blue paper fluttered to the ground, and when I picked it up, the words swam in front of my eyes.
    January 24th
    Jamie,
    You made a sinner’s choice, and now God has made mine for me. You are banned from our home. Don’t come back until you’re willing to take the Pledge.
    In Christ’s name, Richard Cross

chapter 4
    I TORE AT THE PACKING TAPE ON THE FIRST BOX. Inside I found all my shoes. In another, all my summer clothes. Jeans and warm sweaters were stuffed in a third one. Then I saw the labels.
Books & CDs. Mementos.
Theater Stuff.
Contents of Desk.
I didn’t believe for a minute he really meant to kick me out. He’s just trying to scare me into signing, I told myself.
    Some people might be able to disown their own children, but not my dad. We were a team. We’d stuck by each other through it all. Even when I was in eighth grade and he let those recovering addicts move in with us and one of them stole my piggybank, I’d forgiven him.
    And it wasn’t like I could go to my only other living relative. Dad knew how to get ahold of Mom, but I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to. She’d moved to Hollywood when I was in sixth grade with some guy whose name I chose to forget as soon as I saw the back of him. Supposedly she had a job as a personal assistant for some two-bit movie producer. More