Page 63 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

Sister Andrews narrows her eyes, and she huffs. “Be that as it may, I still don’t support sodomy.”

“And I don’t support ankle-length skirts being worn by anyone, anywhere, at any time.” He stares down at her khaki skirt like it’s the most offensive thing he’s ever seen. “Particularly in khaki.”

“What do you want?” she snaps, trying to keep her voice quiet. Luckily, there aren’t any other eyes on us, because Tatum, who I’m beginning to believe is an unhinged exhibitionist, is sitting back in his pew, FaceTiming his husband, stroking himselffor all to see. Around him, men and women lick their lips, entranced. “Is this blackmail? Is it money you want?”

He shakes his head. “I want the house. I want Miles to keep his house.”

“That isn’t up to me. It isn’t mine to give. It belongs to the church.”

“And the church is going to sign it over.”

“Even if I voted in favor, there are still over twenty more members, none of whom support bastardly buggering.”

“Bastardly buggering?” I ask, because what the heck is that?

She nods. “I said what I said, son, and I’ll say it again. They’re not going to agree to this.”

“We’ll see,” Darren says, smiling a lot more cheerfully than the situation calls for. He turns and skips back to the platform, hopping up with ease. Ah, the wonders of a youthful body. He trots to my lectern like a show pony, grabbing the microphone and switching it on. “Excuse me?” When no one pays him the slightest hint of attention, my boy comes alive, lifting his leg and stomping it, making the whole platform creak. “I said, excuse me!” That does the trick. Within seconds, every eye is on him. He lifts his file folder over his head and shakes it furiously. “I remember when I was little, everyone in this room filled my head with stories about Armageddon being nigh.” A wicked smile spreads across his face. “It’s here.”

“Dare?” I ask, but he shakes his head, not even looking at me. He’s got his eyes spanning the room, glaring at everyone except his chosen family.

“Brother Thomas,” Darren says, setting the file folder on my lectern. He places the microphone in its stand and pulls out a sheet of paper. “I remember after I came home, you told my father I was a deviant who deserved to be cast out. Those were your words, were they not?”

Okay, he kind of sounds like a hot-shot lawyer, and I can’t lie; it’s doing things to me, but there’s also a deep, bitter rage burning in the pit of my stomach, roaring to life like a charcoal grill. I’ll grill Brother Thomas’ dang face until it’s charred if he ever says anything like that to Darren again. Why didn’t Dare tell me in the first place? I would have kicked him out of our church in a heartbeat.

Brother Thomas looks away nervously. “Yes. It’s in the Good Book, son. God will not be mocked.”

“That shitty excuse for a toupee is mocking him enough for the both of us. I mean, my God, man. Have you no shame?”

“Don’t listen to him, Stanley,” Sister Thomas says, kissing his cheek. “I think it looks real natural.”

“Yes,” Darren says, “Well, you also think sexual swinging is natural.” He lifts a piece of paper with a nude image of Brother and Sister Thomas. It looks like a selfie taken in their bedroom. “I mean, maybe it is—I’m not one to kink shame—but per your little book, adultery is a sin too. That didn’t stop your sinful asses from posting swinger ads on Reddit of all places, seeking thirds and fourths. You better watch the windows of your glass house tonight, lest I throw a goddamn brick through each and every one.” He points at the pew behind them. “Done with you. Sit.” He turns and points at Sister Fergeson. “Your turn.”

Sister Fergeson’s entire face goes white. A miraculous feat for a person so tan, their skin looks like rough leather. God works in mysterious ways. “Y-yes, Darren?” she asks meekly.

He feigns a kind smile. “I remember when you used to babysit me on the weekends when I was a kid. We used to have such a fun time, didn’t we?”

She breathes a sigh of relief, forcing a smile, attempting to reminisce by stating, “I used to push you in my tire swing out front.”

He nods. “You also used to push crystal methamphetamine from your living room. By the looks of it, you still do.” He lifts a photograph of what I can only assume is bags and bags of speed in a large suitcase at the bottom of her closet.

“I didn’t! I wouldn’t!”

“Thou shalt not lie,” Darren hisses. “I’ve got video footage of you selling five bags to Sister Walsh.” He glares at Sister Walsh next. Before pointing at their pew. “You can both have a seat. Done with you too.”

For the next ten minutes, he reads from his dossier of dirty-doings, laying the entire congregation’s most secret shames bare for all to witness. It’s the most glorious altar call I’ve ever witnessed. God. He was born for this. To steal the show. To sparkle like diamonds in the sun. By the end, revelations of theft, drug use, sexual proclivities, and even murder play out like an episode of Matlock, and I’m left in awe of my sweet, precious boy.

When it’s just the three of us left standing, Sister Anders is pleading with her eyes, but Darren isn’t having it. He pulls out a piece of paper and holds it up. The moment I seeherface, it feels like I’ve been sucker-punched. I haven’t seen that face in almost twenty years. Why does he have a picture ofher?

“Jeanie Marsh,” Dare says, and if looks could kill, Sister Andrews would be at the gates of Hell as we speak. “She was your friend. I remember. You two used to sit side by side at service.”

Sister Andrews swallows, looking confused, but more than a little frightened. “She was a cherished friend. I miss her dearly.”

“She can rot in fucking hell,” Darren spits back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small, leatherbound journal. While he’s flipping pages, I’m left reeling, because the vitriol spilling out of his mouth—in a house of God, no less—is uncharacteristic, even for him. He finds the page he’s looking for, and our eyes meet.The look he gives me is the most sympathetic expression I’ve ever seen, and my stomach drops. There’s not a doubt in my mind. He knows it washer. He knows it was Sister Marsh. “April Third.”

My heart sinks.

“How did you get that?” she asks, her voice shaking.

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