Page 26 of Trusting Blake
But wait. Have they actually thought this through?
The spark of excitement I felt at realizing Blake will be at church is now matched by a lurch of serious apprehension.
If Blake’s there, then his mom will be too. . .
Even if we get past the hordes at the gate unscathed, I have no idea how my parents will deal with LeAnne Avery.
Popeye clears his throat; he has made a decision. “Okay. This family is going to church.”
11
It’s like bracing for impact in those nanoseconds of realization before your car collides with another. This sickening feeling of absolute doom while your stomach drops, and all you can do is cling to your seatbelt and brace, brace, brace.
That’s how it feels to be facing the Harding Estate gate, waiting for it to swing open and for the car to be swarmed. It’s inevitable, and it’s something my parents and I are used to. Popeye and Sheri, on the other hand, are in for a shock. I don’t think they realize just how crazy the next couple of minutes will be.
“Visors down,” Dad orders.
I am wedged in the backseat between Dad and Mom, Popeye rides shotgun, and Sheri sits a bundle of shaky nerves behind the wheel of her minivan. She pulls down her sun visor, then reaches out to do the same for Popeye. It barely makes a difference, but anything that attempts to shield us a little more is worth trying.
“Can’t even leave my own home without being attacked,” Popeye grumbles, which is only slightly melodramatic. We aren’t going to beattacked.The van, however. . .
Sheri grabs the remote from the center console and opens the gate.
We all sit rigid as the gate electronically sweeps open to reveal the throng outside. They grab their cameras and bunch together in one frantic, scrambling huddle, pulling forward into the open gap the gate has left. They know better than to take a single step onto the property, as they could then be arrested for trespassing, so they stay as close as possible to the boundary like a solid, defiant barrier.
“They’re blocking the road!” Sheri says as the cameras begin to flash.
“Just drive forward,” Dad directs. “They’ll move.”
Sheri looks like she may pass out at the thought of potentially ramming a crowd of paparazzi, but Dad’s right. They always move. No picture of Everett Harding is worth the cost of a hospital visit.
The van creeps forward, and forward, and forward. . .
Until we are in the midst of the crowd that circles every inch of the van. I hear the rumble of metal as bodies press against our vehicle and see blinding flashing as cameras are shoved up against the windows, mostly focused on the backseat to see if the elusive Everett Harding has finally emerged.
Next to me, Dad has his chin tucked down tight against his chest and his hands shield his face over a pair of sunglasses. On my other side, Mom hides beneath her big, woolen shawl. As for me and my not-so-subtle pink hair, I don’t even try to hide. What’s the point? It’s obvious that we’re all here together, so I just stare blankly straight ahead at some of the paps nearly throwing themselves onto the hood of the van.
Despite the windows being closed, there is no way to shut out the muffled voices. It is painful to listen to; there is nothing to do but ignore it. Popeye gets especially shifty in the passenger seat.
“EVERETT, WHERE IS LAURELPEYTON NOW?”
“MARNIE, HAVE YOU FORGIVEN HIM?”
“EVERETT, OVER HERE! WHY WOULD YOU BETRAY YOUR FAMILY?”
Sheri revs the engine a little, and at last, the mass of bodies parts enough to let us break through. The open road lies ahead of us, and Sheri steps on the gas, but we aren’t out of the woods yet. I look behind me and see cars ready to go, the paps and reporters racing toward their vehicles, flinging open doors and jumping in. They’ll flag us all the way to church, where they’ll continue to harass us, and I’m not sure how well that will go down with the Fairview community. Does Dad really believe this is a good idea?
The press is still hot on our heels as we tear into the parking lot. I’ve never seen Sheri drive so wildly before, and I can tell she is completely out of her comfort zone. Church is for contemplation and peace, not hordes of paparazzi chasing a shamed movie star, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that the weekly Sunday congregation won’t be too fond of such disruption.
We are a little late, so there are no churchgoers mingling outside in the morning sun. They are all inside and seated, and the service has most likely already begun, which I think is actuallyworse.Now we will become a complete spectacle when we try to slip inside.
“What will Pastor Lowes think of us?” Popeye asks Sheri as he tucks his bible beneath his arm. “Bringing all this. . . unholy fuss.”
“Shut off the engine and go!” Dad instructs from the backseat, anxiously watching out the rear window as a stream of vehicles rolls into the lot. It will take them no time to jump out with their cameras poised, so we need to act fast.
The van jolts to a stop, parked over two spots, and we all release our seatbelts at lightning speed and throw open the doors. I’m used to this, the feeling of alwaysrushing.In the world of fame, there’s no time to dither. It’s always:Quick! Get inside, keep your head down, run tothe car.
And because we are pros at this, my parents and I are already out of the van and speed-walking toward the church doors in perfect sync with one another. When we reach them, I breathe a sigh of relief, but Dad pauses and turns back around. Popeye can’t walk this fast. His movements are slow, and despite Sheri tugging on his arm to hurry him up, the paparazzi are already all over them.
