Playing By The Book Read online

  Advance Praise for Playing by the Book

  “There’s so much to admire in S. Chris Shirley’s debut novel, but the most remarkable thing may be its voice. Jake Powell is both earnest and skeptical, curious and guarded, and he tells his story with an endearing humility that–somehow–avoids the sarcasm that has become the norm. Playing by the Book reminds us of how rewarding it can be to climb into someone else’s head.”

  —Patrick Ryan, author of Send Me and Saints of Augustine

  “In Playing by the Book, S. Chris Shirley tells a story I loved curling up with, featuring one of the most endearing teen protagonists I’ve read in years.”

  —Alex Sanchez, author of The God Box and Boyfriends with Girlfriends

  “S. Chris Shirley’s Playing by the Book is winning, witty, touching, and full of life. Jake Powell’s journey from wide-eyed innocence to self-actualization is a pleasure to witness. What’s even more pleasurable is being in the hands of a writer who knows how to tell a story, who knows how to create complex characters, and who brings honesty and love to every page of his debut. Bravo!”

  —Martin Wilson, author of What They Always Tell Us

  “In the ideal world, S. Chris Shirley’s Playing by the Book would be made into a teenage romantic comedy to play at your local Cineplex. A classic coming of age story with a queer twist, Playing by the Book manages to be both poignant and lighthearted at the same time as young Jake navigates the currents of first love to a realistic but still happy ending. Shirley finds the truth in Jake’s story and gives it to us in clear and accessible prose. A thoroughly enjoyable read that should be on the shelves of every school library as well as the bed stands of anyone who wants to understand what it feels like to grow up gay.”

  —Kevin Jennings, Founder, The Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN)

  “In this heartfelt and moving coming-of-age story, S. Chris Shirley has given us a Holden Caulfield for a new generation.”

  —Geoffrey Nauffts, Tony-nominated playwright of Next Fall

  “S. Chris Shirley’s Playing by the Book is beautifully written and vividly conveys a journey of self-discovery. This moving, funny, and sexy young adult novel also illuminates how combining Christian fundamentalism and a gay love story can produce another very Good Book.”

  —Bob Smith, author of Openly Bob, Selfish and Perverse, and Remembrance of Things I Forgot

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © by S. Chris Shirley

  Magnus Books, an Imprint of Riverdale Avenue Books

  5676 Riverdale Avenue, Suite 101

  Bronx, NY 10471

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover design by Tal Goretsky with photographs courtesy of Richard Gerst and Jonnie Miles

  Digital and Print Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62601-071-0

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62601-072-7

  www.magnusbooks.com

  www.riverdaleavebooks.com

  For Mom and Dad

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “If you desire to be good, begin by believing that you are wicked.”

  —Epictetus (55 AD - 135 AD)

  CHAPTER 1

  KABAM!

  I popped up in my seat, not knowing if we’d landed or gotten shot down.

  “I’d like to be the first to welcome you to New York,” the pilot announced.

  Some welcome. Sounded more like a warning shot.

  I quickly stuffed my New York travel guides in my backpack and capped my highlighter, not believing that I was spending half a summer at the most prestigious high school journalism program in the world. The Columbia University Summer in Journalism program is limited to high school newspaper editors and has an acceptance rate that probably rivals their undergraduate program. As far as I could tell, no kid from Alabama—let alone Tarsus, Alabama (population 7,022)—had ever gone. I still couldn’t believe I got in.

  Getting accepted was tough, but the biggest hurdle was winning over The Preacher. I mean, my dad. I first called him “Preacher” when I was five since Momma and everyone else did. At the time, I half expected him to send me to bed early or take away my television privileges, but he smiled real big and halfway nodded, so the name stuck. I tried calling Momma “Anna” around the same time, but that didn’t go over so well.

  Anyway, the very day I got my Columbia acceptance letter, Momma and I role-played my conversation with The Preacher so I could perfect my sales pitch. The two major hurdles we had to clear were the price of the program and the fact that it began the very week of our church’s Vacation Bible School. The Preacher thought I was going to be the Vacation Bible School Director this year because, well, I sort of said that I would. But that was before I even knew about the Columbia program.

  Sitting at my place at the kitchen table, Momma lowered her voice to play me and I played my dad, even scratching my balls for effect since he’s one of the last great ball scratchers. We continued for a solid hour and put together a winning platform.

  To be clear, we didn’t do this all the time—just for big events, like in third grade when I had a shot at a free German Shepherd puppy and when I recently requested an extension on my eleven o’clock curfew for a school dance. I never got the puppy but I was victorious on the curfew, if you count a one-time thirty-minute curfew extension a victory.

  But over dinner that evening, The Preacher cut me off before I even got going good. He said, “Jake, you agreed to lead Vacation Bible School this summer, right? You can’t be at church and Columbia at the same time.”

  Momma jumped right in. “But it’s a huge opportunity for him,” she said. “Columbia’s—”

  “There’s no more important work than the Lord’s work,” The Preacher said, then turned to me. “And how much would this cost, anyway?”

  I shuffled my feet. “Five thousand dollars.”

  The Preacher glanced at me then did a double take. “Son, we don’t have that kind of money.”

  I casually leaned in just as Momma had when we rehearsed this exact scenario earlier. “But I have a few thousand saved—”

  “You are not touching your college fund,” he said with a dismissive wave. “You’re going to need it next year.”

  “But this is for classes at a college,” I said, holding The Preacher’s gaze. “One of the best colleges in the world.”

  “I said ‘no’ and that’s final. Plus, there’s another youth service in July and you’re preaching.”

  My chest tightened at the thought of preaching again—my last sermon had been an epic failure and quite possibly the most humiliating experience of my life. “The Columbia program ends a few days before that, but, Dad, I really don’t want to—”

  “Jake, you’ve got to get back in the saddle and preach again.” The Preacher looked down at his plate and continued eating.

  I kept at him over the ensuing days since my offer to attend was only good for a couple of weeks, but each time the conversation got shorter and the I-said-no-and-that’s-final got louder. Despite his resistance, I couldn’t let it go; my love for journalism was just too deep, having begun not long after I learned to read. In elementary school, I wrote and bound a series of adventure stories about Papaw’s old birddog, and penned new verses for my favorite gospel songs. But when my essay on a student field trip to the local “Jerusalem in Miniature” made the church newsletter, I was hooked on journalism and signed up for the Tarsus Junior High Journal the first day of seventh grade.

  Plus, this was more than just a chance to study at one of the top journalism schools in the world, it was the chance to not be a Preacher’s Kid—or PK for short—for a few precious weeks and for the first time in my life. As a PK, I was held to what I called the “Jesus Standard” by everyone in town on absolutely everything I did. Anytime I came up short, they went running to The Preacher. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.

  A few weeks later, on the very evening that my Columbia acceptance was to expire, I began to panic and decided to go for broke. With no real plan in mind, I tiptoed down the hallway just before dinner and peeked through the partially opened door of The Preacher’s study, walls lined with bookcases jam-packed with Biblical texts. It was like he never had a life outside the church, which was pretty accurate since Papaw
had been a preacher too, as had my Great Papaw on Mamaw’s side. Of course, they were both Pentecostal, meaning they put a lot of emphasis on the supernatural aspects of Christianity like speaking in tongues (the ability to speak in a language you’ve never studied). As a One-Way Bible minister, The Preacher was more focused on theology and less on theatrics. In fact, his knowledge of the Bible was absolutely staggering.

  As I expected, The Preacher was sitting at his big oak desk, peering through his reading glasses at a miniature model of the proposed church complex. He ran his finger along the thick molding just below the roofline.

  “Oh, um, is that the latest?” I asked as I stepped into the room.

  He jerked his finger away from the model and looked up. “Sure is! Including the balcony, the sanctuary will sit eight hundred.”

  “Wow! I bet that’s even bigger than First Methodist!”

  He glowed with pride. “It’ll be the largest sanctuary between Montgomery and Mobile.”

  “That’s great, Preacher.” I meant it too—my poor dad had spent years trying to get this new sanctuary off the ground and it looked like it was finally going to happen.

  I stroked the razor sharp part in my hair, thick and black just like his. That’s about the only feature we share other than our height: at six-foot-two inches, I’m actually an inch taller, but have the Clarke side of the family’s blue eyes, fair skin and cleft that rides up the base of my chin like a baby’s booty—my nickname in grade school was “Bootette” (it wasn’t particularly clever, just annoying). People often complimented my “good looks,” but The Preacher was the showstopper in the family with his dark skin, lumberjack build, and rugged features. Some said he looked like a movie star. He was sort of a fortyish Mel Gibson without all the baggage.

  He took off his reading glasses and moved the model aside. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, um, Preacher, I want—I need to talk about Columbia.”

  The look on his face made it clear he had nothing left to say on the matter. “I’m not discussing this again, Jake.”

  We just stared at each other. I’d already told him a million times that this Columbia program was just what I needed as the new editor of the Tarsus High School Tattler. It would teach me all the ins and outs of running a newspaper and could even come in handy for the church’s website and monthly newsletter. Plus, being immersed in journalism 24/7 would help me figure out if that was indeed the path I wanted to take in my life. But every time, he always countered with “there’s no more important work than the Lord’s work” or “choosing God’s way and not our own is tough, but separation from God is even worse.” Deep down, I knew that this Columbia program was a thousand times more important than Vacation Bible School, but how could I argue with his godly line of reasoning?

  Suddenly, I realized there was another angle—one that might just get through to him.

  “Preacher, please hear me out—the day I submitted that Columbia application, I got down on my knees and prayed God would let me get in if He wanted me to go. So it was really, like, a sign when I was accepted. I was putting out the fleece—like Gideon.”

  One-Way Bible people often ask God for signs like this. We call it “putting out the fleece” in reference to the Old Testament story of Gideon, who asked God to make a piece of wool on his doorstep dry and the ground around it wet if he should lead Israel to battle against the Midianites. It was just one way we incorporated our faith into our daily lives, and it wasn’t that wacky when you thought about it—wasn’t everyone going through life looking for signs to guide them?

  Momma stuck her grayish auburn head through the doorway. She was about the same age Grandmother Clarke had been when her hair began falling out, so Momma didn’t color or even tease her hair like most women her age since there was too much at risk, I guess. “Private party?” she asked.

  “Your son thinks God’s sending him to Columbia. I see your sister’s fingerprints all over this. She just wants to get him up to New York City so she can fill his head with her liberal garbage.” The Preacher looked at me like it was time to ‘fess up.

  I held my breath, hoping not to give anything away, but my dad practically had a degree in sizing people up. Aunt Phoebe had been the one who told me about the Columbia program, a fact Momma and I agreed The Preacher didn’t need to know. I swallowed hard.

  Momma walked in and grabbed the back of one of the two brown leather chairs facing The Preacher’s desk. “She’s actually changed a lot in the last few years,” she said. “Gone back to being a good Episcopalian.”

  “What exactly does that mean anymore, Anna? They’re marrying gays now, you know. What’s next—farm animals?”

  “Hey,” she said, digging her fingers into the back of the chair. “I was raised Episcopal.”

  This was all pretty weird—my parents never got testy with each other, but I was the one area where my father’s spiritual realm and my mother’s domestic realm overlapped. I sensed The Preacher didn’t care for her gourmet dishes like the Swedish meatballs or seven-layer salad, just like I suspected Momma didn’t agree with everything The Preacher said from the pulpit. Each had their sovereign territory, which the other never challenged, or if so, not in front of me.

  By now, my dad looked more hurt than angry. This was about more than Vacation Bible School, and we all knew it. To be fair, he had mostly encouraged my journalistic pursuits up until that point, saying that the writing and people skills I developed would come in handy no matter what path I took. Of course, it wasn’t lost on me that writing and people skills are two of the most basic requirements for a preacher.

  “I thought you wanted to be a preacher like me and Papaw,” he said. “The church is in your blood, son. I mean, why else would you bother learning Ancient Greek?”

  All One-Way Bible ministers study Ancient Greek, the language of the New Testament, at seminary. A few years back, I became obsessed with the language and got The Preacher to tutor me using his old textbooks. Momma was thrilled knowing that it would help me on the SAT since loads of English words have Ancient Greek roots. To be perfectly honest, I studied Ancient Greek so I could personally interpret the more troubling New Testament passages like the ones on sexual immorality, not because I wanted to go into the ministry. But to hear my dad talk, it would be a complete disaster if our family’s long line of preachers ended on his watch. If I’d been born a girl, I’m sure my father would’ve insisted on trying again and again until he had a male heir who could fill the pulpit since women aren’t allowed to be preachers—or deacons for that matter—at One-Way Bible churches.

  Sure, I’d thought about becoming a preacher when I was younger—what son doesn’t consider following in his father’s footsteps? But being a preacher meant spending your entire life under a microscope, getting sized up on whether you were living up to the Jesus Standard. It also meant writing a weekly sermon, which was nothing more than an editorial. I love journalism but was recently forced to write my first editorial, just after being elected editor of the Tarsus High School Tattler. When I sat down to write it, my mind just went blank. In the end, I based my editorial on one of The Preacher’s recent sermons and he helped me put it in my voice. But the fact was that I preferred news. News was truth, and it was time The Preacher heard mine, we’d dodged this issue long enough. “Preacher, I—I want to be a journalist.”

  “What? Journalism’s dead, son. The Tarsus paper went out of business years ago and you saw that story a few months back about all those people getting laid off at TIME Magazine. I tell you there’s no future in journalism.”

  “News isn’t going away, Preacher,” Momma said. “It’s just all going online, isn’t that right, Jake?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said and grabbed the back of the other brown leather chair.

  Momma and I gazed down at the Preacher in solidarity, but he didn’t miss a beat.

  “And did you read about those three teenagers who were kidnapped in Harlem last week?” he asked. “They’ll probably never be seen nor heard from again. You don’t want to become some statistic now, do you?”