Lay It on My Heart by Angela Pneuman

though.” On the gym floor, Theresa, having landed and thrust her arms ceiling-ward in a jubilant V, snaps them back in, crouches, then lofts herself in a back flip and lands on her feet again, rising into another V. “That’s a good one,” says the girl beside me. “Theresa’s dad wrote bad checks. He wrote a check to cheerleading camp that bounced, but they let her stay because she has such good spirit. She even won the spirit stick. Are you from East Winder?”
    â€œOriginally,” I say, which I already know is obvious. Everyone from East Winder looks wrong here. Our jeans are too thickly cuffed. Our shoes are mostly plain canvas sneakers from the dollar store. Mine have a crackling white layer of shoe polish to make them look more new. The Clay’s Corner kids wear name-brand sneakers or brown leather lace-up shoes I don’t even have a name for.
    â€œThat’s where all the churches are,” says the girl. “Have you ever thought about growing your hair out?”
    I touch my hair. Today I have pulled my bangs straight back into a barrette again, but some have escaped and curl on either side of my forehead in the natural wave Phoebe says I should be grateful for.
    â€œThe thing to do is wear it in a ponytail every day.” The girl moves her face from side to side to make her ponytail swing. It’s as straight and smooth as water poured from a pitcher. “Then one day you just wake up and your hair is long, which makes you prettier. Unless you’re like them.” She points again, five rows below us, to twins from East Winder whose parents are missionaries, like Seth’s, only to Honduras instead of Ghana. Ida and Martha Hughes. Their flat, dishwater-blond hair dangles below their waists in a line of brittle points. “They look like they haven’t cut their hair since they were born.”
    â€œThey haven’t,” I say. “The Bible says a woman’s hair is her crown in glory, and some people think that if you cut your hair in this life, you won’t have a crown in glory.
Glory
means heaven.”
    â€œNot even a trim?”
    â€œThat’s just how their family takes it,” I say. “It doesn’t really say not to cut your hair, except for Samson in the Old Testament, and there it was just that if he cut his hair then he would lose his strength. But when he let it grow out again he got his strength back and brought the temple down.”
    The girl blinks at me a few slow times, looking confused at the mention of Samson, then entirely bored. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
    In my head I break down the word into
boy
and
friend
, and say, “I guess so.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    â€œSeth,” I say, experimentally. “He doesn’t go to this school.”
    â€œHave you kissed him?”
    â€œKind of.”
    â€œYou know what’s better than having a boyfriend? When someone else’s boyfriend likes you. Even if the boy is a little bit scummy, like from down by the river.”
    â€œScummy,” I repeat, swallowing hard. It’s an awful word.
    â€œBecause when you have your own boyfriend, they could always be about to like someone else. You have a lot to lose. Another thing: it’s good to have a brother or sister who’s popular.”
    â€œI’m an only child.”
    â€œWhen your parents get divorced, maybe one of them will marry someone who’s also divorced and has kids, and maybe those kids will be popular at the school where you end up. That’s what happened with my stepsister. Then my mom divorced her dad.”
    â€œMy parents aren’t getting divorced, though. I already said. My dad’s just away for a while.”
    â€œThat’s code for getting a divorce. That’s Divorce One-oh-one. My mother’s been divorced twice.”
    â€œStop saying ‘divorce,’” I say. In my head I hear Phoebe telling me she loves