God Must Hate Me! Chapter 2: Monday, a bible fanfic

God Must Hate Me by Teen Dreamer

Monday.

"Cor-keeeee………"

I'll never forget the singsong voice of my mother that morning. Angelic to the untrained ear, but masking a sinister ulterior only I could identify. My eyes fluttered lazily open, and I pursed my lips away from the generous drool deposit that had accumulated on my pillow throughout the course of the night. Blurry double-vision soon focussed over the readout on my bedside radio.

"Mom, it's five a.m.!" I croaked, rolling onto my back to face her as she leant with her arms crossed against the doorframe of my bedroom. "What's the story? I took out the garbage last night."

"The water guy came by," she smiled, probably every bit as annoyed as I was, "Says they're gonna cut the hot water till after noon. So if you want a shower, now's the time."

"Right," I murmured, the reverberations of a deep slumber still evident. "Right, thanks, I'll be there soon."

"Be quick," she commanded as she padded back into the hall, "All the other tenants are doing the same, so you'll be lucky to get two minutes if you don't move your keester, meester."

"Alright, okay, I'm going!" I cried, staggering from the welcoming recesses of the bed.

Unfortunately for me, both my feet were entangled in the bedsheet, so standing upright as I made the transition between horizontal and vertical proved challenging – nay – impossible for me. What was supposed to be a concise and agile pounce from the mattress became a stunning feat of uncharacteristic clumsiness as I fell face-first across the floor.

The sound of my bare torso slamming against the hardwood was like a gunshot marking the beginning of a long and painful marathon……

~ (0.0)~

Begrudgingly, I trod from my room to the bathroom, dragging a towel along the carpet behind me. Strangely, this also proved to be a mistake. Our dog, a rather excitable Dalmatian, skittered frenetically from the kitchen and grasped the free end of the fabric squarely between his glistening canines, a low growl rising from his throat as he fought to wrestle it out of my hand.

"MC Hammer, no!" I cried, officially awakened. Not to mention, officially irritated. "No! Bad dog……curse your spotted hide!"

A rather demeaning battle ensued, (demeaning to me, at least,) as I fought to wrench the towel from the rabid animal's jaws. I settled on walking backwards into the bathroom, closing the door over the towel, and pulling it through the crack, giving my beastly opponent little choice but to release and retreat.

"Let that be a lesson to you!" I called, half-heartedly trying to salvage my superiority over the animal kingdom.

I draped the towel over the basin and undressed, climbing into the shower cubicle and indulging in the warmth of the steaming cascade, a more-than-welcome relief from the crisp chill of the late-Autumn climate.

I guess I kind of lost track of the time as I washed, for as predicted, the neighbourhood's hot water supply ran cold – my blood following suit accordingly.

"Huaaugh!" I shrieked in a hoarse whisper as my eyes bugged from their sockets.

A walrus would've been frostbitten under such an arctic bombardment. Pawing feebly for the shower door, I thrust myself out and away, stumbling rigidly about the bathroom in some vain attempt at restoring circulation. Furious drying offered some relief, omitting, of course, the fact that I had what appeared to be a large meringue of shampoo still lathered through my hair.

I remember wanting to go back to bed. That always solves your problems, like restarting your computer, or escaping to Tijuana and changing your name. Murmuring numerous choice catchphrases under my breath, I wrapped the towel around my waist and braved the sub-zero sting of the basin faucet to wash out the suds. Quite thoroughly embittered, I opened the bathroom door and stepped back out into the hall.

Only to be on the receiving end of my dog's 'rematch,' as it was.

MC Hammer snatched the towel once over, yanking it away from my waist and leaving me to sprint, bare naked, through the hall, thundering dozens of incoherent curses as I dashed toward my room. Past my mother in the kitchen, who raised an incredulous eyebrow at the spectacle as she sipped at her cocoa.

"Poor dear," I head her coo matter-of-factly as she browsed over the morning paper.

I slammed the door behind me and paced, infuriated, into my closet. So far I'd been subjected to circumstances more befitting an episode of The Jetsons than to the life of a God-fearing American teen. And I was not happy.

~(.)~

My Mom's an eccentric old hen. Like almost everything in my life, she's "difficult to describe." She's like Kathy Bates in About Schmidt……with less than half the sin! Consequently, life's never dull at home, as often as I wish it were.

She became a Christian when I was nine. And boy, was it a trying time for the Abrams household. My father, Joshua Abrams, did not take the news well. I remember him murmuring the words 'fruity fundamentalist' over and over as I watched him pack his bags that fateful evening not long after her conversion.

Because Mom didn't gently ease herself into the house of the Lord. She paraded in, streamers and all. A Born-Again Christian in every respect. And even though I was unfamiliar with the whole concept at the time, I felt strangely comfortable under her protection, so sole custody was given to her. Thank God.

She was in a particularly sugary mood that Monday morning. God forbid.

"You've got quite a masculine figure happening, Corky!" she chirped as I slunk towards the refrigerator. "Nice of you to exhibit it."

"Yes, very amusing," I replied, darkly.

I was clothed now, of course. A brown leather jacket, a chequered red shirt & loose-fitting denim trousers adorned my listless frame as I plopped into the chair and composed a meal for myself.

"You've studied for your History Exam, presumably?" she asked, handing me a mug of black coffee.

"Thoroughly," I nodded, and it was the truth.

In addition to my spirituality, I was also quite the academic. I'd spent virtually the entire weekend studying for this afternoon's exam, and, gosh-darnit, I was not prepared for failure. Which was a shame. I do like to be prepared, you see……

~(.0)~

"Holy shiznit, ma white brutha!" crowed Jason, my best friend, a deliberately stereotypical Afro-American teen, "You is lookin' down today, dawg!"

"Yeah, word up, G," I muttered, in no mood for our typical exchange of Ghetto terminology.

"Seriously, what's the matter?" he asked as I fell into the bus seat beside him.

"Rough morning," I sighed. "You ready for History?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," he yawned, looking out at the passing neighbourhood. "Oh, hey. I worked on a chord progression last night, you wanna hear it?"

"Sure."

He pulled a discman from his backpack and I wedged the headphones into my ears, a look of bemusement entertaining my features as I awaited another of his 'musical masterpieces.' (Jason was an aspiring DJ, for what it's worth.)

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded as he hit Play and watched my face expectantly.

Plink, plonk……plownk!

"Whaddaya think?" he whispered, excitedly.

"That's, uh……that's single-handedly the most mindless, repetitive and downright irritating progression of off-key notes ever to grace this poor discman, Jason," I said in response, with a cruel honesty only a best friend could demonstrate.

"Aight," he shrugged, "It ain't platinum yet, I'll admit. But I'm takin' it down to the Warehouse on Sunday, get it remixed – full techno, dawg! I'm on my way!"

"Yeah, techno," I smirked, "Just for that extra monotonous edge."

We shared a chuckle at that moment, as we engaged ourselves in a complex series of hand gestures typical of a fraternity handshake. And suddenly I felt better. Everyone has bad mornings. And I took heart as I dismissed the brief lapse of misfortune as just that.

But oh, how wrong I was.

~(0.o)~

Monday morning came and went, every bit as uneventful as it should have been. Between my normal lessons, I was consistently refreshing my memory in preparation for the afternoon's big test. I'd mentally archived entire Encyclopaedias, such was my dedication to success.

And when the time finally came for the huddled masses of anxious adolescents to begin, I knew – like, the kind of elated sense of unmatched, heartfelt knowing you feel when you first become a Christian – that I was going to ace this.

I dropped into my seat, murmured a quick, reassuring prayer, took up my pencil and focussed on the questions before me, with but one thing playing through my thoughts:

Plink, plonk……plownk!

'Oh, God, no,' I remember thinking as a cold sweat dewed over my fevered brow. The words on the page might as well have been in Kanji for all they meant to me. The warped three-chord synth progression from earlier that day had chosen what could only be described as the most inopportune time to resurface. Suddenly, my knowledge had abandoned me. My research had gone into hiding. My memory housed only that irritating music, and I began to panic.

The good thing about multiple choice exams is, you're never under any obligation to exercise real intelligence. There are four choices, one of which is always right. In this situation, however, there were still three choices too many, and that afternoon, every one of my answers was wrought with no definite confidence. I felt ill.

~(.o);~

"Hold up, homeboy!" called Jason as I paced, infuriated, through the bustling hallway afterwards.

He came into stride beside me, cockier than Kelly Osbourne, and every bit as aggravating.

"So, how'd you do?" he asked, obviously pleased with himself.

"I don't know how I did," I seethed in response, my sullen demeanour making a verbal explanation completely unnecessary, "Therein lies the problem."

"You gotta be kiddin' me, G!" he crowed, forcefully hooking my neck into a headlock, "You, of all people? Fifty bucks says you've got it in the bag!"

"Well, there's one good thing to come out of this," I grunted, wrenching myself free, "Fifty bucks at the expense of my academic repertoire. That test accounted for……what, fifteen? Twenty percent?"

"Thirty percent of this year's curriculum, bro."

"Super," I snarled.

~(_)~

"Oh, Corkeeeeeeee……!!!"

"Looks like that's my cue to exit, Romeo!" snickered Jason, jogging away from me as I stood, dismayed, awaiting the inevitable.

I turned around with reluctant expectance to face the woman who addressed me: Rebekah Sanchez. My mother's surrogate clone – the daughter she wished she had. Christian to the max. She was the fourth addition to the Trinity – The Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit & Becky. Everyone thought we were perfect for one another, but despite our spiritual similarities, her mega-enthusiasm kind of got on my nerves. Don't get me wrong, I'm not cynical – I'm just……down-to-earth, I suppose.

But not Becky. She was on fire for God, with a smile bright enough to scald your cataracts, and the voice of a songbird that just won't shut up! To top it all off, she had the biggest crush on me, and made little, if any effort to hide it. Rest assured, she was the last person I wanted to encounter after this particularly sour day, but there we were.

"Heya, Becky," I smiled weakly. "What's up?"

"Oh, the usual," she giggled with mock timidness, batting her lashes at me in what would have been considered 'seductively' back in the fifties. "How'd you do in the History exam?"

"Yeah, peachy keen," I murmured, not wanting to think about it. "Listen, Becky, I can't stay and chat, I'm gonna miss my bus."

"Ooh, but wait!" she cried. "Is everything ready for Wednesday's campaign?"

"Wednesday's……oh, right! The Anti-drug Rally, I almost forgot!"

"Y'big silly," she giggled.

"Yeah, my bad. Um, I've got most of the banners done, all I really need to get a hold of is……the uh, drugs."

"There's no shame in purchasing shady, back-alley marijuana in the interests of education, Corky," she said softly, her voice suddenly thick with emotion as she embraced me tightly. "You're such a brave man."

I sighed as I let her vicelike grip run its course. Unfortunately, it ran for longer than was completely necessary. Before I knew it, I heard the uproarious laughter of Jason and my other friends as they leered at us from the bus windows.

"You are so beautiful……to meeeee………can't you seeeeeeee?!" they howled as the bus pulled out of the parking lot, leaving me to go limp in Becky's arms as I watched my ride home disappear into the afternoon sun.

~(0`_'0)"~

"You're home late," Mom observed as I marched into our apartment, dumbfounded with rage.

"Missed the bus," I uttered as I flung my schoolbag into a corner and paced furtively into my bedroom.

"Well, how'd the exam go?" she called.

Her answer was a rather unceremonious slamming of the door.

"What was that all about?" I immediately demanded at the ceiling, giving the proverbial heavens a glare dark enough to trigger the Second Coming of Christ. There was no denying my frustration. My fury. All I wanted to know was why. And He, above all others, was at perfect liberty to answer my question.

God and I have a very practical relationship, you see. For me, prayer is like a conversation with Jason. I sit, I talk, I vent my emotion with just as many worldly colloquialisms as a video game discussion at recess. This is both a blessing and a curse, depending entirely on how you look at it. A blessing, in that I have, in a sense, attained a truly personal relationship with Jesus – to the degree where I can speak to Him as if He's sitting at the desk reading one of my Archie comics; and a curse in that my matter-of-fact attitude often obscures a lesson He's trying to teach me – case in point, this evening.

I kicked off my shoes and fell onto the mattress, still frowning as I mentally expressed my displeasure to the day's events at God. I was so caught up in my embittered musings, that I didn't notice my mother's presence until I felt the end of the bed depress. Startled, I bolted upright and almost concussed myself on the shelf.

"Augh!"

"Ohh, Sweetie!" said Mom, comfortingly. "Rough day?"

I fell back onto the pillow, periodically releasing laboured breaths as I clutched at my aching forehead.

"Like you wouldn't believe," I seethed through clenched teeth.

"Well, cheer up," she whispered, patting my thigh and leaning in for a kiss on my wounded brow, "Everybody has their 'off moments.' Why, just last week at the hospital, I confused a patient's penicillin dosage and sent the poor dear into a narcoleptic fit!"

"A common mistake, I'm sure," I sighed, a little frightened by her morbid sense of humour.

"That's right, Corky. Common. Don't let it get to you. Things'll improve tomorrow, I'm sure."

"Yeah," I yawned, feeling better. "Yeah, you're probably right. Thanks, Ma."

"Aw, anything for my special little guy!" she squealed, embracing me with a desperate motherly love more than a little reminiscent of Becky's.

"Alright……alright, thanks, Mom. G'night."

"'Night, hon."

I rolled onto my side as she closed the door behind her. It was still quite early, but I wanted to catch up on the couple of hours' sleep I'd missed after being awakened prematurely that morning. I whispered a tired apology to God for my behaviour, begged Him to get the maddening 'plink-plonk-plownk' out of my head once and for all, and drifted off to sleep with the promise of a better day tomorrow.

Boy, was I in for a surprise.