Alex Sanchez - The God Box

The God Box

Alex Sanchez

To those who believe in a loving God and those who struggle to love themselves.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS With gratitude to my editor, David Gale; my agent, Miriam Altshuler; associate editor Alexandra Cooper; and all those

who contributed to the creation of this book with their encouragement and feedback, including Tommie Adams, David Bissette, Theerasak Boon

prajam, Bob Bozek,Bill Brockschmidt, Zach Broken rope, Justin Cannon, David Chen, Robert Harris and Michael Davies, Bill Hitz, Charles Keener,

Jingjo Kongmun, Erica Lazaro, Jayeson Owen, Guillermo Porras, John Porter, John "J.Q."

Quinones, and Pattawish Thitithanapak. Thank you.

"SEX AND RELIGION DON'T MIX," MY GRANDMA ONCE TOLD ME.

"THE CHURCH SHOULD STAY OUT OF PEOPLE'S PANTS."

That random memory flashed through my mind the first morning of senior year, as I tugged my red rubber WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? wristband--snap!--against my wrist. I hoped the sting would help me forget the sex dream that had woken me. But it didn't. I climbed from bed, hurried through my Bible reading and prayers, then raced through my shower, all the while trying to stop thinking about the dream. When I arrived at homeroom, my girlfriend, Angie, had already snagged us a couple of seats together. She'd been my best friend since kindergarten, when my family moved from Mexico to Texas. Now I surprised her with the latest CD of one of our favorite Christian rock bands. No way!"

Her bright brown eyes gazed up at me like I was the only one in her world.

"You're so awesome. Thanks!

While she scanned the CD's song list, I glanced up. A lanky boy I'd never seen before stepped through the doorway. Tiny hoops pierced both ears and his left eyebrow--surprising for our conservative little west Texas town, where even a single earring could get a guy accused of

"going gay." His black wavy hair and cedar skin hinted he was most likely Mexican, and his cinnamon-colored eyes almost pulled me toward him. Who was he? The boy sauntered toward an empty seat where Jude Maldonado--a ratty guy who came to school mostly to make life hell for everybody--had his dirt-smeared cowboy boots kicked up.

Sup?" the new guy asked Jude, friendly-like.

"Mind if I sit here? You blind?" Jude sneered. "The seat's taken.

All of homeroom turned to watch as New Boy calmly raised his hands.

Whoa, easy! Keep your chair.Heres a seat,"

Angie, always the rescuer, called over. "Thanks."

The boy walked over with a broad smile. "My name's Manuel.

Im Angie. This is Paul. Paul?" Manuel locked onto my eyes, as if peering inside me, with a look that was part mischief and part something else. "Not Pablo? Paul," I said firmly.

Although my birth certificate actually did say Pablo, I didn't want to be constantly reminded I was from Mexico. I wanted to be American; I didn't want to be different. During the remainder of homeroom I tried not to stare at Manuel. What was the strange pull I felt toward him, almost like some force stronger than my own? Did he know me from somewhere? And what was up with those earrings?

Throughout morning classes my thoughts kept returning to him. Nervously, I tugged at my WWJD wristband--a habit I had picked up from a friend who used to bite his fingernails like crazy. In order to quit, he started snapping a rubber band against his wrist whenever he caught himself. The pain of the snap, although merely a sting, had helped him stop. In my case, I hoped the trick would stop my mind from thinking things I didn't want to think.

When the lunch bell rang, I eagerly headed to the cafeteria. My lunch group consisted of Angie and two other girls, Dakota and Elizabeth, who were as opposite as hot and cold. Dakota was gangly and tall, with curls of fiery red hair flaring all over the place; she was editor of the school newspaper, Honor Society president, and flexibly progressive. In contrast, Elizabeth was Barbie-doll petite and impeccably blonde, a cheerleader, student council vice president, and adamantly conservative. Both were feisty and fiercely opinionated. The big difference between them was that Dakota was warm and never harsh. Elizabeth acted warm, but she could be cold as an icicle. The two of them, Angie, and I had been friends since middle school. We were all smart, ranking in the top ten percent of our class, and we all belonged to our Christ on Campus Bible Club. For as long as I can remember, my closest friends have always been girls. I'm not sure why.

I just found early on that generally girls were more open to telling you what was on their minds and listening to what was on yours. You could talk to them about emotional and spiritual stuff, like why somebody wasn't getting along with someone else, or how a certain song made you want to dance or cry, or how you felt God was calling you to do something. I had guy friends too, but they tended to be more guarded about venturing into discussions much beyond sports, cars, games, or sex. My Christian guy friends were a bit more open to at least talking about God-related stuff, but even at Bible Club the girls did most of the talking. The few guys who attended mostly lobbed scripture verses as though pitching softballs. In any case, I didn't mind being the only male at our lunch table. It made me feel special. The girls turned to me for advice. Like today: Elizabeth had fought with her boyfriend, Cliff, because she'd seen him talking with his ex.

Angie thought Elizabeth was being too severe. Dakota suggested Elizabeth get more info rather than give him the silent treatment. Elizabeth frowned at their opinions, then asked what I thought.

"Well ..." I gave a diplomatic shrug. "You really think you should crucify the guy just for talking with somebody?" Elizabeth frowned at that, too, while Angie glanced across the cafeteria.

"Hey, there's Manuel." She waved and I turned to see the new guy holding his tray, scanning the room for a place to sit. "Ooh, he's cute. Is he single?" Dakota pushed the red curls back from her face as Manuel jostled toward us. "Hey, can I sit with you guys? I was hoping to see you ."As Manuel set his tray down, Angie introduced him to the others. "Hi!" Dakota flashed a smile.

"Where you from?" As Manuel ate his spaghetti, he told us that he'd moved from Dallas (the nearest big city to us), his parents were originally from Mexico, his mom had gotten a job as a math professor at the little college in our town, and his dad worked as a sales manager for some company .I only half listened to what he said, paying more attention to his voice. It was soft and smooth, not gravelly like mine. I'd never liked my voice. And every time he looked at me, it was like kapow! Something happened inside me that I couldn't explain. Then Elizabeth asked, "Are you a Christian?" "Some days more than others." Manuel gave a relaxed grin. "But I try to be."

Elizabeth's brow knitted in confusion, and I was puzzled too. Either you were a Christian, meaning you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior, or you didn't and you weren't.Angie and Dakota moved on to other new-friend questions: Manuel's favorite color? Purple. Favorite season? Spring. Favorite ice cream? Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. He asked us the same sort of stuff and then said, "Hey, does your school have a GSA?" "A what?" Angie's nose crinkled with curiosity. A gay-straight alliance," Dakota interjected. At the mention of the word "gay," I recalled the dream that had woken me that morning, and my face flamed. My cousin told me,"

Dakota continued, "that they started a GSA at her school in Houston. She said it caused a huge ruckus. Some churches even tried to stop it. "Ugh!" Elizabeth paled in horror. "They'd never allow a group like that here." "They barely even let us have dances," Angie complained. So ..."