Chapter Two

Cyrus Evander Milton, like most of the other sixteen year olds he knew, spent his Wednesday nights in confirmation classes at his suburban protestant church. He spent most of the class time wondering what the girls in his confirmation class had on under their jeans and sweatshirts, and whether their undergarments were particularly difficult to remove.

He had heard it was easier to get Catholic girls naked.

Cyrus learned and remembered new facts easily, so he didn’t have any trouble with the required knowledge in his confirmation class. He memorized the Ten Commandments and their church-approved interpretations easily. There was, of course, the niggling little problem of his complete lack of belief in any of it. He also had trouble understanding how one could both fear and love anything. Every interpretation for the commandments began with “We are to fear and love God.” It didn’t make a damn bit of sense to him.

Cyrus also hated his entire confirmation class. There was not a single person worthy of his company, he felt. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. There was one girl, a year younger than him, who wasn’t a complete bitch. When he was ruler of the world, he decided in class one night, he’d spare her.

It was a mass grave for the rest of them though.

And so Cyrus spent his Wednesday nights memorizing Church doctrine, thinking about sex, and wondering if anyone else in his class actually bought any of this shit.

By the time he was confirmed, he was certain of two facts. The first was that, no, no one else bought it. The second was that no one would admit it, because they liked being up on their high horse. Just because one wasn’t supposed to judge another, didn’t mean it’s not especially fun and satisfying to judge others. Especially if the judging involves telling the judgee what you and five of your friends had decided. Even more so if you were on a retreat, and the adult chaperone was on the side of the kids making your life hell.

Not, Cyrus would be the first to tell you, that he was bitter. He wished all of them well, actually. After all, if he had his way, they were going to end up in a mass grave (except for the one girl who was ok). They might as well have a good life up to that point.

Cyrus wasn’t just skeptical of the church because of the folks in confirmation class. After all, there was a whole congregation of adults who couldn’t wait to prove him right.

Worse than that, he saw the family of his best friend in church every Sunday (Two people who won’t end up in mass graves. Not just one. Two.). His friend, Andrew, did not come from a rich family. His parents only owned one car, in contrast to the two cars every other household owned. It was a beat up old Ford Taurus, with rusty rocker panels and a variety of interesting sounds coming from beneath the hood. It had Wal-marts cheapest tires installed on all four wheels. They ate a lot of Hamburger Helper, and their clothes were from the Salvation Army and another local thrift store.

He saw them in church every Sunday morning, dressed in their best clothes they worked so hard to keep in good shape. And every Sunday, he saw Andrew’s parents put their donation in the offering plate.

As far as Cyrus knew, the church had never so much as offered Andrew’s family any of the clothes they collected every Christmas.

The pastor, however, drove a flashy, late model Cadillac. Most of his stupid classmates overlooked (or openly envied) his luxurious transportation, but Cyrus didn’t. He wondered why the pastor didn’t sell that car, buy a modest automobile, and use the difference in cash to help out some poor folks. Like his friend Andrew’s family.

Cyrus went to church and to his confirmation classes every week, though, because it was important to his parents for some reason. He didn’t notice them acting especially holy during the rest of the week, but for some reason they couldn’t just sleep in on Sunday mornings.

Cyrus, for one, thought sleeping in would do his soul more good.

Cyrus was confirmed on a Sunday afternoon. He’d been scheduled to work (twenty hours per week at the local mega-mart), and had to argue with his co-worker to get him to extend his shift by an hour and a half to cover for Cyrus while he got confirmed.

The confirmation ritual was nothing if not awkward for Cyrus. Stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down, then line up to go kneel in front of the altar with his hands folded in prayer in front of him while the pastor came around and asked each of them if they promised to be good little boys and girls.

Afterwards, they had to line up in the back of the church, supposedly to be congratulated, or given cars, or whatever it is the families of the other freaks in his class did to celebrate being confirmed.

None of the congregation, apart from his parents, came over to congratulate him. He noticed.

After that, he went home, changed out of his church clothes and into his work uniform, and started his new life as an adult in the eyes of the church by mopping up vomit in aisle thirteen, Snack Foods.

That was the last time Cyrus had set foot in a church.