Wednesday had come faster than I expected.
I felt a bit excited, but at the same time nervous. If he was here, and he could make my mom relax like that, then maybe it would be a good day.
The only downside to his visit was the unnecessary, extensive cleaning.
Not normal cleaning. Not "pick up after yourself" cleaning. The house was already spotless — my mom kept it that way. But she made us go over everything again. Three times.
An example of how ridiculous it was? She had me clean around the outlets.
Who the fuck is going to stare at that long enough to critique it?
It was like he was the cleaner version of Gordon Ramsay, no pun intended.
So we cleaned everything over again. The bathrooms. The floors. The mirrors. The kitchen counters that were already sparkling. The whole place reeked of bleach.
"You want people thinking we live like animals?" she snapped when my brother slowed down. "Do it again."
By the third round, my hands smelled like pure chemicals, my eyes watered from the fumes, and my back ached. But that didn't matter to her. Nothing ever did, except how it looked.
How we looked.
And the impression the visitor got when the door opened.
And then came the clothing.
She made us dress in a way that seemed casual but not too casual. Not "real at-home casual."
No shorts and T-shirts. No tank tops and sweatpants.
Instead, I had to wear a nice little dress — the kind you'd put on for a birthday party, not just to sit around in your own damn house.
We had to look "decent."
You'd think decent just meant having clothes on and not looking like we'd just rolled out of bed. But no. For her, it was about proving a point.
I don't know — maybe it was to shut down some of the rumors. Maybe it was just to remind herself she had control. But we had to look presentable. Always.
And it kind of boiled down to just me and her.
Because my brothers— especially the oldest one — didn't want any part of it. He just sat in his room, controller in hand, playing video games, pretending none of this existed and the other one just watched him play.
So finally, the knock came at the door.
Tense as I was, you'd think I wasn't expecting it. But I had been standing there for twenty minutes with a smile plastered on my face so long it hurt.
You think I'm exaggerating, but trust me— I'm not.
My mom brushed off her dress, took a deep breath, and smiled as she went to open it.
"Pastor!" she beamed, clasping her hands together.
She should've pursued acting. I'm not kidding. Looking back, it's actually impressive how easily she slipped into character like that.
She gave that small, polite church hug everyone does. "How have you been? And this—" She extended her hand toward his associate.
"John Wilcox," he said with a curt nod and polite smile.
"Come in," my mom said warmly, motioning them inside. Then she turned to me: "Rhea! Can you get them some drinks and say hello?"
Now it was my turn to act. I wasn't as good as she was, but I think I managed.
I grabbed two cups, poured fruit punch. Before finishing, I called out, "Excuse me, do you want something to drink too, Mom?"
She shook her head with a smile. "No, dear. Just bring the two you have for Mr. John and Pastor Taylor."
"Yes, ma'am."
I carried the cups in carefully, setting them on the coffee table with no clinks, no clanks. Then I forced the brightest smile I could, ignoring how much it already hurt from holding it so long.
"Hi, Pastor Taylor. Hello, Mr. John."
Pastor Taylor rubbed my head in a friendly way and said thank you. For a second, it almost felt like having a dad. Like you could actually tell him anything. He felt safe, in more ways than one.
And honestly? My smile was the closest to real it ever got when I was around him.
It was my first time meeting Mr. John. He was older, like Pastor Taylor. Olive skin, receding hairline, a bit bigger, but overall not a bad… not a bad…
Fuck it.
I wanted to downplay my instincts, but it's hard. I hate to lean into the stereotype of "church officials and kids," it's usually little boys, but maybe I looked close enough to one with the shaved head.
I kid.
God, me and my unintentional puns.
It's a coping mechanism.
Well… maybe.
Anyway, whether he saw me as a boy in a dress or a girl with a shaved head, I was definitely his type.
At first it was typical grooming stuff.
We had these little services every Wednesday, and he made sure to do the following every time:
Compliments.
"Aren't you a smart one? You can read it, but can you understand what it means? What do you think Solomon is talking about in that verse?"
I had this habit of putting my finger in the corner of my mouth when I was thinking. I still remember the verse, because compliments were rare for me, so his stuck:
"The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun."
Ecclesiastes 1:9.
As a kid, I answered the best I could. I smiled and said, "I think it means… things repeat. Like cycles, maybe?"
He laughed bright, clapped, and rubbed my shoulder a little too long for comfort — though back then I barely had any frame of reference for what "too long" meant.
Snacks.
He'd bring me little treats I rarely got to eat. One time he shook a brown paper bag at me, wiggling his brows.
"I got you those fruit snacks and the ringing pop you were talking about."
I giggled, correcting him with all the seriousness of a girl my age. "Mr. John, it's not a ringing pop, it's a ring pop. See?" I said taking the ring out of the package, slipping it on my finger and sucking it.
Jesus, thinking about it now.. maybe I did want him. Why else would I do something so stupid.
He slapped his forehead, eyes wide like a clown. "Ohhh, I see it now. You really are smart. Hey — our little secret."
He pressed a finger to his lips, and I copied him. I thought that was funny at the moment.
Then validation.
"You really are an intelligent and beautiful young lady. I bet all the boys just love you, and you have tons of friends."
That stung. I thought of Ryan and his friends — yeah, they were all over me, but not in the way I wanted. His words only made me shrink, made me defensive.
He noticed. "Hey, what's wrong, Rhea? You seem upset. Is it me?"
"N-no! It's not you. It's… school."
"What about school? Is everything okay?"
I hesitated, ashamed. I twisted my hands in my lap. "I don't know… it's hard to say."
He leaned closer, eyes soft, eager. "I get it. Some things are hard to talk about. You feel scared or ashamed. But you know you can tell me, right? I won't tell anyone. We already have secrets together, and I've kept every one."
And I trusted him.
So I told him.
I told him everything. The touches. The harassment. The venom in their words.
And he consoled me. "You are very strong and smart. That intimidates other girls, because they want to be like you. You're beautiful, Rhea. Very beautiful. And mature for your age. And if those boys try anything again? I'll give them the old one-two." He threw two playful punches against my arm.
And I laughed.
Because for once, I felt seen. Validated. Protected.
It felt nice.
That's how it was. Every Wednesday, Pastor Taylor counseled my mom, while Mr. John counseled me. And for months, that pattern continued and Mr. John was my friend
Until he wasn't.
Because right before my birthday, everything changed.
Three days before, Mr. John smiled at me and said he had a present for me.
And as a little girl, I was thrilled.
I thought about all the little things he'd given me before. Fruit snacks, ring pops, attention. I couldn't wait to see what he'd give me for my special day.
So that Wednesday, I was waiting by the door.
I couldn't help it. I was excited. Like a puppy wagging its tail.
When Mr. John came in, I greeted him with a hug. "Mr. John!" I keened.
He picked me up and spun me. "Hey-hey, my favorite little girl!"
"I'm almost twelve! So young lady," I corrected, hands on my hips with mock authority.
"Well, excuse me, young lady," he said, holding up his hands in playful surrender. "Didn't mean to insult your budding womanhood. But you aren't a woman yet."
His doting on me gave me confidence I didn't normally have. So I shot back, light and smug, "Yes I am! I'm one year closer to, like… thirty!"
He laughed. "You aren't there yet. But if you want to…" He leaned close, voice dropping to a whisper. "I can give you the secret to womanhood. But it has to stay our little secret. Can you keep it a secret?"
I covered my mouth in shock, wide-eyed, because I thought he was about to give me some divine wisdom on how to be a woman.
I thought it meant something. That he cared for me.
Now, looking back, I know exactly what kind of smile that was. And I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger self: Don't do it. Don't ask to know.
But I can't go back.
I can't save young me.
So instead, I smiled eagerly, leaned in, and whispered back:
"Yes! Give it to me… please."