I was able to come to terms with the real me through the various programs happening at my mom’s church.

That’s First Missionary House of the Lord in Green Creek, Virginia. It’s run by this great guy named Pastor Eldridge Newsome. And if you’re nearby, and free on Sunday, I’m inviting you to join me there.

Service starts at eleven.

Of course there was more to the video than that. Cressie asked some follow-up questions about the perceptions of manhood, and how men create new generations of misogynists. We talked about the unrealistic sexual expectations on teens in general. The canceled Healthy Living class. How we needed to stop calling the Baby-Getters that name. But, there was really only one part I was interested in. Would that invitation work?

I didn’t think I’d know until Sunday, despite the way that video racked up views among Cressie’s subscribers. And it blew up, believe me.

Still, would people show? Would this final play actually work? I was worried. I wasn’t the only one.

Saturday night, shortly after 8 p.m., I got a text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Del, this is Sister Vanessa at First Missionary. I’m reaching out to deliver a message.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: If you do indeed plan to attend service tomorrow, could you come a bit early?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Pastor would like a word.

Chapter 30

SUNDAY MORNING, I DRESSED IN my suit, attached my clip-on tie, gathered my notes, my freshly purchased Bible, and went downstairs, expecting a silent escape.

My entire family was dressed in their Sunday best, waiting for me.

My confused glare bounced from face to face, landing on Cressie. She said, “Seems like straight As gives you clout around here.”

I still didn’t get it. Dad?

He said, “I thought she’d want money. Her asking me to go to church seems a small price to pay.” He munched a spoonful of wet Frosted Flakes from a bowl in his hand.

Mom looked less comfortable. “I’m all for getting y’all churched up, but are you sure you don’t want to try the AGAPE Church over in Simonsberg?”

“Nope,” Cressie said, “First Missionary today. We can try whatever church you want after.”

Jesus, Cressie. That didn’t sound ominous at all.

But my parents didn’t seem to catch on, and, honestly, as nervous as I was, this made me feel better. Like backup. We weren’t the Justice League or anything, but the Raineys felt pretty unstoppable in the moment.

We showed up at First Missionary early, at my insistence. Good thing, too. The parking lot was almost full. Usually, there were spaces to spare in the gravel lot. Not that day, and I knew why.

Mom said, “Guess people are piling into the services close to the holiday. Good call on coming early, son. I want my usual pew.”

“Don’t mention it, Mom.” Really, don’t.

We spilled from our car, began the walk to the entrance, gaining an ample amount of side-eye from some of the regulars. Coach Scott left his truck, paced us to the door, radiating bitterness. I got the sense if he could order me to do a dozen suicides right there, he would’ve.