So, each of the last four weeks inevitably gave way to a moment of temptation where I wanted to gnaw my arm off, dive through a stained-glass window, then Usain Bolt my way home, yet I endured. Partially to not endanger possession of my car keys. Though, if I was being honest, there was another incentive for my continued attendance.

Kiera Westing.

While Pastor Newsome ranted, I watched her. She sat across the center aisle, on the same row as me and Mom, so Prayer Peeking was the only time I could really look at her. Otherwise she’d see me, too.

Head bowed. Eyes closed. Kiera leaned far forward, her bare fingers interlaced as she whispered her own prayer. No promise ring in sight.

She’d switched up her hair—a move I recognized thanks to my sister Cressie cycling through hairdos with pop-star frequency, “testing looks” before she left for college. Girl stuff.

At school on Friday, Kiera had been happy, smiling, and rocking springy twist outs that bounced when she passed me in the hall. Since then, she’d flat-ironed her hair into black waterfalls that crested her dark shoulders and the thin straps of her wine-colored dress.

She hadn’t smiled once since service started, though she still looked hot hot. Volcano hot. Dragon hot. Summer barbecue in southern hell hot. Happy or sad, there was no changing that.

With effort, I tore myself away. There’s Prayer Peeking and there’s Prayer Staring. I wasn’t a creepy dude.

Plus, if all went well after service, I wouldn’t have to sneak glimpses anymore. In the meantime, there were other entertaining sights in the church.

Along the side of the sanctuary, six prismatic windows stretched high. On sunny days, the eastern glass turned outside light rainbow and doused chunks of the congregation in paintball colors. All our varying shades of brown got psychedelic.

Missus Baines, the old lady in the pew ahead of me, who shambled in with a cane every week, and smelled like the inventor of cigarettes and peppermints, turned Oompa-Loompa orange. Almost had to squint to look at her. I liked her because she was unpredictable. For the moment, she was quiet, but at any given time she might catch the Holy Ghost, pop up from her pew, and sprint the aisle, swinging her stick. Get too close, she’d knock you out.

Three rows back was another of my Prayer Peeking All-Stars. Coach Scott, tinted leprechaun green, with his eyes squeezed shut hard. He was one of the few First Missionary House of the Lord members I ever saw outside of church. Usually barking at my school’s JV basketball team from the sidelines.

My boy, Qwan, perpetual benchwarmer, claimed Coach Scott wielded curse words like the Force. When the guys were goofing off in practice, he’d hit them with f-bombs that slammed them into stuff. Here, in the house of the Lord, he was still loud, but high-pitched, a weird cartoon-mouse voice. Hands raised and spread wide to catch all those blessings from heaven. He shouted, “Thank you, Jay-SUS!”