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Mom rubs at her forehead again with her knuckle, then holds out her hand, shaking it as if it’s asleep. “I don’t want to get into this right now, Grey. He’s your father. He loves you, and he’s just doing what he thinks is right. You need to be respectful. ”

  “He’s not respectful to me. ”

  She shoots me a sharp, warning glare. “Don’t, Grey. ” She winces, and then turns her eyes back to the road, blinking hard. “Goodness, this is the worst one yet,” she mutters, more to herself than out loud.

  “Worst one?” I stare at her in worry. “You’ve been having a lot of these headaches?”

  “Here and there. Nothing too bad. They hit me in the morning, and they usually go away on their own. ” She clenches her hand into a fist and releases it, shakes it again.

  I’m not sure what to say. Mom is tough. She’s never sick, and the few times she is, she rarely complains and never takes the time to rest. She just powers through it until she’s better. For her to visibly be in pain isn’t a good sign. She must really be hurting.

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  “Should you see a doctor?” I ask.

  She waves her hand in dismissal. “It’s just a headache. ”

  “What’s wrong with your hand, then?”

  “I don’t know. It just…it feels numb. It’s fine now. ”

  We’re home at this point, and she pulls the BMW into the garage and is out her door and into the house before I’ve even hauled my bag out of the back seat. I wave at Daddy as I pass his study on my way up the stairs. After I’ve showered, I head down to the kitchen, expecting to find Mom making dinner, but the kitchen is empty.

  Daddy is still in his study, typing away at his computer, preparing for Sunday’s sermon.

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask.

  He looks up over the rim of his narrow reading glasses. “She’s lying down. She’s got a migraine, I guess. ”

  “Is she okay? She said she’s been having headaches. ”

  He leans back in his chair. “I know. If they don’t stop soon, I’m going to take her in to see a doctor whether she wants to or not. ”

  “I’ll make dinner then. ”

  “Thank you, Grey. When you’re finished, see if Mom wants something. She may not. ” He turns back to the computer. “I’ll eat in here. ”

  I retreat to the kitchen and start making dinner. I’m not as fancy a cook as Mom, but I can make a few good dishes. I rummage in the fridge and see that she’d gathered the ingredients to make chicken cordon bleu, so I make that, bringing Daddy his plate and can of Diet Coke. I head upstairs to check on Mom but she is asleep with the curtains drawn against the evening light. Even in sleep, her forehead is wrinkled and tight with pain.

  Worry shoots through me, but I dismiss it. I leave the plate of food in case Mom wants it later, taking my plate and Coke into my room to eat as I finish my homework. Except for Mom’s headaches, life is good.

  So why do I feel a gnawing sense of unease?

  Chapter 2

  The last of the school year passes without incident. Mom’s headaches have subsided or she hides them. I’ve danced in several recitals, with Mom and Daddy in attendance. Daddy still doesn’t quite approve, and he definitely glares during the other girls’ more overtly sensual solos. He knows I’m talented, though, and this pleases him. I dance over the summer, and I get to know Devin and Lisa and a few other girls from the studio. Daddy lets me go out with them as long as I check in regularly. For the most part, we don’t do anything except hang out at the mall and watch girly TV at Devin’s house. Boys come over a few times, but none of us says anything to the adults. Devin is a pixie, barely five-one and not even a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’s got auburn hair and brown eyes and she’s a spitfire, energetic and fiery and outspoken. She pretty much has the run of her house since her parents work all the time. As far as Daddy knows, it’s just me and Devin and Lisa and cheesy ’80s movies like Flashdance and Footloose and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

  He doesn’t know about the occasional party Devin throws on the weekends while her parents are in Atlanta or elsewhere for business. Compared to the stories I hear at Central High School, these parties are usually pretty tame, It’s mostly the same twenty or so people, a few girls from Mrs. LeRoux’s studio, some guys from the football team, and some girls from the dance program at Central. The others sip beer and do shots of whiskey someone brings, but I don’t. Daddy would smell alcohol on me before I even got into the house. I tried beer once, but it’s nasty. I took a tiny sip of whiskey and nearly choked. I stick to Coke and have fun watching the others act like idiots.

  At one of these parties, near the end of the summer, I find myself sitting on the deck behind Devin’s house, watching as six or seven drunk boys play a rowdy pickup game of football, girls cheering and getting in the way. One of the Central dance girls has her shirt off, her pink bra bright in the late evening darkness. I’m embarrassed for her. How she could be okay like that, half-naked, knowing every single guy at the party is watching her? I want to cover her. Several guys hit on her, try to get her to go inside with them, but she seems to effortlessly fend them off without hurting any feelings. She’s clearly intoxicated, dancing to the music playing from Devin’s portable iPod speakers. She’s got her hands in her hair, bunching it up at the back of her head. She’s writhing her hips to the beat of the music, turning in place slowly, hips gyrating, skin flashing tan under the light of the moon and the pale yellow glow from the house. Everyone is watching her. Everyone. She’s a dancer; she knows what she’s doing. She knows she’s got their attention. She glides her hands over her belly, over her hips, pushing at the waistband of her skintight blue jeans. Her dance has taken on a life of its own, spinning in place, flinging her hair around, pushing out and shaking her hips. Each move is provocative. The guys are frozen, and I watch as one affected guy adjusts himself. Even though I’m in the darkness of the deck, I blush hard.

  A low, husky voice comes from my left. “Can you dance like that?”

  I jump, startled. I peer into the shadows and see a boy frequently at Devin’s parties, a football player named Craig. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Definitely not. ”

  He laughs, leaning on the railing of the deck. “Sure you can. ” His finger brushes over my shoulder, and I shiver, edge away. “You should try. You’d be hot. She’s okay-looking, but you? You’re fine as hell, girl. ”

  I blush so hard my face is hot. I giggle nervously. “You’re crazy. ”

  “No, I’m not. I just know what I like. ” His tone indicates he’s referring to me.

  I still can’t quite see him. He’s in the shadows, on the grass beyond the deck. I’ve seen him before. He’s tall and blond, the kind of guy most girls go gaga for. He’s wearing a red tank top that shows off his burly arms and a pair of low-hanging tan shorts. He’s good-looking, that’s for sure. My stomach flip-flops. He likes me. He’s leaning forward to see me better, his eyes pale and wide in the darkness.

  Abruptly, he plants his hands on the railing of the deck and vaults over so he’s right in front of me. I give a quiet shriek of surprise and move back away from him. He swaggers toward me. He’s so tall, and I’m afraid of what I see in his eyes. Desire. Hunger.

  I don’t know how to deal with it, with him. This is new territory. I know I’m pretty so boys are always interested. I’m tall for a girl, standing five-nine in bare feet. I’ve got honey-blonde hair that’s long and fine and straight. My eyes are gray, the dark iron color of an approaching storm, or so Devin says. I’ve got a dancer’s body: thick, powerful thighs, hips wider than I’d like, a fairly slim waist, and a generous bust line. By “generous,” I mean I’ve got huge boobs, even for my height and build, which is kind of a challenge when I’m dancing. I usually wear sports bras just because I bounce too much without them, even when I’m not dancing.

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  It’s there that Craig’s eyes are glu
ed right now. I’m wearing a loose blue T-shirt and a flowing, floor-length gray skirt. Completely conservative. No skin shows but my arms and a slim rim above the high scoop neck of my shirt. Even still, Craig can’t take his eyes off my chest. I’m suddenly irritated by this. But then he closes in with another step, and he’s close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath and see the lust in his eyes.

  “Come on, Grey, show me how you dance. ” He puts his hands on my hips, low, and grinds against me.

  I’m frozen, because no one has ever touched me like this. Should I react? Part of me likes it, but that part is sinful. The lustful sinner in me likes it.

  With a sharp intake of breath, I yank myself out of his grip. “I don’t think so, Craig. ”

  He just laughs, as if I’m playing a game. Following me so his body is hard against me, he doesn’t let an inch between us, Before I know what’s going on, his mouth is on mine, sour beer breath and faint body odor. It’s a split second of contact, but I’m revolted. I push him away and stumble backward, then slap him, hard. I don’t bother speaking, but storm into the house, closing the sliding glass of the patio door behind me.

  Through an open window, I hear Devin’s voice calling out from the yard. “She ain’t like that, Craig. You can’t pull that shit with Grey Amundsen. Don’t you know who her father is?”

  “Who? Should I know?” I hear him reply.

  “Erik Amundsen. Pastor of Macon Contemporary Baptist Church. ”

  “Isn’t that the huge church out off of seventy-five?”

  “Yeah. That’s her father. She’s a pastor’s daughter, C. She ain’t the kind of girl that’s gonna make out with you at a party. So forget it. Forget her. ”

  “Sucks,” Craig mutters. “She’s hot as hell. ”

  “Well, she’s off-limits. Go hit on Amanda. ”

  Craig laughs. “Yeah, right. Every guy in Macon under the age of twenty-five has banged Amanda. I don’t want on that train. ”

  Devin laughs with him. “Which means she’s a sure bet, don’t it?”

  “Sure bet for herpes, you mean. ” I hear a shift in Craig’s voice. “What about you, Dev? What kind of girl are you?”

  Devin doesn’t answer right away. I can’t believe she’d fall for a tactic like that, but her voice is low and breathy. “Get me another drink, and you surely just might find out. ”

  I retreat into the house, not wanting to hear anymore.

  I skip the next party Devin throws, and I think she gets it. The exchange runs through my head for the rest of the summer, though. I’m the girl who’s off-limits. I’m the pastor’s daughter. I’m not off-limits because they respect my beliefs on marriage, or because of who I am, but because of Daddy. Devin was right that I’m not that kind of girl, but that doesn’t mean I entirely minded Craig’s advances—at least, until he assaulted me with his mouth. I liked feeling desired.

  * * *

  I’ve taken a lot of AP classes my first three years of high school, so my senior year schedule has some large open blocks where I can take electives. I’m trying to choose some classes that interest me, but there’s nothing. I’ve already taken photography, theater, journalism and the dance elective. I don’t want to repeat any of them except maybe the theater class. It was fun getting up on stage, pretending, and acting. It was even more fun watching the others. We even got to each direct our own scene, and that was where I shone.

  I settle on an introduction to film class, taught by Mr. Rokowski, who had worked in Hollywood as a cameraman for most of his life before retiring to Macon with his wife. He’s a short man with a round belly and long gray hair bound back in a ponytail.

  The semester flies by. Most of my classes are boring, hard but dull. All except film. We watch movies, dissect them, talk about cinematography, camera angles, the reason for a dozen takes for every scene. Something about the process hooks me. Hearing Mr. Rokowski talk about being behind the camera for movies like Ghost and Dirty Dancing, being a part of making something so lasting, so iconic…I love it, I love every story he tells. I drink in the films. I love to see the different things a film can make you feel, just by the music in the background or the angle of a close-up, or how a shot sweeps from one place to another. It’s manipulation of light and sound and emotion. Each film is a piece of magic. It’s just like dance for me. When I dance, I lose myself. I can be anyone, do anything. I can say what I think, what I feel. With films, I can get lost in another world, in the lives of other people with problems different from mine.

  At the end of the last day of the semester, Mr. Rokowski pulls me aside. “Grey, I just wanted to say what a pleasure it was to have you in class this semester. Every once in a while, this class ignites something in a student, and those are the moments I live for. I teach film because it’s what I know and what I love, but when I’m able to show a student the magic in films, that’s the best part. ” He pulls a brochure from his briefcase. “I teach at The Film Connection. It’s a film institute with a branch here in Macon. It’s an awesome program that really teaches you the ins and outs of the industry. You go through the process of producing your own film, and it even connects you to execs in Hollywood. I think you might be a great candidate for the program. It’s something to think about. You could possibly even get in as a co-op. I could make the recommendation for you. ”

  I feel something like hope blossom inside me. “It’s a real film institute?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a great way to get experience and make some contacts in the industry. ”

  “I’d learn how to really make a film? Like, for real?” I want it so bad I can taste it, until I remember Daddy. “My father wouldn’t let me,” I hear myself telling Mr. Rokowski.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug, not wanting to have to explain. “He’s…very strict. He doesn’t approve of Hollywood. ”

  “But if it’s what you want? I mean, what if you get a scholarship? It’s entirely possible. I know people. You really showed a passion for film this semester, Grey. I think you could really go places. ”

  I shake my head. “I’ll think about it. I’d like to, I really would. But…I just know Daddy. ”

  Mr. Rokowski wipes his face with his hand, his brown eyes glancing at me and then away. “Your relationship with your father is your business. Just think about it, okay? I’d hate to see talent go to waste. ”

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  I think about it…oh my, do I think about it. I’m sitting at the bar in the kitchen, twirling a pencil in my fingers. I’m working on an idea for a film, writing the screenplay and thinking about the script. I try talking to Mom about it, but she doesn’t think it’s a very good idea.

  “You know how Daddy is, Grey. Hollywood is immoral and the whole film industry is full of sharks. You’d be exposed to so many unclean things. It’s a glorification of all that’s sinful about our society. ”

  She’s borrowing directly from Daddy’s lexicon.

  “I don’t think you’ve really thought about what you’d be getting into, honey. Pursue dance. Find a good, godly man. ”

  “You mean a pastor, so I can be like you. ”

  “Is there something wrong with that?” Mom asks, her voice sharp.

  “No, but it’s not what I want. I love films. I love dance, but I love it for me. I don’t want to dance professionally, since it wouldn’t be fun anymore. I want a career in film. ” I don’t want to be a pastor’s wife. I think it, but I don’t say it.

  “I just don’t think that’s a possibility, sweetheart. ” She pushes her carefully curled blonde hair away from her face. Two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, and she breathes out slowly. “Just think about it again, Grey, honey. Is it worth alienating your father over? He would be so disappointed. ”

  She stumbles, then, as if dizzy or disoriented. I lunge off the bar stool and catch her against me. “Mom? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, dear. I just got dizz
y for a moment. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, so I might just be hungry. ”

  That doesn’t make any sense to me. “Mom, seriously. Are your headaches back?”

  “They never really left, honestly. ” She leans back against the counter of the kitchen island. “I’ll be fine. I’ll take some Tylenol, and I’ll be fine. ”

  I let it go, but the worry is back.

  The following week, I approach Daddy in his study. It’s a Tuesday, which means he’s just starting his sermon for the week, which is the best time to talk to him. After Wednesday he gets cranky if he’s interrupted.

  I plop down in the leather chair on the opposite side of his huge oak desk. “Hi, Daddy. How’s the sermon coming?”

  He sits back, pulling off his glasses. He brushes a hand through his fine blond hair. “Hi, there, Grey. It’s going pretty well. It’s a discourse on the reality of practicing grace in a graceless world. ” He peers at me. “I sense a ‘Daddy-can-I’ coming. ”

  I smile as charmingly as possible. “Maybe. ”

  He grins at me and takes a sip from a tall glass of sweet tea. Ice clinks, and a bead of sweat runs down the side of the glass as he sets it back down. “Well? Out with it. ”

  “So, I took a film class this last semester. I really, really liked it, Daddy. It was so fun. We learned a lot about movies. The instructor used to be a cameraman, and he worked on Ghost, you know, the movie with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore?”

  “You mean the one about the man who haunts his wife? Ghosts are minions of the devil, Grey. Tools of the Evil One. It’s no subject for crass entertainment. ”

  “It’s romantic, Daddy. He loved her. He didn’t want to leave her alone. ”

  “He couldn’t accept God’s plan for his life. ”

  I sigh. “Well, regardless, I liked the movie, and I loved the class. Mr. Rokowski thought I might be a good candidate for The Film Connection. ”

  I show him the brochure and he leafs through it slowly, reading the explanation and the testimonials.

  “I would love, love, love to do this. It would be an opportunity to really learn the industry. Mr. Rokowski thinks he could even help me get a scholarship so you wouldn’t have to pay much, if anything, for it. ”

  Daddy slips his glasses back on and reads the brochure from front to back, then wakes up his computer and types in the website’s address. I sit in silence, hoping against hope. After long, silent minutes, he removes his glasses again and leans back. “You’re serious about this?”

  I nod vigorously. I’d thought long and hard about the best tactics for presenting this. I had to make him think it was about ministry. I had to show him how I could be different from Hollywood. “Absolutely. It’s what I want to do with my life. I don’t want to be an actress or anything like that. I want to tell stories. There are so many ways to tell a good story, to move people, and film is one of those ways. It could be my ministry. Like Kirk Cameron and Fireproof. ”