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Faith thinks her troubles began when her name was decided. Maybe Cameron and Sarah Solace thought they were manifesting something within their only child by naming her Faith. Maybe they thought they were inspiring their daughter to be trustworthy and to trust others. Maybe they thought they were creating a wonderful person that would love them through and through.
Manifestation must be a load of horseshit, though, because Faith doesn’t think she’s ever had complete trust in anything.
The Solaces are devoted Roman Catholics, which means that there are sacraments and steps she needs to follow in order to be considered a good Catholic. It’s eighth grade when it's her time for confirmation. Apparently, since going up in front of God wasn’t enough of a task, Faith also needs to choose a Patron Saint. Someone to be confirmed under and choose them to protect her from evil.
Faith becomes obsessed. Saint Agatha, who devoted her life to God and was thanked with torture and a forced mastectomy. Saint Anthony, who God loved enough to listen to his prayers for lost items, but not enough to save his life from food poisoning. Saint Jude, who is the patron saint of lost causes. What a horrible legacy, she thinks. Faith says as much to her parents. They tell her to pick someone less depressing.
She keeps researching, though. All these godlike figures suffering and dying for what they believed in, and now being called upon to protect her. She wonders if she’s suffering. She wonders if it’s enough.
In the end, she is confirmed into the Roman Catholic belief with Saint Sebastian, the patron of athletes. Her parents are happier with that choice.
~*~
Sometimes, when Faith’s feeling especially sorry for herself, she imagines her life with a sibling. Someone to share her parent’s attention. Someone biologically on her side. Someone to roll her eyes with. A built-in friend. And if not a friend, then a punching bag who can’t exactly run away.
She feels that way especially when she’s sitting on a too big couch in a too big house in a too big room in some too big clothes. There’s an empty spot next to her that she could imagine a person lounging in. The thought makes her want to rip her own head off of her shoulders and crack it open. It’d make a satisfying noise. A dull sort of thud then the bones splintering apart. She wants to pour out the contents and sort through the gooey mess until she understands why she thinks things like that.
Maybe it’s better that she’s an only child. If Faith grew up with anyone remotely similar to her, she’s sure she would’ve grabbed them by the neck and drowned them in the Atlantic long ago.
~*~
Faith’s mother suggests it with ease as if she’s suggesting Faith part her hair differently. “I’m just saying he’s an attractive young man.”
The food tastes sour in her mouth. Maybe if she’s lucky it’ll be poisoned. Her mind flicks to Dylan Johnson. Sure, he’s attractive. Faith’s attractive, for God’s sake. The English teacher is attractive. It doesn’t mean anything, “so?”
“So, he’s the quarterback and you’re the cheer captain,” her mother smiles at her across the dinner table. “Seems a bit like a fairy tale.”
Dylan’s charming, in that stupid way that Faith doesn’t really like. His bright grin makes her want to tear out all of his teeth one by one, grind it into a powder, mix it into a smoothie then make him drink it.
Faith doesn’t verbalize that. Instead she says, “We’re only freshmen.”
“I was a freshman when I met your father,” her mother points out, avoiding the fact that Cameron was a teacher at the time.
“Whatever.”
It’s easy enough to giggle a little louder at his jokes. To lean closer when he speaks. She hardly does it for a week before he’s hooked and he asks her out after the football game.
He’s lovely, really. A gentleman through and through. He holds open doors, he pretends to listen at school, and he tries to make her happy. In reality, it makes her sick.
Maybe it’s alright, though. Dylan’s a kind, upfront, wonderful person. She’s a mean, hidden, horrible person.
Maybe it is a match made in heaven.
~*~
“Sometimes I think-” Dylan begins, letting out a small grunt as he skips another stone into the Atlantic. She wonders if his hands will be the last thing to touch the rock until the untimely heat death of the universe. If the oil from his fingerprints will be embossed on as the sun swallows the Earth whole.
“Really?” she chimes in from her perch on a boulder. She’s braiding and unbraiding the same strand of hair. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Sometimes,” Dylan starts again, ignoring Faith’s lighthearted insult, “I think that you’d be better as a guy.”
Faith halts her braiding, the hair tangled around her fingers. “... What ?”
“I dunno,” he mumbles, even though he clearly does know. He brought the idea up. “You just have a lot of...rage.” Dylan picks up another piece of shale from the beach and lines up the shot. “Like me or Caleb or the other guys but we throw things and start fights. You just keep it inside and it like...makes you unhappy.”
Faith works her jaw back and forth. She waits for the splash of the stone in the sea before insisting, “I start fights.”
“Petty ones. Just stupid hair-pulling-pissing-contests with Bailey.” Dylan kicks the ground in search of another rock. “I don’t like seeing you mad and you’re mad all the time.”
“I’m not mad all the time.”
“I just think you’d maybe be happier if you were able to not bottle it up.” He shrugs and finally turns to face Faith, “Like a guy.”
Dylan’s eyes are naturally a dark brown, but they appear completely black now, his head backlit by moonlight like a halo. The pale glow filters through his hair and dusts his shoulders. He looks ethereal and gorgeous. Faith wants nothing more than to take the rock in his hand and shove it down his stupid fucking throat until he cries. His tears would reflect the moonlight too, she thinks. Better than his eyes. The tears would sparkle and glimmer and it’d be more beautiful than the ocean just behind him.
Faith should tell him he’s wrong and to just shut his mouth forever. She should tell him he’s right. That she’s thought the very same thing.
She doesn’t say anything.
~*~
Dylan’s on his knees pulling weeds out of his mother’s garden as Faith carefully waters the areas he’s already cleared. Normally she’d detest any sort of work, period, but she’s feeling benevolent. Besides, it’s not like she’s getting her hands dirty.
The sound of water is calming, as well as the ripping of roots. She watches Dylan’s biceps flex as he grabs at the base of another weed. He’s attractive, and she knows this in a similar way that she knows the sky is blue and that gravity pulls water into the ground. She just wishes his being attractive wasn’t the worst thing about him.
“Dinnertime you two,” announces Mr Johnson from inside the house. Faith releases the nozzle and the water stops.
“Oh wait, can you rinse my hands off before we go inside?” Dylan asks, presenting his hands palm up to her. They’re covered in dirt and scratches and his blue veins stand out against the rich brown of the soil. Faith briefly imagines driving her fingers into his wrists and grabbing at the veins and pulling and yanking and seeing how much she could dig out before the membrane tears apart. She imagines it’d be like pulling weeds, no different than what Dylan’s been doing. The invasive blood coursing through his veins finally released into the earth and the now useless blood vessels dried up and tossed into a garbage pile.
Instead of doing any of that, though, she sprays him in the face.
“Wh- Faith! ” he sputters, reaching up to wipe the water away from his eyes.
“Oops,” she deadpans, depressing the nozzle once again and plastering his hair to his skull. Dylan moves to grab her, likely to wipe the water from his hands on her shirt, but Faith’s faster than him, and dodges out of the way just in time for Dylan to slip on the muddy ground. He lands on his back unceremoniously with a wet sound and he’s laughing and Faith’s smiling.
A bit of dirt ends up on her feet, but she doesn’t say anything because it’s okay. This moment is okay, bordering on good.
And maybe life can be okay, bordering on good, if it’s full of moments like this.