CHEYENNE NEVER GOES TO CHURCH. Never. I know it. Her family knows it. Everyone in Eastcreek knows it. She isn't even Catholic. But this Sunday, I find myself with a head craned back, painfully so, watching as she sashays down the pews, a tall, blue-eyed, golden boy following closely behind. She grips Lance to her before the purview of all—never mind the fact that she's ten minutes late—her cherry pink nails twined around his wrist; the poor boy is defenseless. We're into singing hymns already. Lance hates tardiness. And so I know she's to blame for the loose frown on his face as he lumbers behind her.
The girl has no shame.
