The Wednesday Wars

by Gary D. Schmidt

Let me tell you, when Presbyterians start to dance on the front stoop, you know that something big has happened.

I know. Another lie. But just a Presbyterian lie.

When gods die, they die hard. It’s not like they fade away, or grow old, or fall asleep. They die in fire and pain, and when they come out of you, they leave your guts burned. It hurts more than anything you can talk about. And maybe worst of all is, you’re not sure if there will ever be another god to fill their place. Or if you’d ever want another god to fill their place. You don’t want fire to go out inside you twice.

But I didn’t care anymore because it was April, and it was Opening Day at Yankee Stadium, and the California Angels were out in the field, and the Yankees were up at bat.

He sang the words, and he was everyone who had sung them before him, like he was taking up his place in this huge choir

and it wasn’t Miss

Violet of the Very Spiky Heels but God Himself leading the music. You saw Dan...

More weight.

More weight.