Getting Saved at New Holy Rollers Fellowship off Rt. 11 (formerly Skateland)

by Joshua Jones Lofflin

Lukas Schroeder

Ida will give her life to Jesus, that’s the plan. Or at least to youth pastor Randy Skegs whose beard glistens with sweat — a holy sheen — as he skates past in gold suede Riedells, their wheels shush-shushing the hard, hard floor. He urges her forward, beckoning with his hand. The same hand that passed her a New Holy Rollers brochure last month as she bagged up his groceries. The same hand that, at youth group last Sunday, slipped a purity ring over her knuckle, his fingers hot and lingering. It’s a big commitment, Ida, he’d said. Are you sure you’re ready? And for that moment, as she flapped her head up and down, she held onto his hand, felt the quick of his pulse, until Missie, his skinny fiancée, began to clap saying it’ll be the best day of Ida’s life.

Already Raelynn and Carlee and half the goddamn cheer squad are wheeling toward the communion table where Missie doles out Welch’s into paper medicine cups. They all wear pristine Stardusts that glow white against their orange-tan legs. Ida’s skates are brown with scuffed stoppers and a size too big. She’d wrapped the laces round twice and still her feet are unsteady in them. Her calves, her thighs, everything wobbles as Randy sweeps past, his arms pumping to Rock of Ages. His pants so tight, his cross-spangled tie sweeping across his heart toward Ida. She almost falls. When Randy waves, she manages to free one hand from the chair she’s gripping. Her purity ring scrapes the steel chairback; her legs stay locked and straight.

Now he’s gliding toward her, arms outstretched, ready to take her. I’ve got you, his hands say as they pull her to him, and she’s doing it, really doing it, she’s skating into the light, except — Except she forgets to let go of the chair with her other hand. Forgets gravity, forgets how hard the floor is. But she doesn’t forget Raelynn’s horsey laugh or Carlee’s sneering smirk. Doesn’t forget Missie saying, Oh lord, she’s gonna splat. Doesn’t forget Randy’s hands on her, how he says, What are you doing. How he says, Ida, honey, you’re pulling. How he says, Damnit Ida, let go! How he tries to drop her. How of course she hangs on.

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Joshua Jones Lofflin’s writing has appeared in Best Microfiction, The Best Small Fictions, The Cincinnati Review, CRAFT, Fractured Lit, Moon City Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, and elsewhere. He lives in Maryland. Find him online at jjlofflin.com