The Heart is Deceitful above All Things by J. T. LeRoy Page B

me. He had protected me. He had saved me. I had made him look like my fucking fosters’ grandpa, but better, with a white Santa’s beard and rosy cheeks and chocolate coins in his pocket. I’d show him I wasn’t bad. It was her, Sarah. I smile up at him, we’re on the same side, you saved me, I’m Jere-my, I’m yours.
    â€˜You know where that’s from, Jeremiah?’ The damp air from his words smells like peppermint.
    My, mine, yes.
    â€˜For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteousness: But the way of the ungodly shall perish.’ His mouth is turned down. I tilt my head to the side, and now it looks like a smile. He doesn’t have a beard; his face is thin and tightly stretched across his wide cheek and jaw, which he’s working back and forth as if he were chewing leather. His eyes are the same distant clear blue as Sarah’s; they give his delicate features an ominous look, like ragged ice glaciers overhanging a smooth cave entrance. Even though he’s not really smiling, his eyes are squinted as if he were. I smile wider. He nods once and steps back. I nod in return and wink the way Sarah does. He lifts up the thick black book that he has been holding behind him.
    â€˜You will not mock the Lord, Jeremiah. You will learn not to mock me. Jeremiah, you will find these tracts.’ Each time he speaks my name I force a wave of warmththrough me. All he says after my name sounds garbled, as if it were floating through water. ‘Jeremiah, you will know them. If you cannot read, you will learn quickly.’ He lowers the book and hands it to me. ‘Jeremiah, is that clear?’ I watch his other hand to see when the hidden chocolate will appear.
    â€˜This is your pillow, Jeremiah. You sleep on it. You keep it with you always. Jeremiah, is that clear?’
    I open the book, but the tissue paper page is only words. I turn some more pages but can’t find the pictures yet. ‘Thank you,’ I mumble. I was going to call him Grandpa, but something chokes off the word.
    â€˜We will begin tomorrow at seven A.M ., Jeremiah.’ He places his hand on my shoulder. I tilt my head toward it. ‘Do not lean in my presence, Jeremiah.’ He pulls me forward with a short jerk. ‘Or in the presence of the Lord.’ He releases his hand and turns and walks back down the hall, still talking: ‘He
maketh
a way to his anger: He spared not their soul from death, but gave their life over to the pestilence.’
    I look down at the book, flip through some more pages. I still can’t find the cartoons.
    A boy a little taller than me comes down the hall. He’s whitish blond, like me, hair combed back. He’s in white pants and a blue blazer, and he has a tie on. I’ve never seen a kid in a tie. I feel jealous.
    â€˜How old are you?’ he asks me, and pushes himself up on his tiptoes.
    â€˜Seven . . . in ten days.’ I stand straighter and stretch my neck up.
    â€˜Tell him you want a big birthday party.’ He smiles, his teeth biting into his bottom lip, his opalescent eyes guarded yet prowling.
    â€˜You’d like that, wouldn’t you, huh?’
    â€˜How old are you?’ I ask.
    He points at my book. ‘I know the Psalms One through Fifty. How many do you know?’
    â€˜I know a lot of songs.’
    â€˜What?! Damn,’ he whispers, ‘you’re an idiot.’
    â€˜I’m not. I can read.’ I stare right back at him. He smiles wider, crinkling his small upturned nose, finely sprinkled with freckles like nutmeg.
    â€˜Tell him you know songs . . . from there,’ he says, pointing at the book and laughing. I laugh because he is. ‘What songs do you know? Sing some.’
    I roll my eyes up to think. Sarah’s next to last boyfriend had a Mohawk. He’d given me one, but I didn’t like it; people pointed and kids laughed. ‘That’s the idea of being a punk, you gotta shock