Short People Read Online Free Page A

Festiva toward the church, a pyramidal shed sided in brown aluminum that rises at steep, oblong angles; it looks like an immense arrowhead piercing the ground past the parking lot.
    An usher takes him from his mother and father and leads him to a closet-sized annex behind the baptismal pool. The usher hands Shawn a plain white robe—a sheet cut with three holes, one for his head and one for each arm—then closes him into the darkness. The room has no windows, no switches, no bulbs.
    After his eyes adjust, Shawn sees how spare the room is: one metal folding chair and a small shelf. He unties his brown fauxleather dress shoes. He removes his socks and folds them in half, laying each one in the heel of its corresponding shoe so he won’t be confused, so the germs on his feet will stay separate. He strips off his suit, folding and refolding the jacket, slacks and shirt, aligning them in a neat stack on the shelf according to bulk, then spreads his tie flat across the top to give the appearance that it’s still clipped in place. He leaves his underwear on. His scrawny body embarrasses him, and the thought of the whole congregation—his elders and peers, he’s not sure which is worse—seeing his private parts terrifies him. Hoping his body transforms with his spirit, he shimmies into the white sheet and, minding his posture, sits on the cold chair to wait.
    Goose bumps rise on his flesh. He closes his eyes, pinches his tear ducts, attempting to concentrate on Preacher Dan’s sermon.
    “I was reading my Bible the other day, thinking about how special this day is for our young friend, Shawn Casper, and I happened on a verse from Luke—Luke 3:22. Do you all remember that one?”
    Shawn repeats the words in his head as they’re spoken, tells himself,
Pay close attention, this is important,
but the desire to listen occludes comprehension. He catches a few phrases—“. . . in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from Heaven . . .”—and in trying to discern the mass of their meaning, he misses whatever comes next. Eventually the words stream past him entirely. His mind wanders toward more prosaic things: the itchy texture of the cotton robe, how hard it is to clip his cat Isaiah’s claws, what it would be like to be color-blind. He starts counting things—rivets in the wall, the minutes until he will be born again.
    For he is about to be accepted into the body of Christ. He is about to be saved from his suffering. He can’t imagine what that will feel like. Will it be warm? Will he be like Jesus in every way? This is what he strives for. To Shawn, the world is either/or: either you’re saved or you’re not; either you’re good or you’re bad; like his father says, “Either you’re part of the problem or you’re part of the solution.” Right now, and for the next twenty minutes or so, Shawn is part of the problem, the bad, the unsaved, locked alone in the darkness just like all those others who haven’t accepted Christ into their hearts. A little over a year ago, his parents announced that he was old enough to make the decision that would define the rest of his life—whether or not to be baptized into the faith. They couldn’t choose his path for him; the responsibility was his alone. They urged him to establish his own personal relationship with God before making up his mind, to speak with Jesus through prayer and listen carefully to what the Savior had planned for him. He prayed frantically, as per their instructions, but Jesus never answered. At church he had been told repeatedly that anyone who asked would be accepted into Heaven. Shawn was sure that he must be asking with an impure heart, must not mean it, because if he did, Jesus would say, “Welcome home, I have been waiting for you.” Then, Shawn could say, “I am ready,” and know he was telling the truth. Finally, in desperation and still with no answer, he requested his baptism, ready or not. His hope is that from this day forth, when he