Almighty Sara

By Carolyn Chambers Clark and Anthony Auriemma

When Sara Webster gets framed for stealing the answers to the psych midterm, she texts God for help and gets it.

As long as Sara answers a few pesky emails, she'll be free to use her new powers to become beautiful, popular, have all the great clothes, get classmate and cafeteria tormentors off her back, get all A's, and date that new hot boy everybody wants.

That's the fun part. She also has to decide whether to help her parents with their failing diner, do something to stop her best friend's mom from drinking, bring the warring junior prom committee together, and help the down-trodden maintenance staff at school.

Her real dilemma is how she can do all of these things, still get good grades in school, and not anger God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Chambers Clark
• Release date: Mar 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466155923

Carolyn Chambers Clark

Carolyn Chambers Clark is a board-certified advanced holistic nurse practitioner with a master's degree in mental health nursing and a doctorate in education. She is a faculty member in the Health Services Doctoral Program at Walden University, and she hosts http://home.earthlink.net/~cccwellness and http://HolisticHealth.bellaonline.com.

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Almighty Sara

Copyright, 2012, Carolyn Chambers Clark & Anthony Auriemma

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Chapter 1

I'm by my locker at school, daydreaming about the new guy from California when the principal totally destroys my life.

Sara, what's this? He glares at me and holds a piece of paper in the air. Mr. DeVisi's a bald guy with glasses and he smells of French fries. He signed a hall pass for me once so he can be okay, but right now, his face is tight and he's all business.

I stare at the paper, but I can't see what it is because he's waving it in the air. I don't know. What is it?

Sara, this was found in your locker. It's grounds for expulsion. He stops waving the sheet of paper and shoves it under my nose.

Across the top I read Answers to World Psychology Midterm. My heart's pounding and my voice comes out an octave too high. That's not mine. I don't know how it got there.

Umm hmm. I'm calling your parents in for a meeting about this. In the meantime, you better find out who put it in your locker or you will be expelled. The principal leaves and all the kids that were in the hallway have disappeared.

Desperation roaring in my gut, I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, take out my phone, and try to figure out who to call. No teacher's going to take my side against the principal, and I'm not sure my parents' word will help.

My brain's spinning, and I turn to the one place I've been getting answers lately—Google. Of course, it's crazy, but that's how I feel right now ... totally out of my mind.

At first, nothing comes up, and I deflate, watching my last chance end in defeat. Then, just when I'm about to snap my phone shut, the screen fills up with addresses. I click on the first one, and 1-800-TheAlmighty comes up on a Yahoo screen. I huddle in front of my locker, not sure this isn't a joke, but it's all I've got. Hands shaking, I dial the number.

The phone rings four times before a sweet voice says, Good morning. May I help you?

Shocked I got an answer, I blurt, Hello, this is Sara Webster. Is The Almighty there?

The Almighty is not available to take your call at this time, but I will relay your message.

You're not kidding me, are you? Hey, I would have talked to my best friend about this, but she moved. Here's my problem. I'm really in trouble with the principal, and I'm going to be expelled.

Thank you for sharing. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Yeah, tell Him that if He helps me, I'll help Him with the problems here at Ash City High. I bite my tongue. Will The Almighty think I'm trying to make a deal with Him? Too late now

Thank you for that. If you’ve completed your message, please press one.

Wait. You could ask Him to get rid of these extra pounds I'm carrying around, and my hair—well that's a disaster, as He well knows. I'd really like a date with that new guy from California and maybe some cool clothes. Oh, and a new friend, ever since Carrie moved away, I don't have anybody to confide in. I slap my hand over my mouth. Now I've really done it, sounding so self-centered. The Almighty won't like that. What if He turns me into a pillar of salt?

I will relay your message. Goodbye. Have a divine day.

For an instant, I believe everything's going to be okay. That passes pretty fast, and I realize that with the way things have been going for me, maybe not.

Phone shoved into my pocket, I head to my part-time job in the cafeteria. I hurry along and worry what I'm going to do if The Almighty doesn't answer. I glance around, but not even a thunderbolt or a milk-turned-into-cheese miracle to let me know He's listening.

No help in sight, I slog into the cafeteria. A room with some mean kids and a Gestapo dietary supervisor can make any day worse than crossing the Red Sea.

It smells like a cross between antiseptic and steam-table gruel in here. At least Jessica's working today. I wave to her and help tie her apron around her tall body. She gives me a great smile. She's got band-aids on her fingers again for her tennis-playing blisters and can'tmanage the bow in back.

Thanks, Sara. Even though she's a senior, and I'm only a junior, she's always been nice to me. Did I tell you we're moving to Philadelphia next week?

No. For real? The look on her face tells me she's not kidding. Okay then, good luck. I sigh. Oh no, not her, too. I'm never going to find another friend like Carrie.

A couple of jocks, who smell like they could use a shower, shove each other on the other side of the food counter, while a boy in overalls tries to cut into line. The noise is close to rock concert level. They ought to give out ear plugs and deodorant in here. Where is The Almighty when you really need Him?

Stop daydreaming, Sara. Put on the hairnet. We're busy. My boss,

Ms. Never-Wash-My-Hands Schroeder glares at me.

I pull my hairnet over my thin brown hair. The Almighty has patience that surpasses Job's, but I don't. Although it's mean, sometimes, when my boss nags me, I wish she'd dissolve in the soup.

And don't forget your apron. Cafeteria assistants are required bylaw. She hands me a starched apron big enough to fit a gorilla.

I roll my eyes and tie the apron around me twice, so I've got to look like a stuffed ham, I spy Henry Jacobs, a guy who's in my Advanced Algebra class, standing by the vegetable soup again. I'm not sure what's The Almighty's take is on ratting other people out, but somebody's got to report him. Shouldn't the health department check these things? Ms.Schroeder, you might want to check the soup in the kitchen. I just saw Henry Jacobs spit into it.

Mind your own business, Sara. I'll handle the kitchen. She stares at me until I look away, and then she stomps out to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Henry slips out the side door and leaves, laughing like somebody told him a very funny joke.

I'd like to tell him a funny joke about how a boy named Henry got caught spitting in the soup, but I keep quiet. Good thing I saw him or I might have eaten that. Now, I have absolutely no appetite. The rest of the poor kids have no recourse. I mean, what if Henry's got a cold or worse? I vow to steer students away from the potato soup. It's the only thing I can think of to do.

From behind the cafeteria counter, I start dishing out lunch. The steam from all the overcooked foods rises up and frizzes my hair around my face. By now, I’ve got to resemble a Spanish Water Dog. The steam also fogs up my glasses so I can barely see who's standing in front of the glass, taunting me and jerking around—a mixed blessing.

Industrial-size ladle in hand, I start to dish out mystery meat to my tormenters.

What's the special of the day? Is it raccoon? A boy calls out in this dopey, jock voice and then laughs real loud and pokes his friends. He does this like every day. It wasn't even funny the first time and now, with expulsion from school closing in on me, I have no patience.

I point in the direction of the sign next to the meat dish, which says in plain print BEEF BRISKET. Today's special is something you can use a lot more of. It's called BRAINS.

Some of the freshman girls down the line go, Ew! in unison like they don't have any brains either, and the guys laugh.

I give Mr. Jock my best straight face, wipe the condensation off my glasses with my apron, and then dish him up a big piece of some kind of meat that smells of burnt beans and looks like something that came out of the Swamp.

After I’ve dished out all the hot meals, I take off my torture gear and head for the bathroom. Once inside, I stare into the mirror and try to fluff out my hair-net-flattened locks. When I realize that’s impossible, I check my phone, but no messages from The Almighty or my best friend who moved away. A quick scroll through confirms no missed calls from mysterious numbers. The hall bell rings, and I run to class.

~~~

In Mr. Fazarro's world psych class, I'm hoping for a miracle to rescue us from slides of his trip to study African Aborigines. At least he doesn't mention that I stole the answers to his midterm—not that I did.

He's up in front of the class, pacing back and forth in his shirt sleeves, face all sweaty like he's in the jungle, when Jeremy, one of the juniors who works in the office sneaks into the room. His purple hair sticks out all around his head and a tattoo of an orange orangutan glistens on his neck in the fluorescent light. He waits at the classroom door, blushing, no doubt hoping Mr. F notices him.

When I glance up to the front of the room, Mr. F's staring at Dorrine, who's pretty and very shy. I feel sorry for her and us. He's got the creepiest eyes. They remind me of somebody in a horror movie that you like at first, but then find out he's eating kids in the next town.

Jeremy's been waiting forever, and I feel sorry for him, too, so I snap my fingers at him.

He sidles over and holds out the note.

Mr. F. paces back and forth in front of the room and lectures us about African rituals so he's paying no attention to what's going on. I grab the note and Jeremy disappears out the door.

Dear Sara,

Please come to the principal's office.

I start to sweat, and worry I'm going to be expelled for sure. My fingers turn to ice and my stomach gurgles. I stare at the words and wonder what I'm going to do now. Just to make sure this is legit, I scan down to make sure who sent this tidbit. When I read it, I nearly fall out of my chair.

Your Creator,

The Almighty

I let out a huff of astonished air so Mr. F stops right in the middle of explaining about tribes in Kenya and Tanzania. I rip up the note, stuff it into my pocket, and glance around the room, wondering who's the wise guy playing tricks on me. I mean, I doubt The Almighty writes letters. He comes in a dream, vision or uses symbols. So this has got to be a trick. I just hope The Almighty doesn't come in a burning bush. That would cause quite a sensation in the school hallway. Fire engines, here we come.

When class is over, I go to the girls' room and empty my pocket. That's when my mouth drops open. It's the note I ripped up, only it's all put together and neatly placed in my pocket. Not a rip or a crease in the paper. I try to catch my breath, brain stalling. What's going on?

My legs go wobbly and Lola, one of the prettiest girls in my class who's really nice, yells to me from the sink.Hey, Sara. Can I copy your notes from Psych? She likes to wear scarves and belts and ruffles. She reminds me of somebody in one of those old movies who marries an older man with lots of money and goes to live in Tara or someplace romantic like that.

When I don't answer right away, she stares into my eyes, crinkles her nose with concern. You okay, Sara?

I nod and gulp. Just great. I narrow my eyes, which I know makes me look psycho because the lenses in my glasses are so magnified. I'm wondering if she knows something.

Don't forget Prom Committee after school today, she says nice as pie on the way out the door while I'm trying to picture who was nearby when I called The Almighty and might have heard my message.

See you there. I shred the note into teeny, tiny pieces, dump it into the toilet, and pull down on the handle. I watch it swirl around and around before it goes down into the sewer and somewhere out into Lake Superior or wherever these things go.

In advanced Algebra, I sneak a peek in my pocket. There it is again—another copy of the note—an intact and perfect replica. I wrinkle it up and on my way out of class, I dump it into the wastebasket. Somebody in my school's got fast hands.

In World History, Mr. Dunston stands in the front of the room and pulls down a huge map from above the chalkboard. He likes to dress in bow ties and corduroy jackets with patches on the elbows. His hair is shaggy and looks like he never washes it. He has a curly beard he keeps scratching while he points to countries on the map.

A hunk of green food stuck between his front teeth interrupts his smile. Today, class we're going to talk about Zanzibar.

Zanzibar. I love the sound of that and say it over and over to myself.

He stares up at the ceiling like his notes are written up there. Zanzibar is in East Africa. He taps a pointer on the map. They grow cloves and nutmeg and cinnamon and pepper. They grow so much, they call it a spice island.

I wonder if it smells like pumpkin pie in Zanzibar.

When I see what's at the front of the room, I gulp and stare. Instead of seeing Europe and Asia, a message is written on the map in black Sharpie in beautiful handwriting.

Dear Sara,

Please come to the principal's office. I am ready to talk to you.

Your Creator,

The Almighty

Afraid I'm going nuts, I glance left to see what the boy next to me is doing. He's acting like nothing is happening. Cell phone hidden under his desk, he's texting away.

Forget him. He wouldn't know if the ceiling fell in. I look to the right at our head cheerleader. She's filing her fingernail, oblivious to life on Earth and probably every other

planet.

When I scan the rest of the room, nobody looks the least upset, while my heart's racing like a runaway freight train. It must be the media guy. He's played tricks on me before.

See, this is where Yugoslavia used to be, Mr. Dunston taps on the map with his pointer, right where it says,

Your Creator,

The Almighty.

I let out a gasp and wonder if The Almighty considers that a sin.

Mr. Dunston ignores me and pretends the map is unmarked, and he's just conducting his usual boring class. Now, Yugoslavia's broken into how many pieces, class?

I doodle in my notebook and start to write how this note thing is a joke. I write The media guy's screwing with me, and I'm not going to react to it. I am not going to do something crazy like jump up and accuse the teacher of being in on it and tell him it's not funny, even though that's what I want to do.

To keep my mouth shut, I set down my pen and clench my jaw. Then I grab hold of the edge of my chair to stay in my seat until the bell rings. I force myself to saunter out, pretending the smile on my lips isn't pasted on, like I'm some kind of psycho wanted in fourteen states for serial murders.

On the way to my locker, I glance at the bulletin board. There, in stars and pink paint is the same message about going to the principal's office. I grab the flier off the board and head down the hall, keeping an eye out for the media guy.

Guinevere, my locker neighbor, is having a make-out session with her boyfriend in front of my… not again. I have to figure a way to get her to move.

Designer sunglasses clipped to the top of her designer top and wearing jeans so tight they have to be painted on, she comes up for air, and glances over at the paper I'm swatting in her direction. Why are you waving the Junior Class Prom flier at me? Can't you see I'm busy here?

OMG, she deigned to talk to me. I give her what must be a really silly-looking grin. Sure, but I think this message from The Almighty may be a tiny bit more important.

She frowns at me and backs up like I'm nuts. You know what? I thought you were just a loser. Now I know you need some serious help. She slams her locker shut and walks away, boy in tow.

I cringe and feel about two feet tall. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from having to pith a frog in Biology class. I could even be having a nervous breakdown, and I'm seeing things. I shove my books into my locker.

Forget homework tonight. I need rest. Lots and lots of rest.

On the way to homeroom where the Junior Prom Committee will meet, I have to pass the principal's office. I start to tiptoe past, and peek inside, wondering if the principal has so much power he has the guts to sign his messages as The Almighty.

I reach the halfway mark in front of the door, and a deep voice booms out at me. Sara. I can keep sending you notes, or you can come in here and we can get this straightened out. Your choice.

It's not the principal's voice. He's a man. It's a woman's voice. I'm almost relieved. For a minute, I almost believed The Almighty talked to me, but everyone knows The Almighty's a man. I mean of the male gender. I mean… I don't know what I mean.

I pivot to the right like I'm in the marching band and head into what I think is the principal's office, not knowing what to expect.

Chapter 2

Above me a dozen trumpeters blow polished gold horns and a hundred angels in shiny white gowns stand on clouds