Who Named Jesus?

"Who named Jesus?"

It was a splash of a question from a voice no louder than a feather landing upon the surface of a farmer's grazing pond. The thought itself was like water, ancient, fluid, and wet with a discomforting mystery. I turned around to face a pink-skinned Japanese girl with a seaweed blouse. It was too green for her complexion, but matched her conch shell lips. Kameko always wore too much make-up.

"The Hebrews," I murmured. At least that was the answer my Sunday school teacher gave me back in Arlington, but I stopped believing her after she told me dreams were sinful. Skepticism is something Washingtonians learn at a sad young age.

"What?" She squinted her eyes into slits the size of seahorse fins. "Did you even hear what I said, Sabella?"

No. Of course not. "Yeah," I whispered, "You asked...uh...who named---"

"I asked who teased us."

"Who?"

"That's what I want to know. Who teased us?"

"Oh. Sorry. I could've sworn that you said..." That's when the waitress arrived with our cold fish and chips. She slammed the plates on our table and muttered "Enjoy" when she
really meant, "Hurry up, leave me a big tip, and get outta my life." The waitress scoffed when Kameko asked for a bottle of ketchup, but grabbed one from the nearest table.

She threw the bottle at Kameko and said, "Catch." It was almost a moment too late. Kameko barely caught it, but managed to seize the neck before it shattered on the linoleum floor. The ketchup would've made for a great low-budget film's murder scene. After all, people always die in sleazy restaurants.

"God, some people are so rude." I wasn't sure if I said it or Kameko did. Either way, she asked again who had teased us and I still didn't understand the question. Maybe if her blouse had been three shades darker and her make-up didn't look like a Kabuki mask, I could actually pay attention.

"Seriously, Sabella---remember when someone in your French class called us dikes?"