Sierra Jensen Collection, Vol 3 Sierra Jensen Collection, Vol 3

by Robin Jones Gunn

  fifteen

  SIERRA DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. She stood only four feet away from Nathan and Amy, but Amy’s back was to her. Dozens of teens were milling around the front of The Beet, and Sierra tried to blend in so she wouldn’t draw Nathan’s attention. Would Amy be mad if Sierra interrupted them? Should she just go back inside? What if something bad happened? Amy had sounded almost frightened about seeing Nathan. Might he hurt her?

  Sierra slung the backpack over her shoulder and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The night air cooled her hot cheeks. She decided to move a little closer to hear what was going on so she could determine if everything was okay. Suddenly, Nathan reached over and took Amy by the arm. Sierra couldn’t tell if he was being rough because she couldn’t see Amy’s face. All she knew was that Amy wasn’t pulling away. But what if Amy couldn’t free herself from his grasp?

  Sierra decided she needed to jump in and defend her friend. Wesley had taught her some self-defense tactics, and Sierra had an air horn in her backpack. She quickly pulled it out, prepared to use it if necessary. The loud blast of noise, Wes had told her when he gave her the horn, would startle an attacker and give her enough time to run for safety.

  Holding the air horn, Sierra carefully watched Nathan’s every move. Amy put her head down, and Nathan grabbed her by the shoulders, looking as if he might start to shake her. Then he put his arm around her and hurried her toward the parking lot in back.

  With her heart pounding, Sierra rushed after them, her finger poised on the air horn’s trigger. When she was right behind them, she could tell Amy was crying. A burst of adrenaline gave Sierra the confidence she needed to point the air horn at the back of Nathan’s head and press the trigger.

  “Run, Amy, run!” Sierra screamed over the deafening blast.

  Nathan dropped his arm from around Amy, covered his ears with his hands, and spun around to face Sierra. Sierra backed away, but Amy didn’t move.

  “Run, Amy, run!”

  “Sierra!” Amy’s tear-streaked face reflected shock. “What are you doing?”

  “You were crying,” Sierra stammered in the silence that now followed the loud blast. “He was forcing you to go with him.”

  “He was not,” Amy said, now looking furiously at Sierra. “We were just going to talk things out.”

  “What is with you?” Nathan said, grabbing the air horn away from Sierra. “What are you doing with this thing? And why are you following us?” Nathan wasn’t a big guy, but he could look fierce when he wanted to—like now.

  “I—I’m sorry.… I thought …”

  “You thought what?” Amy said.

  Sierra couldn’t answer.

  “You of all people should understand how important it is for friends to work out their unresolved issues.” Amy had stopped crying. “Nathan and I need to talk, Sierra. We would like a little privacy to try to work a few things out here, if you don’t mind.”

  “I—I’m sorry.…”

  Nathan handed her the air horn. “Go rescue somebody who wants to be,” he stated, giving Sierra a withering look. “Since that’s apparently what you think your mission in life is.”

  Sierra apologized one more time and turned to go. Never had she felt so foolish. Here she thought she was helping her friend, but obviously Amy had a much stronger sense of loyalty to Nathan than she had let on. Swallowing hard, Sierra numbly stuffed the air horn into her backpack and made her way to the front door of The Beet.

  “I already paid,” she told the guy guarding the front door.

  “I need to see your stub.”

  Sierra dug her hands into her pockets and then realized that Vicki had the stub, since she had paid for both of them. “My friend in there has it,” she said.

  The guy gave her a knowing nod. “Yeah, right. Sorry. No ticket, no laundry.”

  Sierra looked over his head into the crowded room. Vicki was nowhere to be seen. The L’s were playing their hit song, “The King of Polyester.” With all her heart, Sierra wished she could slip back into the happy crowd and forget what had just happened with Amy. But there was no way. She couldn’t spot Vicki, and she had no money. Her only choice was to drive home. Either that or hang out with the other penniless fans who hovered around the door, eagerly snatching the scraps of music that the cranked-up speakers randomly flung in their direction.

  “This is pathetic,” Sierra muttered to herself. She considered going around to the backstage door and trying to convince someone there that she was with the band. Randy would vouch for her and get her back inside. And then what? How could she relax and have a good time knowing what a jerk she had just made of herself with Amy and Nathan?

  Dejected, Sierra drove home and comforted herself by deciding she could spend the rest of the evening working on Paul’s Christmas present. That’s what she probably should have planned to do all along.

  She couldn’t decide if she would tell Paul what had happened tonight. Lately she had been writing everything that happened to her. But all she had heard from him was the poetic letter right before Thanksgiving and then that quick note earlier in the week when he told her his birthday was on the tenth. Even though she had written to him daily, giving him every detail of her life, he hadn’t responded as often or with as much detail.

  Still, there was always tomorrow’s mail. Sierra told herself that often. Weekends seemed long since no mail came on Sundays. Yet every Monday she would check the mailbox with as much hope as she had felt on Saturday. If no letter from Paul appeared, she stored up that hope and kept it ready to pull out again on Tuesday.

  Sierra parked her car in front of the house and glanced at the gas gauge. The arrow teetered on the red zone. She knew the next time she started up the car it had better be to drive straight to a gas station. But how much gas could she buy with thirty-seven cents?

  The way Sierra felt at the moment, all she wanted to do was hide in her room, put on some sad music, and work on Paul’s gift. She walked in the front door, intending to do just that.

  Her father called to her from the living room. Her parents were sitting on the couch, watching a movie with Gavin and Dillon.

  “You’re home earlier than we expected,” her mom said.

  Deciding to skip the reasons for her early arrival, Sierra said, “Yes, well, it was fun, but I have stuff to do.”

  “Mind if we have a talk first?” her dad said.

  Sierra did mind. She knew this would be the talk about her going to school in Scotland.

  “It’s a nice night,” her dad said. “Why don’t we go out on the porch swing?”

  “I’ll make some coffee,” her mom said.

  Sierra’s heart sank. When her mother made coffee and brought it to her father on the porch swing, it meant a long talk. Some of the talks they had had on the front porch had been wonderful and sweet, such as the night she returned from her trip to England. Tonight Sierra imagined it would be a painful conversation in which she would have to defend herself and try to prove she was mature enough to make her own decisions. The week had been so busy that she hadn’t done any of the research she had offered to do on the university or the loans. She didn’t have any fuel to feed her fired-up desire to go to Edinburgh. The conversation could only go in favor of her dad at this point. And she had a pretty good idea he hadn’t changed his opinion on the subject.

  She followed her dad out to the porch, grabbing a throw blanket off the couch on the way. The night was clear, which meant it was cooler than when the clouds hovered low like a down comforter over the city, turning the sky a dull cream color.

  “I thought we should talk about you and Paul,” her dad began.

  “Why?” Sierra heard herself say. She quickly added, “I mean, I thought the issue was about my going to school in Scotland, not about Paul.”

  “The two seem to be connected,” her dad said. His voice was calm and welcoming.

  Sierra knew she could talk to her father about anything. She always had been able to. However, n
ow she felt she should distance herself from him to prove she was old enough and wise enough to make her own decisions. She was reluctant to let down her defenses.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Paul,” her dad said. “You mentioned the other day you’ve been writing to each other.”

  Sierra nodded, not volunteering any information.

  “How often do you write to him?”

  “Pretty often,” Sierra said.

  “Every day? Every week? Twice a day?”

  “I don’t know. About every day.”

  “And how often does he write to you?”

  “About every day,” Sierra said.

  Her dad raised an eyebrow. “When did you last receive a letter from him?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “And it was a long, detailed letter?”

  “No, it was short. But the one before that was really long.”

  “When did that one come?”

  “The Wednesday before Thanksgiving.”

  “What about before that letter?”

  “I guess that was the package with his picture.”

  “Was there a letter with that package?”

  “No.” Sierra was beginning to do the math in her own head. A full week and a half had passed between the picture and the letter that followed it.

  Mr. Jensen paused and was about to say something when Sierra said, “I guess he writes to me more like every week or every week and a half.”

  Her dad nodded.

  “It just seems as though it’s more often. I know he’s thinking of me more than that, and I’m certainly thinking of him more than that.”

  Mrs. Jensen arrived with two mugs of dark, rich coffee and handed one to her husband. Then she sat down in a chair across from the two of them and pulled up the collar on her fleece sweatshirt.

  “What kinds of things does Paul say in his letters?” Mr. Jensen said.

  “What do you mean?” Sierra felt her defenses rising again.

  “I mean, does he say he misses you? That he’s looking forward to seeing you again?”

  “Well, yes,” Sierra said slowly. She couldn’t think of an example of when he had actually used those words, but she knew the thought was there. She had certainly said those words to him.

  No one spoke for a few moments. The coffee’s rich fragrance floated to Sierra’s nose.

  Funny, Sierra thought. My parents are right here, and yet we feel miles apart. Why are they questioning me like this? Don’t they trust me?

  Across the great distance, she felt they were condemning her for letting herself become emotionally involved with this guy who, as the facts showed, didn’t appear to be as emotionally involved with her. It wasn’t that way, though. Sierra tried to think of a way to make her parents understand.

  Paul writes me poems. Sierra stopped mid-thought. Wait a minute! Did he actually write those poems to me? Or did he simply write them and then share them with me? Paul did send me his picture, and he asked for a picture back from me. He wouldn’t have done those things if he didn’t care about me and want a visual memory of me close to him.

  “I can’t believe you guys don’t remember what it’s like to be romantically interested in someone and to read between the lines what that other person is saying.” Sierra felt her voice quivering. “It seems so unfair that when, for the first time in my life, I’m really, truly, deeply interested in someone, you would try to break it up. Can’t you just be happy for me? There is absolutely nothing wrong with Paul and me writing to each other. I don’t appreciate your trying to make it seem as though I’m doing something wrong.”

  Sierra stopped. She mentally repeated the last few lines she had said. Something was hauntingly familiar about them. And she knew what it was. Those were the words Amy had spouted when Sierra questioned Amy’s relationship with Nathan after their first date.

  “I …” Sierra paused. “I’m not feeling up to this conversation right now. Would you guys mind if I went to my room and did some thinking? I’d rather talk about all this later.”

  Mrs. Jensen looked at her husband, and he nodded.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Jensen said softly.

  Sierra started to leave, her head pounding.

  “We love you, Sierra,” her mother said. “We only want what’s best for you. Don’t forget that, okay?”

  Sierra couldn’t think of anything to say. She gave her parents a sad look over her shoulder and disappeared inside the house.

  sixteen

  “THE THING IS, our relationship is nothing like Amy and Nathan’s,” Sierra said the next day to Randy.

  He had shown up at Mama Bear’s just as she was going on her lunch break, and he had decided to join her. Usually, Randy spent Saturdays mowing lawns, but the pouring rain today kept him out of the lawn-care business. And the Christmas sales at the mall seemed to have kept holiday shoppers in the stores and out of Mama Bear’s.

  As a reflection of her goodwill toward everyone this slow Saturday, Mrs. Kraus had offered Randy a free cinnamon roll, frosted and warmed the way he liked it. She suggested that Randy and Sierra sit at one of the corner tables and enjoy the afternoon lull.

  Sierra pushed her empty carton of milk away and leaned closer to confide in Randy. “I mean, with Amy and Nathan it was physical right from the start. With Paul, it’s a spiritual connection. We enjoy each other’s company emotionally. I guess you could say we’re kindred spirits.”

  Randy listened, offering no comment, judgment, or agreement.

  Sierra continued. “I just don’t understand why my parents are making such an issue out of this. I’m totally pure. They know that. You know that. Everyone knows that! If they are so convinced I’m blowing it, then what is the point of having this?” She stuck out her right hand to Randy, drawing attention to the gold band on her ring finger. It was the purity ring her dad had given her. “Answer me that? What good is it for my parents to say they trust me, or they’re proud of my choices, if they can’t understand why this relationship with Paul is so wonderful? Why would they want to ruin it for me?”

  Randy didn’t answer. He just slowly raised an eyebrow and reached for the cinnamon roll in front of him.

  “What?” Sierra challenged.

  Randy stuffed the last bite of roll into his mouth.

  “You did that so you wouldn’t have to answer me, didn’t you?”

  “No,” Randy said, his mouth full. “I don’t have a problem talking with my mouth full. I was trying to be polite.”

  Sierra looked away from the mush in Randy’s mouth. He swallowed and smacked his lips loudly.

  “Just answer me this,” she said, turning back to her buddy. “Why would my parents act as if something were wrong with my relationship with Paul?”

  “Is there?” Randy asked.

  “Is there what?”

  “Something wrong with it?”

  “No! Everything is great. It’s better than great. It’s fantastic.”

  Randy didn’t respond.

  “Am I boring you here?” Sierra gave Randy a careful look. “I seem to be doing all the talking about my problem.”

  “That’s how you solve your problems,” Randy said. “You don’t need to hear my answers. You always figure it out when you hear yourself talk it through. Remember that night on the backpacking trip when you were trying to figure out how you felt about Drake?”

  Sierra remembered all right. It was a humiliating memory. She had poured out her heart to Randy in his dark tent, thinking he was her brother. Then the tent had collapsed on the two of them, announcing to the whole camp that Sierra was where she shouldn’t be—in a guy’s tent. She wished Randy and she could both forget that night.

  “Besides,” Randy said, “I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t even know what the problem is.”

  Sierra dropped her head in her hands. “Randy, the problem is my parents are hinting I don’t have the right perspective on my relationship with Paul.” She looked up to make sure Randy was p
aying attention. “I know they want me to stop writing to him. But why? Is it because they think I’m too young for him? I’m seventeen! That’s old enough to be married in some states.”

  “It is?” Randy appeared shocked at the thought.

  “I think. I don’t know. The point is, I’m old enough to know what I want and what’s good for me.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Paul!” Sierra stated emphatically. “Haven’t you been listening?”

  “Of course I have. So tell me. Why is Paul good for you?”

  Sierra smiled. “He makes me feel good about myself, and he brings out the creative side of me. I feel warm when I read his letters.”

  “And he brings you closer to the Lord,” Randy added.

  “What?”

  “Wasn’t that one of your criteria?” Randy asked. “One time you told me you had written out your standards for dating, and I remember one of your goals was that the guy you’re dating would bring you closer to God, and you would do the same for him.”

  “Oh, right. Yes, of course Paul and I draw each other closer to the Lord.” Sierra stated the words as if she were reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

  “Remember when we talked that night in the tent, and you said you were stuck on a steady diet of all your feelings and nothing else?” Randy asked.

  Sierra gave him a look of vague recollection.

  “I told you not to beat yourself up because you’re a sensitive, emotional person,” he continued.

  She didn’t remember.

  “I still think you shouldn’t beat yourself up because you’re a sensitive, emotional person.”

  “And?”

  “And watch your emotional diet.”

  Sierra leaned back. “That’s the best you can do? You’re not going to arm me with statements I can use on my parents?”

  Randy shook his head. “The answer will come to you. On your own. Just keep talking about it. It’ll become clear what you should do.”

  Randy’s laid-back logic didn’t settle with Sierra. What did he mean, watch her emotional diet? The only thing she agreed with was that she usually did figure out solutions to her problems by talking them through.