Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

  “What are the odds everyone in our class will just ignore me?” I say, somewhat nervously when we reach the double-doors of Loveland Hall.

  Everyone shrugs nearly simultaneously, causing me to sigh. “Great,” I mumble.

  Matt wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his side. “Just sit in the back with me, K. Sawyer, then if they’re staring at you, it’ll be obvious and they’ll get in trouble.

  I don’t want him to let go, but I know he’s about to. Before he does, I lift my chin, peering up at him with wide eyes. Matt’s staring straight back at me, and the intensity of our eye contact causes me to let out a sharp exhale. He tightens his arm around me for what I’m sure is only a second, but it feels like a thousand before he drops his arm and I’m left flailing emotionally. Wondering what it is, exactly, about this boy that I can’t seem to shake.

  Matt’s idea seems to be working. We got to class just before it started, sparing me from most of the gawking that would have been done had I been the first in the room and everyone else had to file past me. Instead, we just slipped into the back row—Matt on one side of me and Eden on the other. Jonah, of course, is on her other side.

  Titling my head forward slightly, I catch a glimpse of the young lovebirds holding hands. They’ll do so until the bell rings, and then it’s strictly down to business. No hanky-panky while discussing the Book of Daniel. I think Jesus said that.

  Despite my personal jokes, I can’t wait to get back to being CU-normal again. I’m dying to know what, if anything, is new in the land of Jonah and Eden. It’s doubtful, though, because the heavily restricted physical contact makes for less to giggle about after date night. That’s actually kind of a lie. If there’s one not-so-obvious benefit to the lag-time in reaching second base and beyond, it’s that couples here learn things about each other. Like about each other. They’re favorite prayers, and how they handle stress and anger. Not the birthmark on the hip just inside the panty line. Not the ticklish spot on the upper, inner thigh. None of that.

  Before my exile to the New Life estate last week, Eden regaled Bridgette and me with tales of deep discussions she and Jonah have been having over lunch, phone calls as they walk to class on the opposite ends of campus, and texts long after lights have been turned out for the night. While they certainly spent some time discussing Bible stuff, most of their discussions revolved around mission work they each wanted to do this year or in the coming years. Stories from their childhoods that they didn’t already know after spending years together at summer camp and issues they’re having with their families at home fill the spaces where Trent and I were busy making out and the minutes I spent slapping his hands away from my panties.

  Admittedly, the bit about family issues piqued my interest, as I sensed a strong discomfort between Jonah and his dad during Parents’ Weekend. I didn’t ask any follow-up questions at the time, because I was still pretending I was only “pretty good acquaintances” with my roommates, rather than the true friends I need.

  It’s time for follow-up. Not just to satisfy my curiosity, but to get to know them. The way they know each other, in ways I only know a few people. Especially boys.

  “Dreams,” the professor’s bellowing, melodramatic voice commands my attention. “The Bible is drenched in dreams, and their interpretations. From the Old Testament through the Book of Revelation, God makes it clear that he often seeks people out in slumber. When their conscious mind might otherwise ignore or rationalize the voice of God as something else, God sneaks in the back door sometimes. When you can’t ignore him. Not only did God give people the gift of prophetic dreams, but he has given others the gift of interpretation. Sometimes they go hand-in-hand, but not always. That’s why, like in the Book of Daniel here, we see someone dreaming, and someone interpreting. And of course, the consequences of both.”

  Dreams.

  As my friends scribble down notes, cross-referencing with their Bibles, I’m thrown into the pit of a flashback of one of my own dreams. One from just a little over a week ago—though it seems much further back. I dreamt that Matt and Jonah were in the University Chapel—UC—with holes in their hands and blood coming from their foreheads, covering their faces. I haven’t told anyone about that dream, but I need to. Holes in their hands and blood on their faces is obviously some sort of reference to Jesus. One I may not have caught onto if this dream happened even six months ago. Now, though, it freaks me out on another level.

  Do I think Jonah and Matt are going to be sacrificed for something? Do they have a “savior complex”, the term Eden used to refer to Bridgette? Or, do I think they’re so perfect and I’m left to stand at their feet with their blood splashing around me?

  “Ms. Sawyer?” Professor Towne’s annoyed voice, paired with receiving dual elbows to the side from Matt and Eden, tell me I’ve been gone in my own thoughts for too long.

  I clear my throat. “Yes?” Sitting up straight, I watch half the heads in the classroom turn back my way. Carefully eyeing my lack of attention.

  “I’m aware, Ms. Sawyer,” Towne draws out in his syrupy-thick southern accent, “that you’ve had an unusual few days. This does not preclude you from active participation in your classes.” He lowers his nose, peering up at me from his bifocals. “Regardless of who your father is.”

  Matt hisses a noise that sounds like a mixture of “ass” and exasperation. I take a deep breath and lift my chin. “What was your question, professor?”

  “Once again, I’d like you to discuss one of your dreams, and how you interpret it.”

  No freakin’ way.

  As quick as I can, I conjure up every scrap of knowledge I know from the Book of Daniel. I’ve not read ahead yet—as I try to do with most text in this class—so I’m left to the teachings of my elementary school Sunday school class.

  “No thank you,” I answer quickly. “I’m already in the lion’s den.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hey Devil

  Kennedy.

  Hershel Baker is a wide, heavy, loud caricature of Colonel Sanders with a deep, deep southern accent. It has the kind of thick gravel to it that leaves me praying he’ll clear his throat. Just once. He does, but the after-effects remain in his vowels.

  “Now, Miss Sawyer,” he drawls out. He says my last name the same way everyone south of the Mason-Dixon line does. Really they just say it the way it’s spelled. Emphasis on the “saw” and not “soy”, like I say it. Like it’s actually pronounced.

  He clears his throat again, but to no avail. “I’m sure you know we’re here to discuss your unfortunate dealin’s with Joy Martinez.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Because she spread a vicious rumor about me and slandered Pastor Roland.” I don’t like the way he’s looking at me—condemning—so I feel the need to remind him exactly what it was that happened between me and Joy. And, there really was no between. She was the perpetrator and I was the victim.

  “Mmhmm,” he mumbles dismissively. “But first I want to talk to you about your Old Testament class with Professor Towne.”

  Oh what now?

  “Okay …” I trail off, uncertain where he’s going.

  “Seems on Monday you cracked a joke about the lion’s den, disruptin’ yo class?”

  Despite myself I laugh. It just shot its way through my chest and out of my mouth. I’d honestly forgotten about my quip days ago. The rest of this week has been filled with curious stares from CU students I don’t know in the dining halls, friend requests on Facebook from just as many, and whispers and giggles as I walk by groups of students. Those mainly come from the freshman, and I’m thankful that the upperclassmen have the clout to at least pretend to be interested in me before fishing for information. The point? I’d left Monday’s OT class exactly where it sat. On Monday. To be discussing “the matter” so seriously on Friday seems trivial.

  “Somethin’ funny, Miss Sawyer?”

  I do wish he could pronounce his G’s.

  “Dean Baker,” I start with ren
ewed poise. “With all due respect, I was put on the spot after Professor Towne made a snide remark about Roland being my father, and—”

  “Are you suggestin’ that a member of our faculty is disrespectful to the students?” His face slowly reddens from the chin up, like his Indignation Meter might blow his head off should the crimson reach his snow-white hairline.

  I take a deep breath, assessing my options for response. “No,” I settle on, feeling defeated.

  “Professor Towne was simply makin’ a point that you will receive no further special treatment because of who your father is.”

  “Further?” I interject.

  An aged caterpillar of an eyebrow flexes upward as he supports himself on his desk to get to his feet. Once this task is complete—and it does look like a task for the sphere of a man—he wobbles his way to the picture window that overlooks campus. As gracefully as one can wobble, I suppose.

  Gesturing to the landscape three stories below us, Dean Baker speaks again. “Kennedy,” he uses my name for the first time, “what do you see out here?”

  Glued to my seat, I take a shot. “Carter University.”

  He snaps his fingers, a mocking smile on his face. “Carter University. Now, what can you tell me about Carter University? About it’s history.” He paces in front of the window, his hands behind his back.

  I suppress the sigh so desperate to be heard. “It was founded in 1925 by Jedediah Carter,” I start.

  Dean Baker waves his hand and leans against the window. Meanwhile, I pray the glass can support him. “Yes, yes.” He sounds impatient despite my correct answer to his question. Maybe because of. “I mean biblically.”

  “I …” My eyes widen, and suddenly it becomes very clear that I’m not here to discuss Joy, or the wrongs done against me, at all.

  “Carter University was founded on sound biblical principles. We are a Bible-based university, Miss Sawyer. We follow the words written in that book, and the university was designed around filtering all of its principles into every subject it instructs.”

  I nod. “Yes,” I assure him, “I know.”

  Dean Baker heaves himself forward and resumes his pacing in front of the oversized window. “What you may or may not know, Ms. Sawyer, is that the university has come under great scrutiny in the last decade.”

  No shit.

  He continues, pacing. “Some coming from liberal Christians, claiming we’re too exclusive—that we aren’t interpreting Jesus’ words accurately and are hurting millions of self-identified Christians in doing so.” He chuckles a little and I kind of want him to fall. Not out the window, or anything, but just … down. It would be interesting to watch him get up.

  “I’m aware of the controversies,” I respond when his silence grows a little too heavy.

  “The other camp,” he resumes, “are the Evangelicals. The ones this university was founded to serve.”

  I thought it was founded to serve Christ.

  Say it.

  Shh.

  “This group, you see, thinks we’re moving too far to the left. A direction, you see, they believe was most highlighted when New Life hired Roland Abbot as pastor and the university board tapped him to be the spiritual liaison, and gave him a few upper-level classes, to boot.”

  “Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” I interrupt through the pounding in my chest. This guy gives me the creeps. “But I’m failing to see what this has to do with Joy spreading vicious, sexualized lies about me.”

  A criminal grin spreads through his overstuffed cheeks. “You’re a threat, Miss Sawyer.”

  “Excuse me?” I snap, standing with my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

  Relax them.

  “You, your father, the boy on the football team, and a hundred other students are perceived as threats to the university by some faculty and students. Being threatened can lead people to do all kinds of things they wouldn’t otherwise do.” Dean Jackass moves back to his desk, standing behind it and leaving us at a face-off across his gratuitously wide workspace.

  What does Matt have to do with this, other than his association with me?

  “Before you knew who my father was, you saw my application to this university, Dean Baker. You didn’t have to admit me if you thought I was a threat.”

  He clicks his tongue and looks me straight in the eyes. “It wasn’t my call to make. I’m the Dean of Students. Whichever students they allow in here. I’m not on the Admissions Committee.”

  “I thought Christians weren’t supposed to feel threatened,” I challenge.

  One of his eyes pinches at the side, like a sudden tic he’s developed. “False prophets have all kinds of ways to break through the armor of undisciplined disciples.”

  “Are you suggesting my father is a false prophet?” I can’t believe the direction that this meeting has gone. And I hate that I can’t believe it. Immediate retrospect informs me that six months ago, reading a report that highlighted a meeting like this wouldn’t have shocked me at all.

  Dean Baker takes his seat, seemingly out of breath. The room is humid from his exertion around the room. “I would never speak poorly about a member of the faculty.” Didn’t you just … “But what I will tell you, Miss Sawyer, is that you better get yourself in line with the principles of this university. The national spotlight surrounding your paternity won’t die down anytime soon.”

  Suddenly, it’s clear. An open door. I can make my move. He has no idea who he’s dealing with. He thinks I’m just some liberal threat against his tenderhearted student body? Well, I was raised by someone who spent a significant portion of her life on Capitol Hill.

  The jugular.

  “Interesting you should mention that.” I lean forward and place my hands square on his desk, so we’re eye to eye, even if we are a couple feet apart. “Here I was, nervous that when the Today Show does their in-depth interview with Roland and I in a couple of weeks I wouldn’t have anything to talk about. But, this conversation has been very enlightening.”

  Got him.

  The red in his face nearly clouds the whites of his eyes and a fresh sheen of sweat blankets his forehead. “Are you threatening me, young lady?”

  “Are you threatening me, Dean Baker?” I counter, begging God to keep my nerves steeled. “After all, the nation knows that one of your students was disgustingly blasphemous. Not only against another student, but against one of the most-liked Evangelical pastors in the history of the United States.”

  It’s the first time that I’ve verbalized the truth about Roland’s popularity. Everyone freaking knows him. And, those who didn’t before our interview this past Monday do now. His name has spent half the week trending on twitter and Google searches of him have increased something ridiculous like a thousand percent. This is big, and Dean Hershel Baker knows it. What I want to know, then, is why is he doing this. Why is this alleged man of God attempting to intimidate a student—the daughter of the most popular Evangelical pastor—in the privacy of his office?

  I sit, maintaining eye contact with him as I cross my legs and fold my hands on my lap.

  “You’re correct in asserting the attractive nature of Pastor Abbot,” Dean Baker finally speaks. “And, I think you would be wise not to ruin it for him. He’s skating over patches of thin ice as it is.”

  My throat constricts and I desperately want to throw something at this … this …

  Breathe, Kennedy.

  “What do I have to do with his thin ice?” It’s of no surprise that Dean Baker brings up the tenuous relationship Roland has with CU. Some love him, some hate him, and those on the fence give the illusion that they’re in the latter camp. My guess is to avoid ticking off the likes of the pompous ass in front of me.

  Watch your mouth.

  The dean leans forward, crossing his arms on his desk. “After his little prayer for you on the Today Show? About God being in charge of your life? That puts your actions as a direct reflection of him. I’d be careful if I were you, Dear.”
>
  Little prayer?

  I’m not dealing with a man of God at all.

  I’m dealing with a tyrannical coward who is afraid of losing his pull at Carter University as the faculty and staff slowly comes to realize that their old ways are no longer relevant to the student body or the world as a whole. As the school—with Roland’s input—moves to focus more on Jesus’ message of love, the greedy, selfish desires of men like Hershel Baker are at stake.

  Yes, I threatened him, but I can go no further. If there’s one thing my mom’s time in policy has taught me: you’ve got to know the size of the giants your dealing with, and the strength of their friends.

  “I understand,” I concede confidently, nodding as I uncross my legs. “I’ll do my best, Dean Baker. Thank you for your time.” Extending my hand across the desk, I cringe internally when his warm sausage fingers encase my hand.

  “Thank you, Miss Sawyer. I trust that when Ms. Martinez returns to campus after winter break, I’ll hear of no trouble between the two of you.”

  Know their size, and the strength of their friends.

  I smile a sweet smile that I force to reach my eyes. “You have my word.”

  And then, only then, can you take them down.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bottom Of The River

  Kennedy.

  Finally. Finally I’m getting back into the swing of things with my first shift at Word since everything blew up. I’m grateful for the patrons, my coworkers, and the noise. The noise is the only thing working to drown out the slithery drawl of Dean Baker’s voice that’s played in my head on repeat today.

  You’re a threat, Miss Sawyer.

  My teeth grind together while I steam milk for my third latte in a six-latte order.

  “Want some help?” Chelsea asks when she’s finished with her customer.