Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

  I chuckle at Eden’s admission of her popularity status.

  “What’s the trouble?” Bridgette asks. “Is there, like, beer and stuff?”

  Eden twists her lips and nods. “Yeah.”

  I shrug. “You don’t have to drink it, though.”

  “She also doesn’t have to go,” Bridgette adds a little hastily.

  That, too …

  Mollie called a few nights ago and directed me toward Facebook—which I decided to avoid for the rest of the semester-where my very own e-vite sat. This one hosted by my ex-boyfriend, Trent.

  “Is that against the rules?” I ask, suddenly worried about my own Friday night plans.

  “It’s not just about rules, Kennedy,” Bridgette snaps, earning her wide eyes from both me and Eden. “It’s about how it makes her feel in her heart and spirit, too. If she’s uncomfortable, she shouldn’t go.”

  You know what …

  “You know what, Bridgette?” I snap back. “Sometimes life is uncomfortable. Do you think it was easy-breezy for me to stand up in front of the school and half the nation to talk about Roland as my dad? Do you think it was comfortable for me to come here? No, but despite my misgivings, I felt like I needed to come here. And, most days I don’t know why. I don’t get it, and sometimes I just want to go home. But beneath my discomfort is something deeper. So back off.”

  Ignoring Bridgette’s horrified stare, I angrily zip my bag and move in front of Eden.

  “Look,” I start, breathlessly. “Go, or don’t go, but don’t over-think it. No one can force you to do anything you don’t want to do. Talk to your brother, maybe. He’s gone through the same stuff. Don’t not go because you’re afraid of what people will think, or whatever.” I eye Bridgette for a second. “Fear causes people to do some crazy shit. Just look at Joy. She was evidently afraid of me, and look where it got her.”

  “That’s not fair, Kennedy,” Bridgette states with tears in her eyes. “Eden not going to a party is not the same thing as Joy bullying you.”

  “I’m not saying it is, Bridge.” I take a deep breath and back toward the door. “I’m just suggesting maybe you all should start believing in the strength you ask for in your prayers every night.”

  Eden holds out her hands. “Guys, I didn’t mean to cause such a problem …”

  Bridgette and I look at Eden, then each other, then we drop our emotional weapons. As seems to be happening more and more with Bridgette lately, she breaks into tears. I roll my eyes, then shoot a quick look to my right and find that Eden caught me. She offers a tiny shrug and wraps an arm around Bridgette.

  “Bridge,” I say inside another sigh, “what’s going on?”

  “Something’s wrong with Silas,” she replies, wiping under her eyes. “I don’t know what it is, but he’s been just … so quiet and angry since we got here. More as the semester has gone on.”

  I arch an eyebrow at a still-quiet Eden. “You mean he’s not always … reserved?”

  She shakes her head. “At home he always cracks jokes and plays with our little brothers and sisters. He’s not this super uptight guy with no sense of humor.”

  Eden finally finds her voice. “Maybe he really is just focusing on all of the romantic stuff you said he was in peer counseling about. I know it’s hard when you don’t know the exact details, but you can still be praying for him.” Eden looks to me, pleadingly. “We all can.”

  I close my eyes for a moment, knowing what must be done. I need to do this. For Bridgette, for Eden, for our friendship, and, maybe, for me. Dropping my bag, I walk over to my roommates, and silently reach for their hands. I’ve been adding in my own words of prayer during floor meetings over the last couple of weeks, but nothing super personal or involved. But, I can’t leave my roommates like this. And, since Eden is oddly silent and Bridgette is a mess, it’s my turn to step up to the plate.

  I just want to go home. Is that too much to ask?

  “Father God,” I start with the title Bridgette usually uses to call out to her Savior, “please watch over us as we each head home for this break. Keep our hearts, minds, and souls in the right place, Lord, as some of us face old temptations and maybe some new ones. Lord,” I take a deep breath, “please be with Silas during what seems to be a stressful and troubling time for him. You know his heart, Lord …” I add a silent prayer of thanks that I’ve been able to pick up on common prayer terminology in order to piece this together on the fly. Knowing people’s hearts, guarding those hearts, and watching over them are common requests.

  “Thank you, God,” Eden enters. “Thank you for the blessing so far this semester of being able to watch each other grow and strengthen in you.” She squeezes my hand and I have no snarky thought. Eden thinks I’ve grown this semester, and for some reason that fills me with pride. “Please guard our hearts and minds as we depart campus for the next week and enjoy time with our families and friends. In Jesus’ name we pray.”

  “Amen,” we say in unison, separating our hands and returning to our previous tasks.

  Mine is to get on a train, fall asleep, and wake up in Connecticut.

  “Bridge,” I smile, slinging my bag back over my shoulder, “I think this break will be just what you need. Go home and love on your parents and siblings. Silas, too. I think it’s just been a tough transition, is all.”

  “Thank you, Kennedy.” Her smile returns and she gives me a soft embrace before stepping back. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess lately.”

  I give her a quick wink. “No need to apologize for being human. You girls have my phone number, so make sure you text me over the next couple days, okay? Call, too.”

  I give them a wave and exhale a premature breath of freedom as I head downstairs where Maggie and the other hall residents who are going to the train station will be waiting in a campus van. I get there before a few of them, so I secure a window seat on the front bench. I make quick work of buckling my seatbelt, and then I lean my head on the window and stare at the rain as it rolls down the glass.

  “Looking forward to going home?” Maggie asks with a wry smile.

  I say nothing, but look at her and return the smile. She’s been good about checking in with me over the last couple of weeks, but our conversations have been highly relegated to text messages. There have been a few “crises” on our floor that have required enough of her time that we haven’t been able to schedule meetings on a regular basis. I air-quote crisis because none of them have involved drugs, violence, or the police, so I’m thinking that’s an area where my definition deviates slightly from theirs. Still, I am looking forward to meeting with her on a regular basis, but it looks like that might be something we work toward for next semester, since when we return from Thanksgiving break, we’ll all be studying like crazy for final exams.

  Once the other girls are in the van, Maggie starts our journey toward the Amtrak station. Unfortunately, the closest station is nearly two hours away in Gastonia. And, from what I saw online, it barely qualifies as a station at all. More like a brick hut that looks like something out of an old Western film. Amidst the chatter of five other girls—some excited to see their high school sweethearts, and others looking forward to getting back to their home church—I begin to doze off. Before I slip fully unconscious, my phone dings.

  I’ve changed his title in my phone from “BF” to his real name, but it’s still kind of a shock when it pops up.

  Roland: I’m sorry we didn’t connect before you left. Have a Happy Thanksgiving.

  I smile while I read the message. It seems Roland and I had the right idea in encouraging Jahara to push off the more in-depth interviews for a while. Media interest seems to have died down quickly, though not quick enough, which is why I’ve avoided all social media. We’ve been able to slip back into our previous roles of student and pastor—his making him far busier than I am—and we’ve only really seen each other in passing on campus or the one intervening Sunday since the Today Show interview.

  Part of that is
my doing, though, because I really needed to curl into myself for a while. There was far more exposure there than I’m typically comfortable with, and I really just wanted to keep my head down and make it through Thanksgiving in one piece. The rest of the semester will be a piece of cake, and then I’ll get six entire weeks away.

  Me: I’m sorry too. Was studying like crazy, but got an A on the OT exam, so … I’m heading to the train station now. See you next week.

  Roland: See you then. Stay safe.

  It always makes me a little uncomfortable when he offers parental advice like this. Sure, these concerns were shared with the student body by teachers, RA’s, and friends through the last couple of weeks, but coming from him I know he’s trying on a parental role. It’s not that I don’t want him to, I don’t think, but we’ve got a long ways to go there.

  I let his last message end our conversation and I fall quickly to sleep for the remainder of the ride.

  “Kennedy,” Maggie calls me from my slumber. “We’re here. Wake up.”

  Wincing as I try to right my neck after almost two hours in a car-sleep position, I sit up and stretch my arms.

  “That felt good,” I admit. Between work, prayer groups, and the excessive studying I need to do to stay afloat, there is little time to sleep at night, let alone steal hours from the day.

  Maggie smiles. “Have a good break. Make sure you go to church Sunday, okay?”

  Rules.

  I nod. “Fine, fine,” I playfully reply.

  “Have you checked out evangelical churches in your hometown?”

  I laugh. “I don’t think they exist, but I’ll give it a whirl.”

  Maggie shakes her head. “Just keep your head on, okay?”

  Sliding across the bench toward the door, I flash her a thumbs-up. “You got it.”

  She shakes her head, dramatically rolling her eyes. “You’re going to give me a run for my money this year, aren’t you?”

  Planting my feet on the ground I give her a circus-worthy smile. “What?” I ask, batting my lashes.

  Maggie laughs and turns the key. “Just … stay out of trouble?”

  “I will,” I concede, despite the question at the tip of her voice.

  Once she pulls away, I stare at the abandoned-looking train station, admittedly bummed that it looks exactly like the picture the Internet provided me. A quick glance to my left shows a cluster of wildly out-of-place-looking CU students. Curiously, though, there are the girls I showed up with, mixed with some males. They must have left campus earlier, in their own van, of course.

  At first glance I’m tempted to just wander by them and find a dark, urine-scented corner to hide in until my train comes. Interestingly, though, the distinct scent of burning tobacco draws my steps in their direction. There’s much giggling and whispering as I approach the group, but the cigarette smell is stronger.

  “Oh, hey,” one of the guys in a CU sweatshirt says when he spots me. “Want one?”

  “Dude!” another one half-gasps, slapping his shoulder. “That’s Pastor Roland’s kid. What are you doing?”

  At this, the first “dude” turns robe-white. His mouth drops open and he stumbles to find his words. I scan the rest of the group, who have all gone silent in my presence. Do they honestly think I’m about to tattle on them?

  “She’s not going to say anything,” Danielle from my floor says, barely believing herself with a pleading look in her eyes.

  Unbelievable.

  First, I’m a social pariah because of where I came from. Now, I’m a social pariah because of, well, where I come from—genetically speaking. Shaking my head, I huff through my nose and pull my lip ring from a Ziploc bag in the pocket of my coat. I maintain borderline uncomfortable eye contact with Dude #1 as I slide the cold ring through my lip. I grin as some people in the group look away.

  “Don’t worry,” I assure dryly as I plug my earbuds into my phone, “I won’t tell anyone. I’m just going to be over there in the corner listening to Pitbull and swearing under my breath. Enjoy the cancer … carry on.”

  Never has a darkened corner in a public transit station looked so inviting. Maybe the hobos have it right after all. I literally want to go unnoticed until I’m back in the logical, sane air north of the Mason-Dixon line. Where I’m sure to never have to reference that invisible geographical separator.

  Once I scope out a corner that doesn’t smell too diseased, I slide my back down the wall and sit on my bag. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and let Pitbull’s philosophical discussions of booties, and what he’d like to do with them, help transition me away from Carter University.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Pause

  Kennedy.

  Hurry up and wait. I knew there would be other vans from CU shuttling kids to the train station throughout the day, but I took the first one, and that’s left me sitting here in Gastonia, North Carolina in the depressing Amtrak station for the last four hours.

  I did fall asleep for a while, and was rather disoriented when I finally came to, but since then I’ve been catching up on Facebook. Finally free of the CU Internet police and nosy busybodies, I’ve spent well over an hour pouring over the college photo albums of my fellow high school graduates.

  What I see doesn’t excite me as much as I thought it would. Quite the opposite is happening, actually. Pictures of girls having their hair held back as they empty the contents of their stomachs into bar toilets, and guys with drunken postures pressing their faces into the breasts of girls with less clothes on than I wear to bed leaves me feeling a little sick myself.

  And, oddly enough, that makes me angry. I’m trying really hard not to judge the coeds in those pictures, because I know that a single decision separated me from them. Sending the check to Carter University is the only thing preventing my face in those pictures.

  Or is it?

  I’ve only had a few drinks in my whole life; would admission to any secular university have guaranteed my participation in such lewd acts? And, since when do I use the word lewd?

  I exit out of Facebook and shake my head, trying to clear the sights of the last hour from my brain. No, perhaps I wouldn’t have engaged in that kind of behavior, but I didn’t think our Salutatorian would have either, but there she was in all of her glory letting another girl suck liquored Jell-O out of her navel. I wonder, briefly, what would have become of my CU friends, had they gone to secular universities?

  Silas and Bridgette would have packed up and left by the end of week one. Eden and Jonah may have struggled it out, and I think done fine, but what about Matt? Matt is the most “like me” in attitude I’ve come across so far on campus. And, though we’ve never had a conversation regarding our sexual experiences—or lack thereof—I’ve wandered around campus with the assumption that he’s done just as much as I have, and maybe more. He has the build and sarcastic grin of many of the guys in my friends’ pictures, but would he do that? Would he press his freshly-shaven, just-come-from-church face into the breasts of a bartender pouring his underage self a shot?

  My breath catches as I look around the train station. Looks like I’ll be able to ask him myself, since he appears to be walking right toward me.

  “You lost?” I grin, standing to stretch my legs and shake the numbness from my feet.

  He shakes his head, smiling. “I thought you left already. Don’t you answer your texts anymore?”

  Confused, I pull up my home screen and see, in fact, I’ve missed a few texts while on my Internet search in Sodom.

  “Sorry, I’ve been … busy.”

  Matt tilts his head in question, and I pick up my bag, directing us to a bench that’s freed itself of what I hope to be the last group of CU students passing through here today.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, bending forward to stretch once more before sitting gain.

  “I, Ms. Valedictorian, am taking the train home.”

  “Jerk.” I stick out my tongue and playfully smack his shoulder.

&n
bsp; Matt sits next to me, but the strange thing is, when our legs brush against each other, he slides over a few inches.

  Staring at the new, weird space between our bodies, I stare at him blankly. “I don’t have cooties, promise. I was just tested.”

  He chuckles somewhat nervously, not changing his position before changing the subject. “Busy doing what?” He redirects our conversation.

  “Oh! Right. Well, I don’t know if this is CU-legal, or whatever, or if it’ll make you uncomfortable, but … look at these.” I thumb my way back to my most recent Facebook stalking session, open the album “Fall Semester” from Dawn Davis—in our class’s top ten—and hand my phone to Matt.

  His eyes take a moment to focus on the screen, and when they finally do, he immediately looks at me. “What? What is this?”

  He’s now holding my phone like it’s a bomb, making strong eye contact with me as he awaits his answer.

  “It’s someone from my high school. Who goes to UMass Amherst.”

  “That is at college? That looks like something you’d see in a movie about college.” He sets the phone on my lap and runs his palms on the front of his jeans.

  “Hey,” I place a hand on his shoulder, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m just … kind of freaking out.”

  Matt exhales and runs a hand over his face, then slowly picks my phone back up. “What’s wrong, K. Sawyer?”

  Internally, I sigh a bit of relief. For a moment there, I thought Matt would run for the hills, thinking I was showing him porn. But, his use of my nickname—one he created, no less—calms me.