Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

“I’m weirded out. Like, I knew the stereotypes of college, too, but it was never an option for me when I enrolled here. If I went to UMass with Dawn, would I be next to her in this picture?” I point to her bedazzled denim hot pants as Exhibit A.

  Setting down the phone on the bench between us, Matt folds his hands in front of him and leans his elbows on his knees. “You’re worried about what might have happened?”

  Mimicking his position, I don’t offer a verbal answer. I let us sit in silence since I feel his question is more rhetorical.

  “Kennedy,” he sighs, “if you wanted to behave that way, you would have found a way by now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sitting up, I lean against the back of the bench and tuck my knees into my chest—making sure my skirt is tucked around my body.

  Matt stays forward. “I mean, if you wanted to go out and drink, you would have. You’re in town enough, and have plenty of opportunity. More than a lot of other kids on campus.”

  “Yeah,” I huff, “if I want to get kicked out of school. I’m not exactly CU’s most low-profile student. And, anyway, it’s against all the rules, and stuff. I don’t really know anyone off campus, anyway, besides who I work with.”

  He laughs and finally sits up. “Logistics aside—because you do know a ton of people off campus—do you think no one at school does that kind of stuff?” He gestures flippantly toward the phone.

  My eyes bug from my head. “Uh …”

  “Okay, maybe not that.” His smile broadens and I take a second to admire the tiny creases on the edges of his eyes. One of the side effects of living somewhere with sunshine most of the year. “But kids drink. Not a lot of them, but they do.”

  “Who? The football players?”

  “Nice,” he muses. “Some of them, and some other kids. Just … people.”

  “And you know this because …”

  “I’m not naive,” he quips.

  I shoot him a dirty look.

  Matt holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I know this because, yes, I have gone to a couple of parties with guys from the football team.”

  “How does no one get caught?”

  He shrugs. “Grace?”

  “Matt!” I slap his shoulder.

  “Stop hitting me!” he teases.

  “I’m serious!”

  “So am I.” He takes a deep breath and seems to regroup. “We’re college kids, Kennedy. We’re supposed to test stuff.”

  “But, Jesus …” I’m a little more serious than I thought I’d be when I planned that sentence in my head.

  Matt shrugs. “Some of your friends are Christian, right? The ones doing the body shots?”

  My mouth hangs open. “I’m sorry, I’m hung up on your proper use of the term body shots.”

  “I’m from the South, Kennedy, not under a rock.”

  I arch an eyebrow to give a quick retort, but he cuts me off.

  “Don’t even,” he warns.

  “Okay,” I take a deep breath, “so I know that now no one is likely to invite me to one of these … gatherings. Because, Roland. But, why didn’t anyone before? Like, when they thought I was the scary Pagan from New England?”

  “Get over yourself,” Matt teases. At least I think he’s teasing. “A. I don’t think anyone, except maybe Joy, thought you were a scary anything. B. Freshman aren’t usually invited anywhere like that. Even if the upperclassmen are going to break the rules, there’s kind of this understanding that they won’t poison the young and impressionable.” He offers a cheesy smile, posing as innocently as possible.

  I point my index finger into the end of his nose. “Young and impressionable you are not?”

  He shrugs.

  “Hmm,” I nod approvingly, “the dark underbelly of CU.”

  “Not that dark.” He points to my phone once more.

  After a few seconds of silence, while I reshuffle my assumptions once more, tossing most of them into my mental trash bin, I address Matt. “Do you drink a lot?”

  “I don’t drink at all,” he says flatly, causing me to purse my lips. “I’m serious, Kennedy.” His tone darkens, almost sending a chill through me.

  “Why not?” I ask. “Why bother going at all if you’re not going to do the illegal thing they’ve gathered to do?”

  “Do you drink?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Would you go if you were invited?”

  “Yes,” I admit quickly.

  “Why?”

  “To study the disciples in Sodom,” I answer with a grin.

  Matt holds his hands out, mouth hanging open comically as if I’ve just said the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Bull,” I challenge.

  “Excuse me.”

  “I call bull. I’d say shit, but you’re being weird, so I won’t. But, bull. You don’t go to study anyone. You know how everyone is. These are your people.”

  I guess I’ve hit a nerve, because Matt stiffens at my side and bites the inside of his cheek.

  “Just be honest,” I say softly. “If you’re not going to drink, is it so you’ll feel included in the team? I mean, I’ve looked online—you’re really good from what the stats say—so I don’t think you’d need to prove something …”

  Matt faces me and starts to open his mouth, but I cut him off.

  “You’re dancing with danger,” I blurt out.

  “What?”

  “You’re trying it all on—the scene—to see if maybe it’s something you want to do.”

  Matt shakes his head. “I promise you I don’t want to drink or degrade women. And, I do go to study people.”

  “Why?”

  He lowers his voice to a near whisper. “Do you ever wonder why Roland ended up the way he did in college? Star basketball player for a D-one school that ends up washed up, alone, and no titles to show for it just a couple of years later?”

  “Every single day,” I admit somewhat absently.

  Matt takes a deep breath. “My dad may have made it through college in one piece, but that says nothing for what happened later. Like way later. I guess sometimes I just try to figure out where he started. It was a slow slide, I think, but if I can find where it started, I’m hoping—”

  “That you can avoid the same fate?”

  He nods.

  “But you don’t believe in fate, right?” As far as I’ve always been taught, fate isn’t a Christian thing.

  Matt shrugs. “I don’t know what I believe most of the time, Kennedy.”

  “A. Stop calling me Kennedy all the time, it’s weird. B.,” I grin, mimicking his speech pattern from earlier, “What in God’s name happened with your dad? You’ve told me nothing, which is hardly fair since you know absolutely everything I know about my relationship with Roland.”

  “Fair?”

  I nod. “Fair. That’s how friendships work, Matthew. Reciprocity. If you’re going to be friends with a girl, you better get your act together. Now,” I shift so I’m sitting cross-legged on the bench, facing him, “what’s the deal with you and your dad?”

  Matt licks his lips and looks away from me. “Do we have to do this today?” he asks with a heartbreaking amount of vulnerability in his voice. It sinks my stomach.

  “I … I guess not. No, no we don’t. Sorry.” It’s the first time I’ve been so direct about his dad, and it turns out my instincts were right. Off. Limits.

  Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze into a warm Matt-hug. He gives the best hugs. This time, though, he barely hugs me back. A slight pat between my shoulder blades that feels like it’s more my Great Uncle Marlin and less like the Matt that hugged me when I told him I was having a hard time trusting anyone.

  Guess I pushed him way too far.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, returning to my regularly seated position.

  Matt’s eyes look vexed by something I can’t quite make out.

  Yes. I’ve definitely pushed too far.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN<
br />
  The Impression That I Get

  Matt.

  Pulling away from the train station in Gastonia, I close my eyes and hope to fall asleep for the majority of my five-plus-hour ride to Atlanta. Kennedy left before me, and that hour I had to kill until my train boarded was near torture. I tried texting her a couple of times, but I knew as soon as her train departed, her signal would be spotty through most of North Carolina. She hasn’t responded to any of them yet.

  At least I hope a bad signal is the reason she hasn’t texted back. I tried not to be too weird when we hugged goodbye, though admittedly, her hug then was weaker than the hug she gave me when we were sitting on the bench in the station.

  Crap.

  She said “sorry” several times, and I’m sure she sensed I wasn’t giving her the kind of hug I usually do—thanks to my friggen pep talk with Jonah. He was right, though. I don’t want to give her the wrong impression, and if I’m left feeling like this after not hugging her the way I wanted to, I better be careful. I know how quickly desires can get ahead of someone. I don’t want to hurt anyone—Kennedy especially—so I need to be careful since I’m destined to be screwed up in that area.

  Kennedy says she doesn’t believe in fate or destiny, and I know that I shouldn’t, either, but it’s hard not to when you watch your father fall into the same manhole that swallowed his own father decades before. I never met Granddaddy Wells, as my mother still affectionately refers to him, but I can’t say I long for that missed opportunity. He drank himself to death a few years before I was born, a fact my father was sure to remind me of during his “anti-everything” campaigns warning me of the dangers of sex, drugs, and alcohol.

  Funny that I didn’t even have to feed him his own words when the time came; stepping away from the pulpit after tiredly addressing his congregation for the last time was the only public service announcement he needed. Even if he gave it to himself.

  I could have gotten home quicker had someone come to pick me up. I’d have saved myself two hours if my mom came with my sister and drove me home, but I couldn’t risk it. Worse than spending five hours on a train to Atlanta, and another hour and a quarter in a car back north to Rome would be spending a full four-and-a-half hours in the car with my father, if he’d chosen to come. Even worse still would have been a drive with just the two of us.

  I’m happy to have this time to chill out after what’s been an interesting semester at Carter University so far—made even more interesting by the addition of Kennedy Sawyer into my life. I crack a grin when I think back to her asking me to come to that Bible study with her. I gave her a hard time, but the truth is I would have followed her into a bar if she’d asked me to. Even if it was just for the chance to watch her.

  I know there’s far more depth to her than even she shows, which is a lot, and I can’t help but be drawn to whatever energy it is she puts out. The fact that Roland and my dad are old college friends, and her mom knows my dad, might complicate things. I don’t want my dad in any part of my life right now—let alone my personal life. But if Kennedy’s mom, Wendy, thinks she’s buddy-buddy with “Buck,” even more so than she is with Roland, we’ll have problems.

  Shaking my head, I work to clear my head of these thoughts. I have no business planning a future with a girl who wants nothing to do with a screwed up Southern PK. Truth is, what business would we even have being in a relationship with each other? While I’m not firm on many political issues, a wild guess is more than I need to tell me where Kennedy and I would fall on either side of any given issue. And, while it’s all well and good to think we should just get to be friends for a while before we delve into politics—as I even suggested on our walk through the woods a couple weeks ago—it really will only make things worse. The closer you are to someone when the gauntlet falls, the more you’re splattered in the fallout.

  A notification of a text message dings through my earbuds as I thumb through my music to find an appropriate playlist for the rest of the ride home. My heart nearly stops when I see it’s from Kennedy

  Kennedy: Just got a few of your text messages at once. Service has sucked.

  Me: No worries. How’s your ride going?

  My palms sweat as I try to feign normal conversation with her, when my feelings are anything but.

  Kennedy: It’s going to be like twelve hours, but nothing crazy to report yet, thankfully. Except some drunk guy who’s been on the train since somewhere on the West Coast. Unfortunately for Red Sox Nation, he’s wearing Boston gear from head-to-toe as he tells the car his tales of broken-heartedness.

  My jaw drops at Kennedy’s assertion that this doesn’t fall under the category of “crazy.” Then I remember she’s not that far from New York City. Still, it’s unsettling.

  Me: Can you switch cars? Is he still drinking?

  Kennedy: * Shrugs * Probably. He has a Gatorade bottle, but if I were a betting woman—which I’m not—I’d bet 100 to 1 that there isn’t a single drop of electrolyte goodness in that bottle. It smells like a frat house.

  Kennedy: I think. I’ve never been in a frat house, but this is what I imagine one would smell like. Tales of woe … and moonshine.

  I laugh out loud, causing the middle-aged woman across the aisle from me to grin and shake her head. Kennedy texts again before I have a chance to respond.

  Kennedy: Wait! Have you had moonshine before?

  Me: No.

  I try to think of something wittier to say, but she’d out-perform me in the wit category eight times out of ten, if I showed up to every challenge she invited me to, so I need to choose my battles carefully.

  Kennedy: You’re lying.

  Me: Why do you say that? Is it because I’m from the South? That’s it, isn’t it? Bigot ;)

  I am a betting man, and am certain this chide won’t offend her.

  Kennedy: Stereotypes come from somewhere, Matthew ;) You better figure out a way to pony up some moonshine when I come check out your Southern digs sometime.

  The thought of Kennedy in my house makes me thankful I’m already sitting down.

  Me: You want to come to Georgia?

  Kennedy: Yep. Scared?

  Me: No, but I’m from there. You should make sure your passport’s up-to-date, though ;)

  Kennedy: Touché. :)

  Yes. I congratulate myself for the patience it took before I delivered that line. I’ve been waiting weeks to serve it to her. For the moment, I’m grateful that she doesn’t seem to be sending weird vibes about my less-than-smooth behavior lately. Still feeling unsettled about her unsavory rail companion, I refocus the conversation.

  Me: Are you sure you’re all right with that guy? What if he gets drunker?

  Kennedy: Oh, he’ll get drunker, for sure. Then he’ll pass out. Can I tell you something, though, without you saying ‘told you so’?

  Me: I’d never say that to you.

  Kennedy: We’ll see.

  Me: What is it?

  Kennedy: It’s a moment like this when I kind of understand CU’s guidelines about traveling in pairs … and girls not traveling alone off campus.

  Sitting forward in my seat, my mind races for any possible way I can help her here. But, there aren’t any. I’m on a train heading south, and she’s going northeast. We couldn’t be traveling further apart. In more ways than one.

  Me: How strong is your signal? Think we can voice talk for a while?

  My phone rings a few seconds later.

  “Hey,” I say, trying not to sound out of breath.

  “Hey,” she half-whispers. “I’m talking quietly because people are starting to fall asleep.” In the background I can hear the drunken sound of belligerence.

  “That him?”

  She sighs. “Yes. It’s just annoying more than anything. If he’s still at it by the time we get off the phone, I’m going to talk to the crew.”

  I huff through my nose. “No one has said anything yet?”

  Her voice is dry. “People are trying to ignore him. I do feel k
ind of bad for him. He’s clearly got issues. And he went all the way to Arizona for, like, a year-and-a-half to live with his girlfriend, and they stopped doing drugs, and—”

  “Wait,” I cut in. “You’ve talked to him?”

  “Yeah. Well, he did most of the talking, honestly. I just kind of nodded and offered a sympathetic smile every four seconds, or so. He’s going to write a book about his whole experience. He had a spiritual moment somewhere in New Mexico. I have my doubts that peyote wasn’t involved.”

  “Peyote?” I repeat, feeling culturally ill-equipped for this part of the conversation.

  “It’s a psychotropic drug. Like mushrooms.”

  Okay, mushrooms I’ve heard of.

  “Why do people always say they have those kinds of experiences on drugs like that?”

  “I don’t know.” She pauses for a moment, and I wish I could be watching her face. Her eyes always show that her brain is working a thousand miles a minute. Deep and thoughtful, even when choosing what she wants for dinner. “Maybe some people need it, I guess. Maybe some people literally can’t get out of their head without the stuff.”

  “It’s not about getting out of anywhere, though. It’s about letting Jesus in.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Eighteen years of pastoral-like training at the hands of my father and his congregations has stitched these pieces of conversation into my brain for times when I’m questioned or am struggling to think on my feet.

  “Shit,” I whisper before she can reply. “I didn’t … didn’t mean to sound all door-to-door there.” I lean my head back, certain I’ve blown it with her forever. Whatever it is.

  “Matt Wells!” Kennedy shrieks into the phone. “Did you just swear?”