“I saw you drive up,” she says. She reaches for me, takes my hand in hers, and leads me wordlessly back up the stairs into her apartment where we sit on the couch and I cry and I talk and she listens.
“I shouldn’t have gone,” I tell her.
“If you hadn’t, you would have always wondered,” Lauren answers. “Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have done the same thing myself, to be honest. To get real closure or something.”
I nod, wiping away my tears. I know she’s right. I’ll never regret going back even though it hurt to do it.
“You know,” Lauren continues, “I was scared when you went back this morning because I didn’t want you to get hurt. But also because…” Her voice slips a bit, loses its steadiness. “I was scared that I wouldn’t see you again. That you’d end up staying.”
Tears well up in her eyes. She shrugs and breaks eye contact.
And before I can even think, I reach out and hug her. I can tell she’s surprised by my embrace because for a moment she’s stiff in my arms, but then with a great sob she squeezes me tight. I lean in and rest my head in the crook of her neck, her newly red hair tickling my nose.
The truth is, returning to Lauren’s apartment felt more like coming home than driving up to my house this afternoon. I’ve found a new home with Lauren. And I know that I don’t want to ever leave it.
We sit on the couch, crying in each other’s arms for a long time until our tears leave us and our breaths come and go at the same, quiet pace.
23
I pick at some nonexistent fuzz on my shirt and inspect my reflection with care. My heart is thumping so fast I wonder for a moment how fast it can thump before I pass out. I force myself to take several deep breaths, but my heart doesn’t slow down much.
“You look nice, Rachel,” Lauren tells me from her spot next to me in the bathroom. “Really nice.”
We’re in the bathroom finishing getting ready. I’m wearing a denim skirt that stops at the knees—one of mine that I’ve hemmed—and one of Lauren’s scoop-neck T-shirts in bright red. I have my hair pinned up the way I like it.
Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.
The verse taps me on the shoulder. Frowns sternly at me and shakes its head in disappointment. Dad quoted that verse the night I went to the modesty fellowship. The night I cried in the bathroom because Faith told everyone my bra straps were visible through my shirt. My reflection sours at the memory.
I take a breath and keep staring at myself until I remember another verse. He hath made everything beautiful in his time.
I like that verse better.
“Do you think the other kids will know I’ve never been to school before?” I ask, frowning at myself in the mirror.
“Rachel,” Lauren says, turning me toward her by the shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. But like I said, I can drive you there for this first day if you want me to.”
I smooth my outfit down for the hundredth time and resist the urge to say yes. “This is something I want to do alone. It just is.”
Lauren nods. “I get that.”
I’ve practiced the five-minute walk to Clayton High half a dozen times, making sure I know where to find the front entrance. I could get there blindfolded, probably.
“Well, if you want me to take you after today, just let me know,” Lauren says.
“Thanks, Lauren,” I answer, glancing back to the mirror and offering my reflection an encouraging smile.
“We’d better go,” Lauren says. “We’re going to be late.”
I take my green and blue backpack from the table in the front room—I picked it out at the resale shop a few days before—and check inside to make sure I’ve got my new spiral notebooks and my sack lunch and my printed schedule. Honors English IV, Introduction to Math Concepts, French I, U.S. Government. My assigned teacher for U.S. Government is a woman named Mrs. Becker, not the dreaded Mr. Taylor. I wonder for a moment if Mark was so lucky. Maybe I’ll see him today, and I can find out.
I walk Lauren to her car. As she gets in, she turns to look at me. Her eyes are red.
“Rachel, I’m so proud of you,” she says. “I’m being cheesy, I know. But I don’t care. Seriously. So proud.”
She leans in and hugs me and plants a wet kiss on my cheek. Before I can say anything, she climbs in the car and starts the engine, waving at me before she pulls off.
I smile to myself and thank God again for Lauren.
But now I’m alone. No one to distract me or tell me I can do this. I take a breath and start walking, navigating through Clayton’s streets until I reach the high school—an old, red brick building with steep, wide steps leading up to the main entrance. Temporary buildings in fading grays and greens dot the perimeter of the campus, and a big football field with bleachers sits on the edge of the campus. CLAYTON CAVALIERS reads the sign on the scoreboard.
I see dozens of pickups and cars already parked in the student lot and tiny clumps of kids standing together, talking and laughing like they know one another, which they probably do.
It would be so easy to turn around and go back. To hole up in Lauren’s apartment, hidden and safe, until she comes back home. For a moment the idea is incredibly appealing. But instead I clutch my backpack straps more tightly and keep walking. My throat dry and my palms sweaty, I set out for the main building, adjusting my face every few steps. Should I smile? Should I act bored, like I’ve seen this all before?
And then I imagine myself months ago, my world the size of my family’s house. My mind begging for a breath. My heart longing for something I couldn’t yet identify.
I smile.
The air smells like hair spray and fresh cut grass, and I carefully pick my way through the growing crowd. The buzz of teenage voices grows louder as I get closer. I catch snippets of conversation swirling around me.
“Emma, you will never even believe what he texted me last night.”
“Hey, dumb ass, I thought you said we’d meet by the field.”
“Please tell me this is all a nightmare and summer isn’t actually over.”
“If I get Taylor for Government I will jump out of a second-story window.”
The last one catches my attention because I get the joke.
Finally, I make it to the steps leading into the school and take in the sea of people heading inside.
My heart hammering, I climb until I reach the top.
Acknowledgments
As an English teacher, I am careful in my use of the word literally, but this book literally would not exist without my editor, Katherine Jacobs, who believed in it when I was certain I could not write it. Without Kate’s confidence in me, I wouldn’t have been able to tell Rachel’s story in the way it demanded to be told. Thank you for trusting me, for asking the best questions, and for making me a better writer.
Many thanks to those whose work and time proved valuable resources in my research, including Kathryn Joyce’s work of nonfiction, Quiverfull: Inside the Christian Patriarchy Movement and Vyckie Garrison’s “No Longer Quivering” blog. Emily Maynard was kind enough to spend time with me sharing her own experiences, and many other girls and women both in and out of the movement provided me with valuable insight through their articles, books, and blogs. James Nellis offered information about Diane Treats’s profession as a realtor that proved valuable when writing Rachel’s scenes at work.
Hännah Ettinger, a truly patient soul, answered every single one of my questions about what it’s like to grow up Quiverfull—including the ones I know I asked twice—and in the process of my writing this book, she went from source to friend. Hännah, I respect you so much, and I’m so glad to know you.
A million thanks to everyone at Roaring Brook Press and Macmillan for continuing to make my childhood dreams come true, especially Mary Van Akin, a truly terrific publicist.
Dearest thanks to my agent, Sarah LaPolla, for never laughing at me or my e-mails—even the cra
zy ones that I write in the middle of the night. You always fight for what’s best for me.
Thank you to Kate Sowa and Liz Peterson for always being willing to talk plot and to offer feedback, and thank you to all those who make up the tremendous community of young adult literature fans and writers in Texas, including the YAHous, the Lufkin 6, and my friends at Blue Willow Bookshop.
Thanks to the students, faculty, staff, and administration of The Awty International School for all their support.
And thanks to my family, especially my husband Kevin who, I am thankful to say, embraces a worldview that is the complete opposite of the one pictured in Rachel’s universe. Kevin, you are always on my side. Texas-sized love to you and Elliott forever.
About the Author
Jennifer Mathieu teaches English to middle and high schoolers. She is the author of The Truth About Alice and lives in the Houston, Texas, area with her husband and son. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY JENNIFER MATHIEU
The Truth About Alice
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jennifer Mathieu
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Mathieu
Published by Roaring Brook Press
Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
macteenbooks.com
All rights reserved
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Mathieu, Jennifer.
Devoted / Jennifer Mathieu.—First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Rachel Walker is devoted to God and her large family, but as her curiosity about the world her parents turned from grows and she finds that neither Calvary Christian Church nor her homeschool education has the answer she craves, she considers leaving her sheltered life, as an older sister did.
ISBN 978-1-59643-911-5 (hardback)—ISBN 978-1-59643-912-2 (e-book) [1. Christian life—Fiction. 2. Family life—Texas—Fiction. 3. Home schooling—Fiction. 4. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 5. Texas—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M4274Dev 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014047411
eISBN 9781596439122
“The Summer Day” from House of Light by Mary Oliver, Published by Beacon Press Boston
Copyright 1990 by Mary Oliver
Reprinted by permission of The Charlotte Sheedy Literary Agency Inc.
First hardcover edition, 2015
eBook edition, June 2015
Devoted Page 23