The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3)

by Andrea Randall

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Obvious

  Matt

  Eating lunch in the smaller prison cafeteria with just the other volunteers feels a little weird. We’re eating by ourselves today, instead of with the handful of inmates we’ve dined with this week, due to family visitation. The room is grey and sterile and I wonder how anyone who walks in here a sane person could possibly leave as one.

  Maybe they don’t come in here sane.

  Maybe they never really leave…

  The only volunteer here I know is Silas. The others are upperclassmen or non-CU students who seem to be regulars at this. We spent the morning reading with some of the guys here. At first I was more nervous than I’ve been in a long time. But, it was easy to settle in, actually. The guys are really cool and seem really happy to have someone new to talk to. Our first week has been a success on all accounts and has kept me out of my head for long chunks of the day, which is something I desperately need.

  “So the other day,” I say to Silas, who’s sitting right next to me, “with Kennedy. That was… what was that?”

  Silas turns to me. “What do you mean?”

  I shrug. “You’ve never seemed to like her all that much. You lost your mind when she was going to take Bridgette to get her nose pierced last year…” I grin internally, remembering the excitement in Kennedy’s eyes as we all stood outside the piercing shop in one of our first outings off of campus last fall.

  “Give me a break.” Silas grins. “That was like, what, the first week of school? I was still really paranoid.”

  “About?”

  He shrugs. “That my parents were still watching, somehow.”

  Immediately my mind scrolls back to the meeting last week with NBC, where Silas’ dad seemed very familiar with Dean Baker.

  “What?” Silas asks, catching me staring into space.

  “Watching you?”

  “Yeah. Bridgette’s their golden child. Follows every rule always without question. I was only allowed to come here because she agreed to.”

  My eyes widen. “Your parents told you that?”

  He chuckles. “Not in so many words, but I know my family well enough to know. Where do you think that whole rocks business came from? That certainly wasn’t my idea, man. I want to look at girls.”

  I think back to the first time I heard Bridgette say “rocks”, and both she and Silas looked away. It didn’t take long for me to realize that was their code word for lewd dress or behavior on another person, and that they were to avert their eyes.

  “I hear you there, brother,” I admit. “But… you know.”

  “Yeah,” Silas says, resigned. “I know. Sorry.”

  I wave my hand. “Oh forget about it, dude. It’s cool. I was just really stupid. I could honestly use a ‘rocks accountability partner,’ if I’m being honest. It’s really hard to keep my eyes to myself sometimes.”

  “You don’t want to look at any girls ever?” he questions, taking a bite of his prison-grade chicken-patty sandwich.

  “Well not ever, geez. Just… not till things get settled. In here.” I point to my chest just over my heart.

  Silas extends his hand and places it on my shoulder. “I’ll help you, man.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, reluctantly. I can’t believe I just asked the most conservative kid I know to help me with lust.

  Though, if what he says about his sister and his family is true, Silas might be just like the rest of us—a caged animal trying to break free and figure out just who the heck he is apart from his church and family.

  “Are you going to date Kennedy?” he asks without missing a beat.

  I shake my head. “Nah. I’m not going to date anyone right now. No looking. No dating. Just me and, you know, God.” If I say the right words enough times they’ll find their way to my heart and become my desires. “Why’d you ask about Kennedy specifically?” I question.

  He shrugs. “You two seem kind of obvious,” he says matter-of-factly. “But I think you’re right on with waiting. You can always ask her out later, when you feel right here.” He touches my chest with his index finger. “But you can’t go back and do it again for the first time. It’ll probably never be perfect, but it can always be better.”

  I nod slowly and stare at my tray. “What about you? Anyone got your attention?”

  Silas flushes under his speckled skin. “Dude, no.”

  “What?” I ask, punching his arm. “You asked me all about Kennedy.”

  He laughs loudly. “Because it’s so obvious. If you two wanted any privacy you’d stop looking at each other like that.”

  “Like what?” I ask, horrified.

  “Well,” he says softly. “I couldn’t see you when I was talking with her on the trail the other day, but I saw her. And how her eyes hung on you each time she looked over my shoulder. It was borderline erotic.”

  I punch him again. “Shut up.”

  He feigns being hurt. “Uncle,” he says, laughing. “I’m just kidding. Sort of. But seriously, aren’t you worried she might be a little too liberal for you?”

  I huff through my nose. “You don’t know me very well, do you?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really.”

  “Through no fault of mine,” I point out. “You were the one who self-segregated all last year.”

  Silas nods, looking serious. “Total fail on my part.”

  “But to answer your question,” I start. “I don’t know. We don’t really talk theology and politics.”

  “Well what ever else is there to talk about?” he says sarcastically.

  “You know who her dad is. Even he doesn’t preach on politics. And you respect him, right?”

  Silas pauses for a moment. “I do. I don’t know if I agree with him point for point on his theology, but he brings mad numbers in every Sunday. I see healing in that church.”

  I hold out my hands. “See? That’s how my friendship is with Kennedy.”

  “But you don’t want to date Roland.” Silas brings reality in. “There are things we can handle in friendship relationships that won’t work in marriage.”

  “Who said anything about marriage?”

  Silas shrugs. “I’m just saying…”

  “Okay,” I say, frustrated. “Before we turn into girls, let’s find something else to talk about.”

  “How’s the football team looking this year,” Silas switches gears immediately. “You and the other guys on campus this summer have logged some serious hours in the weight room.”

  I nod. “We’re basically going to kill everyone.”

  Silas slaps my shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Do it for Jesus!”

  A couple of the older guys in earshot start laughing at Silas’ remark, and ask me about the team. In no time we’re wrapped up in a discussion of schedules, opponents, and plays.

  It’s not that I don’t want a relationship with Kennedy. In fact, there are few things I want more in this world than to be the one that makes her face light up or to be the lucky jerk who gets to brush his lips against hers. But not now. Not yet. I’m going to keep trying though, to get better. For me and my family. And for Kennedy. Because when I do finally ask her on a proper date, I want to be someone she’ll be proud to say “yes” to.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Bottom Drops Out

  Kennedy.

  I rap lightly on the thick metal door of Asher’s office at Word. I spot his thick, rounded shoulders hunched in front of his ancient desktop. A desktop, no less, with a huge monitor that resembles a microwave.

  “Hey,” I say softly. “Can I come in?”

  He looks up from his relic. “Of course,” he says, sitting back and gesturing to the seat on the other side of the desk. “Take a seat. What’s up?”

  I sit, setting my messenger bag on the floor before crossing my legs and leaning back in the chair, taking a moment to study his face to see what kind of emotional space he might be in. He looks pretty relaxed, which bodes well for me. To be
honest, Asher always seems pretty relaxed, but I got a taste of his stern side last week, which brings me to his office now.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, letting out a deep sigh. “About earlier this week. Being all… self righteous and, well, a brat,” I admit.

  It’s hard to let my defaults hang out there like wet laundry, but I’ve heard my friends do it enough in prayer time, so I figure I should give it a shot and actually tell it like it is. And not just about how I feel about other people, which is my M.O. But about me. About what’s really going on inside.

  Asher nods, his expression professional and unchanged. “I accept your apology.”

  “It’s really hard to just… not get to do what I want, you know?” I start rambling. “Working certain hours, going off campus certain hours with certain groups of people, mandatory church attendance. After a year here I can’t remember what I’d be doing anyway over what’s been beaten into me with the guidelines.” For the rest of my life I expect to say the word “guidelines” with a hint of dramatic sarcasm and accentuated hand quotes. “I just… I wanted to—”

  “Be in control,” Asher states, his eyes widening a bit.

  “No,” I answer quickly, before a thoughtful response can form.

  He chuckles and retorts, “Yes.”

  “Explain yourself,” I challenge.

  He takes a deep breath. “Kennedy, how much prayer did you put into coming onboard this volunteer stint?”

  I stare blankly at him.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “It takes practice, but you need to know that the nightly prayer meetings, Bible groups, church attendance, all of that really is for your good. It’s not for behavioral modification training… necessarily. It’s spiritual modification training, if you will.”

  “Mmmhmm,” I respond, unconvinced.

  Asher stands, stretching his arms overhead before walking around his desk and sitting on the edge facing me so I’m now looking up at him. He folds his arms across his chest and it’s a wonder his shirt doesn’t rip. My mind wanders to all the bizarrely lean and fit guys at CU—disproportionately so, I think, than other universities. Perhaps the gym is a way to work out all kinds of frustrations. Before my mind travels toward sexualizing my boss and unlikely mentor, I refocus on what he’s saying.

  Pay attention, Kennedy…

  “Regardless of what you think about the CU guidelines, what the goal is—or was at the university’s inception—is to train students to seek God in prayer for everything. To practice listening and learn how God speaks to you. To make a habit of consulting Him for all matters. Big and small. To turn your life over and your will. Give it all to Him.”

  I stare at Asher with curiosity as words he says ring several bells.

  Turn your life over and your will…

  “What?” Asher asks. “What are you staring at me like that for?”

  I look down, then back up again. “We never got together for lunch last year.” The memory floods back. “We meant to, but then Winter Break happened and happened and happened and we never…”

  Realization is apparent on his face as he takes a deep breath, but I continue.

  “You told me you got arrested your junior year in college, but you never said why.”

  Asher runs a hand over his face, leaving it at his mouth for a moment before gripping the edge of the desk. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Why are you bringing this up right now?”

  “Something you said,” I answer. “About me having to turn my life and my will over. I’ve heard that before. Read it, rather. It’s one of the steps. The twelve steps. I’ve read through some of that blue book Roland has kicking around the house,” I say of the Alcoholics Anonymous book. Roland tells me people just call it The Big Book.

  Asher’s jaw tightens, but he lets me finish.

  “What’d you get arrested for, Asher?”

  He takes another deep breath and stands, extending his hand to help me up from my seat. “Come, take a walk with me.”

  Without even a whisper of protestation I grab my bag and do as he asks, following him out the back door.

  ***

  “You’ve been quiet,” I observe after we’ve walked for about five whole minutes in silence, winding up the hill that separates CU from downtown Asheville. It’s muggier than I’d like. I feel like I could part the air with a stroke of my hand.

  “So have you,” Asher says with a chuckle. “It’s been nice, actually. That mouth of yours… running all the time…” For a second I think he’s serious, but a tiny lopsided grin relieves my anxiety. And I punch him in the shoulder. “Violent to boot,” he jokes before stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  I keep silent for a few more seconds and try something. Taking a deep breath, I find a spot ahead of me to focus on. Meditate on.

  God, help Asher. Whatever he’s about to tell me can’t be easy or he’d have done it already. If you don’t want him to tell me, that’s okay, too. Help keep me from nagging him. Chances are, it’s none of my business anyway.

  I take another deep breath when I’m finished with my mobile prayer and just wait in the still silence between the two of us. Not more than two seconds later, Asher begins.

  “I assume since you’ve asked about my past you haven’t looked it up?” he starts.

  “What? Where?”

  He grins. “The Internet?” he says as if talking to a small child.

  “Oh,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “It occurred to me the first time I knew you had… secrets.” Asher winces a little but I continue. “But then I was spending so much time with school and online researching apologetics and all kinds of other crap that I honestly forgot. Then when I remembered again I just… well… I’ve had experience with people picking apart my life online and I decided to exercise restraint in that area. I don’t even go on celebrity gossip sites anymore.” I offer a playful pout and he chuckles. “Were you hoping I’d look you up?”

  He hesitates for a moment. “Yes and no. I just… thought you might. It would have made it easier on me in some ways. Because I wouldn’t have to sit down and tell you what happened. You could have just read about it.” Asher sits on a bench about halfway up the hill between the coffee shop and campus. “Sit.”

  I comply, leaning my side against the back of the bench to face him. Pulling my knees into my chest, I wait for him to answer, recognizing that I’ll likely hear a lot more if I talk far less.

  “The first time I ever took a sip of alcohol was at a party my freshman year,” he starts.

  My jaw drops. “A party? I knew there were parties but, you were a freshman. I figured those were for upperclassmen or athletes or whatever?”

  He grins. “Seriously?”

  I put on my best comically indignant face. “Well I’ve never been to a party here… because I’ve never been invited.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “Pariah at most universities, but lucky here. Got it.”

  He arches his eyebrow the way he does when he’s signaling to me at work that I need to get back to work.

  “Sorry, go,” I whisper.

  “So,” he takes a deep breath, “I loved it. There are no two ways around it. I loved the beer and the party atmosphere… all of it. It was so invigorating and so unlike anything I’d ever known growing up.” My lips part again and he stops. “What? Something to say?”

  “Ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “It… it dawns on me I know nothing about your past. Your roots. Where are you from? It already strikes me odd that you’re a, you know, one of them… us… whatever. But where do you come from that that was foreign to you as opposed to… frowned upon?”

  He grins and shoots his gaze up to the sky for a minute. “You’re perceptive, you know that?”

  “It’s a gift,” I quip.

  “Use it wisely,” he retorts flatly. “Anyway, I’m from South Dakota.”

  “Weird, but, oka
y.”

  He laughs. “Why is that weird?”

  I shrug. “It’s just never occurred to me that people are actually from there.” Now his jaw drops and I playfully hit his shoulder. “I’m just kidding. What’d you grow up in a seminary or something?”

  “No.” He huffs. “I’m from a Hutterite community,” he says, looking down as if anticipating some unpleasant look from me that I don’t have enough information to give.

  “A… a what? Is that like… Mormon or something?”

  “God, no,” he says with a look on his face like he’s smelled a burnt lemon. He quickly corrects his face though, shaking his head some. “No. Sorry. But no.”

  I sigh. “I have a feeling we’ll need to come back to the whole Hutterite thing in some rich detail. But I won’t let you use it as a diversion. For now, why don’t you give me a clue. A generalization.”

  “Do you know about the Amish? And Mennonites?”

  My eyes widen and I nod slowly, disbelieving where I think he’s going.

  “It’s… sort of like that. In fact, Mennonites and Hutterites share a common ancestry, if you will.”

  I shrug. “I guess I’ll have to until I learn more.”

  He waves his hand. “Basically it’s a very conservative, secluded community, kind of like a co-op or a commune. You know what those are, right?”

  “Yeah,” I chuckle, “but I’m willing to bet that the communes I’m most familiar with involve a little more pot and a lot less clothing.”

  He laughs, thankfully. “Well, you get the idea. We had cars, and stuff like that, but we were a pretty self-sufficient community. Communal dinners, everyone working around the community on projects, farming, whatever. And, again, very conservative.”

  My eyes fall to his wrists and trace the intricate tattoo artistry up both arms. He seems to catch my stare, points to one of his arms and says, “All in the last two years.”

  “Interesting. I’m guessing whatever you got arrested for didn’t bode well for your family especially.”

  “They didn’t find out right away,” he says with a long sigh. “They didn’t know where I was.”