The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3)

by Andrea Randall

  “Man,” Dan half-yells, calling toward Roland and Buck, “They’re not going to give him a break. They’ve studied his moves.”

  “Yeah,” Buck huffs back. “The coach better have another plan if they want to score any points this game.”

  I look to Jonah and shrug, giggling because I know so little about football it’s embarrassing that I’m taking up a seat at all.

  Jonah lifts his chin to the field. “Looks like they’re going to try a different play.”

  I follow his line of vision then look back to him quizzically. “They look the same as they do every play.”

  He laughs, and so does Roland, the sneaky eavesdropper. “No, look,” Jonah points, “Matt was closer before, and now he’s over there. I don’t know what they’re going to do, but it’s something.”

  One new play, but the same ending, Matt is flattened to the field and my stomach goes queasy. I can’t believe he keeps getting up. I get up, too, needing a break from the carnage. “I’ve got to go to the restroom,” I say. “Eden?” I turn to her and she dutifully hops up and follows me as we zigzag our way down the few bleachers that separate us from the ground.

  “You okay?” Eden asks, shoving her hands in her pockets as I weave us toward the concession stand. “I thought you needed to go to the bathroom?”

  I shake my head. “I need cheese. Or more chocolate. Or both. I’m stressed, Eden. So stressed I could throw up right here.”

  She takes a deep breath and places her arm around my shoulders. “They’ve got a plan, right?” she asks of the recruited grownups.

  “Yeah. I guess. I just… it’s all so up in the air and I feel out of control.”

  “You never had control in this situation to begin with,” she says plainly. “It was in motion long before you came into the game.”

  “You’re awfully calm,” I remark.

  She shrugs. “Because it’ll all work out. It has to. God promises good.”

  “Did he promise that to Courtney, too?”

  She lowers her head. “I don’t have all the answers either, Kennedy,” she says quietly. “I just know that God is good. And I have to cling to that, or none of this matters. But I think we should stop being angry with God for things he didn’t cause in the first place. God doesn’t rape. Evil does. There are spiritual battles going on all round us, all the time.”

  “And God lost that one?” I ask, angry.

  “Yeah.” She sounds as defeated as I feel. “But he’ll win the war. Jesus already conquered death. There’s healing to be done here. And only God can do that.”

  “I need a minute,” I say. Brisk and cold. “I’ll meet you back at the stands, okay?”

  She stares at me for a long moment, her deep eyes filling me with hope and despair at the same time. “Okay.”

  Alone and a few feet away from the smell of nachos, I hear my name. Turning, I find Silas standing before me. Smiling though his eyes are stained red from cried tears.

  “Silas!” I leap toward him and fling my arms around his neck, hugging the living daylights out of him. “You scared me,” I whisper into his ear.

  He holds me at arms length, still smiling. “I’m here. I got your texts but had some things I had to handle with my family last night.”

  “Like?” My heart races.

  He gives me a bashful smile and whispers, so close I can feel his breath, “I told my parents what I’d been struggling with. You know.”

  “Wow,” I whisper back. “Are you okay?”

  He nods, almost proud. “I will be now. They’re going to help.”

  I look a round, confused. “Help?”

  “We’re going to research programs that can help me get back on track and I’ll get connected over winter break, up my counseling here, and pray like crazy.”

  “Programs?” I rub my forehead to check for signs of fever as it’s clear I’m losing my grasp on reality.

  “God doesn’t make mistakes, Kennedy.”

  “I’m aware…”

  “I serve an amazing God who made me perfect. I’m the one who can screw it up. I need help so I can get back to how he made me, for the purposes he made me. To rid myself of my sinful desires and sexual perversions.”

  My mouth falls open. A common facial position of mine over the last year. “I… I don’t know what to say,” I admit, breathlessly.

  “Thank you,” Silas says, giving me a hug. “I needed the push from you to be honest with myself and my family. With what I’m struggling with and to make a game plan to get better.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t say you needed to get better, Silas.”

  “You’re liberal, right?” his tone takes on a harsh edge. Just on the edges, though.

  “Yes.”

  “Open-minded?”

  I nod. “Very.”

  His mouth forms a straight line before he says, “Then be open-minded, Kennedy.”

  “Okay,” I force out, slow.

  “The women’s movement wasn’t about pushing women into the workplace, right?”

  “No,” I admit. “It was about giving the women the choice. Choices.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I choose to heal from this, Kennedy.”

  “You’re not sick,” I say, still whispering.

  He bites his bottom lip, looking a little more like the old Silas. The angry Silas. “Do you presume to dictate what people can be healed from?”

  “No,” I answer quickly. “I never said that. God, okay, can we talk about this later? I’m really not prepared for this and I don’t want to say something that will hurt one or both of us.”

  He drops his hand. “Fine.” He answers, short, and looking hurt.

  “Silas. I love you, okay? I truly do. I just don’t even know half the words you said to me. I don’t come from a place where sexuality is something you can or should be healed from. So I don’t even know what you’re asking of me.

  “Are you going to be my friend through this or not?” His eyes are as wild as they were yesterday.

  “I…” I falter, unprepared for this conversation. “I am your friend,” I say. “That’s why I’m concerned…”

  “I’m going to be fine, Kennedy. Finally. Don’t you want that for me?”

  “More than anything,” I admit. “I don’t want you to hurt.”

  “So we’re okay?” His eyes beg, telling me I have to tell him what he wants to hear.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  I guess.

  He looks relieved. “Good. I should get back to my seat.”

  “Yeah,” I say as he walks away. “Me, too.”

  Pulling out my cell phone, I tap “healing from homosexuality,” into my browser. The sheer number of articles that populate the screen are enough to make me dizzy.

  “You’re looking well today, Miss Sawyer.”

  It’s him. And now I am dizzy.

  Turning on my heels with a deep breath, I look into the face of Dean Hershel Baker.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, grinning. “It’s a beautiful day, I’m here with my family and friends, and it’s shaping up to be a good game.” I point to the scoreboard, which indicates a touchdown CU must have scored while I was down a weird rabbit hole with Silas.

  He eyes me slowly, from top to bottom and back up again. Like a predator sizing up his prey. Something in his face ignites the resolve I thought I’d lost. The one fueled by my initial distrust of the man standing before me.

  “You okay?” Jonah says out of nowhere, startling me.

  “Yeah. Yes,” I say, firm, gesturing to the dean. “Just commenting to Dean Baker that this is quite a game so far.” I turn my face from the dean slightly, enough to give Jonah a stern glance. One that, I hope, tells him to shush. Dean Baker told me in no uncertain terms, while stealing my very literal breath, that I was to keep the incident to myself. He has practice with that kind of speech, it seems.

  Jonah gives a quick nod. His hand rests against the small of my back. His gloves, a leather coat, and
a sweater separating our actual skin, but I’ll take it. The pressure from his fingertips tells me he’s angry, or nervous. Maybe both. I know I am.

  “Jonah,” Dean Baker says slowly, looking between us. Of course he knows about our date. The whole Jesus Freaks-watching nation does. “How are you?”

  I bet he doesn’t like it. At all. I wonder, though, if he’ll work to try to turn Jonah against me, or cut Jonah loose and throw him to the wolves.

  Jonah clears his throat and plasters on a political smile. “Great, sir. How are you? Great game so far, huh? Ready, Kennedy?” Jonah slides his hand across my back and laces his fingers through mine.

  Dean Baker’s eyes fall to our entwined hands and glance lazily back to me. I offer a bright smile and a wave with my free hand. “See ya,” I say as if there wasn’t an attempted murder between the two of us a day ago.

  Jonah and I turn, Jonah walking a few paces ahead of me as we flee from the insufferable gravity of Dean Baker.

  “I headed over because I saw you talking with Silas,” Jonah starts. “And by the time I got over here…”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” Looking over my shoulder, I catch the dean standing in the spot we left him, staring at me with enough force to send a chill down my spine.

  I stop. “He told his parents he’s gay,” I say of Silas. Quietly, aware of my surroundings.

  Jonah’s eyebrows lift in response.

  “Yeah, and they’re going to help him get… help?”

  Jonah nods as if I told him we’re at a football game and I want nachos. Which I don’t… anymore.

  “Do you… have anything to say?” I hold out my hands, needing someone to remind me which way is up.

  He shrugs. “Like? I’m glad he told his family. Secrets are damaging.”

  “More damaging than trying to heal someone from their sexuality?” My tone is accusatory, because I suddenly feel like this is my first day at Carter again and I’m surrounded by my worst nightmares.

  “I don’t think we should talk about this here,” Jonah says, reaching for my hand. “Or now.” His eyes flash over my shoulder, and I’m guessing the dean is still there.

  “Ever?” I press. “Because I’m thinking we’ll need to.”

  He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Yes. But given all the other things that need our attention today, maybe we could put this on the back burner?”

  I want to scream. I want to run to the announcer’s booth, hold the microphone hostage, and ask if everyone has lost their minds or have I, in fact, lost mine?

  “Yeah,” I finally answer. “Back burner.”

  Tentatively I take his hand and let its warmth embrace me. If he can be so cavalier about what is most certainly a fatal difference in our personal philosophies, why can’t I? Why can’t I simply enjoy Jonah for who he is? Stunning. Caring. Honest.

  Okay, then, the cute boy it is. For now. Until that back burner stares us in the face.

  “Kennedy!” A voice beckons from the field. Turning my head, I beam a smile so wide I can feel my face stretch beyond its normal bounds.

  It’s Matt. Halftime has come and gone while I was in the vortex of Silas and the teams are running back onto the field.

  “We’ll kill ‘em this half!” he promises before his number fifty-seven jersey disappears into a huddle.

  “He’s optimistic,” I comment bleakly as we head back to the stands.

  Jonah lets out a sharp laugh, squeezing my hand before we sit. “Someone’s gotta be. They’re the ones getting killed out there. Even if the scoreboard doesn’t show it, they’re getting flattened. Literally.”

  “They’re gonna hurt him if the refs don’t do something,” Dan says, clenching his teeth. He’s seen far too many career-ending injuries to be even a little relaxed during football and hockey games. Other sports have their risks, but these two sports tend to get under his skin the most.

  “Him?” I question.

  “He’s the best out there today,” Buck answers matter-of-factly. “That ham is playing for the cameras, but he really is this good. He needs to play like this all the time. Guilford is trying to give the audience a show, too.”

  “Aren’t there, like, rules against unnecessary roughness? Isn’t that an actual penalty? Unnecessary roughness?”

  No one says a word, not even my mother. But, within a few minutes, it’s clear that they’re right, Matt’s their target. One play nearly stops my heart as Matt is again pinned to the ground, but it takes him a long ten seconds to stand up. Clearly upset, he again gestures to the referees, then schleps off the field to the trainer, who fusses over him and checks him out. He’s back in a few minutes later, but it hasn’t changed anything. It’s still brutal out there.

  A few minutes later, Carter manages a touchdown and an extra point, bringing us in the lead as the third quarter winds down.

  The men around me start fidgeting in their seats, and I even catch Roland biting the inside of his cheek. My stomach drops as the atmosphere around me shifts. The whole stadium notices what’s going on, too, because the response from the crowd ranges from silence to shouting at the referees to “do something.”

  “What can they do?” I whisper to Jonah.

  “They can take those guys out of the game. It’s the same two every time. Every single time. Twenty-two and eighteen. They’ve been on him nonstop.” He shakes his head, his eyes unmoving from the field.

  My palms sweat and I press them into the cool aluminum on either side of me, bowing my head to take a deep breath. To pray.

  Help me believe. And help them out there.

  “I have to move,” I say in an effort to keep a panic attack at bay. Jumping from my seat, I weave my way down the bleachers and onto the grass just behind the team. I find Finn, the camera intern guy from NBC who filmed mine and Joy’s interaction outside of the dining hall what feels like a million years ago.

  “Press only,” he says slyly during a long timeout.

  “I bet I’ve seen more airtime than you,” I answer nervously.

  “Sarcasm. Nice.” He runs a hand over his brown curls before adjusting the lens on his camera.

  “This is… intense, huh?”

  He nods. “About as intense as all the prayer in the locker room.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I’ve filmed a few interviews for college teams around New York, and I’ve never seen locker rooms so quiet at half time. Just a few new plays and the captains leading prayer.”

  This does little to comfort me. If I were allowed in the locker room, despite my nothing-knowledge of football, I’d, I don’t know, maybe go over plays nonstop to prevent the carnage.

  “It’s been a great game, though,” Finn continues. “Your guy there is going to be a star after this game.”

  Folding my arms across my chest, I roll my eyes. “My guy?”

  He shrugs. “Whatever. You know what I mean. He’s more your guy than he is mine.”

  I laugh, which drains some of the tension from my throat. For a moment I forget about Silas, Jonah, Dean Baker, my weird, blended family in the stands… all of it. I’m just at a football game. In college.

  Casting a quick glance over my shoulder, I see the outline of the family that’s come to the game with me. The family that’s circled their wagons and has vowed to address this Dean Baker “issue.”

  Then, it hits me.

  I promised my friends I’d help them with Dean Baker. However I could. I promised my friends, my dad, and almost anyone who asked that I’d fight for them on camera, for this Jesus Freaks show. That I’d be side-by-side with them, making sure the best I could that there was fair coverage. Fair play.

  I’ve done none of that, because I’m scared.

  When did I become so scared?

  Isn’t that what this whole journey has been about so far? Digging for the truth? About my roots, my dad, Christianity, and “those people.” Am I seriously going to let one bad, bad man change the person I am?

  No, I can’t.
<
br />   I’m not some meek, shy-minded girl who needs handholding when she’s been trained her whole life to know the difference between right and wrong and where to go when things go wrong. And, I’m right next to a cameraman for a major network for crying out loud.

  Say something! Speak up! Rally!

  I look toward the end zone, where I bumped into Dean Baker and see him still standing there, hobnobbing with God knows who, a smile on his face that would rival the most charismatic villain. Cunning. Enticing. Inviting you in so he can destroy you.

  I promised I’d do things my way, to show that God’s love surrounds all of us. To show that you can cuss a little but still fall at the feet of Jesus. Because we’re all fallen. All falling.

  “Finn,” I say, making direct, intentional eye contact with him. “I have something really important I need to tell you. Not just you, but your producer, the camera, and everyone on the other end of that lens.”

  He looks startled for a moment, his eyes shifting from side to side as if checking to see if he’s missed something. Then, his ears perk up as his mouth stretches into a charming grin.

  “Finally,” he says, assured.

  “Finally?” I panic, wondering if he knows anything, which would be too much.

  “We were told to leave you alone, to let you come to us. And I’m the lucky bastard that happens to be at the edge of the woods when the doe emerges.” He’s nearly bouncing with excitement.

  I take a deep breath. “Easy, killer, or I’ll find one of your buddies to make famous. But I trust you. I don’t know why, but don’t blow it. It’s about to get real around here.”

  “Can it wait until the end of the game?” He sounds like he hates to be asking.

  I nod. “But right after, okay? I run the risk of chickening out if I wait too long,” I lie. I just want to get to the media before anyone else does. Before my dad, before my mom and whatever high-powered attorney she’s undoubtedly got waiting in the wings. Before Dean Baker, even, because I don’t take him and his ability to preemptively strike for granted.