“Don’t. It’s fine. I could use the exercise.”
Mr. Connelly looked me over and rolled his eyes. He went to his desk and grabbed a granola bar and an unopened bottle of water.
“Here,” he said, handing them to me. “I don’t want you passing out on the way home. I know you didn’t eat lunch today.”
“What? Are you checking up on me?”
“And just so you know,” Mr. Connelly said, ignoring my question, “I’ll be driving very slowly beside you to make sure you’re safe.”
“I live two minutes from here.”
“Yeah right.”
“You cannot drive alongside me. That’s creepy and stalkerish. And I’m fine, Mr. Connelly. Really.”
Mr. Connelly let out an exasperated sigh. “Cadence, what am I gonna do with you?”
I grinned. “Let me leave so I can start walking.”
“Fine. But I don’t like this at all.”
“And what are our alternatives?” I asked.
Mr. Connelly shrugged.
“I will text you periodically. Does that help?” I asked.
“Some.”
“You’re sulking,” I said.
“Because I’m pissed I made you miss the bus. I forgot you couldn’t drive today.”
I smiled at him. “You really are a nice guy.”
His face lit up. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm. Now I have to go.”
This time the walk home wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I grinned the entire way. My cheeks ached when I finally got home, and Mom and Dad were already there.
“Cadence, tell us if you ever miss the bus!” Mom cried.
“And take your phone off ‘silent’ after school! We’ve been trying to call you!” Dad roared. “My God, Cadence. We were scared!”
They were scared. I was shocked. I thought my parents hated me, or at the least, didn’t care what happened to me. This was unexpected and weird. And a tad bit flattering. But mostly freaking weird. How did I miss seeing all their calls when I was texting Mr. Connelly? I mean Mark.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had to stay after school to ask Mr. Connelly a few math questions.”
Dad pushed his hand through his hair.
“No,” he said. “You don’t stay after school if it’s not a driving day. Why the hell don’t they run late buses?”
Dad cussing. This was interesting. And frightening.
“There are a lot of bad people out there, Cadence. You’re smart enough to know that. What would we do? How could we live with ourselves if something happened to you—if some predator got his hands on you?”
I froze. All I could think of was Mr. Connelly, and not because I thought he was a predator but because if my parents ever found out about him, they’d go ballistic. They’d sure as hell think he was a predator.
“Cadence, are you hearing what I’m saying to you?” Dad asked.
“Yes, Dad. I’m sorry. I won’t stay after school anymore when I don’t have the car,” I replied.
“We just want you to be safe, honey,” Mom said.
I didn’t like the whole conversation. I kept picturing Dad trying to kill Mr. Connelly because he wanted to keep me “safe.” And I didn’t want to hear my parents verbalize their concern for me. I’d gone so long without hearing it that now it sounded strange. It made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want to talk to them. I only cared about talking to one person at the moment, so I politely excused myself to my bedroom.
I threw my bag and purse carelessly on the floor and crawled into bed.
“God, I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said out loud. “I don’t like my parents, and I’m not sure they really even like me. I think that whole show downstairs was fake. Like they were just reacting the way they thought they were supposed to as concerned parents.”
I paused, feeling a slight pang of guilt for what I said. Was that God telling me to take it down a notch?
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
I turned over in bed and noticed my Bible sitting on the nightstand. I grabbed it and sat up, feeling a sudden impulse to do something I hadn’t done since I was little.
“Okay, God,” I began, holding the Bible. “I’m in need of some guidance.” And I closed my eyes, flipping through the book, then letting it fall open to a random spot. I placed my forefinger on the page and cracked open my eyes. I read out loud.
“‘He built the Palace of the Forest of Lebanon a hundred cubits long, fifty wide and thirty high, with four rows of cedar columns supporting trimmed cedar beams’.”
I stared at the book.
“Damnit.”
I closed the Bible and tried again. “Okay, Lord. Maybe you were answering someone else’s prayer just then. I really really need some guidance from you because I think I’m falling in love with my math teacher. It’s not like I can help it, I don’t think. I mean, I feel things for him, and I’m drawn to him, and he treats me so kindly. I just need you to tell me what to do.”
I flipped through the Bible once more, stopped at a random section, placed my finger on the page, and opened my eyes.
“‘These are the family heads and those registered with them who came up with me from Babylon during the reign of King Artaxerxes: of the descendants of Phinehas, Gershom . . .’ Son of a bitch! Okay, I need to get out of the Old Testament,” I said.
This time I made sure to flip through the books in the back half of the Bible. I landed on what I was sure would be a clear message from God and read aloud.
“‘There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one’.”