Dreams.
As my friends scribble down notes, cross-referencing with their Bibles, I’m thrown into the pit of a flashback of one of my own dreams. One from just a little over a week ago—though it seems much further back. I dreamt that Matt and Jonah were in the University Chapel—UC—with holes in their hands and blood coming from their foreheads, covering their faces. I haven’t told anyone about that dream, but I need to. Holes in their hands and blood on their faces is obviously some sort of reference to Jesus. One I may not have caught onto if this dream happened even six months ago. Now, though, it freaks me out on another level.
Do I think Jonah and Matt are going to be sacrificed for something? Do they have a “savior complex”, the term Eden used to refer to Bridgette? Or, do I think they’re so perfect and I’m left to stand at their feet with their blood splashing around me?
“Ms. Sawyer?” Professor Towne’s annoyed voice, paired with receiving dual elbows to the side from Matt and Eden, tell me I’ve been gone in my own thoughts for too long.
I clear my throat. “Yes?” Sitting up straight, I watch half the heads in the classroom turn back my way. Carefully eyeing my lack of attention.
“I’m aware, Ms. Sawyer,” Towne draws out in his syrupy-thick southern accent, “that you’ve had an unusual few days. This does not preclude you from active participation in your classes.” He lowers his nose, peering up at me from his bifocals. “Regardless of who your father is.”
Matt hisses a noise that sounds like a mixture of “ass” and exasperation. I take a deep breath and lift my chin. “What was your question, professor?”
“Once again, I’d like you to discuss one of your dreams, and how you interpret it.”
No freakin’ way.
As quick as I can, I conjure up every scrap of knowledge I know from the Book of Daniel. I’ve not read ahead yet—as I try to do with most text in this class—so I’m left to the teachings of my elementary school Sunday school class.
“No thank you,” I answer quickly. “I’m already in the lion’s den.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hey Devil
Kennedy.
Hershel Baker is a wide, heavy, loud caricature of Colonel Sanders with a deep, deep southern accent. It has the kind of thick gravel to it that leaves me praying he’ll clear his throat. Just once. He does, but the after-effects remain in his vowels.
“Now, Miss Sawyer,” he drawls out. He says my last name the same way everyone south of the Mason-Dixon line does. Really they just say it the way it’s spelled. Emphasis on the “saw” and not “soy”, like I say it. Like it’s actually pronounced.
He clears his throat again, but to no avail. “I’m sure you know we’re here to discuss your unfortunate dealin’s with Joy Martinez.”
“Yes.” I nod. “Because she spread a vicious rumor about me and slandered Pastor Roland.” I don’t like the way he’s looking at me—condemning—so I feel the need to remind him exactly what it was that happened between me and Joy. And, there really was no between. She was the perpetrator and I was the victim.
“Mmhmm,” he mumbles dismissively. “But first I want to talk to you about your Old Testament class with Professor Towne.”
Oh what now?
“Okay …” I trail off, uncertain where he’s going.
“Seems on Monday you cracked a joke about the lion’s den, disruptin’ yo class?”
Despite myself I laugh. It just shot its way through my chest and out of my mouth. I’d honestly forgotten about my quip days ago. The rest of this week has been filled with curious stares from CU students I don’t know in the dining halls, friend requests on Facebook from just as many, and whispers and giggles as I walk by groups of students. Those mainly come from the freshman, and I’m thankful that the upperclassmen have the clout to at least pretend to be interested in me before fishing for information. The point? I’d left Monday’s OT class exactly where it sat. On Monday. To be discussing “the matter” so seriously on Friday seems trivial.
“Somethin’ funny, Miss Sawyer?”
I do wish he could pronounce his G’s.
“Dean Baker,” I start with renewed poise. “With all due respect, I was put on the spot after Professor Towne made a snide remark about Roland being my father, and—”
“Are you suggestin’ that a member of our faculty is disrespectful to the students?” His face slowly reddens from the chin up, like his Indignation Meter might blow his head off should the crimson reach his snow-white hairline.
I take a deep breath, assessing my options for response. “No,” I settle on, feeling defeated.
“Professor Towne was simply makin’ a point that you will receive no further special treatment because of who your father is.”
“Further?” I interject.