Bridgette’s perma-smile turns down for a moment. “He’s got a peer counseling session this morning. But I’ll text him about the study group, if that’s what we’re gonna do.”
“Peer counseling?” Kennedy looks all the way up and sets down her fork.
“Yeah,” Bridgette sighs a mousey breath, “he’s been struggling a lot with romantic urges, and stuff like that. Gosh, don’t tell him I told you guys that,” she adds quickly. “He wants to keep it quiet, but I think we should all keep him in our prayers.”
I eye Jonah out of the corner of my eye. He looks back, and then away quickly, back to the model-like face of his girlfriend. But, I know we’re thinking the same thing.
Romantic urges?
Silas is the most monk-like guy I’ve ever met in my life. He won’t even engage in so much as a smile when some of us guys are sitting around without any girls around, talking about who has the best features. Most of the time he just gets up and leaves, mumbling under his breath about us being disrespectful. The thing is, we’re not being disrespectful. We’re being guys. Some of our floor mates get bent out of shape about what he says, and they go back to their rooms, seeming to think he’s right and we should all sit around singing hymns all night long, or something.
Even though Jonah’s got Eden now, he at least still hangs out with us. He won’t comment on the other girls, but he still spends time with us being one of the guys. Not Silas. Pious Silas is what I’ve come to call him in my head, though I work really hard not to say it out loud.
But, peer counseling for “romantic urges”? I don’t totally buy it. Unless he’s got a secret stash of porn somewhere. Doubtful, though, because that stuff gets sniffed out of places like this faster than I’ve ever seen. Even at summer Bible camp.
I clear my throat and stand up, taking my tray with me. “See you guys in an hour?”
Everyone nods and resumes catching up on their weeks and what lame plans they might have for tonight. Truth is, I’ve never had any exciting plans myself, but I’d at least like to hear about someone having a good time. The guys on the team talk a lot about off-campus parties, but they’ve got to be lying or really stupid to talk about that as openly as they do. That, or the coaches just turn a deaf ear, because I haven’t ever heard of anyone getting into trouble because of one of these “parties.”
I don’t make it too far out the door of the dining hall before I hear quick footsteps directly behind me. No one says anything, so I just keep my head down and head for my dorm.
Then, coconuts.
Walking in step with me without saying a word, Kennedy keeps her head down, too.
“Stalker,” I mumble sarcastically, grinning.
“Sorry about leaving you stranded last night,” she mumbles.
I shrug. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I mean a text would have been nice …” I tease.
Before we continue our conversation, a slightly out-of-place voice calls out to us. “Matthew, good to see you!”
Kennedy and I stop, and I turn to my right to find the Dean of Students—Hershel Baker—walking our way, his briefcase in hand and a huge smile on his face.
“Dean Baker,” I greet him, as he gets closer, extending my hand. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Likewise, likewise,” he replies, out of breath as usual. “Where you two young folk off to?” He eyes Kennedy and arches one of his heinous eyebrows.
“Back to our dorms to get our books, sir. Then, it’s off to study for our Old Testament exam.”
He nods slowly, his eyes moving to Kennedy once more as if he somehow doesn’t trust her. Though, as far as I know, her demerit record is cleaner than mine. Of course, I’m quick to work them off, but sometimes it feels good to drop a swear here and there. I never was allowed to swear in high school, so eighteen years of frustration slips out in profanity now and again.
“Good ‘nough,” Dean Baker approves in a slow, deeply accented voice. I’ve seen the man on public television before, and when he gets heated about an issue, his words are nearly indecipherable.
My mother says he makes Southerners look bad. My dad, of course, holds him in high esteem. More so since my dad’s breakdown. The best I can figure is that it’s because Hershel Baker has never so much as wavered a centimeter to the side of any issue he takes a position on. When my dad’s world fell apart, I think he began clinging to men that he viewed as strong and rooted. I don’t have much of an opinion of Dean Baker, other than he’s kept an eye on me—at the behest of my father—since I arrived on campus.
“Miss Sawyer,” Dean Baker takes a step forward, and I watch, as Kennedy seems to flinch back just slightly. She straightens her shoulders and clears her throat, though, so I’m not sure which reaction is real.
“Hello, Dean Baker,” she says with curt formality.
“Yo’ classes goin’ along?” he inquires.