“I’m sure it is. I can’t even imagine. That would be, like, finding out that my father was, I don’t know, a Count, of all things.” She delicately leans her head forward, covering her mouth in a repressed, snotty giggle.
I laugh, too, even though I haven’t the damnedest idea what she’s talking about. While Melanie laughs at her own “joke”, I survey my surroundings and realize with a startling jolt that I’ve never really belonged anywhere.
Look at these people.
Cable-knit sweaters, four-hundred-dollar boots, real diamonds and pearls dangling from buffed and polished necks … Was it always like this? Closing my eyes, I try to recall the smaller, alcohol-free parties in high school. To my horror, I see a very similar scene. How could I have gone all this time—my whole life—without seeing this?
Sure, my time away at CU has made me realize a lot of things about myself, and how I grew up, but I never expected to come home and feel like this is all … wrong. No one talking about mission trips or prayer circles. Not a single person having a conversation about anything deeper than their wallets. Yes, there are some decent people around me who will undoubtedly grow up to do some amazing humanitarian work, but, really? Is this where I came from? Do I, or did I, come off this way—or worse—to my CU friends? No wonder they looked at me the way they did. And some, honestly, still do.
I was never an outsider in high school. I was in the in crowd, for God’s sake. I dated the guy who is heir to a bagillion-dollar hair empire. My whole first semester at CU I felt like I was an outsider. Jesus, was I right? I wasn’t an outsider because of my pierced lip or liberal stance on issues that we haven’t even discussed in classes yet. I was—am—an outsider just like they are to me. I claimed I knew where they all came from and what they believed. And, politics aside, certainly a quick Google search shows the median income of my town, along with some of the “notable” people who call my community home for at least part of the year.
Shit.
Curling my lip in disgust, I scan the room one more time.
They think I’m one of these people.
I am one of these people.
“I Googled your guidelines when I saw you on the news. That fucking blows, man.”
Snapping back into a reality of which I no longer want a part, I see one of my guy friends—Steve, the guy with the sorority girls in his Facebook profile picture—standing in Melanie’s place. She’s off to the side asking questions of some girl while touching the hemline of her dress and making her spin around.
“You watched my interview?” My nose crinkles in horror.
He smacks my shoulder. “Of course I did. You’re like a whole new brand of famous. You’re, like, reigning Princess of the Jesus Freaks!”
I throw my head back and laugh hysterically. I don’t particularly find Steve funny. No one finds Steve as funny as he does, but I’m at some sort of emotional breaking point. Jesus Freaks is a term I’ve used mainly in my head, very little in conversation, and never in high school. Two-thirds of the kids I graduated with were non-practicing Jews, and the other third were comprised of strict, stereotypical Catholics and a few Episcopalians, like myself. Leaving out the Jesuit and other private primary and secondary schools, there isn’t a Jesus Freak in a hundred-mile radius of here.
Except for now, maybe.
“I recognize that laugh.” Trent’s milky-smooth voice rounds the corner just before the rest of him does.
Frick.
Fuck.
Keeping half an eye out for Mollie, and praying she returns to my side shortly, I smile sweetly at Trent. “Hey you.”
He tilts his head to the side, the tight curls of his hair begging my fingers to take a stroll down memory lane. “Hey you? That’s all I get?”
Rising on my tiptoes, I give him a quick hug. “Better?” I ask, lowering back on my heels.
“For now,” he winks.
For ever, douchebag.
“How you been?” he asks, leaning against the bar, effectively dismissing Steve from the conversation.
“Busy. Work, School, you know.”
And church. So. Much. Church.
“I saw your interview,” he says with a smile that causes me to clear my throat.
Normally, I’d wonder why it’s all the jerks, like him, that are so handsome. But, thanks to my time at CU, I know that’s not necessarily true. There are plenty of handsome, kind men who have no plan to get into a girl’s panties any time soon. They might want to, sure, because they’re human, but they’re not planning it.
A plan always runs through Trent’s eyes, and now is no exception.
“You did?” I ask, kicking myself for even engaging in his particular conversation.
He nods. “You looked great. Sounded great. Those public speaking classes in high school paid off, huh?”
“I guess.”
“You look a lot like your dad.”
“Not really,” I spit out, huffing.
Trent puts his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I mean, you’ve got your mom’s hair and stuff, but your face is a lot like his. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, Kennedy. You know I think you’re gorgeous.” He extends his hand and runs a few of his fingertips down my face.