Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

In the emotional upheaval of the aftermath, I’d completely forgotten what I looked like. Which is likely why my friends were having a hard time holding a conversation with me. I’m irritated.

“Oh, God,” I huff, pulling the elastic from the back of my shirt. “Whatever. It’s just clothes.” Pulling my shirt down and my skirt up, I opt to leave my hair messy and my lip ring in. Just for now. I care so little about demerits at the moment it’s almost startling. I hold out my hands. “Better now?” I snap.

Matt puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and, without saying a word, I understand his intent.

“Sorry,” I mumble to everyone. “Can you tell me why you guys were shoving those pictures into everyone’s faces?” I ask of Bridgette and Eden. “Is that seriously what the school handed out to you?”

Bridgette starts. “They have lots of different things we can choose from. Those seemed the most shocking.”

“You think?”

She winces against my tone.

“And you,” I address Eden. “Going with just Bridgette when you know how testy this protesting stuff can be?”

Eden is less than affected by my words. She straightens her shoulders. “It’s in the name of Jesus, Kennedy. The outcome is governed by God, and I felt protected.”

“And if you got hurt?” I challenge.

She shrugs. She fricken shrugs. “If I’m hurt standing up for my beliefs, isn’t that better than staying mark-free in hiding?”

My mouth drops open. I think back to Roland’s mission trip to Africa, one I haven’t asked him about in detail. I know the horror stories of missionaries dying on the front lines of God’s war, but was Roland a soldier, too? Was everyone around me truly willing to die for this?

Are you?

No.

“Thank you, though,” Eden adds when I sink back into my chair. “We didn’t know how to talk to them when they got angry and—”

“Seems to me you weren’t trying to talk to them at all,” I cut in.

“What are we supposed to do?” Silas asks, getting angry. “No one seems to listen unless you shove something awful in their face.

I shrug, standing. “They listened to me, didn’t they?”

The group follows me, inexplicably, out of Word and onto the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” Jonah counters, waving his hand in my direction as he catches up to me. “Because you looked like them.”

A burst of laughter surges through my chest and flies out of my mouth. Everyone at the table—including Matt—looks confused.

“What?” Bridgette asks, as we move toward the door.

“It’s what God did, right?”

“What’s that?” Silas snaps snarkily.

Reaching the bus stop, I turn to face them. “We weren’t listening, so he dressed up like one of us to get our attention. Like a human,” I prompt. “Jesus.”

They all seem to freeze on the spot, looking down as if considering my words. Really thinking about them. For the first time since I set foot on campus, I’ve managed to get the attention of my friends in a way they understand. Not by my dress or my attitude. But by speaking Jesus.

Matt grins, placing his hand on the small of my back while we ascend the steps of the bus back to campus. Everyone else is silent for the ride back, but I feel their eyes on me in measured intervals. I can’t look at any of them. My own actions and words over the last couple hours are as foreign to me as they seem to be to them.

“I’m starving,” I say when we get off the bus in the center of campus. I didn’t finish my lunch, after all.

“Me, too,” Matt echoes. “Didn’t really eat lunch.” He winks, seeming to board my wavelength.

“We’ll come, too,” Jonah speaks up, trailing just behind Matt and me.

It’s raining softly, so we make it to the dining hall quickly. Mission Hall seems oddly busy for this early dinner time. Sometimes I’m able to sneak dinner here quietly at this hour, but this evening it seems like the entire campus is there as we approach the door.

Before I can put my hand on the handle, someone opens it and speaks directly to me. “Are you Kennedy Sawyer?” he asks, seemingly out of breath.

I nod, wondering if the events from Planned Parenthood have already made their way back to campus, even though there wasn’t anything to get this worked up over.

He eyes me seriously and shoves a flyer in my face. Holding it a few inches in front of me, I see a picture of me and Roland hugging downtown after a run. The text beneath it reads, SECRET AFFAIR.

Holy. Shit.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Write Your Story


“Is this you?” The intense student points to the very crisp picture of Roland and I locked in an embrace.

I look just below the picture and find three smaller pictures that show us walking, talking at the coffee shop, talking on campus and, finally, walking out of his house.

My heart races, but I nod anyway, pushing myself into the crowd at Mission Hall.

“Excuse me,” I yell, snatching the flyers from disembodied hands. “Excuse me!” I’m searching for the source of the handout.

“Oh my…Kennedy?” Eden calls after me, but I ignore her. I ignore all of them.