Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

  “Please.” I nod and force a smile.

  I haven’t told anyone about my conversation with Hershel Baker. I told Maggie that everything went fine, and she seemed placated enough. I haven’t seen any of my friends since the talk, since I left for work straight after the meeting, but I can’t tell them. Not yet, anyway. I don’t know who I can tell that will: A. Believe me. B. Not freak out. C. Keep their mouth shut. I either know too much or too little about the people in my life to tell. My mom would throw a lawsuit at the school—and maybe win depending on whom she wrangled into her corner—and that’s not what I want. I legitimately don’t know what Roland or any of my friends would say or do, so I intend to keep this to myself until it becomes necessary to involve others.

  “You’ve been quiet,” she says, steaming milk at the machine next to mine. “Overwhelmed?”

  I shrug. “I guess. Just trying to keep a low profile.”

  Chelsea laughs until her smoker’s cough takes over, forcing her to turn away from her task, get her act together, and wash her hands before returning to help me. “At least you’ve still got your humor.”

  I can’t help but grin. “I’m a barrel of laughs.”

  Her face turns serious for a moment. “What else can you do? Honestly. It kind of is what it is, right? I watched you on TV, though, and you were good. Real good. Just keep laughing, girl. That way you get the last one.”

  The last laugh.

  “The last laugh?” I vocalize.

  Chelsea retrieves six lids, handing me three, and we set the order on the counter.

  “Order up!” she shouts, nearly silencing the cafe. “Yes,” she continues, turning to me. “You’re gonna shake shit up, up there on The Hill.”

  I shake my head, looking down for a moment. “That’s … that’s not my intention, Chels. Not anymore, anyway.”

  Not now that I’m under the thick and sweaty thumb of the Dean of Students.

  Maybe when I arrived on campus a couple of months ago, I thought, somewhere in my mind, that I could pull a Michelle Pfeiffer from a warped version of Dangerous Minds and change some kids around for the better. My version of better. But, as I’ve gotten to know them, and have come to un-know myself … that’s all changed. There are bigger players in the game, here. My mom seems like she was on the right track in asking what happens to the nice kids around me that turns them from Jesus-loving missionaries to human-rights-oppressing lobbyists. Huge generalizations on both sides, I realize, but for the sake of argument she’s got a point.

  Sure, I want to know more about their relationships with their parents, because those relationships undoubtedly shaped their early church experiences. But, what about guys like Dean Hershel and Roland? What happens when kids are exposed to those types of men of God? Polar opposites but claiming to preach the same Gospel.

  “Hey,” Chelsea snaps her fingers in my face, “Earth to Kennedy.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, returning to the counter to take the next order.

  Earth.

  I need to remind myself to keep my feet on the ground while I’m digging. Trying to figure out where everything seemingly goes haywire. Why do some disciples of Jesus fight and die for women’s rights in healthcare, while others seem to dismantle those rights law by law.

  Who’s right? And, if someone is right, is that why the other side seems so crazy? What if guys like Dean Baker are right? Would I pick up my cross for that Jesus? Millions of Christians do every day. Is that the kind of Jesus I want to follow? Moreover, what if Roland is right? What of my friends, then, if they find out they’ve been doing Satan’s work by oppressing more people they come in contact with than helping them? Who have they been listening to?

  Guys like Dean Baker, that’s who. And, while I have no delusions that I’ll be able to topple a patriarchy as deeply cemented in the earth and culture as this, maybe I can find out where their power comes from—and find a stronger source. One where Roland’s voice can be heard. Clearly, without question of his biblical integrity.

  I need to help Roland’s voice—his mission—be heard. All while keeping a low profile in front of Dean Baker. But, I realize, as I mindlessly fill three cups of tea, I’ll need to know the ins and outs of Roland’s mission—his theology—before I suit up and fight for it. Die for it, really, since that’s what will happen to my CU career if Dean Baker and his cronies catch wind of any actions that are outside of CU’s prescribed discipleship.

  “Hey Asher?” I call down the back hall.

  His head pops out of this office. “What’s up?”

  “Can I take my break now?” I’ve got twenty minutes until my scheduled break, but I feel like my head is going to explode. Turns out the normalcy in my setting hasn’t permeated to my brain.

  His steely eyes study me closely. With a tight nod, he grants me permission before returning to his office. Thankful, I toss my apron on the back counter and weave through the crowded, mismatched tables of the cafe until I’m outside, enjoying the late-November air. Not as biting as it is back home, I’m sure, which I’m thankful for as I collapse into a seat at a corner bistro table in front of Word.

  Biting my lip, I sigh a long, careful sigh. My knee-jerk reaction was to bring Hershel Baker to his knees by digging for, and then slinging, dirt. Unfortunately, I’ve spent too much time on The Hill to consider that a viable option.

  Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.

  That petition was offered up more than fifteen times on my Facebook page in the days following the Picturegate fallout. Some students who I know—and some who I don’t—posted this quote from the New Testament as a means to support me as I ducked from the trajectory of Joy’s boulders. But, I’ve learned I can’t sit on one side of scripture. The whole thing applies to me. I can’t just take comfort in knowing Joy was wrong in her assertion of her own perfection—I’m not allowed to throw stones either. Not if I want to walk with Jesus, anyway.

  And, unfortunately, that means I need to take a continuous look at my own actions. My floor mates pray for this almost nightly. To have God align their walk and their will with His. If I’m being honest with myself, that’s what I want, too.

  If Dean Baker has filthy skeletons, they’ll undoubtedly escape his overstuffed closet at some point—I have to trust that. But, if I’m to have any success here, among my friends or with Roland, I need to focus on what God wants me to do. Guess I better get praying, because I have no friggen idea what God has in store for me. But, if the events of late are any indication, I better rest up for a long journey.

  I stretch my neck side to side and bring my arms over my head, bending back as far as I can to get my back to crack. Satisfied when it finally does, I sit forward again and decide to head back in five minutes before my break is technically over.

  That is, of course, until I spot my stepdad, Dan walking through the front door of Word.

  “Dan?” I ask, loud enough for him to stop in his tracks and turn to face me.

  He smiles and makes his way toward me while I stand, once again on uncertain legs.

  “Hey you, I’ve missed you.” He wraps me in a warm hug that feels and smells like home.

  I squeeze him back, whispering, “I’ve missed you, too.”

  The last time I saw him was Parents’ Weekend, and nothing is the same as it was then. I’m not the same. I pull my phone from my back pocket as I gesture for him to sit and send a text to Asher.

  Me: My stepdad showed up. Can I have a few more minutes? Like … ten?

  Asher: Of course.

  Me: Stop giving me special privileges.

  I tease, knowing he’ll get the joke.

  Asher: Stop being special.

  I smile at his kind words, and before I put my phone down, it dings one more time.

  Asher: JK. Do NOT stop being special.

  Rolling my eyes, I silence my phone and face Dan.

  “You were excellent on the Today Show,” he starts, seeming awkward and out
-of-place.

  “Tell me about the picture you sent Roland,” I blurt out.

  Dan inhales and blows out a heavy breath through puffed cheeks. “Right to it, huh?”

  “I’m little for pretenses these days,” I reply dryly. “Sorry,” I quickly add, rubbing the back of my neck. “Just … what the hell?” I whisper, just in case.

  “You were right in what you said in the interview on Monday. I am a father. I was a father before I ever met your mother and knew anything of Roland. My feelings about Roland have cycled over the years. Obviously, my first thought was that he was a complete bastard. Then, I was grateful that he released your mother and you from what would certainly have been a depressing, abusive life. Then …” he pauses and tears well in my own eyes. “I felt sorry for him. Aside from my relationship with Jenny, which was always a little strained given my relationship with her mother, I felt sorry for him on two levels. One was … listen, you and your mom are two of the great loves of my life …”

  “Dan,” I cut in, suffocating from the raw emotion. We don’t do deep conversations.

  He puts his hand up. “Let me finish. You are. And the more I got to know you and love you, I felt bad for the man who wouldn’t ever get to know you the way I was. And I felt bad for whatever it was that was happening in his life that made him justify such a decision. Healthy people don’t walk away from their children, Kennedy. They just don’t. It’s not natural.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell Mom about the picture … or ask her …” I know the answer before I’ve even completed the question.

  Dan tilts his head to the side. “Roland has always been a deep wound for your mother, Kennedy. It took me a while to figure out why. I mean, sure she was left a single mother, but lots of parents, unfortunately, are left in the same position. Your mom just had this particularly deep reaction any time his name was brought up.”

  “Which is why she rarely ever did,” I cut in. I thought I knew where Dan was going with the conversation, but his face is telling a much different story than the scorned grudge-holding woman I’d painted in my mind.

  It dawns on me before he starts speaking again that he and Roland are the most emotionally available people in my life. Lord, literally, only knows why I was “blessed” with such vulnerable men, but part of me thinks it has to do with a much-needed balance to mine and Mom’s strict rule that keeps all emotions—except anger—locked away. Sure, Mom and I can be emotional with each other, but we have our limits. One deep conversation every couple of months is good. This past weekend was a strenuous exercise for the both of us.

  “Right,” Dan answers. “He was just completely off limits. And, I came to realize rather quickly that while it was because she was deeply hurt, it wasn’t because she was angry about the pain. She was mourning it.”

  I lean back in my chair, the wrought iron cold against my bare arms. “Mourning?”

  Dan swallows hard and breaks eye contact with me, his warm smile has long since vacated his face. “She has always been—and will always be—in love with him. I can’t make that go away, and I can’t fix her pain, but I can love the hell out of her. And, she loves me back. But it’s never the same as your first true love.”

  I stopped listening coherently around the first time he said, “love.”

  “What?” I come out with. “You can’t be serious.” My ears burn against the preposterous suggestion.

  Dan offers a side grin. “You still have a lot to learn about love, Kennedy. But, trust me, what your mother and Roland had was real.”

  “Yeah,” I scoff, “then he left her for a life of booze.”

  His lips form a tight line. “That’s why it hurt her so bad. He wasn’t some deadbeat that she was just fooling around with. He was the love of her life.”

  Leaning forward, I cross my arms on the table in front of me. “And you’re telling me you think she’s still in love with him?”

  He nods, a slow, deliberate nod. “She always will be. And that’s okay. I don’t constantly compare myself to him or the relationship they had twenty years ago, but I keep that in the back of my head to always remind myself the kind of tenderness your mother needs. Reassurance. Stability. She’s tough as nails on the outside, and mostly on the inside—you know that. But her heart?” He sighs and eyes me again. “There are some wounds that will never fully heal. And, in some ways, I don’t think she wants them to.”

  “That’s stupid.” I scrunch my eyebrows. “Why would someone want to keep open wounds floating around their body?”

  Dan shrugs and speaks matter-of-factly. “To remind themselves that the love was real.”

  My chin quivers, and despite my years of upper-level WASP training to prevent it—tears fall down my cheeks. Now, I assure you I don’t fall into a dramatic puddle with my head down and shoulders shaking, but the tears stream just as rapidly. Warm against my autumn-chilled cheeks.

  I’ve seen the way Roland looks at my mom. The classic “one that got away” dances in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking, but there’s always something more. Something deeper. Beyond regret. Beyond repentance, really. Maybe it is love.

  Maybe he still loves her, which wouldn’t be so hard for me to wrap my head around.

  But, what if she does still love him? Has always and will always?

  I brush some tears away from my eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

  This wholly inappropriate information.

  “Because, Kennedy, with all you’re undertaking right now, you deserve to know the full story. I know you’re teasing out your relationship with Roland, and dealing with your mother … I just … I want you to know there’s more there than legal documents and a jug of booze. So much more. What defined their relationship wasn’t how it ended, it was how it was. And if you’re going to have half a shot in hell of any sort of authentic relationship with Roland, you needed to know how deeply he and your mother loved each other.”

  “And still do?” I huff through my nose.

  “And still do,” he confirms.

  I dry my cheeks and stand. Dan follows. I don’t have to ask him if I need to keep this conversation between the two of us. We know my mother well enough that the privacy of these words needs no discussion.

  I walk slowly toward the front door of Word, and Dan follows a few paces behind me.

  “I’m confused,” I admit blankly, turning to face him before heading back inside. “Confused why you told me, and confused as to what I’m supposed to do with it.”

  Dan places a hand on my shoulder and leans forward, kissing my forehead. I don’t move out of the way. I need something to be the way it’s always been.

  “Just keep going,” he half-whispers. “This story precedes you, yes, but it’s always been yours. You’re meant for big things, Kennedy. I’ve always believed that.”

  I chuckle. “I’m guessing you mean more than my half-assed desire to become a lawyer?”

  Dan drops his hand and takes a few steps back, shrugging. “Who knows? But, it’s going to be fun to find out. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I murmur as he walks through the short gate, out onto the sidewalk, and back into his life.

  One where his wife of fourteen years is in love with another man. Maybe two men at once? Is that really a thing?

  Ugh.

  Ugggggh.

  It’s clear I’m not going to catch an emotional break any time soon, and I think I might just have to surrender to that. It’s time to take some of my floor mate’s nightly prayers and apply them to my life. It’s the only way I’m going to make it through this year in one piece.

  “Everything good?” Asher asks, eyeing me curiously as I slip back behind the counter.

  I shrug. “I don’t really know what good is anymore.”

  “Kennedy?” he asks, seeming to notice that I’m avoiding eye contact.

  “Yeah?” I sigh and look up.

  Asher continues to study me, concern sweeping over his face. “Nothing,” he fin
ally answers softly. “Just keep on going. Head down and chin up at the same time if you can manage it.” He winks and playfully pinches my chin, having caught onto my habit of lifting it when I’m feeling emotionally vulnerable.

  “If I keep my head down,” I reply dryly, “I won’t be able to see the stones flying at my head.”

  “Ah,” he answers amusedly. “But your head will already be down, so they’ll sail right over you.”

  I chuckle and shoo him away with my hand so I can get back to work.

  I spend the next few hours trying to volley between quieting my mind of the sneers of Dean Baker, and praying to God for some guidance. I find myself wishing that my biggest problem was still the difference in religious upbringing between me and my roommates.

  When my shift ends, I break a little rule and walk back to campus alone in the graceful silence of the pitch-black night. While students are allowed to work off-campus, if they’re not utilizing public transit they must have someone walk with them to and from their job. This rule, amazingly enough, applies to both men and women and is directed at underclassmen who don’t have privileges yet. They say it’s to help keep students safe and out of trouble, which I half buy.

  Either way, I just need to be alone for a while. I’ll deal with the demerits later, if anyone finds out.

  When I finally reach my dorm, I slip quickly into my room and under the covers, discarding my shoes, socks, and pants before falling asleep in my Word t-shirt and panties.

  I’m skipping Bible study tonight. And, every night until I can figure out why two sets of human eyes can read the same text and walk away treating the world very differently.

  Looks like it’ll be a while before I attend again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Fly

  Matt.

  “Where were you last night?” I ask Kennedy before she’s settled into her seat in the dining hall. I may have sounded a little too eager, but I don’t really care what our friends think, honestly.