My heat rises. I feel all the arguments churning inside me, even though I know the best thing to do would be to stay silent, not engage her at all. “If He does exist, then why is it just me that He’s not showing himself to, and nobody else?”
“Ah. I see what this is about. Jealousy.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. That right there. The minute someone starts asking questions, real questions, then it’s always their fault. There’s always another reason to blame them. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but still, nothing.”
Miss Hope leans back in her seat for effect, which proves hard to do as we’re both in beanbag chairs. She fastens her gaze on me. “Really, Emma? You really think you’ve tried everything?”
“You’re right. Maybe I haven’t. But neither has anyone else. And the whole idea behind Christianity is that God loves us despite our faults. If that’s true, then why am I expected to be perfect in order to feel His presence?”
Miss Hope sighs. She shifts forward again, rests her elbows on her knees. “Let me let you in on a little a secret,” she says, her voice soft, a smile curving her thin lips. “I don’t care what you believe. I really don’t.”
I stare at her for a moment, dumbfounded.
“It has absolutely zero effect on me whether you think there’s a God or not. Absolutely zero. I’m not the one who’s going to have to answer to Jesus for your sins. I’m not the one who’s going to have to stand in front of our Savior and tell Him that I doubted Him, that I gave in to sexual temptation, and who knows what else you’ve been up to lately.” There’s a self-satisfied smile on her face and fire in her eyes. “James 4:4 says that whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God. And it sounds like you’ve been making pretty good friends with the ways of the world lately. That, Emma, is on you.”
Her words sting, and I bite my cheek to keep myself from crying. I will not cry in front of her. I look away, over her shoulder toward the door. If there was any way for me to bolt right now, I’d do it.
“I don’t care what you believe, Emma, because I know what I believe. I know that Jesus is real. I know He died for my sins and I know that one day I will see Him in heaven and He will welcome me with open arms. And don’t think that my path has been easy.”
I can’t look at her. My eyes drift back to Pastor Pete’s perfect collection of toys and games, and they settle on the pig, the one that Pastor Pete loved so much as a kid, sitting right next to me on a low shelf. But as I’m looking at it again, something feels off about that story. All my childhood toys, especially the dolls and the teddy bears, barely survived. They’re ripped and sewn back together, soiled and scrubbed a thousand times. Some of them barely have any hair left at all. I pick it up, examine it for any stains or tears. There are none. This doesn’t look like a favorite toy. It looks like a new toy. Even the manufacturer’s tag is still attached, printed with a clearly legible: Joya ToyCo.
“Emma, put that down. I’m speaking to you.”
My eyes flash back to Miss Hope’s, who is all but outright glaring at me. Sorry for not being riveted by your boring story, I want to say. I put the pig back on the shelf.
“As I was saying, God has tested me and tested me and tested me. I didn’t grow up like any of you kids here. I learned to trust God the hard way. I had four brothers and six sisters, and we were very poor. My mother died giving birth to my little sister, Mercy. My whole family had to work hard on that ranch every single day just to survive.”
Here we go again. Another inflated story of a sad-sack upbringing. I nestle into my beanbag chair and cross my arms. I’ve heard so many of these things before that I can predict where this one is headed. Soon she will find God, and everything will be magically better. It might be unfriendly of me to discount stories like this, but it’s because so few of them are actually true when you start asking questions.
“But luckily, God also granted me a God-fearing father, who raised us kids right. He raised us to trust in His plan, not our own. God’s plan for me is to be a pastor’s wife. He called me to it at a very young age, but it was no easy thing to believe in. How old do you think I am, Emma?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m thirty-two. Most women my age here have already given birth to all their children by now.”
“So?”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of miracle that, at my age, I was able to find not only a strong Christian man, but a pastor?”
I just shrug.
“My daddy named me Hope for a reason, Emma. God had a plan for me, and I had to hope, and to pray, and to trust in that plan to see it come true. But you’re failing to do that right now. Ezekiel 36:26 says, ‘I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.’ So you have a choice. Right now. You can either let your doubts rule you and be content with a heart of stone, or you can accept that God’s plan for you is on His schedule, not yours, and open up your heart to receive His Spirit.”
She stands up and walks to the door. “Up to you.”
“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but I just don’t buy it anymore.”
“Very well,” she says.
She goes out into the hall, and I can hear heated whispers between her and my parents but I can’t understand anything they’re saying. Miss Hope was obviously hoping that her little story would get through to me. But it only seems to prove exactly what I’ve been feeling all along. Even if her story is true, it just feels like another broken person who makes up Jesus to feel like there’s some noble purpose to their pain. But what about me? What if I’m not broken?
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I MAKE MY WAY over the overpass and toward the upperclassman hallway, still moving slower than usual with my ankle. The swelling has gone down a lot, but there’s still a pinch with every step. As I walk I try to put the whole conversation with Miss Hope behind me. It feels played on repeat in my mind. I shouldn’t let it get to me. It doesn’t matter what she thinks. It doesn’t.
I wish I could call Jackson. He was the only one I could talk to about this kind of stuff, the only one I knew would listen and tell me I’m not crazy. But I’m just too confused right now. I need to process everything first.
I hate that he wasn’t honest with me. I hate thinking of him with a gun, threatening someone. But a little part of me, the darkest part, wonders what I’m really more upset about—that Jackson lied about his past or that he cared about someone else so intensely (loved her?), enough to do what he did.
There’s still a little time before class starts. Instead of going to my locker, I slip outside and find a quiet spot between the high school and elementary school buildings where no one hangs out. I just want a little time alone to think. I sit under the biggest tree and lean against the trunk, closing my eyes and soaking in the morning sun.
“Em?”
His voice is like a mirage, like I conjured him up from my desire to see him, but when I open my eyes, he’s really there.
“Jackson? What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you. I went to your house last night, but your dad wouldn’t let me in.”
“You did?” I was so exhausted. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
He sits down next to me, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I owe you an apology. You should have heard the real story from me. I’m sorry.”
“So it was like your mom said? You threatened someone with a gun?”
“Stupidest thing I’ve ever done. But it wasn’t loaded, Em. I swear. I didn’t trust myself with bullets.”
It’s hard to hear him say that, hear him acknowledge his own capacity for darkness. I honestly don’t know what to say.
“I get why it has you freaked out. You have every right to be upset. But I swear I had nothing to do with what happened to your friend. Back then things were different. I thought I loved Christy. I thought s
he loved me.”
“But you were wrong?”
“Yeah.”
It’s a moment before I speak, a moment before I can say the words out loud. “What if you’re wrong about us too?”
He turns to look at me, his dark eyes flashing. “No. That’s the one thing I’m absolutely sure of. Even more after what I’ve been through.”
He takes my hand, and I let him.
“When I got out of juvie, I promised myself I’d turn my shit around, and that’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since. Football helped. Getting back into school helped. Ditching my old friends too. I’ve done absolutely everything I could think of to make sure I don’t mess up again. That includes dating a girl like you.”
“Like me?”
“You’re good, Emma. You’re really and truly good. I wanted to be around someone who would make me a better person every day. You do that. You’ve changed me.”
My heart spills over. I want to tell him that he’s changed me too. That I was so sad before I met him, so heartbroken by the church and my life and that he showed me it wasn’t the end of the world, just the end of this one. I want to tell him that he makes a universe without God in it even more beautiful and exciting and wonderful than when I believed.
But before I can, a shadow blocks the sun. “Well isn’t this sweet?” Mike stands over us, stone faced and surly. “The harlot and her lover boy.”
Before I know what’s happening, Jackson is on his feet and throwing a punch. His fist hits Mike’s face with a hard thwack, and Mike goes down. Jackson rushes forward to hit him again.
“Jackson!” I yank his elbow and he pulls back. “That’s enough.”
He paces, shakes it off. “Piece of shit,” Jackson says. “You don’t fucking talk to her like that. You don’t fucking talk to her, period. Ever again, understand?”
Mike clutches his face but says nothing. He just glares. For all his talk, I doubt he’s ever been in a real fight. I’ve never seen him so outmanned, so totally scared shitless and unsure of himself. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little bit satisfying.
“Did you hear what I said, motherfucker?”
Red faced and fuming, Mike scrambles backward like a crab, and runs away.
“You have to get out of here,” I say to Jackson. “He’s going to tell.”
“So let him,” Jackson says, still amped on his own testosterone.
I grab his arms and force him to look me in the eye. “You don’t need the police involved in this. Go. Now.”
He nods, takes a deep breath, and turns to go. But at the last second he pulls me against him and kisses me so deeply it sends a wave of electricity down to my toes. I have to fight the urge to tell him to stay, police be damned. Thankfully, he pulls away before I can say anything at all and, with a cocky grin, runs toward the parking lot.
I don’t see Mike all day. I overhear someone saying he’s out sick, which means he must be at home licking his wounds. Surprisingly, he didn’t go to the teachers as I expected. He didn’t even call the police. Jackson must have really scared him.
By the next morning it’s starting to feel almost normal at school. Being grounded has given me a chance to catch up on some of my homework, and it feels good to do something so ordinary. I walk into the building with a backpack full of assignments to hand in.
The first bell rings, telling us to head to class. I pick up the pace as I head to my locker. On the way, I smile at Naomi, but she doesn’t smile back. She looks away and shuffles off. That’s odd. Maybe Katie finally made her a convert of the we-secretly-hate-Emma-club.
But it’s not just her. Erica, Hannah, Ben, and Angela do the same exact thing. Even Chuck won’t make eye contact with me. Now I’m worried. What’s going on?
I see it once I turn the corner. There, in bright orange letters sprayed on my locker:
SLUT
The word sears into me. It must be Mike.
Katie walks up with a cotton-candy simper on her face. She hands me a folded paper.
“I just wanted to give you these. They’re verses about seeking forgiveness.”
“Did you do this?” I ask. I can barely contain my rage.
“No, sweetie,” she says, her face in a best-actress mode of surprise. She puts her hand on my shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. “I’d never do anything like that to you.”
Sure she wouldn’t.
“It really could have been anyone, though. Everybody heard,” she says.
“Heard what?” I ask.
“Mike told everyone,” she says.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
It’s his one last weapon against me. I thought I was ready for this, ready to tell everyone the truth, but I’m not. My face blanches so white that Katie’s confidence falters. She’s just staring at me now.
“What did Mike say?” I ask.
“Look, maybe you should talk to him about it.” Her face is suddenly unsure. She may be happy for me to fall, but it’s a very different thing to want power and to actually have it.
She tries to walk away, but I grab her arm. “Katie, please, what did he say?”
Her eyes go downcast. It’s so awful she can’t say it to my face.
“He didn’t say it. He posted it,” she says. “I gotta get to class.” I release my grip, and she walks away. “I’m praying for you,” she says over her shoulder, and this time I think she really means it.
I twist the lock with my combo and dump my stuff inside. Then I reach into my purse for my phone before remembering that it’s sitting on the street outside Safeway, crushed into a million tiny pieces.
The halls are almost empty; I’m running out of time. I race toward homeroom. The last thing I need right now is more attention for being late.
The final bell rings right as I have my hand on the door. Miss Hope scowls at me as I enter, but doesn’t single me out. Today is free study period in homeroom, and I intend to use it to see what Mike posted about me online. I have my iPad with me, but we’re not allowed to use them in class, so I go to a computer and fire it up. I’m almost logged in when there’s a knock on the door. It’s Vicki, she’s the main office student assistant this hour. She hands a note to Miss Hope.
“Emma?” Miss Hope says. Of course it’s me.
“Yes?” I say.
“Principal Hendricks would like to see you in his office. Go ahead and take your things with you.”
Everyone stares, whispers.
I expected this, I guess. It was only a matter of time until word reached the principal. But still, that Miss Hope told me to take my things is serious. It means I’ll either be in there for a while or won’t be back at all. I want to snatch the note from her hand to see what it says, but I don’t. I collect my backpack and head toward the main office.
Principal Hendricks is waiting at his door for me. “Come on in, Emma,” he says. His face is stern, angry, but also a little amped up. He lives for moments like this, I think. He always looks a little too excited to punish us.
I enter and settle into one of his chairs. He sits behind his desk.
“It has come to my attention that you may have broken the student conduct code,” he says. “As you know, we expect our students to be ambassadors for Christ at all times. Therefore, it is against our policies for students to engage in intimate behavior with one another or non-students, either on or off school grounds. Violation of this policy can lead to immediate expulsion, at my sole discretion.”
“Okay,” I say. I’m aware of the policy. We all are. If your parents are forcing you to go here, the easiest way to get expelled is post something racy online. It has happened before.
I, however, do not want to get expelled. I can’t even imagine the hoops I’d have to jump through to graduate at any other school at this point. The science classes alone would have me stuck in summer school. It’s one of the reasons I’ve tried to be so careful about Jackson. Not that it worked. The police know. My parents know. And, more importantly, Mike kn
ows.
I know what Principal Hendricks wants here, and I should do it. He wants me to grovel, confess my sins, and ask for his forgiveness so that I can walk around with a virtual scarlet letter on my chest for the rest of the year. But I don’t think I can. I feel torn between what I feel is right and what will help me graduate.
The problem is that I don’t feel guilty about what I did with Jackson. Not one bit. Even after everything that’s happened, I don’t regret making the choice that I did.
I sense a shift in myself lately. Maybe all my hiding and all my secrets were mistakes. Maybe what would have been best all along was a fight.
“I’ve already spoken with Michael Kent. He came to me this morning of his own free will,” he says.
Something about that statement isn’t right.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I DON’T GET IT. ‘Of his own free will’ implies Mike, too, is guilty. Did he say we did something together? But why?
Principal Hendricks stares at me, waiting for a response. I wish I’d had time to read what Mike posted. What I say now could affect my entire future. Does Principal Hendricks think I slept with Jackson…or Mike? It’s a gamble. A huge one.
But the pieces are falling into place. Mike knows the routine as well as I do. Sin big, confess big, gain even greater respect. People would think Jackson took advantage and I was weak. But eventually, I would be forgiven for Jackson, as long as I felt bad enough about it.
So what’s worse than being seduced by a non-believer? Seducing a golden boy.
That wouldn’t be forgiven so easily. I would be marked as the temptation, marked as easy. Mothers would warn their sons against me. The other girls would band around their boys, righteous, holy protection from me. He doesn’t just want to ruin my reputation. He wants to make me a pariah.
“I have no idea what Mike told you, but I know for certain we’ve done nothing together that has in any way violated the student conduct code,” I say, going all-in on Mike lying about me. I hope it works.
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