I lay my head on her shoulder and whimper-laugh. “Moooom. Ugh. Is crap a curse word?”
She laughs harder than she has since I told her I was enrolling here. “Probably.” She kisses the top of my head. “Good luck with that.”
“Maybe I’m a three-legged stool,” I half-whisper as I kiss her shoulder.
My mom cocks her head back and eyes me curiously. It takes her a moment to remember our conversation from the car about genetics and environment. “Wh—oh, Kennedy.” She pulls me to her chest and kisses the top of my head. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just…”
“No,” I pull back and eye her, “thank you. I know this is hard for you. There’s no way for me to imagine—” I start my spiel about her being a single mother for the first several years of my life.
“And there better never be,” she playfully cautions.
“Well, then you better be grateful I’m here, then, huh? No chance of accidental babies unless I become a child bride.” I smile and rise to my feet, wanting to organize my desk to keep my hands busy and my nervous thoughts from running wild.
Mom comes up behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders as she looks out the window. “How’d I get so lucky as to end up with you as my daughter?”
I shrug. “God?”
She smacks my shoulder. “Smartass.”
“Mom!” I scold as I turn to face her.
“What? I’m not a student here. No way in h—”
“Don’t! Don’t say it.”
Mom smiles as she lowers her hands. “Fine.”
She sticks out her tongue for good measure.
CHAPTER TWO
Just Say Jesus
Mom left with strict instructions for me to text her as soon as I meet my roommates. She was nervous to leave without having met them, but she has a ten-hour drive back home that she insisted on starting right away. I think she was afraid that if she stayed she’d try to drag me home tomorrow.
I take a deep breath and sit on my bed, grateful for her restraint. Sitting here, in this room, is giving me a few quiet moments of self-assessment. Why did I want to come here? What I’d told my mom about being “undecided” was true. Sure, being valedictorian of my Connecticut high school left me with my pick of the nation’s top universities, but that didn’t mean they had what I was looking for. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, either, to be honest. But, for some reason, I know it’s here.
I wasn’t sure I’d even be accepted to Carter University. I mean, for God—goodness—sake, we had to write our personal testimony in our application. I had never thought to put it on paper. Truthfully, I didn’t even know what a “testimony” was supposed to entail. I had to frigg—freak—I had to google it.
Sure, it may have been easier to just throw my birth father’s name on the application, but neither of us is ready for the kind of attention that would bring. He says he is, but I’m not. And neither is my mom. She insisted that she watch me send in the electronic application immediately after she read it over so she could rest assured that I hadn’t tossed Roland’s name into the mix. I rolled my eyes but let her do it anyway, despite feeling like an untrusted toddler. I knew it was a miracle she was allowing me to attend CU, so I kept my mouth shut. As lax as she is with everything else—birth control, curfew, and swearing—Roland is one area she’s adamant about in the other direction.
My stepdad is a doctor. Sports medicine has kept me in a spacious, comfortable house for the last fifteen years, with everything I could ever want or need at my fingertips. But orthopedic surgery has never appealed to me as a vocation.
Mom works in public policy. That’s where things get sticky between her and Carter University. The young men and women who spend their college years here are seemingly tapped through to the best internship spots and then professionally groomed to take on Washington. Focus on the Family and The Family Research Council? A quick inventory of their staff will show a strong representation of Carter University diplomas.
Not that they aren’t nice people, but they lobby—some of them, even many of them—to squash gay marriage. Meanwhile, I’m part of a Christian church that recently elected a gay bishop. My mom took me to marriage rights protests starting when I was ten. After I’d made the decision to apply to Carter, I realized that I was likely standing across the battle lines from future classmates. Gay marriage is just the tip of the iceberg of my political differences with everything Carter stands for—or seems to stand for.
That’s not why I applied.
Roland Abbot took on the role of pastor at New Life when I was a sophomore in high school. At that time, college was barely on my radar and Carter was a distant planet. I spent the next two summers taking various workshops at Harvard and Yale. When it came down to applying for colleges, though, something tugged at me. Just…try, something said. Someone. I don’t know.
Before I have time to give it much more thought, the doorknob turns, causing me to jump to my feet and fiddle with my bags. I feel the need to look busy, not like I was sitting around waiting to gawk at my new roommates.
Fluttery giggling precedes the entrance of two devastatingly gorgeous girls.
“Hi!” they squeal at the same time.
I miss my best friend. What’s so great about Yale, Mollie?
I put up my hand and offer a soft wave, suddenly feeling more shy than I have in my entire life. You’re a fraud, and they’ll know it in a second. No, you’re not. You’re a college student searching for meaning just like they are. They can’t judge your salvation. But they will. Maybe.
“Hi,” I finally speak above the spinning thoughts in my head. “I’m Kennedy. Kennedy Sawyer.”
The long and lean stunner with shoe polish-black hair in a tight ponytail extends a hand first. “I’m Bridgette Nelson.” Bridgette’s eyes are blue. Not just blue, I should mention, but… scary blue. The kind that makes you want to stare to see if they’re real, but gives you goosebumps if you stare too long. Her skin is soft and her smile heavenly. It really is. It’s the most bizarre thing. I try to remind myself not to view students here any differently than students at any other school I might have gone to, but that’s proving near impossible.
Cerulean. Her eyes are cerulean! I finally place the color thanks to years attending the Crayola University of Broody Children.
People…
Bridgette drops her hand and steps aside so our other roommate can introduce herself.
Roommate #2 is the most beautiful person I’ve seen in my entire life up until this point. Her skin is the color of a latte, her eyes an unrelenting green that sit in stark contrast to her sandy, bouncy curls. Her smile reveals picket-fence straight teeth.
“I’m Eden Vaughn.” She smells like lilacs. Even her voice sounds like lilacs might sound if they burst into song.
Were there singing lilacs in Alice in Wonderland?
Wait. Did she just say Eden?
“That’s a lovely name,” I say instead of something like, Oh, like the garden? I really need to get ahold of myself. I’m not the Antichrist.
She brightens her smile and seems extra focused on my face, as if she’s trying not to roll her eyes. “It’s something. My parents just couldn’t help themselves. I’m glad they didn’t go with Eve, I guess, since there are probably ten more of those wandering the campus.”
“Or Mary,” Bridgette cuts in, and both girls giggle some more.
I chuckle and sit on the edge of my bed. “Do you two know each other?”
“Since this morning,” Eden pipes in, plopping across from me on the other bed.
“And praise the Lord for that,” Bridgette responds. “I’d hate to go to my first class knowing only my brother.” She rolls her eyes and sits as close to me as someone who’s known me since kindergarten.
“Oh, your brother is here?” I ask.
She nods. “Twin. His name is Silas.”
I assume the name is in the Bible somewhere, but the only Silas I’ve ever heard about was in The Da Vinci Code. I keep t
he thought to myself.
“Oh, that’s awesome,” I respond. “Do you know anyone here, Eden?”
Eden leans back on her hands and looks to the ceiling for a moment. “Just a few kids from some camps over the years. My best friend goes to Bob Jones, though. I’m bummed about that.
“I’d be bummed, too,” I mumble sarcastically, without thinking. While Carter was no walk in the park, in some respects it functioned like Animal House when compared to the maddeningly strict Bob Jones University.
When I applied to Carter, I searched schools similar to it just to get an idea of the general community of Christian universities. Bob Jones stuck out to me as most legalistic. Insane, really. But then, Carter seemed mentally detached when I first examined it, too.
Bridgette elbows me softly. “I know, right? Their courtship and dating rules are so last century.”
Yeah…that’s what I meant.
Even though I’d studied the Carter Student Code of Conduct forward and backward from the time it was mailed to my house, there were a lot of things that were going to take some significant getting used to. Rules on dating was the biggest one. I never had a steady boyfriend in high school, but the concept of an educational institution dictating the dating lives of adults was so foreign to me, I’d wondered if my handbook was missing its Rosetta Stone CD to help me comprehend it all.
“Are you dating anyone?” I ask of both of my roommates.
They both bury their faces in their hands in a fit of giggles. I haven’t heard this much giggling since “the puberty talk” in health class in fifth grade.
I bet they never took a class like that. Wait, what if they have one here? I’ll make sure to be sick that day.
“As if,” Bridgette—notably more chatty than Eden—starts. “Even if I had opportunities to meet boys in school, my brothers and dad would have been all over them for sure.”
Eden shifts so she’s lying across the bed on her stomach, her feet crossed in the air as if we’re at a slumber party. “Did you go to an all-girls school?”
Her question calms me. I’d been nervous that all the students here would have known each other for years. I mean, how many evangelical teenagers could there possibly be in the United States? That number seemed to rocket through a J-curve as I researched the culture online all summer.
Bridgette shakes her head. “Homeschool.”
“Ugh,” Eden grumbles. “Sorry. I was homeschooled until eighth grade and then begged my parents to go to an actual school.”
“Where’d they send you?” Bridgette asks, wide-eyed as if this is the most interesting conversation she’s ever had in her life.
Eden sighs. “Not a public school, which I would have preferred, but it was close. Holy Name.”
“A Catholic school?” Bridgette breaks into laughter. “How did they arrive at that decision?”
“Shush!” Eden laughs as she sits and tosses a pillow at Bridgette. “I live in the middle of nowhere…it was the closest thing to God.”
Bridgette takes deep breaths to calm her hysteria. I smile and chuckle as both girls laugh. I have some idea what they think is so funny about Catholicism, but I don’t want to open my mouth just in case.
“What made you guys decide to come here?” I ask, sitting on my hands since wringing them together will make me look as nervous as I feel.
“I was given three choices,” Bridgette answers. “My brother and I talked about it and decided this place would be best. Close to home, but still enough freedom to let us grow up a bit.”
Freedom.
My mom had referred to Carter and all other similar institutions as mental, spiritual, and social prisons.
Perspective is a funny thing.
“My parents are nervous as heck,” Bridgette continues. “Our two older siblings went to work right after they got their diplomas. Lana is a midwife and Travis works for The Family Research Council.”
You don’t say.
Bridgette sighs. “They want to make sure we set an excellent example for our younger siblings.”
“How many do you have?” Eden and I ask at the same time, causing more giggles. This time, though, I’ve joined in the laughter.
“Twelve. Two older, ten younger,” Bridgette states matter-of-factly.
Eden’s face doesn’t move, while mine morphs into a gaping crater.
“Fourteen? Your parents have fifteen kids?” I ask, my mouth taking up more space on my face than it ever has.
She nods. “Yep.”
“Eden?” I turn toward her and find her picking at her nails. “How many siblings do you have?”
“Two. An older brother who’s an associate pastor and a younger sister who’s in high school. Only she goes to a new Christian high school in another town. What about you?”
I swallow. “I have an older stepsister. She’s in medical sch—”
“Divorce?” Bridgette whispers as she puts her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I pull my head back, confused at first by her question. “Oh…no,” I chuckle, “my mom was never married to my birth father. When she met my stepdad, he already had a daughter from his first marriage. She’s six years older. She lived with her mom most of the time while I was growing up.”
Eden winces as she offers a sympathetic smile. “Sorry. It must have been hard growing up in so much confusion.”
Confusion? Who was confused? Me, apparently.
“I was little,” I admit. “It was all I knew.”
“Do you know your real dad?” Bridgette asks.
Real. Dad.
For most of my life, Roland was barely real, and he was certainly never my dad. This conversation is bordering dangerously close to “off-limits” territory.
I nod. “My real dad is my mother’s husband,” I snap ungraciously. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I know my birth father, but…I don’t really like talking about it.” I shrug and Bridgette puts her arm around me.
Eden slides off her bed and sits next to me. “Sorry,” she says for the second time in as many minutes.
I stay silent. There’s a battle inside me. I want to tell them everything about Roland and my confusion surrounding my spiritual roots. I want to scream that I’m here to learn about him as much as I am to learn about me, away from the expectations that have been shoved in my face my whole life. But I can’t. Not yet. I don’t know if I can trust them, and yet, they’re probably the most trustworthy people I’ve been around in a while.
“You know what we should do?” Bridgette’s tone perks up slightly. “We should pray. The three of us. For our lives together this year as roommates, our school year, just…everything.”
Eden’s hand tightens around mine. “That’s a great idea. Bridge, do you wanna start?”
Bridgette nods. Both girls take deep, shoulder-raising breaths, and lower their heads along with their eyelids. This posture is familiar to me. Prayer is familiar. For me, it’s usually confined to church settings and alone in my bedroom at night, though. And I can’t remember a single time I’ve ever prayed with friends. Especially without a priest at the helm.
I breathe through the turning in my stomach as Bridgette begins.
“Heavenly Father, I want to thank you for these two wonderful roommates, Eden and Kennedy. Thank you, Lord, for bringing me to Carter University, and I ask that you let your light shine through me while here on campus and out in the world, Lord…” she trails off, leaving an opening for another speaker. I pray, silently, that Eden will go.
I like immediate positive answers to prayer.
“Thank you,” Eden speaks a hair above a whisper. “Thank you, Jesus, for these women in my life. These wonderful, godly women that will help strengthen my faith. Let me help strengthen theirs, too, Lord. Help me stand firm against temptation, Father. I know it will be all around, on and off campus, and, Lord, I just want to please you.” Eden’s voice takes on an urgent undercurrent, still remaining quiet. “I want to please you and let you use me for your pu
rpose, Lord.” She squeezes my hand. “Please wrap your loving arms around Kennedy as she struggles with the ramifications of a broken home, Lord Jesus. Let some good come from this situation…”
Broken? Some good? I clench my teeth together, growing angry at the assumptions spewed by Eden. Well intended or not, the rage bubbling through my chest is undeniable. I take a deep breath, reminding myself I know about as much about her past as she knows about mine, and I need to keep an open mind.
“Bless us, Lord, and guide us in our studies and in our social lives…” Eden finishes, and it seems both girls are waiting for me to go.
Me. Don’t they know I don’t do this? No, of course not. Everyone here does this, and I have about three seconds to prove that.
I clear my throat and take another deep breath. I have a feeling I’ll be taking a lot of those this year. I’m nervous. I feel…embarrassed, somehow. Naked, maybe? Will I say the right thing? Silently, I beg for help, and my mind goes blank but my mouth moves.
“Thank you, God,” is all I can say before tears flood my eyes. If I felt naked before, it’s like I’ve removed my skin and have been ordered to walk through town that way. Skinless.
I can’t say Jesus for some reason. It’s too real, too close. I know I should. I’ve read the blogs, the books, and watched the movies. I know that’s what you’re supposed to do in prayer. Talk to Jesus. These girls on either side of me seem to be best friends with someone I know I’m supposed to be as close to, but, suddenly, I feel a million miles away from.
I can’t say Jesus.
Seeming to sense my loss of words, Bridgette closes for us. “In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” we say in unison, an odd quiet settling around us.
“Sorry,” I chuckle and decide to stretch the truth slightly, “prayer makes me emotional sometimes.”
Eden’s face carries an almost drugged calm. “I totally get what you mean. Prayer is amazing.”
“Are you majoring in Ministry?” Bridgette asks of Eden as she leans back on her elbows.
Eden shakes her head. “I want to be a pastor’s wife.”
Then, I blurt it out. “Funny. I didn’t see that on the course offerings.” I slap my hand over my mouth, my face raging with heat.
Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father Page 2
