I decide to drop the interrogation, at least for now.
As we step onto the sidewalk a few feet from Eden, Bridgette, and the three pissed off liberals, Matt gives my hand a slight squeeze. I squeeze back and lift my chin.
“Hey, guys!” I direct to my roommates with an overdone smile.
Eden and Bridgette turn to me, and the widening of their eyes causes the three other women to stop their tirade about women’s rights long enough to size me up.
“Hey,” I say to them, “I’m Kennedy.”
The girl about my height, with a nose and eyebrow ring—and purple hair—steps forward. “Hi. Do you know them?” She points with a snarl to my roommates.
“I do. They’re friends of mine. Is there a problem here?”
Purple Hair shoves a picture of—yep—an aborted fetus in my face. “This. This is a problem.”
I drop my hand from Matts, take the picture, and study it for a second. “I’ll say.”
“Do you agree with this?” she nearly yells.
“With what part?” I reply.
The two friends Purple Hair has with her are a lot less scary when forced into an actual conversation. They’ve been silent the whole time. Purple Hair seems to have gone mute, too, not knowing how to answer my question.
“Well, no,” I start. “I’m not okay with this obvious late term abortion. Also, I’m not okay with you being made to feel like walking through these doors means you’re participating in such a thing. Finally,” I have to cut everyone off as they all go to speak at once, “I’m not okay with any of you infringing on Freedom of Speech.
“These girls,” I point to my roommates, “are expressing their belief in what they consider to be murder. They’re allowed to believe that, and allowed to tell you.”
A girl with black hair steps forward. “Yeah, but they’re not allowed to tell me I’m going to hell for supporting this place.”
My jaw tightens. “Did they actually say that?” I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and see Bridgette and Eden unable to look me in the eye. It’s answer enough. “Well, that’s the thing. They’re allowed to. They shouldn’t, maybe. But, they feel it’s their duty to tell you what happens—in their belief—if you participate in murdering what they consider to be a baby.”
“They can’t throw their beliefs on me. I’m not a Christian,” Purple Hair cuts in.
“Good,” I say in an exhale. “Then hell shouldn’t offend you so much.”
The five women around me are silent, with varying degrees of skepticism and shock on their faces.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Black Hair asks with a slight snarl.
“I beg your pardon?” My legs are shaking, and I’m afraid I’ll fall over.
“A Jesus Freak,” she spits out. “Dressed like one of us.”
Us versus Them.
I’ve been working that exact concept in my head for the last couple of months. Am I one of them? Or one of them? Now, faced with the question publicly, I’m forced to answer. I open my mouth, trusting that the truth will come out.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “And, I don’t think it has to be like that. This is how I look.” I step back, gesturing to my hair, face, and clothes. “I also believe Jesus died for me,” I proclaim out loud for the first time in my life. “I don’t know how the two pieces fit together, but they do. Because I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
Previously silent, Matt moves closer to me and takes my hand again. “Me, too,” he whispers into my ear.
Between what I’ve said and Matt’s apparent understanding, I feel a brick wall—much like the one behind me—crumble inside my spirit. With this instant lightness comes a flood of tears.
“Look,” I say to the three angry liberals through sniffs. “My mom is Wendy Sawyer. Go inside the building, look through some of the literature, and you’ll eventually come across her name. She’s a policymaker from Connecticut whose focus is reproductive and women’s rights.”
At this, my roommates look at me with wide eyes. My birth father’s identity isn’t the only one I’ve guarded this semester. I’ve also been vague about the work of my mom, not wanting to drive an unnecessary wedge between me and two young women who I care for and respect. Matt squeezes my hand and I straighten my shoulders.
“So, if you want to talk policy, I’d be happy to do that with you. I think this organization does some really important things for all kinds of women. And, if you want to talk about Jesus and why some of this stuff,” I gesture to the building, “might not be okay…well…I work at Word on Friday and Saturday nights and would be happy to talk with you. For now, though, can we dial the anger down a bit?”
Walking to Eden and Bridgette, I take the graphic pamphlets from their hands and stuff them in my backpack. I pull a notebook and pen from my bag and scribble my name and number on it three times before handing it to the still unnamed girls. “Call me.”
The girls take my number and put it in their pockets. Slowly, they each turn away after giving Eden and Bridgette one last cautious eye.
Immediately exhausted, I release Matt’s hand and sling my backpack over my shoulders, lowering my head for a second to thank God for keeping all of us safe during what could have been a much nastier confrontation. When my eyes meet my roommates’, I see them looking just past me, a slight look of surprise on their faces. Turning, I find Jonah and Silas standing awkwardly on the sidewalk.
I want to ask them how long they’ve been standing there, why they didn’t say anything. Or maybe thank them for their silence, since it’s clear to me that what happened here was just as much for me as it was for everyone else. I love Jesus. And, I said it out loud. I love the God that drives my Carter friends to be kind to each other first. Slow to anger, quick to prayer. What I want more than anything, is to figure out where it breaks down; where it becomes okay to shove pictures of bloodied fetuses in someone’s face in the name of Jesus. And the paradox? I have to pray to the same God my protesting friends do in order to find the answer.
Open my ears, God. I offer one more silent prayer before letting my shoulders fall.
Looking at my friends, and having little strength left to say anything else, I sigh. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
“Kennedy…” Eden starts, making her way to Jonah and taking his hand.
I shake my head. “Not now, Eden. I just want to go, k? Besides,” I look to the sky, which is greying by the second, “it looks like it’s going to rain.”
Matt retains his position next to me, but doesn’t try to hold my hand. I kind of wish he would, but I’ve depleted all of my emotional energy for the day, so making the move myself isn’t currently an option.
Making our way to Word, Eden recounts the events of the sidewalk to Jonah and Silas who, apparently, were there to hear my plea to the nameless women that they call me or visit me at work.
“She told them where she works?” Silas whispers.
Then, I do reach for Matt’s hand. He’s ready, and takes it without making a scene about it, or even looking at me. He understands. I need to hold on to someone who understands me and where I come from. Even if I’m not sure where he comes from. Or where he wants to go.
“I didn’t realize your mom was that kind of policymaker.” Eden is the first to speak after several minutes of heated silence in Word. Thankfully, my latte has enough caffeine and sugar to buffer me against the sting of her emotions.
“Seriously?” I ask, annoyed. “That’s what you took from that whole thing? That my mom supports women’s rights?”
Eden looks wounded, and I immediately feel bad. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry.” I sit forward and put my hand on hers. “I’m just…that was the most stressful thing I’ve ever done, I think.”
“It’s okay,” she replies, and I believe her. “It just confused me more about you. Like, if you were raised in a home and church like yours, what really would make you come here?”
&
nbsp; Matt’s eyes fix on me intensely as Eden speaks.
He knows.
He has to know about Roland being my dad, or he wouldn’t care so much about this topic. It makes sense, now, why he was so willing to go to Bible study with me without much of a fight. He really did want to see how I fit in. And to be close enough to Roland that Roland calls him Matty—of all things… And Matt called him Roland. Not Pastor Roland like the rest of us—including myself in mixed company. Crap. He definitely knows. I keep my eyes on him while I swallow, trying to communicate that I know he knows. Either he’s not receiving my signal or he has an excellent poker face, because nothing about his expression changes.
“I needed more Jesus,” I say, turning my attention back to the table. “I needed more than I was getting at home. And more than I’d get from any of the Ivy League schools that accepted me.” While this is true now, it only became true half an hour ago. They don’t need to know that, though.
“Which ones did you get accepted to?” Jonah asks.
While this is hardly the point, I’m relieved to answer an easy question. “The three I applied to. Dartmouth, Yale, and Cornell.”
Silas’s eyebrows lift almost to his hairline and he whistles. “Wow.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I watch the faces of everyone at the table except Matt, who is next to me. They’re all looking at me and then at each other, or just looking down. Eye contact seems incredibly difficult. It’s not like I stood there proclaiming the name of Satan, yet they can’t look at me? I did the right thing, didn’t I?
I don’t get it. Until I hear Chelsea’s voice behind me as she clears tables. “Holy shit, is that Kennedy looking punked out and sexy?” My cheeks burn and I whip around to face her. She gives me the thumbs up and moves on to another table.
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.
My ears are ringing in rage and panic and I suck in my bottom lip. Shit. My lip ring is still in and, for once, I don’t care. I need it.
I reach the center of the cafeteria, where a table is stacked with what looks to be hundreds of the same exact flyer, my supposed sin splashed all over it. With the same look she had on her face that day at the coffee shop, Joy is distributing the papers at a rapid rate.
“Take a look at who is spiritually guiding us! A man who is having an affair with a student. See who CU accepts as students?” She points to my face as she says it.
A scream rumbles through me as I pull my hands back and push her with what could very well be all my might. “You bitch!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
Silence.
Silence so loud I want to cover my ears and duck under the table. My shoulders are rising with each erratic breath I take, and I’m barely conscious of Matt, who is behind me, reaching for my arm. I shake him off.
“You. Bitch,” I r
eiterate, in case any of these virgin ears didn’t hear me. Demerits can go screw themselves.
Joy lifts her chin in bitch defiance. “Well, here she is now. The harlot herself. The one who walks around here like she’s better than all of us but who is sleeping with New Life’s pastor.”
“Joy,” Matt growls as an apparent warning.
She’s unaffected. Her eyes widen. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is she sleeping with you, too?”
I put my hand up, stopping anything Matt is going to say next.
“You’ve lost your damn mind,” I spit out. I hate defending myself, but it’s beyond necessary at this point.
Only, I don’t know how far I’ll have to go. I don’t know where Roland is. And I don’t know if I wish he was here or not. My hand is forced in the most public way. More than if I’d let him just introduce me during a sermon. Staring at every face at once, I feel the scarlet letter forming. Burning on my chest.
“Sex aside,” Joy nearly purrs. “Your relationship with Pastor Roland Abbot is clearly inappropriate and needs the attention of this school and the congregation at New Life.”
No. Roland can’t lose his job. Not over this. Not when there’s a simple answer.
Simple my ass.
God, please help me. Please.
I take a deep breath and open my mouth, my eyes unwavering from Joy’s stupid face. “You’re right,” I start. “Pastor Roland and I do have a relationship. But it’s not what you think.”
Joy places her hands on her tiny, insignificant hips and cocks her head to the side. “Well, I can’t wait to hear your explanation.”
Just loud enough for everyone to hear, I say in the sharpest tone I have in me, “He’s my father.”
A collective gasp sucks the air from the room. Joy’s eyes widen and then her face turns white, though her eyes still retain traces of venom.
I put my head down and run for the nearest exit, which dumps me out onto an open field at the topmost point of the hill on which CU sits. When the door closes behind me, I let out a bloodcurdling scream and start running.
It’s pouring. For the first day since I’ve been on campus, rain lets go from the clouds in impressive buckets. The cold November rain has me soaked in seconds. My bones feel the chill instantly.
Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father Page 21
