“Cool house,” I tell her as I walk into a huge foyer with a marble floor that looks like it might’ve come straight from Italy.
She just shrugs. “I liked our old house in The Willows a lot better. It had more personality. But my stepdad thinks this one is more impressive. Whatever.”
I glance past the foyer to where a spacious living room with white furnishings looks out over what I’m assuming is the golf course. It looks like something out of a movie set.
“Who’s here?” calls a female voice from somewhere in the house.
“It’s my friend Amber,” yells Claire as she picks up her purse. “We’re going out.”
But before we get out the front door, a tall, pretty blonde woman appears. “Do you want to introduce me to your friend?”
Claire pauses and then forces a smile. “Yeah, this is Amber Conrad, Mom. She’s a friend from school.”
Her mom seems to study me carefully, and I wonder if I measure up. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” she finally says. “You go to school with Claire?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m a senior too.”
She looks back at Claire. “And what are you two doing this evening?”
“Just hanging.” Then Claire rolls her eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, Amber’s dad is the pastor of Grace Fellowship and Amber is a nice girl.” She looks at me as though this should make some kind of sense, which it does not.
But this information seems to reassure her mother, who is suddenly smiling. “Oh, well, that’s good. You girls have fun, then. But don’t forget your curfew, Claire.”
Then we are outside and Claire is muttering something I can’t quite make out. “Moms,” she finally says.
“Yeah, what was up with that?” I ask as I get into my car.
“It’s a long story.” She sighs loudly as she leans back into the passenger seat. “Let’s just say that my mom doesn’t trust me right now.”
“Why?” I ask as I pull out of the driveway.
“I got my driver’s license suspended a couple of weeks ago.”
“What for?”
“I got a dewey.”
“Huh?”
“You know, a ticket for driving under the influence.”
“Oh.” I make a face. “Bummer.”
“You’re telling me. Anyway, my mom’s been freaked ever since that happened. It’s like paranoia has set in and she thinks everyone is a bad influence on me. I mean, seriously, I was grounded for two weeks. I’m barely out now.”
I nod and suddenly begin to understand why Claire might be so interested in my friendship lately. Maybe I’m “safe.” Well, whatever. And, who knows, maybe I will be a good influence on her. Maybe I wasn’t too far off in my claim to want to witness to her.
“Why don’t you drive over to Brookstone,” she suggests as I exit her development. She’s pulling out her cell phone and calling someone.
“Haley,” she says in a happy voice. “Where is everyone tonight?” She pauses and says a couple of “uh-huhs” and then hangs up and turns to me. “Just as I thought.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re all at Kent Fischer’s house. His parents are gone this weekend.”
“Another party?” I ask, suddenly feeling a little uneasy—not only about the idea of what might possibly be another drinking party but also about the names of the kids just mentioned. Kent and Haley are both just as popular as Claire, and while the idea of spending time with these kids sounds intriguing, it’s also a little unnerving. Plus, I would’ve put on a better outfit had I known.
She shakes her head. “No, this isn’t a party as much as a casual social gathering. You know, just friends hanging together.”
“But I’m not exactly in that group,” I begin.
She laughs. “Don’t worry about that. You’re with me.”
I grip the steering wheel more tightly. Okay, I’m telling myself, just relax—this could be fun. Even so, I’m a bundle of nerves by the time we walk in the door of Kent’s house. But I try to act like it’s no big deal, like I actually fit in with these kids, like I’m not aware of the possibility that Claire might simply be using me—partly for a ride and partly to play the “good girl” to convince her mom that she’s found the straight and narrow. But here’s what’s weird. I’m not sure that I care. It’s like I want to try this to see if somehow, someway, I might actually be able to fit in. I don’t even know why. I mean, I think it’s actually sort of shallow and stupid, but at the same time it’s like I can’t help myself.
“Want a beer?” asks Slater Ross, a guy who probably doesn’t even know my name.
I kind of shrug, unsure of what to do. “I don’t really like the taste of beer,” I finally say.
He nods. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Then he grins. “I’ll go find something you’ll like.”
I try not to look too interested as I watch him heading for the kitchen. Slater is tall and extremely good-looking. He reminds me of a young Tom Cruise. He’s also really good at track and cross-country. To be honest, I don’t expect him to return.
I try not to look too surprised when he does return. He holds out a tumbler of what appears to be orange juice. “Try this,” he says with a handsome smile.
“What is it?” I ask as I skeptically peer at the glass.
“A screwdriver.”
Well, I’m sure my expression gives away my ignorance, but he just laughs. “It’s a drink, silly—just vodka and orange juice. But it tastes way better than beer.” He hands it to me. “Just give it a try.”
Well, I know that I shouldn’t, and I know that it’s stupid, but I take a small sip. “Not bad,” I tell him. And really it’s not bad. Okay, it’s not good either. It tastes like paint thinner and orange juice.
“See,” he says triumphantly as he takes a slug from his bottle of beer. “There’s something for everyone.”
I take another cautious sip, and this time it actually tastes a bit better. Still, I know I shouldn’t drink it.
“I’ve seen you around school,” he tells me.
I nod and act like it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to be casually standing here drinking a screwdriver and conversing with someone like Slater Ross.
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around too,” I say. “Looks like you guys have got a good track season going.” Actually, I haven’t been paying too much attention to the meets lately. Lucky for me, I get it right.
“Yeah, I just hope we can keep it going. But we’ve got the big meet with North next week, and they’re ranked number three in the state.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I say, as if I follow these things closely.
“Are you going to come to the meet?”
“Yeah, sure,” I tell him. “I’d love to see you run.”
He kind of laughs. “Yeah, I’ve heard that line before.” Then he makes this off-color joke about how girls like watching his backside as he sprints around the track.
I feel my cheeks redden as I nervously take another sip of my drink.
“But I’m sure you’re not like that,” he says. “I mean, being the daughter of a pastor and a church girl and all.”
I shrug, somewhat surprised that he knows this about me. “Hey, I’m human too,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah, maybe so.”
But here’s what’s weird. By the time I finish the drink—and to my surprise, I do finish it—I feel all relaxed and loosened up. Not only that, but I feel this new sense of confidence. And suddenly it seems like maybe I do fit in with this crowd. I find myself laughing and joking with kids I would normally avoid, and I think I’m actually pretty hilarious. It seems the others think I’m funny too. It’s like that one little screwdriver unveiled this whole new me.
“Want another one?” asks Slater, pointing to my empty glass.
Now, it’s not as if I’m drunk—and really that’s not my goal—but I honestly don’t think one more little drink is going to turn me into a lush.
“Sure,” I tell him, “why not?”
He grins and takes my glass. “Yeah, why not!”
three
OKAY, IT’S SUNDAY MORNING AND I AM TWO THINGS: (1) SLIGHTLY SICK, and (2) seriously freaked. I keep telling myself that I only had two screwdrivers last night, although I suspect I might have had more. To be honest, it’s all kind of fuzzy. But I did wish that I could barf this morning. I’ve heard that makes you feel better when you have a hangover—not that I have a hangover exactly.
Okay, here’s why I’m seriously freaked. I woke up early this morning and suddenly realized that I must’ve driven home last night. I mean, I sort of remember driving and taking Claire home and everything, but it’s this blurry kind of memory, kind of like I dreamt the whole thing.
So I slipped outside to check on my car. I had imagined that it was all dented up, like maybe I ran into something and didn’t even remember doing it. Or maybe I ran someone down and then just kept on going. It’s a very freaky feeling, and I still cannot believe I actually got behind the wheel while I was “under the influence.” Man, I could be in such trouble right now.
I carry these thoughts with me as I go to church. My mom’s a little surprised that I want to ride with her, since I usually take my own car. As usual, my dad left a couple of hours ago. He practically lives at the church on Sundays.
“You feeling okay, honey?” she asks as she backs out of the driveway.
“I have a headache,” I mutter as I look out the side window, “but I took something for it.”
“Well, I hope you’re not coming down with anything.”
“Yeah, me too.”
The rest of the ride is pretty quiet—well, except for the voice that is screaming inside my head. And it’s not that still, small voice of God either. No, this is my own voice, and I’m yelling at myself and calling myself names like hypocrite, idiot, stupid jerk—you know, stuff like that. I’m just so angry with myself for being such a complete fool. Really, what was I thinking last night? I guess I wasn’t thinking at all, and that’s pretty scary.
I go straight to the youth house. It’s early for Bible class, but I figure I might be able to make myself useful by setting up chairs. I guess I’m hoping this might act as some kind of penance to make up for last night’s stupidity—not that our church believes in things like penance. And I’ve been a Christian long enough to know that the only way to remain in God’s good grace is to confess my sins, receive Jesus’ forgiveness, and “go and sin no more.” But so far, I haven’t taken those steps. I’m not even sure why not. Maybe it’s because I still feel so guilty. Okay, I know that makes no sense—like if you feel guilty you should get your heart right before God. But it’s like I’m embarrassed or something. Stupid, I know, but it’s how I feel.
“How are you doing, Amber?” asks Glen as he sets some song-books on the chairs I’ve just put out.
I kind of shrug. “I’ve been better.”
He adjusts his dark-framed glasses, which give him this slightly nerdish look that Simi thinks is really attractive. Then he frowns as he studies me. “What’s up?”
“Oh, I just have a headache is all,” I say as I turn away and unfold another chair.
“Yeah, it’s allergy season,” he says. “Maybe that’s it.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s probably what it is.”
“Amber Conrad!” scolds Simi. “What is going on with you?”
I turn and see her coming in. “New top?” I ask casually, hoping I can dodge this bullet. “It looks really good on you.”
She smiles as she glances at the striped shirt. “Thanks. Actually it’s Lena’s. I just borrowed it.” Now, Lena is Simi’s older sister. She’s already graduated from college, but she just moved back home, which I think is totally crazy.
“Must be nice having a sister to borrow clothes from,” I say as I unfold another chair. “And one with good taste too.”
“But back to you,” says Simi, pointing her finger at me. “What was going on last night? And how come you never called me? And don’t you ever check your cell phone messages?”
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I’m not feeling so good. I think I have allergies or something.”
She narrows her eyes, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Allergies?” she finally says. “Get real, Amber. I know something’s up.”
I glance around and notice a few other kids trickling in now. “Let’s go outside,” I say in a lowered voice.
So we head into the backyard and sit on one of the benches that are circled around the fire pit, where we sometimes have bonfires and roast hot dogs and marshmallows. I tell Simi about what happened last night, although I only admit to having “one drink.” I’m not sure why I don’t tell her the complete truth. Maybe it’s pride.
“Amber, this is nuts,” she tells me. “You are like totally losing it, girl.”
“I know.” I look down at my lap. “It was really lame. I know that.”
“Then why’d you go? Why’d you drink again?”
I look back up at her, wishing I could somehow make her understand. “Because it was kinda fun,” I say. “I mean, it was sort of exciting, you know? And after I had a drink, Slater Ross started talking to me and it was really pretty cool. I think he might even like me. He invited me to come to the track meet and—”
“Amber,” she says in what sounds like a warning tone. “Can’t you see that you are stepping over the line? I mean, seriously, this thing is going too far. You need to quit hanging with those kids.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s wrong. It’s a sin, Amber.”
“Hanging with those kids is a sin?” Now I’m getting mad. “So what would Jesus do, Simi?” I say in my most indignant voice. “Would he just turn his back on them?”
“But you’re not changing them, Amber. They’re changing you.”
“That’s not true. People can’t change you. You can only change yourself. And maybe I need to change. Maybe I need to open my mind and start realizing that God loves everyone—even the kids who like to party.”
“I’m not saying God doesn’t love them.”
“Well, maybe it’s about time we started loving them too.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. We should love them, but that doesn’t mean we need to go out and get wasted with them.”
“Who said anything about being wasted?”
Now she throws up her hands and exhales loudly, her sign that we’ve reached her exasperation level. “Hey, all I’m saying is that you’re playing with fire, Amber. And when you play with fire, you better expect to get burned.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I stand up. “We better get to Bible class.”
“Yeah, I think you need someone to whack you upside the head with a big fat Bible.”
“Thanks.” I attempt a laugh as we walk across the yard.
“Seriously, Amber, you need to talk to God about this whole thing. Let him straighten you out.”
I nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Then she pats me on the back and I think maybe we’re okay—or mostly okay. To be honest, I feel like there’s this little bit of a wall going up between us right now. I tell myself that it’s just because I want to make new friends and break out of my old mold and stuff and that it’s possible that Simi resents that or feels left out. But I also know that I haven’t been completely truthful with her either. I suppose I haven’t been completely truthful with myself, for that matter. But sometimes it’s hard to know what’s really true and what isn’t. I guess I’m not sure.
Glen’s teaching just seems to float right over my head this morning, and I’m not sure if it’s the aftereffects of drinking last night or whether I’m just bored. But I use my good-church-kid expression that makes it appear as though I am listening and interested. (It even comes in handy during classes like biology or geometry.) Then it’s time to walk across the parking lot and go to church for the worship service. I feel like I’ve done this a million times. It’s
as if I could do the whole thing with my eyes closed and never miss a step. I guess that would come in handy if I’m ever struck blind. Do people actually get struck blind anymore?
I sit in my regular spot in church: second row in the right-hand section. It’s where a lot of us youth-group kids sit. We say it’s to encourage my dad, but sometimes I think it’s so we will look good, sort of holy or spiritual or something. Naturally, I go along with it.
That’s what I do.
I feel like I’ve been a Christian my entire life. Sure, I remember the day when I actually stood up and went forward in church to give my heart to Jesus. It was December fourth and I had just turned seven. But in some ways, I think I’d really been a Christian even before that. I mean, I had always believed and had always said my prayers before bed. Going to the front of the church was more of a formality, I think—a kind of sealing of the deal.
But my parents had been very pleased and happy for me. My dad presented me with my own leather-bound Bible with my name in shiny gold letters. And I even got baptized with my older brother, James, just a week before Christmas. It was a big day for the Conrad family.
And while I do think it’s sort of cool that I’ve been saved for most of my life, I guess I’m starting to wonder if I missed out on anything by spending all this time at church. I mean, it’s not like I want to go out and smoke crack or have sex or pierce body parts or anything, but I guess I just want to have some fun.
I glance around the sanctuary and see Miss McAllister sitting in her regular spot (third row on the left). She smiles and waves at me just like she always does. She loves telling me about how her daddy was a “preacher man” too and how she literally grew up in this very church and has been here for as long as she can remember. Suddenly I wonder if that’s what I’m going to be like someday. Will I end up with white hair and hands that shake, sitting in the same seat every Sunday and nodding off when the sermon runs too long? It’s a frightening thought.
I really try to listen to my dad’s sermon. Honestly, he’s really a pretty good preacher, if I do say so myself, but it’s like I just can’t focus—like my brain is scrambled or maybe I’ve just heard the same words too many times before. And even worse, I start to feel trapped in here—kind of like I’m having this claustrophobia attack, like the walls are moving in and all the oxygen is getting sucked out of the air.
Burnt Orange Page 2
