Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) (18 page)

“Well, here we are,” I murmur, pulling down the long, exclusively gated driveway of Trent’s parents’ house.

I’m careful with most of the people I know to not call it
their
house. They did nothing but be born into such a life, and, in my head anyway, I’m careful to remind myself of that.

“Oh, how sweet,” Mollie coos sarcastically, “they’ve got valet.”

Rolling my eyes, I pull up behind a shiny Land Rover, and wait for my turn to hand my keys over to some underpaid college student who is probably going to pee in my back seat.

“If they wanted to show off,” I say as Mollie and I ascend the front steps, “they could at least be responsible about it. Why not hire some sort of cab or bus service to drive the soon-to-be-drunk kids home?”

Mollie shakes her head. “Put your bonnet away,
Grandma
, we’re heading into a party now. Can you handle it?” She places her hands on her tiny hips, wearing the next-to-nothing outfit she selected yesterday.

“Do I look okay?” I ask, suddenly
very
aware of the butterflies in my stomach.

A combination of seeing Trent, being somewhere I’m not supposed to, and the weird way my text conversation with Matt ended has me feeling off balance. Still, I managed to only amass a few dress code violations in an effort to attend this party without looking Amish. I selected dark-washed skinny jeans, and paired them with knee-high brown boots. A burnt orange tank top clings desperately to my stomach, but a thin, brown, three-quarter length sweater covers me somewhat.

Mollie reaches forward, grabbing the bottom of my shirt and rolling it up an inch. Once a sliver of my stomach is visible, she sighs, contented. “You look amazing. Trent’s going to kick himself for letting you go.”

I roll my eyes. “That was like a hundred years ago, Moll.”

She smiles broadly. “And, as soon as he sees you, it’ll feel like only yesterday. Bastard,” she whispers, opening the oversized front door to the Kratz estate.

Once her back is to me, I unroll my tank top, covering my stomach and letting it hang a full two-inches below the button of my jeans.

“Mollie! Kennedy!” Tara hollers from mid-way up a grand staircase. “Get over here you dirty hookers!”

We meet her halfway and hug our foul-mouthed friend. Tara’s always had a penchant for profanity and wild hair colors. I’ve seen her hair almost every color of the rainbow, so her rather basic jet-black throws me off balance.

“Look at your hair!” I smile, pulling back form our hug. “Are you going conservative on us?”

She snorts. “Hardly.” Turning around, she lifts the back of her hair, revealing that a significant portion of the underside has been shaved, and what hair
is
left has been dyed bright pink.

“Awesome!” Mollie runs her hand up the back of Tara’s buzzed hair and motions for me to feel it.

“I’m set,” I assure both of them, sliding my hands in the back pocket of my jeans and tak
ing
a quick look around.

By all appearances, this looks like a standard party. An adult party. Sure, there is contemporary pop music playing, and the crowd is all under twenty-five, but with rich kids, there’s always the
appearance
of maturity. Anyone popping pills, blowing lines, or smoking pot is relegated to a room or two upstairs, and there are no beer cans here. There is a tapped keg in the kitchen, some helpful passerby assures me, and wine and liquor are on the bar.

No one is running around half-naked hooting and hollering, there is no puking into the bushes, and, likely, the cops won’t be called. It is the unspoken responsibility of everyone in attendance to keep up the appearance of having their shit together. Even when it might be the furthest thing from the truth.

Whitewashed tombs
.

“Where’s Trent?” I blurt out to cover up the scriptures running through my brain.

Tara winks. “Probably in a dark corner, waiting to corrupt the daughter of a preacher.
”

Winking again, she’s just acknowledged for the first time her knowledge of my paternity. One nice thing about keeping up appearances is the facade of social grace. It’s not likely that anyone will race up to me and play a game of twenty-questions regarding my new role as the daughter of the Evangelical King of Camelot, but their stares say enough. They want to ask. Because, despite the “fame” that I’ve now fallen into, it’s worlds away from anything these kids have ever known, or will ever know.

“Heard about that, huh?” I nod, slowly, moving toward a wall and away from the center of the room.

Tara follows, while Mollie spots some of our other friends, and they twitter away down the hall.

“What the fuck is that shit?” Tara whispers when we’re as away from anyone as we’re likely to get all night.

I shrug. “I know, right?”

“You knew he was your dad the whole time?”

“Well, since I was eight. He didn’t become a pastor till a few years ago and, I mean, how am I supposed to know what
big
is.”

Tara waves her hand. “I know, like, everyone has their own damn TV or
I
nternet shows these days.”

“Right?”

“Is he like
super
famous? I mean, I know you were on the Today Show, but, Christ, they interview those people who have like thirty kids at a time. They’re not so selective anymore—no offense.”

I hold up my hand. “None taken, promise. You know how Trent’s dad is in, like, the hair world?”

Tara nods, gesturing to the expansive ho
u
s
e
in which we’re standing.

“Well,” I sigh, “Roland is like that … but with … Bible thumpers.” I wince internally at my use of
Bible thumpers
. Where I come from, it’s a perfectly acceptable and understood term, but I think about my good friends at CU and my stomach twists at the derogatory nature of it.

Still, Tara understands my analogy. “Fuck, dude.”

“Yep. Fuck.”

“You supposed to talk like that?” She teases with a smile.

I role my eyes just as another high school friend—Melanie, now attending Juilliard for dance—approaches.

“Hey Mel.” I pull her into a side hug and offer a soft kiss on each of her cheeks.

“Darling,” she draws out dramatically, “it’s been such a tough semester for you. Are you holding up okay?” She kisses my cheeks as she pretends to fuss over me like a worried grandmother.

Of all of us in our circle of friends, Melanie Dwyer most embraces her privileged upbringing. She was legitimately
born
to be part of the aristocracy. Her giraffe-like neck and lanky limbs to match allowed her to dive into her passion for ballet. Her mother is an American-born “diplobrat” who spent most of her life traveling the globe as
her
mother worked in international relations. Melanie’s father comes from a long line of money, though his nationality is suspiciously unclear. All of that aside, Melanie is extremely kind and caring—despite spending less time in reality than the rest of us do.

“It’s hardly a crisis, but thank you for checking in,” I attempt to reassure her to stop all the fussing.

She places a bony hand on her slightly protruding collarbone. “
Hardly
a
crisis
? Darling, you must still be in shock from the cultural downgrade you’re experiencing. Come.”
S
he grips my hand and leads me to the bar, pouring me a glass of impossibly expensive champagne.

Where are Trent’s parents, anyway?

Taking a quick survey of my surroundings, I decide to leave the glass on the bar while I talk with Melanie. I don’t know if anyone here has the gall to take pictures of me and post them on Facebook, but, with how closely Dean Baker claims he’ll be watching me, even being seen in the background of these pictures at all would be enough to cause me migraines for the remainder of the semester, year, or my entire time at CU.

“Now,” Melanie starts after her sip. Tara has slipped upstairs to do God-knows-what. “Tell me everything.”

Spanish.

Her dad must be Spanish, I’ve decided after ten years of knowing her. Her skin is always several shades darker than is natural for inhabitants of New England, and she’s far to
o
conscious of her skin to be seen within fifty-feet of a tanning booth.

I shake my head. “There’s not really much to tell yet, Mel. Just … trying to get through, you know?”

She shakes her head as if watching a story about rural poverty. “You poor thing,” she whispers. “Having to play nice with a man who didn’t want you.”

I know she means well. I think. But, still, it stings.

“That’s pretty complicated.” I defend Roland, thinking passively that we didn’t communicate with each other yesterday.

Was he waiting for my cue? Crap. Did I screw up?

“I’m sure it is. I can’t even imagine. That would be, like, finding out that my father was, I don’t know, a
Count,
of all things.” She delicately leans her head forward, covering her mouth in a repressed, snotty giggle.

I laugh, too, even though I haven’t the damnedest idea
what
she’s talking about. While Melanie laughs at her own “joke”, I survey my surroundings and realize with a startling jolt that I’ve never really
belonged
anywhere.

Look at these people
.

Cable-knit sweaters, four-hundred-dollar boots, real diamonds and pearls dangling from buffed and polished necks …
Was it always like this?
Closing my eyes, I try to recall the smaller, alcohol-free parties in high school. To my horror, I see a very similar scene. How could I have gone all this time—my whole
life—
without
seeing
this
?

Sure, my time away at CU has made me realize a lot of things about myself
,
and how I grew up, but I never expected to come home and feel like this is all … wrong. No one talking about mission trips or prayer circles. Not a single person having a conversation about anything deeper than their wallets. Yes, there are some decent people around me who will undoubtedly grow up to do some amazing humanitarian work, but, really? Is this where I came from? Do I, or did I, come off this way—or worse—to my CU friends? No
wonder
they looked at me the way they did. And some, honestly, still do.

I was never an outsider in high school. I was in
the
in crowd, for God’s sake. I dated the guy who is heir to a bagillion-dollar
hair empire
. My whole first semester at CU I felt like I was an outsider.
Jesus
, was I right
?
I wasn’t an outsider because of my pierced lip or liberal stance on issues that we haven’t even discussed in classes yet. I was—am—an outsider just like
they
are to me. I claimed I knew where they all came from and what they believed. And, politics aside, certainly a quick Google search shows the median income of my town, along with some of the “notable” people who call my community home for at least part of the year.

Shit.

Curling my lip in disgust, I scan the room one more time.

They think I’m one of these people.

I am one of these people.

“I Googled your guidelines when I saw you on the news. That fucking blows, man.”

S
n
apping back into a reality of which I no longer want a part, I see one of my guy friends—Steve, the guy with the sorority girls in his Facebook profile picture—standing in Melanie’s place. She’s off to the side asking questions of some girl while touching the hemline of her dress and making her spin around.

“You watched my interview?” My nose crinkles in horror.

He smacks my shoulder. “Of
course
I did. You’re like a whole new brand of famous. You’re, like, reigning Princess of the Jesus Freaks!”

I throw my head back and laugh hysterically. I don’t particularly find Steve funny. No one finds Steve as funny as he does, but I’m at some sort of emotional breaking point.
Jesus Freaks
is a term I’ve used mainly in my head, very little in conversation, and
never
in high school. Two-thirds of the kids I graduated with were non-practicing Jews, and the other third were comprised of strict, stereotypical Catholics and a few Episcopalians, like myself. Leaving out the Jesuit and other private primary and secondary schools, there isn’t a Jesus
F
reak in a hundred-mile radius of here.

Except for now, maybe.

“I recognize that laugh.”
Trent’s milky-smooth voice rounds the corner just before the rest of him does.

Frick.

Fuck
.

Keeping half an eye out for Mollie, and praying she returns to my side shortly, I smile sweetly at Trent. “Hey you.”