Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) (24 page)

Staring in the violent wake of Matt’s departure, Silas is the first to speak.

“I’ll go after him.”

“No.” I stand and try to gracefully collect my belongings without sounding rude. “I’ll go. I brought it all up. Sorry for derailing the study session.” Pushing my chair in, I offer a soft smile.

“Not your fault,” Jonah assures. “It’s good to have these discussions.”

Matt’s got a long stride, one that seems to lengthen when he’s angry, or in a hurry, so I exit the library as quickly as possible without causing a scene. Standing at the top of the cold, stone stairs, I survey the quad and spot him instantly. Head down, shoulders hunched. Bouncing down the stairs, I don’t pretend that I can catch up to him by sheer will. I start running, avoiding calling out his name because I don’t want to draw attention to us, or him. My breathing is ragged when I’m within a yard of him. As if he’d played this out in his mind, his pace slows, but his head stays down.

“Go back and study,” he huffs.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I huff back, from being out of breath
,
rather than angry. After a few seconds of silence, I nudge him further into the conversation. “If you want to call me your friend, you’re going to have to start behaving like a friend.”

Bingo.

On a dime, he stops, facing me with a furrowed brow. “Excuse me?” His attempt
at
insolence is comical.

Backing up a step, I square off to face him. “I know it’s only been a few months that we’ve known each other, but this is college—it’s a time warp. So, a few months is like years when you have constant contact with someone. And, still, I don’t know what makes you tick. Or, more pressingly, what makes you so
damn
angry.” I whisper
damn
just in case gossipy ears are lingering around.

He opens his mouth to start speaking, but I stop him, holding up my hand.

“You’re so moody. You say you’re not good enough but you walk around here with an attitude that suggests you really think the contrary
,
which honestly, is totally a sign of insecurity. But, what is going on? What is in here?” I jab an index finger against his chest. “And what, for the love of
you know who
is up with you and your dad?”

From around the corner, Roland’s voice calls out to us. “Hey you two!” he says with a smile, though his tone seems a little urgent.

“Oh … hey!” I’m taken slightly off guard, honestly. Since Thanksgiving, Roland hasn’t been on campus much. He’s had a ton of outreach work, and has had a few of his pastor friends from across the country filling in for sermons. Staring at his hopeful face, I’m feeling guilty that I haven’t been the best about responding to his texts.

“Getting ready for finals?” Roland asks, casually sliding his hands into his pockets.

I sig
h
. “We were just studying for our OT final, but got off on a weird tangent about free will, sovereignty, and Satan’s creation
.
… Did I miss anything, Matt?” I eye him with a grin, trying to lighten up the atmosphere around us.

“‘Bout sums it up.” He chuckles and looks slightly ashamed. Like, maybe he’s regretting storming out—which is kind of his M.O. He told me once that
Romans
scripture irritates him but, of course, hasn’t told me why.

Roland
’
s eyes go wide. “I see why you’ve fled to fresh air.”

“I didn’t realize you’d be back on campus before Winter Break,” I state plainly. I hate that I always freeze up a little around him. And I fidget. I freeze and fidget at the same time. It must be quite a sight. Matt’s staring at my hands, like a silent call to my nervous habit, so I interlace my fingers and hold them down in front of me.

Roland runs a hand over his hair. “Just for finals so I could proctor some exams. Listen, Kennedy, I’m glad I ran into you. I was going to call you this afternoon. Do you have a class right now?”

I shake my head, uncomfortable at his formal tone. He rarely uses one at all, least of all around me. “Not until later, why?”

Roland’s gaze flashes to Matt for a split second before returning to me. “I need you to come with me to Dean Baker’s office.”

“Why
?
” I spit out without thinking. “I didn’t do anything.” My skin is filled with nervous goose
bumps.

“I know, I know.” Roland tries to sound reassuring, but I’m not buying it. And, the way Matt has tensed up, I can tell he doesn’t, either. “Let’s just head up there quickly, then you’ll get to your next class on time.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. I haven’t told Roland about my first, and so far only, meeting with Dean Baker. Matt assured me the others from the coffee shop that night wouldn’t tell anyone, because it would just leave a huge mess and work against whatever goals they have. At this moment, I’m regretting my silence about it to Roland. I don’t want to go to that office. With him or without him, but I don’t have a choice. Not without spilling everything out here right now, and it’s just not the time for that.

Matt’s face lights up with what I call his Southern All-American smile. “Well, see y’all around. See you at dinner, K. Sawyer?”

Grateful that he’s calling me K. Sawyer—the barometer for what’s going on inside his stormy head—I sigh. “Of course.”

Matt turns on his heels and heads back the way we came. I think he has English next, or something, and I’m kind of relieved that he’s going to the class. He’s got a minor list of demerits to work off with community service and fines—mainly for swearing or other foul-mouthed things—and I don’t think he wants to add class-skipping to the list.

“Shall we?” Roland gestures with
an
open hand
toward
the hill, the top of which holds the administrative building—and Dean Baker’s office.

Without a response, I follow lightly next to him. I don’t know what to say, but I can’t seem reticent.

“Are you doing okay? You seem a bit … quiet.” Roland keeps his eyes forward. I’m thankful for the times we talk while doing something, rather than sitting face-to-face. It’s not so overwhelming that way.

I shrug. “Just a lot of studying to do. Why don’t we get to choose our classes for next semester until during break?” Phone calls with Mollie this week were filled with her deciding between
Psychology of Sex
or
Sociology of Addiction
classes. Envy of her choices aside, I’ve been anxious to plot out some of my next semester at Carter.

“They do it that way so students focus on their finals when it’s time for finals, and worry about the next semester when the first is over.”

“You have an accent,” I note of his slight Matt-like drawl. “Where have you been?”

“Tired, mostly.” He chuckles. “But I’ve spent a lot of time in Kentucky and Texas in the last week.”

“Ugh,” I mumble. “Sorry.”

He laughs. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“I bet,” I tease. “Sorry. Just my Yankee assumptions tripping me up.”

Roland laughs louder. “Unfortunately, assumptions come from somewhere, and some of them are probably right. But, I just focus on the good and it seems to make things easier.”

In me, too? Your daughter who struggles to call you hers. Are you seeing the good in me? What’s there?

“Why do we have to go here?” I point to the door of the administrative building when we reach the top of the hill.

Roland shrugs. “Not sure. Dean Baker just asked that you and I come in together.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much.” I roll my eyes. I
had
to say
something
about why I’m acting weird.

“He doesn’t like me either,” Roland admits matter-of-factly, humor playing across his face. He puts a firm hand on my shoulder and gives it a slight squeeze. “Let’s get this over with then, huh?”

Strangely enough, Roland’s confidence calms me. If he knows even a fraction of the venom residing inside Hershel Baker, and can still smile and remain cool, then I should trust him. Yes, I should trust Roland on this. He seems to be a good judge of character, even erring on the side of niceties, but if he’s not afraid to admit some less-than-pleasing attributes about people, then I know his head isn’t fully immersed in the ground.

Minutes later, Roland and I are sitting side-by-side facing the pretentious monstrosity that is both Dean Baker and his desk. He told us he had to finish up an email, but I have my doubts regarding the ability of his fingers to hit only one key at a time. I wager that his secretary handles all of his electronic correspondence, and he’s just trying to make a show of looking important in front of Roland and me.

“Mkay,” he draws out, slowly closing a laptop I doubt is even turned on. “How are y’all doin’?”

I smile, and Roland speaks first. “Just fine, sir. And yourself?”

With a deep, forced breath
in
through his nostrils, followed by an equally obnoxious exhale, Dean Baker eyes us both. “Just fine, thank you. I wanted to talk with you both about the upcoming Winter Break.”

“Okay.” I try to sound light and hopeful, pushing all skepticism away from my voice

“But before we do that,” he pushes himself to sanding, “I want to talk about Thanksgiv
i
n’ Recess.”

Uh-oh.

My pulse beats against my neck, making me dizzy. I know this is about me. I don’t know what or how, but it’s about me. Roland was off on very public ministry business, and any trouble he may or may not have gotten into wouldn’t be the concern of the Dean of Students.

Roland clears his throat. “Thanksgiving Recess, sir? What about it?”

Just as I prepare for one of Baker’s rhetorical stories where he asks us to look out the window and ask what we see, he cuts to the chase, looking directly at me. “It’s come to my attention that yo daughter, Pastor Abbot, was in attendance at a less-than-savory party during her time at home in Connecticut.”

My ears burn, but I silently beg my cheeks to maintain their grip. Roland remains straight-faced as he slowly shifts in his seat to face me. Yes, he must have experience in poker. Or blackjack. He must be fuming, or exclaiming
something
inside, but he looks collected, rational, and calm.

“Kennedy?” he asks simply. “What’s this about?”

That’s what the hell I’d like to know.

Instead, I tilt my head and throw it back to Dean Baker. “A party? When?”

Challenge him. Cautiously.

Dean Baker lifts his chin, which annoys me. “Rumor has it
,
it was at a very large estate, and there was alcohol served.”

Roland shifts again, but I take a deep breath, focusing on the prize. Making Dean Baker look foolish.

“The only party I attended was at my mother’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. My sister and her fiancé were in attendance, as was my stepdad and my grandfather. Wine was served, if that’s what you’re referring to. I’m sorry,” I furrow my brow to exaggerate my confusion, “did someone send you pictures, or something? Because the last time that happened—”

“Don’t toy with me, Miss Sawyer,” Baker snaps without a single ounce of grace.

Roland stands so quickly it makes
me
lightheaded. “I suggest you don’t speak to her that way Dean Baker.” His tone is protectively dark, and his nostrils flare. This isn’t a side of Roland I’ve ever seen, or expected to see.

Dean Baker arches his eyebrow, and addresses me with what little composure he can muster. “There are no pictures, no. And,” he clears his throat in an effort to sound sincere, rather tha
n
cover up his misstep, “I hope you know we would take something like that under serious consideration before bringing you in here.”

“Then why are we in here?” Roland asks, only sitting once Dean Baker does.

“There was talk,” Dean Baker finally admits. “That yo daughter was at a party of some very wealthy high school friends with inattentive parents. Alcohol, drugs, and Lord knows what else was goin’ on there.”

At this point, I don’t know, or care, if word got back to Dean Baker. He’s smart enough to read Wikipedia and discover the average household income of my hometown, and he’s no doubt watched enough network television to make assumptions about the “unsaved” to garner a wild guess as to what I’d be doing during my time away form campus. Despite having gone to that party at Trent’s parents’ house, I didn’t do anything
wrong
. Explaining that, though, if I admit that I’d been there at all, would be a mountain I’m not yet equipped to climb. Instead, I’ll stay with my denial tactic.