Losing Faith (14 page)

By the phone there’s a list of frequently called numbers. It’s a dry erase board, so I promptly remove Amy’s number. Then I pick up the handset and dial the Schwartz house, which I don’t recognize as any of the ones information listed off the other night. Celeste’s mom answers.

“Hi, Mrs. Schwartz. Is Celeste home?”

“Can I ask who’s calling.”

“It’s Brie Jenkins.”

“Oh, hi, honey. Celeste isn’t here. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. It’s just … do you know where she is?”

“She’s at work until ten, I think.” The toddler must be on her hip again, because he wails into the phone.

I didn’t even know Celeste had a job. “Oh, right,” I say. “Um, where does she work again?”

A pause, and she babbles a few sentences of baby talk. The little guy finally quiets down. “Over at Starbucks.”

I’m about to ask which one, since there are at least five Starbucks locations in Sharon, when the kid starts whimpering again.

“Okay, thanks,” I say over the noise, and hang up.

Plan Q: Go for coffee.

Only three of the Starbucks are on our side of town. One I need to take a bus to, the other two are within walking distance. I glance up at my parents’ closed bedroom door and consider whether or not I should disturb Mom. I leave a note on the hutch instead, and decide to start with the two closest Starbucks.

I find Celeste at the second one, the one nearest our high school. When I walk through the door, the chimes jingle. The dim lighting in the place makes
it feel calm, peaceful. She glances up from where she takes orders at the counter and her easy countenance becomes rock hard. I’ve never seen her so rigid and I can’t believe that I have to swallow down a lump of nervousness over talking to Celeste, who I’ve known since I was a little kid.

“Uh, hi,” I say when it’s my turn.

“What can I get you?” She won’t meet my eyes.

“I really need to talk to you,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry, Brie. I’m working here. Either order something or get out of line.”

“Okay, um, tea.”

“What kind?” She points to a huge list at the edge of the chalkboard.

“I don’t know, pick one for me. When’s your break?”

“What size?”

“Um, small. When, Celeste? When can I talk to you?”

She takes the five-dollar bill from my hand and works out my change. “Tall chai,” she calls over her shoulder. Then she looks behind me and says, “Can I help you?” to the man next in line.

I don’t move until she looks back at me. “You can pick it up over there,” she says, motioning to the far end of the counter.

Fine.
I pick up my tea and look for a seat where I can keep an eye on her. Over half an hour passes while my cup empties and she completely ignores my presence. The questions running through my mind overwhelm me and to put myself at ease, I try to concentrate on the memories of when everything made sense.

I remember Celeste and Faith on the trampoline we used to have out behind our house, when they hooked up the sprinkler and squealed like hyenas each time the water hit them. I’d watch out the kitchen window and wonder what it would be like to jump so high, completely forget my fear of heights, and be so carefree.

Looking over at Celeste’s crease of a mouth, I can barely wrap my head around her being the same person.

I get back in line.

When it’s my turn again, I’ve come prepared with an order. “Tall skinny vanilla latte. So when exactly is your break?”

“Three eighty-five.” She stares at me and her right eye turns in ever so slightly. Over the years I’ve known her lazy eye to mean either she doesn’t have her contact lenses in—which I highly doubt today, since she’s counting out change pretty efficiently—or she hasn’t been sleeping well. “Are you going to stay here all night?”

“Is there a problem with that?” I cross my arms to try and have the upper hand.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” Then looks behind me. “Next.”

I slowly sip my latte, but another half hour passes and she still doesn’t take her break or even glance in my direction. Every time there’s a lull in customers, she ducks behind the counter or through a swinging door. I just hope she isn’t escaping through a back exit.

I arrive at the counter again, this time with no one behind me. “Listen, Celeste, I’ll wait as long as I have to. I don’t know why you’re trying to hide from me, but—”

“I’m not hiding from anything.” Her eyes dart back and forth. “What makes you think I’m hiding?”

Oh, I don’t know, your freaked out response just now? Not to mention nearly driving over me in the school parking lot.
“Well, something’s definitely wrong.”

“It’s not … Are you going to order something?”

“Low-fat brownie.” I know I can’t sit here without purchasing something. And it
is
low-fat.

A man in a white button-down shirt moves up beside Celeste on her side of the counter. Obviously her boss, he looks at her register, glances at her for a few seconds, and heads to the baking display unit a couple feet away.

I give her a hard stare so she knows I won’t let up, even if it means getting her in trouble with her boss.

“I’ll … we’ll talk, okay. On my break in ten minutes,” she whispers.

Smiling my thanks, I head back to my table.

“Hi,” she says when she sits across from me with a dark coffee.

“Hi.” I’m not nervous anymore. After being here so long processing memories, I feel strong and ready for whatever she tells me about Faith. I’ve got a thousand questions, but I don’t want her to run away again, so I start easy. “I get it if you’re having trouble talking about it. I can’t say I’m having the easiest time either, but my parents, well, they don’t talk about her at all, and nobody at school does … and it’s making it all really weird.”

“So you just want to talk about her, then? About Faith?” Celeste’s voice wavers a little on the name.

“Well, yeah.” I nibble on my lip. It looks like this relaxes her a bit, but she doesn’t respond and I’m not sure exactly where to start. “There’s something I wanted to ask you about too,” I say, finally.

Her eyes rest on the table between us. She takes methodic sips of her drink. “Okay. What’s up?” She sounds casual, but her tensed forehead and non-smile make me think it’s an act.

“I was just wondering where you and Faith had been going to youth group. Pastor Scott said—”

“Yeah, we haven’t gone there in ages.” She waves her hand in front of her, another casual motion that doesn’t quite match the rest of her. “We didn’t, uh, we didn’t have a church youth group, really. I mean, not in a church.”

Okay, that makes sense. So maybe their home group was it. “Yeah, because I checked around, and it seems like Faith wasn’t going, but you—”

Celeste glances to the counter and then to the outside window. “I should probably get back.”

“No! Celeste, please just talk to me. Were you at Grass Roots the night of the accident? Because I thought you were with Faith, but then I saw your name listed on the roster there.” I don’t even know why I’m asking this. I want to know about Faith’s life, not her death, but because Celeste is acting so strange, I just need for it all to make sense.

Her forehead wrinkles and she looks down at the table between us for so long, I don’t think she’s going to answer. But the longer she stays quiet, the more I need to hear something. I sit patiently, rubbing a dent in my thumb under the table.

“I … you’re right. I was at Grass Roots that night.” Her voice sounds like a songbird with a vice around its neck. She’s
trying so hard to sound like this is normal. I just wish I could figure out why it isn’t.

“When I heard Faith on the phone with you that night, I just assumed she’d be going out with you,” I say, more to myself than to her. “And when the police said she’d been with friends—”

“I—I don’t … I wasn’t.” She stands and backs away from the table so I start to follow.

“Rumors are circulating at school that Faith killed herself,” I say, “and I thought at first no way, but I don’t know, maybe she did, and—”

“No! No, she didn’t. Brie, you should know better than anyone.” She backs up so fast, she bumps into another table, the two coffee cups on top splattering. The women seated there stop chatting and stare up at her. Celeste doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even apologize, just turns back to me and says, “I gotta go.”

“Wait, Celeste!”

She moves away from me but I feel like my feet are stuck to the floor. I reach out, pleading with her to stay.

“I’ll call you later,” she says, scooting behind the counter. Before I know it, her boss stands between us, glaring at me.

My hands shake and I don’t have it in me for any more confrontation. I grab my purse and place hand over hand on
tables and chairs to get myself to the door. Maybe Celeste just needs some time to calm down too. Maybe she hasn’t talked about any of this either and so it all came out wrong.

When I make my way across the parking lot, I notice Celeste’s red SUV parked a few feet away. I walk over and peer through the back windows. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A worship CD case on the back seat? A sweatshirt I’d seen on her a thousand times? Something that makes me feel like my memories aren’t all lies.

Her back windows are tinted, and it’s hard to see anything, so I move to the front ones. Clean and empty. Just before I turn away, my eye catches a familiar sight on her dash. In the exact same spot as in Faith’s Toyota, there’s a small round sticker.

It’s yellow, just like the one in Faith’s car, but this one looks like someone’s tried to scrape it off.

My heart pounds inside my chest. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything, just some “Sisters in Christ” type of bonding thing. But still, somehow it feels like this is important. That I have a new piece of Faith that matters.

chapter
FIFTEEN

t
he next day after last class, I call Dad and stay an extra half hour in the locker room eavesdropping on all the after-school teams. I hear about a couple of parties, a bit of celebrity gossip, but nothing about Faith or even about Dustin and Amy. My dead sister and my dead relationship are already old news.

I trek toward my locker to pick up my backpack, but remember along the way that I wanted to get a reading list from Mr. Clancy so I can catch up with the rest of the class. Just as I turn the corner, a guy emerges out of Mr. Clancy’s classroom. Red and black Mack jacket, dark, shoulder-length hair. I have instant recognition. He’s the same guy I saw at Faith’s grave site.

It hadn’t occurred to me to look for him at school, but here he is, right in front of me.

Once I get past the fact that he isn’t a mirage, I call, “Hey!”

He looks my way and his dark bangs fall over half his face. My heart beats faster and I step toward him. He flicks his hair back and our eyes meet. His gaze pulls me in further, questioning me. I bet he’s wondering who I am or why we haven’t seen each other at school before. The same things I wonder about him. But then, abruptly, he spins and jogs the other direction.

“Wait!” I pick up speed. When I turn into the hallway that leads to the back of the school, there’s no sign of the guy, but the double doors at the end clack shut. I burst through after him.

Still no sign of him, but since there’s a fence in the other direction, he must have gone for the parking lot. Taking one deep breath after another, I keep my sprint until I stand in the middle of the twenty or so cars that are left.

Did he drive away already? I scan all directions and don’t see any movement. Well, except for the couple sucking each other’s tongues off at the car beside the fire hydrant.

One more search around the area and I give up. He’s gone.

But who is he? I need to know.

Finally I sigh and head back into the school, straight for Clancy’s classroom. The door’s ajar and he sits solemnly at
his desk with his eyes closed. It doesn’t surprise me. I pegged him as a meditator.

I stand there for several seconds letting my heart slow before scuffing my foot to make a noise.

No reaction. I clear my throat. “Mr. Clancy,” I say, just above a whisper.

Slowly, his eyelids open. He stares ahead for several seconds before turning to me.

“Ah, Miss Jenkins.” He says it like he expected it to be only a matter of time before I appeared here before him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I say, “but I was just wondering about a boy who came out of your classroom.”

His eyes scan the desks, as though he might find someone still sitting there.

“I mean a few minutes ago. He was wearing a red and black jacket?”

“Oh, yes, yes. The homeschool class.”

“The what?”

“There were a few homeschool students who came in to take a test.”

“Oh.” That explains why I’d never seen him in the hallways. It also gives me hope. If he doesn’t attend Sharon High, maybe he doesn’t know about all the stuff that makes me a leper around here. “Can you tell me his name?”

Clancy looks up at the ceiling. Is that where he keeps his class list? I follow his eyes, but the plain, white expanse reveals nothing. I wipe a sweaty palm on my jeans with anticipation.

“Hmm … I’m afraid I don’t remember which of them wore a jacket like that. Mr. Monakey maybe.” He turns back to me. “Ms. Lamberton just picked up their tests a few minutes ago.”

Clancy eyes my purple top, which is riding an inch or so above my jeans. Not quite school regulation.

I tug it down before he comments and slink toward the door. “Thanks, Mr. Clancy. I’ll be sure to ask Ms. Lamberton.”

By the time I get to the school office, I realize I forgot to ask about the history homework. And Ms. Lamberton’s already gone for the day.

It’s four thirty when I walk through the door to our empty house. It appears exactly the same as I left it this morning. The blender from my protein shake still overflows with water in the kitchen sink, the newspaper is spread open on the table.

I wonder if Mom went back to work. The thought makes me smile. I know it will take her much longer to get over Faith, but if she’s working with flowers, doing something she
used to enjoy, at least there’s hope she’ll be able to function normally again, at least one day.