A Test of Faith (14 page)

Anne watched her daughter waver, saw how the warmth and kindness in her father’s question tugged at her—then watched her shove them aside, making room for her hurt.

“I lost my appetite.”

After a moment’s silence, Jared nodded. “You’re excused.”

Faith stomped from the room.

Anne and Jared sat there, staring at each other. Finally,
Jared reached a hand out to Anne. She lay her hand in his, letting his warmth flow through her.

“I think we’ve got some praying to do.”

Anne nodded at her husband, but as she stood and followed him to the living room, the seed of dread that had been planted within her took root, sending out fingers that gripped and clawed through her.

“Just wait … just wait …”

Lowering herself onto the sofa, Anne had the powerful, albeit unwelcome, sense that they wouldn’t have to wait long.

eleven

I WISH THEY LIKED ME
.

Faith leaned back against her favorite tree, the one at the back of the high school that she ate under most lunch periods, watching Trista and her friends congregate. Junior high had been so much easier. In the seventh grade, she and Winnie and Trista had all gotten along. Well, for the most part. Winnie and Trista never really got along.

Now, they were all juniors in high school. But while they were in the same grade in the same school, it was as though Trista had starting living in an entirely different world.

Faith took a bite of her sandwich, listening to Trista and her clique talk and laugh as they lit their cigarettes and hopped up to sit on the hoods of parked cars. Faith glanced around. Everyone knew it was against school rules to smoke on school property. And everyone knew these kids broke that rule every day. So why, Faith wondered as she’d done hundreds of times before, didn’t the teachers or principal ever come back here and make them stop?

I guess they’re all as afraid of them as the kids are
.

It was true. Trista’s crowd wasn’t like any other crowd. They weren’t the popular cheerleader types. They weren’t into school sports or the drama club. They weren’t studious bookworm types. Faith grinned at that. Studious? Bookworms? Not by a long shot.

No, they were a breed all their own. Hard. Rebellious. Defiant.

And totally, totally cool.

In other words, they were everything Faith wasn’t. She was about as far away from cool as you could get. Not that she was a geek. She was just … well, normal. Stupid old normal. She sang in the choir. Made good grades. Worked on the school newspaper. Even took over classes for her teachers sometimes when they needed to leave the room for a few minutes.

Face it. People liked and trusted her. She was, they often told her, cute and playful. Her lip curled.
A dumb ol’ golden retriever, that’s me
.

Utterly, totally harmless.

So why on earth did Trista—who no one since grade school had ever called
harmless
—like her?

Faith had never been able to figure that one out. Though they didn’t travel in the same circles any longer, Trista was still her friend. And she made sure everyone knew it. Faith might not be a true part of Trista’s crowd, but everyone—Trista’s buddies included—knew not to bother Faith. Because if they did, they’d have Trista to answer to.

And no one wanted that.

Sometimes Faith got the impression she was some kind of project for Trista, like a stray puppy she’d picked up and decided to raise. But every time she thought that, guilt stabbed at her. Faith wished she had someone to talk to about it all. But who? Winnie? No way? Her mom? Get real.

Her mom was majorly down on Trista. Every chance she got, she asked Faith about Trista. About what she was doing. And what she was getting Faith to do.

Like Faith didn’t have a mind of her own.

Her appetite suddenly gone, Faith grabbed the plastic wrap from her lunch bag and stuffed the sandwich inside. If
her mother told her one more time to be careful, to be hesitant about trusting Trista too much, Faith was going to … to…

Well, she didn’t know what, but she was going to do something.

Okay, so her mom was concerned. So she worried. Fine. But it was starting to irritate her. Faith got the point years ago. She didn’t need to keep hearing it over and over.

The last time Mom started in on Trista, Faith lost it. “Why can’t you ever say something nice about my friends?”

Her mom’s wide-eyed stare hadn’t fooled Faith. She knew exactly what Faith was talking about. “I do—”

“No, you don’t. All you can do is rag on Trista and tell me how awful she is. But I like her, Mom, and that should count for something.”

Her mother started to say something, but Faith had had it. “You know what? When you talk about her the way you do, it’s not only Trista you cut down; you cut me down, too. You won’t be happy, will you, until you’re the one choosing my friends instead of trusting me to do it.”

Yeah, that had been a bad fight. Her mother got all upset and sent her to her room. But Faith was right and she knew it. She figured her mom knew it, too.

Then there was the way Mom compared Trista to Winnie. Boy, when it came to Winnie, Mom was all praise, which was hardly a surprise. Winnie was quiet and polite and always had a sweet smile on her face—the perfect Christian girl.

Unlike Trista. And, truth be told, unlike Faith.

Trista always had something to say about Winnie. When they were kids, it used to be about Winnie’s looks. But she’d grown out of that ugly, chubby stage. Winnie was actually kind of pretty. Not a stunner, like Trista. But she was okay. So without that to harp on, Trista had moved to Winnie’s behavior.

“Goody Two-Shoes? Not hardly. Winnie’s so stinkin’ good she’s more like Goody-Twelve-Shoes.”

Boy, would Faith’s mom have a fit if she heard Trista say things like that. Faith didn’t care much for it either—she liked Winnie most of the time—but she’d learned long ago not to listen when Trista was on a rant.

Too bad her mom couldn’t just let things fly once in a while. She took everything so seriously. Especially everything Trista said.

Faith had made the mistake of telling her mom something funny Trista said about one of her friends. Her mom just stared at her.

“She said this about a friend?”

“Well, yeah, but she was kidding.”

Her mom gave that little snort that said she didn’t buy it. “I’d hate to hear what she has to say about her enemies, Faith. You certainly don’t hear
Winnie
talking about people that way.”

Faith grimaced. If her mother told her one more time what a gem Winnie was, she would scream!

So Winnie acted like a saint. Did that make her better than Trista? Faith didn’t think so. In fact, lately Winnie had been getting on her nerves. She was too nice. She let Trista walk all over her. She never talked back when Trista said rotten things or stood up to Trista when she called Winnie a wimp.

Winnie the Wimp, to be precise. Faith couldn’t recall when Trista started calling Winnie that, but she remembered the hurt on Winnie’s face when Faith didn’t stand up for her, didn’t call Trista on being so mean.

Faith pulled her knees to her chest, circling them with her arms. So what was she? Winnie’s guard dog? If Win didn’t like the name, she could stand up to Trista herself. What good would it do for Faith to get in the middle? She wasn’t going to change Trista, and she’d probably make Trista mad at both of them.

And if there was one thing Faith didn’t want, it was Trista mad at her. While she wasn’t the same as Trista and her friends, she couldn’t deny she liked the way it felt when they let her hang around with them. Oh, they didn’t do that all the time. But every once in a while Trista would call her over. And the others would step back, making room for her as if she belonged.

Which she didn’t. Faith wasn’t as pretty as they were. Or as skinny. And she sure wasn’t as fearless. And the most fearless of them all was Trista. She’d do and say anything, no matter who she ticked off.

“You gotta say your piece,” she told Faith over and over. “And if someone doesn’t like it—” she’d snap her long-nailed fingers in the air—“too bad for them.”

The girls who hung around with Trista were as outspoken as she was. They did and said and wore what they wanted. And they got what they wanted, too.

Which, most of the time, was boys.

Not nice boys, but rough ones. Boys with cigarettes hanging from their sneering mouths. Boys who walked and talked as if they not only knew how to fight, but enjoyed it. Looked for opportunities to do it.

Boys who looked at a girl with a certain flash in their eyes, who made you aware, and not in a good way, that you were a girl and they were … well,
aware
. Even with Trista and her friends hanging on them, they scanned every female in sight, watching, speculating. It made Faith’s skin crawl when she walked past them.

Well, when she walked past most of them, that was. There was one boy Faith wouldn’t mind looking at her.

Dustin Grant was the most handsome boy Faith had ever seen. He looked like a rugged Rob Lowe. Though he was a senior, he was older than most of the kids in his grade. Trista said he’d been held back a year, though she never said why. And Faith didn’t care to ask. She kind of liked that he was older, liked the way he seemed more … mature.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that he had that lean, mean look of an athlete ready to take on any competition. His shock of thick blond hair was as unruly as he was, going whatever way it pleased. But that made it suit him that much more. And those eyes … those ice blue eyes that seemed to look right through you.

At least, that’s what Faith figured it would be like if he ever looked at her. Which he never did. She was willing to bet he didn’t even know she was alive.

She’d looked at him, though. A lot. She liked the way he moved, like a tiger, restless but in control. He didn’t slouch like some of the other guys in their group. He stood tall and straight, as if he could carry the weight of two worlds on those
broad shoulders. The others looked to him as a kind of leader. And who could blame them? One look at him was all it took to know he was full of confidence—and a dash of danger.

Okay, maybe more than a dash. But for some reason, that drew Faith to him as much as anything else.

Winnie told her once that she should steer clear of Dustin. She’d laughed at her friend. “Like I have a choice, Win. The guy’s never said a word to me.”

“That’s a good thing, Faith. I mean, why would you even think of getting mixed up with a guy like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Faith smiled and nudged her friend. “Haven’t you ever wanted to pet a tiger?”

Winnie thought about that. Faith chuckled at the memory. Winnie always took things so seriously! Finally, she nodded. “Okay, maybe. But only if the tiger was caged first.”

No one was going to cage Dustin; that was for sure.

Faith peered at Dustin, watching him now with Trista and the others. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, flipped a lighter open, and took a long, deep drag. With anyone else, Faith would have thought that looked stupid. But with Dustin, that action was like every other.

Tough.

Not bad tough or even mean tough. But good tough. Cool tough.

She couldn’t explain, but something about Dustin Grant made Faith ache, deep in her gut. Like there was something missing, something only he could fill.

Heat flooded her face at the thought. She was being an idiot.
Dustin is always surrounded by beautiful girls. No way he’s ever going to notice me, let alone fill some “missing part” of me
.

As though to confirm the thought, Trista broke away from the group of girls, sauntered up to Dustin, and trailed one long finger down his chest. A spark of something hot and angry flashed behind Faith’s chest. What was Trista doing? She knew how Faith felt about Dustin!

Trista’s every move gave a clear invitation. Faith had seen the other girl turn on the charm before, and it always worked. Tall and slim, Trista was one of the few who really looked good
in the cropped tops and tight skirts everyone wore nowadays. Everyone, of course, but Faith.

And Winnie. Winnie wouldn’t be caught dead in those kinds of outfits. She actually called them
shameful
the other day.

Faith laughed to herself. Shameful. That Winnie was from another century. Besides, when you looked like Trista, with her shape and that long, feathered hair that reminded everyone of Farah Fawcett, what was there to be ashamed of? Trista looked good. And she knew it.

Same way she knew how to get the guys she wanted.

If only I knew how to move like that. If only I could get Dustin to look at me like … like…

Wait a minute. How
was
Dustin looking at Trista? Though she couldn’t be sure from this distance, Faith had the clear sense that Dustin wasn’t the least bit impressed—or interested. He didn’t react. Just stood there, looking down at Trista, taking long, deep draws on his cigarette.