Losing Faith (2 page)

“You need a ride home, too?” she asks, backing out and then driving down the street with her eyes straight ahead.
Her fingers grip the steering wheel at ten and two like it’s a life preserver.

“No. Amy’ll drop me.” I haven’t thought of a reason why
Amy
couldn’t pick me up, and I hope Faith won’t think to ask.

Her hands loosen and drop to the lower half of the wheel. She nods, apparently relieved that I’m not going to be any more of a burden. For a second I wonder why things had to change between us. Why aren’t we still friends, or at least siblings who can have a normal conversation? But the thought is gone as soon as it enters my head.

After stopping at the corner gas station, she reaches to turn on the radio, confirming there’ll be no sisterly chatter on the car ride over. Once she starts singing along, I decide I much prefer listening to her singing voice over arguing with her anyway. I nudge the radio volume down. Faith is used to this move of mine, and keeps singing without any reaction. And this is the way I like her voice—not tied to her church worship group or up on stage with everyone staring in amazement. Just her singing and me listening.

We pull into the large church parking lot, and Faith backs into a spot near the perimeter. She turns off the engine and we sit there, both staring ahead at the looming steeple.

“You okay, then?” Faith asks after several seconds.

I take that as my cue to reach for the door handle. “Sure.” Something in me wonders if I should ask her the same question. “Are you—”

But a dark-haired girl with a ponytail scurries over to the driver’s side and interrupts us. “Faith, oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you!”

Faith and I get out on either side, and I raise my eyebrows. Only at church can people get so excited to see each other after only a day or two apart.

“Oh, you brought your sister.” The girl nods approvingly.

I pull my arms across my chest and feel the scratchy condom wrapper I’d stashed in my bra. More teens move in toward Faith, toward us, and I get a mental picture of them grabbing my hands and singing “Kumbaya.”

And just then, Faith’s dark-haired friend makes her way around the car with a hand outstretched. I stare down at it.

“I’m not staying,” I say, tucking my hands behind my back. “I mean, I’m meeting someone … over there.” I point over my shoulder. “Thanks for the ride,” I call out, but Faith waves me off, since she’s now surrounded by several of her elated youth-group buddies.

I dash across the street and make a show of ducking into the Rio Café. After waiting a few minutes to make sure it’s safe, I slip out into the dark alley alongside the coffee shop and
race through to the next street over. The street is deserted and I hug my purse to my chest. I wish Dustin could pick me up in front of the coffee shop, but I can’t chance Faith catching sight of me heading back to the house with my boyfriend.

I slink into the shadow of the art supplies store so I won’t be obvious to any stray, lonely men driving past, and pull out my cell phone. After checking the street sign, I text Dustin with the coordinates.

I snap my phone shut and blow on my sweaty palms.
What if I’m not ready?
Dustin’s been patient—too patient, Amy says. And now that I’ve given him so many hints, how could I say no?

I won’t,
I decide only a second later. Even though I’m not completely at ease with this, who is, their first time?

I look up just in time to see a familiar red Toyota sail by. The smiley antenna ball catches my attention, and I squint at the back of a blond curly head in the driver’s seat. It’s Faith.

Worse, she’s headed back in the direction of our house. There goes my special night with Dustin. Though the thought does make my racing heart slow a little.

When Dustin’s lights gleam around the corner and onto the deserted street where I wait, I put Faith out of my mind. I paste on a smile, smooth down my straightened hair with both hands, and step out of the shadows into the bright lights.

chapter
TWO

i
slip into the passenger seat of Dustin’s yellow Mustang, lean over, and kiss him on the cheek. He smiles, and slides a sandy-colored lock of hair behind his ear. The dimple on his cheek makes my heart flutter.

“Where to?” he asks, sliding one hand onto my knee. I place my hand on his, stopping him before he reaches the hem of my skirt.

My mind works fast and I remember a barn bash one of Dustin’s friends mentioned. “Evan’s party?” I say.

“I thought we were going to your place.” He inches his hand up my thigh.

I hadn’t actually told him that but I guess I’d been
obvious enough. “We can’t. My sister’s home.” I add a pouty huff to pretend I’m just as upset about it as he is.

He looks over at me with a suggestive smile, and then past me to the backseat. “We could … park somewhere.”

I follow his eyes. Oh, how romantic. Sticky vinyl clinging to my bare ass. Perfect.

“I heard it’s supposed to be a big deal at Evan’s.” I make my voice sound light.

“Oh.” He meets my eyes.

I flinch away, not wanting to give his gaze time to convince me.

“Right.” He turns and studies the mirror on his visor.

I can’t tell if I’ve offended him. “It’s just …” I tug my skirt back down. “I was hoping to get to know some of your friends.”

He stays quiet for a few seconds, letting the car idle on the edge of the curb. Then, without a word, he puts it in gear.

I spend the first few minutes of the car ride thinking about how to make things better with him. I take about a hundred deep breaths and make a mental promise to myself to set up another night for us soon. Now that I’ve had a practice run, I’ll be much more comfortable with it next time.

“Did you finish your poem?” Dustin interrupts my thoughts
and with that one question, not a hint of abrasion in his voice, all is right with my world again.

“Um, almost.” My face heats up. I’m flattered that he remembered what I’d been working on earlier when he called. That he cares enough to ask. But I just hope he doesn’t want to hear some of it. My poetry’s not good, not like Faith and her music or anything. Still, it gives me hope that one day I will share all my inner workings and passions with him. When I figure out what those are.

He shoots me a grin and one solid nod, but doesn’t say anything else. It’s like he knows my exact thoughts and he won’t ask for more until I’m ready. I can’t hold back a little internal squee. We’re so perfect for each other.

It takes longer than I expect to get to the farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, but I don’t mind. Dustin talks about some of his classes this week and asks me what I think about every little thing. We’re in different classes, different grades even, but I appreciate the fact that he wants to talk to me about the stuff in his life so much when we’re alone, so I try to offer intelligent replies.

When we pull up the dirt drive of the party house, a crowd assembles by Dustin’s door. I let myself out and stand on the passenger side while Dustin slaps a few hands and says his hellos. A couple of I-don’t-need-to-shower-more-than-
once-a-week guys partying in the back of a pickup truck call for me to come over. Not by my name, but by a more endearing alias, “Hey, baby.” I ignore them.

The thing about guys in Sharon, Oregon, is that the majority of them wear this tougher-than-granite act, cracking bottles open with their teeth, their jean buckles, their forearms. I figure it’s to make up for living in a town with a girl’s name.

Dustin and I walk across the yard and look for our friends. Well, Dustin’s friends, if one wants to get technical, but I’m sure it won’t take long before they’ll be my friends too. I reach over and intertwine my fingers with his, pulling my shoulders back and standing a little taller. The number of people who watch our trek feels a bit unsettling, but exciting at the same time. This is my third big party with Dustin and I think I could get used to this.

A bonfire blazes in front of an abandoned farmhouse on our left. The barn, missing a side wall and lit up by a half-dozen hanging lanterns, sits straight ahead with the guts of the place in plain view.

Dustin and I don’t acknowledge anyone else in the yard. Mostly guys. Mostly drunk. We’re heading to where the rest of the party rages, on the upper floor of the barn. Juniors and seniors, less drunk and less biceps-flaunting than the lawn
crowd, chat and joke in small groups. A large table displays a full spread of alcohol.

“Cool,” Dustin says. “Let’s go.”

He pulls my hand, but I don’t move. My feet are wrapped in lead weights. The open-air platform—with no railings, fences, or even chicken wire—combined with all levels of inebriation, terrifies me. I swallow at the lump lodged in my throat.

“Why don’t we just stay down here for a bit,” I say.

“Yeah, right.” He looks at me like I’ve just suggested we play hopscotch on the mounds of manure. “Let’s get a drink.”

I scan the yard around me looking for an excuse, but there’s nothing. Nothing enticing about ditching the fun crowd above for the guys who are vomiting by the swing set, or the ones lying flat on their backs with draining beer bottles propped in their mouths like frothing baby bottles.

I try a different, more honest, approach. “Um, do you really think it’s safe up there?”

Dustin belts out a laugh like I’ve just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard, then gives my arm a good yank toward the barn entrance.

My mouth feels like I’ve sucked on a lint ball.
The loft is probably safer than it looks
, I tell myself over and over and over again on the thirty feet it takes to get to the barn.
Dustin wouldn’t take me there if it wasn’t. And so far tonight, no one’s fallen.
I scan the ground around me to make sure.

Inside the barn, a stereo above cranks out some old Fergie tune. Halfway along the wall, there’s a staircase. It’s a curlicue access that looks like the fries they make in the school cafeteria. Dustin drags me toward it while I try to keep my mind on cafeteria food. Fries, ketchup, that disgusting, overcooked pasta.

I take deep breaths and concentrate on the rickety railing and cross-mesh metal of each stair. When the light from the top floor comes into view, I back up a step. Dustin almost trips, and gets his bearings before tugging on my hand once again.

When I force myself to step onto the platform at the top, vertigo hits me and I drop Dustin’s hand to grasp the wall. The dim lanterns streak across the ceiling like a crazed disco ball. People, laughing and talking, come in and out of focus.

“Let’s just hang out here for a bit.” I focus on the dusty wood-plank floor and force some steadiness to my voice. By the time my breathing evens and I look up, Dustin stands across the platform, filling a shot glass at the booze table. Did he even hear me?

He chats with a group of guys, knocks back the drink, and makes a face that for a second I can’t recognize as someone I would ever be attracted to. Someone comes up the
stairs behind me and I’m forced to slide over so they can get through.

My BFF Amy stands a few feet away from Dustin, talking to a group of girls near the ledge. Actually, Amy’s not
really
my BFF. Not like Faith and Celeste, who’ve been attached at the hip since kindergarten. Amy and I are more like BFFN—Best Friends For Now. Or BFWIW—Best Friends While It Works.

Amy has Big Plans, just like everyone else in my life. Hers include makeup artistry and working at MAC Cosmetics. I’ve learned to apply perfect eyeliner and toenail polish, but try as I might, I can’t drum up the kind of excitement it would take to organize my life around flawless foundation.

I wave. She holds up a drink toward me, her eyebrows raised.

I smile back, because Amy doesn’t really drink. She had too much at the first pep rally last year and ended up passed out half-naked in the school parking lot. Since then, she discreetly nurses one drink throughout a whole party.

She gestures for me to come over, even though she knows about my fear of heights. I can hardly remind her from here. I shake my head, and then motion for her to come over to where I’m glued against the wall.

She nods and holds up a
one second
sign to me before turning back to finish her conversation.

Perfect. At least I won’t look so completely alone. Dustin now holds a beer in one hand and a shot in the other, though he still doesn’t seem to be making a move back in my direction. Maybe I should have just parked with him somewhere. I let go of the wall with one hand and try to wave him down, but he’s caught up telling one of his jokes and doesn’t notice.

I’m startled by a vibration in my pocket, and at first I slap at it, thinking a bug crawled on me. Then it dawns on me, and I dig for my cell to look at the display.

My parents.
Crap.

The deal is, I can go out late on weekends because my parents are actually pretty cool despite their heavy church involvement, but I always have to tell someone in the family where I’m going and I have to answer my phone when they call. One time I forgot to charge the stupid thing and got grounded for two weeks because I didn’t pick up. And that was on a Sunday afternoon.

Of course they might alter the rules a little if they knew about the booze table, the lack of parental supervision, and the guy who picked me up. I press my cell to my ear, cupping my hand over my mouth to help deaden the music and voices.

“Hello!” I yell. My parents’ meeting shouldn’t be over for at least another hour. I can’t believe one of them ducked out to check up on me.

A muffled voice sounds on the other end. I plug my other ear to hear better.

“Hello?” I say again.

“Brie … can you … are you …”

“Dad, there’s a band here at Café Rio. I can barely hear you.” I step into the stairwell and crouch down, pulling my arms over my head to deaden the sound. Things are slightly quieter, in the way a football game might be quieter than a rock concert. “Dad, you there?”

“I need—” He sounds like he’s choking or sick or something. I’ve never heard him like this. He’s always so … composed.