Sway (20 page)

“Princess?”

I’m saved from having to answer when the man who gave the speech saunters up and stops in front of our table. My pulse sputters, but I take a deep breath and focus on the man’s features to calm myself down. Up close, he’s even more handsome than he appeared from across the room, though his nose has a slight bend to it that probably came from a break. A high school fistfight? A run-in with a door? His thick auburn hair shows signs of gray at the sideburns, but his face is surprisingly free from lines except along the sides of his eyes. This is a man who likes to smile. He smiles at me. I work to return it, hard to do when I want to throw up.

Caleb studies me. “Kate, this is Scott’s father, Chris Jenkins. I’m not sure if you remember Scott…”

“I remember Scott,” I say with very little inflection in my voice. I hate the way it sounds and I only vaguely remember him, but it’s enough. Scott has red hair. Scott sat next to Caleb at the bar.

I blink up at Mr. Jenkins. He and his son resemble each other. When I don’t give the customary “Nice to meet you,” which I should say but can’t right now because my brain is still on pause from the man’s earlier speech, Caleb clears his throat.

“Chris is the head pastor at my church. We’ve been friends for a few years now.” The way he says it implies there’s more to the
friends
story, but he doesn’t elaborate. I don’t ask him to. Some things are better left unsaid.

“Oh, really?” It’s all I can manage, all I can think as the man looks questioningly at me, then recovers his frown with a smile that seems more genuine than forced. My reciprocating smile is obliging by contrast, but it’s the best I can do. The most I can feel.

I feel fake.

I am ripped apart.

Caleb’s eyes stay on me as Mr. Jenkins says goodbye and walks away, but I don’t look at him. I look at my plate. Only my plate. Everything blurs into one mass of muted red as my mind tries to process the only thing I’ve been able to think about since Caleb’s pastor—his supposedly evil, overbearing, threatening pastor, because isn’t that what pastors are—said
Amen
.

He told the children they were accepted here.

He prayed for the food.

He blessed them and the workers busily buzzing around us now who are clearing plates, refilling my water, volunteering their time to make sure a bunch of orphans, foster kids, and one underdressed toddler are taken care of.

And for that, my parents are punishing them.

For that, I’m punishing them.

For that, a nationwide organization that makes my parents, me, and my big fat trust fund a ton of money is punishing them.

Unable to breathe, I jump up from the chair and take off, retracing my earlier steps and barely making it before panic sets in. I lean over the sink and force air into my lungs, but my mind stays in the same place. The place that I don’t want to visit, but am being forced to visit anyway. Chris Jenkins never once yelled. Chris Jenkins never once threatened. Chris Jenkins didn’t look evil. Chris Jenkins looked…kind.

I straighten and unroll a strip of paper, using it to wipe the anxiety from my mouth. Wild eyes stare back at me in the mirror, eyes that look nothing like mine. Then again, I’m not the same girl I was just a few minutes ago.

You’re okay with that? Being the poster girl for a long string of hurt, false accusations, and misplaced kids? It doesn’t matter to you?
Caleb’s words from last week come back in a rush, but the difference is now I’m not. I’m not okay with it. For as long as I can remember, I’ve punished so many people with a great big smile on my face.

But how many? And how often?

And how many times has it happened because a church leader just like Caleb dared to tell a kid he cared about them? And, heaven forbid, pray for a plate of food?

How many times?

Caleb

“Looking for a Reason”

—Little Big Town

M
y first foster family couldn’t handle the crying, said I kept them awake at night. The second family thought I talked too much. The father was a writer and needed the quiet to think. The third thought I should smile more, interpreting my lack of enthusiasm as a buried violent streak that might rear its head unprovoked on their ten-year-old daughter. I liked their ten-year-old daughter—Abby was her name, I think—and I was only eight. I’m not sure what he thought I might do, but Abby and I used to climb the sweet gum tree and look for the bubble gum inside those weird, spikey balls that fell from the branches. We never found any, but then again I only stayed with them two weeks. Two more and who knows? We might have discovered some.

By the fourth foster home, I actually had a violent streak. I punched a hole in their garage wall when the new social worker fed me some lame line about my mother’s memory lasting forever in my mind. That’s what adults say to assuage their guilt when they do something stupid like try to replace irreplaceable mementos of your mother’s face with a hamburger you don’t even like.

Translation: She forgot the picture, so I took it out on the wall.

Because of my fist-to-drywall reaction, instead of the standard home visit she showed up for, she put me in her car and we went in search of another home. That one—the fifth—finally stuck. It was the worst experience of my life aside from watching my mother die on the curve of my own bloody knee. At that home I learned not to cry or talk or frown or hit or even climb a tree. The one time I did, I fell. After I fell, I cried. While I cried, I got hit for making too much noise. Over and over and over.

That’s when I learned to stop talking.

I don’t force anyone to talk, ever. If someone needs the silence, I’ll join them in the middle of it. Even if that means I have to wait forever to hear the sound of another human voice.

She’s been quiet for a long time, but I’m not sure why. One minute, we were playing a rather ridiculous game of HORSE, and the next thing I know she’s gone. Gone where is anyone’s guess, but it took her twenty minutes to come back, her eyes all downturned and worried. Kate can sometimes seem on edge, but underneath the layers of pink is a woman with a ton of strength. If she’d been mad about the game, I have no doubt she would have tossed the ball at my head. Her aim might be off for everything else, but she definitely would have made that target.

“You haven’t said anything since we left the Chapman Center,” she finally says, staring out the car window. I turn to look at her profile, mainly because I’m surprised she’s finally spoken.

“I was kind of waiting for you to talk. Call me crazy, but it’s never seemed like a good idea to interrupt a girl when she’s in the middle of a mood swing. Kind of like pulling food away from an eating dog—you just might get snapped at.” I swerve to avoid the shredded remnants of an old tire lying on the road.

The glare she levels my way makes me grin. Maybe it wasn’t the nicest comparison, but it had the desired effect all the same. Her bad mood seems to lift a little. A good thing, because I hate to see a woman down. Too many memories come with the picture.

“You really should pay more attention when you’re driving,” she says. “This truck can’t exactly corner like it’s on rails, you know.”

“Don’t insult my truck. It’s sensitive.”

“Don’t compare me to a rabid dog, because so am I.”

“I didn’t say rabid. I said hungry. There’s a difference.”

“But both have sharp teeth.” She bumps my knee with her own. “All the better to bite you with, I suppose.”

I want to make a crack at that, but my throat goes dry. I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but I find myself
liking
the way it sounded because it has me thinking about her lips on mine—which is wrong on every level, but I’m a guy so of course I’m thinking about that. I clear my throat and tell my sarcastic self to shut the heck up and move on.

“Why are you so quiet, Kate?” It probably isn’t the best thing to ask, but the fact that I’m still thinking about her mouth on mine means it’s time for a little redirecting. “What happened back there when you left the room?”

She stops and stares at me, obviously not expecting the question but also not retreating from it. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t even blink once or twice to give herself time to answer. Just stares, almost unseeing, like she’s too unsure to formulate a response. But then she comes up with one, and by default shows me a little of that strength I knew she possessed.

“I didn’t expect the prayer.” She nods behind her, back in the direction we just came from. “I expected a speech and a whole bunch of indoctrination, but not the prayer.”

I guide the car into the parking lot in front of her apartment and manage a shrug, not following her logic but trying to appear confident anyway. “I’m not sure what you mean about indoctrination—we don’t believe in that sort of thing. But how could you not expect a prayer at a church-run foster center? We’re Christians there, Kate. Of course we would pray.”

“That’s not what I mean. Of course I expected the
prayer
.”

She doesn’t elaborate, just grabs a penny from my cup holder because for some reason she seems to have an obsession with them, either that or it’s the only thing she can think to do with her hands, but it doesn’t matter which theory is right because both somehow manage to irritate me. So now I’m confused and annoyed and completely lost, so I slip the coin from her fingers and flip it back where it belongs, aware that I just threw a tiny fit over bubble gum money, but still.

“Those are covered in filth, just so you know.”

“I’ll scrub my hands and mouth with Clorox when I get home,” she says. For the span to two breaths, the car is silent.

“So you’re upset about a prayer,” I finally say, “even though you knew a prayer would happen? Forgive me for saying it Kate, but isn’t that the clinical definition of a schizo?”

“I’m not schizophrenic, and you’re not paying attention.”

Again, silence, and I’m about to break my self-imposed code never to interrupt it because this girl is acting crazy. And crazy deserves an exception to my rigid rule. But thankfully, Kate speaks first and I don’t have to.

“Of course I expected a prayer, Caleb. My whole life, I’ve been told about your kind of prayers.”

“My kind of—?” I force my jaw closed to keep from saying anything else, feeling my muscles tense and my defenses rise. It’s all I can do to stay quiet, because I think I’ve just been insulted and even though the Bible says to turn the other cheek, I’d rather insult her right back because it would be a lot more satisfying.

But I won’t, because I’m me and my stupid brain can’t seem to grasp the fact that the two of us together are a terrible idea on the most important level. I won’t insult her, because I still like her. I kissed her, and I’m still thinking about that kiss. I want to lean over and do it again right now, which makes me the biggest glutton for punishment who ever lived.

I sigh. “What do you mean, my kind of prayers?”

Kate runs a hand through her curls while I try not to stare. “The sort of prayers that make people feel guilty for having bad thoughts. The sort of prayers that remind people they’re going to hell if they cuss or drink a beer or stay too late at a frat party. The sort of prayers that make you feel hopeless and worthless and completely lacking in—”

I stop her. “Now, have you actually heard someone pray these prayers you’re talking about, or is this another one of your assumptions?” I eye her. “And for the record, infomercials don’t count. You know, the ones where the supposed pastor tells you that bad things will happen if you don’t send two-hundred bucks to his address in the next five minutes?” I shake my head. “Other than that, where have you heard someone pray a prayer like that? Because I, for one, never have.”

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t go to hell if you have a beer?” Her tone sounds defensive, as if she issuing a challenge and daring me to deny it.

“Of course I wouldn’t go to hell if I have a beer.” I can’t decide whether to be patient with her question or tell her how stupid it is. I relax my face and go for the former.

“So you’ve had a beer since you became a Christian?” She doesn’t ask it like a question. She asks it like I’m related to Pinocchio and my nose is about to grow.

“A few times, but not lately. I don’t drink anymore.”

She nods and raises a smug eyebrow. “Because Christians can’t drink. Because God will smite them, ruin them, punish them, and all the rest of that hell-fire and brimstone stuff.”

If this is what she thinks, no wonder she isn’t a fan of God. I take a breath and decide to lay it all out there, figuring her reaction about what I’m about to say is her problem, not mine. I dealt with it years ago and have almost forgotten it. Almost.

“No, I don’t drink anymore because right after I became a Christian, I skipped church and met up with some old friends. One thing led to another and we wound up at a bar, I got drunk, and before the night was over I wound up in jail for nearly killing a guy. Not a fun thing to explain to Scott’s father, especially when he’d just given me a job at the center.” I lean forward to look at her in the eyes. “And in case you’re wondering, the charges were dropped. They conveniently left that part out of the news story last week when they ran that report about your parents’ rally.” I run my palm over the steering wheel. “So that, Kate, is why I don’t drink anymore. And I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that if I die tonight I will wind up in heaven, even if I get smashed out of my head on whiskey. Which I won’t. Because, like I said, I don’t do that anymore.”

She doesn’t speak for a while, which isn’t all that unexpected I guess, but then I look over at her and she’s got her hand wrapped around another of those darn pennies and I didn’t even see her reach for it. Her lips are parted and she’s rolling the coin across her bottom one, and then she looks at me. She looks at me with that penny stuck to her lip and I see fear. Fear and uncertainty, and neither are attractive on her, especially because both seem directed at me.