Sway (22 page)

“Not since the eighties, and not mine. Not one I personally know of, in fact. I was just making a point.”

I roll my eyes and plunk my purse on the counter. “A stupid point. I’ll take this,” I say to the heavily pierced guy behind the counter, wanting to ask if the barbell running through his top lip hurts, but keeping the question to myself because the guy looks scary and I wouldn’t want to make him angry, even with Caleb here to protect me. Which I suddenly doubt he would do since he thinks I have horrible taste in music. I dig out my wallet and pull out two bills.

“Dude, you’re buying this?” pierced guy says. “I didn’t think this would ever sell. Couldn’t see the point of carrying it in the first place since it’s so incredibly lame and only someone with rotten taste would—”

“Please just tell me how much is costs.” Men. Is there really a point to their existence? And why is he calling me a dude?

“Seventeen ninety eight. But are you sure you want—”

“I’m sure.” I plant two tens on the counter and storm toward the door, forgetting about the change, not caring about a bag, hearing Caleb high five pierced guy and chuckle softly as he trails behind me.

“You don’t have to get so mad,” he says as the door closes behind him.

I’m not mad—how could I be when I still haven’t wrapped my mind around the fact that Caleb doesn’t hate me—but then again he’s still laughing, so all of a sudden I am, in fact, slightly ticked off. It’s like a whiplash of emotions around him. Surprise. Fear. Regret. Sorrow. Embarrassment. Attraction. I’ve run the gamut today, and the sun hasn’t even made a full pass across the sky.

I toss a half-hearted glare over my shoulder. “You’re a pain.” A childish thing to say, even if it’s true. I clutch my new album to my chest like a favorite teddy bear, thinking about how excited I am to listen to it when I get home, because despite what Caleb says,
‘A’ My Name is Alice
is a brilliant song, one I’m currently humming in my head as we walk. He opens the truck door for me and I climb in.

“What’s that you’re humming?” Caleb asks as he slides in beside me.

So apparently it wasn’t just in my head. “Nothing.”

He starts the car and slides me a wink. “That isn’t nothing. It sounds pretty upbeat, a little on the silly side, almost like—”

“It’s nothing. Not anything you would know. Definitely not a Donny and Marie song. Shut up.”

He laughs harder and shifts the truck into reverse.

*

Five minutes later, he’s no longer laughing. Neither am I. In fact, the whole mood inside his car has changed, and not for the better. Just as we pulled onto the highway, Caleb got a phone call from Scott, one that lasted less than a minute but was filled with more tension than a two hour horror film, and he hasn’t said a word since. Not to me, not even to himself. I wish he would scream. I wish he would yell. I wish he would pound the steering wheel and call me a hundred different names whether I deserve them or not, except I’m pretty sure I do. I heard the call. I heard Caleb’s responses.

It doesn’t matter that he only said four words. I know what Cease and Desist and Defunded means.

The lawsuit was filed. Caleb’s job…the kids…his reputation…

Everything he’s worked for is in jeopardy, and I have no idea what to do.

I only know that every time our relationship takes a small step forward, something comes along to drag us right back into disaster.

Caleb

“A Church, a Courtroom, and Then a Goodbye”

—Patsy Cline

T
he best way to guard against unnecessary emotion is to surround yourself with a barrier, an invisible fence so intricately constructed it’s impenetrable by even the most well-meaning of souls. That worked for me for years, but it’s hard to hold a fence together when outside forces are constantly pushing against it.

The first chink in the fence fell the day Scott Jenkins walked up to me at a Boys and Girls Club and asked me point blank how long I planned on carrying around that crate-sized chip on my shoulder. Like most other days, I was high at the time—don’t remember on what—but I do remember that he came there often, tried to talk to me often. I made fun of him for it. The guy was scrawny, practically a waif. I was twice his size.

Turned out he wasn’t intimidated by me in the least.

I wanted to punch him for his question.

So I did. Right above the jaw on that spot where the lower lip meets the chin bone. Instead of the cowering I expected, Scott stood up from the dirty gym floor and fought back. The pitiful effort earned a laugh from me until his stupid high school class ring cut a three-inch gash in my left hand. Despite the wound and my failed attempt at not squealing like a girl, it earned both of us an exit from the place. Not sure anyone has ever been evicted from a Boys and Girls Club before or since. We hold the distinction. We became friends that day. He’s my best one now.

The second chink in the fence appeared when I got arrested and Scott’s father bailed me out of jail. The third when Chris Jenkins’, at Scott’s insistence, brought me into his home and gave me a place to stay because his son wouldn’t give up on me. I had no idea why back then; now I know it was his belief that anyone as stubborn as me could be just as tenacious about God if harassed enough to actually develop a relationship with Him. The fifth and sixth and seventh chink unraveled without my noticing, but I guess that’s what happens when you find yourself living among a group of people who eagerly make you part of their family.

I hadn’t been part of a family in forever. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

The fence fell in a heap the day I finally found God. For the first time in years, I was free.

I can feel the fence going up again. Choking me. Binding me. Snagging me in its grip.

Link by link by link.

I want to stop it, but I’m not sure how. Even prayer doesn’t seem to work.

I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.

It’s been exactly eight days since I dropped Kate off at her apartment without saying goodbye. I know this because I’ve thought about it six hundred and ninety-one thousand times since then, once for every second that’s ticked by. I’m not proud—of my thoughts or my behavior toward her—but sometimes life is just life, and I can’t change what happened.

I can change my clothes, though. I’m going for a run.

By the time I’ve made it to the bedroom, I’ve slipped off my shirt and both shoes, my whole body on edge, ready to take out some pent-up frustration on the pavement. I normally run every morning before work, but in between reporters calling and appeals being filed and nerves being soothed, everyone involved at the church is jittery. I haven’t run all week. My muscles are tight, gripped in an iron fist of protest, screaming for release.

If I have to run twenty miles in one direction, I’m going to give it to them.

It takes me no time to drag a t-shirt over my head and replace my dress pants with a pair of black running shorts. I pull on my running shoes without untying the laces, because I found just the right combination of loose and tight a couple of weeks ago and haven’t messed with them since. Finally, even though I’m burning up, I pull a hoodie over my head because it’s December and if Mrs. Jenkins sees me wearing nothing but a thin shirt she’ll give me a lecture about catching my death or the flu or any other disease that might be catchable nine days before Christmas.

It’s nine days before Christmas. I’m not any more excited about it than about the way things finished with Kate. One week has messed up my outlook on everything.

I lock the apartment door and jog down the steps, then stop short when I see Scott pull into the driveway. I live in an apartment above the Jenkins’ detached garage—have for a while. Somehow along the road called my life, I was blessed enough to find a family that fit, and I haven’t been eager to let them go just yet. I was eager to move out of the main house, however, because Scott is a pain in the butt to share a bathroom with, so a couple of years ago, I moved into the apartment. Seeing Scott in the driveway is a normal daily occurrence.

The look on his face is not.

“What’s wrong?” It’s the kind of question people ask to be polite, not because they really want to know the answer. I don’t. I want to run. And based on the incredibly crappy week we’ve had so far, the news is bound to be bad.

Scott loosens his tie and raises an eyebrow. “Are you going for a jog dressed like that? Do you realize it’s freezing out here? It’s almost Christmas, Caleb.” He says it to be funny, knowing those kind of comments get under my skin. The difference this time: Scott doesn’t smile at all.

“Don’t be your mom. Now, what’s wrong? Whatever it is, the shock of it is written all over your face, so you might as well tell me.”

In eight short days, we’ve been through orders to cease and desist, an order by a merciful judge blocking the original order, countless interviews by the press who’ve made us sound both sympathetic and like heartless fools who only care about money. We’ve had offers of representation by well-known attorneys who charge exorbitant fees we can’t pay, and offers from attorneys to represent us for free who have no winning records to speak of. We’ve been shut down and reopened, funded and de-funded. We’ve been picketed and protested, cussed at and prayed for. We’ve been accused of being too Christian and not Christian enough. We’ve sent out press releases, granted interviews, and answered phone calls from local television stations to
The Today Show
, but every time we issue a statement, the game changes.

A new order is given. A new opinion is granted. A new judgment is issued. Public opinion is swayed.

But through it all, Scott has stayed upbeat. Hopeful. Surprisingly faith-filled where my faith has been shaken. Old habits have settled in with me, habits I’m hoping to break tonight, even if I have to pound them out of me.

But the look on Scott’s face has me doubting that will happen.

“They’ve been granted an emergency injunction.” It sounds bad, but I’m not about to admit I’m not entirely sure what that word means.

“Who has? And what’s the emergency?”

“The Hawkins’s. Their organization. Kate. Whoever you want to put the blame on. And apparently, the emergency is us. We’re a threat to small children, a threat so dire that our funding has been stopped. As of this moment—until we appeal and even then only if we actually win it—the only way we’ll be able to operate is through private donations. And since that barely adds up to enough money to pay the light bill…” Scott sounds bitter. Scott never sounds bitter, and that bothers me more than anything.

Except for the part about Kate. That pretty much has me seeing red.

“How can the ruling go into effect so fast? Shouldn’t they give us thirty days or something? Isn’t that the law?” I have no idea if it’s the law; I just know that it should be. Funny how you never pay that much attention to things likes rulings and laws and injunctions and politics in general until you’re standing in the middle of political chaos. Now, I’d give anything to be a lawmaker so I could tell these local judges to stick it up their—

“Not when it’s classified as an emergency. In that case, a ruling is immediate.”

Scott and I just stare at each other, both lost for wisdom, direction, and words. Eventually I find some. “So what does that mean for us? More importantly, what does it mean for the kids?” I pull the drawstring on my hoodie, toying with the idea of burying myself inside the fleece lining. “Twenty of them are going to show up tomorrow, and what are we supposed to tell them? The older ones have been kicked out of school and we’re their only option. The younger ones…” I grip the back of my neck and turn toward street, determined to get ahold of my emotions. Scott has never seen me cry. Never. His father has twice, but that’s about as far as I’m prepared to take the family bonding. Once I get control of myself, I face him again. “The younger ones. For a couple of them, we’re the safest place they’ve got.”

I’m in the bottom of a ravine again, holding on to my mother’s lifeless neck. I’m alone, scared, cold, without anyone to rescue me. And maybe that’s why I relate so fiercely to these kids, because as neglected as they might be, I’ve been there, too.

“I don’t know, Caleb. I really…” He scrubs a hand over his face, a move I’ve seen from his father a hundred times before but never once from him. Scott is composed. Scott is unruffled. Scott is glee club and ironed slacks and perfectly starched shirts. But for maybe the first time ever, Scott looks as frazzled and messy as me, and it’s beginning to show up on the outside. “I don’t know. All I know is that we need to trust and pray and hope that—wow.” His eyebrows shoot up and he looks at me. “I haven’t seen that face in a while.”

I study him, only now aware that my arms are crossed. “What face? I’m not making a face.” A rock is at my feet and it’s bugging me all of a sudden, so I kick it down the driveway. It’s hard to miss the way Scott rolls his eyes, especially when he adds a well-placed sigh just to annoy me more.