Chapter Sixteen
Hair still wet from her post-run shower, Mom sits at the kitchen table opposite Ryan and me, sipping her coffee as she digests our request. True to Ryan’s prediction, she’s calm, rational, and unaware of the tension that has me digging my fingernails into the underside of my chair.
“And you’ll be home by what time Sunday night?”
I glance at Ryan.
“We’ll aim to get back to Iowa City by three,” he says. “That way Faith and her friend can be back in Kanton between four and five. Will that work?”
“Let me check the calendar. Hang on. I put my phone on the charger.” Mom rises from her chair and leaves the room.
“My ‘friend’?” I whisper at Ryan. “Nice.”
“Don’t be too happy, kiddo. If Noah doesn’t pass the big brother test, that’s all he’s ever going to be.”
“And if he passes?”
Ryan leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Then I’ll expect you to come clean with Mom and Dad immediately. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“It looks like the weekend is free.” Mom leans against the door frame. “But I’m not sure it would hurt you to have a weekend to rest, Faith. You’ve been running like mad all winter.”
“Mom, it’s Les Misérables.”
“Fatigue is a serious thing. I don’t want you to end up getting sick.”
“I’ll get to bed early this week, okay?”
Mom purses her lips, glances at Ryan. “You or Danielle will do all the driving in Des Moines, right?”
“Right.”
“Good.” She takes her place at the table and another sip of coffee. “Will you ask Jenna to go with?”
“Nah,” I try to sound casual. “I was thinking of asking Noah. You know, the guy who played Rolf? Les Mis is one of his favorite musicals.”
The way Mom locks eyes with me, I have to pull out every acting skill I have not to crack under the pressure and bloom into a full-on blush. After a few intense moments that feel like an hour, Mom’s gaze turns back to Ryan.
“And the sleeping arrangements in Des Moines will be . . . ?”
“The bonus room over the garage has a futon and a pull-out sofa which will work for me and Noah. Danielle and Faith can share her old room.”
Mom’s lips press together, but she nods. “Okay. But no funny business, Faith. We don’t even know this boy. Who are his parents?”
“His parents are missionaries. They live overseas.”
“Why doesn’t he live with his parents?”
“Because he doesn’t want to be a missionary.”
“Well, that’s sensible, at least.”
Which is less sensible in Mom’s eyes: being a missionary or being an actor?
The only sound in the room is the ticking clock, the sound of which I can’t recall having ever noticed before. Now, it seems obnoxiously loud as I wait for the target of my mom’s stare to become anything but me.
“Faith will be well-chaperoned, Mom. Don’t worry.” Ryan—my hero—swoops in to break the tension. “So, can she come with us, or what?”
Mom’s eyes move back to me for another eternal moment. Finally, her gaze returns to Ryan. “I suppose. I trust you, Ryan. You, at least, have a good head on your shoulders.”
I grit my teeth. The implication is clear: Ryan is the mature, responsible, and dependable first-born son. Me, on the other hand? The dramatic, music-loving, artsy child? Not so much.
But maybe that’s not what she means. With a little effort, I relax my jaw. Maybe Mom is just worried I’ll get worn down and end up with the flu or something. She did, after all, just give me permission to go to Les Misérables.
And not only that, she gave me permission to go with Noah.