Chapter Nineteen #2
“There are high moral standards . . . and then there are people who only give lip service to their high moral standards.”
“True, but Noah doesn’t strike me as that type. He’s genuine. Solid.”
“Did you know that Faith has started going to Bible studies at that Fellowship Community Church?”
“She mentioned it.”
“Those people are fanatics. I’ve heard they put their hands in the air when they sing.”
“So does Beyoncé. What’s your point?”
I can only imagine the deadly scowl Mom must be giving Ryan in the pause before she says, “You know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately. But what I also know is that you’re setting impossible and unfair standards for Faith that you didn’t place on me or Gretchen. Faith’s a good kid, Mom. Trust her enough to loosen the cord and let her grow up.”
“When you’ve raised three children, Ryan, I’ll consider asking you for parenting advice. Until then, you would do well to keep it to yourself. And if I find out you’ve encouraged Faith to disobey me, I’ll . . .”
The threat hangs in the air.
Until Ryan laughs.
Oh, crap. I cringe. Laughing at Mom while she’s in this state of mind isn’t going to help my cause.
“You’ll what, Mom?” He laughs again. “Ground me?”
Mom exhales loudly. “Look, I know you and Faith have a special bond. But step back from the situation. For just a few minutes, see if you can set aside that she’s your baby sister. Maybe then you’ll see where Faith’s involvement with this Noah character could lead.”
“They’re both good kids. If you would just meet him—”
“Ryan, if Faith gets pregnant, and this boy heads off to acting classes or whatever, is your little apartment big enough to hold you, your new wife, and Faith and her baby? Because if that happens, she’s not staying here.”
Whoa. I cover my mouth to keep my shock from coming out as sound. How can Mom think I would—?
And even if I did, she would disown me? Kick me out?
Will she also provide me a sweatshirt with a big red “A” on the chest, my own personal scarlet letter, as a parting gift?
“C’mon, Mom. Faith is too smart for that. And Noah isn’t that sort of guy. Believe me, I questioned him pretty harshly.”
“Oh, please. What would you expect him to say to a girl’s big brother? Besides, if he’s studying to be an actor, how can you know if he was telling the truth or just putting on a good show?”
The insult against Noah balls my hands into fists and heats my scalp. I have to strain to hear Mom’s now softer voice over the blood pulsing in my ears.
“But even if he is a good guy, as you say”—I can almost see the air quotes she probably used to further express the sarcastic tone of her voice—“you know how it goes in the heat of the moment. And this is Faith we’re talking about, remember?
She’s ruled by her emotions. Always has been.
It’s dangerous. Although, I suppose that’s one of the things that makes her so good at drama. ”
The miniscule compliment is hidden inside the much larger, conversation-encompassing insult, but it grabs my ears. Mom thinks I’m a good actress.
I creep down a few steps to hear them better.
“Faith is a teenager, and teens are unpredictable. If you don’t believe me, believe what science says about all those young, raging hormones, racing around their brains and bodies, seeking a life to destroy.”
“Pretty sure ‘science’ wouldn’t frame it quite like that.”
Watch it, bro. We’re on thin ice here.
“I had to watch it happen to my sister. I refuse to see that happen to one of my kids. You watch the news. Every other day some actor or musician ends up overdosing, committing suicide, or being arrested for . . . whatever. Artistic types are emotional and unpredictable. They’re flighty, fickle souls.
And few of them come to a good end. Why would you want to encourage that for her?
You didn’t know Becca when she was sixteen, but trust me. She wasn’t that different from Faith.”
Even though Mom’s voice is tighter, sadder now, I’m seeing red—and it has nothing to do with that imaginary “A” she seems to think I’ll soon deserve.
How can she compare me to Aunt Becca? Yes, we’re both musical, I guess. But my personality is about as much like Becca’s as Ryan’s is like Dad’s.
Which is not at all.
“Becca was smart, beautiful, and talented,” Mom says, with an oddly hard sort of wistfulness in her voice.
“A real force of nature, my sister. She could have been so successful. She could have gone to college, maybe become a music teacher, at least. Instead, she invested all her potential in a boy with a guitar and a dream, neither of which panned out. You won’t let yourself see it, but it’s there.
Faith is so much like Becca it’s . . . it’s scary. ”
“She’s not,” Ryan insists.
“She is. I’ve never understood either one of them.
Knowing Faith, she probably thinks she’s in love with this Noah Spencer, but when he turns on the charm and smooth-talks her into the back seat of his car, will she have the presence of mind to take precautions?
Or will she just follow whatever passionate whim shows up at the moment and end up waiting tables at some dive so she can buy diapers and formula? ”
“Janet.” Dad clears his throat and enters the conversation, surprising me. “Faith may be artistic like Becca, but she’s not a flake. Ryan’s right. Faith has a good head on her shoulders.”
Thanks, Dad. My heart lifts just a little.
“You didn’t have to clean up the messes Becca left behind, Joseph.” Mom’s voice is hard again. “I did. If we don’t keep Faith on a tight leash, she’ll take us down the same path.”
“Mom,” Ryan’s voice is soft, “you’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”
The spring in the couch pops, like it does when someone stands who’s been sitting where Mom was sitting. I pull my head back out of sight and creep a few steps higher.
“I think it’s time for coffee,” Mom says. “I’m going to go make a fresh pot.”
That’s it, then. The subject is closed. Not that it was ever truly open, regardless of Ryan’s efforts.
I race up the stairs so I won’t be caught eavesdropping. With each step, a sense of doom climbs higher, starting in my stomach until it becomes lodged in my throat—hard, like a rubber ball. Once Janet Prescott makes up her mind about something—or someone—there is no changing it.
I can’t date Noah.
Spikes dig into the soft tissues of my throat, weakening my knees as I close my bedroom door. I barely make it to my bed before the rest of my hope and strength is siphoned away.
Clutching a pillow to my chest, I turn toward the window and stare, unseeing, at the rainy Easter sky. Tears march a steady but silent cadence down my face.
In a matter of a few months, Noah Spencer has melted into my soul. I know by the way he treats me—from the words he texts to the looks we share across a table or a room—the essence of me has taken residence just as deeply inside him.
A cry rises within my chest, daring me to let it move beyond the mass of pain blocking its release. I lift my fist to my lips and bite my index finger to keep from letting the sound escape. I stay like that.
I stay.
I wait, my heart chanting his name.
When the choking suffocation finally subsides, I pull my fist away. My finger throbs where I had been biting it. I look down.
There is something resolute, something heartening about those indentations on my skin.
I examine the slight curve of the red line, a curve perfected by professional orthodontia.
Four years ago, there would have been a different, more irregular shape, made by teeth that jutted this way and that. My teeth didn’t align overnight. It took time, the application of due force, and, if Mom’s exclamation over the bills was any indication, great cost.
Great cost.
I sit up straighter. Outside my window, the trees come into focus, backlit by the slow descent of the sun, mostly hidden by rainclouds.
Maybe my path to Noah won’t align overnight. That doesn’t mean it won’t ever align. I can be patient—I don’t have to ask myself if it’s worth it. Noah’s soul reflects mine, and mine his. He is the mirror of my heart.
Our time together is limited. Winning the right to be with him for the next few months is worth anything I will suffer along the way, or after.
Yes, when Noah leaves for London, I’ll have to figure out how to navigate life without him near, but now, while he’s still close . . .
I will not—cannot—give him up. It would be like cutting out my heart. Somehow, somehow, I will make my parents see the beautiful soul inside Noah Spencer. Because if they see him for who he truly is, maybe they’ll finally see . . . me.
But how?
I reach for my phone.
Noah will know what to do.