Chapter Twenty
“I don’t know what to do.”
Noah’s quiet proclamation strikes my heart with a dull, helpless thud that matches the bleak temperature of this early spring afternoon.
Regardless of the cold, however, track season is in full swing, and I’m here to watch Jenna run.
The fact that I can see Noah here without raising suspicion is, of course, a bonus.
As runners from several high schools shiver in shorts and nylon track suits, Noah and I view the races from the lonely top row of the metal bleachers.
A caveat to the privacy offered by our choice of seating is that we also catch a fair bit of wind.
Wrapped about our shoulders, a tartan wool blanket, pulled from the trunk of my car, offers a little warmth.
My gaze lifts, as if I might find the answer to our dilemma above.
Clouds rush over the gray April sky, driven by a brisk wind.
If the answer’s there, I sure don’t see it.
It’s been two weeks since Mom made her “no Noah” ruling, and nothing has budged her resolve.
“They won’t talk to me on the phone,” Noah says. “I tried writing a letter, but—”
“I saw it in the trash. Unopened.” I sigh. “You probably should have left off the return address.”
“Oh. Right. I didn’t think of that.”
“I opened it and tried to make her read it, but she ripped it in half and took it right back to the trashcan.”
A loud pop signifies the start of the next race. I jump. So does he.
“I went to your mom’s office, but after the front desk guy called her to announce me, he kicked me out and threatened to call security if I came back.”
“I know. She told me about that. I’m sorry.”
“The guy looked a little scared of me. It was freaky. Did she tell you what she said to him? I mean . . . never mind. Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I think he’s new. She—” I sigh. “She goes through a lot of assistants. His reaction probably had nothing to do with you and more to do with the toxins that dripped off his marching orders.”
“Oh.”
My eyes are on the runners, but even though I easily identify Jenna sprinting toward the first hurdle of her race, my mind barely notes the grace with which she sails over the first, second, and third hurdles. The crowd cheers, and I half-heartedly applaud my friend before turning back to Noah.
“What about your boss’s wife, Dr. MacIntosh? She works at the hospital. Maybe she could talk to my dad at work. Put in a good word for you.”
“I already thought of that. No dice.” Noah shakes his head. “Amanda tried to talk to your dad after a staff meeting, but he shut her down.”
Beneath the blanket, I link my arm through Noah’s. He weaves his fingers through mine.
“Don’t give up.” I squeeze his hand. “There has to be a way. I mean, they’re still letting me go to your church on Wednesday nights, right?”
“About that.” Noah lets out a long breath. “I guess your mom called the church to make sure your Bible study was for high school girls only. And that I wasn’t involved.”
“Unfreakingbelievable.” Except it is, unfortunately, too believable, since it’s my mom. “But I should have known. Like she’d believe I could be in the same building as you and not have to rip my clothes off.”
“Well, she must have been pretty convincing, because Pastor Luke—he’s the youth pastor—”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He cornered me last Sunday and asked . . . Well, he wanted to make sure that we weren’t, um, doing anything like that.”
Noah’s ears are pink, and I suspect it isn’t all from the wind. How could anyone think he’s the sort of guy who would . . .
But that’s the problem. My parents don’t know him.
“I haven’t done anything to deserve this. I’m one of the good girls.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think your mom is harder on you because she’s trying to make up for letting Gretchen get away with so much in high school?”
“You assume my mom would admit Gretchen was anything other than perfect.” I pick at a loose thread on the blanket.
“No, it’s not that. My mom is one hundred percent blind when it comes to the Golden Child.
Gretchen probably could have told Mom every single thing she was doing, in graphic detail, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
Mom’s double standard is infuriating, but it’s nothing new.
This isn’t about Gretchen. Honestly, I don’t even think it’s about you being too old or too religious or whatever.
It’s about me being too artsy. Because artsy people can’t be trusted. ”
“Which is a strike against me, too.”
“True. That one sticks, you show-tune-loving freak of nature.” I give him a sideways grin and elbow his ribs.
He grants me a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“At least we can still hang out at stuff like this,” I say. “They can’t keep you from coming to a public sporting event.”
His sigh is too big, too deep to be good. “It still feels kind of sneaky. Don’t you think?” He frowns. “I want to be with you, but I don’t want to be dishonest about it.”
A twinge in my jaw agrees with him, but my heart does not. “We’re not hiding. We’re not sneaking. We’re in plain sight. There’s nothing wrong with you coming to a track meet.”
“I don’t even like track. I didn’t come to a single meet when I was a student. But now, all of a sudden, I’m the team’s biggest fan?” He gestures toward the Kanton team. “I don’t think I even know any of these kids. I mean—”
“Kids?” My defenses rise. Jenna is one of only a handful of sophomores good enough to run varsity. Most of the athletes on the field are a year or two older than me, which makes them only a year or two younger than Noah.
“You know what I mean.” Noah sighs. “Faith, I’ve been praying about this. About us. Mac and Amanda MacIntosh are praying for us. They both think, and I agree, that it’s high time I meet your parents, whether they want to meet me or not.”
“But they won’t meet you. They won’t even consider it.”
“So far.” Noah pauses as another race begins. “Your parents think you’re going to Jenna’s Friday night, right?”
“I am going to Jenna’s Friday night.”
“Right.” Noah shifts in his seat. “But then you and Jenna are planning to meet up with me later.”
“So?”
“How about, instead, you and Jenna go to the movies on your own. And I . . .” Noah pauses, inhales, and then exhales hard through pursed lips. “I’ll go to your house.”
“Are you nuts?”
The horror I feel must match my face because Noah laughs. “What are they gonna do, Faith? Sic the dog on me?”
“Who knows? I wouldn’t put anything past my mother anymore. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“You think Janey would hurt me?”
“It’s not that. Janey wouldn’t hurt you. She knows you. And I don’t mean physically. It’s my mom.” I groan. “She’s just mean. And—and paranoid. And it didn’t help, having Aunt Becca call last week, asking for money. Whenever she calls, Mom gives me the evil eye for days after.”
“Why do you get the evil eye?”
I explain about the way Aunt Becca is and how strict, yet hypocritical my mom’s parents are.
“Is that why your mom is so anti-church?”
“She’s not anti-church. She’s anti too much church. But, yeah. It’s probably because of the way she was raised and the way Becca experiments with different faiths. Mom believes religion is dangerous unless taken in very small doses.”
“And she has the proof to back it up,” Noah nods. “That’s sad.”
“Yeah. But I don’t know why I have to be punished for my aunt’s mistakes.
” I scowl down at the track. “This past week, Mom’s really gone mental on me.
I have to account for every minute of every day.
If I come home from school a little late, she checks the mileage on my car.
It’s so not fair. She’s totally convinced that you’re some pervert, looking to steal my virtue. ”
“They just want to protect you. And that’s why I have to go down there. I want to protect you, too. I think I can get them to see that.”
Noah’s words warm me more than the wool blanket, but they can’t chase away the butterflies flitting around in my stomach. The thought of him showing up at our door, unexpected . . .
“I don’t want you to have to face her alone.”
“You do it all the time. And besides, I don’t intend to go alone. Not really.”
“Who’s going with you?”
He points up.
“Oh. Right.”
“I’m going to pray hard. Mac and Amanda will pray, too.” Noah squeezes my hand, and the warmth in his eyes intensifies. “Will you pray about it with me? Can you trust God to take care of . . . us?”
“I’ll try.”
It isn’t an idle promise. Being around Noah, listening to him pray, praying with him . . . Prayer is becoming my default mode these days.
Want to scream at Mom? Pray. Want to tell your parents every rotten thing your older sister has ever done—or at least the ones you know about? Pray. Want to grab a pint of ice cream and devour all your toxic feelings?
I’m still working on that one. There is never enough ice cream in our house.
Noah lets go of my hand and puts his arm around my shoulders.
I swallow. Hard. What if God wants Noah and me apart before he leaves for London? What if my mom, even in her caustic way, is walking more in God’s will than we are?
No. That can’t be right. She’s walking a path paved in stubborn prejudice and arrogant ignorance. And if I’ve learned anything about Jesus these past months, it’s that arrogance and bigotry aren’t his style.
Noah squeezes my hand. Bows his head. I scoot closer to his side and close my eyes.
Lord, we really need your help. Please, God.
Please break through my mother’s stubborn heart.
Make her see Noah for who he really is. Please.
I’ll read my Bible every day. I’ll memorize two new verses every week.
I know it’s stupid to bargain with the Creator of the Universe, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Please, God. Please, just let me be with Noah.