Chapter 4 #2
She hums. I follow her gaze to the students milling about the gazebo.
“Everyone at Hilltop is here for one reason or another,” she begins.
“Like I said, there are plenty of people here who you would expect. For example, ‘Ring by Spring’ is definitely a thing here—spring of freshman year, mind you. The joke is that all the men who come here to study ministry find their music minister wives at orientation. But another joke is that every religion major has a complete meltdown after their first semester of Greek class when they realize the King James English translation of the Bible that they’ve been basing their whole lives on isn’t super accurate to the original Greek.
” She meets my eye with mischief. “And yet, very few transfer out.”
“Why?” I ask, desperately wishing we were filming already.
“For me, the easy explanation is that my grandfather set aside money for my tuition here and here alone. I still could have left if I wanted to, between scholarships and student loans and part-time jobs. But I didn’t, because when you’re at a place like this—a place that denies your identity and attempts to control you—you have to find your people to survive.
It’s like you have to risk letting your guard down and being who you truly are with them because you can’t be who you are anywhere else.
So the friendships are deep. Very underground network. ”
Her smile shines brilliantly. “I found a family here. It’s like this level of darkness can’t exist without an intense light to counterbalance it.”
My heart is racing. I investigate these oppressive spaces for a living, and I’ve never quite heard someone explain their complexity the way she just did.
I’ll do everything in my power for this trial run to go smoothly, for her to wring out every bit of joy from the Jezebel List so she can share that joy with the world.
The world needs to hear this woman’s story.
When I can’t stop staring intensely, she laughs. “Plus, I only had three semesters left by the time I might have chosen to leave. Let’s just lock down that piece of paper on Grandpa’s dime and get out, am I right?”
The documentarian in me squashes down the question of why she might have chosen to leave three semesters ago—we have to save it for the camera.
But that, unfortunately, leaves me to blurt the other words at the tip of my tongue: “You’re really defending that title of most interesting girl I’ve ever met. ”
She wanders a step closer too, her head tilting back slightly to keep me in her sights. She’s close enough that her scent hits me—and it’s like spring incarnate. All blooming flowers and soaking rains and pure sweetness.
“Why do you find me so interesting?” she asks. “Why are you so excited by this list?”
I’m not sure I expected her to ask me those questions so bluntly. There’s no accusation or harshness in her tone, just warm openness.
“That’s the thing,” I say, my voice far lower and way more intense than I intend. “I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. I can’t yet articulate why I’m so excited or why I find you so … interesting.”
She visibly shivers on the last word, and I chase it down her spine. “But I want to find out. Will you give me the chance to find out?”
Her breathing is shallow as she holds my gaze a long moment. I think it’s time to accept that I’m doomed when it comes to her. She’s so honest and sincere that I only want to be honest and sincere in return. Looks like this will be a new kind of documentary for me in more ways than one.
She finally nods even as she backs away a few steps. “We’ll find out together.”
I like the sound of “we” and “together” so much that I smile at her. A real smile.
The effect is instantaneous. She visibly relaxes on an exhale, a huge smile illuminating her face. That’s when it hits me: There has to be absolute trust between us for this project to work.
“Since we’re laying our cards on the table,” I start, “given the trial run and all, can I ask you a question?”
“Hold on,” she says, patting the pockets of her jeans. “Let me get all my cards gathered up.”
I bite my cheek to keep a laugh from sneaking out. “You’re more comfortable when I’m not …?” I don’t know how to explain my charismatic character to her without sounding insane.
“Pretending to host the Oscars?” she supplies.
Holy fuck, she’s astute.
I must be gaping at her because she laughs lightly. “I basically have a doctorate in performance modes from a lifetime of observation and practice,” she says. “It’s exhausting when you need people to like you and open up to you and see you a certain way so you can do your job, isn’t it?”
Just when I thought I couldn’t be more interested in her.
Because that sounds like more than the usual level of performance that comes with fundamentalism.
Who would ever want her to be anything other than herself?
And she’s right, of course—performing to be more palatable to others is completely exhausting.
And at least half of why I’ve felt so burned out lately.
I’m too caught in my thoughts, so she goes on without my answer. “I already like you, no performance required.” A faint blush creeps across her cheeks. “In fact, I would much rather have to work to get that real smile of yours than be freely given the fake one.”
I blink. “Who are you?”
Well, she said she likes me. And this is me. Asking this woman who she is with obvious wonder.
She answers without missing a beat, just a bit of sharpness lacing the warm voice.
“I’m a woman who won’t spend one more minute performing, or behaving, or folding myself up to fit anyone else’s expectations.
I may keep my life hush-hush from Hilltop, but I won’t let them stop me from living it.
Not even with only one semester left. Not even at the risk of expulsion. ”
“No wonder I can’t be fake with you,” I mutter.
“That’s the best compliment you could give me.”
She smiles up at me for a beat in the ensuing silence, and then pointedly looks over to the bench where my camera bags still lay rather forgotten.
“How about I be the one to drive, Maestro?”
I blink. “Drive?”
“You can record a trial interview while we’re in the car.”
“In the car?”
“Well, I asked you to meet me at Hilltop for a reason. You have to experience the distance.”
“The distance to where?” I would love to do more than just parrot her words back to her, but I feel like I’m always two steps behind her, sprinting to catch up. Is that why my heart is racing?
She grins mischievously, and any lingering trace of my charming professionalism evaporates. “Exit 11, of course.”
I don’t think anyone will be able to look away when I finally get her on camera.