Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father(3)

“Are people,” I cut in.

“Who can vote,” she snaps back.

I ignore her. “They’re people with parents and high school diplomas and dreams for the future. Besides, they’ll probably be more afraid of me than I am of them.”

I barely believe what I’m saying. Politics aside, the kids who enroll at Carter University are bonafide Jesus Freaks. Capital J. Capital F. I might be Christian as far as the outside world is concerned, but my fledgling knowledge of the Bible and sporadic church attendance won’t fly inside this lion’s den. Which is why I’m keeping it all a secret.

My knowledge of the Bible (which is slim) and my commitment to walking with Christ on a daily basis (I don’t even really know what that means) will be on silent lockdown while I acclimate to my new surroundings. Most importantly, though, no one—and I mean no one—will know that Roland Abbot is my birth father until I’m good and ready. Which might be never. And I made him promise to uphold my wishes regarding that before I sent in my deposit.

“Here,” Mom slides an envelope out of her bag as she parks in front of my new dorm, “this is from Dan.”

Dan is my stepdad. My mother married Dan Sawyer when I was four, so I barely remember life without him. I’ve never called him Dad. I’ve never called anyone Dad. I don’t have a burning desire to call Roland that, since I know “the D word” is kind of a social construct, but it’s just a confusing proper noun thing going on in my head right now.

Anyway, Dan’s been far more mellow about my attending Carter than Mom. We’ve always been kindred spirits, and he says he’s not threatened about my wanting to acquaint myself with my birth father. At least I have one ally.

“What is it?” I question as I slide my fingernail under the seal.

“Save it,” she cuts in. “He wants you to read it after I leave. He was so upset the business trip coincided with bringing you to school.”

I tuck the envelope into my backpack and exit the car as Mom pops the trunk. I don’t have much with me. According to the student handbook, the posters and pictures I have hanging in my bedroom at home aren’t suitable for my dorm walls. Musicians with too-little clothing or too-foul lyrics, male models, and even TV series posters are all either borderline unacceptable or in the land of Sodom.

I chuckle to myself at my first Bible-like quip. I’ll have to remember that. Seems as though my summer of listening to the Christian music stations, following televangelists besides my father, and combing the internet for Christian teen and college blogs has started to finally permeate my brain.

There might be hope for me after all.

That’s not all I’ve done to indoctrinate myself with the ways of The Way. I stocked up on good Christian teen reading. Books like Don’t Kiss Frogs: How to teach your heart to wait for Jesus, Lust and Losing: Partners in Crime, and finally, Why I Waited. Yes, all of these books are about sex, or the avoidance of it. Based on my small sample size, there is truthfully more attention paid to sex in Christian books than regular books.

The residence halls are buzzing with student helpers, emotional parents, and new students. Everyone is smiling. Everyone. Mom and I seem to notice this at the same time, because she turns to me slowly with a very Stepford wife-looking smile on her face.

“Stop,” I whisper while laughing. “You know, for a Christian, you are awfully judgmental,” I tease, my voice still hushed.

Mom arches an eyebrow as she removes my toiletries from the trunk. “Let’s revisit this conversation on Thanksgiving break, hmm?”

I roll my eyes and march toward the door.

“I will say,” she continues as we trudge up the steps, “that one thing this university has done right is the single sex dorms.”

“Amen!” a bright-faced father cheers as he sidles up next to me and Mom with a box full of books.

As he passes us, Mom calls back, “Hallelujah!” and I want to curl up and die until I realize he likely thinks she meant it.

I shush her and guide us to my room in Baker Hall. Number 1120. I have no idea who will be waiting for me on the other side of the door, but I rest my hand on the doorknob. I hold my breath for a minute. Once I turn this knob that will really be it. Once you put your things in a place, that’s it.

There is no chatter coming from the other side of the door, and I thank God for the tiny grace that allows me a minute alone. I’m starting to feel anxious about this endeavor and I need some time to breathe.

Upon entering the room, I notice what I expected to see based on pictures: one bunk bed and one single bed, indicating I will have two roommates. Judging by the clothes hanging up and the bags set on two of the beds, they both seem to have arrived on campus.

The room looks rather romantic in a Victorian sort of way. The floors are hardwood. A light color—pine maybe. They match the wood on the bed. The room is small, but appears grander because a gigantic window on the far side of the room floods the space with light and a peaceful view of the ever-green campus. There is fresh paint on the walls. White, I’d call it, but I’m sure there’s a technical name for it, like “Eggshell” or “Robe White.”

I smile again at my own private joke.

“Don’t forget to close the shades at dusk,” Mom says mockingly.

Rule #10 in the handbook. It made the top ten! We wouldn’t want changing into our pajamas to become a spectator sport, after all.