Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father(68)

Smiling, I pick up the pace. “Don’t know. I’m kind of a think-on-my-feet kind of girl.”

From behind me, Matt chuckles. “I can live with that.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Speak Life


“Shit,” Matt spits out when we round the corner and Planned Parenthood comes into view.

Shit, indeed. Bridgette and Eden are most definitely alone, and most definitely engaged in a heated discussion with three other women who look about our age. That, I assure you, is where the similarities end.

Hair dyed all colors of the rainbow, with torn clothes held together with safety pins and duct tape is the only visual description I can offer for the three girls talking with my roommates. And talking is a euphemism for the vile spewing of words.

“Hold up for a second,” I say to Matt, stopping us a few buildings away. Setting my backpack on the ground, I reach into the top zippered pocket and pull out a plastic bag holding my lip ring.

“You, uh, always carry that on you?” Matt tries to joke.

I nod, sliding the ring into place. “I don’t want the hole to close, so I sneak it in at night sometimes. And, I just kind of like carrying it around with me inside the sacred walls.” I shoot my eyes toward The Hill.

After desecrating my face, I reach into the pocket again for my hair tie and throw my hair into a messy bun. Matt is watching me, looking like he’s afraid to speak. His jaw is rigid and his hands haven’t moved from his side since I put my lip ring in.

Standing, I put my hands on his shoulders. “Tell no one. Promise.”

He swallows hard, nodding in silence.

“I don’t know what your stance is on ogling skin, but, whatever it is…steel yourself.”

Matt’s jaw drops slightly as I take a second hair elastic and tie the back of my shirt, revealing a small, but point-making, swath of skin on my stomach. To complete the look, I tug on my skirt, moving the waistband dangerously low on my hips.

“Ready?” I ask, taking what feels like my first deep breath all semester.

“I…” Matt clears his throat. “I guess.”

Looking at him, I squint my eyes and twist my lips. “Unbutton your shirt a little. Just the first two or three.”

Surprisingly, he looks over his shoulder, but does it anyway.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Matt, we’re not going to go to jail. It’s just clothes. Trust me.”

“I don’t know,” he says with mock trepidation. “You look a bit mug-shot like.”

I stick out my tongue. “One more thing. Don’t read into this, but, just…hold my hand.”

Without waiting for his reply, I grab his hand and start for the brick Planned Parenthood building. At first, Matt’s hand feels just like the brick, but a few steps into our walk, it softens and settles into a normal handhold.

Normal.

His hand is bigger than mine by at least two times and it’s warm. Borderline sweaty, but warm just the same. His grip is firm, and before I know it, I shift the position of my hand, allowing our fingers to interlace.

“Why did Roland call you Matty?” I ask as if we’re on a normal stroll. “You don’t strike me as a person who would let anyone call you Matty.”

Matt shrugs and mumbles, “He’s known my family for a long time.”

I stop in my tracks, wildly distracted. “This is news.”

“I didn’t realize it was…”

“You never mentioned knowing him.” My heart is racing.

Matt cocks his eyebrow. “And you never mentioned binge watching his sermons on YouTube.”

“GodTube,” I correct him. “How long have you known him?” My palms are getting slippery.

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” Matt sounds anxious. “I’ve never tried to break up a protest before.” He nods to the brick building in front of us.

I’m thoroughly paranoid about this new information on Matt. I know that even if he’s known Roland for a long time, it doesn’t necessarily mean he knows him well. And, while the whole world knows Roland has a child, there’s no guarantee that anyone—especially Matt—knows who that child is.

I decide to drop the interrogation, at least for now.

As we step onto the sidewalk a few feet from Eden, Bridgette, and the three pissed off liberals, Matt gives my hand a slight squeeze. I squeeze back and lift my chin.

“Hey, guys!” I direct to my roommates with an overdone smile.

Eden and Bridgette turn to me, and the widening of their eyes causes the three other women to stop their tirade about women’s rights long enough to size me up.

“Hey,” I say to them, “I’m Kennedy.”

The girl about my height, with a nose and eyebrow ring—and purple hair—steps forward. “Hi. Do you know them?” She points with a snarl to my roommates.

“I do. They’re friends of mine. Is there a problem here?”

Purple Hair shoves a picture of—yep—an aborted fetus in my face. “This. This is a problem.”

I drop my hand from Matts, take the picture, and study it for a second. “I’ll say.”

“Do you agree with this?” she nearly yells.

“With what part?” I reply.