Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father(9)

“Nice to meet you,” I reply before going back to my salad.

“Where are you from, Kennedy?” Silas continues his stellar manners.

“Connecticut.” I set my fork down and take a sip of water, not wanting to eat through the introductory conversation.

My response sends several heads at the table swiveling in my direction, including those of my roommates.

Silas takes a deep breath. “Wow,” he says on his exhale. “That’s tough country up there.”

I pull my eyebrows in and open my mouth to ask what he means when the girl to the left of me says, “That’s pretty liberal territory, huh?”

Turning to her, I find another beauty. Flawless dark skin and almond-shaped eyes highlight her Asian heritage, though I’m no good at pinpointing from where. Her black hair is pin straight and falls to her waist.

“I guess,” I admit with a shrug.

Yes is what I want to say. The state—as a whole—generally supports the rights of all of its inhabitants. Instead, I return to the salad.

Thankfully the increasingly uncomfortable silence is broken as the empty seat next to Silas is filled and Eden bounces where she sits.

“Jonah!” she squeals. “When did you get in?”

“An hour ago. Glad I found you guys.” With an easy smile, Jonah high-fives the guy to his left and returns his attention to Eden. “How was the rest of your summer?”

Rest?

Eden tilts her head to the side as her smile grows. “It was good…” she begins, then launches into a superlative list of how she spent the latter half of her summer—soup kitchens, church duties, and the like.

I find my eyes returning again and again to this Jonah character. His hair is short, like the rest of the guys on this campus—as required—but it seems to be a growth spurt away from an appearance infraction. His sideburns toe what I’ve read to be the acceptable length. Just long enough to run your fingers through.

No. Nope. Stop it. You can’t have those thoughts. If they swirl in your brain long enough, Kennedy, they’ll spill out of your mouth. It’s just a matter of time.

His eyes are brown. A honey brown. I take a second to appreciate them before returning my attention to Eden.

Clearing my throat, I decide to start initiating conversation to avoid looking like the weird girl. More like the weird girl, anyway. “You two know each other?” My eyes bounce between the two most beautiful people at the table.

That’s not really fair. They’re all beautiful. Alarmingly so. I begin to wonder if a life full of prayer and the absence of underage drinking, smoking, and sex has something to do with all the flawless skin and copious amounts of silky hair around me. And the smiles. Pure white smiles.

Robe White.

Eden interrupts my trance. “Jonah and I have gone to the same Bible camp in Kentucky from the time we were what, ten?” She tilts her chin toward Jonah, who nods as he forks some pasta into his mouth. He watches us out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Eden continues, fluttering her hands, “once we were fifteen, we became junior counselors, and then for the last two summers—including this one—we had our own groups of campers.”

Eden’s cheeks are pink, and Jonah appears to be forcing down a grin. I wonder if his intended major includes a pastoral track, since it seems to my secular Spidey-sense that Eden has her sights set on that boy.

“What kind of stuff does one do at Bible camp?” I ask far too innocently, it seems. A few heads turn my way, and I’ve now captured the undivided attention of Jonah.

Crap.

These are the details I worked to iron out over the summer. Smile and nod about things like Bible camp and non-infant baptism… What I should have asked was something like, what was your favorite part about Bible camp? That would have hidden the open sore of my inequity a bit better.

“You never went to Bible camp?” Eden asks in the sing-song voice she’d greeted Jonah with.

I shrug. “Well, VBS, of course.” That answer seems acceptable, and everyone resumes eating.

Vacation Bible School. A staple of the disciples and their children. It wasn’t a complete lie, I reassure myself. I did go to VBS at the Methodist Church.

When I was nine.

“Are both of you from Kentucky?” I lasso the attention of my roommate and the quiet, cute boy across from her once more.

We didn’t really have time to cover “get to know you” things in our room before my illegitimate childhood was brought to the prayer circle

Eden raises her hand. “I am. Dry Ridge. Jonah’s from southern Ohio, not far from the Kentucky border.”

She’s already answering for him. I wonder if they’re together.

I’m desperate to ask, but I’m lost as to what language to use. Do I ask if they’re courting? If they like each other? I resign to ask Eden when we’re back at the room with Bridgette. I can’t afford to embarrass myself in front of all these people.

“Where are you guys from?” I ask Bridgette and Silas.

“Tennessee,” they answer in unison, and then chuckle.

Southern Ohio. Kentucky. Tennessee.

My tablemates each represent a state—or piece of a state in Ohio’s case—cinched tightly in the nation’s Bible belt. I’m from the nation’s eyebrow.