Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(55)

“If they wanted to show off,” I say as Mollie and I ascend the front steps, “they could at least be responsible about it. Why not hire some sort of cab or bus service to drive the soon-to-be-drunk kids home?”

Mollie shakes her head. “Put your bonnet away, Grandma, we’re heading into a party now. Can you handle it?” She places her hands on her tiny hips, wearing the next-to-nothing outfit she selected yesterday.

“Do I look okay?” I ask, suddenly very aware of the butterflies in my stomach.

A combination of seeing Trent, being somewhere I’m not supposed to, and the weird way my text conversation with Matt ended has me feeling off balance. Still, I managed to only amass a few dress code violations in an effort to attend this party without looking Amish. I selected dark-washed skinny jeans, and paired them with knee-high brown boots. A burnt orange tank top clings desperately to my stomach, but a thin, brown, three-quarter length sweater covers me somewhat.

Mollie reaches forward, grabbing the bottom of my shirt and rolling it up an inch. Once a sliver of my stomach is visible, she sighs, contented. “You look amazing. Trent’s going to kick himself for letting you go.”

I roll my eyes. “That was like a hundred years ago, Moll.”

She smiles broadly. “And, as soon as he sees you, it’ll feel like only yesterday. Bastard,” she whispers, opening the oversized front door to the Kratz estate.

Once her back is to me, I unroll my tank top, covering my stomach and letting it hang a full two-inches below the button of my jeans.

“Mollie! Kennedy!” Tara hollers from mid-way up a grand staircase. “Get over here you dirty hookers!”

We meet her halfway and hug our foul-mouthed friend. Tara’s always had a penchant for profanity and wild hair colors. I’ve seen her hair almost every color of the rainbow, so her rather basic jet-black throws me off balance.

“Look at your hair!” I smile, pulling back form our hug. “Are you going conservative on us?”

She snorts. “Hardly.” Turning around, she lifts the back of her hair, revealing that a significant portion of the underside has been shaved, and what hair is left has been dyed bright pink.

“Awesome!” Mollie runs her hand up the back of Tara’s buzzed hair and motions for me to feel it.

“I’m set,” I assure both of them, sliding my hands in the back pocket of my jeans and taking a quick look around.

By all appearances, this looks like a standard party. An adult party. Sure, there is contemporary pop music playing, and the crowd is all under twenty-five, but with rich kids, there’s always the appearance of maturity. Anyone popping pills, blowing lines, or smoking pot is relegated to a room or two upstairs, and there are no beer cans here. There is a tapped keg in the kitchen, some helpful passerby assures me, and wine and liquor are on the bar.

No one is running around half-naked hooting and hollering, there is no puking into the bushes, and, likely, the cops won’t be called. It is the unspoken responsibility of everyone in attendance to keep up the appearance of having their shit together. Even when it might be the furthest thing from the truth.

Whitewashed tombs.

“Where’s Trent?” I blurt out to cover up the scriptures running through my brain.

Tara winks. “Probably in a dark corner, waiting to corrupt the daughter of a preacher.”

Winking again, she’s just acknowledged for the first time her knowledge of my paternity. One nice thing about keeping up appearances is the facade of social grace. It’s not likely that anyone will race up to me and play a game of twenty-questions regarding my new role as the daughter of the Evangelical King of Camelot, but their stares say enough. They want to ask. Because, despite the “fame” that I’ve now fallen into, it’s worlds away from anything these kids have ever known, or will ever know.

“Heard about that, huh?” I nod, slowly, moving toward a wall and away from the center of the room.

Tara follows, while Mollie spots some of our other friends, and they twitter away down the hall.

“What the f*ck is that shit?” Tara whispers when we’re as away from anyone as we’re likely to get all night.

I shrug. “I know, right?”

“You knew he was your dad the whole time?”

“Well, since I was eight. He didn’t become a pastor till a few years ago and, I mean, how am I supposed to know what big is.”

Tara waves her hand. “I know, like, everyone has their own damn TV or Internet shows these days.”

“Right?”

“Is he like super famous? I mean, I know you were on the Today Show, but, Christ, they interview those people who have like thirty kids at a time. They’re not so selective anymore—no offense.”

I hold up my hand. “None taken, promise. You know how Trent’s dad is in, like, the hair world?”

Tara nods, gesturing to the expansive house in which we’re standing.

“Well,” I sigh, “Roland is like that … but with … Bible thumpers.” I wince internally at my use of Bible thumpers. Where I come from, it’s a perfectly acceptable and understood term, but I think about my good friends at CU and my stomach twists at the derogatory nature of it.

Still, Tara understands my analogy. “Fuck, dude.”

“Yep. Fuck.”

“You supposed to talk like that?” She teases with a smile.