Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(56)

I role my eyes just as another high school friend—Melanie, now attending Juilliard for dance—approaches.

“Hey Mel.” I pull her into a side hug and offer a soft kiss on each of her cheeks.

“Darling,” she draws out dramatically, “it’s been such a tough semester for you. Are you holding up okay?” She kisses my cheeks as she pretends to fuss over me like a worried grandmother.

Of all of us in our circle of friends, Melanie Dwyer most embraces her privileged upbringing. She was legitimately born to be part of the aristocracy. Her giraffe-like neck and lanky limbs to match allowed her to dive into her passion for ballet. Her mother is an American-born “diplobrat” who spent most of her life traveling the globe as her mother worked in international relations. Melanie’s father comes from a long line of money, though his nationality is suspiciously unclear. All of that aside, Melanie is extremely kind and caring—despite spending less time in reality than the rest of us do.

“It’s hardly a crisis, but thank you for checking in,” I attempt to reassure her to stop all the fussing.

She places a bony hand on her slightly protruding collarbone. “Hardly a crisis? Darling, you must still be in shock from the cultural downgrade you’re experiencing. Come.” She grips my hand and leads me to the bar, pouring me a glass of impossibly expensive champagne.

Where are Trent’s parents, anyway?

Taking a quick survey of my surroundings, I decide to leave the glass on the bar while I talk with Melanie. I don’t know if anyone here has the gall to take pictures of me and post them on Facebook, but, with how closely Dean Baker claims he’ll be watching me, even being seen in the background of these pictures at all would be enough to cause me migraines for the remainder of the semester, year, or my entire time at CU.

“Now,” Melanie starts after her sip. Tara has slipped upstairs to do God-knows-what. “Tell me everything.”

Spanish.

Her dad must be Spanish, I’ve decided after ten years of knowing her. Her skin is always several shades darker than is natural for inhabitants of New England, and she’s far too conscious of her skin to be seen within fifty-feet of a tanning booth.

I shake my head. “There’s not really much to tell yet, Mel. Just … trying to get through, you know?”

She shakes her head as if watching a story about rural poverty. “You poor thing,” she whispers. “Having to play nice with a man who didn’t want you.”

I know she means well. I think. But, still, it stings.

“That’s pretty complicated.” I defend Roland, thinking passively that we didn’t communicate with each other yesterday.

Was he waiting for my cue? Crap. Did I screw up?

“I’m sure it is. I can’t even imagine. That would be, like, finding out that my father was, I don’t know, a Count, of all things.” She delicately leans her head forward, covering her mouth in a repressed, snotty giggle.

I laugh, too, even though I haven’t the damnedest idea what she’s talking about. While Melanie laughs at her own “joke”, I survey my surroundings and realize with a startling jolt that I’ve never really belonged anywhere.

Look at these people.

Cable-knit sweaters, four-hundred-dollar boots, real diamonds and pearls dangling from buffed and polished necks … Was it always like this? Closing my eyes, I try to recall the smaller, alcohol-free parties in high school. To my horror, I see a very similar scene. How could I have gone all this time—my whole life—without seeing this?

Sure, my time away at CU has made me realize a lot of things about myself, and how I grew up, but I never expected to come home and feel like this is all … wrong. No one talking about mission trips or prayer circles. Not a single person having a conversation about anything deeper than their wallets. Yes, there are some decent people around me who will undoubtedly grow up to do some amazing humanitarian work, but, really? Is this where I came from? Do I, or did I, come off this way—or worse—to my CU friends? No wonder they looked at me the way they did. And some, honestly, still do.

I was never an outsider in high school. I was in the in crowd, for God’s sake. I dated the guy who is heir to a bagillion-dollar hair empire. My whole first semester at CU I felt like I was an outsider. Jesus, was I right? I wasn’t an outsider because of my pierced lip or liberal stance on issues that we haven’t even discussed in classes yet. I was—am—an outsider just like they are to me. I claimed I knew where they all came from and what they believed. And, politics aside, certainly a quick Google search shows the median income of my town, along with some of the “notable” people who call my community home for at least part of the year.

Shit.

Curling my lip in disgust, I scan the room one more time.

They think I’m one of these people.

I am one of these people.

“I Googled your guidelines when I saw you on the news. That f*cking blows, man.”

Snapping back into a reality of which I no longer want a part, I see one of my guy friends—Steve, the guy with the sorority girls in his Facebook profile picture—standing in Melanie’s place. She’s off to the side asking questions of some girl while touching the hemline of her dress and making her spin around.

“You watched my interview?” My nose crinkles in horror.

He smacks my shoulder. “Of course I did. You’re like a whole new brand of famous. You’re, like, reigning Princess of the Jesus Freaks!”