Little Do We Know(17)

Mom had been doing this off and on since my early acceptance letter to BU arrived. “This is the last time we’ll make valentines for the Sunday school kids together” and “This is the last time I’ll turn the milk green for Saint Patrick’s Day.” Every This is the last time statement seemed to be followed by Mom leaving the room to find a tissue.

I wondered if part of her was secretly hoping they couldn’t afford to send me to BU so there wouldn’t be any more last times.

“I’ll go again, Mom, just not this summer.” I was hoping she wouldn’t get all emotional. I really wanted to go for a run.

“Actually, I was also thinking about Emory.”

“Emory?” That got my attention. “Why?”

Mom got this dreamy look on her face. “Remember how the two of you got up early every morning and played soccer with the local kids? She seemed to love being there. She really seemed to connect with the Lord on those trips.”

She didn’t “connect with the Lord.” She loved those trips because they were the least churchy things my family had ever forced her to do.

“Besides, it seems like she really needs it.” Mom added it like it was an afterthought, but I knew it wasn’t.

“What makes you say that?”

“I had a long talk with Jennifer yesterday,” she said.

My heart started pounding hard. Had Emory finally told her mom what happened?

“What did she say?” I asked.

“Nothing specific. We’re both just worried about you two. You’ve fought before, plenty of times, but not like this. Never for this long.”

I reached for my cross pendant and twisted it in my fingers.

“Please tell me why you two are in a fight.”

She knew what Dad had said. She didn’t know that Emory had overheard him, but that wasn’t what our fight was about, not really. I wanted to tell her everything else. For the six millionth time in the last three months, I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t. I swore I wouldn’t.

“Please, talk to me.”

Mom was pressing this subject more than usual, and I wasn’t sure why, but I knew what came next. She had this way of creeping inside my mind, breaking down the wall I’d so strategically built around it, and making me say things I promised myself I’d never say.

I bit down hard on my lip and shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you always tell me everything, Hannah. Please. You can trust me.”

I held my breath and told myself to keep the words inside, locked away where they belonged. I couldn’t tell Mom. She’d go straight to Emory’s mom. And Emory would hate me forever for betraying her.

I needed to get out of there, fast.

“This is between Emory and me.” In hopes of killing the conversation, I added, “And Jesus.” Mom didn’t say anything else, but I could feel her eyes on me as I opened the front door.

As soon as I reached the bottom of the steps, I took off running. I hung a right and rounded the corner, heading in the opposite direction of Foothill High School. It was after six thirty. I couldn’t risk crossing paths with Emory on her way home from rehearsal.



Later that night, I opened my laptop and started making a list of some of my favorite testimonials.

There was Kevin Anderson, whose parents were semi-famous and had split up in an ugly and very public divorce, and Bailee Parnell, who had to change schools after she was caught doing drugs in the girls’ bathroom during her sophomore year. Skylar Bagatti had been struggling with anxiety and depression since she was eight. And then there was Kaitlyn and the mysterious rumor.

I remembered each one of them standing at the podium on the stage, telling their stories, and thinking they weren’t immune to gossip, just because they were here. But I also remembered how my eyes drifted over to my dad as they spoke. He looked proud. And I was reminded that, for all Covenant’s imperfections, he had created something unique.

There were plenty of stories like theirs, but four seemed like a solid number to start with. I sent individual texts to each one, explaining the video project and asking them to meet us the next day at lunch at the Grove, a small area at the edge of campus that was surrounded by trees. Within twenty minutes, they had all replied yes.

I looked at the string of responses, feeling a little better. I had no idea if any of it would help, but it least it felt like I was doing something. Which seemed like a lot more than Dad was doing.





“Ow!” I shot Charlotte a look in the full-length mirror as I twisted out of her grasp.

“Hold still. You’re going to mess me up.” Charlotte pulled another chunk of my hair into her hands, wrapped it around another piece, and pinned it into place.

“Don’t make it look too fancy,” I said. “I’m going to a lacrosse game, not the prom.”

“Trust me. This one’s complicated, but it will look totally casual when I’m done.” She pulled at one section and started braiding it. “Ooh…wait.” She stopped. “Want me to weave some green-and-white ribbon in as I go?”

“God, no.”

“Why not?”

“Um, maybe because I’m not six years old.”

She stared at me with wide, exaggerated eyes. “Well, someone is certainly lacking school spirit.”