Little Do We Know(6)

Luke: I’m going to practice. Want to see a movie later?

I typed Sure, and hit SEND.

And then I picked up the picture of that dress again. A little part of me wished Luke and I were building toward that kind of a future. But we weren’t. In six months—in 162 days to be exact—we’d be over, too.





When I walked into the kitchen on Monday morning, I found Dad standing at the sink, filling up two travel mugs—steaming hot coffee for him and tea with a splash of milk for me, operating like he did every morning, as if nothing had changed.

“You ready?” Dad asked as he twisted tops on the travel mugs. He was wearing a multicolored hoodie and a pair of skinny jeans with black slip-on Vans, looking more like an aging punk headed for the skate park than a pastor-turned-principal heading to his day job.

“Yep.”

He handed me my tea. “Here, sweetie.”

“Thanks.”

It was the most we’d said to each other since I stormed out of the house the day before.

That was the problem with attending a school ten miles away. None of my friends lived anywhere near me, so if I wanted to avoid riding to school with Dad, I would have had to get up a full hour earlier, catch the public bus, and transfer twice.

By the time Dad and I reached the intersection, I was wishing I’d done that. We always listened to music or talked about the news, and the silence was killing both of us. I could hear him slurp his coffee and thump his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. I stared out the window, watching the neighborhood blur by. The post office. The car wash. Foothill High School. The diner next door.

“I’m glad you know,” Dad finally said as we merged onto the freeway. “I hated not telling you. We don’t keep secrets in our family.”

I didn’t think we did either. Not until the day before.

“I have a plan,” he continued. “I made a few calls last night, and I’m meeting with a bunch of the churches in our network this week. They’re bigger than us, with deeper pockets and a lot more resources. I know they realize this school is a huge asset to the community. It’s in their best interest for us to succeed.”

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled. I’d heard it all before.

“We just need enough for your first year. After that, everything will be fine again.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Dad signaled and turned onto the private street marked with a metal sign that read COVENANT CHRISTIAN SCHOOL in neat block letters. He followed the narrow road, lined with roses and lavender bushes, until it opened onto the parking lot in front of the sanctuary.

The church looked quintessentially Southern Californian: mission style, with white stucco walls, arched windows, and red roof tiles. Right after I was born, the church decided to build the adjacent school and the church leaders tapped my dad, who had been the associate pastor, to be the new principal and oversee the construction.

He had a say in every aspect of the new campus, from the height of the cafeteria ceilings to the pattern of the stained-glass windows in the library. He’d designed a series of pathways that connected every building and led to a sprawling green lawn where we ate lunch on warm days. And he made sure the whole campus was surrounded by trees that sheltered it from the neighboring office buildings and gave us a bunch of smaller, almost secret places to sit and study, or just be alone and pray.

Dad loved everything about that school. Mom used to joke that I’d been an only child until the day Covenant was born.

He drove around the back, into the faculty lot, and pulled into the spot marked RESERVED FOR PRINCIPAL. He cut the engine, and then turned toward me. “I’ve got this, okay?”

When I didn’t answer, he leaned on the console and came in closer, until I had no choice but to look at him. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. What I did was wrong. I’m asking for you to stick with me a little longer. I’m going to do whatever it takes to make this right, okay? Do you trust me?”

And suddenly, there was Emory’s voice in my head.

You have a blind spot when it comes to your dad, Hannah. You’ll believe anything he says. Believe anything he believes. When was the last time you had an opinion that was entirely your own?

“Hannah. Please.”

I could tell how much Dad needed to know I was on his side. And at that point, what good would it do me not to be? “I trust you,” I said.

He pulled me into a hug. “That’s my girl.” Then he released me from his grip. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to be late.”

He climbed out of the car and shut the door, and I watched him cross the parking lot, doling out greetings and the occasional fist bump to the kids he passed. I stayed in the car until I heard the first bell ring, and then I got out and walked toward the sanctuary doors. I didn’t rush. I didn’t feel like it.

As I got closer, I could hear an upbeat Top 40 song playing inside. Dad liked to keep Monday Chapel “chill and fun,” not all “heavy and churchy.” I walked down the center aisle to the first row and fell into my usual seat next to Alyssa.

Her feet were kicked out in front of her and her head was reclined against the back of the pew. “Morning,” she mumbled as she peeled one eye open. Then she closed it again and went back to dozing.

It was all I could do not to tell her what happened, but I’d promised my mom I wouldn’t. “Let’s keep this to ourselves,” she’d said when I returned from my run the day before. “You know how fast information spreads around the church.”