The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3) Read online

  “From what?” she asks.

  Our friendship.

  My life.

  “I don’t know,” I say, craning my neck to peer out the top corner of my window. The sun is setting and, while I’m sure Mollie and I are staring at the same sun, it makes me wonder how differently we might feel about it.

  Where we grew up, summer sunsets means long days in Hamptons’ vacation homes turn into dazzling, fun nights. An earlier sunset means a rapid closure to the summer, where soon, caretakers will come sweep out the mini mansions in preparation for fall and winter.

  In my prayer time with God lately, I’ve felt a pull to look for Him everywhere in my surroundings. Not church buildings or crosses, but in the flowers, the changing of seasons, and nature. The sun means hope, and I can only hope that Matt’s darkness has been just a winter for his spirit. That the last days of summer will warm him, and he’ll trust who he actually is, and not who he thinks he grew up around. I believe, deep down, that Buck Wells is a good guy who got screwed up, just like Roland did. The beauty of autumn will allow me to forgive the biting cold of the winter that soon follows, and I wonder—pray—that Matt will find the same peace with his father someday. If he doesn’t, I fear he will never accept that he’s worth the love he so deserves.

  “Where’d you go?” Mollie asks. It gives me reason to smile for the first time in this conversation; that she knows I drifted away into my thoughts, even though we’re not having this conversation in person.

  “You really want to know?” I ask with the smile penetrating my voice.

  “Hit me,” she says like she’s at a Black Jack table.

  “Seasons, God, nature, and eternal love.”

  Mollie doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, “I wish I could be there with you through this.”

  “Me, too,” I say, only half believing either of us. “It’s far more dramatic than I thought it would be. I mean, I thought I’d spend four years doing a get-to-know-you dance with Roland when, in fact, settling into a relationship with him has been the easiest thing I’ve had to deal with this year.”

  “Does that drive your mom crazy?”

  I shrug again. “I don’t think so. Our relationship is shifting, too. Still mother-daughter, but now that I’m becoming an adult… it’s different.”

  Mollie chuckles. “Your mom is as emotional as you are, only she allows it to take over her more than you do. It’s probably driving her crazy. She likes to feel all the feels, even if they might kill her.”

  I laugh. It feels good to have someone who really knows my mom. As the person. Not the scary liberal who wields a machete on Capitol Hill whenever she gets a chance. “As you can tell by the course of our conversation today, I’m starting to feel all the feels, too,” I tease.

  “It’s good to see your stiff upper lip relax a little. But, hey, listen, I’ve gotta run. Burrito night with my friends downtown.” Mollie’s back at school early, too. Helping run orientation for incoming freshman. I’ve heard the cackle of said “friends” through our conversation in the background. Giggles, low-toned laughs from guys that shouldn’t be in her room anyway, if you ask me.

  Thank God no one asked, because that was probably the single-most conservative thought I’ve had in my entire life.

  “Have fun. Talk to a stranger for me.” I have to have a sense of humor for the CU rules sometimes, or I’ll go crazy. They do make me grind my teeth on a daily basis, because I believe it’s utterly ridiculous to impose such rules on adults. But, we’re consenting adults—like those who sign up for the Army, I guess, and have to deal with insane drill sergeants.

  You wanted this.

  Mollie and I hang up, and while I don’t feel hopeless about what the future of our friendship might bring, I’ve come to accept that we each have some searching and growing to do, maybe even away from each other.

  ***

  Approaching the prison was far more nerve-wracking than I had expected it to be. I really hadn’t given it much thought at all until we were driving through the first of many gates. The building itself in any other setting might look like a giant high school. It’s a few stories tall, brick and cement—but on second glance, I notice the windows. They’re different. Tiny and spaced evenly. Giving a troublingly small amount of natural light into what I assume are the cells. It gives me pause to think of something like looking out a window as a privilege rather than a right… or a given.

  The perimeter of the green grounds is surrounded by a fence at least twenty feet high, topped with spiraled barbed wire. To prevent escape.

  Suddenly, I’m the one who wants to escape.

  “You okay?” Matt asks as Asher hands over paperwork through the car window to yet another guard.

  I swallow hard. “This is… like… a prison.”

  He nods.

  “Have you been to one before?” I ask.

  “As a customer?” he teases.

  “Come on.”

  Matt smiles. “Sure. I’ve done literacy stuff at different prisons for a couple years now, I guess. Summer stuff near my hometown.

  “Oh,” I say, my mouth dry as I look out the window.

  Murderers. Prostitutes.

  Soon I’ll be face-to-face with humans dangerous enough that the courts deemed they should be locked away for a very long time. Crimes too heinous to allow these people to live amongst others.

  Eden’s in the front, as quiet as I am. I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “You’ll do fine, K. Sawyer,” Matt encourages as Asher guides the car to a parking space.

  “If you say so,” I mumble as we exit the vehicle and march quietly inside.

  I have to remember to breathe as we navigate through metal detectors and are lead past thick, boulder-like guards spaced throughout each hallway.

  Asher nods to a petite woman who opens a door for us and looks comically out of place. Once inside the room, Asher sets a stack of paperwork inside manila folders in front of each of us.

  “All right,” he says, sounding motivated. “Let’s get crackin’.”

  All I notice is Asher’s smooth, collected demeanor through this whole process, though I’m thankful that at least for now he’s not pointing out how nervous I seem. How nervous I am.

  “Are you going to that network meeting thing once we get out of here?” Matt asks me and Eden while we fill out the paperwork.

  “You know about that?” I ask, setting down my pencil.

  Eden chimes in. “Yeah, we’re all going to be there. The ones the network is hoping will join the series. Me, Matt, Jonah, Bridgette, Silas… a few people.”

  “All of our friends?” I say, my mouth wide open.

  “You look horrified,” Matt observes.

  “It’s like our own little Breakfast Club,” I mumble. “The jock, the prom queen,” I say, pointing to Matt and Eden respectively.

  “Which one are you?” Matt teases with a wink.

  I tilt my head and grin. “The one who smashes cereal into her sandwich and talks to herself in the corner.”

  They laugh, and I’m relieved we can share some pop culture.

  “Wait,” I continue. “Two things. One, why not follow upperclassmen? And two, are Bridgette and Silas’ parents actually going to let them be on TV? They don’t even watch TV.”

  Eden shrugs. “I think they’re hoping for the same thing you are, just on the opposite end.”

  “And that is?” I question.

  “Accurate representation,” she answers.

  Matt snorts. “Good luck.”

  “Speaking of which,” I turn to Matt, “I’m shocked you’re considering such a thing. A reality show.”

  He shrugs. “They need someone going through tough stuff. And they want an all-American athlete guy.” He grins, pointing his thumbs at himself. “I’m your man.”

  “I’m just… startled that you’re willing to be so… open.”

  Matt looks between me and Eden for a moment. “I need to be the best I can be. I’m
hoping this will help keep me on track. I want people to be able to see that God can heal us from the inside out. And,” his grin returns, “a little national coverage of our football team won’t hurt anything.”

  “And the truth shall set you free!” I exclaim in laughter.

  “Hey,” he puts his hands up in mock defense, “I’m not saying I’d transfer if a D-1 or even a D-2 school scouted me. But I’m not not saying that, either.”

  I share in Eden’s giggles of excitement, but the thought of Matt going anywhere but Carter sends my emotions into a shifty place. One I retreat from quickly.

  “All right, guys,” Asher says, entering the small room. “You’re the last three of the day for the paperwork, I think. Want a tour?”

  We stand and follow Asher through the small medium-security prison.

  “Here’s where the guys will be doing most of their work,” Asher states, pointing to a room labeled as the prison’s library. “Your literacy work will happen in here for a little over an hour each morning before lunch. You won’t have lunch in the main cafeteria for all kinds of security reasons, but the men you’ll be reading with will eat with you in a smaller dining hall. It’s kind of a privilege thing for the inmates here.”

  It looks, well, like a prison in here. Sterile, white walls, lots of murmuring background noise, and cells that are behind a series of doors we won’t be going down today but that I’ve examined online.

  “Now, Ladies,” Asher continues, “You’ll be volunteering in the prison’s community center next door. Your literacy activities will center around the wives, girlfriends, and children of the men incarcerated here.”

  Eden nods, seeming to take Asher’s words in stride. I, however, trip over them.

  “Um, what?” I ask, and the group of us stop in a small hallway between offices.

  “Huh?” Asher asks.

  I hold out my hands. “I signed up to work with the prison ministry. And I’m not working in the prison?”

  “You are working with the prison,” he highlights. “The ministry covers many aspects. Incarcerated members are one part, their family another, agency level things are another, and so on.”

  “But you didn’t say that. I want to work with the prisoners.” I stand firm, despite my rapid heartbeat. Eden and Matt shift uncomfortably.

  Asher sighs. “This is a men’s-only facility.”

  I’m grateful I still have my lip ring. I suck in my bottom lip and run my tongue across the cool metal. “You’re kidding, right?” I ask, eyebrows raised. “There are women who work here, for God’s sake.”

  “These are the rules, Kennedy,” Asher states flatly. “And another one,” he points to my lip, “is that has to come out when you volunteer here.”

  I shake my head. “Just when I think CU can’t get any more—”

  “It’s not CU’s rule,” he cuts in, speaking in a stern, authoritative tone. “It’s mine. If there were a women’s facility nearby, I’d bus you ladies there. But there’s not. So, you’re going to be working with families torn apart by the incarceration. Are you going to make this a feminist-type issue, or are you going to look at this as a family and societal issue and serve where you’re most needed?”

  Matt and Eden are frozen on either side of me, and in my peripheral vision, I can see their eyes widen. Reprimand isn’t new for me since setting foot on CU’s campus, but I’ve never crossed a line with Asher, which is yet another thing I can cross off my list.

  My face flushes and I lower my eyes, relaxing my shoulders—relaxing my war stance. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll go where you need me.”

  Without another word, Asher turns and continues our tour around the campus of the prison, but I don’t hear what he’s saying. Instead, I’m wondering how much of my life and, admittedly, my mother’s has been spent fighting the wrong uphill battle. All the rallies and protests. Sure, some were held for causes that I hold deep in my heart. But the others? Was I there to make noise? Was I wasting the precious time I have and ignoring a greater need?

  Have I been serving where most needed, or have I been serving to make a point somewhere else?

  Who, exactly, have I been serving?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Unsavory

  Kennedy

  For the last hour, a group of us have been holed up in a spacious administrative university boardroom, listening to NBC executives talk about the show. Bridgette and Silas, along with their parents, are sitting across the long table from me, but we haven’t had a chance to say hi to each other.

  Jonah’s here with his dad, Eden with both her parents, and a couple of other students. One I recognize as a senior and two more who I don’t recognize at all.

  “Who are they?” I whisper to Eden.

  “Freshmen,” she whispers back. “Very Conservative. The guy. The girl is from somewhere in Texas. Bridgette knows her from a homeschool conference or something.”

  “How do you know about the guy?”

  Eden leans in closer. “Jonah met him this morning and says he’s really intense.”

  “Yikes,” I whisper back.

  Jonah’s one of the most socially neutral guys I’ve met here, and if he’s highlighting someone as “intense,” I should probably avoid them at all costs. Especially while cameras are rolling. I think he’s called me that before, and he’s right. If what he says is true, then the angry looking kid sitting down the table from me is the polar opposite of me.

  “It’s important that you all understand the distinction between what we’re trying to do and a reality show,” says Stephanie Williams, the executive producer I met after church yesterday.

  She’s in far more casual clothes today, but still put together in a pair of khaki capri pants and a long, fitted black T-shirt and red high heels. Her blond hair is up in a loose bun and she’s sporting a pair of black-rimmed glasses that make her look like a hipster version of Cinderella.

  “Our goal is to produce this as a ten-part docu-series. It’s different from a straight documentary in that there will be a lot more footage of your everyday lives and interactions as opposed to interviews, and different from a reality show in that there will be more interviews than normal for a reality series. Production timelines are tight for this one in an effort to have the audience feel as here as possible, so filming to airing will be roughly a week to ten days.” She pauses and I look to Roland with wide eyes.

  The benefit of this is theoretically there will be less footage for them to cut and paste together as an editing gimmick. They’ll have a week’s worth at a time, rather than a couple of months. But it also means that should anything happen that the school needs to address, there’s less time to do that before it airs. Like if a party is busted, or something. There’s less time for word to get back to the school in order for them to do preemptive damage control. That could be good or bad. The fire in Stephanie’s eyes tells me she thinks she’s landed a real gold mine here.

  “So,” she continues, “all of you here have already signed the contracts presented to you and your families when we met one-on-one. Except for you, Kennedy. I’ve given your father the documents for you to look over this afternoon.”

  I stay silent, but don’t have to work that hard, because Bridgette and Silas’ dad pipes in. “Do we think it’s wise to include Miss Sawyer in light of all the unsavory attention she’s already brought to the university.”

  My eyes widen and Eden reaches over and squeezes my knee as Matt shoots me a nervous glance across the table. My jaw drops, but I have no intention of speaking. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Bridgette and Silas look down, deliberately avoiding my glance.

  Fine.

  “I don’t really think that’s necessary language,” Roland butts in. “Unsavory?”

  A lump rises in my throat and I look up, preemptively stopping any tears that might form. Unsavory. A single word designed to make me feel like the piece of trash he clearly thinks I am, or he wouldn’t have moved his daughter out of the dorm as quickly a
s he did when those pictures from The Pink Pony were leaked.

  Mr. Nelson opens his mouth, maybe to defend himself but Stephanie cuts in. “I think we can agree that Kennedy’s involvement with the university has brought all kinds of attention,” she says as if she knows anything. “It’s the main reason the network thinks a show like this could work. With her participation, of course. That and the rising popularity of Pastor Roland, who seems be bridging gaps between denominations of Christians that Christians themselves don’t want to recognize are there.” She shoots me an urgent glance.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered the same thing in the back of my mind. That the network was interested in the show because of me. Who the heck had ever heard of Carter unless they were involved in supporting it or criticizing it? Not many. I hadn’t until I learned about Roland. My mom had, due to some of her lobbying work, but even then it was only a mention here or there. Now to have the most successful national network filming a show here, and during what will be the height of the presidential primary season?

  God help us.

  “I thought,” Mr. Nelson continues, “that the school was interested in this project as a way to repair the damage that Kennedy’s family has caused to the reputation of the school.”

  “Dad,” Silas speaks over him. Silas. Silas of all people, while his sister looks meekly at her hands. “Please be kind,” he whispers, but we can all hear.

  Dean Baker, who I’ve been ignoring from the start of the meeting, stands. “We understand your concerns, Mr. Nelson.”

  “Please,” he concedes, “call me Paul.” I wrinkle my nose that the only person he’s friendly with in this room is that slithering sloth.

  Easy…

  “Paul,” Dean Baker corrects, “we’re all aware of the… attention Miss Sawyer has brought to the university. But, it’s not all bad.” My heart nearly stops at this sentence, and I shoot Matt a suspicious glance. He shrugs, seeming to share in my confusion. “You see,” Baker continues in his greasy drawl, “last spring, the university saw a ten percent increase in applications. A jump I’ve never seen before. And this summer we fielded more interest phone calls and gave more tours than in any year any of us in the administration can recall. We can’t deny the draw that having a more… secular student who is so popular in the public eye has. This is an opportunity to, yes, correct some of the PR damage that’s been done, but to also show the love of Christ in actually opening our doors to people in all walks of life.”