Little Do We Know, Page 2

  “Now I’m wishing we hadn’t told you.” She punctuated the thought with an exaggerated sigh. That set me off again.

  “No, you should have told me months ago! You should have told me back in December, when I got my early admissions letter. We went out to dinner to celebrate. And you and Dad knew we couldn’t afford it the entire time. How could you have done that?”

  Mom had a strange look on her face. She bit down hard on her lip and looked out my window. Something was off.

  I thought back to that night. Mom and Dad looked like they were about to burst with pride the entire time. They couldn’t have been faking it.

  I started mentally piecing together the timeline, trying to figure out what had changed since then, if the money hadn’t been a problem back in December. It hit me like a slap. “It’s Aaron, isn’t it?”

  The music director spot had been open for more than a year. In January, when Dad finally lured Aaron Donohue away from a huge mega-church in Houston, he’d said his prayers had been answered. His “dream team” was complete.

  “Aaron has been a huge asset to the school, but he was an expensive hire.”

  Aaron. The irony wasn’t lost on me. It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so horrible. I moved for the door, more eager to get out of this room and this house and this town than I’d ever been before.

  “Hannah.” I stopped. I looked over my shoulder, biting my tongue. “Everything will be okay. All we need is faith.”

  Yeah, I thought, that’s all we need. Maybe I could just show up at the BU admissions office on the first day of school and say, “Hi, my name is Hannah Jacquard. I have no money, but here, take this. It’s a ton of faith.”

  “God will provide, Hannah. You know that. He always does.”

  I wished I believed that as much as I used to. My eyes narrowed on her. “Does He, Mom?”

  She stared back at me, her expression a strange mix of shock and disappointment, and for a split second, a part of me wished I hadn’t said it. But a bigger part of me felt relieved that I finally had.

  “Yes, I believe He does.”

  “Well, He’d better get a move on,” I said. “Tuition is due in June.”

  I stormed out of my room, down the hallway, and past Dad, who was still sitting in the living room, where we’d had our “family chat.” I heard him call my name.

  I stepped back so I could see him through the archway. His face was blotchy and his eyes were red, and seeing him like that made me want to throw my arms around his shoulders and steal Mom’s words. That it would all be okay. That we just needed to pray about it. But I rooted my feet in place and didn’t speak.

  “I’m so sorry.” Dad’s whisper cut through the silence. “I made a mistake. I’m going to fix this for you, I promise.” His voice cracked on the last word, and I couldn’t help it, I stepped toward him. He was my dad. I’d never been that angry with him, and I didn’t have the slightest clue how to do it.

  The words It’s okay stuck in my throat, but I swallowed them back down. It wasn’t okay.

  I opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch, my heart beating so hard I could feel it pounding against my rib cage. I took the front steps in a daze, and when I reached the walkway, I took a hard left, stepping over Mom’s flower bed, heading straight for Emory’s house. I was halfway across the grass when I stopped cold.

  I stared at her house, feeling heavy and empty at the same time. I wanted to run inside and tell her she was right, not just about Dad, but about me, too.

  Until three months ago, I would have.

  But I couldn’t do that.

  I turned and took off running in the opposite direction, bound for the foothills. I reached the intersection two blocks later, and I punched the crosswalk button so hard it made my knuckles throb. When the light turned green, I bolted across the street and through the parking lot, only slowing down when I reached the three metal barriers designed to keep bikes off the trail. My feet hit the dirt path, and I veered left and disappeared into the trees.

  The money was gone. I knew Dad had been investing in Covenant Christian School’s performing arts program from his own savings, after he’d spent everything in the church budget and then everything the larger local churches had invested, but it never occurred to me that he’d dip into my college fund, too.

  The path began to twist and climb steeply. I locked my gaze on the little wooden trail marker at the top of the hill, widened my stride, pumped my arms harder, and picked up the pace. I didn’t take my eyes off that sign, and when I finally reached it, I gave it a victory slap. Then I took a hard right and kept going, following the bends and curves of the narrow trail.

  My parents had always talked about college like that was the natural next step after high school. A no-brainer. They always said they’d pay for it and never seemed to care about tuition costs or out-of-state fees. If only I’d seen it coming, I could have been prepared. I could have applied for scholarships or grants or something.

  I needed BU. From the moment I opened that acceptance letter, it symbolized a whole lot more than a four-year college plan. It was my chance to live in a city where nobody knew me, and no one was watching or judging or analyzing my every move. For the first time in my life, I wouldn’t be Pastor J’s daughter. And that meant I could be anyone I wanted to be.

  The path wound up and up, twisting past my neighborhood again before the trees obscured the view. Three miles later, I reached the series of boulders that marked the peak, and I climbed to my favorite rock—I’d always called it my praying rock, and more recently, my thinking rock.

  I took a deep breath. And then I screamed as loud as I could.

  The sound sent birds from their nests and squirrels from their homes, and it felt so good to let it all out that way. Tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with the sweat dripping off my forehead, and I wiped the mess away with the hem of my T-shirt.

  I sat on the cold stone with my legs folded and let my head fall into my hands. I rocked back and forth, sobbing and shaking and gasping for breath, not even trying to control myself.

  I was furious at my dad, but I was even more furious with myself.

  Because Emory was right.

  She was right about everything.

  I rubbed my eyes as I padded down the hall.

  “Morning, sleepyhead.” Mom was standing at the stove wearing black yoga pants and a bright orange tank top. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and a few dark strands had come loose, framing her face. She was quietly humming like she always did when she cooked.

  The coffee in the pot was cold, left over from the day before, so I dumped it out in the sink and made a fresh one. While I waited, I rested my head on the counter and closed my eyes. “Why are you so chipper this morning?”

  “I’ve been up for hours.” She pointed toward the dining room using her spatula. “I’ve been productive.”

  I looked up. The table was covered with pages ripped from bridal magazines. “That’s one word for it,” I said as I walked over to get a closer look.

  She’d carefully organized all the bridal gowns into neat piles: Strapless dresses in one stack. Full-length ball gowns in another. Short, more playful dresses next to sleek, elegant sheaths. There was a smaller pile of colorful gowns.

  She came up behind me and rested her chin on my shoulder, studying her work. “Am I going overboard? Because you can tell me if I’m going overboard.”

  “You’re going overboard.”

  “I know,” she said, sighing as she reached out and picked up a photo of a much younger woman in a sequined gown that made her look like she’d just stepped straight out of an animated movie. “I want to do it right this time, but…maybe I’m too old for this princess stuff?”

  Over the last few months, I’d learned more about bridal gowns than I’d ever wanted to. I could identify raw silk from organza, a mermaid silhouette from a ball gown, and a sweetheart neckline from a bateau. I could tell the difference
between a chapel- and a cathedral-length train, and a dropped waist from an empire.

  I reached into the pile of straight-lined sheaths and chose a simple-looking one with a scoop neckline and none of the bling.

  “I like this one,” I said.

  “Something older.”

  “Something elegant.” I handed it to Mom. “You’ll still look like a princess.”

  She slid her arm around me as she studied the picture. “I’m not sure I can pull off strapless.” She pointed at her chest. “I don’t have the boobs to hold up a dress like that now that I’ve lost all the weight.”

  Mom used to own a catering company, but when Dad left three years ago, she stopped cooking, then she practically stopped eating, and eventually, she stopped getting out of bed almost entirely. Within six months, she’d lost forty pounds and all her clients. Then one day she cleaned out her catering van, found a therapist, and joined a gym. And that’s where she met David the Douchebag.

  “Maybe this?” She reached out and picked up a similar-looking dress with thin straps. “It looks comfortable. I could actually dance in this one.”

  “I like it.” I took it from her hand and set it in the yes pile as she popped a forkful of omelet into her mouth.

  When we were done rummaging through the stacks we had six styles we agreed would look best on her. She fanned the pages in front of her and drummed her hands on the table. “God, this is so fun! I feel like a teenager.”

  “Teenagers don’t usually get married, Mom.”

  “Fine. I feel like a late-twentysomething who’s young and in love, with her whole life ahead of her.”

  “Which makes me?”

  She thought about it for a second. “My younger but much wiser sister.”

  The younger sister part was true enough. I wasn’t so sure about the wiser part, especially in light of recent events.

  Then she jumped up and kissed my forehead. “I’m going to take a quick shower. You’ve got dishes,” she said as she skipped off down the hall. “Our first bridal salon appointment is in an hour, so make it snappy.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and sat there a little longer, studying the dresses again. Careful not to ruin our new piles, I pulled out one that had caught my eye a few times from the stack of rejects. I lifted it in the air and gave it a closer look.

  It was a simple A-line with a low scoop neck and tight cap sleeves. The model’s hair looked like mine: long, straight, and dark brown. Her eyes were bright blue, too, and we both had high cheekbones. She seemed taller than me, but that might have just been the three-inch strappy sandals on her feet. She was prettier than me for sure, but I could kind of see myself in her. I could definitely see myself in that dress. No time soon or anything—at least not until college was over and my acting career was well established—but someday.

  As I ran my fingertip over the curves and seams, my phone buzzed.

  Luke: Hey what are you doing?

  Emory: Wedding planning with my mom

  Luke: Fun.

  I typed the word hardly, but then I deleted it and instead typed a simple, Yep.

  I had to do everything I could to make Mom’s wedding perfect. Nothing else mattered.

  Besides, it was all almost over. Graduation was three months away. The wedding would be over in five. In six months, she’d be moving into D-bag’s loft in the city and I’d be living in the dorms.

  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.”

  I leaned forward, waving at Jack and Logan in the seats next to Alyssa. They were sharing a pair of earbuds and watching a YouTube video of another competitive a cappella choir on Jack’s phone. “Morning,” Logan said.

  I reached into my backpack for the flash cards I made for my chemistry test and began thumbing through them. I was only on the second card when Alyssa sat up taller and pointed at the stage. “Ooh, look. My future husband got a sexy new haircut over the weekend.”

  Aaron stepped onto the stage wearing a light blue Covenant Christian T-shirt with jeans and a pair of black Toms. He took his guitar out of the stand and brought it with him to the bench next to the pulpit. He didn’t have his usual baseball cap on; I assumed that was because he wanted to show off his new haircut.

  I hadn’t thought much about Aaron, but that was probably because Alyssa thought enough about him for herself, and me, and, like, six other people. Not that I had any problem seeing Aaron the way Alyssa did. He was definitely cute. And confident, but not cocky or anything. Which made him even more adorable. But when I saw him onstage, all I could think about were those words Mom had said the day before. “Aaron’s been a huge asset to the church and the school, but he was an expensive hire.”