Page 17 of Of Heathens & Havoc

“Yes!” I cry. “You could do that. Right, Father?”

He’s silent for a long, long moment, and I hear him shifting on his side of the partition. “I’ll see what I can do for you,” he says at last. “But Thorncrown is more complicated than what meets the eye. There are things that go on at this school that might seem strange to the ordinary student, but there’s a reason for everything. There’s meaning and tradition behind every organization at this school.”

I swallow hard. “You can’t stop them?”

“I’ll look into it,” he says.

“If I go… If I go, and something happens to me…”

“Are you afraid you’ll be corrupted by what you see or experience?”

“Yes,” I admit. “More than I already am. Is it a sin to go, Father? If I participate, even to keep someone else from sin, that means I’m as sinful as they are, doesn’t it?”

“That would be your only purpose in going?” he asks.

“They said—the signup form for participation said I would absorb their sins,” I say, my voice shaking. “Is that possible? Could I be worse than I am?”

“There is nothing wrong with you, lamb. You are exactly as you were designed.”

“It feels like there is,” I whisper.

“Is it a sin to take sin from the world?” he asks slowly. “I don’t think so. Do you?”

“No,” I say, closing my eyes in relief. “But what if… What if I… Like it?”

“If you could wash away someone else’s sin, and therefore leave the world with less sin, I don’t think that makes you sinful,” he says. “No matter what you feel about it. What you feel is there for a reason. Your feelings are not a sin. They’re feelings. God made us to experience these emotions, just as He made us to experience the sensations in our bodies.”

My breath comes quicker as I listen to the velvety intoxication of his voice, a smoky tone that is its own sacrilege.

“So you think I should go?” I ask.

“I think only you can know the right thing for yourself, lamb,” he says. “When I’m uncertain, I ask for guidance and listen for the answer. I often find what I seek in the silence.”

I nod slowly, though he can’t see me.

“Have you prayed on this?” he asks gently.

“No,” I admit. “I’m scared to ask.”

“Are you afraid you’ll get the answer you desire?” he asks. “Or that you won’t?”

This time, I remember to answer aloud, the whisper slipping between my trembling lips.

“Yes.”

eight

The Heathen

“Dad’s grilling, so it should be good eats,” I say, swinging my pickup into the drive of the brick ranch-style on Sullivan where I lived most of my life. After Eternity was born, and before I went to juvie, anyway. I park behind Dad’s truck so Mom can pull up next to him in the carport when she gets home. I keep my race car at Angel’s, since there are some things my parents are better off not knowing. I’ve given them enough grey hairs already.

“The real question is, is your mom making her famous oatmeal chocolate chip cookies?” Angel asks, grabbing the top of the doorframe and hopping down from his side. He grins across the bench seat at me, and I shake my head at his intentional goading.

“You mean oatmeal raisin,” I correct with a scowl.

Of course he knows. We’ve been going ‘round and ‘round about this since we were old enough to pull up on our moms’ knees and beg for bites of cookie while they nursed our little sisters.

“I don’t know why you won’t just admit you’re wrong,” he says as we head around the side of the house. “Everyone knows chocolate chips are superior. Why’s granny gotta ruin perfectly good cookies by dropping rat turds in them?”

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