Camp Damascus(44)

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The drive home is spent alternating between blinding hope and certain doom. Every time I settle on one side, the other option pulls me back, until eventually I just can’t take it anymore.

I pull over, idling on the side of the road while I pull out my phone.

The internal debate rages fiercely within me. Do I ignore this completely and hope for the best? Or do I call my parents and get a jump on whatever they might hear through the grapevine? There’s gotta be a way to spin this, but after my recent troubles with the church, it won’t be easy.

Some girls in the congregation are spreading rumors about me.

This angle works, I suppose, and it’s better than nothing.

I call my dad, prompting a single ring before Luke picks up.

“Hey, honey,” he starts, his tone jovial.

“Dad,” I falter. “Hi.”

A brief moment of awkward silence.

“What’s up?” he finally questions. “You gonna be home soon? Dinner’s on.”

His familiar tone immediately puts me at ease as we slip into our well-worn father-daughter cadence. “Yeah. Sorry, I just … I wanted to get your advice on something. There’s a few girls spreading rumors about me. I’m not sure how to handle it.”

“Oh, honey,” my father offers soothingly. “Come right home and we’ll pray on it. Whatever it is, God’s gonna sort this out for you.”

“You’re right,” I offer, unconvinced of how effective that might be but happy to follow along. I’m suddenly wondering if I’ve overreacted. My encounter with Ally could unravel this whole thing, but it could just as easily not.

“Lot of rumors going around these days, you can’t trust ’em,” Luke continues. “You hear what they’re saying about butter?”

“No,” I reply, a little confused.

“I could tell you but I don’t wanna spread it.” My father hits the punchline hard.

This is normally where I’d sigh loudly and get secondhand embarrassed, but his cheerful nature in this tense moment is enough to warrant a full cackle of unexpected laughter to erupt from my throat.

It feels so much better than a single fly spit take.

“Don’t worry, Rose,” my father insists. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

He called me Rose, I realize. It’s honey or hon, sometimes even Honeysuckle, but never Rose. Not unless I’m in major trouble.

“Seriously, Dad, thank you,” I reply. “I’ll see you soon.”

I pull the phone away to hang up, but in this split second my ears catch something that sets me on edge. It’s the beginning of a phrase, four words yelled to someone else as my father ends the call. I’m not sure what it means, but his tone is as different as night and day. He is shouting at someone, firm and sharp in his demeanor, just seconds after our gentle moment.

“Let me talk to—” he shouts, then silence.

I wait a beat, then finally pull back onto the road. I’m not sure what to make of this, but it’s not enough to turn around. Even if it were, where would I go?

For now, I only have one option. Stay the course and hope for the best.

I’ve gotta be more careful. No more close calls like this.

Ten minutes later, however, I start wondering how much of a close call it really was.

I turn onto my street and find my mother posted on the corner, tears streaming down her face and a duffel bag gripped tight in her hand.

I slam on the brakes, clumsily coming to rest in the middle of the road as the two of us gaze at each other through the windshield of my borrowed car.

The last time I had a standoff like this I was staring down a literal demon, but this moment is equally terrifying.

I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.

Dad’s words rip through me like a bullet, repeating over and over as the blood gushes from my heart and spills everywhere.

It’s instantly clear someone has tipped my parents off. They know their daughter isn’t satisfied with the answers she was given, isn’t ready to go back to the way things were and pretend none of this ever happened.

The way I acted with Ally was desperate, or maybe I wanted to get caught, to close the curtain on this awkward farce I’ve been struggling to maintain.

My mother’s expression is a lot of things, angry and frustrated and devastatingly sad. Her eyes are locked onto mine, somehow conveying an ocean of emotion without uttering a single word.

Finally, I creep forward, pulling up next to her and rolling down the window.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mom demands, fuming with rage as a shockingly rare curse word makes its appearance.

“Nothing,” I insist. “Just coming home.”

“You’re asking people about Camp Damascus,” Lisa continues, her expression faltering as devastating sadness overwhelms her. “Why are you asking about that camp, Rose?”

I consider denying this line of questioning outright, but I stop myself. I can’t keep this up any longer.

“You sent me there,” I retort.

“Because we love you,” she hisses, seething with rage. “Do you realize how much we spent to save your soul? Do you have any idea?”

“Half a million dollars,” I flatly reply. “Then three hundred a month after that.”