HIDING - every scar has a story

24. Pastor's kid.

{Jon}

Jon huddled on the vinyl bus seat, watching the setting sun transform concrete apartment buildings into towers of gold. He was shaking. He thought he should pray for Cary. Crossing his arms tightly, he put his head down on the bus seat in front of him, but he couldn't pray.

For eight weeks, he'd lived in a constant state of dread, expecting Todd around every corner. That was Cary's everyday life. Jon got stuck thinking about how long, how many times Cary had stood there like that, taking it from his father. He tried to quit shaking, quit feeling like he was about to burst into tears.

Tears came anyways when he stepped inside the door of his home. It was cramped and filthy compared to Cary's entryway but it closed around him like a hug, the safest place he knew.

His mother came out of the kitchen. "Jon, where have you been? Supper was half an hour ago."

He bent and made a big deal of unpicking the knots in his shoelaces so she wouldn't see he'd been crying. "Cary's house. Sorry, the bus back was slow."

"Did you have supper at Cary's?'

He shook his head.

She turned aside into the kitchen. "I put a plate aside for you. I'll just warm it up."

His father's voice in the kitchen stopped him just as he was about to escape to his bedroom. "Jon, come in here please."

He went and stood in the kitchen doorway. His father was sitting at the table, his coffee cup in his hand. His mother's cup was on the table across from him. Parent conference. Jon's face heated.

"Your mother would have appreciated a phone call to let her know you wouldn't be eating with us," Pete said.

"I said I was sorry."

Pete's face was grave. "I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to be spending time at Cary's house, while he's serving a suspension at home."

Twenty minutes ago, Jon would have done anything to get out of Cary's house. Now he wanted to fight for the right to go back. "He's not under house arrest, dad," Jon said. "I think he can have friends over after school if he wants."

His parents exchanged glances. The microwave beeped and his mother set the plate at his place at the table and pulled the chair back.

Jon took the plate without looking at either of them. "I'll eat in my room."

As he walked away a part of him hoped they would call him back, sit him down, and demand to know what was wrong. He had never worked harder to keep them out.

"Kurtis called," his mother said. "I think he was wondering about worship practice?"

That was supposed to be tonight. Right now. He stopped in his tracks, his face burning. "Crap."

"I can take you," Pete said. "I have some things I can work on at the church."

Jon looked at his father. He couldn't say "Forget it, I'm not going. God might as well be dead." Instead he said, "I'll get my guitar."

///

Jon leafed through his binder of worship music in the van on the way to the church. He'd played most of these choruses a hundred times: Amazing Love, Mercy is Falling, God is so Good. He shut the binder and stared sightlessly out the window. How was he supposed to sing those songs?

Kurtis just needed him to play guitar. He didn't have to sing; he used to just for the joy of it. He didn't hear himself sigh, long and shaky.

Pete glanced at him. "How was your day?"