Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [73]
“It isn’t as if you’ve taken the whole weekend off,” she said. “You helped those boys move your desk in.”
“Supervised is more like it. I don’t remember ever being that strong.”
She muted the television. “You haven’t said a word about the church. How’d you like it?”
“It’s close by. I like the service time. Nice building. Friendly people. About the right size.”
“But?”
“The music was okay. I could have used another hymn or two and one or two fewer choruses.”
Grace shook her head and smiled. “I think we’re in the minority there, sweetheart. The hymns are going to die with our generation.”
“Perish the thought.”
“And the pastor?”
“Seems like a wonderful young man. Humble. I like that.”
“Me too. But that sermon could have been more biblical and less anecdotal.”
“It was a good bit of both.”
“And that’s the problem, right? Are you going to be content to sit under someone who tells stories more than he exposits Scripture?”
“He wasn’t bad.”
“I know. What I’m asking is, are we still looking?”
“Still looking, Grace. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
He studied her. Wan. Eyes milky. She was the one who needed a nap. But she was right. This was heavenly. To be able to just sit on a lazy Sunday afternoon evaluating a pastor rather than knowing that’s what everyone else was doing to you?
Thomas Carey could get used to this.
Monday Morning | Forest View High School
Brady drank in the looks from the other kids waiting for the bus, then reveled in the attention as the preppies all seemed to make room and want him to sit next to them.
At school it seemed everyone recognized him, called him by name, waved, smiled, high-fived him. Teachers he barely knew, custodial staff, office people—everybody seemed thrilled for him.
But Brady had no illusions. He knew the other shoe would drop, and soon. Because for all those who acted happy for him, some studiously avoided his gaze. They had to know what was coming. Brady finally had to admit to himself that he had not been celebrating Saturday night. He had been steeling himself against reality.
He had been telling himself that if he became the star of the play and the hero of the school, he would somehow be allowed to do the same the next weekend. But he knew better, even though he had excelled beyond even his wildest dreams.
He entered his first class to the cheers and whistles of his classmates, and just for fun he strutted like Conrad with a twinkle and tongue in cheek. But as soon as he sat down, his teacher entered and handed him a note. Dr. Hose and Mr. Nabertowitz were waiting for him in the dean’s office.
Brady considered leaving his stuff at his desk, as if he would be back soon. But that wasn’t going to happen. “Got to take a call from my agent,” he said, rising as he studied the note. And everyone laughed but the teacher.
Even knowing what was coming, Brady had no idea how he would react. With anger? remorse? Would he beg? Nah. This was his own fault. They’d warned him. He couldn’t be angry with anyone but himself.
The receptionist even looked sad when she ushered him in, and both Hose and Nabertowitz rose. Mr. N. would not meet his eye, but Hose stared directly at him. “Have a seat, Mr. Darby. You know why you’re here.”
When they were all seated, Dean Hose spread the Sunday paper before him and turned it around so Brady could see it. “I suppose you’ve read this.”
“’Course. Nobody I know ever got a write-up like that before.”
“And the pictures,” Nabertowitz said, his voice weepy. “You had the world at your feet, Brady.”
“Had?”
“If you think you still do, Darby,” Hose said, “you’re dumber than I thought.”
“Now you think I’m dumb? I thought you said I was smart.”
“Smart but stupid, son. It’s long past time to be sugarcoating things for you. With the grade point average from your first two years, you had no leeway this fall. Everybody who cared about you made it clear what you had to do, and you didn’t even try. Yes, you’re smart. You proved that onstage. You can do whatever you decide you want to do. You decided