Twisted Faith by Victoria Schwimley

Author:Victoria Schwimley [Schwimley, Victoria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, christian fiction, teen fiction, young adult fiction
Goodreads: 42487479
Publisher: Independent Publisher
Published: 2014-08-11T04:00:00+00:00

The next week at school was difficult. I didn’t get to see Jimmy as much as he was busy with basketball practice. His friends taunted me mercilessly, as if I had any control over Jimmy, or his actions.

“What do you want from me?” I screamed at Shannon and Devon, who had returned for a second stab at me. They just glared and walked away.

On Wednesday of that week, I ate alone. Jennifer, my usual buffer, had stayed home with period cramps, and Jimmy’s basketball coach had called a team meeting over the lunch period, which left me alone with the sharks.

I felt as if every eye in the entire cafeteria stared at me. I’m sure that wasn’t true, but it felt like it at the time.

I ate half my peanut butter sandwich, drank my milk, and couldn’t stand anymore staring. I picked up the remains of my lunch and threw it away.

“Maybe you shouldn’t waste that food,” Shannon hollered across the room. “You might need to save it for the baby.”

People laughed. I don’t know why; the comment wasn’t even funny. In fact, it was kind of lame if you ask me. I wanted to shout that to her, but I wasn’t going to play her game. I held my head high and made my way to the door. Shannon stuck out her foot as I passed her, tripping me.

Instinct told me to put out my hands, which I did, breaking my fall.

Shannon laughed, as did a few others, but most of the kids told her it wasn’t cool.

“You could have hurt the baby,” Devon said.

Shannon shrugged. “Who cares? That would probably be better. Anyway, with a mother like that, the kid’s doomed.”

Several kids laughed. Other’s (who didn’t think it was quite so funny, but weren’t willing to stand up for me) turned away. Not willing to help, but not willing to watch, neither. These kids hurt me the most.

Mrs. Lathrop was the one who came to my rescue. As I lay there, sprawled out like a spider, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. Then a hand extended down. I didn’t see whose hand it was at first, but I knew it was an adult. The fingers, long with neatly polished nails, offered support. I looked up into her eyes and read the compassion.

I took the offered hand, allowing her to lead me back to her office. We must have looked quite the pair with her arms around my shoulder, and I the hysterically slobbering fool. If we drew stares, I didn’t notice and she didn’t say.

When we reached her office, she unlocked the door, led me to the same bench I had sat on the last time I was there. She took out some antiseptic wipes and began cleaning my wounds. If only she could cleanse my soul as easily, I thought.

“You know,” she said, “it doesn’t have to be this hard.”

I glanced at her, not daring to look her in the eyes. “What do you mean?”

She sighed. She bandaged the last scrape, drew up a chair beside me, and sat down.

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