Standing Strong Read online

  “Uh...” Sherman pressed his lips together as if hesitant to explain. “Apparently, C.W. and... I can’t say who else. But they decided your brother’s a little too white and they decided to do something about it.”

  Keefe shook his head, irritated and not understanding. “What did they do about it?”

  “They cornered him and got him with spray tan.” Sherman remained straight-faced, but one corner of his mouth flickered for a split second. “It’s not just Roland, though. They’ve been hazing freshman too.”

  “They did what?” Keefe didn’t really want him to repeat it. He’d heard enough. And he knew Jarret. Jarret didn’t take nicely to anyone messing with his family, and he still struggled with self-control. So of course he beat C.W. to a pulp.

  Keefe slouched back, the sting of failure striking intensely. Like the swing of the Japanese warrior’s blade.

  Finally understanding, he dragged in a breath. He understood the meaning of the dream. He couldn’t abandon Jarret to pursue a vocation. He’d only gone away for the weekend and Jarret had gotten in a ton of trouble.

  He had to lose this fight. He’d asked for a sign and he’d gotten more than a few: the verse, the dream, even Jarret’s trouble. Everything pointed to an answer of “no.” No, he didn’t need to go on the retreat. Because, no, he wasn’t called to be a Franciscan, at least not now. He needed to step back and switch gears, forgo the move that would get him closer to victory. He needed to take a fall.

  The thought sat like lead in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t digest it. Tension in his chest drew the lead from his stomach to his heart. He couldn’t accept it.

  It was just an excuse.

  The Lord wouldn’t want him to hold back out of fear for what another might do.

  He’d put off talking with Papa about his potential calling for one reason. Fear of judgment. He feared that Papa’s lack of faith would make him hostile to Keefe’s calling. He was afraid that Papa would stand in the way, and make Keefe have to fight for it. He didn’t want to fight against Papa. He didn’t want Papa to feel the pain of losing someone for any reason.

  Even with the Fire Starters, among kids who shared his faith, he’d kept his calling a secret, afraid half the time that Peter might say something. Peter probably suspected. He’d known about Keefe’s interest in the Franciscan Friars that had stayed at his family’s bed and breakfast last fall.

  Why did he care if the Fire Starters knew anyway? He wore a cross every day, the only symbol he could get away with at school since the dress code forbade graphic t-shirts. Did he fear exposing his deepest desires to the world, his longing to wear the brown robe of a mendicant order? Did he fear others knowing that he didn’t aspire to the same things they did? That he wanted to give up everything and embrace the Franciscan way of life?

  Did he fear that he’d pursue a vocation only to find out that God didn’t want him? That this wasn’t really his calling? Then what?

  How badly did he want this? Would he fight for it?

  Determination sparked in his heart. He bowed to the warrior in his dreams and lifted his sword. He wanted this. Whether he ended up flat on his face and exposed to the world, he wouldn’t back down. He would take every chance that presented itself. He would claim the victory.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day.

  Keefe grabbed his books and bolted from the classroom to find Jarret.

  CHAPTER 17

  The door swung open and two men strode into the small, windowless room.

  Recognizing the sound of Papa’s boots, Jarret swallowed hard and pushed locks of hair off his face.

  Mr. Freeman grabbed the chair at the head of the table and motioned for Papa to take a seat across from Jarret, who still sat against the wall.

  Papa glanced at Jarret and tugged the rim of his cowboy hat in greeting. Once he sat down, he breathed and exhaled loudly. He probably hated coming up for trouble on the first day of school.

  Jarret straightened in his chair and redid his ponytail.

  Mr. Freeman clasped his hands and rested them on the table. “So, Jarret, I spoke with your father, and we’re going to be sending you home.”

  Jarret considered glancing at his watch. The bell for the end of the day would ring soon. Everyone would be going home, not just him. He wouldn’t get off that easy. There had to be more.

  “Now, I don’t want to come down too hard. I understand you were retaliating on behalf of your younger brother, but we don’t tolerate violence in our school.” He rambled on more about school policy, anger management, and alternative ways of handling things. “So, we have to suspend you for a week.”

  Jarret remained expressionless, not looking at anyone. He didn’t care.

  After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, the principal said, “Do you understand?”

  Jarret glanced. He understood but he couldn’t get himself to reply, so a bit more silent tension developed.

  Papa broke the cold war. “What about schoolwork?”

  Mr. Freeman took a breath and tugged the cuff of his sleeve. “Make sure he takes all his books home. His teachers can call or email with assignments.”

  After a few more exchanges between the adults, the bell rang, and Mr. Freeman ushered them from the room.

  “We’ll talk at home.” Papa turned and clomped toward the sunny entranceway, his blue eyes maintaining their typical unreadable look.

  STILL IN A FOG, JARRET trudged up the dark staircase to his bedroom. Papa had left school before Jarret had been dismissed. He’d given Keefe and Roland a ride and beat Jarret home. Fortunately, Jarret had spotted no one when he’d come in through the garage. For half a second, he’d considered going to Papa’s study; Papa would want to talk about this. But Jarret couldn’t get himself to do it.

  One sore hand to the handrail, he reached the top step. Slivers of light crept from under the doors on one side of the dark hallway. The sound of the shower blasting traveled through the closed bathroom door on the other side of the hallway: probably Roland trying to wash off the tan.

  Jarret curled and uncurled his hands. He’d wanted to wash them in the bathroom. They hurt. He should’ve used one of the downstairs bathrooms, but he wouldn’t bother with it now. They could ache for a bit more. He deserved it.

  Two steps from his bedroom door, a doorknob rattled and Keefe’s bedroom door swung open with a burst of natural light. As Keefe stepped into the hallway, the light from his bedroom fell on his short hair and glasses and a face riddled with concern.

  Before Keefe could utter a word, Jarret cast a weary look and shook his head. “Not now.” He grabbed the knob to his own bedroom door.

  “Okay, but I’m here when you need me.”

  Face to his bedroom door, Jarret nodded. He pushed the door open wide enough to get into the room and closed it behind him. Half drawn drapes let in too much light for his mood. Red and purple pillows and gold decorations taunted him.

  Deep regret and a sense of failure rushed him. Jarret flung himself face down on his bed and hugged a purple pillow to his chest. He’d lost it, totally lost it this time. He shouldn’t have thrashed C.W. like that.

  That first punch and the look of shock in C.W.’s eyes...

  He’d never pummeled a kid like that. Jarret clutched the pillow tighter and groaned. What a failure. And he’d been given an internal warning too. Two of them even.

  Jarret opened his eyes, trying to sort out the details. It took effort to remember the first thing he’d done after leaving Roland in the classroom. He’d stormed to C.W’s locker. On the way, a thought had flitted through his mind like a butterfly he couldn’t catch. He’d forgotten something important.

  Still hugging the pillow, Jarret rolled onto his side and squinted at the sunny window. Oh, yeah... He’d seen a strange light that had disturbed him to the core. What was that? Whatever. He’d ignored it once he’d seen C.W.

  Then just before he’d thrown the first punch, a concrete warning flashed in his mi
nd. He could back down and find another way to handle this mess, but he’d made a conscious choice to unleash his violence.

  He’d done it deliberately. Maybe that explained why guilt weighed so heavily now.

  Needing a better grasp of all this, Jarret scooted off the bed, lifted the edge of the bedspread, and stuffed his hand between the mattress and the box spring to find his journal. He slid his hand left and right across the cool mattress. Where was it?

  He stopped breathing. What if someone had taken it? Who would know he kept it here? Who even knew he had a journal?

  Fear creeping in, he made a wider swipe and bumped something. His journal! Taking a breath and aware of his thumping heart, he slid it out.

  Journal in hand, he slid to the floor and leaned against the bed, facing the window.

  He unwrapped the leather cord, took the pen he’d stuffed in between the pages and immediately set to writing.

  God, I’m such a failure. But I didn’t know the right thing to do. Still don’t. He did that to my brother. Do I let him get away with it and do nothing? He’ll just do it again someday. Or something worse. Sorry, Lord, but I had to do something. If there’s a better way, I don’t know it. Show me. I want to understand. Show me.

  His hand ached from writing—no, from having slugged C.W. a few too many times. Jarret tossed the journal aside and slumped back. He was supposed to have met with Father Carston this past Saturday. Did he want to talk to Father about this? His first meeting had drained him. And now with all this...

  His mind veered back to the fight, to the rage he’d felt and the uncontrollable need to keep punching.

  The light from his bedroom window overwhelming him, Jarret rubbed his face with both hands and dropped his chin to his chest. Who was he kidding? His impulses ruled him. As much as he hated the person he’d been, he had no power to behave any differently. At least not in some situations. Like this one.

  Why couldn’t he bring back that night in the canyon? The intensity of Jesus’ love for him, the words He had spoken, the repentance and longing to give his life over to God. It all felt so vague now.

  Jarret’s cellphone buzzed in his back pocket, notifying him of a text.

  His hand snapped to it. Would C.W. have something to say? One of his other friends? One of their mothers? Irritated at his impulsiveness, he hesitated before drawing it out. But he did draw it out, he couldn’t not draw it out, and his gaze snapped to the message notification. Chantelle.

  Jarret tossed the phone onto the journal. He didn’t need to talk to her. Didn’t need any of his friends. Was Kyle in on it too? Nah, probably just the three stooges: C.W., Trent, and Konner. They worked at making others look small. He should’ve pounded all three of them. They deserved—

  On impulse, Jarret lunged and snatched his phone. He did need friends. Certainly God didn’t intend for a person to have no friends just because they messed up a few times.

  Sitting with his knees up and his back to the bed, he tapped the screen until Chantelle’s message appeared.

  Heard what happened. You okay?

  He stared at the phone. What could she have heard? Jarret had had the upper hand the entire time. Anyone standing around would’ve seen that. She must’ve known he was okay. Physically at least. He shifted his gaze. Maybe she meant emotionally. Maybe she figured he felt bad about it, that he wasn’t really a monster.

  Jarret tapped out his reply. Yeah, fine.

  A second later: Heard what C.W. did to your brother.

  Jarret tapped out a bad name and a curse for C.W. Then he took a breath and deleted it, typing instead, “I’m suspended from school.”

  Two seconds for her reply this time. Oh. I’ll miss you.

  Her message touched somewhere deep inside, comforting and thrilling him at the same time. He liked when girls looked at him, flirted with him, gave him attention. Was he ready for a girlfriend? What should he text back? If he told her he’d miss her too, he’d seal it. They’d be more than friends. He could text back something vague and noncommittal like, “Yeah sure,” or “See you in a week.”

  Jarret’s thumbs hovered over the keypad. He moved to strike a letter when a knock sounded on his bedroom door. Papa’s knock.

  Pulse kicking up, Jarret stuffed his phone in his back pocket. He snatched the journal, squeezed it between the mattress and the box spring, and jumped to his feet.

  “Come in,” he said as the doorknob turned.

  Jarret stood ready for the talk he knew Papa had to give him. He’d let Papa down. Let himself down. Again. Since when did he start caring so much about Papa’s opinion of him? But he did.

  Staring at the floor, Papa scuffed into Jarret’s room in his cowboy boots. He stopped at the foot of the bed and squinted at Jarret, who stood in the open area between the bed and the window. The two of them could sit in the armchairs and talk, but Papa didn’t look like he wanted to sit. His graying hair, flattened on the sides, held the impression of his cowboy hat. His mouth curled up, and his blue eyes flickered with a look of contemplation.

  Papa might’ve been thinking about their last talk and wondering if Jarret’s good streak had ended. Maybe he was wondering what level of heat he needed to bring to this conversation. If he got angry enough, he’d be spitting out his cowboy slang. He’d tell Jarret he was too hell-fired outta control, or ask if he was studying to be a half-wit or off his mental reservation.

  Sucking in a breath and readying himself, Jarret stood taller and waited.

  Papa’s mouth twitched. Words had never come easy for him. He often confessed that he missed having Mama around because she always knew the right thing to say.

  “Saw that kid you beat up.”

  Jarret winced and turned away, then back. “Yeah, I messed up.” That was an understatement, but he decided against making excuses. “He gonna be okay?”

  Papa shrugged. “S’pose so.” He shifted his weight to one leg and stuffed his thumbs in his belt loops. “You don’t really need me to tell you that violence ain’t the answer, now do you? That there are better ways of handling things?” He paused. “I mean, you’ve made the choice to go to Mass lately, since Arizona, so I s’pose you ought to be thinking more about turning the other cheek. Right?”

  Jarret nodded. Papa was right, but he had no idea how to live that commandment. Maybe if C.W. had done something to him instead of his brother... Nah, that wouldn’t have mattered. He didn’t have “turn the other cheek” in him.

  “Been thinking ‘bout if I were in your shoes and a kid had done that to my brother, if’n I had a brother.” He paused. “Can’t say I’da done much different than what you did.”

  Jarret’s jaw dropped.

  “Even now as a grown man...” His jaw tightened. “That boy’s lucky I didn’t see him do it.”

  Stunned, Jarret let out a chuckle. “Uh, what would you’ve done?”

  Papa’s eyes twitched. “Roland’s not like other kids. He’s kind of vulnerable. And not just because of the cast. He’s too...” He squinted even more, searching for the right word. “Forgiving.”

  Knowing that more than anyone, Jarret nodded.

  “I know you’ve been trying, Jarret. Don’t let this get you down. You’re already grounded for the week, so now you’ll do schoolwork at home. Big deal, right?”

  A lump in his throat kept Jarret from answering.

  Papa scuffed back to the door and stopped. “Suspended the first week of school. That’s gotta be a record.”

  As Papa left the room and closed the door, Jarret’s phone signaled another message. Assuming it came from Chantelle and wanting to share his renewed spirit with someone, he grabbed his phone.

  A glance at the message put a sudden stop to his slightly elated mood and shifted him back down a few gears. It came from the stranger who’d sent the other cruel messages.

  What happened to Roland today—totally your fault.

  Jarret typed a message back without thinking. Who are you?

  The reply came a f
ew seconds later.

  Someone who knows your kind.

  JARRET’S JOURNAL

  Since returning home from Arizona, the memory has faded.

  I struggle now to remember.

  Some days I can’t remember much of that night at all.

  I only remember that it had happened.

  And the general order of things,

  How I’d confessed to Roland without meaning it,

  And how Roland had forgiven me

  for all I confessed and more.

  How his act of forgiveness

  had brought me crashing to my knees.

  I’d repented then, for the first time.

  Repented of it all, wished I’d never done any of it,

  wished I could erase it.

  Then You came.

  I remember what I saw but only in an impersonal way

  As if it hadn’t happened to me.

  CHAPTER 18

  The combination of warm afternoon sun streaming through his bedroom window and a pile of homework he didn’t want to do had dropped Keefe like a felled tree to his bed. The replay of the warrior dream had him clawing his way back to consciousness.

  Keefe sat on the edge of his bed, easing out of a stupor. His conscience ruffled him. Same as it had ever since he’d decided to stop at nothing short of victory.

  He’d better go talk to Papa about the retreat. Get it over with. He’d say yes or he’d say no. And Keefe could handle it.

  Taking a deep breath and stretching, Keefe left his bedroom, passed Jarret’s closed door, and padded down the hallway in his socks. He’d had every intention of asking for permission earlier in the week. But then Jarret had gotten expelled and Roland came home with an orange-streaked complexion. And for two days after, Papa seemed out of sorts. He couldn’t look at Roland for more than a second without his jaw clenching. And he seemed to think he needed to say or do something more to keep track of Jarret.

  They’d had some pretty cold dinner conversations. Papa said things like, “Teachers send you schoolwork?”