72. What Difference Does It Make?

I’m listening to The Smiths and wondering if life can get any worse.

I don’t want to find out.

I know what I have to do.

I make mental notes of the situation.

There’s Mom. Trying to work her away around the sadness she’s been left in.

There’s Dad. Somewhere else far, far away with whatever God he believes he knows.

There’s Jocelyn. This beautiful girl, inside and out, who somehow finds herself in all this trouble.

There’s Gus and his friends who want to pound my face into the ground.

There’s Newt, who somehow knows all the town’s secrets though it’s forgotten about him.

There’s Billy Bob, who just escaped from the Ku Klux Klan to knock me out and tie me up and threaten me in the middle of a cabin in the woods.

I could go on but I don’t want to.

All I want to do is rescue Jocelyn. But I’ve been trying, and things have gone from bad to worse.

“And I’m feeling very sick and ill today,” the singer tells me.

Yeah. Me, too.

I know I’ve got to stop. With everything.

I don’t want anything to happen to Jocelyn. Or Mom. Or me.

Whoever is watching is doing a good job.

And it could be anybody. Jocelyn’s step-uncle or a teacher at school or that weird pastor or the weird, red-headed vagrant in town with his dog or my Aunt Alice.

I don’t trust anybody anymore.

I know what I have to do. But I’m not going to like doing it.

Take this out when you need it, Chris.

I hear my father’s voice as if he’s whispering from the other room.

It takes me a minute to find it. It’s in the same bag I tossed it into before leaving Illinois. A part of me wonders why I kept it to begin with.

You might be surprised what you’ll find inside.

Maybe a teeny, tiny part of me believed Dad when he gave it to me. I wouldn’t admit it to him or anybody else, but I can admit it to myself.

I hold the Bible in my hand.

Maybe it can help somebody else, even if it can’t help me.

I know what I need to do.

I place the Bible on my desk, then turn up the music. I want to run away and bury myself in something somewhere far, far away from here.

“What’s this?” Jocelyn looks at me with curious and worried eyes as she holds the Bible.

“It’s a gift. A ‘farewell gift’?”

It’s shortly before history class, and I asked to talk with her briefly. She asked in a whisper if everything was okay, and I lied. I don’t want her to know about yesterday. I don’t want her to know about anything regarding me.

“What do you mean, ‘farewell gift?’”

“You know,” I say.

“Chris—”

I look around to see if anybody is spying on us. But how would I know? It could be anybody.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” Jocelyn asks, angry now.

“I can’t be around you anymore.”

“We already agreed to that. We said—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I mean—anything. I can’t.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Chris, talk to me.”

“No. They’re watching.”

“I know,” she says through clenched teeth. “I’ve said that to you.”

“But I just—I can’t do anything.”

“What happened? I know something happened.”

I shake my head, making sure that the spies who lurk know that I’m making it very clear.

No means no.

Even if it also means breaking my heart.

“What’s this for?” Jocelyn asks.

“My father gave it to me. I thought maybe it could help you.”

“Because you can’t?”

“Don’t—”

“I can get a Bible anywhere. Where am I supposed to find another you?”

“Please don’t be angry.”

“Angry? I’m not angry. I’m—I’m completely baffled. I’m disappointed.”

I can’t tell you any more because I don’t want you hurt like my mother or like me.

I want to tell her but I can’t.

She can’t know.

“Chris?”

“I’m sorry,” is all I can say.

And I am.

I’m sorry that I can’t do more or say more.

That doesn’t mean I’ve given up trying to help her.

It just means she can’t know about it.

I love this girl, and I know I will do anything to help her.

Anything.

Even if it means momentarily hurting her.