Only Uni (34 page)
Her nose crashed into the mic. Rather hard, too. She opened her eyes.
Huh? Where was her mic?
Crash!
Her blow — or rather, her nose’s blow to the mic — had sent the mic and stand tipping backwards. It flipped over the monitor squatting low on the edge of the stage and plopped into Mr. Yamaguchi’s lap.
Ed faltered for a moment. Olivia stopped playing for a second. The drummer missed a beat.
Then they kept going.
Should she break from formation and run to get the mic stand from Mr. Yamaguchi? He blinked at the stand for a second before setting it on the empty seat beside him and picking up on the chorus.
Trish stood up there, feeling rather naked without the mic stand. Her head was on fire — she could almost smell singed hair — while her hands, gripped at her waist, had frostbite. Why couldn’t she be like Nightcrawler from the X-Men and
bam!
disappear in a cloud of sulfur?
And then —
thank you, God
— the song finally ended. Trish raced down the stage to rescue the mic stand, but Spenser beat her to it.
“Who’s at the soundboard?” she whispered. She handled the stand while Spenser inspected the mic. The pastor had gotten to the podium and started his sermon, valiantly ignoring them as they righted the equipment.
“Ed’s nephew is with me the next few weeks learning to do the sound, so I left him there.” He frowned at the mic.
“Is it broken?” Would she have to pay for it? She’d heard they were thousands of dollars.
Well, dummy, you’re the one who broke it.
“I think it’s okay. It would have been worse if it were on.”
Oh, whew . . . Wait a minute. “What?”
“They didn’t tell you?” He turned innocent eyes to her. Trish tried to ignore the fact that they were a delicious Godiva dark chocolate brown.
“Tell me what?”
His gaze flitted away. “Well, you were so worried about how you sang, and I can understand, not that you sing badly, because you sing better than you think . . . Usually people are nervous when they hear themselves in the speakers or the monitors . . . You did great because you couldn’t hear yourself. Did you notice? I noticed.”
He was stalling. And babbling, too, which was even more freaky. “What are you talking about?”
“I, uh . . . turned off your mic.”
G
riselle’s voice stopped her on her storming march out to her SUV in the church parking lot. “Trish, wait up.”
She stopped and whirled. “He turned off my mic!”
Griselle paused with a neutral expression on her face, as if unsure whether to press forward or back away from the crazy woman. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t sing that badly, do I?” Her eyes started to sting.
“You were great.” Griselle patted her shoulder.
“No I wasn’t. No one could even hear me.”
She snickered. “I hate to break it to you, but you sang loud enough for the first three rows to hear you quite well.”
She didn’t know why, but the news brightened her mood. “Really? Oh.” Not that her purpose of singing on the worship team was to be heard. She was supposed to be helping lead the congregation in personal and collective worship. Of God. Still, it was nice to know she hadn’t been totally useless.
“Are you doing anything on Tuesday night?”
“No.” Her sad social life.
“Want to come with me and work at the Pregnancy Crisis Center?”
Trish’s initial reaction was no. How could she possibly help girls when she herself was only now regaining her chastity? How could she counsel anyone when she needed counseling herself on how to live a life God would be pleased with? She’d been a Christian, yet she had deliberately disobeyed Him. “You don’t feel . . . I don’t know, guilty for working with them? I mean, both of us have done things we’re not proud of.”
Griselle’s eyes softened, and her smile became blindingly brilliant. “Our pasts are just that — past.”
Funny, her past kept biting her in the butt every day. When would she finally be forgiven? When would she finally be free?
“Trish, anybody can work there. More than that, you need a heart to help them. They can sniff out a fraud pretty fast.”
Did she have a heart for them? Could she be honest with them about her past mistakes when she could barely be honest with herself, with her cousins? Did she care enough about those nameless other girls to let it come across?
Did she want any of them to end up victims of men like Kazuo? Or to hop from boyfriend to boyfriend, seeking love and tossing men aside aimlessly and heartlessly? To disappoint their cousins, to garner an unsavory reputation in Japantown, to have their psychotic grandmothers come after them . . . ?
“I’d love to help.” She didn’t only want to help, she wanted to swoop in and save them, but without the red and white spandex and cape. She wasn’t sure if she could, but she also remembered rule number two — tell others about Christ. God would help her keep rule number two.
“Awesome. I’ll pick you up on Tuesday night and drive us to the Crisis Center. It’s in downtown San Jose.”
“Where are you going?” She heard his smooth, seductive voice and caught a whiff of sandalwood a split second before the tall shadow covered her.
“Nowhere.” Trish rounded on Kazuo. “Stop following me everywhere. This is getting majorly creepy.”
And actually, he did look kind of creepy with that melodramatic lock of hair over intense eyes, which hid a horrid artist’s temper and a collector’s possessiveness.
Funny that she remembered that about him right now, so different from even a few weeks ago. Maybe God was changing her. Or maybe it was the fact Griselle stood nearby with a look on her face like she’d swallowed a slug.
“By the way, Griselle, this is Kazuo. My
ex-
boyfriend.”
Normally sweet, polite Griselle acknowledged him with barely a nod. She took a step back. “I’ll see you — ”
Trish grabbed her — maybe a little harder than she needed to. “No, stay. Please?” Griselle’s physical presence gave her more strength to face Kazuo, who looked like he’d have cheerfully wanted her gone.
He reached out long, graceful fingers to Trish’s cheek. “I want to be part of your life again.”
She hesitated only a second this time before pulling back. It was easier to avoid his PDA with Griselle right there. “I’m trying to become a different person.”
“But I love you the way you are.”
Oh, man. He was good. She needed to get herself away from him before he said any more disgustingly self-esteem-boosting things like that. “I didn’t like who I was.”
That scared, easily-swayed girl who dated you
. “Why can’t you accept what I want for myself rather than what you want for me? That isn’t love.”
He hesitated. Had she gotten through to him finally?
Nope. “I want what’s best for you because I love you.”
He’d missed the point. Why was she surprised? She was tired of talking in circles with him, so she turned to Griselle. “Let’s go to lunch.”
Kazuo perked up. “Where?”
She firmed her mouth and looked him in the eye. “Not you. We are over.”
A flash of fire streaked across his dark eyes.
Trish didn’t back down.
Go ahead, Kazuo. Unleash your temper here, in the middle of the church parking lot. Remind me why I shouldn’t melt into your arms again so that my body will finally listen to my head.
Instead, he banked that dark fire. It was almost as if it had never broken out at all. He turned to walk away. “Enjoy yourself on Tuesday.”
She couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through her.
She’d be okay tonight if she could stop being a basketcase. Easier said than done.
Trish entered the glass doors of the Pregnancy Crisis Center behind Griselle’s lithe figure. The girl walked with so much bounce in her step, like she hadn’t a weight on her shoulders at all. Not even a couple cuss words.
Griselle greeted a couple other girls with friendly hugs. “Trish, these are the other counselors, Pamela and Cheryl.”
Such sweet girls. Pamela, the brunette with long wavy hair, gave her a wide smile. Cheryl’s blue eyes lit up when she said hello.
Trish felt covered in ectoplasm.
No, that was basketcase-ness. She didn’t even have a physical daily reminder of her past like Griselle did. She was a new creation in Christ. She was going to make a difference for Him tonight. She’d finally get to fulfill rule number two, tell others about Christ, which she’d been slacking at lately.
“Tonight is support group.” Griselle led the way through a side door into a largish room with a circle of chairs. “You’ll get to meet some of the regular women who come for counseling, but mostly there are newcomers every week.”
“So I won’t be manning the hotline phones?” She was partly relieved. She’d probably freak out herself instead of calming down some hysterical or depressed girl on the telephone. Yet she was also disappointed she wouldn’t have the chance to snatch some poor girl from the fires of guilt and depraved sin.
Get a grip. They’re pregnant, not serial killers.
Hopefully.
Several young women came a few minutes before seven, many of them obviously pregnant. Pamela and Cheryl started the support group promptly on time, although many women snuck in afterward.
“Rosa, how has your week been?” Cheryl’s pearl-pink lips gave an encouraging smile to the short Hispanic woman.
“Not too bad.” Rosa rubbed her burgeoning stomach. “Carlos only came by my sister’s house once this week, and Luisa’s kids were already inside so we could lock and bar the door when he started screaming and pounding.”
Whoa, momma.
Trish’s sob story of her demented artist boyfriend was a picture of suburbia in comparison.
“You should buy a gun.” One girl with black makeup gunked around her eyes (how could she see with all that on?) nodded. “You don’t have to shoot him, just fire it, and he’ll be scared and take off.” Trish told herself to stop staring at the girl’s black leather and studs, trying not to cringe every time she moved and the metal seemed to pierce her.
“How’re you doing with your boyfriend, Felicity?” Pamela nodded encouragingly at the leather chick.
Felicity?
She shrugged. “He tried to stop me from going out with my girlfriends. Said he needed me at home. He even took away my car keys and dropped them in the toilet.”
“My ex-boyfriend did that!” Trish shoved forward in her seat.
“How did you get them out?”
“My neighbor’s a plumber. I got him to get them out for me after I clocked my boyfriend.” Felicity smiled in satisfaction.
“Clocked him?”
“With one of his free-weights. He never did that again.”
“Oh.” Trish sank back in her chair. Sure, if she had risked
killing
Kazuo, she’d probably have escaped him much sooner.
“Tell us about yourself, Trish.” Cheryl did some bobble-head action.
Now? “I’ve, uh . . . never been pregnant.”
“That’s okay.” Griselle patted her knee. “We’re here to offer support. We’re all women here.”
Hmm. Well, she didn’t quite have problems on the same scale as Rosa and Felicity, but she also hesitated to lay them out in front of Pamela and Cheryl. What would they think of her? They seemed like such nice girls. What would they think to find she wasn’t a nice girl?
Griselle caught her gaze.
Ah. Got it.
She took a deep breath.
His compassions never fail, they are new every morning.
“I escaped from my ex-boyfriend. He was possessive.” That was one way to put it. “But I see him all over the place, and he wants me back, and he makes me feel like I’m sexier than Angelina Jolie, and I can’t stop myself from wanting to get back with him, too, until I remember — or at least try to remember — how he used to treat me and how miserable I was because he never let me see my friends and it was all about him, but when I’m right next to him, all I can think about is that I want to kiss him.” She gasped in a breath.
“Me too.” Another Asian girl spoke up in a thick accent — Thai? Vietnamese? “My ex keep coming around. I tell him go away, but then he smile, and I tell him come inside.” Her mouth turned down and her shoulders sagged.