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I, on the other hand, don’t really know what freedom feels like. Even in these moments of being away from my house, up on this tower—I still feel the pull of what’s expected of me. The strings that keep me tethered to my parents, the church, the words written in the Bible that I’ve read no fewer than a dozen times.
All of those things are attached with strings that I wish I could cut or light on fire and watch burn. But what would I do after the connection is broken? I don’t have any money. No real education to speak of. The only relationships I have are with people I know from church. I’ve been effectively sheltered from the world outside the bubble my parents have kept me in.
This guy sitting next to me has freedom. I noticed the fancy car he has parked down below us. It looks like it could take him anywhere. I know he’s a student at the college. Education, books, learning–those are all at his fingertips too. He has an abundance of freedom. What a selfish, idiotic thing for him to say.
“I’m pretty sure you’re free. I think the real question is, are you using your freedom?” I say, my tone drenched in indignation.
I don’t usually make it a habit of being rude to strangers. Then again, I don’t usually talk to strangers. I think I’m feeling jealousy. I’m jealous that this stranger–Emmett–sitting next to me seems to have everything I wish I had, but seems to still be wishing for more. My jealousy has been coming out in harsh tones toward him that I don’t plan on apologizing for or correcting anytime soon.
“So–are you going to tell me what you’re doing up here, Aubrey?”
I like the sound of my name coming from his lips. I shouldn’t like it. I shouldn’t have even stayed up here. I should have climbed back down and ran for home the moment I saw someone was here. But I didn’t–and now I’m sitting up here in the sky. Vulnerable. With a stranger who’s asking me difficult questions. Who is equal parts completely irritating and completely intriguing.
“No,” I tell him, not even bothering to look at him.
Without another word, I stand up and do what I should have done from the beginning–I climb back down the water tower.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Home.”
“Well–it was–it was nice to meet you Aubrey.”
I look up to see he’s still sitting in the same place, but he’s looking up at me, giving me that crooked grin.
When I make it down the ladder, I head for home but stop when I get into the trees separating the water tower and my house. I stand there, hidden in the dark between the branches. Watching Emmett a little longer. He sits up there, alone, for only another five minutes before he climbs down.
He stops halfway down the ladder, as if he’s trying to catch his breath. It’s peculiar, his need to stop and rest. The way he slumps against the ladder, hanging his head. The ladder isn’t so tall that someone as young as him would need to take a break.
I continue watching him as he walks over to his car. He pauses before getting into it and looks back up to the water tower, then out to the woods where I’m hiding. I take a silent step back. There’s no way he can see me hiding in the dark.
He finally gets into his car and pulls away. Irritation at him ruining my night and being in my spot still coursing through me, I make my way home to sneak back into my room.
My alarm goes off too early, but it’s right on time at seven in the morning. I crawl out of bed and get dressed, still half asleep. If I had to guess, most people my age get to sleep in on Saturday mornings. Not me. After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I go into the kitchen where Mom and Dad are already sitting at the table, their Bibles open, waiting for me.
“Did you say your morning prayers?” Dad asks, the same way he asks every morning.
“Yes,” I lie.
I haven’t prayed alone in months.
I sit down between my mother and father and open my own bible, laying it neatly on the table. Just as he does every morning, Dad begins reading.
Every morning is wholly the same. I’m expected to be at the kitchen table by seven-fifteen for morning Bible study. Dad reads a few pages while Mom praises him. I usually keep my eyes on the page, only pretending to follow along, paying enough attention to know when to turn the pages.
After Dad’s decided we’ve read enough for the morning, he usually asks me a few questions that are easy enough to answer from memory of all the times I genuinely paid attention in the past.
When we’re done, we join hands and Dad prays. He prays for mom and our church. He prays for the sinners–although the things he says suggest he doesn’t actually care about them. And he prays for me. He prays I stay on the path of righteousness. That path he prays about used to be a perfectly clear path with no obstacles or holes to sink into. Over the past few years, the path has gotten more and more obstructed from my view.
I’m about to get up from the table to go back to my room, but Dad stops me.
“We’ve prayed over your request,” he says.
In my lack of sleep state, I had completely forgotten about asking about the job. My heartbeat picks up a little, waiting for him to continue.
“You may take the job, but only if it does not interfere with any of your studies or other responsibilities.”
By studies and other responsibilities, he means Bible study and church. I choose my words carefully for my response, not wanting to give him any reason to change his mind.
