Devoted by Jennifer Mathieu Read Free Book Online Page B

Business has been slow, and even though Dad always reminds us we should owe no one anything but love, we still haven’t received all of Mom’s medical bills, and I have no idea how we’ll figure out how to pay them.
    Dad is in the bedroom with Mom—the two are talking in low tones, and I can’t make out what they’re saying. Ruth is in the kitchen writing out a list of groceries for the next week. One of my older brothers is showering upstairs, and I can hear the hot water chugging through the pipes like a train. My brothers don’t help with bedtime for the little ones, and their lack of evening chores affords them the luxury of a long shower at the end of the day.
    My fingers flutter over the keyboard like hummingbird wings, and as I work, I try to ignore the little itch that’s been building in the back of my brain for days now.
    An itch that began when I spoke to Lauren’s mother at church last Sunday. That intensified when I had to throw away my book.
    Suddenly I see the words Lauren Sullivan Texas Calvary Christian sitting in the search box, looking me right in the eye. My heart pounds so hard it aches.
    I hit Enter.
    Pressing that key feels like a release. Like when I water the plants in the front yard and push my thumb against the garden hose for a minute, letting the water pressure build up and tickle me before I move it just a little and let the water explode all around me, the spray kissing my bare feet.
    Maybe nothing will happen, I think, but in a millisecond my eyes focus on the very first link.
    BUTTERFLY GIRL—About Me—Links—My Very Favorite Things—The Great Escape
    Hi! Thanks for finding me on the Interwebs. My name’s Lauren, and when I was a teenager, I escaped from a scary situation that involved abuse and …
    That’s all I can read unless I click on the link. What are the Interwebs? I’m not even sure this is Lauren Sullivan, but the word abuse stands out. Lauren didn’t like what happened at Calvary Christian, I know that. But it wasn’t abuse. Abuse is hard smacks and kicks, not the kinds of swats my parents have given all of us since we were little. Abuse is someone touching you inappropriately in your private areas. Mom was careful to explain that to us when we were little, and I know she took it seriously from the way she almost always got tears in her eyes when she talked to us about others imposing their sexual immorality on innocent children. Touching in the wrong way is abuse. What happened to Lauren made her run away, but how can she call it abuse? Weren’t we just trying to bring her closer to Jesus?
    My eyes shift down and there are links to results from track meets and spelling bees at other schools and districts with names involving Lauren or Sullivan or Calvary or Christian, but none of the other links that pop up seem to be even close to belonging to the mysterious, redheaded Lauren Sullivan from years ago.
    I take a deep breath and listen some more. The shower upstairs has stopped running. If I strain, I can still hear Mom and Dad’s muffled voices. Even though I don’t know what they’re saying, something about the sound pricks at my heart.
    But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed , I think, remembering the book of James. I tug hard at the ends of my long hair in an effort to wake myself out of this daze I’ve sunk into. I pull so hard I wince, and the skin on my scalp fights my pulling. A sharp sting travels over my skull. I yank hard one more time for good measure. To make sure I don’t click on that first link.
    Quickly, I clear my history and double-check to make sure there’s no trace of my searches.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    I turn around wearing a face that has to give me away, I’m sure of it. It’s Ruth, the memory of A Wrinkle in Time and my promise to never read it again no doubt burned in her brain. She’s holding