The Color Of Grace Read Free

mixed up as I was, I didn’t know up
from down.
    “I…” Feeling absolutely rattled, I could only stare at her.
“I…”
    “You what?”
    “Well, I... And he… But then I turned him down and he…he…”
    “You turned him down? Him ?”
Bridget spun to point at forty-two.
    By the scandalized way I grabbed her hand and jerked it
toward the floor, one would’ve thought she’d just aimed a gun instead of her
finger. “I didn’t…I didn’t…I…”
    Bridget thumped me on the back, right between my shoulder
blades as if I were choking and needed air. And like some kind of old record
player that had slipped back on track, I was able to stop sputtering. I spilled
out the entire encounter in hyper speed, not even pausing to breathe.
    “Technically, I couldn’t really turn him down. He never
asked me out. He just asked for my name, and I said, ‘Not interested,’ because,
well really, what else could I say? Then he went totally weird on me, talking
about the words ‘not interested’ as if they were my real name, asking if it was
from German or Irish decent.” I looked at Bridget and sucked in air since my
head had gone a little light from lack of oxygen. “Then he said we should name
our firstborn child ‘Absolutely.’”
    Bridget’s eyes widened to the size of marshmallows—not the
minis but the big marshmallows you put on s’mores. “He did not,” she whispered.
    I nodded. “He so did.”
    “Holy Hosanna, Grace. That’s just awesome. Totally awesome.
What’s his name?”
    “Ryder,” I uttered in a hollow voice. “He said his name was
Ryder. Not that I believe him. But that’s what he said.”
    “Ryder,” she murmured huskily. “I like it. Ryder what?”
    I shrugged.
    “Oh, for the love of—” Snatching an abandoned roster off the
bleacher seat behind us, Bridget ripped it open and bit her bottom lip as she
ran her finger down the column. “Forty-two. Forty-two. I don’t see a
forty-two.”
    I glanced over her shoulder and found her scanning the wrong
team’s list, so I helpfully suggested, “Probably because you’re looking at
Hillsburg’s roster.”
    Bridget growled out a sound of irritation and turned the
page. “Hey, here it is. Forty-two. His name really is Ryder. Ryder Yates.”
    “Ryder Yates,” I repeated in a reverent manner.
    “Holy Hosanna, Grace. He’s gorgeous. Just gorgeous.” She
patted me approvingly as if it were my fault Ryder Yates was gorgeous.
    I rolled my eyes and clenched the back of my teeth. But I
forced myself to relax a moment later, remembering what my new stepfather
always said to me about dental care and how bad gritting one’s teeth was. The
thought of braces didn’t appeal; I immediately loosened my jaws and ran my
tongue over my molars, apologizing to them for the possible harm.
    Needing another escape outlet, I glanced down at my fingernails.
I didn’t see any dirt or gunk under them but picked them clean anyway. “Why do
you say Holy Hosanna?” I muttered, hoping that’d be a sufficient change of
subject. And honestly, I had always wondered. She said it more than I said “honestly”,
which the nerd herd teased was my special catch phrase.
    Bridget gave a half shrug, lifting her camera to focus on
number forty-two through her lens. “’Cause.” She sounded distracted as she
concentrated on her task. “It’s like cussing, but not. You know.” She shrugged
again. “My dad doesn’t freak if I say Holy Hosanna.”
    I cast a brief glance across the court only to see him sitting
on the bleachers with his team. Not paying any attention to where his coach
knelt in front of the group, avidly talking with his hands and pointing at a
clipboard on the floor to give last minute instructions before the game, Ryder
Yates turned his head my way.
    I whipped my attention back to my friend and cleared my
throat. “But technically, isn’t it still taking the Lord’s name in vain?” Her
dad was a preacher and didn’t approve of commandment