Free 100 Days by Nicole McInnes Page A

one—should be outside in nature, where God can see you more easily. People you love should be there, too. All they have here at the church is a big fiberglass bathtub that one of the families donated when they remodeled. The tub sits on a platform in the back room. Not exactly the most spiritual water-based experience I can imagine.
    *   *   *
    Jamey doesn’t try to hide her irritation with me in the car on the way home. I’m strapped into my booster in the middle row of seats next to Isaiah. Behind us, in the way back, the twins sit strapped into their own booster seats. “Have you heard of the bridge embankment theory?” my stepmother asks, turning to look at me.
    â€œUm, no?”
    â€œJamey,” Dad says, glancing at her.
    â€œWhat?” she asks him. “It’s what finally convinced you , isn’t it?” She smiles at me again, but it’s a tight smile this time. “It means you could drive away from this church and hit a bridge embankment and die without being baptized. Think about how awful that would be.”
    â€œBut I don’t have my license,” I answer. “Which means you or Dad would be driving, and Isaiah and Nevaeh and Obi would be in the car, too. So we’d probably all be dead. Not just me.” I immediately regret saying it. When I glance back at the twins, they’re staring at me with eyes the size of dinner plates. “Which totally isn’t going to happen,” I assure them. “You guys are going to live a long, long time.”
    Behind the wheel, Dad clears his throat again like he did in church. “I think you’ve been hanging out with that friend of yours too much,” he says. “That big girl.”
    Once again, I hold my tongue between my teeth to keep from saying anything I’ll later regret.
    Jamey, meanwhile, seems to think about what I said. “It may be true that we’d all die,” she murmurs finally, “but the rest of us have been baptized.”
    I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s not physically possible to keep quiet any longer. “And your point is…?”
    Oops.
    Isaiah’s head swivels around toward me. I’m pretty sure he’s never heard anyone talk to his mother like this. Dad says, “That’s enough, Agnes,” but I’m not sorry. I cross my arms in front of my chest.
    â€œI think you know what my point is,” Jamey says, ending the conversation. She turns back toward the windshield and gazes out at the road ahead.
    *   *   *
    That night before bed, I find Isaiah in the bathroom brushing his teeth. “I have a favor to ask you,” I tell him.
    Eyebrows raised, hand paused in midbrush, he regards me in the mirror.
    â€œI was wondering if I could borrow your slingshot.”
    Isaiah frowns. When a little line of toothpaste foam escapes from the corner of his mouth, he slurps it back in.
    â€œJust until the next time I come here,” I tell him. The slingshot has a wrist brace, which makes it easier for me to shoot. The last time I tried it out, I discovered I had pretty good aim.
    Isaiah spits and rinses, then stands there with the toothbrush in hand, deep in thought. Finally, he says, “You’re gonna die soon, aren’t you.” The way he says it, it’s not a question.
    I blink in disbelief. “What? That is so totally beside the point. Where did you even get such an idea?”
    â€œIt’s what you and Mother were talking about in the car, isn’t it?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œHave you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
    All I can do is sigh. Verily, the situation with these kids is worse than I thought. “I guess I’m … still considering my options,” I tell him.
    He seems to think about this for a long moment. Then he says, “It’ll suck if you don’t accept Him. ’Cause then