Here's another update! Hope you enjoy. This chapter is mainly Sam and his father and Sam and the Youth group.

And to the the guest. I get what you're saying, but there is no need to be rude about and call me names. Santana is a minor character that will only say about 3 words this entire story. I was original going to use Tina, but changed it to Santana at the last minute. I wanted to something different with the glee characters which is why I have Finn and Rachel brother and sisters, Rachel a Christian, and Santana dating Finn. I have already mentioned that none of this characters will be from Canon. They are all OOC. I'm sorry you feel that way about Santana's representation, but this isn't a Santana centered fic. You are more than welcome to not read anymore. Santana will appear in Chapter 9 briefly and then will only be mentioned by Finn as usual.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the rest of the story


By the time I got back to church, the service was over. A few people tried to chat with me, but I was too caught up in my own thoughts to have a decent conversation. What made Mercedes walk away from the church? What had happened to her in the five years since she left Conway? Why did she hate her father so much? I was beginning to worry that he took "spare the rod, spoil the child" a little too literally. And Lord forbid, maybe Mercedes's father didn't physically abuse her. Maybe he did something worse. I shuddered and tried to ignore the cold, clammy sensation seeping into my skin. I couldn't focus on this now—I had a youth group meeting in five minutes, and I still needed to look over my notes. I headed toward the educational wing of the church, but halfway across the parking lot, Deacon Briggs ambushed me.

"Your daddy wants to see you," he said, his eyes fixed on my collar. I wondered if he could smell her scent on my coat. I could.

"Can you tell him I'll be there in a few minutes? I have a youth group meeting and—"

"Don't think he's in the mood to wait, son."

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and guided me to the church. Deacon Briggs didn't release his grip until we were at Dad's office. Mrs. O'Neal, the church secretary, pointed to Dad's study.

"He's waiting for you," she said. "Go on in." I took a few deep breaths and slowly cracked open the door. Dad looked up.

"Come in, Samuel. And close the door behind you." I inched into his office. Dad's desk was like him—big, strong, sturdy, and unyielding. I sank into the chair across from him and offered up a silent prayer for mercy. Dad peered at me over the top of his glasses. "I noticed that you skipped out on the service today. Are my sermons that boring?" He might have been making a joke, but he wasn't laughing.

"I'm sorry. I planned to come back in, but I lost track of time and—"

"Do you know how it looks for the pastor's son not only to show up late for service, but then to sneak out a few moments later?" He took his glasses from his nose and placed them on the desk next to a golf-ball-shaped paperweight. "You're my son. You have to set a good example." I squeezed my hands into fists.

"I had a good reason for skipping out. Mercedes came to church today." Dad frowned and sat back.

"I didn't see her in the sanctuary."

"Well … she didn't quite make it inside."

"You're telling me that she came to church, but she didn't come for the service?"

"She wasn't really dressed appropriately…. She got into an argument with her father and …" I shook my head. "It's kind of hard to explain."

"Hmm. I see." Dad placed his hands together, his fingertips barely touching. "I still don't see what this has to do with you. Unless I'm mistaken, your mother instructed you to leave her be."

"You were the one who suggested I talk to Mercedes in the first place!" I knew my voice was borderline insubordinate, so I tried to tone it down. "You guys can't have it both ways. You can't tell me to try to help her, just for Mom to tell me otherwise." Dad sighed.

"I agree, your mother and I haven't done a very good job of communicating with each other concerning the Mercedes situation. However, that doesn't change the fact that two days ago your mother told you to stop seeing Mercedes."

"But Dad—"

"Deuteronomy, chapter five, verse sixteen. 'Honor thy mother and father, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee.'"

"What about the parable of the lost sheep? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountain and search for the one that is lost?" I gripped the wooden arms of the chair. "We can't give up on her." I braced myself, awaiting Dad's rebuttal. Instead … wait a minute. Was he smiling at me?

"You missed a few words, but you got it basically right, although I like the poetry of the King James Version better than the New American Standard." What the—? I was talking about saving Mercedes, and all Dad could do was give me a lecture on the different versions of the Bible. No wonder Mercedes walked away from the church. The grin on Dad's face was only momentary. He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze neither happy nor harsh. "Your mother is concerned that Mercedes may have a negative effect on you, but I think you're old enough—strong enough—to handle the pressure." With the way he looked at me, I couldn't turn away. "Do you really think you can bring her back to the church? Do you think she'll recommit to the faith?" I thought for a second; I wanted to choose my words carefully. I didn't want to lie to Dad, especially here, at church.

"I really think I can save her." I repeated my words in my head. I didn't think I was lying. I could save her—just not necessarily in the way Dad was thinking.

"I'll be honest; I'm not thrilled with the idea of you and Mercedes being friends," Dad said. "But like you, I'm hesitant to give up on her so quickly. No one is beyond saving, no matter what one's father may say." That clammy sensation from earlier started to spread across my skin again.

"Mercedes's father was pretty strict, wasn't he?" Dad nodded. "Isaac believes his children should mind their manners and respect their elders, and when they don't, he believes they should be punished," he said. "But I don't think he ever crossed the line, if that's what you're suggesting." I stared at the floor, a sour taste at the back of my throat.

"What if he did … more? Maybe something worse than physical abuse." Instead of replying, Dad stood from his desk and picked up one of the golf clubs leaning against the wall. He lined up at an invisible tee and took swing after swing. I just sat there and watched him. This was what Dad always did when he was thinking. Dad finally paused, leaning heavily against the club.

"I've known Isaac Jones for almost fifteen years, and I've never even remotely seen or heard evidence of him abusing his kids—either physically or sexually." I rose from my seat.

"But just because you didn't see it doesn't mean he didn't do it. And that would explain why Mercedes hates him so much."

"A lot of things would explain why Mercedes dislikes her father." Dad sighed. "But I'll make a few calls, if it'll make you feel better."

"Thanks. That would make me feel better." Dad returned to his imaginary golf game, and after a few minutes of silence, I figured Dad was probably done talking. I headed to the door, and just as I opened it, Dad said,

"And Samuel, don't ever disobey your mother again. You'll find that she—and I—can be a lot less forgiving." I turned around and nodded.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. Just don't do it again." He returned to his golf swing. "You'd better head to your meeting. You're already running late."

Meeting? What was he—the youth group meeting! I rushed out of his office. I couldn't believe I had forgotten about the meeting. I was the one who'd scheduled it. Mrs. Anderson smirked at me as I entered the library.

"There you are," she said. "For a second, I was beginning to think you had forgotten about us."

I just smiled as I made my way to the front of the room. Mrs. Anderson had been filling in as our advisor for the past year, ever since Reverend Lloyd, our old youth pastor, took a position at one of the megachurches in Atlanta. Mrs. Anderson wasn't exactly teen-friendly, but she let us run the meetings and plan our own events, so long as we didn't try to do anything too unusual. Although everyone between the ages of thirteen and eighteen was considered a member of the youth group, only about twenty of us—well, nineteen without Quinn—were regular members. I had been the president for the last two years. Before I could even call the meeting to order, Rachel's hand shot up.

"I want to add something to the agenda," she said, not waiting for me to recognize her.

"And I told her we were not going to waste time discussing an issue we already voted on," Donna said.

Donna was the vice president of the youth group and her twin sister, Dora, was the secretary. You'd be hard-pressed to find a more prim and proper set of twins. I motioned for Rachel to come forward. Donna and Dora invited themselves to the front of the room as well.

"Why can't we have a revote about the praise-dance team?" Rachel asked. Her once-pink eyelids were now baby blue. "The only reason it didn't pass the first time was because the twins bullied everyone into voting against it." Donna sighed.

"I've tried explaining this to you numerous times, Rachel, but you refuse to listen. You were on the losing end of the vote. You can't bring it up again."

"But that's not fair—"

"No, but it's correct," I said. I could see the twins smiling smugly.

"However, someone from the winning side of the vote can bring it back up for a revote." Rachel's eyes lit up.

"Good. I'll tell Cassandra to—"

"Hold on," I said. "I don't want to talk about this today—not during the meeting. We have too many other issues to discuss." I patted her shoulder. "But if you want to discuss this after the meeting, we can do it then. Okay?" Rachel's eyes dimmed a little.

"Okay, I guess."

"Good."

I smiled at her, but she didn't smile back. She headed to her seat, pausing to mouth something to a handful of the girls sitting around her. They nodded in agreement with whatever she said, all the while cutting their eyes at Donna and Dora. The twins just stared straight ahead, their hands folded neatly in their laps. I called the meeting to order and after briefly discussing the upcoming retreat, I moved on to the Youth Revival. We still had a lot of planning to do for it, although it seemed like except for Donna and Dora, the group was more interested in picking our social events than reviewing the worship service program. Rachel, usually quick to offer suggestions, spent most of the meeting jotting things down in a notebook. Every time she looked up and caught me staring at her, I looked away. Finally, after doling out a few responsibilities, I adjourned the meeting. Immediately, Rachel marched to the front of the library. Four other girls, all friends of hers, followed. Dora remained in the front of the room with me, while Donna talked with Mrs. Anderson. She nodded at whatever Donna said before pushing herself out of her seat and walking out of the room. Apparently, Mrs. Anderson didn't need to stick around to squash this latest uprising. That was what she had the twins for. Or maybe, that was what she had me for. Rachel planted her bony hands on her bony hips.

"Will someone please explain to me—to us—why we can't have a praise-dance ministry?" Her words were loud and charged, and aimed at Dora. "Just because some people can't dance doesn't mean everyone should be punished." Dora brought her hand to her collar and took a step backward.

"If you're looking for something to do, why don't you join the choir like everyone else?"

"Not all of us can sing," Rachel said. "And no offense, but some of us don't want to sing the same old has-been spirituals week after week." Dora sucked in her breath.

"I can't believe you just—"

"And if the boys can have a basketball team, the girls should be able to have a praise-dance team," Cassandra chimed in. "Rachel told us all about her praise-dance team at her old church." The girls nodded in agreement.

"Church is a place of worship, not a dance club," Donna said, joining us in the front of the room. While the Wesley twins were identical, Donna was clearly the alpha female of the pair. "I can't speak for everyone, but I know some of us are too dignified to participate in such ungodly activities."

"Ungodly?" Rachel moved toward the twins. "Who are y'all to say what is and isn't godly?" Donna puffed out her chest.

"Everyone knows that dancing—especially hip-hop dancing—has nothing to do with God, and everything to do with sex." She reached for her Bible. "It clearly states—"

"Okay, that's enough," I said, stepping in between Rachel and Donna. "Let's all calm down for a second."

As Rachel took a few deep breaths, I thought about how her words reminded me of Mercedes's. Same fire, same passion. Rachel knew she was right, despite what I or the twins or anyone else said. Just like Mercedes. I looked at the mob of girls behind Rachel. It seemed like all of them had recently taken to wearing makeup.

"I assume all of y'all want to start a praise-dance team." Four heads nodded. Five, including Rachel's. I crossed my arms. "And how many of y'all know how to dance—and I'm not talking about the type of dancing they do in music videos." Elizabeth, who was more round than tall, stepped forward.

"What's wrong with hip-hop dancing?" she asked. "On TV, praise-dance teams do hip-hop all the time." Donna snorted.

"You don't honestly believe Pastor Evans is going to allow hip-hop dancing in his church, do you? Please tell me you're not that naive." I expected Rachel to lash out at Donna, but instead she turned her gaze on me.

"We could learn how to do other types of dance, Samuel." Her voice was so low I could barely hear her. "We'd just have to practice a lot." A lump formed in my throat as I struggled to say the words I knew she didn't want to hear.

"Even if you guys danced something as traditional as ballet, it'd be tough to convince the church to start a praise-dance team when only five girls are interested."

"If you really pushed for a group, we'd have more interest." She placed her hand on my arm, right where Mercedes had earlier applied her death grip. "If you really supported it, the youth group would follow you. We always do."

Rachel's words tugged at my conscience. She wasn't arguing her case, nor was she demanding anything. Not anymore. She was merely asking me to do what I knew was right. She was merely asking me to help her. I pulled away.

"I'm sorry, but the church isn't ready for a dance ministry. We're way too conservative for something so radical." Her eyes pleaded with me.

"If you keep thinking like that, we're always going to be an old, boring church."

"Give it a little more time, okay?" I turned to the other girls in the group. While their expressions were as sad as Rachel's, they were a lot easier to focus on. "I promise, I'll keep talking to my dad about it. Maybe next year." Donna tucked her Bible under her arm.

"I'm glad this is settled. Now we can get on to more important things." She smirked at the girls. "And in case any of you are interested, choir practice starts at seven o'clock sharp on Tuesday nights."

The girls glared back at the twins. It was safe to assume that their thoughts were anything but godly at that point. As the girls filed out of the room, I sat down at the table and scribbled a few notes on the back of a program. As usual, Dora had been too busy arguing to take minutes. I finished jotting down my notes and looked back up. I wasn't surprised to see Rachel sitting in one of the chairs, her arms crossed, her gaze stone-cold.

"This isn't fair," she said. "You know it isn't fair." I rose from my seat and stuffed the notes into my jacket pocket.

"What do you want me to say, Rachel? My dad doesn't think we're ready."

"That's a bunch of crap and you know it!"

"Don't yell," I said. "I'm doing the best I can." Rachel walked over to me.

"Be honest," she said, her voice slightly softer. "Do you think we should form a praise-dance ministry or not?" Yeah, Judas, what do you think? I leaned against the table.

"You know what I think? I think, for once, it would be great if you and the twins and Mrs. Anderson and even my father could agree on something. I think it would be great not to be always caught in the middle." I shook my head. I'd take the giggling Rachel over this one any day. "I want to give you your praise-dance ministry. But I'm not a miracle worker. Things like this don't happen in a day." I loosened my tie, and finally felt like I could breathe. "I'm on your side, Rachel, but you've got to be more patient. Right now, Dad hates the idea of forming a praise-dance ministry." Rachel's gaze lost some of its hard edge.

"Do you think he'll ever change his mind?" I thought for a second.

"I honestly don't know," I replied. "But I'll keep trying." I spit on my palms, rubbed them together, then crossed my heart. "I promise. I'll keep trying." Rachel's face broke into a smile.

"Samuel, what did you just do?" I looked down at my hands. "Sorry. It's an old thing I used to do with a friend when I was making a promise." Rachel sighed.

"I'll … try to be more patient," she said. "But keeping quiet isn't something I'm good at."

"Just give me a little more time, okay? I'm going to work on Dad more. It's just … complicated." The youth group, my parents, Mercedes—it seemed like everything was complicated.

"So what happened to you during service?" she asked. "I saw you sneak out, but you never came back in."

"Something came up. I needed to talk to someone." I started to walk out of the room, but Rachel jumped in front of me.

"What's her name?" she asked.

"What … what makes you think it's a she?"

"First of all, you're starting to get jumpy." She nodded toward my collar. "Plus you have makeup on your coat. Looks like foundation." I glanced at my lapel. Sure enough, blotches of brown decorated my collar.

"Her name is Mercedes."

"The girl Finn was going gaga over the other day?" Rachel kept her gaze on the makeup stain. "So what—is she your girlfriend or something?"

"She isn't my type." Rachel looked up at me with big, doe like eyes swimming in sky blue eye shadow.

"And what is your type?" she asked, before biting her thumb.

"I wish I knew." I rustled the top of her hair, which I knew she had always hated. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."