‘An Awful Dose of Boredom’

I see a light glimmering in the distance; I have a vision of freedom. I see myself and my children freed from idleness and drinking kvass and stuffing ourselves with goose and cabbage, freed from our after-dinner naps and this vile habit of trying to get something for nothing.—andrei prozorov

Junior year at Brigham Young University—it had started with promise, but by January, I was ready to give up. Had the theater department not been performing Three Sisters winter semester, I would have taken my “some college” to the nearest local government office (in another state) and never looked back. As it was, I endured a slim schedule of boring GEs and dreamed of my big break.

The auditions for Chekhov’s great play were scheduled for 16 January, so Friday the sixth found me shivering on an icy set of bleachers under a steely sky, practicing for the part of Irina with my best friend Derek Wu (from Bakersfield, California; majoring in international relations; served in the New York New York South Mission). He was reading the Baron Tuzenbakh for me, but Derek struggled to concentrate because my best best friend Marianne Andersen (from Joshua’s Ravine, Colorado, like me; majoring in business administration), the love of Derek’s life, was below us directing a chilled set of Cougarettes in yet another peppy, but not too sexy, routine.

“I can’t help that. I’ll be your wife, I’ll honor and obey you, but I don’t love you and I can’t help it. I’ve never been in love, never. Oh, I’ve longed for love, dreamed about it so much day and night,” I whispered. “Derek, I’m doing my best work here! Are you even paying attention?!”

His nearly-too-long-for-the-Testing-Center black hair whipped me in the face as he tore his gaze from Marianne. “Sorry, Bekah. Did Marianne change her hair? Her curls look—I don’t know—bouncier today.”

I sighed, “Maybe she switched shampoos. Can we focus, please? I need my Tuzenbakh. . .”

He snorted, “Tuzenbakh should have known when to give up, and Irina is too passive to ever fight for what she wants. Why do you even want her part? I’d think Masha was more your style; she’s feisty.”

“I’m sick of playing feisty, Derek. I’ve played Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire, Anita in West Side Story, Clytemnestra in Electra, and Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing. Irina is the wilting violet of this story—I want to play vulnerable just this once.”

“Girls.” Derek turned back to the field and grimaced as Marianne’s boyfriend (from Dallas, Texas; major undecided; served in the Korea Seoul Mission) trotted onto the icy field for a short make-out session between sets. “I don’t get it, Trevor Dixon is all wrong for Marianne, yet she still dates him.” Derek says Trevor Dixon like most people say radioactive waste.

“And you’re right for her?” I challenged.

“They’ve broken up, like what, seven times since last winter? He yells, he’s demanding, he always stands her up. That guy is such a——”

I put my hand on his arm, “Don’t say it, Derek.”

For a moment Derek was quiet, so I shifted my numb derrière and paged through the script. I was just about to suggest that we leave when Derek spoke again, his voice subdued:

“Rebekah, does Marianne love Trevor, like eternal-love love?”

Flustered, I babbled: “Well, she sees him every day when he takes her to and from class and often on weekends, she puts up with a lot of crap from him, he helps her with her car and buys her groceries, they are our ward’s darling couple, but . . . no, I don’t think she really loves him.”

“Really?”

“Trevor and Marianne just kind of . . . happened last winter, and now they’re dating. They feel safe with each other.”

Derek’s formerly hopeful face clouded again, “So I don’t have a chance in hell, is that what you’re saying?”

“No, Derek. I’m saying that Marianne’s dating Trev because she hasn’t gotten any better offers. But a million girls at this school are throwing themselves at you——”

“Only that one time!”

“They are,” I reinterrupted, “so it’s not like Marianne’s your one and only chance at eternal bliss.” I peeled myself off the frigid seat with a groan. Derek stared at his feet. “Look,” I suggested, nudging his shoulder, “I think the Cougarettes are pretty much done. Why don’t you, Marianne, and I get something to eat?”

“I can’t. Tonight is Discuss Derek’s Failures Over Speakerphone Night at the Wu house. My family’ll freak if I don’t call them in thirty minutes.” The two of us skipped down the bleachers to get our frozen blood moving again; Marianne waved at us from below. Trevor scowled, kissed her, and stalked off.

“Well,” I wanted to cheer Derek up, “at least you can tell them you got a B+ on your stats test; that should make them happy.”

“Nope, only an A is good enough for them. They may make me quit my job if I don’t start getting better scores. Oh well, stay cool, Bekah.” At the field entrance he hugged me, then moved towards Marianne, paused, and settled for a wave, “Bye, Marianne.” He loped off towards the parking lot.

Marianne watched his light blue parka disappear around the corner as she pulled her mass of blonde curls into a ponytail. “Where’s he going? I told you to ask him to dinner with us.”

“Derek had an important phone call, but he seemed really disappointed . . .”

Marianne smiled her famous megawatt smile, and her light green eyes danced, “Swear?”

“Swear.” I groaned and shifted my heavy messenger bag to another arm. Marianne took it from me and easily hefted it with her own bookbag and Adidas gym bag as we meandered towards her late-model bisque Jeep. I cleared my throat, “You and I could still do something tonight though, unless you have plans with Trevor . . .”

Marianne unlocked the passenger-side door and then circled around to the driver’s door. “That sounds great; me and Nicolette and the girls were gonna meet at the Smokehouse anyways—how’s that sound?”

Nicolette Brown (from West Point, Utah; majoring in interior design at UVU) was a venomous airhead who stuck to Marianne like glue. Marianne hung out with her to foster solidarity among the ward sisters. I sighed an affirmative and prepared to boost myself onto the magnolia-print covered passenger seat.

“Bekah!” Trotting across the parking lot was Cole Douglas (from Bowen, Idaho; majoring in sports medicine; served in the California Riverside Mission), Trevor’s friend who had been paying me a lot of attention since winter semester started up. A wrestler in high school, Cole cared his chiseled bulk with graceful confidence. I paused with my hand on the door handle and tried not to openly admire the huge abs and pecs that bulged through the tight white thermal shirt he wore under his open red high-school letterman jacket. Cole tilted his eyebrows at me and leaned against the Jeep. “Ya doin’ anything tonight?”

I gulped and willed the blood away from my cheeks. “Well, Mar—Marianne and I were thinking of maybe going to the Sm—Smokehouse, for barbeque, or something.”

Cole shook his head and blew air through his teeth, “Too bad.” He picked a lock of hair off my shoulder and watched it sparkle a little in the filtered sunlight. “Don’t get back too late—I might call you.” With a smirk, he was gone.

Marianne was laughing at me, “You’re beet red, Bekah! And the stuttering! He probably thinks you’re retarded or something!”

I pouted and patted my hot cheeks, “Why does that always happen to me?”

She was holding on to the steering wheel and gasping between giggles, “Girl, if your boobs weren’t so big, you’d never get a date!” Her joke made me smile even as I crossed my arms over my chest—the puffy parka I wore did nothing to minimize the offending body parts. “Anyways, get in,” she beckoned, “you know he probably won’t call you tonight, just like last week. Have some fun!”

Thinking about Cole kept me away from the saucy ribs and kaiser rolls all through dinner. As I munched on a salad and dreamed of losing my freshman fifteen, I was even able to weather Nicolette’s storm of veiled jabs. When the girls all decided to watch the latest Zach Efron flick, I graciously accepted Marianne’s offer to drop me off at our condo beforehand.