‘Thirteen at table!’

When there are thirteen at table it means someone’s in love.—theodore kulygin

The condo was empty when Chris and I returned to it. He went down to the basement, and I wandered into my bedroom. My silk dress was starting to disintegrate from the rain, but I didn’t care. All my limbs were heavy. I took a flannel nightgown into the bathroom and took a shower. I saw everything through an invisible fog, and I heard everything from far away.

Graça was asleep on top of her bed, her dress and her hair swirling around her. I called her name and shook her shoulder; she groaned and climbed under the covers.

My bedroom ceiling was dark; I searched its cracks for an answer, but I didn’t know my question. Chris had done something to me—I was uneasy without knowing why, and I longed for . . . something. Just as I was about to slip under my own blanket, Marianne stuck her head in the room, “Bekah! I need to talk to you!” She was grinning.

I followed her to the kitchen table, where she had set out two bowls of Breyer’s cherry vanilla. She handed me a spoon, “Oh, Bekah, I’m so glad you’re still awake!”

“Yeah, how was the . . . thing?” The pageant was such a long time ago—everything was a long time ago, as if I were a thousand years old. I stabbed the ice cream with my spoon and licked a little off the spoon.

Marianne’s voice jumped an octave and sped up, “Ohmygosh—Derek is absolutely perfect! I don’t know I waited so long to dump Trevor, but, oh, Bekah, Trevor’s face! You probably saw it—he was completely purple when I kissed Derek after accepting my sash! He’s a really good kisser, too, and a hot dancer—but I didn’t see you, where’d you go?”

I licked another bit of ice cream off my spoon. “Um, well, I left right after we saw each other backstage.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Marianne pouted with concern, “I’m so sorry, Bekah. Nicholette’s just jealous of me—and of you. Half the time I don’t even listen to her—and you shouldn’t either. She expects everyone to have a skin as thick as hers. But did you really miss my whole competition?”

“Um,” I stuck the spoon in my mouth and waited for the rest of the ice cream to melt off.

“Aw, it was so much fun!”

“Well, then I’m really sorry I missed it.”

“Ohmygosh, though—I can’t eat, I can’t sleep—oh, Bekah—I’ve never been in love before! Not really, I mean . . . do you think I’m in love with Derek?”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before. Maybe you are.”

She stood up and twirled around in her pyjamas. “I’m going to call Derek right now!” She bounded up the stairs and called, “I’m so happy!” before shutting the door behind her.

Thirty seconds later, my cellphone rang: it was Derek. He started to list all of Marianne’s best qualities, but he stopped. Marianne was calling him. “I’ve got to take this,” he apologized before switching over.

I looked down at the huge cereal bowl full of ice cream. Marianne had only eaten about half of hers. I picked up both of our bowls and moved to the sink to dump the ice cream. It was melting on the edges. I ate another spoonful so as not to waste it. Suddenly, I was ravenous. I transferred Marianne’s leftover ice cream to my bowl and consumed all of it. The cherries thawed and slipped about my mouth. The vanilla ice cream was smooth and dulled my unease like an ice pack on a sprain.

There was another serving left in the freezer. I ate that too, when my bowl was empty, and threw the empty carton in the trash. My teeth ached from the sugar and the cold.

* * * *

It took three aspirin and four glasses of water to make a dent in my headache the next morning. Dear Heavenly Father, I prayed over a bowl of Cheerios and milk in my bedroom, please help my headache to go away, and please help my period to start soon so I’m less emotional. This crying thing is getting annoying and embarrassing. Oh yeah, and thank you for this grey Sunday—the sky is cool and comforting this morning. Thank you for weekends so I have some time to relax. And Heavenly Father . . . help me, please. Sometimes I can feel thy hands on my back, bearing me up. Please don’t abandon me. Bless my mom and dad and Ruth and Rock. Bless Marianne and Derek that they can finally be happy together. Bless Charlie and Graça, and bless everyone in the world. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen. Oh, and bless Chris. Now I’m really done; in Jesus’s name, amen.

When Graça and I were ready to go, we discovered that we were not to jump in Marianne’s jeep and drive up to campus as usual. Instead, Derek’s taxi-yellow coupe squealed around the corner and bounced two wheels up on the curb in front of the condo. Graça squeaked and jumped back from the doorway. Marianne hugged me, then Graça. “I know Derek’s a terrible driver, but I couldn’t stand giving up a chance to be with him for an extra five minutes!” she told me before running out to embrace Derek.

Graça and I settled in the cramped back seat. Not telling my best best friend about my new friendship with her brother felt too near lying for comfort. I began, “Marianne—” Derek’s car jerked off the curb. “Ahw!” I shouted at the driver, “tha’ weally hur’!” Metallic blood seeped into my mouth.

“What?” Derek yelled over the reggaetón he was blasting.

“I bi’ ma teek har’! Yo’wa ba’ dwiva!” I massaged my cheek.

“Oh, sorry, Bekah.” Derek slammed on the breaks, and our seatbelts dug into our shoulders as we skidded left through a red light at 900 North onto Campus Drive.

Graça was three shades paler than usual, and her already large violet eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head. My own knuckles were white as I clutched the armrest on the car door. “Hey, Graça,” I whispered carefully, “why don’t we walk home from church today?” She nodded, and I patted her hand.

Despite running two more red lights and weaving through Sunday-morning traffic at forty-five miles an hour, Derek still managed to pull into the faculty parking lot behind the Talmage building with only a minute and a half to spare. We grabbed our purses and scriptures and ran to sacrament meeting. Chris smiled at me as we rushed past him, Nyx, Jeremy Delacruz (sophomore from San Antonio, Texas; majoring in political science; returned from the Chile Santiago mission), and the rest of their friends. I returned his smile, but hurried after my cousin and my friends.

Nighttime is weird—in the light of the morning, I am never sure whether I dreamt or lived the night before. During the passing of the sacrament, I tried to read my scriptures—I was reading the Book of Mormon for the third time, and was in Helaman. Over and over, the people almost reached God, then slipped back into pride and nearly destroyed themselves. I took the bread and water, as usual, and tried to feel something, to feel it had a point.

When the speakers began, I noticed something drawn on the chalkboard behind the makeshift pulpit—a beautifully detailed water lily. Under it was written “Nelumbo nucifera, sacred lotus.” I stared at the icon, meditated upon it. What did Chris and I say last night? I wondered, wracking my brain. Did any of it mean anything? Do I want it to mean anything? If I do, then what do I want it to mean?

MicKayLah Smith was speaking. She compared the pageant to the gospel in some vague way. I daydreamed: I was Irina Prozorova in prerevolutionary Russia. Instead of working at the post office, I took what little money I had and did go to Moscow. There I met some sort of tortured Bazarov character, and . . .

Sacrament meeting was over. I could not see a blond head bobbing above the rest of the mêlée. The general mob pushed me out of the auditorium. I wandered up one of the short hallways on the main floor, looking for a bathroom so I could check my hair in the mirror. A long hand closed on my arm and pulled me into an empty classroom.

My heart leapt in my chest, “Chris! You freaked me out!”

“Shh! Look what I found under my seat in sacrament meeting,” he handed me a copy of Friday’s Daily Universe, open to the opinions page, and pointed to one of the letters:

To the Women of the Church

Throughout my life, I have unfortunately come to know the bad side of Latter-day Saint women, the side that we don’t talk about in priesthood conference when the prophet tells us men to shape up so we’ll be good enough for the women. Women of the church can be just as bad as men, but maybe they are even worse because they say they are good.

Women of the church, I exhort you to remember that without humility, what makes you beautiful can also make you ugly. Loyalty + Modesty = Humility, and the Lord said, “Be thou humble.” Without your loyalty, how can men know we can trust you? After all, trust is the foundation of every good relationship. Without modesty (and I mean real modesty, like covering your upper chest and not wearing tight clothes) how can we know you aren’t with some other guy? How can we know your mind isn’t full of carnal thoughts?

This may seem “harsh” to you, but if you look inside yourselves, you will see that I am right. Women of the church, and especially here at BYU, need to be chastised out just like the men are, and if the prophet won’t do it, then I will.

B. Trevor Dixon

Highland Park, Texas

Chris had started his silent, shaking laugh when he saw my eyebrows shoot up at the word exhort. My mouth opened and stayed open until several seconds after I finished the letter.

“Wow,” I handed the paper back to Chris, “I have absolutely no idea what to say about that.”

He laughed again. “You don’t feel exhorted? Not even chastised? Do you really think you have enough loyalty-plus-modesty to equal humility? I’m asking your opinion as a woman of the Church; of course, this letter doesn’t apply to me at all.”

I looked up; Chris’s clear green eyes were sparkling. “Are you crying?” I asked him.

“It’s . . . too . . . funny,” he laughed, wiping his eyes.

“I can’t believe they published this! They’ve gotta know it makes Trevor look like an idiot.”

“Trevor is an idiot.”

“Well, maybe. Anyway, Marianne’s not dating him anymore, so we’re free to think so.”

“Bekah, we’re always free to think,” Chris’s voice was sober.

I laid my hand on his forearm and looked up into his face, “I’m glad you are.” We exited the classroom and entered separate Sunday school classes.