Chapter 1
“Mountain Brook, here I come.” The red-faced, blue-haired older woman said as she stuffed a red and white bag into the overhead bin and sat down across the aisle from me. I hated not having a window seat.
“We’ll be in Birmingham in less than two hours. You going or coming?” Now the overly plump woman was looking directly at me. I was regretting my decision to read instead of listening to music, which required having my ear-buds in, while waiting on everyone to board. I returned my gaze to The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker, one of my favorite writers, although I’d read this book half-a-dozen times. “Birmingham, you live there?” I kept my eyes on my reading.
I was saved by a short and stocky man and a similarly shaped woman directing half-a-dozen kids to their seats, two in the row in front of me, two beside the blue-haired woman, and two more somewhere towards the rear of the plane. I had to get up and stand in the aisle as the man in an Alabama Crimson Tide football jersey moved by toward the coveted window seat and the big-bosomed woman squeezed in next to my temporary residence.
As other passengers boarded. I sneaked a peak across the aisle to the chatty old woman. She was now sitting silent, with her head bowed, with what looked like a Bible laying across her lap. It was large. Probably a King James Version. The thought almost made me sick.
My near-perfect life was headed south. Literally. My flight from Chicago O’Hare to Birmingham was one-way. To silently answer the blue-haired woman’s first question, I was going, not coming. And, I was staying a full year. What was worse, I wasn’t headed to Mountain Brook, a quiet and rich suburb of what once was known as ‘the Pittsburgh of the South,’ a community I suspected possessed a thin layer of sophistication. No, I was going to Boaz, a little backwoods town eighty miles north. Worse still, I couldn’t simply hang out at Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary’s, I had to waste my entire tenth grade year at Boaz High School.
“You live in Birmingham?” Damn, now questions were erupting from my right, from the thick woman whose left elbow already controlled the arm rest.
“No.” I reached under my seat for my leather bag and my iPhone. It didn’t take but a minute to discover I had packed my ear-buds in one of two suitcases. Both, now in the belly of the plane.
“Are you visiting family, friends, or headed further south?” I couldn’t decide which was worse. The woman’s southern drawl or her over-powering perfume. Her speech reminded me it had been my decision to stay with Mother’s sister and her husband, both whose words were painfully slow, instead of spending a year with my parents living out of a tent in south Africa.
Maybe if I responded she would leave me alone. “Just visiting family.” See, I could be polite, and it was all true.
“My six young’uns start to school on Monday. You still in high school? Right? My Tammie’s about your age. Thirteen?” The woman was a machine gun, albeit a slow one with an endless number of bullets.
“I’m fifteen.” The irritating woman obviously hadn’t taken a good look at me, even though I had stood to let her, and her man take their seats. I am tall, nearly five foot eight, weigh one-hundred twenty-eight pounds, and wear a 36D bra. And in these tight jeans she could have noticed I’m shapely all the way to my toes. I almost shared with her what Jordan, my ex-boyfriend, had always said: “you have the sexiest ass,” but that would have been an equally painful subject to explore. Jordan, not my ass.
“I can’t believe Tammy’s start’un the eighth grade. She’s already demanding I let her start dating. That’s not happening. Too many like Roger out there.” The purple-lip-sticked woman motioned her head toward the man sitting beside her. I wished I hadn’t looked. Dear Roger was leaning forward staring at my chest, smiling, and probably wishing I was exposing more cleavage. He could use a good dentist.
Ten minutes later the plane’s tires left the tarmac and headed towards 40,000 feet. I now knew the names of all six of Darla and Roger’s kids, that they lived in Clanton, Alabama, that Roger owned a tire store, and that she worked part-time at SmartStyle Hair Salon at the local Walmart Super Center.
Boaz, Alabama, here I come.
Delta flight 2489 landed at Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International Airport at 9:19 p.m., Friday night August the third. Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary were waiting just inside the terminal. She was holding a silly little sign that read, “Mia Hudson, welcome to Alabama.”
It wasn’t like I’d never set foot in the second most uneducated state in America. But it had been over two years since my parents and I had driven through during one of our annual summer vacations. That one, was the summer of 2016, two days after I had graduated seventh grade at Latin School of Chicago. We had stayed two days at their home straight across from Boaz High School. I still remember Mother saying, as we pulled out heading to Miami, “Mia, being naturally smart isn’t enough. Just look at your Aunt Mary. She made 34 on her ACT exam in the eleventh grade but she now makes $25,000 per year as a secretary for a church. Good decisions are imperative.”
“Hey.” I said, as Aunt Mary hugged me while Uncle Larry smiled and touched my shoulder.
“Mia, we’re excited to finally have a daughter. At least for a year.” Aunt Mary said, leaning her head back as she held both my hands even though my right one clutched my book bag. Her eyes scanned me from chest to feet. “Wow, you’ve filled out since we saw you two years ago.” Mother’s only sister, Mary Jackson, childless, worked as the secretary for Minister of Music Mike Glenn at First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz. She also volunteered with the youth group, mainly managing refreshments.
“Thanks for letting me come. I promise I’ll not cause you any trouble.” I was being fully honest. After making my decision I had made plans to make the most of this year. At first, I was devastated when I realized I would lose a year at one of the finest college prep schools in the country, and possibly the chance to earn a full academic scholarship to the University of Chicago. It was my dream to someday be a professor at this prestigious college where my parents had taught and researched all my life. My plan, evidenced by two boxes of books already in my room at 711 Stephens Street in Boaz, was self-education. I figured Boaz High School wouldn’t be much of a challenge, so I would immerse myself in dozens of biology and psychology books by the world’s most brilliant minds, including Steven Pinker at Harvard.
“Let’s go grab your bags and head home. It’s already going on 9:30.” Uncle Larry said taking my book bag and walking toward the escalators. Mother had reminded me yesterday when she was giving me last minute instructions before her and Dad left for the Rising Star Cave system in South Africa, that Uncle Larry went to bed early, especially during the school week. He was a math teacher at Boaz High School. I was glad the counselor had let me opt out of Geometry since I had taken it in the ninth grade. It would have been awkward living with your math teacher.
On the drive to Boaz, Uncle Larry conceded to Aunt Mary’s request that he go through the drive-through at a McDonald’s in Roebuck, a place just north of Birmingham right off Interstate 59. She had wanted us to go inside and eat but he wouldn’t surrender that much, something about needing to be up early to finish his next week’s lesson plains before a golf game with Stanley Smothers, the recently hired math teacher that needed some hand-holding according to Uncle Larry.
After eating my fish sandwich and spilling ketchup from my fries onto my jeans, I was kind of glad Aunt Mary addressed the elephant in the room, well, the car. The one major stipulation she and Uncle Larry had when Mother had asked them if I could live with them for a year was that I attend church with them. At first, this didn’t seem to be a big deal. I had attended church all my life. It was Temple Sholom of Chicago, a Jewish synagogue my parents had fallen in love with shortly after they moved from New York in the fall of 2001. Neither Mom or Dad were religious. They simply loved the fellowship and, as Dad said, “you don’t have to adopt the Jewish beliefs to benefit from Judaism. It’s a good way to structure your life; a good place to learn discipline.”
After Mother described Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary’s religion, my feelings had changed. I had done some reading on Christian Fundamentalism, and especially the Southern Baptist denomination. I had even researched First Baptist Church of Christ. It was going to be difficult keeping my mouth shut for an hour each week as I would hear the preacher, a man named Robert Miller, share his interpretation of a book he and 99.99% of his constituents believed had been authored by the Creator of the Universe.
As we exited the Interstate at Highway 77 our church attendance conversation took a darker turn. Uncle Larry spoke for the first time in fifty miles. “Wednesday night’s services and fellowship meal will expose you to the best Southern food imaginable and to the power of prayer. Sunday morning’s Sunday School will motivate you to immerse yourself into the New Testament. Jews stop right before the good part.” I could see Aunt Mary smiling as Uncle Larry pulled into a well-light Chevron station to “filler-up” as he said.
As he was outside pumping gas Aunt Mary said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve arranged a little party for you tomorrow night. It’s kind of a welcome to Boaz party. It’ll be a good chance for you to meet several kids from the youth group, your Boaz High School classmates.”
That’s all I needed, being put in the spotlight of a bunch of snaggle-toothed, slow-talking backwoods kids who all believed in talking snakes and other magic I couldn’t even imagine.
“Thanks Aunt Mary. I can’t wait.”
Chapter 2
It was nearly midnight before we arrived in Boaz. After bringing in my two heavy suitcases, Uncle Larry went to bed. Aunt Mary helped me unpack. My room was small but comfortable. It was also amenable to my reading and study habits. Uncle Larry had built me a desk across the interior wall right next to the door from the hallway. Above the long wood counter, there were plenty of shelves. It was nice to see the books I had shipped. I imagined each of them calling to me, reaching out a hand and saying, “choose me.” I slowly slid my right hand across the spine of each book and silently told them how excited I was they were here to share our one-year adventure.
I had forgotten this bedroom had a private bath. Last night as I was brushing my teeth, I opened the shower door and realized I could barely squeeze inside. There certainly was no way to bend over and wash my feet without bumping my head against the wall. But this was better than having to share Uncle Larry’s and Aunt Mary’s bath down the hall in the center of the house. It was odd the small clothes closet was inside the bathroom.
The room’s furniture was minimalist but enough: a half-bed, a nightstand, and a chest of drawers. The stout but aged items looked like they could have been what Mother and Aunt Mary shared when they were growing up in the country outside Boaz. There was also a small rocking chair by the lone back window. The thing I disliked the most was the carpet. It was the contrast with the wood floors throughout our two-story home in Hyde Park that kept me awake for hours after undressing and crawling into my bed. It was nearly three o’clock the last time I looked at my iPhone. I couldn’t survive thinking about Chicago. I had to resolve to live in the here and now, no matter how much I already hated the sad and scary turn my life had taken.
“Mia.” Aunt Mary said, tapping on my door. It was 6:30 according to the giant, old-timey clock hanging above my chest of drawers. I hadn’t noticed it last night.
“Yes.” I stayed vertical under the covers realizing my habit of sleeping naked might have to change.
“Your Mom and Dad are on the phone. They asked me to fetch you.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there, give me a minute.” I quickly pulled on a tee shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. I was confused why they hadn’t called me on my iPhone. I walked down the short hallway and into the small den by the kitchen.
“There, sit in my chair.” Aunt Mary said motioning me towards a chair next to a sliding glass door leading out onto a small deck. The giant phone sat on a table between two matching Lazy-Boy recliners. “Your mother called to thank me and your Uncle Larry.”
“Mom?” I said.
“Honey, are you okay? Did everything go well yesterday?”
“No problems. We got here around midnight. I didn’t sleep very well. New surroundings, I guess. Are you and Dad still in London?” For some reason I was confused. Was today Saturday or Sunday? I also couldn’t remember when the final leg of Mom and Dad’s flight would be.
“We’re here until tomorrow.” Dad said. I assumed they had their phone on Speaker.
“Hey Dad. I miss you guys. Also, I’m afraid I made a mistake. I wish I were with you right now and was headed to Johannesburg tomorrow.” I had heard Aunt Mary go out the door to the carport. Without any sign of Uncle Larry, I suspected he had already left to meet his teaching buddy for golf.
“We miss you too.” Mother and Dad said in unison. I was blessed with great parents. I had enough friends whose parents were just as smart as mine but appeared incapable of truly connecting with their kids, like it was not intellectual or something. But mine were special. I liked that they didn’t coddle me. They had taught me since I was a baby to think for myself. Both Mother and Dad were professors at the University of Chicago. Dad, a professor of evolutionary genetics in the Department of Ecology & Evolution. Mother, a professor of New Testament and Early Christian Literature in the Divinity School.
“What time is it in London?” I knew they would be several hours ahead of my time.
“Right now, it’s a little after noon.” Dad said.
“What are you guys up to?” I said, remembering our trip to London in 2015.
Mom spoke. I could sense she was excited by her tone and rate of speech. “We’re headed to the Shard for lunch. We have reservations at 1:00.”
“Thanks for inviting me.” More memories. We had visited this beautiful sky-scraper during our trip. It’s on the south bank of the River Thames and the tallest building in western Europe.
“Oh honey. This is no doubt the hardest thing your Dad and I have ever done. We miss you so much.”
“We have to stay focused.” Dad said.
“Discipline Dad. You can do it. It’s just a year. We’ll be stronger and smarter for sticking with the plan.” I repeated his words, what he had said for months, each night the three of us were planning this adventure.
“Honey, you remember The Shanghai Bar at Hutong?” Mother interrupted.
“I do. Thirty-third floor of the Shard. I also remember eating chilled and roasted baby pigeon. It was a starter we shared when we ate there. I think that was the final straw that made me become a vegan.”
Dad changed the subject. He and Mother had different opinions on my decision to give up meat and dairy. I guess he didn’t want to re-plow that ground. At least not today.
“We spoke with Lee this morning. Neil arrived yesterday. They seem anxious for us to arrive. Tuesday, we head to the caves.” Dad seemed more excited than ever.
“Reckon you and Mom will become as famous as Mr. Berger and Neil?” I asked. I had recently become infatuated with both men and had read extensively on their backgrounds and accomplishments.
Lee Berger is an American-born South African paleoanthropologist, a professor at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, South Africa, and a National Geographic Explorer-in-Residence. He is best known for his discovery in 2015 of Homo Naledi at Rising Star Cave just thirty miles north of the school. Berger determined that Homo Naledi is an extinct species of hominin.
Neil Shubin is also a professor at the University of Chicago and a good friend of Mom and Dad’s. Neil is a paleontologist, evolutionary biologist, and popular science writer who is best known for co-discovering Tiktaalik roseae, a transitional fossil, in the Arctic of Canada. This fossil reveals a combination of features that show the evolutionary transition between swimming fish and their descendants, the four-legged vertebrates which includes amphibians, dinosaurs, birds, mammals and humans.
When I was in the right frame of mind, I knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for Mom and Dad. They were joining Berger and Shubin as they returned to the Rising Star Cave system for the second exploration. From what Berger had written, he expected more exciting discoveries to be made, possibly as important as the Homo Naledi find.
“Baby, we are content to be in the background and support the team anyway we can. It’ll be an honor just to serve water to these extraordinary men.”
Mom and Dad talked and walked until they arrived at the Shard. Dad ended our conversation by saying, “Mia, take it one day at a time and realize the world is home to all types of people. Don’t get discouraged when you hear someone boldly proclaiming his ignorance. We all have lots to learn.”
After the three of us shared an “I love you,” I sat in Aunt Mary’s chair feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t help but stare at her Bible sitting on the end table. I picked it up and turned to the page where she had inserted a First Baptist Church of Christ bulletin. Underlined in pencil was Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” At first, I chuckled to myself as I thought how silly it was for anyone to believe in God, or His purported son, Jesus Christ, for that matter. Then, I realized the important thing wasn’t whether God’s existence was true, but what Aunt Mary and Uncle Larry believed. No doubt, they believed Jesus lived in their hearts and helped them day by day to do their work and live their lives.
“Your mom and dad seem excited.” Aunt Mary said coming in the sliding glass door with a basket full of the prettiest tomatoes I had ever seen.
Chapter 3
Aunt Mary prepared me a great but simple breakfast. A bowl of oatmeal surrounded by a host of fresh grown things from her garden, including strawberries, cantaloupe, watermelon, and purple grapes. I even ate two slices of a tomato she said were from seeds passed down from her grandfather, my great-grandfather.
“Honey, we might as well have our little talk.” Aunt Mary said sipping a cup of steaming coffee.
“Don’t worry, Mom’s already taken care of that. I’m a semi-expert on the birds and the bees.” I was halfway trying to be funny, but I suspected this wasn’t going to be about sex.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I’m talking about your faith, well, you’re lack of it.” Aunt Mary had a serious face. She wasn’t ugly or pretty but there was a wholesomeness about her. She wore very little makeup. Even though her dark brown eyes might to the unknowing person indicate something sinister, her constant smile argued otherwise. “Don’t worry, your mother hasn’t said anything, but I did see all those books last night.”
She was not referring to the two boxes of books Dad had helped me ship a little over a week ago. Those were mostly about my favorite subjects, biology and psychology, especially evolutionary psychology. No, the books Aunt Mary was now referencing were the ones I had brought in my suitcases. These dozen books or so dealt with the God issue. I had already read them, but I brought them almost like a child’s favorite toy or security blanket. They encouraged me, and I knew I would need much of that as I was stuck in the heart of the Bible Belt for a whole year. “Aunt Mary, can I ask you a question?” I would have no choice but to listen to her, even if she blasted out a sermon, but first I wanted to give her a gift.
“Of course, anything, and please know we’re having this talk because I love you.” If my sweet Aunt only knew the truth of what I believed.
Here goes, “have you ever read a book by an unbeliever, I mean someone who does not believe like you do?” I suspected I knew the answer.
She squeezed her lips together and said, “If I have, it’s been a while. Maybe in college. You know I attended Snead State Junior College for a year after high school.”
“I wish you would read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. He is a scientist, a brilliant man, and a superb writer. His arguments for unbelief in a supernatural God are sound. At a minimum, you will begin to understand why I’m not a Christian.”
“Dear, I could never do that. My Lord would not be pleased. His Word instructs me to flee all temptations.” She quoted some verses in the book of Second Timothy, something about avoiding “foolish and unlearned questions.”
“So, it would be wrong for you to ask questions?” I asked.
“Well, not all questions, but certainly ones that dealt with whether God was real. But the good book is clear that temptations themselves are not sin but lead to sin. I guess it would be okay for you to give me an example.” I was surprised Aunt Mary was making this distinction. “I doubt anything you say will even be a temptation.”
Thankful for the opportunity, I said, “complex life doesn’t come about quickly. It comes from a slow, long process, starting with something very simple.”
“That makes sense, except for God of course.”
“That’s the problem, if God does exist, He has to be very complex. It is anything but reasonable to assume a simple creature, say God, could create the universe and all living things. If He exists, He would be the result of a process like the evolutionary process that has created all life today, including you and me.” I figured I was about to be shut down.
“Honey, God and Jesus have always been. Just listen, ‘That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life.’” Aunt Mary quoted 1st John 1:1 from memory.
“So, if the Bible says it, then it must be true?”
“Absolutely, the Bible is God’s inerrant word, totally infallible.” I didn’t ask, but I also knew Aunt Mary had never read a single book, or article for that matter, that laid out the evidence that refutes her Bible claims. My dear aunt was a true believer, she was in the Christian Fundamentalist camp, a group that was shrinking as each year rolled by and the older members died off. I knew from my readings that the ‘Nones,’ the young people who were not affiliated with any church or denomination, were growing much faster than any brand of religion.
I kept eating while we talked. I appreciated her and Uncle Larry accommodating my diet requirements. The non-dairy milk, Silk, was a surprise. “Another question, but related. Do you believe that everything has a cause?”
“Yes, but again not God.” She was very protective of God, restricting her positions to what she believed the Bible said and probably what she had heard from preachers all her life.
“Well, consider this. If God didn’t have to have a cause, why does the universe?” I said. I’d always thought this was a destructive argument for a theist.
Aunt Mary didn’t hesitate. “Because the Bible says, ‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.’”
“Doesn’t it say a few verses later that on the fifth-and sixth-days God created all living creatures?”
“Yes, certainly.” Aunt Mary got up and poured more coffee.
“Science tells us this cannot be true. The evolutionary process refutes this.”
“Oh honey.” I had to get used to Aunt Mary’s ‘oh honeys.’ “Evolution is just a theory. It’s a ploy from Satan.”
Right as I started to describe how science defines the word theory, like the germ theory of disease or the theory of gravity, the phone rang, the giant land-line sitting beside Aunt Mary’s Lazy-Boy. “Sorry dear, I better get that. It might be about your party.”
I finished my breakfast as she talked on the phone. When she hung up, she said, “don’t tell your Uncle Larry but I’ll think about reading a little in your book, The God Delusion. But if I believe it is planting doubts in my head about my beliefs then I’m done.”
“My philosophy is to follow the evidence where-ever it leads, no matter if it makes me doubt.” I said as there was a loud tapping on the door leading in from the garage.
“That’s Lucille Johnson from across the street. Saturdays, you can set your clock to her knocking. Mia, thanks for talking. I’m very glad you are here.” Aunt Mary smiled, turned, and walked toward the door beside her washer and dryer. I returned to my room.
My party was unique to say the least. It was held in the basement of what I learned was the old sanctuary. First Baptist Church of Christ had recently completed and moved into a new facility next door, but the youth group had opted to stay and operate here, in this fully functioning room with tall ceilings. There was even a theater of sorts set up towards the rear.
My party came right after a short session, sort of a combination Bible study and pep-rally. The leader was a young man himself, I doubted if he was past his mid-twenties. I later learned he had recently graduated from seminary. Jed Forester was his name. According to a skinny girl sitting next to me, Jed’s dad was a local car dealer and a deacon here at the church.
After Jed finally got the thirty or forty kids to settle down and sit in matching black hardback chairs arranged in a semi-circle, he spent five minutes or so arguing the life-changing importance of each of us sharing the Gospel with our lost friends at school. After he received an affirmative response from the group, I’m glad he didn’t ask for a show of hands, he pointed at me and asked me to stand. I hated being the center of attention. I hoped he didn’t ask me to recite my FAITH presentation.
“Folks, this is Mia Hudson from Chicago. She is Larry and Mary Jackson’s niece and will be with us for the next year. Welcome Mia, we’re honored to have you. Everyone, please stay for refreshments after our prayer and get to know Miss Hudson.” I sat down half way through Jed’s long speech.
After a cool-looking guy sitting right next to Jed said a rather long prayer, the skinny girl beside me led me to a back table, one surrounded by several couches that could have been on the Noah’s Ark I believed never existed. “I like your aunt, she’s a sweet lady and helps with my choir group.” Lexi Jones was pretty, tall like me, but for a ninth grader, she was a late bloomer. Her chest was as flat as a pancake. But, again, she was sweet.
Lexi led me through the line. I chose Kool-Aid (do teenagers still drink this?) and a bag of popcorn. A few kids, both boys and girls, smiled as two lines formed around the long table. The cookies and fudge looked good, but I had to assume they all contained milk.
I followed Lexi back to where we had been seated during the session. “What grade are you in?” She asked. “You look like you should be in college. You are, well, how do I put this. You are mature looking.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe maturity isn’t a physical thing, maybe that has to do with your intelligence.”
Lexi seemed at a loss for words. The cool-looking guy who had led the prayer walked over with a red plastic cup in one hand and a plate loaded with every type cookie available in the other. “Hi, I’m Adam Brown. It’s nice to meet you. Sorry, I can’t shake your hand.” At first, I knew he couldn’t because of the food and drink he was carrying, but then he looked back and saw a gorgeous blond walking towards us. He looked back at me and rolled his eyes. I really didn’t know what to make of it.
“Adam is our superhero. He’s Mr. Boaz High School when it comes to sports. He’s in the tenth grade. Oh, by the way, what grade will you be in?” The chatty Lexi said as Adam sat down beside me and took another two chairs from down the line and pulled them in front of both Lexi and me.
“Tenth.” I said as I was interrupted.
“I see you didn’t waste any time seeking out the sexy Mia Hudson.” The gorgeous blond joined us while looking straight at Adam.”
“Jed said for us to make her feel welcome.” Adam said as though apologizing.
“Mia, this is Jessica Miller, my girlfriend.” Adam said, waiting on her to sit beside him before he sat down. I noticed she only had a red cup and no plate. She was probably watching her figure. Certainly, it had been well managed. She was neither thin or fat. She wasn’t as busty as me, but she was world’s ahead of Miss Lexi.
“Jessica is Pastor Miller’s daughter. He’s our preacher.” Lexi said. She seemed to be the group’s self-appointed historian. “Jessica is also the head cheerleader. She’s a senior.” I thought it a little odd that Jessica would have a boyfriend two years younger. Most teenage girls prefer older boys. But it really wasn’t difficult to understand. Adam Brown was gorgeous. I must like that word. He looked to be a good five or six inches taller than me. He was muscularly built but not the god-awful bulging arm type I hated. His blue eyes reminded me of Jordan. Everything about him reminded me of my first and only boyfriend. Unlike Adam, Jordan was nearly three years older than me. Just looking at Adam made my spine tingle. It was the first time I had thought about Jordan and what he had taught me about sex. I still missed him, but my mind knew I had done the right thing by ending our relationship. I was too committed to my life goals to destroy my life now by becoming pregnant. Right now, though, my body was expressing its attraction to the local superhero.
During my extended look-back mixed with a little forbidden imagination, I hadn’t noticed that Lexi had returned to the refreshments table. I looked over at Jessica who was staring at me, her eyes roaming me from head to toe. I shifted my gaze to Adam who was devouring cookie after cookie. “I need some more Kool-Aid, anybody else?” He asked, reaching for my empty cup.
“Thanks.” I said as he walked away, leaving Jessica’s half-filled cup in her hands.
It didn’t take the gorgeous blond two seconds to blurt out her warning. “Miss Hudson, I hope you understand that Adam Brown is my boyfriend. I encourage you to leave him the hell alone. I can tell you will be the second prettiest girl at Boaz High School, second to me of course. But Adam is taken.” Did the pretty blond think I was afraid of her?
I couldn’t resist. “Since Adam is taken, I assume it wasn’t his choice.” Dad always said I had a way to piss people off.
“Okay Miss Smart Ass, don’t push it or you’ll have regrets.”
“Is that a threat?” I asked.
Where it came from, I’ll never understand. “Adam is my gift from God. He has plans for us. So, if you try to flirt with Adam, God will not sit silent.” The girl was a kook, but I decided against name calling. At least for now.
“Here’s your Kool-Aid.” Adam said as he handed me my red cup. I couldn’t resist grazing his fingers with my own as I took my drink. I guess the kook didn’t see my action or she might have flogged me.
After Jed joined us and welcomed me for the second time to Boaz, Jessica informed Adam they were leaving. Jed also walked away, leaving me alone. I guess Lexi got distracted. All the other kids were either playing ping-pong or sitting on the ancient couches.
I was glad when Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary arrived to drive me home.
Chapter 4
Sunday I was at my new desk by 5:00 a.m. Yesterday, I had slept late, 6:30 I think, and my day bore that out-of-kilter feeling I abhorred. Ever since the summer after my eighth-grade year, I had committed my life to learning. The early morning session had been Dad’s idea: spend at least an hour, preferably two, in a book or peer-reviewed article that strained your mind.
Don’t think my decision had come easily or that I committed to Dad’s suggestion the first time he made his recommendation. I had pretty much floundered my three years in middle school. But this didn’t mean I slept through every class. Latin School of Chicago was much more challenging than what I had experienced during K-6 at public school. Our middle school curriculum covered all the traditional core subject areas: Math, Science, English and Language Arts, Social Studies and Language. The private school also offered a range of innovative, creative ways to present the material. The teachers knew that middle school students learned best when they were engaged with the subject matter through concrete experiences like role playing, simulations, lab work or exploration outside the classroom. Dynamic discussions and interactive lectures were designed to relate to issues and ideas the faculty knew middle school-aged kids were thinking about.
With not much more than minimum effort, I sailed through and graded solidly in the top ten percent of my peers. Nonetheless, both Mom and Dad labeled me a tapeworm. In other words, I was a parasite. They had even made me memorize the definition: “an organism that lives in or on another and takes its nourishment from that other organism, or host.”
For many, if not most parents, they would have been proud of their daughter and her near-perfect report card. But, not my parents, not two professors with doctorates in their fields and an inventory of peer-reviewed writings that were the envy of their academic worlds. In a nutshell, my parents wanted their only child to reach her full potential as an academic and a person.
By Christmas of my eighth-grade year, I was tired of my identity (at least at home) of being a parasite. This had come after Mother made me attend a conference with her in North Carolina. One of her professional colleague’s, a professor Bart Ehrman, had asked her to his school, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, to present a paper she had recently authored. It had to do, in layman’s terms, with why children almost always adopt the religion of their parents.
Mother argued children were hard-wired by evolutionary forces to obey their parents. She said quite a bit about how important it would have been for pre-historic kids growing up in the African Savannah to take their parents words to heart: “always believe it’s not the wind but a lion you hear coming from behind you.” It was the only way to survive. If the sound turned out to be the wind, then the child was no worse off.
Mother transitioned to a short talk about the likelihood our earliest ancestors also instructed their children to attach agency to natural forces. For example, volcanoes, earthquakes, and tornadoes were beings with a purpose, albeit invisible. One had to act a certain way to please them, to keep from being destroyed.
After Mother’s presentation and during the question and answer session, one student asked Mother what would be the best field to pursue to learn how evolutionary forces had influenced man’s behavior. She confessed she was not the best person to answer this question and expressed her regret that Dad wasn’t present. But Mother advised the student, with a professional qualification, to explore the field of evolutionary psychology. She shared how it was focused on how evolution had shaped the mind and behavior.
It was during our flight home during a discussion on how parents can mislead their children, even unknowingly, that it dawned on me how lazy I was and how I had become satisfied accepting what other people said was true. That night, back at home in Chicago, I had a long talk with Dad and confessed to him that I no longer wanted to be a tapeworm, that I needed to know how to learn on my own what was true.
To him, it was simple: “question everything and read.” I will never forget that night sitting in his study until 2:00 a.m. hearing him describe how becoming disciplined with his time had changed his life.
Two days later, at barely fourteen years old, I committed to early morning study sessions. Other than yesterday morning, I probably hadn’t missed a half-dozen mornings in the past year. Today, after hearing Adam Brown’s prayer last night requesting God give the youth group “a good year sharing the Gospel at school,” I was intrigued when and how it would be determined if God had truly answered this heartfelt plea. I had a suspicion prayer didn’t work but accepting that as fact just meant I was reverting to my old days as a tapeworm. No, I needed to pursue this topic inside and out, following the evidence wherever it led. I couldn’t help but think of Mom and Dad and how fortunate I was to have parents who truly wanted me to reach my fullest potential as an academic and a person.
My first session in Alabama lasted almost two hours. I spent most of this time researching what the Bible said about prayer. I was reminded and thankful, Mom and Dad had convinced Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary to have Charter Cable provide Internet services; it probably helped that Hudson money was footing the bill. My parents knew the importance to my education of having easy and constant access to the worldwide virtual library. My favorite verse, more particularly, the verse I thought put Jesus in quite a precarious spot was John 15:7: “If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.” To my simple but logical mind, it seemed “abiding” was the key to getting everything on your Christmas list.
By 7:30 a.m., I had showered (washing my feet while sitting on the commode), dried my curly black hair, dressed, and enjoyed a breakfast identical to yesterday morning’s menu. Aunt Mary left for choir practice a few minutes later, leaving Uncle Larry and me sitting in the den. He kept his head tucked inside the Sunday edition of the Birmingham News while I flipped through several golfing magazines lying on the small coffee table. At few minutes past eight he drove us to Sparks Avenue and First Baptist Church of Christ. The only thing he had said to me all morning, other than an almost silent, “good morning,” was as we turned left off Brown Street: “don’t forget to grab a Sunday School book. It’s important to be prepared.” I felt like a kindergartner as we rode the elevator to the fourth floor and he walked me through a doorway bearing the sign, “Youth Sunday School Department.” He left after introducing me to Amber Vickers, the director, a neatly dressed and attractive woman probably twenty years older than Mother. She was alone and writing Bible verses on a giant blackboard.
Lexi Jones, the skinny ninth grader I had met last night, arrived just as I finished answering a host of biographical questions from Ms. Vickers. “Hi Mia, you’re early.” Lexi said motioning me to join her at a table in the far-left corner. I smiled but didn’t verbally respond.
Apparently, this youth group loved sweets. The cloth-covered table contained three types of donuts: plain, pink, glazed variety, topped with sprinkles, and one glazed with either maple or caramel and topped with what looked like small chunks of bacon. There were several dozen red plastic cups filled with ice, and a similar number of empty Styrofoam cups to the right of the donuts. Two large urns labeled coffee and apple juice rested on a wooden table to the right.
Lexi filled a plate with both types of non-plain donuts and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Are you too good to eat?”
“No, I’ve already had breakfast. And, I don’t eat dairy.” I said, choosing to withhold the vegan word.
“Suit yourself. Follow me, I usually sit in the far corner next to the windows.” A wave of other kids poured into the room and headed to the refreshments table as we maneuvered our way through them.
Lexi reminded me of a photo of Joan of Arc from my ninth-grade history book. The author of the related article had said the famous woman was about “five foot two in height, thickly made, muscular, and very strong. Her eyes were far apart, and somewhat prominent. Her hair was black.” Unknown to the writer, he could have been describing Lexi Jones, except for the ‘thickly made, muscular’ part, and the fact she was a few inches taller. Also, like Joan of Arc, Lexi wasn’t pretty but reasonably good-looking, had distinctly dark complexion, and had a soft and compelling voice.
At exactly 8:30, Ms. Vickers, standing behind a skinny podium in front of the long blackboard, without a word, scanned the large room filled with forty or fifty kids and calmed the sea of loud, inharmonious voices. “Good morning young people. Today’s lesson is about humility. Look behind me. I’ve printed a number of verses but focus on the one underlined in blue chalk.” Ms. Vickers proceeded to read the two verses, 1 Peter 5: 6-7. “‘Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time: Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.’ Someone tell me what humility means.”
A girl’s voice from the far side of the room said, “it’s the opposite of being prideful.”
“That’s good. Anyone else want to give it a try.”
“Respectful, modest, not thinking too highly of yourself, putting other people first?” Adam Brown, sitting beside his gorgeous blond girlfriend right in front of Ms. Vickers, said, phrasing his response in the form of a question.
“Excellent.” The director said.
“Isn’t he wonderful.” I almost gagged when Jessica Miller mouthed these words and placed her left hand and arm around Adam’s shoulders. I tried my best to always give new acquaintances the benefit of the doubt, but I was having a hard time liking this girl. She was a queen bee. Probably also, the queen bitch.
Ms. Vickers nodded and said, “there is no greater example of humility in the entire Bible than Jesus Christ. The Apostle Paul writes of Christ in Philippians that we should, ‘Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.’ Let’s consider the following question: what if Jesus had looked strictly at his own interests? I mean, when he was being arrested?”
“He could have run for the hills trying to escape the Roman soldiers.” Lexi said.
“He certainly wouldn’t have willingly gone to the cross.” The boy on the other side of Lexi said.
“And, what effect would that have had on us?” Ms. Vickers asked.
“We would be dead in sin without hope of eternal life in Heaven with God.” This time, Jessica’s voice was low, bordering on meekness. I figured she could play both sides of the spiritual fence.
Ms. Vickers turned and used a yard stick to point to a verse along the edge of the blackboard toward the windows where Lexi and I, and the unknown boy were seated. “‘Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.’ That’s the Apostle Paul in Philippians 2:5-7. There’s no greater life than that of being a slave to Christ.” It was a shocking statement. One, I didn’t understand in the least. Everything in me said that all forms of slavery were wrong. Why in the heck would anyone want to be another person’s slave?
Ms. Vickers led us in a short prayer and dismissed the group to Sunday School classes housed in four rooms behind where she had stood. Lexi again motioned me to follow her. Our class was the ninth and tenth grade girls, led by none other than Ms. Vickers. The other three classes were: ninth and tenth grade boys, and one class each for boys and girls in the combined grades of eleventh and twelfth.
Along with our teacher, nine girls I didn’t know, Lexi, and myself sat in a circle. Ms. Vickers handed me a paperback with a colored photo of a waterfall on the front cover. The Summer 2018 booklet was titled: Standard Lesson Quarterly, NIV Bible Student. I suspected this was what Uncle Larry had instructed me to be sure to bring home. I opened the paperback. Along the bottom of the inside cover was printed: “Series Description: Standard Lesson Quarterly is a richly resourced adult curriculum based on the International Sunday School Lessons Uniform Series. Reliable Scripture exposition, culturally relevant examples, and timely discussion questions engage students and give the Bible lesson meaning in their everyday lives.” For the next forty minutes I sat silent listening to ten girls interact with Ms. Vickers as though Jesus himself was standing in the middle of the room. When the bell rang ending the class period, I had no doubt Southern Baptist girls, at least these ten, believed the supernatural was as real as the moon and stars.
Lexi and I sat up in the balcony during the worship hour. Aunt Mary kept looking up at me from the choir loft and smiling. Mike Glenn, her boss and the church’s music director, was no doubt talented. He led a thirty-minute musical, titled, according to the bulletin I had been handed by an older man in the vestibule, “Coming Soon.” Mr. Glenn lead the choir in several songs, including “Behold He Comes,” which I had heard before at a church I had visited with Jordan in Chicago. The director ended the program with an impressive performance of “Awake and Watch.” Mike Glenn was no doubt an educated and experienced musician.
After the choir sat down, Pastor Robert Miller presented a short sermon on humility, obviously keeping with the theme introduced in Sunday School. He was an average size man probably in his early forties. I figured Jessica got her blond hair from him, although his was much straighter than hers. I really didn’t listen to his sermon. I was distracted by a seemingly contrasting theme taking place in the far-left corner of the auditorium. I could barely see the back row from my vantage point, but young Jessica Miller was clearly unoccupied with her father’s sermon. She alternated between writing notes to the gorgeous Adam Brown sitting beside her and persuading him to put his right arm around her shoulder. I was guessing this was one thing she was signaling him in her pencil drawings. I didn’t figure she could write.
As I walked in the kitchen from the garage, I told Aunt Mary I wasn’t hungry and wanted to take a nap. It took me nearly an hour to force Jessica Miller out of my mind. But, instead of resisting the image of Adam Brown peeking into my bedroom windows, I kept smiling as I fell into a dream with the handsome superhero sliding his arm underneath my head as he lay beside me.
Chapter 5
My showers are normally short. Now that’s historical. With the tiny unit Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary installed when they built this house a dozen or so years ago, I’m required to re-lather my bath cloth every few seconds since I’m constantly being rinsed under the shower head. At home, I could step in, turn a circle under the steaming water, step back away from the waterfall, lather my whole body (including my legs and feet), and then resubmit to the pounding surf (I loved my Waterpik 5-Mode Shower-head seemingly engineered to Dad’s high-pressure washer).
This morning, Monday, I’m not sure why I took my shower before my early morning study session. It’s probably something to do with the reason I didn’t sleep well, the thought of the beginning of my one-year prison sentence to Boaz High School. If that wasn’t bad enough, sitting at my desk a few minutes after 5:00 a.m., I was having a difficult time focusing.
My mind kept reminding me of last night’s church experience. Unintentionally, I was now a member of Fusion. This was Jed Forester and First Baptist Church of Christ’s name for the joint middle school and high school youth group. The tag line printed in equally bold letters on the new banner Jed had hung from the basement ceiling was streaming across my mind: “Where Reality Encounters Truth.”
Last night as we sat in the semi-circle, the energetic youth director handed each of us a one page, single-sided flyer. The top half provided a mission statement for each of the forty or fifty teenagers: “As members of Fusion, we will learn what it means to have and to live out a real relationship with Jesus Christ. We will learn not only about the Gospel of Jesus Christ but will challenge and encourage each other to live the life that He has called us to!” The bottom half of the flyer had listed the names of twelve team captains. Jed had taken nearly the full class hour to describe Project Convert, an organized approach to sharing the Gospel at both Boaz High School and Boaz Middle School. There were two teams per grade. I was assigned to Team 10B. Even though I hadn’t been asked, it appeared evident Jed concluded I was a believer with the top priority of seeking a “real relationship with Jesus Christ.” Recalling the Fusion tag-line, “Where Reality Encounters Truth,” helped my thoughts transition to this morning’s session: the efficacy of prayer.
It was a short walk to school. I was glad Uncle Larry had told me it was okay to walk through the neighbor’s yard, otherwise I would have over a half-mile trek: to the south end of Stephens Street, left on Rains Avenue, and left on Brown Street for nearly a block until I would reach Boaz High School on my right. With the Garrard’s generous permission, my walk was straight out the back door, through their side yard and across Brown Street. It was odd that Uncle Larry drove his 1975 restored Chevrolet pickup truck.
My day got off on the wrong foot. I was late for my first period class even though I had arrived at school at 7:15. The handbook I’d been mailed after enrolling stated that classes started at 7:30 a.m. but when Gina Maze walked into Room 119 and wrote “American History” on the white board I knew something was wrong. I excused myself and walked to the school’s office at the end of the hall. Mrs. Owens apologized after accessing her computer. “Things have been crazy all summer. Your schedule got changed and I guess the email notification fell through the cracks. The good news is the only thing that changed was class times, not your subjects. Oh, sorry, there is one change. We couldn’t fit you in Economics. You’ll be taking Algebra with Finance instead.” There was a silver lining. My math teacher was Mr. Stanley Smothers and not my Uncle Larry. Yea. I was nearly fifteen minutes late to Ms. Vickers English class. I hated everyone staring at me.
My first three classes, English, Anatomy/Physiology, and World History were virtually a carbon copy. Each teacher spent most of the class reviewing the course syllabus and the school’s behavioral expectations. At 10:22 when the bell rang, and Gina Maze dismissed her World History class, I was bored stiff.
If I believed in the supernatural, after Mr. Smothers presented an overview of Algebra with Finance, I would have thought a miracle had occurred. Here was a course that I could easily relate to my future. Each of the subjects, things like investing, credit, banking, auto insurance, mortgages, employment, income taxes, and planning for retirement, were all popular topics Mom and Dad talked about on a routine basis. As the tall, dark, and handsome math teacher read boringly from the class syllabus, I couldn’t help but dream about my future life and accepting an assistant professorship at the University of Chicago at the young age of 27 (hopefully, I could complete my Ph.D. in less than six years). My fully-awake dreaming kept getting sillier: I was torn over whether I should continue to live at home on 1452 East 54th Place or to find a female peer to share the cost of a one-bedroom apartment.
Lunch was at 11:21. Early this morning I had opted not to pack my lunch. I decided instead to trust what Lexi had said last night as we left youth group, Fusion. I had asked her what she did for lunch and what the options were. She seemed overly excited to tell me Boaz City School system had just this summer completed a state-of-the-art lunchroom that tripled the food choices. I was impressed when she said the culinary teacher, a certified chef, was consulting with the school system’s nutritionist to develop a diverse menu that included an assortment of choices for those with diverse food desires, including vegetarians.
As arranged, Lexi met me outside the school’s main office and we walked the long hallway to the largest school cafeteria I had ever seen. We both opted for the salad bar, surprisingly it offered more than iceberg lettuce, carrots, and tomatoes. I think I counted sixteen different vegetables to select from. I chose Italian dressing and Lexi dipped enough Ranch dressing to fill a standard sized bottle. She chose Diet Coke and I picked up a bottle of water at what was called the Pirate Fountain. Other than beer and spirits, the Fountain offered every drink imaginable, including Red Bull. The only table we could find was a two-seater next to a large group of teachers along the far outside wall along a row of floor to ceiling windows.
I left Lexi and the lunchroom at 11:40 knowing I had a long walk to my Driver’s Education class. Right at the end of World History, Mrs. Owens from the school’s office had announced over the intercom that Mr. Dennis Jolly’s classes had been moved to Room 202 in the Cultural Arts building. The map in the school’s handbook labeled it two names. From one entrance it was “Boaz High School Gymnasium,” and “Boaz High School Cultural Arts Center” from the opposite entrance. Either way, it appeared it was a multi-purpose building with several small and large classrooms off a circular walking track overlooking the gymnasium floor below.
I was halfway down the long hallway toward the school’s main entrance when I heard a woman’s voice behind me calling out my name. “Mia, Mia Hudson.” I turned and saw Ms. Amber Vickers half-jogging towards me.
“Hey, I half-yelled over the chattering den of students traversing between us.” I hoped I wasn’t about to be castigated over being late for her first period class.
“Do you have just a minute?” She asked, touching my shoulder and motioning me to step inside a short hallway that, according to the directional signs on the wall, led to the Home Economics Department.
“I guess. But I have to be in Room 202 in the gym by 11:50.”
“Mia, I want to ask you a favor.” Ms. Vickers said, pulling a sheet of paper from a leather notebook she was carrying. I couldn’t imagine what on earth I could do for her.
“It’s obvious you are an exceptional student.” She held out the sheet of paper. I read from the top, “Transcript, Mia Hudson, Latin School of Chicago.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m not even in the top five percent of my former school.” I said nodding toward the paper she was holding.
“Oh, don’t be so modest. I called this morning and spoke with your ninth-grade science teacher. A man named Felix. I can’t recall his last name.”
“Amankona-Diawuo. Mr. Felix Amankona-Diawuo, an amazing educator.” I said.
“He, Felix, says you have more potential than anyone he’s ever met. He says you are naturally gifted and are also blessed to have very encouraging parents.” She was about to continue when I interrupted.
“I don’t mean to be rude but what is this about? I do need to be heading to my next class.” Ms. Vickers surely had more to do than try to encourage me, if that was what she was attempting to do. Maybe, I had unintentionally expressed my sadness about being stuck here for a year.
“I’ve talked to the guidance counselor and she has approved my request.” Now, I was thoroughly confused.
“Your request. Sorry, but I’m not following.” I said.
“Our main mission here at Boaz High School is embodied in our tag line.” Oh no, another tag line. “Expectation of Excellence Everyday by Everyone.” Unfortunately, there’s a lot of serious issues that prevent a lot of students from reaching this daily goal. This is where I need your help.”
“You don’t have to worry. A little over a year ago, thanks to my dad, I committed to excellence. In fact, I committed to becoming the best I could be, both as an academic and as a person.” This should allay Ms. Vickers concerns that I might not be properly focused.
“That’s wonderful dear. And, that further confirms I’ve made an excellent decision. I know you are in a hurry, but I want to talk in detail about you tutoring Adam Brown.” If I had been holding an armful of books there is no doubt I would have dropped them. I’m certain my face instantly transformed into two poses. One of shock. The other of excitement. But, the later one had to go. I had sworn when I left Chicago, I was leaving the Jordan Watkins type behind. The older but attractive Amber Vickers was relentless: “Adam is no doubt the best athlete to come through Boaz High. But he struggles academically. If we could, we would hire him a Rhodes Scholar. Of course, we cannot afford that, but according to your credentials, we believe you are more than competent to transform him into a solid student earning respectable grades.”
“Ms. Vickers, I’m not interested. I really don’t have the time.”
“Honey, I know you need to be going. I respect your position but at least give me an opportunity to describe the importance and the likely effects of what I am asking you to do. Could you come by my room after school today? I promise I won’t bore you.” Ms. Vickers said. Her last statement seemed odd. What could she have to say that would be anything but boring? Adam Brown was a poor student. I almost chuckled out loud when I thought he must also be an idiot. Who else, with his body and gorgeous face and not to mention what surprisingly appeared an almost humble attitude, would choose Jessica Miller as his girlfriend?
I didn’t have time to construct a good reason not to go to her class after school. Instead, I said. I’m going to be late for class. I walked back into the main hallway and turned toward the school’s main entrance.
“I’ll see you a few minutes after three. Room 112.”
All I could think about during my five-minute walk to the gym was Jessica Miller’s statement from Saturday night. “Adam is taken.” What was he, a Chihuahua?
Chapter 6
The waiting had been painful. So much so that it had affected last night’s sleep. Yesterday, a little after 1:30, when I was leaving my World Literature class, Ms. Vickers had once again approached me in the hallway. This time to apologize for forgetting her after-school faculty meeting, and to request we reschedule our meeting to 7:00 a.m. this morning.
Dad said it would be this way. “Mia, you will always have one or more good reasons to skip your early morning session. But, if your goal is truly to become the youngest professor at the University of Chicago, you will not let anything, other than maybe sickness or the death of your mom or me, interfere with this most important discipline. Go inside your closet and slam the door behind you.”
It was now 4:30 a.m. I had already showered and was half-way finished reading the “Study of the therapeutic effects of intercessory prayer in cardiac bypass patients,” published in the April 2006 edition of the American Heart Journal. The article reported on a study conducted under the leadership of Dr. Herbert Benson using over two million dollars of funds provided by the Templeton Foundation. This private organization had been established by billionaire investor John Templeton to pursue research that would hopefully show the compatibility between science and religion (he preferred the Christian version). It was somewhat impressive to note that although Dr. Benson believed ‘evidence for the efficacy of intercessory prayer in medicinal settings [was] mounting,’ he was willing to submit the question to the truth-letting (like blood-letting?) scientific method.
There was no doubt this was a serious project. Benson’s team monitored over 1,800 patients at six different hospitals, all who had undergone coronary bypass surgery. These were divided into three groups: the first group received prayers but didn’t know it. The second group (known as the control group) received no prayers and didn’t know it. The third group received prayers but did know it. Groups 1 and 2 were compared to determine whether intercessory prayer was efficacious. Group three results were analyzed to determine whether there were issues, whether physical or psychological, with knowing one is being prayed for. I thought it was somewhat funny that those who delivered the prayers were church congregations from three locations all that began with the letter M: Minnesota, Massachusetts, and Missouri. The phrase mind-manipulating-minions raced across my mind. Those praying were provided the first name and initial letter of the surname of each patient they were to pray for. Also, they were provided the exact phrase to use in their praying: ‘for a successful surgery with a quick, healthy recovery and no complications.’
I found the results of the study anything but surprising. Again, I already had a deep belief that prayer didn’t work. Why? Because there was no supernatural being; prayer is just a private conversation between yourself and your imaginary friend. But my deep belief was just my opinion. I was after scientific proof about the efficacy of prayer, even if I didn’t like the result. The result from Dr. Benson’s research: “there was no difference between those patients who were prayed for and those who were not.” What was a little surprising, almost funny in an embarrassing way, was the difference in the third group: those who knew they were being prayed for suffered more negative complications than those from groups one and two. Although it wasn’t determined why Group 3 presented this anomaly, one of the researchers, Dr. Charles Bethea, put it this way: “it may have made them uncertain, wondering am I so sick they had to call in their prayer team.” Someone else labeled the anomaly, ‘performance anxiety.’
I didn’t have time to research what theologians had said about the study, but I guessed they would argue that “God cannot be tested. He is supernatural and cannot be found in test tubes.” Others, including pew-filling Christians, likely would say the study was a sham; the prayers were not offered seriously and for a good reason. Of course, I knew this Templeton study alone wasn’t the final answer on the efficacy of prayer. But, like every scientific experiment, it tested a hypothesis in a carefully conducted, double-blind study. The question under review was, ‘does prayer work?’ The result was no.
As I closed the lid to my laptop, I kept wondering how I could conduct my own test. There was no way I could include anything approaching 1,800 people in my sample. But I could at least make myself aware of how prayer was working at First Baptist Church of Christ, Boaz High School, and the surrounding community.
At 6:45, I grabbed a dairy-free Bagel and my book bag and walked onto the deck without telling a showering Aunt Mary I was leaving. I noticed Uncle Larry’s truck wasn’t in its customary spot in the backyard next to a detached carport and workshop he was building the last time Mom and Dad and I were here. One thing you could say about the quiet and boring man, he was dedicated to teaching.
Ms. Vickers was facing the blackboard when I entered Room 112. Without looking towards me she said, “is that spelled right?” The word ‘ad hominen’ was written on the white board under a rectangle poster labeled, “Word of the Day.”
“I think it ends with an m.” I said. It was a word I had learned in my 9th grade Basic Logic class. It means to address something personal about your debate opponent instead of responding with a logical argument. For example, if you’re debating tax laws and you criticize your opponent’s extra-marital affair instead of engaging his ideas, that’s an ad hominem attack.
“I think you’re right.” She changed the n to an m and motioned for me to sit in a leather wing-back chair that I didn’t remember seeing during class time yesterday.
“I want you to know I haven’t changed my mind.” I thought it best to dive right in and let Ms. Vickers know she was about to waste her time trying to persuade me otherwise.
“Mia, I’m going to be blunt. You might be the only thing standing between Adam Brown and becoming a football standout for the Alabama Crimson Tide, not to say anything about him getting a good education at the University.”
“In all due respects, don’t try to guilt me into this. Why can’t someone else tutor the local superstar?” I started not to say it but was interested in seeing how Ms. Vickers would react. “Why not let the gorgeous Jessica Miller tutor him?” There, I said it.
I was surprised with her bluntness. “I could say several things, but the most professional response is the PK, that stands for preacher’s kid, has her own academic challenges. For your information, Pastor Robert has committed to tutoring his daughter this year. Jessica’s a senior.”
I could imagine there were dozens of students ten times as smart as Jessica who would excel at tutoring Adam. “Surely you can find at least one, maybe two, students who can correctly spell ten times as many words as the gorgeous and sexy Jessica. That would put them up there close to seventy-seven words.” Mrs. Vickers will like my reference to the number seven, Biblical perfection.
She smiled. Briefly. “Let me be clear. There are two reasons I firmly believe you are the best choice for Adam’s tutor. There are three. First, you possess natural intelligence. I know you scored 32 on your ACT. Second, you’re not from here. The other three or four students who could possibly fill the bill are too close to Adam; they wouldn’t be hard enough on him. I need someone to be brutally honest with him; I’m still not sure he recognizes how much is on the line for him.”
Ms. Vickers paused. “You said there was three reasons.” I said.
“Sorry, I was thinking of how Jessica, oh, forget that. The third reason is your maturity. From my phone call yesterday with Felix, your ninth-grade science teacher, I learned your goal is to become a college professor, like your parents. Mia, it’s unusual for a tenth grader to have a goal beyond what they intend to wear to the dance on Friday night. The fact you plan on teaching is the most important of my three reasons. There is no more rewarding profession than what I do and what you aspire for. Helping someone learn something new about God’s wonderful creation is the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever experienced.”
I couldn’t let this slide. “If I considered this at all, I can’t promise you Adam will learn more Bible stories. I think he gets enough of that from Sunday School and Fusion.” If Ms. Vickers pursued that statement, I suspected she would discover I didn’t believe in the Creator God and this assuredly would change her mind. Unfortunately, I was wrong.
“Oh dear, I’m not saying you will be teaching from the Bible. I’m just saying that when you see Adam understand something for the first time, maybe how Algebra works or how to develop an essay, you yourself will be rewarded.”
I looked up at the clock hanging above Ms. Vickers white board. It was 7:22. I needed to go to my locker and I also needed to pee. “All I will say today is that I will seriously think about your request. One question I’d like to ask: does Adam know you want me to tutor him?”
“Oh no dear. That wouldn’t be right. But he is fully aware I am looking. We’re taking this one step at a time.”
I was a little confused. “Who is we?” I asked.
“The administration, and of course Adam’s coaches. Now, thank God, his parents are finally on board.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Seems to me Adam’s parents would have a financial motivation for him to earn an athletic scholarship.
“Jacob and Rachel Brown are serious Christians. They refused my offer last year. Their excuse was that God would direct Adam’s life and that if playing college football was part of the divine plan then nothing man could do would change that. Of course, I argued that maybe God expected us as a Christian community to help. You know the good book says, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’”
“Uh, I don’t think that’s in the Bible.” I was pretty sure I was right.
“Well, not exactly, but it’s implied.” Ms. Vickers was an interesting woman.
“One final thing before I go, when do you need to have my final decision?” I shook my head, figuratively, as I made this God-awful concession. I was reminded of the two very serious promises I had made myself before leaving Chicago. First, given what had happened between Jordan and me, I wouldn’t date at all. And secondly, my spare time would be devoted to serious matters like reading, research, and writing, all to prepare myself for future work at the University of Chicago. I almost laughed out loud when I said to myself that I wasn’t being asked out on a date, and that by teaching, I would be investing in learning; every real teacher knew she learned more through her own preparations than her students learned during class times. Rationalizing. Mom had often reminded me how dangerous rationalizing could be.
“Good question. Friday. How about before school starts this Friday?” Ms. Vickers was in a hurry.
“Why the rush?” I asked.
“Adam needs to be in a solid pattern of classes, football practice, and study before his first game. That’s the 17th. With Arab. I want you. Sorry. If you become his tutor, you need to start this Saturday. You’ve heard the expression, ‘an idle mind is the devil’s workshop’?”
“I have.”
“I’m afraid if Adam has a full weekend under the direction of his girlfriend, she will destroy all the motivation his coaches and I have worked to instill in him the past two weeks since football practice began.”
I left without saying another word when a half-dozen kids walked in from the hallway. As I removed my Language Arts book from my locker, it dawned on me that if I agreed to be Adam’s tutor, Jessica Miller would not be looking to the long-term benefits of her boyfriend being a star for the Alabama Crimson Tide.
Chapter 7
Wednesday was the first day I had seen Adam Brown all week. When I walked into Ms. Vickers English class at 7:20, he was sitting in the first row, fourth seat, next to the windows along the front outside wall of the building. For some reason Boaz High School required alphabetic seating in all classrooms. I thought it was infantile. My own seat was in the second row, one seat further back from Adam’s. This was good and bad. Both for the same reason: I could see his profile and what was laying on his desk.
As I sat down, Emily Brown said, “Hi Mia.” I knew her name only because of the seating chart that Ms. Vickers had passed out on Monday. For the past two days Emily had been sitting at Adam’s desk. Now, she was directly to my left. I wondered whether the two of them were relatives. I nodded and smiled at her but decided not to ask. Adam turned his head and looked to his right, slightly squeezed his lips together, and quickly scanned me from my eyes down to the next to the last button on my dark brown blouse. It happened in less than a second, or so it seemed.
After our eyes parted I saw he had his Literature book open on his desk. The phrase “What’s Happening?” was typed in bold above a silly drawing of a beach scene with a man and box on his head seated on a rock beside a Walrus dressed in a blue jacket, red vest, and white pants. These two characters were staring dumb-faced at a dozen or more short-legged seashells walking toward them wearing matching tan-colored work boots. I wondered whether Adam had read the introductory chapter.
“Good morning.” I said not looking at either one of them.
“Mia, do you know Adam?” Emily said. I thought it was odd how she leaned forward and started massaging his shoulders with her two hands.
“We’ve met. At church. Saturday night.” I sensed he was shy when he didn’t turn around or in any way act like he had heard Emily’s question.
“Well then, you’ve only seen one side of him. Wait till Friday night. My favorite Cuz is a tiger on the field.” So, they are kin.
“Maternal or paternal?” I liked asking easy questions in a confusing way.
For some reason, this got Adam’s attention. He turned in his desk toward me and said, “our fathers are brothers. Is that what you meant?” For an awkward moment I couldn’t decide whether to verbally respond or to continue to look into his blue eyes. I had noticed them Saturday night, but some way that was different. That night was just a glance. Now, we were staring at each other. It was trite, but all I could think about was the blue ocean of the Caribbean. And, that according to what I learned in science class last year, blond hair more commonly is associated with blue eyes. Adam Brown’s dark curly hair revealed he was an anomaly.
I finally said, “yes,” but continued to stare. As instantly as it started, he broke away and returned to staring at the walking seashells.
Emily sat back in her desk and motioned with her right hand toward the front of the room. I hadn’t noticed Ms. Vickers standing before the class, now staring at a classroom filled with thirty students.
After second period my suspicion was growing. Mr. Causey, Ken Causey, my Anatomy/Physiology teacher, was openly egregious with his Christianity. Last night I had spent time on the Boaz High School website reviewing the personal pages of each of my teachers. After providing his educational background and teaching experience, Mr. Causey had written: “I am first and foremost a born-again believer in Jesus Christ.” He then cited Psalms 3:3: “But thou, O LORD, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.” He then finished his short biography with: “My priority is to bring glory to Christ’s name in any and everything he does. Because I love Christ, my love for my students and players grows more and more.”
Today, during class, Mr. Causey had continued the course introduction. After a long statement about the interdependence of the human body systems he had said, “a marvelous design by an imaginative God.” I wondered if I was the only student who took offense with his unabashed attempt to smuggle in the Christian religion. I’m not sure I heard anything else said the remaining ten minutes of class.
I was thankful for the ten-minute break after second period. I walked to my locker to exchange my heavy science book for an equally heavy World History book, and to grab the remaining half of my Bagel I had left from breakfast. “How’s school?” I heard from down the hall as I closed my locker with the tough bread secured between my teeth. It was Lexi standing alone beside her own locker twenty feet or so down the hallway.
I removed the stale Bagel from my mouth and said, “Boring. Almost as bad as church.” My words just popped out. I normally was more contemplative before speaking. I think my frustration with Mr. Causey was driving my emotions. I looked back toward Lexi and saw her and another girl, one I hadn’t even seen, walking toward me.
“Mia, this is Pamela Johnson. You two are neighbors.” Said Lexi, the local historian.
“Hi, nice to meet you. So, where do you live?” I thought the possibility of having a friend close by kind of appealing.
“Stephens Street, 712. Our driveway is straight across from yours.” The short and cute girl with thick glasses said. She was eating an apple and staring at what looked like a new iPhone. “Oh, by the way, my mom told me about you. She sometimes hangs out with your Aunt Mary.”
“So, you’re Lucille Johnson’s daughter? I met her Saturday morning.” Since my decision last year to become more detailed, I tried my best to remember names, names of people and other things. Dad had said it was very important to know what things are called.
“In the flesh.” Pamela laughed out loud spitting bits of apple towards me and Lexi standing beside me. “I’m funny sometimes. I’m also adopted, so Miss Lucille and I are not fleshly related.” I was about to question my desire to have a neighbor friend when Pamela said, “Mother says you are an atheist like me.” I couldn’t help but glance at Lexi. She had heard Pam’s abrupt statement. Lexi’s eyes doubled in size and her mouth hung open, like she was trying to say, “uh, what?”
The only thing I could think to say was, “that’s not a word I use. Let’s just say I’m curious and ask a lot of questions.”
“Okay, whatever. Hey Lex, I’ve got to run. Don’t you just love that long walk to the new gym. Especially in this rain.” Pamela walked away pulling an umbrella out of the book bag that was hanging from her shoulders.
A little nervous, I chose to take a big bite of my Bagel. Lexi pulled me to the gap between two sections of lockers and said. “Pamela is the smartest girl in ninth grade. But, she’s kind of weird. We’ve been friends for a couple of years. She’s number one on my list.” I was confused.
“She’s number one of your list of friends?” I asked.
“No silly. My list of prospects for Project Convert. You know, from Fusion Sunday night. I’m trying to share the Gospel with her, but she’s a hard nut to crack.”
I was glad the bell rang for third period. I took one more bite of my Bagel and risked getting an incurable disease when I took a sip of water from the water fountain across the hall. As I walked to Room 119, I made a mental note to visit Pamela Johnson.
Chapter 8
After 6th period I walked to the Library to pick up a copy of How to Read and Why by Harold Bloom. I could have waited until after school but instead used the twenty-three-minute block of time offered each day from 1:42 until 2:05. The school called it ‘AIE’ for Advisory, Intervention, and Enrichment.
World Literature teacher Katie Waldrup had ordered ten copies, one for each of her 6th period students. I could already tell I was going to like this class, and Mrs. Waldrup. From what I had learned, she was my kind of gal: smart, well-traveled, open-minded, and creative. Plus, she was a published writer. Mr. Bloom’s book also sounded like something that would help propel me towards my goal. Mrs. Waldrup had said one of the best and most accessible sources of wisdom is found in books. But, not just any book. Given the vast number of books available one had to learn how to become selective. I liked her statement, “if you want to become a real human being you will fall in love with reading; the pleasures and benefits are incomparable. Let Mr. Bloom become your guide.”
I stored my World Lit book in my locker and headed to the Library. According to the campus drawing in my handbook it was at the end of a long hallway connected to the main corridor where all the ninth and tenth grade classrooms are located. I turned right and passed several small offices on both my right and left. It seemed there were more coaches with private offices than any other staff member or teacher.
Halfway down the hall I entered through double-doors to my left. The Library was much larger than I expected. At the center, towards the back wall, was the information desk. To my right, consuming possibly a third of the entire room were comfortable-looking leather chairs and couches. About half of them were taken with kids of all ages. It was rather ironic. I didn’t see a one with a book in his or her hand, instead they all had eyes and fingers glued to their cell phones. Also, not a one of them was talking to a neighbor.
I walked to the information desk and had to present my student ID to a preppy looking guy who was manning the operation. I think I had seen him at church on Sunday. “Here’s your book, it’s one of my favorites. That’ll be fifty dollars.” The tall, skinny boy with red hair said with an expression I thought could be either light or heavy.
“Thanks. But I was told by Mrs. Waldrup there would be no charge.” I said thinking something was askew.
“Just kidding. Oh, I’m Arlon Vickers. Nice to meet you Mia.”
“Nice to meet you. You had me scared there for a minute.” I had a hundred dollars in my purse, tucked back from my allowance but I didn’t want to return to my locker, nor spend the money at all.
“I’ve been wanting to meet a fellow scholar. My mother is Amber Vickers. She’s been telling me about you.” After he said this, I could see some resemblance. Like his mother, he was attractive. I think they both had green eyes. And, they both wore glasses. Come to think of it, their eye-frames were similar.
“I’m not sure what she’s told you but I’m no scholar. Yet, but I hope to be someday.” I was about to ask him what his mother had said about me when a man with a white shirt and a red bow tie joined the nerdy guy behind the counter.
“And, who is this young lady? You no doubt are new to Boaz High School.” The man said alternating his look between me and the slightly taller Arlon.
“Mr. Fraiser, this is Mia Hudson. She’s from Chicago and will be here all year. She’s Mr. Jackson’s niece. Mia, this is Ned Fraiser, our Librarian.” Arlon reminded me of Lexi, both were likely aspiring historians.
I smiled and said, “nice to meet you. I take it you’ve been here a while since you seem to know all six hundred plus students.”
“Perceptive, aren’t we? I took over after my father retired in 2012. He was head librarian for nearly forty years. I worked at Albertville High School for nineteen years, over half that time as head librarian.” I was glad three other students walked up to the information desk. If not, Mr. Fraiser might have told me about his wife and kids if he had any. Come to think of it, he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
I backed away and looked at my iPhone. It was only 1:52. I had a few minutes to spare before my P.E. class so I opted to give one of the giant leather chairs a try. This section of the library was configured into four clusters, each containing a couch and three chairs. In the center of each cluster was an oval coffee table. I chose the cluster in the far-right corner. The chair straight across from the couch backed up to the outside row of windows. Sitting here I could see along the back side of the old gymnasium, the one now used for girls’ volleyball. Beyond that was one of the football team’s practice fields. A group of coaches and players were already gathering for today’s session.
I started to lean back and rest my eyes when I saw a 2017-2018 annual laying on the coffee table in front of me. I picked it up. Inside, on the very first page was a picture of a handsome man, probably a few years younger than Mr. Fraiser. He was holding a football and wearing a crimson-colored hat with “BHS” across the bill. Under the photo was written: “Coach Eller, we’ll never forget you.” At the top of the page in big, bold letters was written: “DEDICATION.” At the bottom of the page were two paragraphs that described how Coach Wade Eller was a man who epitomized a true Pirate, daily providing the perfect example of what Boaz High School is all about: Expectation of Excellence Everyday by Everyone.” Here was that tag-line again. It was sad to learn that Coach Eller had died at age 39 after a long battle with cancer. He left a wife and two children. The last statement of the last paragraph was unsurprising: “you fought the good fight and now are basking in God’s Glory.” Instead of being angry, I felt sorry for all the deluded people who would read and believe this.
For the next five minutes I flipped through the rest of the annual. One thing was certain. Jessica Miller was one of the most popular girls at Boaz High School. Even as a junior, her pretty face and shapely body was splattered throughout the annual. I counted she was in eight photos in the Cheerleaders section. I thought she looked like a Barbie doll in her Junior portrait; it might have been her straight hair, unlike every other photo. The class portraits were unique in that they provided a place for a short quote underneath. Jessica quoted Philippians 4:13, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” This phrase clearly conflicted with the reputation of the typical PK (preacher’s kid). Along the same line, Jessica’s extra short dress she wore to the Junior-Senior Prom seemed to conflict with her life’s motto. What struck me most from that snapshot taken out on the dance floor was the look in her partner’s eyes. Adam Brown didn’t appear to be having a good time. A blow-up of his face could be used to represent the image of the infamous surprised deer (either animal or human) caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
On the last page of the Annual, at the back of the Advertisements Section was a full-page Ad by First Baptist Church of Christ. In the center was a photo of Jed Forester and Jessica Miller on opposite ends of a large banner that read: “Seek Christ to live abundantly.” Both behind and around the banner were what looked like the entire youth group. In smaller letters under the photo was hand-written (probably using one of those fancy fonts): “The only way to happiness and Heaven is by faith in Jesus Christ.”
It was still raining when I walked across the parking lot toward the new gymnasium for P.E. I loved the refreshing feel of water streaming down my face. Unlike a lot of girls, I knew in Chicago, I didn’t mind my curly hair curling even more, nor what little makeup I wore washing away. I imagined the rain as nature’s way of ridding itself of the superficial and the idea of the supernatural. I had no doubt I was going to need a lot of rain to keep me from drowning in the flood of delusion that was pouring into my little lifeboat. I just loved mixed metaphors.
Chapter 9
After I finished my shower early Thursday morning, I raised the tiny bathroom window to conduct my weather survey. Naturally, it was at 4:30 a.m., but I didn’t hear the rain. Good, even though I loved the wet stuff I was ready for some sunshine.
While I dried off and slipped into a pair of running shorts and tee shirt, last night’s Fusion session at church raced across my mind. It was like a dark slither of the sky slipped through the half-raised window and tapped me on the shoulder.
Jed Forester was one of an all too familiar troupe. Supposedly, there are over three-hundred thousand Protestant churches in America. Most of these are Baptists. Jed, and all the other members of his troupe, put on a similar performance every time they assembled their constituents.
My familiarity was established during my sixth and seventh grades. I attended First Baptist Church of Chicago with my best friend Holly. You could say it was at a time I was searching, seeking for myself (as Dad and Mom had recommended) what I would believe. In that youth group (I don’t remember if it had an official title like Fusion), there was never a real discussion. The Bible was God’s Word. It was the final position on every subject imaginable. Never in those two years, nor, come to think of it, at the Jewish synagogue that my family now attends, had any minister ever said, “now, let’s look at the arguments against Noah’s Ark.” I could easily tell it was going to be the same way at First Baptist Church of Christ.
Last night during Jed’s lecture he described how Adam and Eve had disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden. Jed referred to this event as the “Fall of Man.” His next topic was what he labeled “Original Sin.” This was how every human being since Adam and Eve had inherited their sin. I knew this concept was first described in writings by St. Augustine in the third or fourth century. I wanted so bad to ask Jed how this could be if Adam and Eve had never existed. Of course, I knew a lot of moderate and progressive Christians described these first two humans as metaphorical. Jed probably wouldn’t have liked my questions: do you know that Evolutionary Biology has proven there couldn’t have been an Adam and Eve, and certainly that the first humans appeared on the scene just six thousand years ago? He likely would have thrown me out of the basement if I had asked: “So, Jesus died for two people who never lived, or for a metaphor?”
There was no wonder the Christian religion kept getting perpetuated. Most all members of the Fusion group had grown up at First Baptist Church of Christ. They had these stories poured inside their heads all their lives. Unlike me, they had never been exposed to the other side, the side with irrefutable arguments that show the Christian religion (like all religions) simply isn’t true.
I spent the entire time during my early morning session researching the locally popular Coach Wade Eller. During the night I had concluded his story would likely be fertile ground for my prayer research. I wasn’t disappointed. He had first been diagnosed with a rare, rapidly-growing form of cancer in 2015. There had been an out-pouring of support and it seemed every church and everybody in the area had prayed for him. His home church, First Baptist Church of Christ, had established an entire prayer team for him, offering prayers twenty-four hours per day on a regularly scheduled basis. A Sand Mountain Reporter article in early 2016 was front page news. It was titled, “Local Coach Miraculously Healed.” The truth, to everyone but the deluded, was that Coach Eller’s cancer had gone into remission, something that often happens with the help of modern medicine (thanks science). Unfortunately, last Fall, God reversed His miracle and, according to another Sand Mountain Reporter article, “chose to take His son and our loving coach home.” No doubt, every local person I could ask would say that “God works in mysterious way,” or “God is infinite, we cannot know His ways,” or, “God’s plans are perfect.”
Four days into my new school and schedule it appeared things were falling into an easy routine. Today, the only thing that seemed a little odd was it had started raining again after several hours of bright sunshine. I noticed the rain during sixth period looking out the windows in Kate Waldrup’s room.
During Enrichment period I went to the Library and read for twenty minutes while lounging in one of the leather chairs. Again, I thought it a waste for everyone else in the Library’s “Lounge and Learn” section to be buried in Facebook on their cell phones.
“You want to walk with me to P.E.? I brought my umbrella.” I looked up and saw Emily Brown holding a giant Boaz Pirate, crimson and gray, umbrella across her left arm formed into a U shape.
“Thanks for asking. I’ll take you up on that.” I said with an ulterior motive. Unlike yesterday, I wanted to keep my clothes dry. I had already decided to return to the main building and drop by Mrs. Vickers room before she left for the day. I had my short speech ready. “I’m sorry but I won’t be able to tutor Adam Brown. I’m too busy with school and church.” None of it was a lie. I had thought long and hard over the offer but ultimately decided it had too much potential for conflict in one of three or more areas: my own focus on becoming a college professor, Jessica Miller’s insane jealousy, or maybe the one that I was most afraid of, my emotional and physical attraction to the man/god superhero.
Emily and I parted company as we walked inside the gymnasium. Thankfully, her giant umbrella had done its job. She headed up the stairs to the second floor and Driver’s Education. I guessed she would appreciate that the first three weeks were spent in the classroom before any actual driving began. No beginner wants to drive in this rain.
I turned left and descended the stairs to the girls dressing room. I met a group of three coming up the stairs. I didn’t know any of them. “No P.E. today,” the red-haired girl with freckles said. “Ms. Nixon had an emergency. It’s posted on the board.” Ms. Juddie Nixon for four days now had left a motivational quote on a large white board that was hung on the main door to the dressing room. I continued down the stairs and around the corner and read, “One of my dogs has been hit by a car. No class today. Sorry.”
Just as I was about to turn and walk back up the stairs to exit the gymnasium, I was pushed from behind. The left side of my face slammed against the thick metal door. The pain was excruciating. At first, I thought I was unconscious from all the giggles I was hearing; this was surreal. Someone grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. Everything went dark when some type of cloth bag was pulled over my head. Someone else yanked my book bag off my shoulders. I knew I was in serious trouble when at least two people started kicking and pulling my legs to one side while several more hands grabbed my shoulders. In a flash, I was down on the floor. “Open the door.” I clearly understood the words. It was a girl’s voice. A little high-pitched.
Over the next several minutes I was drug inside the girls dressing room all the way to a row of open showers along the back wall. “Lay her here.” This was a different voice. A different girl. “Tie her hands and feet with this but not too tight.” The third voice.
“What the hell are you girls doing?” I couldn’t say anything.
“You little Yankee bitch. We’re teaching you a lesson. You don’t come here and steal.” I tried with all my strength to resist the ropes from being tied around my hands and feet. I kicked and clawed for what seemed like a minute. But it was no use. There were too many hands and finally, two people sat on me holding me down. I was powerless.
“Miss Mia Hudson, someone’s got a message for you.” This voice, now the fifth one I’d heard, was somewhat familiar. It didn’t take me long to figure out it was Jessica Miller. “Mia, this is your one and only warning. Do not agree to tutor Adam Brown.” If you do, you will regret it. If you think what you are about to experience is bad, think again, what we will do to you if you disobey will end your pretty little fucking life.” How in hell did Jessica know I had been asked to tutor Adam?
It was only a few seconds when I heard the main door open and close. I was alone, but I was still tied up and the showers were now on. It didn’t take me long to realize I could drown. The girls had placed me in such a position that at least two of the shower heads were directed at my head. The cloth bag would absorb the water. They had set up their version of water-boarding. If that wasn’t bad enough, my hands and feet were tied. Earlier, probably yesterday, I had seen metal handrails were attached to the three walls surrounding the showers. No doubt I was splayed out and tied to these rails. The water kept pouring. I was having trouble breathing. I thought I was going to die.
But I had to try. There was some play in all four of the ropes. I pulled as hard as I could, first with my right hand and second with my left. I did the same thing with each of my legs. Finally, my right leg sprang free. That was good, encouraging, but not helpful. I kept pulling both hands. The rope on my right one seemed to get tighter. The water was cold. My breathing was becoming more labored. I thought of Mom and Dad in South Africa. I started to cry. I wanted to see. I couldn’t even complete the thought. I inhaled as hard as I could. That wasn’t wise. I inhaled some air but mostly water. I was drowning.
“Mia, what the hell?” Oh my gosh. I almost said to myself, Praise God. It was Emily. In seconds, she had turned off the showers and was removing the drenched bag from my head. I had never seen a more beautiful face.
“Thank you, thank you,” was all I could say as she untied my hands and feet.
“I knew something weird was going on. Mr. Jolly received a call he had to take and said we could take a five-minute break. I walked outside and stood by the rails overlooking the gymnasium. I saw Jessica Miller and four other girls frantically running from the stairs to the girls dressing room, and outside the gym’s doors. Something, I don’t know what, made me think you were in trouble. I came as fast as I could.” Emily said.
“You saved my life. I know I would have drowned.” As I stood up, I had no doubt I would never forget what had just happened to me. My life would never be the same.
“It’s a miracle. How else could this have happened? I mean, what else could have drawn me down here?” I didn’t verbally respond to Emily. I knew exactly what she meant.
I found my book bag outside the dressing room door. Emily returned to her Driver’s Ed class on the second floor. I was glad I had brought clean gym clothes. I went back in to my locker and changed and stuffed my wet clothes inside a small garbage bag Aunt Mary had insisted I bring.
I walked outside the gymnasium into a blazing sun. Halfway across a wet parking lot toward the main building I turned and headed home. There was no way in hell I would let Jessica Miller tell me what to do. Adam Parker, meet your new tutor.
Chapter 10
I was successful at hiding myself until dinner at 5:30. When I arrived home I sat in a swing beside the detached garage. Thankfully, Uncle Larry didn’t visit his workshop after he drove up from school. If he had, he would have seen me. Aunt Mary arrived a little after 4:00 and parked, as usual, in the carport attached to the house. After another hour or so and a dozen views of the film streaming across my mind, I finally walked into the house. I could smell Aunt Mary had something cooking in the oven, but I didn’t see her. She must have been in the bathroom. I also bypassed Uncle Larry who was sitting in the den in his Lazy-boy reading today’s Birmingham News. He said hello but never put down his paper. After inspecting my face in my bathroom mirror and drying my hair, I laid across my bed still wearing my gym clothes. For some strange reason, I fell asleep. I awoke to Aunt Mary knocking on my door. “Mia, dinner in five minutes. You good?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m really not hungry.” For some reason I was starving but my plan was to lay-low until late and sneak in the kitchen. My left eye was the perfect shiner. The darkness seemed to be spreading toward my lower jaw. There was no way to hide it.
“You have to eat. A salad for lunch isn’t enough. You must have protein. You love my tuna casserole.” As every vegetarian does, they make exceptions to their diet. I know it wasn’t logical, but I had not sworn off fish.
I didn’t respond, and Aunt Mary didn’t press it. I assumed she returned to the kitchen. But she didn’t give up. Fifteen minutes later she returned, and this time walked into my room. One look at me and she said, “Mia, what on earth happened to you?” It was a reasonable thing to ask.
“Uh, I had a run-in with the steel door in the girls dressing room. The impact happened when several things simultaneously occurred: I was walking towards the door when someone yelled my name from behind me. I turned and said hello. When I turned back someone else was coming out of the dressing room. I walked straight into the end of the heavy door.” This was so stupid. It sounded like I was reading the first poem I had written as a second grader.
“That must have been painful. You’re going to have that for a while. We might ought to have a doctor look at that. You may have broken something.” Aunt Mary had a point, several, but I didn’t want to go to the Emergency Room.
“Thanks for caring. It’s not that bad.” The left side of my face was throbbing.
“Okay for now, but we don’t want it to get infected.” I wasn’t familiar with bruising and infections. “Now, come on to supper.” Supper, dinner, it was the same thing.
“I’ll be right there.” I had changed my strategy. Success with passing off my frightening look as an innocent accident gave me permission, and encouragement, to face Uncle Larry. I hoped he was as gullible as Aunt Mary.
I was lucky he made it so easy. When I sat down across from him at the kitchen table he said, “after we eat, put an icepack across your eye. That’ll help with the swelling. I’ve done something similar. The ice helped me.”
“Thanks Uncle Larry.” I felt guilty about my lying. After I woofed down my first helping of the best tuna casserole, I had the crazy idea of opening up and telling the truth. For the next ten minutes I let that thought coalesce while I ate more tuna. I even thanked Aunt Mary for using fake milk and cheese in one of my favorite dishes.
After eating a big serving of non-dairy ice-cream, my struggle whether to confess came to an unexpected detour when the door-bell rang. Aunt Mary exited the kitchen and walked through the living room to the front door. I heard her say, “hello, may I help you?”
“Oh hi, I’m Emily Brown. Mia and I are classmates. I just stopped by to see if she is okay after that terrible assault.” Oh my gosh. If my world hadn’t been in a tailspin before now, it surely was now.
“What? Please come in. There seems to be some real confusion here.”
The sweet and caring Emily Brown joined us at the kitchen table. I could have killed her. The girl who no doubt had saved my life. The events for the next several hours were like something out of a crime novel. After hearing the blow-by-blow details of what had happened, Aunt Mary called the Boaz Police. Then, the ball really got rolling.
She gave the short version to the dispatcher and was told a policeman would come take my statement. In less than ten minutes an Officer Wilson knocked on the door from the carport. He was tall, handsome, and built like a Bradley tank. Aunt Mary pulled in another chair, but Brad Pitt wanted to talk to me alone. After my aunt and uncle and Emily went out onto the rear deck, I described in detail what had happened. I didn’t withhold anything. I was very clear that Jessica Miller had promised to kill me if I started tutoring Adam Parker.
It was only after Officer Wilson started cross-examining me about how I knew it was Jessica Miller who was speaking, that I realized I might be wrong. My mind had told me it was Jessica’s voice. At first, I had told Officer Wilson that she had identified herself. But after questioning, I knew that wasn’t true. Everything seemed to fit. Lawyers and Law and Order programs referred to it as “circumstantial evidence.” I kept telling Officer Wilson that it was Jessica Miller’s voice, but I had to admit that I had only heard her voice one time and that was last Saturday night.
After a good thirty to forty minutes with me, Emily and I swapped places. Officer Wilson spent another twenty minutes with her. I guess seeing if her statement confirmed what I had said, at least the part where she discovered me.
It was after 7:00 p.m. when the good-looking professional left. The last thing he said to all four of us was, “I’ll call you after I speak with Miss Miller. I have to have probable cause before the judge will issue an arrest warrant, but first I need to visit the girls dressing room to see if those ropes and cloth bag are still there.”
Reluctantly, I obeyed the order he had given me before speaking with Emily. Officer Wilson had demanded I go to the Emergency Room to have a doctor assess the condition of my face. He promised to have a photographer there to take pictures for his case file.
It was nearly midnight before I went to bed. The ER had been horrible. Two packed ambulances had arrived a few minutes before Aunt Mary and me (Emily had gone home, and Uncle Larry needed to finish his newspaper). There wasn’t an exam room available until almost ten-thirty. The waiting room was the worst part of the trip. I had never in my life seen so many pitiful people. There was a cross-section of old and young, but one thing was the same for all. The poet Henry David Thoreau was right about this hoard: “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and die with their song still inside them.” I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them and at the same time, know how fortunate I was.
As my mind and body approached the unconscious state of sleep, I kept questioning my decision to jump into the lion’s den. After leaving the gymnasium and walking toward the school, I had made a very emotional statement, “There was no way in hell I would let Jessica Miller tell me what to do.” Now, it was finally dawning on me what a detour my life would take if I pursued principal, honor, and respect, over plain good sense. I could hear Dad now: “Mia, decisions made in the heat of a moment are emotionally based, not intellectually-generated. They usually are proven wrong.”
The Pencil-Driven Life 