Worth and Wickedness

Chapter 1But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right. —Doctrine and Covenants of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, 9:8 Jamie The moment he first looked in my eyes, I felt it. A burning. I feel it even stronger now, reading his name at the top of my assignment slip. This is a sign. I know, for a fact, he and I are meant to…meant to be… Well, it’s unclear. But I know that Heavenly Father needs his name, his face to feel important to me. I know this assignment must be of God. I’m familiar with Freddie Churchill in passing. He graduated from a different high school, twenty minutes away from my house. He attended the Enscombe Ward, which shares the same building as the one I attended growing up. I’ve seen him in the halls cracking jokes, attracting crowds of girls, roughhousing with other guys. Not me—I tend to avoid that kind of thing. I don’t think I’ve ever once talked to him. So today, on his first Sunday back home from college, I knew, I knew there had to be a reason why I couldn’t stop watching him. Golden-red curls, eyes so alive, a twist in his grin like he takes nothing seriously, especially not this Sacrament Meeting. He caught me staring. At least three times. My breath hitched, my eyes darted down to my tie, and I tried to pretend it never happened. All. Three. Times. I felt the usual crushing embarrassment I feel when someone catches me staring. But I also felt a distinct thrill, a heat I couldn’t shake. I hate that I have to sit up front. Don’t get me wrong, I love this assignment. It’s nice that I get to bring the Spirit through music every week for the Young Single Adult branch of Highbury, Ohio. Hearing the mix of earnest voices worshipping over my accompaniment makes me feel useful, powerful in a way I don’t often feel in the outside world. But the job comes with an assigned seat, up front by the piano. And I can’t stand it. Usually, the problem is everyone staring at me. Up here, it’s just the branch presidency—three men in their fifties, in a pew beside the podium—and me on the opposite side, in my awkward little corner by the piano. I’m always one blink away from the person speaking. Maybe it’s just pride, but I feel like I’m constantly being watched. I worry that everyone will know when I get distracted. I don’t dare check the time on my phone. I take notes sometimes, but I’m careful to keep my eyes on the speakers as much as possible. My job is to set the tone: I not only bring the Spirit through music, but through my appearance and actions on stage. I would hate for a lesson to be lost, stolen from a person who truly needed it, just because they were watching me, thinking I was bored out of my mind. But I was not bored today. I honestly wished it was easier to pay attention, because I knew I could have learned something meaningful from Sister Bates’ talk on…um… Anyway, it was impossible to pay attention, because my line of sight kept tangling up in the side pews, where Freddie sat. Leaning against the wall, rolling up his sleeves, stretching them out over half the length of the pew, like it belonged to him. The third time he caught me was the worst. Well, it was more like I caught him, really. I was trying so hard to pay attention to Sister Bates reading a lengthy quote from Dallin H. Oaks, one of our Church’s living apostles. And my eyes drifted his way again, of their own accord. He was smirking at me, and I think one of his eyes crinkled, like we were in on a joke together. But I couldn’t really tell because I pinned my eyes to the ground for the remainder of the meeting. I was on fire. Your bosom shall burn within you… In that moment, I prayed that God would make my eyes behave, cure me of my space-cadet gawking tendencies. But prayer wouldn’t stop my mind from spinning. Even in active conversation with the Lord, I kept picturing Freddie. Imagining those fiery eyes on me. That smile, meant only for me. That burning in my chest. Pin-pricks running up and down my arms. That’s the Spirit, isn’t it? Now I reread his name on my assignment slip, and again I feel that burning. And wrapped around it, overwhelming me, the warmth of utter peace. This is more than a routine assignment. This won’t be like all my other ministering experiences, a painfully uncomfortable spiritual message in a near-stranger’s home once a month. There’s no mistaking it: this is a spiritual prompting, a calling from the Lord. I may never know the reasons, but I know this. He and I are meant to be… Something. * * * * Freddie It’s eleven A.M. on a Sunday. Kill me. If this were last month, I’d still be two hours north, hungover, wrapped up in dorm bedsheets—mine or someone else’s—pondering how to flavor my iced coffee. As I leave the priesthood meeting which took up the ungodly-long second hour of church, I see that the women’s class must have ended a few minutes early. Like a swarm of flies hovering around a stinking pile of dog s**t, a half-dozen single Mormon women are buzzing about the foyer as all the men-folk break free of our classroom. “I hope you’ll come to the singles dance in a few weeks!” Emma, a woman with wavy blonde hair in her early twenties, must be on the welcoming committee. She’s been checking in with me all day. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” I lie. I know I’ll have to be there. Just like I had to be here today, to avoid the questions. “Well just know,” she croons. “We’re counting on you. We haven’t had any cute new guys to dance with in ages.” She twists her Young Women’s medallion around her pretty pink fingernails. Her younger sister, Hattie, rolls her eyes. She scratches at her pixie cut, sighing, “Don’t mind her. She’s just desperate.” “Oh, stop it!” Both of them erupt into giggles. I wear my best playing-along face. “Unfortunately, I only dance the Charleston. Do you think they’ll play any ragtime?” “Oh dear,” Emma chuckles. “We only play Gregorian chants, unfortunately,” Hattie says. “And bagpipe music,” Emma adds. “Well, shoot…” I stroke my chin. “I’ll see if I can find an instructional video on bagpipe chanting dances.” A firm hand pats my shoulder: the branch president, the leader of our congregation. He shakes my hand, like he just offered me a fantastic deal on a pre-owned Crown Vic. He turns to Emma and says, “Thank you again for your talk on the value of work, Sister Woodmansee. So much truth in that verse, This life is the day for men to perform their labors. It’s a message so many in our branch will benefit from.” Why do I feel like that’s passive-aggressively aimed at me? Emma demurs as Hattie confirms, “The Spirit was strong in that meeting today.” I join as everyone nods in agreement. “Have a blessed Sabbath, sisters,” he says in his most placid tone. He turns to me again, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “See you at home, Fred.” Dad’s responsibilities as branch president will keep him locked in his office and out of my hair for another hour at least. I could grab some coffee. Or rewatch half of Superbad. Or browse Pornhub. I excuse myself and make my way to the door. I’ve seen all my old high school acquaintances—the ones who didn’t sign two years of their lives away as missionaries to the Cult, anyway—so I’m pretty much ready to go back home and catch up on the sleep I missed. But just before I make it, I catch that olive-toned piano player with the strong cheekbones, giving me another intense look-over. I could feel it on my skin like pin-pricks in the chapel, and I feel it again now. This time he hesitantly beckons me. “Hey. Aren’t you Freddie Churchill?” “You caught me.” I notice the distinctive round eyes, his slight stature. There’s a half-dozen copies of him roaming the Highbury Mormon-osphere. “You’re a Fairfax, aren’t you?” “Yeah,” he says, almost unsure. “Jamie.” “Pleasure to meet you, Jamie.” I shake his hand because, hey, when in Rome. His grip is surprisingly firm. He says, “You’re on my list of, uh, ministering people.” “Oh, am I now?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. He pulls out a little slip of paper, and he shows me my name, along with a few others I don’t recognize. “Hey, that’s me!” I point to my name, my hand on his shoulder. He’s a tense little anxiety ball, but he’s so hot. I want to see him unwind. “Look Ma, I made it! I made the list!” He smiles, but seems to push it down, like he has to keep it secret. “Prouda you, son,” he quips. He quips. Amazing! I glance a little further down the paper. “Hey, check out what also made the list: all my contact information, including my address and even my birthday. Wow!” He takes a second to think, a twitchy half-smile my only hint that something is spinning behind that crew cut. Dryly, he says, “We would’ve added your mother’s maiden name and your Wi-Fi password. But that might’ve been a little creepy.” I realize my arm is still around this stranger in a room full of Mormons, so I smack his back in a very hetero fashion, and I step aside. “So, you’re my home teacher, kind of?” That’s the old name of this ministering program, where every member gets an assigned friend to check on them and read them a scripture or something once a month. A Big Brother, one might say, to watch over me. À la 1984. “Yeah. So, if you want to, uh, meet up sometime this week, we could…” As he strains at the words, he licks his lips. He did that up on stage, too. When his eyes darted away from mine. Is this for real? “Absolutely, my guy.” I ease a little suggestion into my tone. “You need my number?” He folds up his little slip of paper, suppressing a smile that won’t stay secret. “I have my ways.”