Mr. Algray told us that the only things we need to ace are the midterm and the final. That way, he knows we’ve been listening all semester. Since the homework isn’t getting any grades, he’s making the midterm count for forty percent of our final grade and the final exam count for fifty percent. The other ten percent is reserved for attendance and professionalism which of course, I feel fine about, but you can’t pass a class with ten percent total. He warned us that the tests will be extensive, and we need to be thoroughly prepared for them, as we will not be able to bring our books or any notes in the classroom.
This is usually the part where I am comforted by my carefully written notes taken throughout the semester because I know I can depend on them for studying purposes — but because of Mr. Algray’s homework system, half of my note sheets are not filled out or are marked up in his red ink with no helpful explanation as to why.
So not only do I have to reckon with the idea that this test is coming up, but also that my messy, halfway-done, and ink-littered homework notes are all I have to work with, which is stressing me out to a new level tonight.
My phone whistles cheerfully at me in the midst of it all, playing the ringtone I’ve set for my mom.
I tap the green ‘accept’ icon and bring the phone to my ear, “Hey.”
“Lacey, how are you honey?”
I rub my temple with my free hand. My mother refuses to call me by anything but my first name, which she has always adored.
My eyes flit over the papers around me, “I’m … making it.”
“What’s wrong, honey?” She says, “You sound upset.”
“No, I’m fine. Just … managing some schoolwork.”
“Oh, that reminds me! I keep meaning to ask you about how your classes are going.”
“They’re going,” I begin collecting my frowny-face papers into a stack, “nothing’s changed much there.”
I know what she’s going to say. Even through the silence I can hear her concern.
“You probably know this already sweetheart, but your scholarship —”
“I know.” I say, trying to weave a smile into my words so she’ll let it go.
I've called the school once already to confirm that I must make at least a B in trigonometry this semester, and an A in everything else in order to keep my scholarship: The one and only reason I’m able to go to college, currently.
My mother is silent on the other end of the line.
“What’s up, mom?” I say, starting to get the feeling that she didn’t just call to rag me about school.
“I just wanted to see if you’d be coming to A&B tonight.” She says.
Oh.
I quickly search my brain to think of excuses that would get me out of attending Above and Beyond, the women’s prayer and Bible study group in town.
“Everyone misses you there,” she says, taking my silence as a cue to keep convincing me, “Kaya asks how you’re doing almost every week. She told me she reached out to you a couple of times, but you never replied. She wants to know if you’re okay.”
“Please assure them that I’m doing fine,” I say, remembering the three unread messages I have from Kaya, “Just busy with wedding stuff.”
“You don’t want to come on out and tell them yourself?” my mother persists.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know how to tell her I don’t want to attend A&B at all anymore without breaking her heart. I used to try to go once every few weeks for her sake, but for the last five months I haven’t made it out there once.
“The topic tonight is supposed to be really good,” She says, “And I miss you.”
Her voice breaks my heart. It’s full of so much hope. Hope that I’ll go to this study group and suddenly convert my life into something better than it is — something more like my sister, Livia, who got married to a Christian man at the modest age of twenty-five and blessed my parents with their first grandchild one year later.
“Alright.” I cave, “I’ll be there.”
“Great!” She cheers, “I’ll see you at five!”
As soon as we end the call, my phone pings at me with a reminder from my calendar.
Wedding Dress fitting — Tomorrow. Thursday @ 9 am.
I frown, beginning to feel overwhelmed. Not only does it feel like the demands never stop rolling in, but I have been dreading the dress fitting for so long now. I don’t know if I’m ready for the type of feelings that ride along with me each and every time I try on clothes.
My mind longs for the bottle of Xanax pills I gave Grace to help her sleep, but I push the thought out of my mind. For almost a year now, I’ve been using them very rarely. Only on an as-needed basis, so that I am reliant on nothing.
I hear my mother's voice ringing in the back of my mind. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. I use her surety as an affirmation and try to think of another way to deal with my anxiety.
With my phone still in my hand, I dial Grace.
“What’s up!” She says brightly.
“I’m stressed out.” I groan, falling back onto my bed.
I hear the sound of her car beeping on the end and then a door shut, “What’s wrong?”
“Are you in the car?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m pulling out of the yoga place now.”
A whole new wave of guilt shadows over me. I should have gone with her. I was the one who encouraged her to join a group in the first place in efforts to help clear her mind about everything), but what good is that when I can’t even remember to be there for moral support? And here I am, about to ask her to drop everything to provide that very thing for me?
“How was it?” I manage.
“It was alright,” She giggles, “Betty had spicy new ex-boyfriend stories for us. But what’s up? Do you need me to come over?”
I bite my lip, “Do you have time?”
“Of course I do,” I can hear her smile, “I’m like, ten minutes away.”
I sigh, relief washing over me. Grace is someone I can really talk to about these things. She’s a great listener and is objective when she advises. Most of all, she helps me keep all of my thoughts organized. As hard as I try to use planners and follow her lead, she’s definitely the one it comes naturally for.
We hang up and I try to make myself look more presentable, slipping on a few bracelets. A few minutes later, Grace walks in the door looking relaxed yet gracefully put together in her yoga attire. Her skin tone is one I’ve always been a little jealous of, cream colored and slightly tanned, free of any imperfections.
“Okay,” I say, shooting her an accusatory glance, “Can you stop looking flawless long enough for me to have a break-down?”
She smiles incredulously at me, “Not true, but thank you?”
I pat the couch next to me and she settles in, pulling the elastic from her hair and letting it fall loosely to her shoulders.
“Okay, spill,” she says, “what’s up?”
“Well,” I run my fingers through my hair, “My mom is pressuring me into going to A&B again and I literally cannot tell her no, I have a stupid test coming up that I don’t feel prepared for, and I just know I’m gonna look like an unsightly bride … don’t get me started on that.”
“Whoa, whoa,” She says, offering me her hair tie, which I take and tame my unruly waves with, “unsightly bride? Start there.”
I sigh, “The dress fitting is tomorrow.”
She purses her lips. She knows without me having to tell her how hard it’ll be for me.
“I just wish that … just for a day … I could only feel good. Not like, the temporary good feelings I get after a workout, but just consistently vibrant and beautiful the whole day …”
“Rae, you are all of those things,” Grace says, “You’re a beautiful girl and you’ll be a stunning bride.”
I shake my head, looking down at the scars on my arms — at the one on my chest that slithers out slightly above the hem of every low-cut top I wear. “When the makeup artist
tried to cover them, it looked awful. I asked her to at least try because … I’d been banking on her being able to help me close the door on this issue. But it made them more prominent in my opinion. There’s no way I’m walking down the aisle like that.”
Grace takes my hands, holding them so that my wrists are facing up. The loose bracelets I’d put on before she got here shift on my arm, revealing the worst of my scars — where my lower wrist meets my palms. She studies them with great care, which would be a hard limit for anyone else — but she’s Grace, and we’ve been through everything together.
In a maternal sort of way, she caresses my hands gently with her thumbs, “You don’t need the make-up, Rae. I cannot express to you how unnoticeable this is to everyone else. The only reason you focus on it so much is because it’s on your body — you know that right?”
“You can’t tell me they don’t notice …” I say, feeling unwelcome warmth brimming at my eyes.
“The lace sleeves on your dress will cover up anything you don’t like, remember?” Grace says, “That’s why we picked that one.”
That’s the only reason we picked that one. It’s a hideous dress, really, but all the styles I liked — the ones I always imagined myself wearing — would look horrendous with lace sleeves added on.
“I don’t know why you let yourself worry about this. You’re getting married … you have a man who adores you … he clearly doesn’t mind the scars. In fact, I believe the words he said to me when I was putting him through the wringer was that he loves them. Because he loves you.”
“I know …” I look down at the couch cushion and pull a loose thread from the seams.
She studies my face thoughtfully, “You’re just stressed out, Rae. That’s totally valid. You have college and work and wedding planning to manage all at once.”
“And now my mom …” I say, wanting to move away from this topic.
“Right,” She says, allowing the subject change. “What’s this about a B&A meeting?”
I sigh, “It’s A&B, short for Above and Beyond. It’s a Bible study thing my moms trying to get me to attend.”
Grace seems to brighten at this, “Why don’t you go?”
My gaze drifts to a place on the wall just past Grace and locks on the light switch. Suddenly, it feels like a much better focal point.
“Aren’t those Bible study groups mainly just people trying to uplift each other?” She says, “That sounds like exactly the kind of encouragement you could use right now.”
I shrug, “I haven’t been in awhile.”
A few beats pass between us.
“Like, in five months I haven’t gone.”
She studies me, “Why is that?”
When I don’t reply, she looks at me a little more directly, “Did something happen?”
“No, no,” I wave my hand, “I just …”
Feel guilty for being an insufficient Christian? Don’t really feel like being one-upped in spiritual knowledge by my mom and sister, on top of everything else I have going on?
I want to say these things, but I don’t. With all the obligations I have right now, I’m not going to let the guilt of supposedly living a “sinful” life haunt me too.
What I do say, is, “Would you be into the idea of coming with me?”
She smiles, taking my hand and squeezing it, “Of course. This could be good for both of us.”
5
Grace - Wednesday
From the passenger seat, Rae reads off the directions to the new A&B meeting location. She added about three more wristbands to her pre-existing array before she’d leave the house with me.
Rae has good days and bad days. I’ve figured out that if she feels comfortable with the people she’s going to see, she’ll only wear one or two bands, covering what she believes to be the worst of her scars — but if we’re going to see a group of people she doesn’t see all that often, she layers on more and more. They look great on her, but it’s always been a curious compulsion to me, seeing as though the light scarring on her upper arms is always visible no matter how many bracelets she piles on her lower. But if it makes her feel more confident and free to focus on other things, even if it’s only a little extra coverage, then that’s reason enough for me.
We pull into a large parking lot, but the actual building turns out to be a lot smaller than I thought it’d be. It’s nothing more than one simple room with six square tables pushed together.
A few potted plants adorn the corners of the room while a coffee station and a table covered with decadent-looking treats occupy the far wall.
We arrive with only minutes to spare, so the room is already full of attendees. One of the girls in the middle of the room turns and smiles widely as her gaze falls on Rae and me. She politely excuses herself from two ladies she’d been conversing with and walks over to us. She’s strikingly beautiful with light brown skin, high cheek bones, and dark-reddish curls that cascade down her shoulders and graze her elbows.
“Rae,” She says, giving her a squeeze, “I’m so glad to see you.”
Rae tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and smiles when the girl pulls away, “You too, Kaya.”
“And who is your friend?” Kaya turns towards me with a smile.
“This is Grace.” Rae says.
“Hi,” I extend my hand, “Nice to meet you!”
She wraps her arms around me instead and squeezes tight, “So happy to meet you, Grace! It’s amazing how many new sisters we’ve gained recently.”
“Looks like it,” Rae says, glancing around the room, “You all must have doubled in size since I was here last.”
“We are blessed,” Kaya agrees, scanning the room as well.
An alarm beeps from Kaya’s watch.
“Oh, I guess it’s time to start up already,” She says, glancing down at the time and switching off the sound, “Stick around after the study if you can! I’d love to catch up.”
Rae nods, “For sure.”
As Kaya heads towards the tables, I turn to Rae, “So you don’t know that many people here then?”
“I actually do,” she says. “There’s just a lot of new people too.”
“Okay,” I smile encouragingly, “So who do you know?”
“Well, Kaya’s our leader, and …” Her eyes lock on something across the room, “There’s my mom. And my sister.”
I follow her gaze across the room to see Livia, gorgeous and oddly autonomous without her little boy cradled on her hip, standing next to a very enthusiastic Mrs. Brooks, who beckons us over with both hands.
I chuckle and take Rae’s arm, leading her over to her family. Mrs. Brooks embraces us with bear hugs and tells us how happy she is that all three of her daughters are here — naturally including me in with her blood relations.
“Good evening, ladies,” Kaya says, straightening her stack of papers on the table.
We all take our seats.
Mrs. Brooks and Livia lay their Bibles out on the table in front of them, and I briefly feel awkward for not having brought one. What was I thinking, going to a Bible study with no Bible. But then, Livia gently slides hers across the table and looks between Rae and me.
Can you share? She mouths.
I smile at her and accept her offering as she and her mom scoot closer to share Mrs. Brooks' copy.
“To all the familiar faces I’m seeing around these tables,” Kaya says, smiling, “It’s so good to be back in session. And to any new sisters we may have joining us for the first time tonight, welcome to Above and Beyond,”
I catch myself eyeing up the drink station, wishing I poured myself a coffee before it started.
“We all have different reasons for being here tonight,” she continues, “Some of us are simply looking for fellowship among believers … some of us are seeking out hope … and some of you probably saw the advertisement banner at Aroma Mocha last week and thought, why not? May as well go for laughs if nothing else,”
This elicits a few chuckles around th
e tables, including from Rae.
“But whatever the case may be, something brought you here this very night, and I like to think it was a very guided decision. I don’t believe any of you are here by chance; I believe there’s something we all need to hear desperately, for numerous different reasons depending on each individual. Best of all, with so many minds in this room, all representing vaults of different experiences, lessons learned, and shared trials, you might not take away the same thing from the presentation as the women sitting next to you. That’s why it’s important for us to do more than just meet, preach, and leave. We are here to share with one another, to laugh together, to uplift each other in prayer, and to love each other as sisters in Christ.”
A few ‘amens’ chorus around each table.
“Our varying life challenges, the common ground we’ve found by being here tonight, and most of all our passion for God’s way of life … these are the things that connect us as a family,”
Up until now, I’d been immersed in what she was saying. All the way up until I recognized one of the faces that had voiced a passionate ‘amen’.
I stare at it, squinting slightly, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. The girl plays with her hair, twirling strands of bleached blonde between her manicured fingers as Kaya speaks. Two icy-blue eyes flit across her notebook paper as she jots down a few sentences. Her figure is slighter than mine, but certainly not unnaturally skinny as Rae had suggested.
I tuck my hands under the table to hide the fact that they have paled and are shaking ever so slightly. My throat suddenly feels dry and irritated. Kaya is prattling off A&B’s code of conduct, but it sounds fuzzy in my ears.
I can feel Rae staring at me from my right. She follows my gaze to the culprit, breathing a sharp intake of air when she processes who she’s seeing, and grabs my freezing hand. Even as my body reacts so negatively to seeing her in person, I can’t tear my eyes away. I drink in the sight of her with thirsty eyes, while analyzing each detail of her. I can’t help but wonder, why her?
Edified Page 3
