“Yeah.”
“He just said ‘nah,’ and shook his head. I’m worried about him, Jeff.”
“Me, too,” Jeff says, smiling. “If Sarah invited me to come sit by her, I would. He needs to see a psychiatrist!”
“He needs help, Jeff, but not by a psychiatrist. He needs a friend.” I push my chair away from the table. “I’m going to invite him to come sit at our table.” I take a deep breath as if I could inhale courage and look over toward Ty, but he isn’t there.
“Where did he go?” I ask, turning toward Jeff. He shrugs his shoulders and takes a bite of his ham sandwich.
I continue to search the cafeteria for a head of straight black hair, but Ty Smith has just plain disappeared. I think that a Sioux Indian hunting deer can not have left more silently and unnoticed.
“Who are you looking for,” Matt asks, as he and Chris walk up and take seats at the table.
“Ty Smith. He was right over there.”
“Oh,” Chris says. “He went into the restroom.”
“Which one?” I ask in alarm.
“The boys.”
“I know that,” I say in frustration. “Which restroom?”
“The one right outside the cafeteria where Franky Barrata hangs out.”
“You let him go in there?”
“Yeah,” Chris says. “He looks like a druggie. What’s the problem?”
I cannot believe my ears. “Ty doesn’t know what those guys are like! Come on!” I shoot from the table like a bullet from an old Browning rifle.
“Walk!”
Without turning to acknowledge the teacher who had issued the command, I slow to the appropriate snail-like pace until I have passed through the cafeteria doors. I dart to the restroom and hit the heavy metal door like a football lineman. Actually, my one hundred and fifty pounds would make a pretty poor lineman, but the door flies open and slams against the wall with a bang.
I recognize Franky Barrata immediately as three heads turn to see who has blasted through the door.
“Hi, Franky,” I say coldly.
Franky Barrata is an inch shorter than me but about the same weight. He wears a tank-top shirt which displays his generous endowment of forearm and shoulder muscles. I can see three rings piercing his left ear and a short tail curl at the base of an otherwise buzzed scalp. He has a thin scraggly beard which mostly looks like he forgot to shave for a week.
Franky turns again toward Ty who is standing with his back against the wall by the sink.
“You’re in the wrong place, Taggart,” Franky says.
As if that were his cue, Alan Schmally takes a step toward me and points his thumb toward the door. Schmally is about my size, and other than wondering if he might pull a blade on me, he does not intimidate me much.
“The door said ‘MEN’ on it,” I reply, surprising even myself for my boldness. “Maybe you’re in the wrong place.”
Franky turns away from Ty and this time his brown eyes are as cold as steel and makes me shudder when they lock with mine. From somewhere Franky and Alan each produce switch blades. I know Franky is bad, but until now I have not allowed myself to think that they would actually stab someone over bathroom territory rights. I also know Ty is in trouble and now so am I. As a matter of self preservation I involuntarily take a step backward and am set to bolt out the door when it bursts open.
Jeff, Matt, and Chris stumble into the restroom and look the four of us over. “What’s going on?” Matt asks, focusing on Franky.
I shoot a glance at Matt with an expression that practically screams, “Are you blind? Isn’t it obvious? They have knives!” Then my eyes settle again on Barrata and Schmally. Their blades are gone, closed, and slipped back into their hiding places as quickly as they had appeared.
With renewed courage I focus on Franky. “Ty doesn’t do drugs,” I say sharply.
“His daddy does. We’ve been watching his place. His daddy sits at home all day and people bring him stuff. We just want a piece of the action, right Ty?”
Ty pushes his way past Franky and Schmally. “The only action you’re going to see today is watching those toilets flush because my father doesn’t push drugs.” Ty brushes past me and heads toward the door. The four of us turn to follow.
“Someday, Taggart,” Franky breathes, “someday soon, you’ll pay.”
The coldness in his voice sends a chill up my spine. I can feel the evil in his heart and I know that he intends to keep his promise.
Outside the restroom, high school goes on as usual, unaware of the knives, the hatred, and the drug deals that slither in the crevasses of the men’s room, striking out at those who pass too close, and injecting them with poisonous venom.
I run and catch up with Ty. “You could have said thanks,” I grumble.
“I didn’t ask you to come running to my rescue,” Ty thrusts back at me. “I can take care of myself. It’s you who nearly got stabbed, not me.”
Ty turns the corner toward his next class and leaves me standing there in the hallway. It makes me think of how Jesus may have felt when He healed ten lepers and only one returned to thank Him. And how He must surely feel when we forget to kneel in prayer and thank Him daily for our bounteous blessings. I resolve right there and then to be more diligent in my own prayers.
I do not have time to think much about Ty after that. At least for me geometry requires full concentration. Miss Bristle teaches us about points and lines, and she explains the first two theorems of geometry. We learn that two lines intersect at exactly one point, and that if a point lies outside a line then the line and point lie in a single plane. She also announces an exam coming up in two weeks covering four chapters. Even if I were good at math, two weeks would still sound impossible. I am grateful that cross country comes right after Miss Bristle’s geometry class. Running always seems to clear my mind, and after geometry I have a lot of points and lines and theorems to clear out. I also need a miracle if I am going to pass math this year.
Sunday
“Hi, Jet,” Matt calls as I enter the side door to the chapel Sunday morning and take the three small stairs up onto the stand in a single leap. Jeff looks up from the sacrament table where he is placing two trays of cups and water.
“You’re late, as usual,” Jeff says, returning to the sacrament preparation room to pick up two more trays.
“I know, but I can’t get here any sooner. Presidency meeting goes right up to a quarter after ten.”
“Grab some bread trays,” Jeff says nodding toward the preparation room. “We only have two minutes left.”
I set ten trays out on the white cloth that covers the table and reach for the bread. Three weeks ago Bishop Ferguson had challenged the teacher’s quorum to have the sacrament ready ten minutes before the meeting started. We have not let him down, so far.
Matt gets out the white lace covering and I stand back as he and Jeff drape it over the sacrament table with twenty seconds to spare.
“Good job,” I say. “Once again the teacher’s quorum comes through and beats the clock.”
The three of us leave the stand and walk to the back of the chapel. I have assigned myself to usher at the west door. I know that most of the young women enter the chapel from the west side, and I will be there to greet them, especially Lyn Jensen. Being the teacher’s quorum president definitely has it’s advantages and although I feel a little guilty for giving myself the prime ushering duty, it is not like I am avoiding assignments.
After only five minutes my strategy pays off. Lyn Jensen walks through the door followed closely by Sarah Hansen. Lyn is wearing a simple yellow dress with draping sleeves and her brown hair curls just before brushing her shoulders.
“Good morning, Lyn,” I say cheerfully. Just to see Lyn makes it a good morning for me, and today I get to greet her at the door.
“Hi, Jet. How are you?” Lyn smiles. Her greenish-brown eyes sparkle and her voice seems cheerful.
“I’m doing fine,” I smile back. “Hey, I lik
e your dress.” Actually I like her hair and her eyes and her smile and the sound of her voice, too, but I don’t say all that.
“Thank you.”
I am still feeling fine as she takes a sacrament meeting program and walks over to the row where her family always sits, and I feel fine as I watch her take a seat. And I am still fine right up until I see Ty Smith come through the door.
“Hi there, Ty,” I say. I’m sure my voice betrays my surprise. “I didn’t know you lived in our ward.”
“Apparently I do,” Ty answers bluntly.
“So … why …?” I'm not sure how to ask why a guy like Ty Smith, who isn’t a member of the church, would bother to show up at church, but Ty seems to read my mind.
“It’s part of the deal,” he explains as he steps past me into the chapel and looks around.
It isn’t much of an explanation, I think. Ty had said that it was part of the deal once before, and it did not make sense then either. I want to ask him what he means. I want to ask him what the deal is. But just then he turns back to me.
“Do you see that girl on the side toward the middle? The one with the brown hair and twisted braids?” He asks barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I say with hesitation. “The one sitting next to Lyn Jensen.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Yeah.”
Ty looks at me in total frustration. His eyes seem to be yelling, “Then fork over the information.”
“Her name is Sarah. Sarah Hansen. Her dad is the deacon’s quorum advisor. She’s pretty smart. She’s on the seminary student council. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
“No! I … I mean … I was just curious, that’s all.”
“See that empty bench behind her?” I smile. “That’s where I’m going to sit after the opening prayer. Why don’t you go sit there and save me a place?”
“No!”
I look at Ty and see the terror on his face. “Oh, I get it. You like Sarah, but don’t want her to know!”
“Shut up,” Ty snaps. He walks into the chapel and I watch him plunk himself down on a hard metal chair on the back row. The irritation in his voice tells me that I am right. Ty Smith likes Sarah Hansen.
Bishop Ferguson stands up at the podium and opens sacrament meeting with an announcement about an upcoming stake service project and then we sing “Come, Come Ye Saints.” I have to admit that I do not hear much of what is said in the opening prayer. My thoughts wander from Lyn to Ty to Sarah and back to Lyn. Then everyone says ‘amen.’ I am already slacking on my commitment to do better with my prayers. I tell myself I will work on that, but right now I am working on Ty.
After opening the chapel doors, I verify that the pew behind Lyn and Sarah is still mostly vacant, and then I steal a quick glance at Ty Smith.
The unspoken rule among teenage guys is that if you are comfortable around girls, then you gain a type of respect, a type of power that proclaims how awesome you are, a type of prestige where others listen to you and value what you say.
I suppose somewhere in my genetic makeup it is written that when a new guy comes on the scene I have to demonstrate who has the real power and thereby establish the teenage pecking order.
I see Ty Smith’s eyes shift toward me and I can tell that he is watching me now, so I saunter up the aisle and take a seat directly behind Sarah and Lyn. They both turn around and give me a big smile. I know instinctively that the order has been declared.
Usually I sit with Mom in sacrament meeting because the bishop likes the Aaronic Priesthood to sit with their families. Quite often I wish I could sit with my father during church, like most of the other boys, but he left Mom when I was seven and took my twin brother, Joseph Spencer Taggart, with him. A week before I was baptized, Mom received a letter telling us that Dad and Joe had died in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. The letter had gone to our old house in Salt Lake City, and by the time it reached us in Tucson the funeral was over. Mom cried and I did, too, a little. Even though I do not remember Dad very well, I miss Joe a lot.
After the sacrament, Brother Jorgensen speaks about the physical challenges of the pioneers and the great faith that was necessary to overcome those challenges. He tells a story about a young family who struggled through the mud and the cold and the rain with their handcart and how their infant daughter became ill and died. They buried her in a shallow grave along the trail.
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He says that the spiritual challenges that we face today, of immorality, drugs, and the technological distractions of television, internet, and movie houses require no less faith to overcome than did the challenges that the pioneers faced.
I know one thing as I listen to Brother Jorgensen. I am glad that I am not a pioneer. The blizzards of ice and snow suffered by the Mormon pioneers sounds far worse than the storms of pornography and immorality today.
Besides, walking through rain and mud is not my thing. I have just finished behind-the-wheel driver training and I am now the proud bearer of a driving permit. No. A pioneer’s life is not for me. I am sure of that!
After the sacrament meeting is over I escort Lyn and Sarah to Sunday school class.
“Come on, Ty,” Sarah calls as we pass him at the back of the chapel. She smiles and her invitation seems irresistible. “We’ll show you where Sunday school class is.”
“Nah. I … I mean … I can find my way,” he stammers.
Sarah’s smile fades immediately to disappointment and she turns her face away quickly, but not before I catch a fleeting glimpse of her wounded feelings.
We walk down the hallway to our class and Ty finds his way just like he said he would, following about twenty feet behind us.
It seems to me that Sunday school class was more of a social hour than a class. The young women and young men automatically segregate and sit on opposite sides of the small class room. I think no one wants to appear as if he likes a girl by sitting next to her, especially if he does not really like her. But even so, a steady murmur of conversation floats around the room and never really ceases even during the lesson. Once in a while I feel guilty and try to listen to the teacher. I even answer a question or two and read a scripture out of the Doctrine and Covenants, but the floating conversation and social interactions are far more enticing.
I am glad when Sunday school is over and we go to priesthood meeting. Brother Gibson announces the stake dance coming up next Saturday night, and reminds us that we will need dance cards to get in.
Ty looks at me with a question.
“If you don’t have a dance card,” I say, “you can get one from a member of the bishopric at Mutual on Wednesday.”
Chapter Two
Spirit Pouch
Family Home Evening is short tonight as usual. Since I am the only priesthood holder in our small family of two, Mom says that it is my responsibility to conduct Home Evening. Besides giving her a standing assignment to make refreshments, I ask Patricia C. Taggart to offer the opening prayer, but of course I call her Mom. She never uses the ‘C’ in her name but I know it is there. It stands for Cottle, her maiden name. Mom says I should appreciate the Cottle family line. They come from strong pioneer stock.
We have an opening song and a prayer, and then read from the book of Mosiah. I say the closing prayer and ask for a way to help Ty Smith to hear the gospel and accept it.
“That was a nice prayer,” Mom says.
“I hope He hears it,” I say. “I’ve been trying to be more sincere in the things I ask for.”
“He will. I know that Heavenly Father listens to prayers.” Mom looks wistfully away in the distance, then ricochets back. “But sometimes He answers them in unexpected ways.”
She pauses for a moment to let the thought soak in and I am going to ask, “What do you mean?” But she continues with an obviously lightened voice. “Jared, I have something for you.”
“What?”
“It is a treasure that I have been meaning to give to you.” Mom gets up and leaves m
e sitting on the couch. A treasure! My mind produces images of gold doubloons salvaged from a sunken Spanish ship. A treasure! No, not doubloons. Antique jewelry. That’s it! Antique jewelry. That’s more my mom’s style.
Mom comes back into the room and I admit that I am a little disappointed that she is not dragging a treasure box wrapped in chains behind her. Instead, she holds out a small brown leather bag.
“It’s more of a tradition, I suppose,” she says. “Here, I want you to have it.”
I reach out and accept the strange gift. “What is it?” I ask, turning it over in my hand and feeling the texture. The leather is wrinkled, but the surface is still soft despite a thousand tiny cracks which divulge its age. One side appears to be singed as if by fire but is totally intact even so.
“It is called a spirit pouch.”
I look up at my mom to see if she is feeling okay. She looks a little distant, like she is thinking about something far away. “Sit down, Mom.”
She does.
“Now tell me what this is again?”
“A spirit pouch. It …”
“It looks like a marble bag,” I smile and glance at my mom.
“It’s not a toy,” Mom explains. “It’s a … well … a reminder of your heritage.”
“Huh?”
“One of your ancestors born back in the 1800’s is part Sioux Indian, and so this spirit pouch is part of your heritage.”
I untie the drawstrings on the leather pouch and look inside. Glancing again at Mom, I carefully pour out the contents. Onto the short table in front of the couch flow a small white stone, a pinto bean, an old beaded bracelet, a tiny glass vial with a tight fitting cork, and lastly, a slender gray feather.
“The legend is that there was one particular Sioux Indian, probably a medicine man, who would express his desire to the Great Spirit while holding the spirit pouch. According to the stories recited and passed down from generation to generation, the Great Spirit would grant this medicine man’s desire, if it was righteous.”
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