Tanner’s right. We have to go.
4.
I sit next to Meryl on the steps of Watchful Academy, our community’s school, and nervously flip through the pages of my textbook as we patiently wait for Uncle Max to signal the start of morning lessons. It’s the day of the festival, and somehow, Tanner plans to sneak me out of our community. He gave me a wink in the kitchen, his little promise, before the sun lit the sky.
But now, the sun’s rays already shine strong behind the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. My heart flip-flops in anticipation of Tanner’s arrival. The younger kids play tag and slip-slide across the gravel parking lot in front of the school. The older boys, who aren’t off at the construction sites, goof off under the shade of the junipers. Separated by the length of the parking lot, the older girls stand and giggle beneath another set of trees, sometimes stealing glances at the boys.
My fingers poke through the holes where our teachers have cut sections from the book to protect us from the outsiders’ lies. Meryl points to the fading outline of the moon against the blue sky and furrows her brow. She leans in with a whisper, “Did you know the outsiders tell their kids that a man walked on the moon?”
“You’re kidding,” I say with a laugh.
Meryl shakes her head.
I don’t know where she gets this stuff. “And they actually believe it?”
My sister shrugs. “I know. Weird, huh?”
The bell rings, and Meryl jumps to her feet. I slap my textbook shut and scoop my other books from the porch before standing. Where’s Tanner? We’re supposed to play at the festival this morning. He should be here by now.
But I don’t see his truck. I look right and then left, only to see a blue tarp, flapping in the breeze. There’s lots of these tarps in Watchful since families are constantly growing, and there’s always a need for more space. Since the men can only get help from the rest of the community on Work Saturdays, the construction projects never seem to end.
The nearest tarp is partially tacked to the unfinished addition on Channing Snell’s house. A few days ago, he and his family moved in the middle of the night without saying a word to anyone.
I clench my hands. I can’t believe Channing didn’t tell us where he was going or, at least, say good-bye.
Uncle Max steps outside and flaps toward the little kids. “Young people, inside,” he orders.
Their feet pound up the stairs before they rush past us and run inside the school.
“The young men will have survival class today,” Uncle Max announces. The boys quiet instantly and line up in two rows along the gravel. I search for my half brother Kel. After the last survival class, he locked himself in the bathroom for two hours. He wouldn’t say why. His face is pale now.
Suddenly, a scarred hand touches my shoulder. His hot breath smells like rotten onions. Dirk. Where did he come from?
He gives me a slimy smile and squeezes my shoulder, making my stomach turn. I glance at Uncle Max, but he’s not looking at me. Nobody’s looking at me. Dirk should know he’s not supposed to touch me. We all know. From the time we’re little, girls are taught that boys are snakes—never to be touched. Why won’t he leave me alone?
He releases me and clomps down the stairs toward the waiting boys.
“The young ladies will meet for home economics,” Uncle Max says, and then descends the stairs to give instructions to the Jerk.
My jaw clenches. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
Meryl nudges me toward the front door. “Let’s go.”
“Did you see what Dirk did?” I ask under my breath.
Meryl shakes her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I have to tell Uncle Max.”
She sighs. “Don’t be so dramatic, Gentry.”
My mouth goes dry.
“I’m sure you’re just making something out of nothing,” she says and hurries me inside the main hallway.
Was I? I clutch my books against my chest and wipe my free hand against my skirt, letting my sister lead me inside Watchful Academy. It didn’t feel like nothing.
The sterile smell surrounds us. A few years after he was arrested, the Prophet instructed Uncle Max to pull all the children from public school and convert the Prophet’s home into our school. Even though I’ve never known anything else, it still looks like a house to me.
Meryl and I walk quietly with the other girls past the kitchen and make a left into what used to be the Prophet’s living room.
By the time I sit at my desk in the third row, I wonder if I really was making something out of nothing. But then, I remember his hot, stinky breath against my cheek and shudder.
Mrs. Whittier stands watch at the front of the classroom as the rest of my classmates enter. Her spindly fingers touch the hair above her ear, right where it’s starting to gray. She’s the first of the Vulture’s twelve wives. “Ladies, put your textbooks beneath your chairs and pull out your notebooks. You will need paper and a pen to take notes on the lesson.”
Meryl quickly retrieves her blank paper and a pen, while the other girls grumble around me.
Mrs. Whittier sucks in her cheeks. “Ladies,” she scolds, pacing in front of the large portrait of the Prophet, like the one that hangs in the prayer room and in every home and at the front of every classroom. “You should feel honored the Prophet has taken the time to record these instructions for us from his prison cell. My husband had to travel many days to get these important lessons.”
She stops pacing. Her head moves side to side on a neck that’s almost as long as the Vulture’s. “He spent many hours with the Prophet to receive these revelations, and you will take thorough notes. Your summary paper is due tomorrow’s class.”
More groans. Everyone knows the messages from the Prophet are boring. He drones in this low, expressionless voice that puts everyone to sleep. “I hate this,” my half sister Kate whines under her breath.
“Enough!” Mrs. Whittier yells. Kate’s eyes go wide as Mrs. Whittier rushes toward her, ruler in hand, and swats her arm with a smack. Kate cries out. We all jump. Mrs. Whittier strikes her again, this time on her hand, leaving a straight, red welt along the top. “Another outburst and it’s the strap for all of you.”
I cover my mouth to hide the sound of my breath. No one dares say a word. Kate quietly wipes the tears from her cheeks and pulls paper and a pencil from her desk.
When she’s satisfied everyone is quiet, Mrs. Whittier stalks to the front of the classroom and sits in her chair. She lowers her ruler and presses play on the cassette player. The tape rolls for a second and then there’s a popping sound as the Prophet begins:
“These words have been given to me by God. I am merely the messenger of His word. May He be the teacher of this home economics class.”
“Amen,” Mrs. Whittier says, now solemn.
I glance at the portrait of the Prophet in his dark suit and swallow hard.
“Amen,” we repeat.
“Dear sisters, marriage is God’s will, spoken through the Prophet. He will match each one of you with a priesthood man. You will help build Zion by bringing forth children in your marriage.”
Kate takes frantic notes with her welted hand even though it’s not necessary. We all know a girl’s primary purpose in this life is to get married to a priesthood man and have as many children as possible in preparation for the next life.
“You belong to the Prophet and only he can hear the call of the Lord and place you where you belong.”
Girls around me nod. I shift uncomfortably. The Prophet chooses who we marry and when. I start doodling on my page and check the clock. Where is Tanner?
“Your husband will rule over you, as the Prophet rules over all. You must keep sweet and not weigh down your husband with your troubles. For knowing that you are pleasing your priesthood head will bring you the ultimate happiness.”
I look at my page—at my doodles—and realize I’ve drawn a hangman.
“But a man may only
have a wife if he holds the priesthood. If he becomes an apostate and loses the priesthood, so also shall he lose his wives and children.”
Meryl nudges me with a whisper, “I heard that’s what happened to Channing Snell’s family.”
“What?” I ask under my breath. That’s not what I heard.
My sister sighs. “You know. About your age. Dark hair. Freckle face.”
I nod. “I know who he is.” Before Channing started hanging out with Tanner so much, we used to fish together in the creek on the other side of the hill. But that came to an end when the Prophet had a revelation that the devil controlled the water when it was used for pleasure. Mother made me stop fishing with Channing after that.
Meryl cups her hand around her mouth and leans in. “Uncle Max and the Prophet declared his father an apostate and kicked him out.”
My breath lurches. That’s impossible. Mr. Snell has five wives and almost forty children. The Snells are one of Watchful’s most righteous families.
Meryl thumps her index finger against the desk. “That’s why Channing and his mothers and his brothers and sisters all went into hiding. So their father can’t find them and kidnap them.”
I shake my head. “Mother said the Prophet sent them to the mountains to pray for us.”
“Why would the Prophet do that?” Meryl gives me a condescending look and shrugs. “Believe what you want.”
If Mr. Snell really is an apostate now, he can never return to our community again. I bite my lip. Poor Channing.
“Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class, ladies?” Mrs. Whittier has paused the tape. Her eyes narrow, wrinkling her face as she glares at us.
She snatches her ruler as she stands. Kate shrinks to my left. My heart thuds against my ribs.
Mrs. Whittier starts toward me. I hide my hands under the desk.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Tanner says, breaking her steps. Mrs. Whittier’s head turns on her long neck until she sees my brother. He leans in the doorway. Finally.
The ruler lowers at her side. I can breathe.
“Is there something you need, Mr. Forrester?” Even though Mrs. Whittier is over twenty years older than Tanner, she must treat him with respect. Ever since my brother turned fourteen—when most boys receive the Aaronic priesthood—his opinion has been seen as more valuable than any woman’s, even Mother’s.
“Gentry is needed at home,” he says.
I bite down a smile. So, this is how Tanner’s going to get me out of here?
Mrs. Whittier returns to her desk. “I do hope everything is all right?”
My brother nods without betraying any information. “Thank you.”
I can see Mrs. Whittier’s lips twist, as if she’s forcing herself not to be disrespectful and ask for more.
“Then, I’ll go, too,” Meryl adds, placing her notebook inside her desk.
I shake my head. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“If there’s something wrong, I want to help,” Meryl says.
My eyes dart to Tanner.
“It’s Amy,” he says firmly, and Meryl stops moving.
She looks at me with hurt in her eyes. When Amy was little, she wanted to go to school, but Uncle Max wouldn’t let her. She would throw these huge fits. Sometimes, they’d get so bad, Mother would pull me out of school. As much as my other brothers and sisters tried, it seemed only I could calm her.
Meryl pulls her paper out again with a sigh. “On second thought, I think I’d like to stay and hear the rest of the lesson.”
“Don’t just sit there,” Mrs. Whittier barks. “Leave your books. Your sister will bring them home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Meryl and I say in unison. I bury my paper inside my desk and join Tanner at the door.
As my brother and I hurry along the main hallway in silence, I can hear the voice of the Prophet resume and echo:
“You ladies belong to the Prophet . . .”
The doors creak as we exit Watchful Academy. When I know we’re alone, I finally breathe. Tanner’s truck is the only car in the parking lot.
“You’re late,” I say.
My brother’s boots crunch the gravel as he steps to his rear bumper. He glances around to make sure no one’s looking and pops the cover on the bed of his pickup truck. “Get in.”
In the back of Tanner’s truck, there’s a couple of cement sacks and a stack of quilts next to a canister of gasoline. I shiver. “What? No way.”
Tanner rolls his eyes and lowers his voice. “You didn’t think I’d get you past the God Squad with you riding in the front seat, did you?”
The thought of lying beneath the metal cover—trapped in the hot darkness—makes my heart clench. I shake my head hard. “Forget it.”
“It’s just to get you past the wall, silly. I’ll let you out when I know we’re in the clear.”
I wipe my hands across my skirt and peer at the truck bed again. I can feel the darkness crushing me already.
“Come on,” Tanner says, pushing me toward the truck. “We’re late.”
My hands ball into fists as I try to plant my feet on the slipping gravel. “And that’s my fault?” I ask, my voice rising.
“Is there a problem here?” a voice caws. Tanner and I both go still. The Vulture looks down on us from the Watchful Academy porch.
Tanner shifts away from me. “Uh, no, Uncle Max.” He clears his throat. “Gentry and I were just having a little argument. Everything’s fine now. We were just leaving,” he says and rounds the pickup.
“Not so fast,” Uncle Max says as he descends the porch steps and edges closer.
I lower my eyes to my dusty shoes. I can feel the Vulture’s stare—like I’m his next roadkill feast.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class, young lady?”
“I’ve come to fetch her,” Tanner says. “To help with Amy.”
“Is that right?” the Vulture murmurs.
I can tell he wants me to say something. My eyes go as high as his bumpy neck, but I can’t meet his gaze. I know he’ll see right through me. “Yes, sir.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Must be difficult to be the one called upon to deal with the family imbecile.”
My neck stiffens as I meet his hardened eyes. “She’s not—”
Tanner bumps me from behind, stopping me with a false laugh. “You were right all along. Amy’s blanket was in the back of the truck.”
“What?” I ask, turning to him.
Tanner holds up one of the colorful quilts, his eyes willing me to catch on to his lie.
I smirk and nod. “Told you.”
“Yes,” he says, nodding to Uncle Max. “And now I’ll never hear the end of it. If you’ll excuse us?”
The Vulture says nothing for a second and then gestures to the truck with his spindly arms.
My brother closes the cover on the bed of his truck as I hop into the front seat, relieved not to be locked in the back.
“Way to go.” Tanner jumps in and tosses the blanket at me. “Now he’s watching us.”
The engine turns and roars.
“What are we going to do?” I ask as Tanner spins the truck away from the school.
“What do you think? We’re gonna have to drive by the house, so we don’t raise any suspicion.”
I check the truck’s clock. “But we’re already running late.”
“Yeah, well, you should’ve thought about that before you threw a fit.” As he drives, he nods at the blanket in my hands. “Crawl into the back. Lie on the floorboard and cover up.”
“What? Why?” I ask, dropping the quilt as we’re nearing our house.
“Hurry.” He shoves the blanket toward me again. “We still have to get past Buckley.”
My heart beats fast as I think of Buckley’s harsh, red face—his black God Squad uniform—and the gun he keeps strapped to his hip. I scramble to the back and squish my body between the front and back seats, landing on the floor. I quickly throw the quilt over m
y head, encasing me in the smell of Mother’s detergent and Tanner’s gasoline.
I make sure my feet are hidden beneath the blanket’s wedding-ring pattern and lay my ear to the floorboard. Rocks clink against the undercarriage of the truck as Tanner bumps across the dirt roads.
I can feel the truck slow. “We’re at the gate,” Tanner says. “Pray they just wave us through.”
We stop. The window rolls down. My heart thrums inside my ears.
“Tanner,” Buckley says from outside. “Where you headed today?” His voice moves like he’s looking inside the truck. I hold my breath, willing myself not to move.
“Chimayó,” Tanner answers. “Helping out on that remodel.”
Sweat runs down my back, and I pray Buckley and his God Squad don’t discover my hiding place. I keep praying, praying and holding my breath until I almost black out.
All of a sudden, someone taps the side of the truck. “Move along,” Buckley orders.
I manage a small breath as I hear the window seal shut.
We bump in the ruts of the road.
After a few minutes, maybe ten, the blanket comes off my face. I gasp as the light streams in through the windows and blinds me. I’m quick to check; it’s only Tanner. The truck is still moving, but the road now feels smooth beneath us. My brother faces forward, but I can see his mischievous smile.
From my knees, I peek over the seat and see the numbers on the clock: 9:22. We’re supposed to play at ten o’clock sharp. It will take us at least forty minutes to get out of the hills. “We’ll never make it,” I say as the red, scrub-covered hills zip by our windows. I look back, but Watchful is already out of sight.
Tanner doesn’t seem fazed. Instead, his eyes are wide with awe, taking in the world around us. He pats the front seat. “Come up, kid,” he says. “Come see the world with me.”
5.
It’s been over an hour since we left Watchful, and Tanner’s no longer in awe. He’s lost, which means we’re lost. And late.
We’ve been driving the narrow streets of Santa Fe but are nowhere closer to the Plaza. We pass the Collected Works Bookstore for the third time, and Tanner turns right again. I point at the bookstore. “Haven’t we passed this already?”
The Prophet Calls Page 4
