 
The Journal

By Ronnica Z. Rothe

Copyright 2011 Ronnica Z. Rothe

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Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation.

Used by permission.

www.Lockman.org

Note to Parents and Educators:

This book contains non-graphic discussions of sexual situations. It may not be suitable for children under 14.

For my mother, for introducing me to the new worlds

found within books,

And for my father, for showing me the stars

Kissing

February 2102

The day I found Beth's journal, Sebastian broke up with me for the last time. Or I broke up with him, depending on how I chose to tell the story.

That Monday morning began with a case of the common fight shared between mother (my lovely mom) and daughter (me). I told my mom I hated her. I certainly didn't mean it. I wasn't one of the teenagers who regularly used the "h" word to describe the person who gave birth to me, but Mom had made me so angry. To hear those words come out of my mouth surprised her just as much as it did me. We were fighting about Sebastian—my boyfriend, when I can call him that—and how much time I spent with him. Mom told me weekly that I needed to slow down my relationship, but I fought harder against her this time. I had just received a chip from Ryan telling me that Sebastian had gone back to Kinsley Stewart, and that made me angry.

Don't even get me started on Kinsley Stewart.

I knew there was no need to continue fighting with Mom about Sebastian if he went back to ignoring me like he did last time he got back together with Kinsley, but if I told her that, she'd be proven right. Seeing the look she gave me as I walked out the apartment door was satisfying, if only until the guilt hit my stomach. I didn't want to hurt Mom as much as I wanted to win the argument.

On most days, my brother Chester and I would take the same pod to school. He went to Palin Middle School, while I was a proud fighting bear at Bramble High School. Though his school was two miles farther from home, Mom preferred us to go together so that I can make sure he gets there on time. Of course, she received a chip as soon as the school registered his brain chip, but Mom was old-fashioned like that and preferred me to see that he got into school with my own eyes. She didn't know that I put on the next chapter of _The Turn of the Millennium_ as soon as the pod door closes behind Chester and never actually saw him walk inside.

_The Turn of the Millennium_ was my latest favorite show. My best friend, Ryan, didn't get the show and could care less about history. True, the show was a bit like school at times, but at least it wasn't Ms. Sydney droning on and on about the Great Depression. The music on the show was cheesy—clearly meant for an audience much older than high schoolers—but I loved to watch anything about the 2000s. The Turn of the Millennium was narrated by Noveb White, a 70s crooner whose slicked back hair is the color of his name. On the show, he was always dressed in a corny gold blazer, though he at least changed his outlandish bowties between episodes.

As the pod arrived at Bramble, I turned off Noveb White and unthinkingly replaced it with my music. I don't really like silence: it tempted me to think about Sebastian. I don't want to think about him right now.

But apparently I had to think about Sebastian, as he was the first person I saw when I started walking towards the school building. I wish I had taken the time to dutifully watch Chester walk into his building this morning as that would have delayed me enough to have avoided seeing Sebastian altogether. I thought about turning around when I saw Sebastian, but just when I made up my mind to do so he spotted me...and waved. I turned pink, or at least I assumed I did because my cheeks were hot. I raised my right hand wiggling my fingers just enough to qualify it as a wave. It would never have won me any points with the judges at a beauty pageant. My hand felt like lead, but I didn't want to ignore his gesture because people were watching.

As I waved, I heard the clicking of heels coming up from behind me. These heels were attached to long, tan legs: the long, tan legs of one Kinsley Stewart. Unlike Kinsley, I had short legs paired with a long torso. My skin was a toasted light brown color—my favorite attribute about myself—but my eyes were too wide and dark for my tastes.

If I had been pink when I saw Sebastian, I must have at this point turned red. Kinsley was the one Sebastian was waving to, not me. While I was glad that he hadn't seen my wave, I didn't like the fact that I was so easily overlooked by the boy who until last night I assumed was my boyfriend. I wondered whether he would even notice me if I walked right past him.

As I was thinking this, I was thrown once again. As Kinsley passed me to reach Sebastian, he leaned toward her and gave her a quick kiss on the lips, a move strictly prohibited by the Bramble High code of conduct. The forbidden intimacy was quickly followed by Sebastian's lingering hand on her nearly bare shoulder.

The two gestures were certainly sufficient confirmation for the chip I received from Ryan last night. Couldn't Sebastian have had the courtesy to officially end things with me before kissing her ten feet from the front door of our school? Was it not enough for him to choose her over me? Did he have to rub it in my face?

I was already thinking about what I would tell the school gossips. I'd tell them that Sebastian and I had come to a "mutual understanding." That sounded very mature and amicable. I just hoped I wasn't pressed for the details, as I might get tripped up in my lies. For the moment, I turned up my music as loud as it would go and tried to think of something, anything, to distract me.

Thankfully, I was soon at the door of Ms. Oscar's classroom. As I passed through the doorway my favorite song by Eminem turned off with a quiet click. It might sound strange that I listened to music old enough to have been my great grandma's favorite in her teenage years, but my love of the 2000s extended to my music preference.

I would have continued to listen to my music in class if I could, but this was one place it wasn't allowed. The minders were smart enough to know that we wouldn't do our school work if we were allowed to access our chips. Instead of watching videos internally via chip, we have to view all our lectures on our desk screens, so the minders could do what they did best: monitor that we're on task. We even had to use old-fashioned ear buds for audio, so they wouldn't have to worry about us overriding the lectures on our chip audio input. Mom told me in her day when chips had first come out they didn't have the technology yet to block them. Many of the students then would sit in class and listen to their chips instead of the teachers. That was before minders, too. I guess teenagers have always been one step ahead of their elders when it comes to technology.

As I walked past the rows of desks in Ms. Oscar's classroom, I headed to the back row where Ryan was already seated. She nodded to me as I slid into my seat, and I could tell from the curious yet sympathetic look she was giving me that she wanted to bring up the one subject I had tried and repeatedly failed to avoid. At the moment I would have actually rather discussed geometry or even the latest choose-your-own-adventure episode.

"Amala, how are you doing?" Ryan leaned over and whispered with a pitying look. I just shrugged at her. We had stayed up late last night chipping, so she already knew every feeling I could express about Sebastian. Well, everything before the kiss I had just witnessed. Now knowing that I had no way of denying the truth of Sebastian's betrayal, I felt even worse. I guess I still carried some hope last night that his betrayal was just a rumor.

Thankfully, I was saved from having to answer Ryan by Ms. Oscar. Usually I disliked how punctual she was with starting class, but today it was a desired respite.

"Now, class, it's time to turn to your screens and begin your work. I expect you to get through your math and English lectures before lunch." Why Ms. Oscar had to remind us of this protocol every day, I didn't know. Perhaps she was reading from an invisible script, or even monitored herself, and not allowed to collect her measly paycheck if she didn't repeat these lines each day.

"Kaysah, Ming, and Ryan, you all have math tests today, so come up to the front, please."

I was grateful that I didn't have to begin Monday morning with a math test, but I was feeling a little bit guilty that I kept Ryan up so late last night chipping about Sebastian when she had a test the next day. Ryan said she didn't need to study more but we both knew better. I turned to my own math lecture, putting in my ear buds. I was thankful they didn't have cords like the ones I saw in _The Turn of the Millennium_. I think that they would really get in the way.

On my screen beside the video of my math lecture, I had my math eNotebook open. Around the geometry proof Professor Larry had me writing, I was doodling a continuous border of flowers. Apparently calling our math lecturer by his first name, Larry, allows us to relate more to him. His outfit, a red and gray striped sweater over high-waisted pants, circa 2089, makes the task more difficult, though. I'm thankful that Ms. Oscar hadn't walked by to see my embellishments—it'd be hard to claim that the proof that two triangles are congruent required the floral decoration. There were too many sharp angles in math.

As Professor Larry wrote the next step of the proof on his screen, he called out my name. Of course, my name is not in the original video, but it has been added for my benefit to make sure that I'm paying attention. Got to love technology, right? I was a bit behind the 16-year-old class's average in math, but I was okay with that. If I had tried harder, perhaps I could move through the lessons at a quicker pace, but I didn't really see the benefit of getting to Algebra II any faster, because that was the last math class required before graduation. If we finished early, we just got the "reward" of continuing our math studies.

After Professor Larry's lecture and English with Ms. Julie Anne, Ryan and I headed to the cafeteria for lunch. We quickly clicked our music in sync, listening to the latest release from Restra, Ryan's favorite band. Ryan and I had been friends for a few years, and though things sometimes got tense between us, we've been able to remain best friends for over two years. As we sat down to lunch, Ryan looked at me expectantly. I knew the conversation would focus on Sebastian and me.

"So, Amala, are you going to confront Sebastian about what we heard?" Ryan blurted out quickly, sounding almost excited about the plight of her best friend's latest relationship. She must have been holding it in all during her math test and English lecture.

At that moment, we both turned our heads towards the serving line, as our attention was drawn by a big clatter followed by laughter and shouts of "Peg-leg Ming is at it again!" Ming, a fellow year 16, had tripped and thrown her plate of mashed potatoes and pinto beans under a nearby table where several popular kids were seated. She was busy scrambling under the table, rescuing the few beans that had sloshed off of her plate. Ming had a bad leg that made her walk with a pronounced limp, though she was often "helped" in her clumsiness by her classmates who liked to trip her.

Ryan was only momentarily distracted. "I told you Sebastian was a jerk from the beginning," she said, taking a sip of her watery apple juice. I remembered nothing of the sort, but hindsight was 20/20, right? In fact, it was Ryan and her boyfriend, Tate, who had convinced Sebastian and I to get together in the first place. But Ryan and Tate broke up last week, and ever since then, Ryan has claimed to have known both Tate and his best friend Sebastian were jerks all along.

"Who cares, I never was that into him," I say to shut Ryan up. Actually, it'd be truer that he wasn't ever that into me.

Finding

Sebastian and I met year 15. We had come from different middle schools, and were not in the same class our first year at Bramble high. When he entered my classroom last year, I instantly had a crush on him. Perhaps it was the confidence he had, or the way he seemed to know most of the cooler kids in the class that made him attractive. His adorable grin helped, the one he'd use that would make me instantly forget why I was mad at him. I don't want to fall for that smile again.

Mere seconds after his smile left me awestruck for the first time, he sat down next to Kinsley Stewart. I was sitting next to the door and there was an obviously available seat right next to me, but he passed it over. I was a little disappointed. Then he leaned over and gave Kinsey a shoulder hug. My disappointment grew.

I don't know why I assumed a guy must be available if I liked him. It was not like I had dibs or anything. I certainly wasn't the kind of girl to whom all the boys flocked. Kinsley was that kind of girl, and maybe Ryan, but not me. I probably could have handled my disappointment with grace if Sebastian had been with any girl but Kinsley Stewart, my former best friend.

At 11, Kinsley and I were as close as could be, but by year 12, some distance had grown between us. She started hanging out with other girls, the ones whose parents always let them stay out later and had more eCreds to spend on makeup and new earrings. I was fine with being just one of her best friends (though I didn't have any others), until I found out that she had been spreading rumors about me behind my back: rumors that I had a crush on our minder, Mr. Rosas.

Yes, the rumors were true. I had confided to Kinsley earlier that year that I had a crush on Mr. Rosas. But she did too, though she wouldn't own up to it to her new friends. When we would play M*A*S*H, we would both include his name, hoping to land on him as our future husband. I tried to respond to the rumors, but when I would say anything, it was always mocked, adding to my humiliation.

Kinsley and I hadn't talked ever since. Though Ryan soon became my good friend, every time I saw Kinsley basking in her new found popularity, I remembered the hurt she had caused me. Though there was no way she could have known that I would have a crush on Sebastian after spying him for the first time, it felt like her being with him before I had the chance was to spite me.

I spent the rest of year 15 putting that behind me, pretending like I didn't even care about any of the boys in my class. I would discuss Ryan's crushes with her ad nauseam, but when the attention turned to me, I emphasized, probably too vehemently, the lack of crush material in our class.

But then, two days before the end of year 15 as I was walking out into the warm June sun I heard two 14-year-olds walking in front of me discussing how Kinsley had given Sebastian the boot. I never did hear the details—surely it couldn't be true that she found him holding hands with a girl from Kaffor High—but that wouldn't matter anyway. What mattered was the crush that I pretended not to have all year was now 100% available (not counting that girl from Kaffor High, of course) and surely he was just waiting for me to make my move.

So make my move I did. Every summer afternoon since middle school, Ryan and I would visit the Palin Pool. But this past summer, I convinced her that the boy-watching was better over at the Leigh Pool, which was only a 15-minute pod ride away. What I really meant was that we were sure to run into Sebastian if we went to Leigh Pool, as it was just two blocks from his house.

Dressed in my old blue one-piece—Mom wouldn't let me buy a new one since I hadn't worn out the old—I joined Ryan at her apartment and we set off in a pod. Our moms only gave us so many eCreds for the summer, so we had to carpool to save eCreds so we could spend our allowances on the pool admission and snacks, not transportation. One-person pods were more common, but two-person pods cost just a little bit more, making them a much better deal if you could carpool.

It turned out, the boy-watching was better at Leigh Pool. Instead of running into the same guys we've known since grade school—the ones who weren't cute or fun—we ran into Sebastian and Tate. Tate hit it off with Ryan right away. They were holding hands with their feet dangling in the pool by the end of our first week of summer break.

With Ryan and Tate being all lovey-dovey, I was left hanging out with an acquaintance, Clara, which was fine. I actually really enjoyed spending time with Clara, though we had never gotten particularly close. One day when Clara was grounded, Ryan convinced me to still come to the pool, even though I knew she was going to hang out with Tate the whole time. Ryan wasn't allowed to go to the pool alone, but she didn't want to miss an afternoon with Tate so she had to bring me. Her mom definitely didn't know about Tate, and Ryan planned to keep it that way.

Ryan knew I had a crush on Sebastian, and she had told Tate. It wasn't a coincidence that Sebastian also showed up alone, instead of with his usual cohorts. His gang of three or four popular guys from our school enjoyed having burping contests when they were not trying to impress the female, college-aged lifeguards with their tricks off the high dive. It was just the four of us—Ryan and Tate, Sebastian and me—throwing each other around in the deep end and laughing. Before I knew it, Sebastian and I were alone in a corner of the pool, and he was slower and slower about removing his hands from my waist each time he threw me.

At first I thought I was dreaming, making much of nothing. After all, I had daydreamed situation after situation much like what was happening. And then suddenly he wasn't tossing me away at all, but instead pulled me close to him against his firm chest. With that, we were unofficially a couple. We had two weeks left of our four-week vacation, but we took advantage of every afternoon by spending them together at the pool from that point on.

When the first day of year 16 at Bramble High came around, Sebastian still hadn't made it official between us. I had expected him to bring it up the "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" words at any moment, but he didn't. I didn't want to do it myself, as I was afraid it would change what was going on between us. So I settled for being his unofficial girlfriend, happily holding hands as we returned to school together.

Despite its great beginning, that first day back at school year 16 was a bit awkward. Once we were inside the doors, he quickly dropped my hand, offering some excuse of having something to take care of as he quickly disappeared down the year 14 hallway. The next time I saw him, outside in the courtyard at lunch, I headed his way. I'm sure he saw me, but he quickly slipped into the closest entrance back in to the school and headed early to his new classroom from lunch—he didn't have Ms. Oscar that year like I did. It actually left me a bit confused. It was always awkward for us at school; it was like he was embarrassed to be seen with me. Because things were normal and fun between us when we weren't in school, I left it alone, enjoying his attention when I could get it.

So when I heard that he had gotten back together with Kinsley, I was confused. Wasn't I his girlfriend? He never officially asked me out, so I guess he didn't think he needed to officially break it off either. Was I just a filler, a girl to cuddle and kiss between girlfriends?

That afternoon as we headed out to the line of waiting pods, I decided to take my own, instead of joining Ryan as I usually did. Monday afternoons we usually went to her house where we would play the latest choose-your-own adventure show. To be honest, I never was that into choose-your-own adventure—what's the point of a show if you could manipulate the characters? It'd be more fun to write your own show than have to start with the weak material that the writers gave you. One time I tried to kill off the current characters—in a nuclear attack—to see if it would generate new, better ones. Somehow they all survived thanks to the heroic actions of the only character that I actually somewhat liked, but of course he didn't make it through. The choose-your-own adventure shows always had too many insipid blondes—male and female—and it seemed like a week couldn't go by without at least one character dying because of a rare virus or a runaway pod crash. Ryan was always saying that I can hardly claim to be a teen in the 22nd century without religiously following choose-your-own-adventure shows. I was okay with that.

Not getting into Ryan's pod was easier than I thought. I was sure she would fight me for breaking our routine. All I did was mention the need to confront Sebastian about his shady behavior, and with a hug she sent me off in my own pod. As my pod pulled away, I saw the vacant look in her eyes, the tell-tale sign she was chipping. Was she already chipping someone about Sebastian and me?

Despite my usual Monday afternoon plans, I knew Mom would expect me to come straight home after that morning's fight. She hadn't officially grounded me—after all, my weekly allowance of eCreds was still in my account—but I knew she would claim this as an opportunity for me to "show my maturity."

No, I wanted her to think that I was independent and didn't need her. Let her think that I was hanging out with Sebastian against her wishes.

When I entered my solitary pod, I didn't enter Sebastian's address and I most certainly didn't enter my own. Instead, I entered my favorite destination into the pod's computer, and the small compartment sped away quickly and quietly on its track. Twenty minutes later, I was on the other side of the Triangle stepping out onto the sidewalk of an old shopping mall. Confidently walking the few steps from the curb to the door, I entered the store as the door opened for me. The red sign above the store read in hard-to-read script, "Millennial Antiques."

Millennial Antiques is where I spent a lot of time before Sebastian. As much as I missed having someone to hang out with most afternoons, walking into the familiar smell of old books was welcoming.

Contrary to the name over the door, Millennial Antiques doesn't just sell antiques from the turn of the millennium, though that's what interested me. It has some stuff that is even older, and even some things from my mom's childhood in the 50s and 60s. I'm not sure she'd appreciate a doll like the one she had in a display case in her room being called an "antique."

"My dear Amala, where have you been?" A low, gentle voice from the back of the store greeted me. Though my eyes were still adjusting to the dimmer light inside the store, I knew right away who was behind the familiar voice.

I squinted toward where the greeting was coming from and exclaimed, "Uncle Hasan! So good to see you!"

The elderly shopkeeper of Turkish descent, Hasan, had known me for years, ever since I first entered his store as a curious 10-year-old. I had long since started calling him uncle, though we were not related. I used to daydream about him being my father, doing all the father-daughter activities I had seen in the 2000s movies: making indoor tents, ice skating, and dancing in the living room, me standing on his feet. While I do have a father, I haven't seen him since he moved to Chicago for work three years ago. The five-hour pod ride back to North Carolina is simply too costly, though he promised to visit when he could. I just didn't think it'd take him this long.

"You say that as if it were I who has kept myself away. If you wanted to see me, I've been here the whole time. How long has it been since your last visit? Two months? I don't think I've seen you in the new year."

"Yeah, I guess not. I've been busy, Hasan. My high school work is getting harder, you know."

"Sure, sure. And boys can be such a distraction, too."

"What boy?" I said with a blush, giving myself away. I had no idea Hasan knew I had been with Sebastian, but perhaps he knew the signs, having raised two teenage daughters of his own. I certainly had never brought Sebastian to the store—I assumed he'd have the same reaction Ryan had. Liking antiques was definitely not cool in high school. Actually, it wasn't cool after high school, either, if I could guess by how few customers I ever saw walking through the doors at Millennial.

"Oh, you can't hide a boy from me," Hasan replied with a smile. "I could see it in your face the last time you came in." He paused. "But it's over, isn't it?" He said, as he studied me carefully. "What happened? Surely you broke his heart!" Hasan tweaked my arm.

"Uh, something like that. Well, it's good to see you again, Hasan," I said curtly. "I'm going to check and see what new antiques you have."

"Oh, yes, yes. I am getting more and more. Seems like people no longer have room on their bookshelves for, well, books. Sure, you can access any of them just as easily through the chips, but there's just something like holding a book in your hand. Right, Amala?"

"You don't have to tell me, Hasan. I'm the one coming here to do just that."

As I slipped back into the stacks, an elderly Chinese woman walked in the door. Hasan offered her a seat and went behind his counter to start the tea pot.

Though the sign over the door said "antiques," Hasan focused almost exclusively on books. These days, books were a hard item to sell as there wasn't much interest. Hasan was old-fashioned like me—which is why we bonded so easily—and wouldn't let the books go. I suspect he didn't make money off of his shop but simply kept the antique store to have all those volumes at his fingertips. When he did sell a book he would always pack it carefully as if he was strapping a newborn into a pod seat for the first time.

Hasan's store was arranged loosely by time period, though he wasn't the best at organizing. I made a beeline for my favorite section, the turn of the millennium. Unfortunately, since most books were recycled in the 50s and 60s to make building materials to erect apartments, the books in Hasan's store were way out of my price range, starting at 100 eCreds. If you wanted something less common and more valuable than Twilight or Stephen King, you could easily pay over 200 or 300 eCreds. With my weekly allowance of 15 eCreds, it would take me a long time to save up for a book.

Though he knew I couldn't afford anything in his store, Hasan was great about letting me browse. He didn't mind it when I took books off the shelf and read them in the overstuffed chair conveniently located nearby. He understood that I appreciated the value of the printed word. If he could afford it, I'm sure he'd just turn this store into a library open to the public, to encourage people to come and appreciate his books.

Browsing the first bookcase of 2000s books, I glanced over towards the door where Hasan was still talking to the elderly woman. They sat in the reading chairs near the front, as Hasan poured them both some Turkish tea. She was dressed too warm for this late February date, but there was something in the unfamiliar lady's face that was inviting, and I had the urge to go up to her and simply listen to her speak.

When I was 14, I asked my grandmother, my mom's mother, what she knew of the 2000s. At first she was offended, as if I thought she had firsthand knowledge.

"Why do you feel the need to ask me about things that happened a decade before I was born?" Grandma sighed. "Not to mention how long that is before you were born! Stuff in the past is in the past for a reason, let's leave it there."

"But, Grandma, you were born in 2013 right?"

"Yes, I was born in 2013," Grandma responded, emphasizing her words with her whole body. "It's not like I remember much before 2020. And you're asking about the 2000s."

"Exactly. I know you weren't there, but surely your parents talked about it. I mean, September 11th was a big deal back then. Hurricane Katrina. The election of the first black president of the United States. Surely these were things that your parents would have mentioned to you, right? You know, 'I remember when...' "

"Well, not really. I guess if they did, I forgot. I really don't remember many political or global events before the U.S. took in Canada and became the United States of North America...and that was when I was 19. I was much more interested in pop culture. Wouldn't you rather learn about the 2030s?"

"No, Grandma. I don't. I can't explain it, but I just want to learn all I can about the 2000s. No other time period interests me as much."

After that, I didn't bring up the 2000s again with Grandma. There wasn't a lot she was willing to talk to me about—or not a lot that I was really interested in. Still, she was my only living grandparent as her husband had died when I was young, and my father's parents died before I was even born.

As I turned my attention back to the shelf, I scanned past _Hunger Games_ (a book I enjoyed but already finished), a Michael Crichton book (not really my style), and _The Life of Pi_ (quite strange, but something I connected with). I kept looking for a book to catch my eye, and though I picked up a dozen or so and glanced inside, none drew me in. About an hour later, I was about to pick up _The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society_ , but something behind it caught my eye.

Though most of Hasan's books were lined up semi-neatly on the shelves in no particular order, sometimes something would be pushed behind the others. Hasan would try to keep them in an orderly fashion at least for appearance's sake, but he too found the books too alluring, and often would spend an afternoon reading instead of straightening the shelves after customers. But if you asked him about any book in particular, he would often be able to find it, even if it might take him 45 minutes to do so. He always knew whether or not he had a certain book, but would seldom remember where it was currently shelved.

I reached past the books on the shelf, and grabbed out what had caught my eye. I looked at a dusty brown cover, but didn't see any author or title on the cover, which struck me as odd. Then I opened it and found that it wasn't a book at all.

It was a journal.

Earning

When I was in year 10, it became popular with my classmates to blog. Perhaps it was because we had reached the age where we felt like we had something to say to the world or just that we wanted to share hilarious links, pics, and vids with one another—we still didn't have access to the complete web—I don't know. Some of them still blogged, though I had given it up years ago as had most of my classmates as we were given greater freedom on the net as we got older.

I had heard that the blog originally started as private paper journals, but I had never seen one. The closest I had ever come to one was seeing those in The Importance of Being Earnest, a movie I had seen last year. The idea had always intrigued me though it did seem a little self-absorbed and silly, and I certainly didn't have the handwriting practice to be able to attempt to write a journal myself. I didn't know where I could find that much blank paper either.

Looking at the journal that I found, I first glanced at the inside of the front cover and read the inscription:

This is the journal of Elizabeth Ann Pratt

August 27, 2001 - January 15, 2002

The second date was clearly written at a different time, as it was in faded blue ink, while the rest of it was in what clearly used to be a red ink. It was difficult for me to read even this much, not just because of the faded ink, but because I was never really taught how to read handwriting. It simply wasn't a useful skill in a world without pen and paper. For each word I read, I had to mentally translate each letter to a printed letter before I could grasp the word as a whole.

I quickly and carefully flipped through the pages. Every page was full of handwriting, sometimes neat, sometimes sloppy, but obviously written by the same hand. I couldn't wait to dive right in and read. As I sat down in my usual brown chair, my chip chirped, alerting me that it was 17:30. Mom usually got home from work at 18:00, so I knew that I only had a few minutes before I must leave if I was to make it home shortly after she did. I wanted to make a statement by being late and making her think I was with Sebastian against her wishes, but I didn't want to be too late or she might ground me. Knowing where the line was between annoyance and behavior earning me grounding took years of practice, but I thought I had it down.

As I held the journal in my hand, I nervously swayed my weight from one leg to the other. I knew I couldn't afford to buy the journal. Though it had no tag, I knew it would be priced well out of my price-range as it was obviously one-of-a-kind and from the 2000s. Still, I couldn't bring myself to put it down, so I walked to the front with it still in my hands. The thought of sneaking it into my purse crossed my mind, but I just couldn't do that to Hasan. Besides, I would make a poor first-time thief as I was already in Hasan's line of sight when this thought crossed my mind.

Perhaps I could arrange with Hasan to re-hide the journal to ensure that because I couldn't buy it, no one else would either. At least until I could read it.

As I walked towards him, Hasan was busy cleaning up the cups and saucers from the tea he had with his pleasant visitor. Hasan had a gentle smile on his face as he saw me, so I knew it was the time to ask him to save the journal for me.

"Hasan?" I asked hesitantly, not knowing how to approach the subject with him.

"I suppose it is about time for you to head home. What were you reading? Found something new to catch your interest? Have you read The Help yet?"

"No, I haven't read that. Actually, it took me a while, but I did finally find what I want to read next." I shyly held out the journal for Hasan to see.

"What is this?" he asked as he took the proffered journal. He was silent for a few moments as he inspected the journal. He looked genuinely puzzled. Finally, he responded,"I don't think I've ever seen this before. Did you bring this in? Where in the world did you find it? This looks like it's from the 2000s!"

"Uh, yeah, I think it is. Says it was written in 2001 and 2002." I opened it, showing him the handwritten dates. "I found it back on your shelves." I paused. "Wait, you didn't know you had it?"

"Never mind that. I don't always remember everything I have," Hasan was quick to silence my astonishment. I knew that wasn't true, but I didn't press him further.

"I suppose you want me to save it back for you, huh?" he continued. "I don't see why not, especially since I didn't know I had it in the first place." Hasan stopped and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "You know, I have an idea for you. Would you like to own this journal?"

I was stunned. When I found my words, I exclaimed my pleasure. "Well, of course I would! But I can't afford it on my 15-eCred-a-week allowance! It would take me months to save up, and that's if I stopped taking the pods except to go to school!"

"No, I know you can't afford to buy it," Hasan assured me. "What I had in mind was something a little different. How about helping me around the shop in exchange for the journal?"

This surprised me. In the time that I've been coming to Hasan's shop, I had never seen anyone working here but him. I always assumed he didn't trust anyone else enough to work here. "Could I?"

"Of course! You're old enough. Surely you could get a work permit to work here a couple days after school. I'll even call your mother to ask permission, if that'd make her more likely to say yes. I could use the help...you've seen the condition of my shelves. You could write a Dickens novel in all the dust that's collected there! And I've never been one for organization—perhaps I'd sell more if I had my books better arranged."

Why not work at Hasan's shop? I had the free time now that Sebastian wasn't in the picture. I could still hang out with Ryan a few days a week, so I wouldn't be missing out.

"I'd love to work for you. No need to call my mother though—she's been wanting me to look for a job anyway," I fibbed. "How long would I need to work here before I could take the journal home?" I was already antsy to open it up and see what I would discover. After Hasan had looked briefly at it, I quickly grabbed it back from him.

"Well, I think a fair rate would be if you would work two hours an afternoon, three days a week for six weeks. Does that sound fair to you?"

"Six weeks? Sure, I'd love to!"

"And if you're as hard a worker as I know you will be, we could arrange for you to work more to earn some of the other books I know you've had your eye on. I'd love to see them go to a good home, and there just seems to be fewer and fewer people interested in buying them. Still, I can't bear to see them go."

I was already thinking about how many books I could earn if he'd let me work this summer too. "Awesome! When should I start?"

"How about tomorrow? Could you be here at 16:00?"

"Yeah, I could do that. I'll see you then." With a grin on my face, I turned towards the door, placing the journal back in Hasan's hands. But he wasn't taking it.

"Umm, Hasan? Here's the journal back?" I asked with doubt and confusion in my voice.

"Oh, no, it's yours now. I know you're good to your word. You said you'd work, and I know you'll do it."

As his meaning sunk in, I reached out to hug Hasan. "Oh, thank you!"

The grin didn't leave my face as I walked out the doors and into the waiting pod.

Falling

It was 18:43 as I entered our apartment. Perfect. Just late enough to arouse suspicion as to my whereabouts. Not surprisingly, I heard Mom's voice call out from her bedroom as I tried to sneak into mine unnoticed.

"Amala? Where were you?" Mom asked, as her bedroom door opened to reveal her in the process of changing from her work blouse and pants to her more comfortable house clothes: sweat pants, a shirt, and a pair of dirty blue slippers. "You know you're supposed to be home by 18:30 on school nights so that we can have dinner together before you start your homework. And I told you not to hang out with Sebastian any more. Do I need to ground you?"

You have to love a mother who can go straight to grounding without hearing a word from her daughter. What if I was bleeding? What if I had been out late because I was helping someone?

As I stepped out of my bedroom door and walked the meter to hers, it opened farther for me. Mom continued her motherly ranting. I didn't even answer her, as I knew that there was no sense in trying to stop her when she was in one of her moods. Surprisingly, after about two minutes of lecture from her heavy with words like "responsibility" and "accountability" and about five suppressed eye rolls from me, she stopped.

"Well, Mom, you know Mondays are choose-your-own adventure nights at Ryan's." I carefully chose my words to avoid both lying and telling the truth about how I spent my afternoon.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, that's right. How are Fabio and Zada this week?" Mom said with an eye roll, quickly losing her serious and stressed mood.

I welcomed the change of topic and turned my attention to answering Mom's tongue-in-cheek question about the choose-your-own adventure characters. "Oh, the usual. A lover's quarrel. Zada found out her long-lost father is actually her next-door neighbor. That kind of thing." Of course, I had no idea if that's what really happened, but it sounded about right, and Mom had no more patience for choose-your-own adventure than I did, as evidenced by her asking me about Zada, a character that had been replaced months ago.

Mom paid no attention to my answer, but replied with a more serious question, "Will you check to see if dinner is ready?"

Glad the barrage was over, I quickly headed over to the kitchen. The apartment Mom, my brother Chester, and I shared was small but well-organized and orderly, so it wasn't claustrophobic. Unfortunately, we were on the basement level, so we had no windows, but at least we didn't have to worry about being quiet for downstairs neighbors—a fact Chester and I took advantage of when we were younger, chasing each other around the small place. The apartment was made up of a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and three small bedrooms: one for each of us. The doors for each room came out of a circular hallway, so none of us had a long walk to the bathroom. Unfortunately, it also meant we weren't far from each other. I spent most of my evenings holed up in my room, listening to music while doing homework or reading a book.

When we sat down to dinner of mac'n'cheese and a side of broccoli, I could see that Mom had cooled down from her earlier lecture. Perhaps I was in the clear after all. Mom wasn't a big cook—she worked as a "foodie" or a food supply chain organizer, so having to work with food at home was certainly not appealing to her. It was her job to make sure that the food got from the fields and factories to the appropriate storehouses to be distributed throughout the Triangle. It was a tough job as it seemed like they were always running out of one thing or another. As long as there was something that would easily replace it, everything was good. When a whole category ran out altogether—like meat—it made Mom's job extra stressful. Foodies weren't the most liked people in the USNA. The public didn't care where the food came from or how it got to their tables, as long as it was there to feed their appetites.

Because Mom didn't like to cook, we ate food primarily cooked in the one-pot. All you had to do was enter the few ingredients, tell it what to make, and it would turn out what could occasionally be called a meal. The one-pot even ensured that if it was left unattended your food wouldn't burn or spoil. "A convenient option for the busy mom of two," Mom always said. I could count on one hand the number of meals she had made us that were not cooked by the one-pot. That was fine, except there were only about a dozen things that could be made with the ingredients afforded us by Mom's salary and that were simple enough for the one-pot. That night's mac'n'cheese with broccoli was the usual Monday meal; the only variety came from the changing vegetable food supply.

It didn't matter how simple tonight's meal was, though, as it turned out Mom wouldn't be eating it after all. Halfway through dishing up the broccoli, she received a call on her chip. She had only been away from work for an hour, but a crisis had already arisen that demanded her attention. From the part of the conversation I could hear, it had something to do with corn, and the possibility of rioting farmers. Mom quickly bid adieu, kissing Chester and me on the top of our heads, before running out the door to hail a pod that would take her back to work.

Mom's early exit—presumably for the evening—was fine by me. Now that Chester was 12 and old enough to see that he got his own homework done, I could focus on myself. Mom not being home meant no interruptions to my evening plans of journal reading after homework.

After I finished my bowl of mac'n'cheese and picked at my broccoli, I sat down at my desk and reached into the purse beside me to pull out my chap stick. Of course, my hand grabbed the journal instead. I'll just set it down next to me, so that it's ready for me when I'm done with my geometry homework.

I pulled up my geometry on my desk, but I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't duplicate the proof Professor Larry had shown me earlier in the day as I had a hard time concentrating. Perhaps doodling flowers wasn't the best strategy for learning geometry. More likely, having the 100-year-old journal at my fingertips was too strong distraction.

I left the math homework up—had to cover my tracks in case Mom checked in from work to see what I was doing—and opened the journal again. I reread the inscription:

This is the journal of Elizabeth Ann Pratt

August 27, 2001 - January 15, 2002

I wondered who Elizabeth Ann Pratt was. How old would she be if she was alive today? I really had no idea based on the handwriting—it had been too long since I had seen anything handwritten besides the graffiti on our apartment building, so I couldn't tell how old she may have been when she wrote the journal.

I turned to the first page of the journal, and began to read, struggling for almost every word.

August 26, 2001

Tomorrow I start my last year at Henry High School. It seems like just yesterday I started as a freshman...that was 3 years ago!

I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Beth (short for Elizabeth), 17 years old.

Seventeen—just a year older than me. That excited me...I had just assumed the journal would have been written by an older person, as journal writing seemed so old-fashioned, like writing letters or wearing gloves while drinking tea in the afternoon.

_I live with my mom, Kathy and my dad, Richard. I have one sister, Meg (yes, my mom is a bit obsessed with_ _Little Women_ _), who is 21, but doesn't live at home. Actually, I'm not sure when the last time I saw her was—Meg isn't the best about keeping in touch with the family. I guess college is more fun than home._

Back to the reason why I'm starting this journal. I've decided it would be neat to have a record of my entire senior year. Because after this year, I'll be an adult going off to college!

While classes don't start until tomorrow, I've already had band camp. I'm on the color guard. Band camp was hot, but lots of fun. Stacy, Kayla, and I laughed a lot, often receiving glares from Mr. Branson.

I had to stop reading right then to look up a couple of things on my chip. I had never heard of Little Women, but I found out that it was a book published in the 1860s, with two of the four sisters—four!—being named Beth and Meg. I'll have to ask Hasan about it.

I also found out what the color guard was—sounds a little silly to throw some poles with flags on them around, but they did things differently back then. Simpler times had simpler forms of entertainment, for sure.

Since this is my fourth and final year on the color guard, I get to be the captain. It's a lot of responsibility—the other girls aren't always the best at listening to me. I'm so shy sometimes! I know what I should make them do, but it's hard to speak up and make them do it, especially when they're grumbling.

I'm a little nervous about classes tomorrow. I have Mrs. Jordan for honors English. I've heard a lot about her: she's notorious for making a boy pee his pants in front of the whole classroom—and I must admit she terrifies me a little bit.

Her Mrs. Jordan reminds me of Ms. Oscar. Scary indeed!

Well, that's all for now. I'll write again tomorrow to let you know how the first day goes.

I skipped past the next few entries, because I realized there should be an entry I was quite curious about further into the journal. She was in high school during September 11th, 2001. How did it feel to be alive—and my age—on that day?

September 11, 2001

Something awful happened today. I almost don't want to write about it, but it's all I can think about, so I must. I didn't even find out about it until after 2nd period. Mrs. Jordan didn't make us take our test, so you know it must be serious. I would have rather taken that test though than hear about what was behind the whisperings I heard in the hallways walking to Mrs. Jordan's class.

Oh, I don't even want to write it. I'm so numb. It's too hard.

Somebody has flown two airplanes into a large building in New York City.

I've never been to New York, but I've now seen the pictures of the skyline: the two tallest towers there are no more! And that's not all...they also hit the Pentagon and another plane ended up crashing in some field in Pennsylvania.

So Mrs. Jordan was quieter than normal as we filed into her class. At first I thought it was just her typical test-day seriousness, but when I noticed everyone else in the class was looking up at Mrs. Jordan, I did too. There was a look of panic on her face that she was clearly trying to hide. That look itself scared me, and I kept trying to think of a simple, not-too-bad explanation for that panic: the class hamster had died, she lost the tests, her boyfriend broke up with her (okay, not good for her, but not bad for us). She had us take our seats, and we quickly quieted down. I think we all knew something was wrong, and that it wasn't about the test. She quietly told us that two planes had flown into that building in New York. That was about all we knew. We're not close to New York here in North Carolina, but we were scared something might happen to us, too. Okay, I still am scared.

No one even asked about the test. Mrs. Jordan didn't bring it up, either. Emily and Jeff immediately pulled out their cell phones—contraband usually worthy of suspension—and dialed their parents. They then passed their phones around to the rest of the classroom. I got to hear Mom's voice, which was so worth the few bucks I owe Emily...I'm sure she's going to go over her minutes this month.

Though Mrs. Jordan is so strict usually, she not only allowed the cell phones, but she also let Nathan turn on the TV and figure out how to get CNN on it. That's when it all sunk in—we turned on the TV just in time to see the second tower disappear behind a cloud of smoke. Now I know that that cloud of debris is all that remained of that tower.

Principal Duggins came over the loudspeaker and told us that we would remain in our 3rd period class for the rest of the day. If our parents wanted to, they were welcome to pull us out of school and it wouldn't count as an absence. Several students in my class had already been picked up. He encouraged teachers to let us talk about it, especially if we had any family in New York.

Just as he began to tell us that they would bring lunches to our classrooms in about an hour, he paused. We did too, as we saw what he was apparently seeing as well: the first tower that was hit also collapsed.

The rest of the day is a blur. So many reports of tragedy and death, some that were true, some that weren't. Dad picked me up from school around noon, and I've been sitting on the floor next to the television ever since. About an hour ago I grabbed this journal, and started writing. Mom came home about an hour after Dad and I got here. We've been trying to call Meg all afternoon, but the circuits have been busy. Hopefully we'll get to talk to her soon. She's in school at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, which is about 45 minutes from here. If we weren't too scared for Dad to leave, we'd let him go and get her. Thankfully, there haven't been any reports of anything happening here in North Carolina, so I hope she is okay.

It's been about 2 hours since I stopped writing, I think. Meg made it home, which was a surprise. Glad to all be here together, even if it is only to watch the news coverage on TV. Dad just suggested that we turn off the news coverage and put in our old A Charlie Brown Christmas video tape. So not the season for it, but it sounds good. I just want to be here with my family doing something normal. And please don't tell me that an almost all-adult family being home on a Tuesday night, all together, and watching a child's Christmas movie in September isn't normal. Neither is watching indestructible skyscrapers fall to the earth.

Minding

During my pod ride to the store the next day, I allowed my body to finally relax. Emotionally raw, I was thankful that the day went smoothly. I was able to successfully avoid seeing either Sebastian or Kinsley, and more importantly, avoided seeing them together.

I started the day exhausted after the evening I had the night before. Reading Beth's journal entry, I cried like I've never cried before. Nothing in my own life—not a break up with Sebastian, a fight with mom, or missing my father—has brought out this type of intense emotional response. I simply laid my head down on my desk, ignored the rest of my geometry homework, and bawled. At some point in the night, I woke up and crawled into my bed. If it wasn't for Chester running through the apartment in the morning, I probably wouldn't have woken up in time for school as I hadn't set my alarm.

The bell over the door dinged as I entered the store, and I walked up to the counter where Hasan was straightening a display, stopping to lovingly caress each dusty book as if it were a favored, fragile doll.

"So good to see you again, dear," he said to me.

"What did you expect me to do, not come back?" I smiled, in a good mood. "Did you think I would just steal that journal? Not a bad idea, except I couldn't stay away from your store!"

"True, true," he said with a smile. He bent down behind the counter and pulled out a dust wand. "I think you know what to do. It'd be best if you started with the most recent book section and worked backwards chronologically. For now, just dust and straighten. If you see any books that are obviously in the wrong spot, go ahead and pull them out to be reshelved later. But don't take time to do that as you go, or you won't get all the shelves dusted within the two hours."

I take a glance back at the countless floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and sigh. "Wait, you expect me to dust all the shelves today?"

"Yes, Amala. You're perfectly capable of completing that. It does mean that you won't have time to ogle over the books like you and I are prone to do. Dust quickly, but do a good job. Take the cart there and place any obviously misplaced books on it. Hopefully you'll have time to get them all reshelved by the end of the day as well."

Hasan had high expectations, but it was a small price to pay for the journal. Dusting wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, but I took the proffered dust wand and cart, heading back to the bookshelves. Papa Roach's "Scars" was blasting on my chip as I dusted books with titles like The Forgotten History of the Compact Disc and Bella's Last Stand. By the end of my shift, I had collected 30 misplaced books and was on the final shelf, the oldest, from the 19th Century. These were the most delicate and pricey books in the store, some with the price tag easily in the 1000s of eCreds. At 18:00 on the nose, I was done dusting. I rolled the cart up to the front of the store, where Hasan was busy behind the counter.

"Guess I'll have to shelve those books tomorrow," I said to him.

"That's fine, Amala. I wouldn't want you to be late for dinner. Thank your mom again for allowing you to work for me."

"I will," I lied. One day I'd tell Mom about this job, but that wasn't going to be today. I didn't want it taken away from me before I really got started. I don't think she would care I had a job, but she probably would care that I got it behind her back.

The next day at school I was thinking about Beth while I was listening to Professor Julie Anne go on and on about gerunds. Though I still hadn't gotten past Beth's September 11th entry—I only had time last night to read the entries leading up to September 11th after I finished my makeup geometry homework—I felt like I was beginning to understand her. I think we could have been friends if we were living at the same time.

Beth wrote in an obviously teenage voice, but I'm a teenager, too. Her first entries were mostly boring—relating funny things that happened in class and mentioned a few of encounters with a couple boys she was interested in. It reminded me of my days spent crushing on Sebastian. Beth apparently had problems with her mom, too, as she detailed a couple of fights. The fights seemed really silly, but the emotion she wrote with was so familiar. I wondered if the fights I had with my mother would sound silly to others too, especially after 100 years.

What would it be like to have been watching the TV news coverage of September 11th that day? Even more, what would it have been like to have been in one of those towers, as you felt the impact of the plane hit? What if you were too high and weren't able to get out? What would happen to you then?

"And what is Professor Julie Anne teaching you today?" Ms. Oscar's own probing question startled me as I was jolted back from 2001.

"Uh, umm...Professor Julie Anne is telling me—I mean teaching me—about the joy of gerunds. They're really exciting," I answered with a forced smile and a thumbs up.

"Exciting? How so?" Ms. Oscar questioned doubtfully.

"Umm..."

"I see. It looks like you could use another play of this lecture." My heart dropped. I knew what that meant: after school detention.

"Yes, let's see, 15:30 this afternoon would work for me, does it for you?" Ms. Oscar didn't wait for me to respond; it was understood that if we didn't pay attention to our lectures, we were required to make them up after school.

I didn't put up a fight, since the only option I had was to choose a different afternoon to stay.

I sighed. That's another point Beth and I had in common—she had a demanding teacher and I had an overbearing minder.

"Oh, why couldn't you have come over to my house for choose-your-own adventure Monday night?" Ryan whined to me as we talked in the lunch room over the school-provided lunch of mystery meat and overcooked potatoes. Oh yeah, that. "You missed a good one," she continued. "Since you weren't there, I invited Clara over." Clara is a friend Ryan and I sometimes hung out with at school. "We chose for Parkina to break up with Fabio. For kicks, we decided she should go out with Lucio. So gross, I know, but they don't know that they're related! Don't worry, we'll make sure that she finds out soon, so nothing happens."

I'm not sure why Ryan thought I'd worry about what imaginary characters would do, but I tried to look like I cared to avoid her squabbling.

"Tomorrow Clara and I are going to the mall to pick out new swimsuits." I hadn't thought Ryan and Clara were that close to spend two days in a week together. "All the new designs just came out. You must come—we can't have you showing up to the pool in that ratty old blue one-piece again this summer!"

Though we only had switched pools at my suggestion in order to run into Sebastian, Ryan and I still had plans to go back to Leigh Pool that summer. Or at least Ryan did. Yesterday she spent all lunch detailing how we were going to make Tate and Sebastian jealous, which included spending every spring afternoon running on the school track to get toned. Though I hadn't agreed to the plan, apparently Ryan was convinced I would be joining her. After all, we always did everything together.

Since I wouldn't be able to work today, thanks to Ms. Oscar, I really needed to work tomorrow. I didn't want Hasan to think I was flaking out on him. I had more books to earn. "You guys go ahead."

"Oh, come on!"

Trying to think of any acceptable excuse to get out of swimsuit shopping, I decided to mention not having enough eCreds, which was true enough, considering most of my eCreds were now going to be spent traveling to Millennial Antiques a few times a week.

I felt like someone was watching me, and when I looked up from the conversation, I saw it was Ming who was looking at me. When our eyes met, she gave me a pleasant smile before looking away. I just rolled my eyes...why was she watching me?

"Amala? Hello?" Ryan asked annoyed.

"Huh, what?"

"You weren't listening to me. Remember we're talking about swimsuit shopping?" Ryan asked, barely keeping her annoyance in check.

"I told you: I don't have the eCreds for it."

"Yeah, it's not that I have extra eCreds on my account either, but I still want to look so that I know how much to ask my mom for. Please..." she begged in an annoying tone that probably would be the one she'd use to get those extra eCreds.

"Uh, I'll probably have to stay after school tomorrow as well. I have to listen to my English lecture today, but I'm so not getting geometry either, so I'm probably going to have to do that tomorrow."

"Geometry? Who cares? Just write down a bunch of circles and triangles on your homework...that's all geometry is, anyway."

While that was very tempting, if I admitted that I didn't need to stay after school, I'd have to come up with another explanation as to why I couldn't go to the mall. I wasn't about to tell Ryan about my new job at Millennial Antiques. She had already made her thoughts clear about that store.

Early sophomore year—pre-Sebastian—I decided I would invite Ryan to go with me to Millennial Antiques. I suppose I naively thought that your best friend should be excited about what you found exciting.

"What are you doing Tuesday?" I asked at the end of the choose-your-own adventure show that Monday afternoon.

"Tomorrow? I don't know, what do you have in mind?" Ryan responded.

"Well, I've been to this store that I think is really neat, and I wanted to see if you wanted to come with me."

"Cool, what do they sell?" Clearly, I had piqued Ryan's interest as her eyes brightened. "I could use a cute belt to go with my red dress, do you think they'd have one?"

"Umm...probably not."

"Oh. What do they sell?"

"Well, it's an antique store."

"Antique? Not vintage? I can handle vintage—stuff from the 70s and 80s that can pass for new-old cool." Ryan was clearly disappointed. Trying to be supportive, she asked, "So what antiques do they have?"

"Well, mainly books," I said trying to reign in my excitement. I just knew Ryan would love Millennial Antiques once I got her there.

"Paper books? Why?" Ryan said loudly with disgust, as if they were printed on used toilet paper. "We can read anything we want through our chips!"

"Yeah, but do you read?" I asked honestly. "We've never talked about books before. What was the last thing you read?" I tried to mask the growing hostility in my voice.

"Well, I'm always reading the latest on Walta's blog."

"I'm not talking about celebrity blogs. Or fashion ones," I added quickly, guessing Ryan's next rebuttal. "I'm talking about actual books that take more than 15 minutes to read."

"Well, we have to read for class. Why would I want to on my own time?" Ryan said, syncing our music and turning it up, effectively ending the discussion.

To humor me, Ryan went with me to Millennial Antiques the next day, though she made me pay for the entire pod ride myself. She didn't really look at much there, and we were heading back towards her house less than 5 minutes after we had entered the doors. I never brought up books with her again.

Confronting

After school, I stayed behind in Ms. Oscar's classroom after most of the other students packed up their stuff and left. Likely chosen for the job because she was the strictest minder in school, Ms. Oscar was the after school minder. Having to stay after school to rewatch a lecture may not be fun, but it had the built-in perk of avoiding running into Sebastian and Kinsley in the crowd waiting for pods outside of school.

I was tracing the pattern on my pants—swirls of differing sizes—when I heard a familiar voice: Sebastian's voice. I looked up just in time to see him give a quick hand squeeze to Kinsley as she walked away from the classroom.

I guess I was wrong for thinking that detention was a way to avoid seeing Sebastian.

He quickly sat down in a seat in a middle row of the classroom, near the door. I was in my usual place in the back row, so I had a good view of the back of his dark, wavy locks.

As I put in my earbuds and turned on that day's English lecture, I stopped trying to prevent myself from thinking about him. The lecture was no more interesting than it was that morning—though it had a few more mentions of my name, something that always happens more during detention than during school hours—but thankfully I was able to fake attentiveness to the satisfaction of Ms. Oscar. What she mistook for paying attention was really just me avoiding looking up and seeing Sebastian.

By the time Professor Julie Anne was wrapping up her thoughts on gerunds in her all-too-chipper voice, I was more than ready to leave. Perhaps I got nothing out of the lecture, but I did vow to pay attention better the next day to avoid the extra time spent at school. Perhaps that's all they intended with these after school sessions, anyway.

As Ms. Oscar dismissed us, I walked slowly to the front of the classroom, careful to not walk too quickly so I didn't catch up to Sebastian. I knew that he had seen me as he entered, and he appeared to want to avoid the awkward confrontation as well.

Without even realizing what I was doing, I took a few quick steps, and put my hand on Sebastian's shoulder, pulling him back so that he had to look at me.

"Whoa, what?" Sebastian said, startled and annoyed.

"We need to talk," I said through clinched teeth. I tried to keep my voice down—which was hard—as most of the dozen other students still in the classroom were looking our direction with curiosity. Our relationship and the sudden end of it was no secret to the school gossip feed.

"Uh, sure."

"Meet me at the bench outside the back entrance in 5."

"Fine, whatever."

I was glad that Sebastian agreed, though he clearly was not any more excited about the thought of having this discussion than I was. I hurried off to the restroom, taking the time to look at myself in the mirror, fixing my low ponytail. I preferred wearing my thick dark hair in a way that would keep it from falling into my face.

I pressed my hands against the sink, trying to keep them from shaking. I couldn't believe that I had had the nerve to approach Sebastian, especially in front of other people.

I stayed behind in the restroom a few extra minutes, hoping to make Sebastian wait. Either he would have time to fidget, or he'd chicken out. Part of me wished he would. I had no clue what to say.

He didn't chicken out.

The walk to the bench seemed unusually long. As I rounded the last corner and saw him waiting for me, I shook my hands one last time, still trying to make the shaking stop.

"Mally, I'm sorry," Sebastian apologized while I was still ten feet from where he stood near the bench.

"Don't call me 'Mally.' I hate that name." Only Sebastian ever called me that, but suddenly I found it irritating.

"Uh, sorry."

"Is that all you have for me? 'Sorry's?"

"Sorry. I mean, uh..."

"Why'd you do it? Why did you get back with Kinsley? Scratch that—I've seen her short skirts. Tell me why you got back with her without breaking up with me first. That's what I really want to know."

"Uh, I didn't think I had to say anything to you. I knew you'd hear it through the gossip feed. Besides, you and I weren't ever actually together."

"Clearly, Sebastian, you and I have different recollections of the past."

"Really? So did I black out during the conversation we had saying that we were official? Did I ever refer to you as the g-word?" He meant "girlfriend," I think.

"Uh, no. But we hung out all the time together," I said, allowing my voice to get loud. "And, you know, the kissing."

"So? We were just having fun. You know that I had just broken up with Kinsley before we met. I wasn't in the mood for another relationship. Look, Mally, I'm sorry if you thought we were anything more than friends, but that's all we were. Really. And if you thought differently, perhaps it's time for us no longer to be friends."

"So if we're just friends, does that mean that we could kiss now? Kinsley wouldn't care, right? We're just friends, so it's all good," I said mimicking Sebastian's words.

"Uh, Mally. You know that's not what I'm saying." I cringed as he called me by that name again.

"Well, then I don't know what you're saying. I'm glad we're no longer friends. Good riddance."

When my pod reached our apartment building, I realized that I had not turned on a vid or any music. I had sat in silence the entire pod ride. When I thought back, I couldn't even remember anything about the ride: nothing I had passed nor anything I had been thinking about. I was numb. I chipped Mom that I wasn't feeling well and that I would be in my room for the rest of the evening, resting. When she got home from work, hopefully she would ignore me and not insist on waiting on me as if I were a sick child.

I sat down at my desk, pulled out Beth's journal from my drawer, and read.

September 12, 2001

I'm still numb over what I saw on screen yesterday. Seeing those towers fall, not knowing how many people were dying at that very moment—or were already dead. Rescue workers have worked all day, and many people have been saved. But there is so much rubble: there must be so many people still in there, some may still be alive, but they're probably the unlucky ones. What are the chances they'll be found before...well, you know.

Mom offered to let me stay home from school today, but I told her I'd rather go and at least pretend like it was a "normal" day. The hallways were unusually quiet and less crowded. There wasn't the usual smack talking and boisterousness. No one was yelling, slapping each other, or calling each other names.

In history class, Jason Stevens didn't tease me like he usually does. Actually, he gave me a big hug. Faith Pennington was nice to me, too. We've never talked before, though we've had many of the same classes throughout middle and high school, but there is just something about a tragedy that brings strangers together as friends.

September 16, 2001

Friday as I was leaving history class, Faith asked me if I wanted to come to church with her this weekend. Though we haven't talked before this week, I am already starting to connect with her.

Sometimes Mom, Dad, and I will go to Forrest Pine Community Church. Meg, too, when she was still living at home. We like it okay, I guess, but only go every once in a while, when we've not had too busy of a weekend. Since this week has been hard, I thought it would be a good idea to join Beth at church, and Mom and Dad said that was fine.

I had never been inside Immanuel Church before, where Faith goes. She introduced me to some of the other people in her youth group, and they actually were pretty nice to me. I could tell that they were all pretty shook up by September 11th as I was.

The pastor spoke from Psalm 46. When I came home, I looked up these verses in my pink children's Bible that I got for Christmas when I was 8 (I was too embarrassed to carry a children's Bible to church so I left it at home!):

" _God is our refuge and strength,_

A very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change

And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea,

Though its waters roar and foam

Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride."

I've been so scared that something would happen to my family, so I could see how Faith finds these words comforting.

That's something new, I thought, when I sat at my desk that night after I read those words. I had heard of a Bible, usually in the context of "so-and-so's book is the bible of fashion or archery or baking," but I had never seen or read one.

Slumped in my chair, I looked the Bible up through my chip. I didn't find the book online, which was unusual, but did find information about it. Apparently it was written a long time ago, finished about two thousand years ago. I always thought it was written by some guru on a mountain top, but apparently it was written by at least forty different men over a long period. It was the bestselling book in history so it's odd that I couldn't find it online. I found many links that I thought were it, but they were always broken. Whoever had put the Bible online in the past has long since abandoned it.

I definitely had another book to look up at Hasan's store.

When I walked into Millennial Antiques that next afternoon, a sense of relief came over me. I was glad to be back, especially since I had already done the dusting on Tuesday. I knew I'd get to spend more time with my hands on the books. This was an especially comforting thought after a tense day at school, fighting off Ryan's questions as well as my own brooding thoughts. I just wanted to put Sebastian behind me, but my thoughts weren't exactly cooperating.

As I expected, the cart of misplaced books I had pulled out on Tuesday was exactly where I left it. Hasan was behind his counter, his nose stuck in a book, exactly where I expected to find him. This time the book was Dostoevsky.

"Hi, Hasan!"

"Hi, dear," Hasan said, barely looking up. "I'm sad I missed you yesterday. Can you work tomorrow to make it up?"

"Yes, that's fine. When you get a chance, I have a couple books that I'd like for you to find for me. I'm really loving the journal, by the way. Thank you, thank you! But I'm afraid it's a Pandora's box, as I now have several other books I want to read. She mentions several that I'd love to check into."

"I've long since found books to be a slippery slope. Why else would I go into a dying industry? If I hadn't, I'd likely have been fired from whatever profession I had stumbled upon, as I have always had a hard time putting down a book once I've started it."

"Oh, but you did for me," I said with a grin.

"Consider yourself lucky. We'll look up those books later, but for now it's time to get to work. Please start by shelving the books you pulled out before. Then I would like you to start with the books from the 2050s, and organize them by author last name."

"Organize, huh? I thought you were allergic to such order."

"Funny," Hasan said with a forced cheesy grin. "I'll have you focus on a decade at a time, slowly getting each section organized. Once a week, I'll need you to dust, but since you did that earlier this week, you can wait until next week to dust again. If a customer asks you to find something, refer them to me, unless you know exactly where it is."

"Yeah, yeah. Right now no one but you knows where anything is. I'm glad you're having me organize things," I answered as I walked over to the cart. After those were put back where they belonged, I spent the rest of the shift on the 2050s books. To me, these weren't that interesting—by that time, books were printed primarily as a novelty for coffee tables and to look pretty on a shelf, making their owner look studious. Very few looked even remotely interesting to me, and I simply took note of those titles as I knew I could find them on the net easily.

After my shift as I walked into our apartment building, my eyes were drawn to the faint outline on the outside wall in the shape of a lower-case T. I remember Grandma telling me that this building used to be a church before it had to be closed due to lack of interest and irrelevancy—her words. I remembered also she told me that T was called a cross. She said there were people in her mother's generation that tried to hold on to their traditional religion for as long as they could, but slowly church after church had to close as they didn't have enough people coming to keep the doors open. Many churches like this one were converted to apartment buildings to handle the influx of immigrants and the growing population.

As I thought about churches, I remembered that it was people who went to church that had Bibles. Though this building was gutted before it was repurposed, Chester and I once discovered cabinet in the entryway that was full of old stuff that had been abandoned in the building's chuch days. I decided to check it out after dinner to see if a Bible might be amid the rejected items.

As I walked into our apartment, I was greeted with a surprise—the smell of real food, not something that was made in the one-pot. Chester and I couldn't cook any more than Mom could so that smell could mean only one thing: Grandma.

Stirring

Grandma was my only living grandparent, my mom's mother. Mom's relationship with her mother was full of ups and downs just as hers and mine was, but one of the two of them would feel guilty about not talking and would call the other, usually every few weeks. Grandma lived only a 15-minute pod ride away, but she was busy with her own activities. She, like Ryan, was really interested in all the latest choose-your-own adventure series and could talk about them for hours. Not having to work or go to school, she had more time for them, too.

My grandma was 87. She grew up in better times, as she would put it, when money was more plentiful and everyone had their own home, instead of having to live in apartments.

Grandma, Iris Stevens, came from a standard American family with European roots, but she married my grandfather, Daljeet Kapoor, a son of Indian immigrants to her parents' delight. Interracial marriages became vogue in her day, though before that she told me that they often were taboo. Today in the USNA, it's rare if you aren't multiracial, except for a few families who either haven't been here long enough or are racists, believing they must keep their race "pure." I'm Chinese (on my father's father's side), Indian (on my mother's father's side), and white—I don't know where exactly my European ancestors are from—Germany or England, maybe. Despite my diverse background, I can't speak any language except English.

Mom moved Chester and me out of Grandma's house and into this apartment shortly after Chester was born. At the time, the original use of this building as a church was a source of contention between them. Grandma has always hated churches, and it apparently didn't matter to her that this building was abandoned as a church some years ago.

I don't have any early memories of Grandma, but Mom has told me that she wouldn't even visit here until I was 8, that's how strongly she disliked where we lived. The only reason she came then was because all 3 of us had come down with the flu, and of course Dad wasn't around to help us. Grandma came to the rescue after mom admitted that she was wrong for moving us here.

"Grandma!" I exclaimed as I walked to the kitchen.

"Hi, sweetie! How was your day?" Grandma said with a pleasant expression.

"It was good," I said, not revealing anything.

"What have you been up to since school got out?"

"I, uh, went window shopping after school," a not-quite-full-out-lie.

"How fun. I think I may have a few spare eCreds for you that I'll transfer to your account. Maybe you can pick out something next time."

"Awww, thanks, Grandma." No need to tell her what I was "window shopping" for was for a little more expensive than a new pair of earrings or even a pair of boots.

"So what are you cooking us?" Chester said as he walked in from his room, clearly still playing a video game on his chip, as his arms were flailing all about. He was probably fighting off zombies or shooting enemy soldiers.

"I decided to cook you a traditional Indian dinner, like your Grandfather's mother taught me. It's called Dal Makhani and is nothing like what your mom can make in a one-pot. In fact, it will actually be edible. Is that okay? You guys don't get enough exposure to your Indian heritage and certainly don't get enough real food."

"Cool," Chester grunted as he walked back to his room. "When's Mom coming home?" he asked Grandma, brushing his too long hair out of his eyes.

"I'm not sure," she said with a disapproving sigh. "She's busy getting the shipment of beans back on track."

"Always some food crisis or another." I paused, waiting for Chester to leave the kitchen and settle back down on the couch. "Can I ask you a question, Grandma?" I asked, tentatively.

"Sure, pumpkin."

"Why do you hate churches so much?"

Grandma stopped stirring the Indian dish, and looked at me. From somewhere behind her eyes I saw anger and hurt flash and vanish quickly. I remained silent, waiting for her to speak, which she did after several moments of silence.

"Why do you want to know, Amala?" she asked with concern.

"Oh, I'm just curious. I remember you disapproving when we moved into this building, but I couldn't remember why you didn't want anything to do with churches."

"Well, I was raised in a church."

"So?" I said, thinking she meant she lived in a church as we did now which didn't offer any explanation that I could figure out.

"Oh, I don't mean that I lived in a church. That would have been absurd when I was growing up. I forget how much you kids these days don't know about life back then, and how many phrases you don't know. When I say that I was 'raised in a church' I mean that I grew up going to a church every week with my parents. We were there every time the doors were open, as the saying goes. They were devout in their Christian faith, or at least they would have said they were."

"Really?" I said in genuine surprise. My own childhood had offered no clues to this religious heritage. Anxious to hear more, I asked, "So did you take Mom to church, too, when she was growing up? Because she's never mentioned it."

"No, I never did. Until she moved here, I doubt she ever had been in a church building. When I was 16, I left home and stopped going to church. I never went to one again."

"Really? You left home at 16? Why, Grandma?"

"Sweetie, I don't have time to talk about this right now. Dinner's ready. Will you go get your brother?"

Perhaps dinner just happened to be ready at that moment, but I couldn't help but think that Grandma was putting me off.

When our stomachs were full of food that was as filling as it was delicious, I cleaned up the dishes as quickly as I could. I knew that I had to get my homework done before I could jump back into Beth's journal. Finishing my geometry homework, I tried to move on to English, but my mind kept drifting off towards Sebastian.

To avoid thinking about Sebastian, I forced myself to consider the conversation I had with Grandma earlier that afternoon. Now knowing that my own ancestors, my great grandparents, had been devout Christians, I wanted to learn more about Beth's experience with church. Perhaps it would help me understand Grandma a little better, though I didn't know if Beth went more than that one time, or ever mentioned it again. Up until that entry, she had never mentioned church, so I don't think she found the church she had been going to with her family something journal-worthy.

I opened up the journal, and dove back into 2001.

September 24, 2001

I went back to Immanuel Church yesterday with Faith. Youth group was fun—I'm even beginning to feel a part of it. It was great having several of the others greet me by name and look genuinely excited to see me.

After church, I went over to Faith's house for lunch. It was fun to spend time with her family. She has three brothers, so it's really quite loud there unlike at my house. I'm not sure I could handle a brother, though it would be nice if there were another kid at home so Mom and Dad would have someone else to focus on. Maybe they wouldn't catch all my mistakes then.

Faith and I hung out in her room for a while after lunch, waiting for my parents to come pick me up. She was asking me questions about what I believe about God and if I read the Bible. I had never really thought about reading the Bible before I went to church with her. I hadn't really thought much about God either. She encouraged me to start reading the gospel of John. I started yesterday when I got back home, but I found the beginning really confusing—what's this about the Word, and why is "Word" capitalized? I think I'll have some questions to ask Faith. This verse stood out to me today as I was reading:

" _For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." - John 3:16_

I've heard this verse before, but I never really thought about what it means any more than I've thought about what a nursery rhyme meant.

This Friday night is the homecoming game. This is my favorite football game of the year to perform at! We always get the most excited, and the whole color guard paints their faces green and gold for the Henry High Bulldogs. The band boosters raise money each year for us to include fireworks as part of the marching band performance. So fun! The color guard always jokes that they shoot off fireworks while the band is playing so that you can't tell how bad they sound.

September 28, 2001

Tonight was the homecoming game, or at least it was supposed to be. Just as we were leaving the stands to prepare to take the field during halftime, the heavens opened up, as they say. The rain was so heavy. It wasn't long before it soaked through my color guard uniform, even though I was huddled under a jacket with Stacy. Because there was also some lightning, they delayed the game, and everyone ran inside the school. While we were in the ladies' room trying to clean up our face paint and keep it from running onto our uniforms, we were trying to figure out how likely it would be that we would still perform. We waited around for about forty-five minutes—jumping around to keep warm—when Mr. Branson, our band director, got on a bullhorn and told us that the game was postponed, and would be played in the morning.

I was excited to still have a chance to perform, but then he told us that we wouldn't be performing at the game, as too many people would not be able to make it, and it wouldn't make for a good performance if there were a lot of holes in the marching formations.

That's when I lost it. I turned to Stacy, and started out-and-out bawling. I've never cried on school grounds before—not even on September 11th. I'm still upset—how could this happen during my senior year? Junior year was so perfect and I had so much fun—I was sure that this year would be even better! How was I supposed to know last year would be my last homecoming game?

Stumbling

I wanted to read more of the journal, but I decided to pace myself, since I wouldn't be able to bring home another book for at least five-and-a-half more weeks. I was glad that Beth talked more about church and gave another Bible verse for me to think through. This one was even more intriguing than the first. I opened up my incomplete Charles Dickens essay for English class, but the cursor simply blinked at me, taunting me.

Then it hit me: though all I had of Beth Pratt was her journal, there was more information about her out there. Doing some quick math in my head—at least it didn't take me as long as my geometry homework—I calculated she likely died thirty or forty years ago. But given her age, she had lived at the beginning of the net era. What would have been on the net then about her would likely still be out there now.

As I did a search for Beth Pratt, I received over a billion results. Clearly, she was not the only one with that name. I then searched by her full name, "Elizabeth Ann Pratt" and still found quite a lot of entries, too many to sort in any meaningful way.

If I had her social security number, this search would be easy. In 2021, these numbers started being used as online IDs, to distinguish between people with the same or similar names. This had to be done as people were losing their jobs—or not getting them at all—based on what other people of the same name were doing and posting online. Of course, her social security number was not something that Beth found pertinent to record in her journal.

I googled, "how to find an ancestor online if you don't have their social security number." Beth's not my ancestor, but I didn't want to have to explain why I was searching for her, and it'd likely be the same process anyway. I found a link to a forum.

One user, NattySmith57 said, "One great way to locate someone born between 1960 and 2010 is to use ObsoleteFacebook.us. Before the Facebook servers were taken down in 2027 after years of disuse, this website gathered all that data and allows for easy searches. I was able to find my great uncle, John Smith on this website after only about 45 minutes, which would have been impossible in a general search given his common name."

I clicked on the website NattySmith57 mentioned. After a nostalgic tribute to the fad website, it had a search box where I entered "Beth Pratt." After coming up with several hundred results, it allowed me to enter more information, so I typed in "North Carolina."

My search was narrowed down to only seven results. Assuming she was on Facebook at some point, she would be one of these.

I immediately ruled out the second and seventh Beth Pratts, as their pictures were of ladies clearly past 50. Beth would have been 44 when Facebook was disbanded, so I was looking for a person no older than that.

The third Beth Pratt was also an easy one to rule out, as it was a man. Not sure why he went by the name "Beth," but I moved on. Clicking on the first Beth Pratt, brought up the page of a young blonde woman with her arm around a person just out of the cropped picture. Before I started to read it, I saw her birth date: "November 23, 1997." Unless journal Beth was a genius, going to high school before her first birthday, this Beth was not my girl.

Next, I clicked on the fourth "Beth Pratt." She was a woman probably in her 30s, and clearly could have been my Beth Pratt. She didn't have a birth year listed, so I started getting excited with each detail I read, sure it was her. She had two children, born in the 2010s. This was definitely a possibility.

I was about to click on some of her photos when one detail caught my eye. Under "school" she had listed "Millbrook High." Bummer—I knew from the journal that my Beth went to Henry High School.

The fifth Beth Pratt was actually "Bethany Pratt" so I ruled her out immediately.

That left one Beth: Beth Pratt number six. I hoped that this one would be the journal writer. My hands shook as I clicked on her picture, the picture of a young girl with light brown hair, sticking out her tongue toward the camera.

After the last disappointment, I decided not to get my hopes up and first looked at which high school was listed. Sure enough, she listed that she was a Henry High graduate, class of 2002. This was the one.

I enjoyed reading over the rest of her Facebook information. She seemed to have a lot of friends, though the messages had trickled off as they got more recent, presumably because she stopped using Facebook. There was nothing after 2015, so she probably quit using the site then, a little ahead of the trend. I looked to see if she was married, but she was listed as being "single." Nor were there any children listed.

I spent about an hour looking at all her pictures and an hour or two skimming years of messages. I found one album that was further evidence that this was the Beth Pratt of the journal, entitled "High School Flashbacks." It included pictures of Beth in what I presume was a color guard uniform with a stick in her hand, that was probably one of the flags she twirled.

She was loved, that I could tell. She seemed to be one of those girls who were always smiling. There was one photo of her dressed as a clown, as she tried to balance on a beach ball. In the next photo she was on the floor, in a fit of laughter, her arm over someone else's shoulder.

One other thing caught my eye: she had a link to Immanuel Church in her profile. She must have continued to go there after those first two weeks. I hoped to find out more in the journal.

The next morning I woke up groggy when my alarm went off in my head. I had stayed up several hours later than I usually do, reading all I could about Beth Pratt and her friends and family online. I now felt like I was beginning to really know what kind of person she was, and she was someone about whom I wanted to know more. The Facebook information was great, but it only showed me who she was in public. Who someone was in the quiet was much more interesting.

Learning more would have to wait. I was staying the night at Ryan's house as we were going to go to a Restra concert. While I didn't care for Restra, I always enjoyed going to concerts because we would have a good time, and I liked to see all the interesting people that come out—there were always some strange ones.

As I got in the pod to head to Ryan's after work, I was tempted to reroute it home, so I could spend time reading Beth's journal instead. I knew that if I went home and started to read, I wouldn't leave. As much as I enjoy paper books, they can be inconvenient as you can't always have them with you. If I carried Beth's journal around with me, I'd risk it getting discovered or even lost. Ryan was always getting into my purse to borrow some makeup and she would subject me to endless teasing if she found the journal—and that's just if she gave it back. If I didn't go to the concert, though, I'd not only have to face Ryan's wrath but I'd also have a hard time explaining to Mom why I would rather stay home—I still didn't want to share with her about the journal or my job at Millennial Antiques. If I shared about one, I had to share about the other. So off to Ryan's I went.

When I walked into Ryan's, I was surprised to see Clara there. She occasionally hung out with us, but had never been to a concert with Ryan and me. Ryan hadn't mentioned inviting her, either. Clara looked like she could pass for Tinker Bell, she was so green. She was wearing a short green wig—her hair is actually blonde—shaped in a pixie cut. She also wore a short green dress and completed her ensemble with green, glittery flats. I was surprised she only carried a small handbag, not a sparkling wand. Next to Ryan, her short stature in flats certainly made her look even more like she was of a different, not-quite-earthly species.

Ryan accentuated her height by wearing red high heels, long black pants, and a red shirt-dress that hugged her curves. When she put on her red eye shadow and lashes and took down her long, curly, brown hair, she looked like she could be on one of the choose-your-own adventure programs. She'd have to dye her hair blonde, though.

"Amala, so glad you finally made it!" Ryan exclaimed, as if I hadn't walked in at our prearranged meeting time. "Clara and I have been hanging out since school, so I invited her to come with." It stung a little that they hung out without inviting me. It didn't matter that I was already busy, I was Ryan's best friend.

"Let's get you dressed!" Clara said as she led me into Ryan's bedroom.

Though I prefer to dress in black and was already wearing what I thought was the perfect outfit, Ryan convinced me not to wear the conservative tank top and black jeans and instead wear her blue dress, the one that she got in trouble for wearing to school last month. Sebastian always complimented me in black, and somehow that became my favorite color to wear, too. Clara had a headband that went well with the borrowed dress, and she did my eyes and lips to match. At least they let me wear my favorite black heels as neither Clara's petite shoes nor Ryan's large ones would fit me.

Before we left Ryan's apartment, I looked in the mirror. The blue dress truly was stunning and made me look beyond my high school years. I hardly recognized the girl who stood before me, the one who just got dumped by her not-quite boyfriend.

As we got to our seats high up in the stadium—the best we could afford with our eCred allowances—I felt the excitement building in my stomach. As we were waiting for the concert to start, we got up on our seats and started dancing. I'm sure if anyone was watching us, they thought we were already drunk, though we hadn't had a sip of alcohol or any other substance. Dance music, slinky outfits, and a Friday night were the only stimulants we needed to have a good time.

By the time Restra got on stage, I had to sit down as I was laughing too hard. We were definitely attracting the attention of those around us, but we didn't care.

When two boys one aisle over who looked a couple of years older than us approached the three of us, I thought they wanted to join in on our fun. Ryan had had her eye on them from the beginning, and all three of us had been whispering—okay, yelling over the band—and giggling about them.

"Hi, I'm Xavier," the taller boy said as he pushed through the crowd to get to us.

"Jamari," the other said, holding out his broad hand to me, looking me straight in the eye with his stunning dark brown ones, framed by long lashes.

They really were cute boys. Jamari, with his dark features, smooth skin, broad shoulders, and those dark eyes quickly made me forget about all the nonsense about Sebastian. Xavier looked younger, but his confidence gave off the air of maturity in spite of not having quite grown into his body.

Somehow over the noise Xavier communicated to Ryan that he and Jamari wanted to invite us girls to Jamari's apartment.

"You guys are up for this, right?" Ryan asked, as she turned to Clara and me. With her eyes she begged us to agree.

"Sure," I said, trying to give off more confidence than I had. I had never been to a strange boy's apartment, but I tried to pretend like this was how I usually spent my Friday nights, going to a stranger's apartment, dressed to party.

As the five of us walked out of the stadium, we were all laughing. I can't remember who said what or what exactly was so funny, but we were having a good time. Xavier hailed a pod-bus for the five of us. We didn't have to wait long as few others were leaving as the concert was only half over. The address Jamari entered into the pod was unfamiliar to me: somewhere on the south side where I rarely go.

After about twenty minutes, the pod-bus pulled in front of Jamari's apartment. From the outside, it clearly was not as nice as ours, as the graffitied walls appeared to be crumbling, willing to fall at the slightest shove. After going down a dark stairwell, we approached a dim corner in the basement with a door that opened when it sensed Jamari's presence. He held it open for us, and we all went inside.

The first thing I noticed inside the apartment was the odor: a faint smell of garlic overwhelmed by the more potent smell of body odor. It was what I imagined the boys' locker room at Bramble High smelled like.

We weren't the only ones in the dim, dank space. An older man—maybe 35—with rough, dark features and of short stature was seated on the couch, wearing a dirty tank top and a ratty pair of jeans and drinking out of an unmarked bottle. He clearly hadn't bathed in several days, and had a large gut that spilled out over his pants. He raised his bottle in acknowledgement of our arrival, and went back to his chip programming.

Through his chip, Jamari turned on some music in the apartment—Restra, in honor of the concert we skipped out on. I was rather sick of the pop band at that point, but I tried to pretend like I was enjoying it and having a good time. Jamari poured each of us a drink. I was not sure what they were, but the strong smell of alcohol was impossible to miss. Not caring, I took a big chug of my drink and held my nose, as I tried to keep it down.

Before we had been there an hour, I had finished drinking that cup and most of a second that Jamari gladly poured for me. I could tell the alcohol was already going to my head, and the world appeared softer as I sat quietly on the couch.

After pouring the first round of drinks, Jamari had sat down between Clara and I, and Ryan was sitting in Xavier's lap. It didn't take long for Xavier to take Ryan back to a room in the back of the apartment. I would have been concerned if she hadn't been laughing and stumbling as she walked down the hall. Let her have a little fun...what could it hurt?

Jamari had been talking equally to Clara and I—the volume of the music made it almost impossible for all three of us to join in on the same conversation—but after she had finished her second drink, she started to get quite affectionate towards him nuzzling his neck with her nose and running her hand up and down his arm. The more attention she gave to him the more he ignored me. I had seriously thought—or as seriously as I could think buzzed—about giving him a big smooch to turn his attention back toward me. Though I had found Jamari attractive, he clearly had made his choice between Clara and me—or Clara and her alcohol-encouraged behavior made it for him—and it wasn't me.

After a few more minutes of my feeling like the fifth wheel, Jamari and Clara headed back to the back of the apartment themselves without so much as a word of apology or invitation to me. I must admit it hurt to see him choose her and not even consider me worthy of a polite "We'll be back later" or at least a "Nice to meet you, but your friend seems more willing to have fun than you are."

Then it was just me on the couch and the older man in the recliner, who up until that point, had paid no attention to me. I continued to sip my second drink as I gladly turned off Respa and turned on Turn of the Millennium to fill the now quiet and too dull moments. I was having a hard time following the show, imagining what was happening in the back of the apartment, alternating between wanting and not wanting to know. After about 15 minutes of sitting in the quiet room, the older man noticed that the two of us were alone.

I wish he had never realized it.

Shattering

The next two weeks I went through all the motions of being Amala: I went to school, worked my afternoon shifts, and completed my homework, but I was not Amala. I avoided Mom as much as I could. Ryan wasn't talking to me, mad at me for abandoning Clara and her at Jamari's apartment. She didn't know that I would never have left them alone in that apartment if they hadn't first left me alone with that disgusting man.

I was a better student than I'd ever been. I completed all my homework and sat in the front of the class so I had less to distract me from my lectures. I didn't have to redo missing homework or rewatch any of the lectures even once in the two weeks, the longest I've ever gone as a "perfect" student.

At work, I was getting more done than ever, getting closer to being able to turn my attention to the 2000s books. Hasan kept asking me what was wrong, but I kept pushing him off, giving excuses for my moods like difficult homework and problems with Mom. Actually, Mom and I had never gotten along this well before, as we had no reason to fight. I did everything she required of me without being asked. I was home on time and even helped with dinner. She hadn't thought to question the change in my behavior. Hasan was the only one who noticed.

For all Mom knew, I was the perfect daughter. She didn't seek to investigate why I was no longer questioning her authority and demanding my independence. If she had been asked about my new behavior, she probably would have explained it by saying I was maturing or perhaps that I had finally recognized her ways as right.

But I wasn't perfect, and that was the problem. When I came home early the night of the concert, she didn't even notice until the morning. When she asked why I was home so early from the scheduled sleepover, I told her that I had had a hard time sleeping, so I came home. After answering "fine" when she asked me how the concert was, we left it at that.

And that was the only word I've ever said about that night.

I even avoided the distraction of Beth's journal. The 2000s didn't hold much interest for me anymore. I now realized that something tragic can happen to an individual, not just a country. The worst part was that when it happened, you suffered alone.

I wished that I could keep the night of the concert out of my mind. Gone were the days when Sebastian and the 2000s were the focus of my daydreams. Every time I closed my eyes, that dirty man was standing over me, his hand reaching up the borrowed, blue dress.

I forced my memories to end there. I didn't want to see any more of the way he touched my body or how he exposed himself to me. But that image of him standing over me, I couldn't repress.

The only way I was able to sleep was by blasting Eminem—something I was never been able to sleep through until now. But for whatever reason, his music comforted me in a way that nothing else could.

It was just by accident that I stumbled across Beth's journal over two weeks after the concert. I had hidden it under my sweaters, thinking I wouldn't need them again that season, but that Tuesday afternoon I was shivering, so I reached for my most comfortable sweater: a large, baggy brown one. As I grabbed it out from the bottom of my drawer, my hand brushed the top of Beth's journal. I could have left it and forgotten it again, but I felt pulled toward its familiar brown cover and dusty book smell once again.

I picked it up and read.

October 10, 2001

I don't know where to begin. I thought that my journal entry four weeks ago would be the saddest thing I'd ever have to write. But tragedy on a personal level has a way of shaking your world's foundation in a way a national tragedy doesn't quite reach.

Wow, Beth has come to the same realization I have had. I was scared to read why she had come the same conclusion I had. Still, I read on.

Last night we were having family dinner, same as every Wednesday night. I was looking forward to going with Faith to youth group afterwards, something I had begun doing a few weeks back. Ever since September 11th, Meg has made it a point to make it back for Wednesday dinner, which Mom and Dad appreciated.

Just as I was clearing away my dishes and about to go into the kitchen to pull out the brownies I baked for dessert, Dad asked me to sit back down as he reached out for Mom's hand. I wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen, but I don't think I'd seen that serious look on his face before, not even when he picked me up from school early on September 11th.

" _Meg, Beth, we wanted to let you know: your mother and I are separating."_

I'm not exactly sure what I said to that, but I do remember angry words coming to mind, and many of them spilling out of my mouth. I know the first thought I had was that it must be a joke. A cruel, cruel joke but still, just a joke. I looked from Dad to Mom and saw in their eyes pain, but truth. I looked at Meg wanting her to say something, do something, but she didn't seem to panic like I did.

" _I'm not surprised," she said, after I finished my rambling outrage. I then turned my rage on her...how could she not be surprised? "Make sure you each invite me to your second weddings. I'll see if I have room in my schedule to come." Then she stormed out the front door._

Apparently, Mom had been sleeping in the guest room for some time, though I hadn't a clue. Meg knew as it was right next to her room. Actually, I think Meg knew a lot more than she was letting on.

Dad is moving out this weekend. He has an apartment fifteen minutes from here (and closer to work), but he promises Meg and I will see him as much as we do now. I don't know how...I don't think we'll be having family dinners again anytime soon.

As I was leaving the table to come to my room, Mom and Dad were telling Meg that they had meant to tell us the week of September 11th, but put it off to not disturb us more. I can't believe that night that we watched A Charlie Brown Christmas was a fraud.

October 11, 2001

This morning when I saw Faith in history class, she asked me why I hadn't made it to youth group last night. I just told her "things came up," but she could tell something was wrong. She asked me to come over after school, so I did.

Faith was so encouraging—encouraging in ways I had hoped Meg would be. After giving me a big hug, she shared with me that her parents had separated when she was younger, though they ended up working things out and getting back together after living apart for 6 months.

She also shared with me these verses from 2 Corinthians 1:

" _Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God."_

She told me that because she had received comfort from God when her parents were separated, she could now share that comfort with me. Just being with Faith was a great comfort...I'm thankful to have a true friend, even though I think God is not a good god if He puts me through this. Or perhaps he's just not big enough to keep two people together.

Apart from living through September 11th, I had thought Beth's life was pretty perfect. Sure, her teacher was mean and her parents didn't understand her (whose do?), but she seemed to have a good life.

This separation certainly didn't sound like something she was expecting. I've never dealt with divorce or separation myself—the culture has changed so much. Like many families today, my parents never married and never lived together. They always lived separately even after I was born, though they still considered themselves a couple. Growing up, Dad came around occasionally, but really didn't have a big part in our lives, as he's as busy as Mom. When they would take time for each other, they'd usually go to his apartment that he had to himself since his parents passed away. I've never really considered what it would be like to have both parents live with you expecting them to stay together.

Reading Beth's journal made me realize how hurt I would be if Dad had lived here and decided to move out. It'd be like if Mom decided to move out, leaving Chester and me behind. As much as she annoyed me sometimes and didn't know how to cook, I would feel abandoned if she left.

I could see how that verse was a comfort; it was comforting to think about a God who is a comforter. I never really thought about God being anything more than a guy in heaven getting his kicks watching us squirm and wiggle under his devious plots, like he was a great choose-your-own adventure mastermind.

The God that Beth and Faith were talking about was someone altogether different, though. He apparently was loving and good.

If this book, the Bible, was a comfort to Beth in her situation, maybe it would comfort me in mine. If it didn't condemn me first.

Wednesday I went in to Millennial Books as usual, with more on my mind than just working to pay for the journal. I was finally going to work up the nerve to ask Hasan to find me a Bible.

Hasan was busy with a customer when I walked in. Since I had been doing my job of keeping the books dust-free and organized, customers did seem to be more satisfied, and they had been coming in greater numbers. I was glad that I was helping the business not only because that meant I could make my case to work for more books, but also because I could see how happy it made Hasan to help these new customers share in his love of books.

As I started moving books from the bookshelf to the cart in order to start to organize them, one caught my eye.

The black spine of this book on the 2020s read, The Death of Christianity in America by Anthony Michaels. When I first started working at Millennial Antiques, I felt like I had to work really hard and never took time to investigate books that piqued my interest, but after a few weeks, I occasionally allowed myself to give in to the temptation of an old cover. Opening the book, I quickly read the chapter headings, and then turned to the end.

"In conclusion, Christianity is dead in America. While some older parents have successfully inculcated their children in the doctrines of the Christian faith, these children don't come back to the church after they leave the home and enter secular jobs and colleges. Statistics show us that the American churches are shrinking by an astounding 23% each year. Christians are not able to reproduce fast enough—though they may try—to make up for the lost congregants walking out their doors, a fact even more alarming when we consider that 70% of Christians are over the age of 50, past child-bearing age. It is estimated that by the year 2045, there will no longer be enough church-attending Christians in this nation to sustain a single denomination. This, of course, assumes there was a desire among various churches and traditions to join together, while the truth is that they're more polarized than ever. Indeed, Christianity as we know it is dead.

"This is nothing new. We've seen the same pattern happen to Europe and the Middle East in years and centuries gone by. Just like America rose as the center of Christianity, another nation will soon rise and carry on the Christian faith. A book—the Bible—does not survive millennia intact for no reason. A faith does not last as long as Christianity and die out immediately when it faces problems, even problems that have existed—and largely been ignored—for decades.

"Instead, researchers have found that the Church in South America is nearing its peak, but will continue on in its heyday for some time. The rising Church in China, recently free of governmental persecution, will continue to grow and spread its wings.

"Christianity may migrate, but if history tells us anything, it's that it's incapable of death."

Interesting. I had no idea Christianity ever was in South America, China, or even the Middle East. This will have to be something that I look into. I also hadn't realized just how old Christianity was. I knew the Bible was old, but for some reason, I thought the pilgrims were the first Christians. Looks like I had more to learn.

When my shift came to an end, all the books from the 2020s were still a mess. I straightened up as much as I could and rolled the overflowing cart of discards to a place where it would be out of the way until it was time for work tomorrow.

As I walked up to the front, I saw that Hasan was without a customer for the first time in over an hour.

"Hey, Amala. I didn't get to talk to you when you came in. How are you?"

"Okay," I said, giving my customary response. "I did see that you were busy when I came in this afternoon. Business seems to be picking up, doesn't it?"

"It sure is. I think you've had a lot to do with that. A new customer came in late last week, and I was able to find the novel he was wanting in about a minute. He was impressed that we had it and could locate it quickly, and wrote a great recommendation on a book-lover's club website. Other members have been coming in all week—some making very long pod-commutes, too. One even came from Charlotte."

"He must really love books if he's willing to pay 150 eCreds just to get here!" I exclaimed my surprise.

"And you haven't even seen the bookshelf behind the counter, where I've had to set aside a lot of books that people want me to ship to them. I may have to ask you to work more days...would you be interested?"

"Sure. I could work 4 days a week after school, and maybe come in Saturdays for 4 hours. Would that be good?"

"That'd be wonderful. Tomorrow when we have some time, why don't you pick out another book?"

I left Millennial Books with my first smile since the incident.

Searching

I got home that evening a few minutes late. Though I had been on my best behavior for the past two weeks, Mom seemed to have forgotten it and revealed her anger to me through her eyes.

"Where have you been, young lady?" I always loved when mom pulled out that pet name.

"Uhh, nowhere. Just a little busy, is all. I'm sorry I didn't make it home on time. Would you like me to make dinner?"

"I would have loved for you to have made dinner. But in order to do that, you have to be home on time. If I wasn't home early for once, we wouldn't be eating dinner at all."

Mom was being a little melodramatic—it only took 15 minutes for the one-pot to its work and we ate late more often than not. Besides, I only recently had taken over the responsibilities of cooking dinner. There was no actual arrangement that it was my job, just an understanding that I could load the one-pot just as easily as Mom.

"I'm sorry," I said, with a twinge of sarcasm in my voice, "I won't do it again."

"You say that now...go ahead and set the table, please," Mom responded tersely.

Dinner was quiet. Mom didn't seem to know what to say to me. While Chester had his last bite still on his spoon, she was already clearing away the dishes from the table.

"I'll be leaving for the office momentarily. I need to be in the office in case green bean riots break out as anticipated. You two know what I expect of you."

I sighed. So that's why Mom was so irritable—she was stressed. I knew that if there were rioting, the green bean supply would likely run out. No green beans and Mom may very well lose her job. Carolinians were surprisingly particular about their vegetables.

I got up from the table and walked into my bedroom, shutting the door. Soon after, I heard the outer apartment door open and close—Mom was gone. I sat down at my desk with every intention of completing my homework quickly and accurately. Over the last couple of weeks, I had found that being a good student wasn't too hard. Focusing on homework while music was blaring was always a great way to block out that night.

This time when my mind wandered, it landed on Beth's journal instead of a filthy man towering over me. I still wanted to find a Bible. While Hasan may well find one for me—I know that I had never seen one at the store—there was a good chance he might not find one, either. Since I could sneak out of the apartment without Mom's watchful eye, this would the perfect time to take a look at the entryway cabinet. Perhaps I would find what I was looking for.

As I quietly left our apartment—Chester was watching a video in the living room, and I didn't want to risk drawing his attention and having to explain myself—I took a right down our hallway and went up the stairs. The stairs opened up into the building's dim entryway which was empty, to my relief. I crossed over to the cabinet bending down to remain out of sight of anyone who might enter the main door.

Inside the cabinet I did find remnants of the church as I had rem.mbered There was a stack of strange-looking felt-lined bowls and a plastic tub of vintage jackets, scarves, and umbrellas. There was a stack of other books, mostly in good condition, that I pulled out to take to Hasan: _The Purpose-Driven Life_ , a book by Max Lucado, _The Shack_ , a book by Beth Moore, and _My Utmost for His Highest_.

I reached my hand back into the cabinet and felt around. I found a few stick pens—confirming the age of the cabinet's contents—but no Bible. I was a little disappointed, but at least I had those other books to show for my trouble. Perhaps Hasan would be able to offer me a few trades for them.

After coming up empty, I went back down to my room and placed the new-found books in my bag. I didn't even pretend to work on my homework before I pulled out the journal again.

October 22, 2001

It has been a week since Dad has moved out, and it still doesn't seem quite real. I trick myself into believing that he's simply in Atlanta or Cincinnati on a business trip like usual, though I know that his absence will soon become too real to ignore. Mom has continued "family dinners" on Wednesday nights, though neither Dad nor Meg show up. How can we be a family if it's just the two of us? Fifty percent is far from passing.

Faith has been great—I'm so glad to have her as a friend. She is helping me to understand that I'm not responsible for Mom and Dad's marriage—it's not my fault, and it's not my responsibility to fix it, even if I could. While they are calling it a "separation," Mom has already started planning for our annual Spring Break beach trip, and I know she has no plans of including Dad.

I've been continuing my reading in the Bible. I'm up to John chapter 11, where I found the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. I'm not really sure if that's possible, but I found this part of the story amazing:

" _When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and was troubled, and said, 'Where have you laid him?' They said to Him 'Lord, come and see.' Jesus wept."_

Seriously? Jesus CRIED? He knew that Lazarus wasn't going to stay dead (or wasn't dead, or whatever)! But if I was him and my friend died, I'd definitely cry, too. That gives me such a different picture of who Jesus was...he wasn't just some superhero, he was human.

October 30, 2001

Tomorrow is Halloween. It used to be my favorite holiday, but I'm not loving it this year. I've dressed up to trick-or-treat every year until now even when Meg told me I was too old. This year I just didn't feel like planning a costume. I hope we don't even turn on the porch light as I don't want to have to deal with sugar-filled, grubby trick-or-treaters.

Faith invited me to go to a haunted house last night with Jason and some other youth group members. I still think Jason is pretty cute, and he definitely seems to be flirty when he teases me. I was SO scared...I'm not sure I ever want to go to a haunted house again! It was the man with a chainsaw that did me in. Jason told me afterwards that there's no chain on the saw, but it looked real to me!

" _By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another."_

Jesus said this about his disciples. From listening to Pastor Steve, the youth pastor, I've learned that Jesus' followers today are sometimes called disciples, too. I think it's interesting, because that's why I hang out with this group, even if they sometimes try to scare me! They do have a love for each other. They're the nicest group I've hung around with, even though they definitely aren't perfect.

The next day I tried to get through the school day without incident and just make it to Hasan's. No such luck—Ryan chose this day to confront me for abandoning Clara and her. Apparently she didn't think giving me the cold shoulder was quite getting the point across that I was "in trouble"—in danger of losing my best friend status—and my coldness in return wasn't a signal to her that I wasn't going to seek forgiveness for the "wrong" I did to her.

When we were finishing up our English lectures and were about to head to lunch, Ryan looked over at me. Since our falling out, I had taken to sitting in the front row of Ms. Oscar's classroom instead of in the back with Ryan. Clearly, she had noticed that I was avoiding her too, and I was benefiting from it as it was making me a better student. When she saw that today I was back to my usual mediocre status as a student, only paying enough attention to the lecture to avoid the wrath of Ms. Oscar and after-school detention, she thought she found a chink in my armor.

"Hey, brown-noser. You forget that you're supposed to be the perfect girl, did you? Perfect Girl didn't complete her homework?"

I knew I should have ignored her when she started throwing verbal insults like that. I just couldn't do that. I have allowed Ryan to get away with too much in our friendship, so I stupidly decided to play her game.

Attacking the most gossip-worthy thing I could think of, I aimed, "Got tired of having one-night stands with boys? Trying to get your kicks elsewhere, huh?"

In Ryan's mind, pointing out my indiscretions was fair game, but Ryan doesn't put up with anyone questioning her decision making. She makes no claims of being perfect but she likes to think she has it figured out when it comes to boys.

Ryan aimed lower. "Say what? I wasn't the one perving on the old man."

"What?" I asked, genuinely in shock. I had no idea that Ryan had any idea of what went on in the living room that night. I really thought her problem with me only dealt with my leaving the apartment before they were finished in the back rooms.

"Yeah, I chipped with Xavier the next day. He said that we weren't the only ones having fun that night. That old dude—who happens to be Jamari's uncle by the way—bragged to Jamari about how much fun he had with you. I can't believe you would be with someone that disgusting. He clearly hadn't changed or bathed in days!"

I had heard enough. And worse, everyone else had heard it all too.

I ran out of the classroom, down the hall away from the cafeteria, and out the front door. I hopped into a waiting pod, and entered the first address that popped into my head: the address for Millennial Books.

Asking

If I thought that being given the cold-shoulder by my closest friend was lonely, I just had to wait until the entire school had ostracized me. I never was particularly popular, but I could now guarantee that soon everyone in the school would know who I was...and more embarrassingly, what I did.

When I came back to school the next morning, I tried to pretend like nothing had changed. Sure, I had probably lost my best friend for good, but I had survived for two weeks without her, so I was already getting used to it. I no longer turned to the person next to me to make a joke when Professor Larry or Professor Julie Anne said something particularly corny, or when Ms. Oscar made that fish face she sometimes did when she was apparently thinking of something else.

Not only had the entire class witnessed our fight, but also Ms. Oscar had heard Ryan's accusations from the day before, so she was, for once, in the know. When she told me I had a history test to make up from the day before, she did so matter-of-factly without her usual disdain and disapproving look. She actually looked sorry for me, as if I was an object of pity. It was bad when the disliked minder felt bad for you.

She wasn't the only adult in my life who was cutting me slack. When I showed up four hours early for my shift at Millennial Antiques, Hasan didn't even ask what was wrong. He read my face like the books he loved so much, and knew it was best to leave me alone, not even offering a hug, thankfully. I simply walked to the back of the store and got to work continuing to organize the 2020s section. I didn't care if those extra hours counted towards the journal or not; it felt good to have something to keep me occupied in body, if not completely in mind. I already was having a hard time forgetting that night, but now every time I saw anyone from school, my past would be reflected in their face as they looked on me in mockery, in shame, in pity, and in judgment.

I worked hard that afternoon. Without being asked, I jumped right in and started boxing the books that needed to be mailed. When I offered to take them to be shipped, Hasan simple smiled and nodded. He knew I was looking for anything to do; I was just so glad he didn't ask me what I was trying to avoid by doing all this work.

At school the next day, I quietly completed all that was required of me, but nothing more. I didn't make eye contact with anyone, afraid that they'd discover more of my secrets hidden just behind my pupils. I did everything as quietly as I could, doing my best to blend into the teenage crowd to which I no longer felt like I belonged.

Friday was my day off from work, but more importantly, Friday meant I had a reprieve from school: two days of freedom from raised eyebrows and whispered giggles that I pretended to be oblivious to. With any luck, someone else would make a fool of themselves over the weekend earning them the top spot in the Bramble High gossip feed on Monday.

As I walked into our apartment after school, Chester was plopped down in his usual spot on the couch with his video game. To my surprise, he wasn't the only one in the apartment.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been so surprised. Grandma had been over a lot recently. While Mom was able to stave off any green bean riots, things were not all quiet on the vegetable front, so she'd been working long hours. Despite the potential fate of the vegetable crops, Chester and I at least have been eating better thanks to Grandma's cooking.

I almost skipped over to Grandma, who was busy unloading the dishwasher in her green dress and white flip flops. "Hi, Grandma!" I said as I almost tackled her, barely catching her before she fell into the open appliance.

"Oh, watch it, sweetie! I'm not as spry as you are. These brittle bones will break!" Then after a brief pause in which she sized me up she asked, "Has it been one of those days?"

Of course Grandma would be able to tell something was wrong...grandmother's intuition. Thankfully, I could come up with a story to cover what was really bothering me. I couldn't tell her the real problem. That's just not something you talk about with your grandma.

"Yes. I had to take a history test—history of the founding of the USNA. Boring stuff, really. I'm not sure why they want us to know it all!"

"Oh, but that is interesting stuff." Of course she'd think it was interesting—it happened in her life time.

Before she could go into a lecture on the 2030s, I muttered, "Umm, sure," rolling my eyes. "It's all about politics. Politics isn't interesting."

"Yes, but do you know why it was formed?"

"Yes," I say with another eye roll. Didn't she hear me say that I had a test on it? Of course, I didn't say if I passed or failed. I had passed, if barely.

I answered the question on the table, "It's because all three countries, Canada, The United States, and Mexico were concerned about competing against Asia in trading."

"Yes, but it was so much more than that. Without the merge, the United States was facing falling at the feet of their enemies because their debt was just too large to continue. Did you know once upon a time the biggest political issue in this country was immigrants from Mexico? Mexico had the people resources, The United States had the jobs, and Canada had the natural resources. By working together, they would be able to create a better nation. Or at least that was the idea."

"Hmmm, yeah, I'm not sure that worked. I mean, we're living in small apartments not sprawling houses like every family had back then, right?"

"Well, many did. I guess you could say that things are more equally distributed these days. At least the misery is."

After dinner, I went back to my room. Grandma cleaned up the kitchen, and settled down to one of her choose-her-own adventures. There were some that I liked better than others even though I thought they were all a waste of time, and the ones that Grandma liked were the most boring of the lot. The characters weren't even interesting to watch in a train wreck kind of way.

I went straight to Beth's journal.

November 5, 2001

It has been an uneventful week. I'm glad that Mom and I have settled into a new normal, but I hate that it was needed.

When I was hanging out with Dad Sunday afternoon, he asked me what I wanted to do for Thanksgiving. This is the first time anyone had ever asked me my thoughts on any holiday. I guess I was always just a kid, but now I'm a kid of separated parents. What a fun title.

I wouldn't be given the choice of how to celebrate if Mom and Dad were still together. I told him I wanted us all together, but he just gave that smile that adults have when a child tells them what Santa is going to bring them, usually with a "that's nice" and a pat on the head. Is my family being together again such a fairy tale? Is my belief that it could really happen just a child's dream? Am I too young to know any better? After all, they were married for 24 years...certainly you couldn't last that long in a marriage if you didn't love each other, right? Can you really fall out of love with someone? Why isn't love forever?

I've been thinking a lot lately about truth. What does it mean when something is true? It probably started when I read this verse:

" _And you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free." - John 8:32_

I had heard the saying before, but I had no idea it was from the Bible. Since it's in the Bible, perhaps it doesn't mean what I've always heard about it: that venting is okay because it frees you. This must mean something about God's truth, I think. I'm going to have to ask Pastor Steve about this one.

But what else could it mean? The truth about me was known—that I was a flooze—but did that make me free? No, I was trapped in my memory, even more than I was before.

I turned out my light, turned up the volume on my music, and cried myself to sleep.

Saturday I woke up later than I anticipated, at 11:00. I had hoped to make it in to work by 10:00, but I had slept through my alarm. Once awake, I dressed and left, heading to the one part of my life that was not a mess, or at least was a mess I could do something about.

As I walked into Millennial Antiques, I breathed in that welcoming air. Hasan greeted me with a smile over the head of a customer. I headed to the back of the store, where the 2010s books were. I was motivated to organize them as the next section I would get to work on was my favorite.

After I had worked for four hours, I straightened up my mess and stacked the still misplaced books on a cart. I went up to the front of the store where I found Hasan customer-free for only the second time since I'd arrived.

"Hey, Hasan...thank you for being so understanding Thursday."

"No problem, Sweetie. I understand what it feels like to need to escape. Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"Not really. Well, actually, yes, but not about Thursday. I was wondering if I could pick out my next book."

"Oh, of course! What did you have in mind?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you had a Bible."

"Oh, a Bible, huh?"

"Yes. The girl who wrote the journal sometimes quotes it, and it makes me want to read it myself. I know that it used to be really important to many people. I mean, I live in what used to be a good-sized church. I'm sure they were Bible owners, or at least many of them would have been. But for whatever reason, I can't seem to find it anywhere, not on the net, or anywhere in my apartment building."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have a Bible. I might be able ask around for you and come up with it. Would you like to pick out something else for now, and we'll see if I can line up a Bible for your next pick?"

The thought of continuing to earn books made me smile. Still, I answered, "No, I'm content to wait to see what you come up with."

"Sounds good. I'll see you Monday."

"Yes...have a great weekend, Hasan."

I started a sleepy Sunday morning with my new favorite activity.

November 6, 2001

I can't believe it. I've been waiting for a long time for a guy of my dreams to ask me out. And it finally happens.

While I've had a crush on Jason for a while now, it hasn't been very consuming. I mean, everything else has more than distracted me. So while I had wondered if there was something more behind Jason's teasing, I didn't really expect him to act upon it. But he did.

Just after history class he pulled me aside—usually I would have been with Faith, but she had left class early to participate in a blood drive—and asked me to dinner Friday night.

I actually said, "We'll see" before walking away. What a dork. But really, I couldn't say yes. I can't understand why my parents' love can't last. I can't imagine walking down that road myself. It seems like it just leads to broken hearts.

So a few minutes ago I made the hard call. I called Jason and told him I was flattered, but no. I tried to make it clear (when I wasn't stumbling over my words) that it had nothing to do with him. If I were to go on a date with anyone I would want it to be with him, but I'm just not ready for that. I may never be.

I decided to stop reading right there. Talking about boys was just a little too uncomfortable after everything that has happened. Instead, I turned my attention to a Law and Order marathon. The series may be 100 years old, but I love watching old TV, imagining that I was living back then.

As the suspect in my third Law and Order episode of the day was about to go to trial, I received a chip. Since my fallout with Ryan, I've rarely had anyone to chip with, so when it beeped, it actually startled me.

hey mally

Faltering

Even if my chip hadn't told me it was Sebastian sending the message, I would have known it was from him, as he was the only person who has ever called me, "Mally."

I just let the chip sit there, and was tempted to dismiss it. I hit delete, but when I was asked if I was sure, I couldn't respond. My chip asked again, and I said, "No." I wasn't sure.

I knew he must have heard about what happened that night in Jamari's apartment though he wasn't in Ms. Oscar's class. I'm not dumb enough to believe that the story hadn't gotten to him. There were probably half a dozen people itching to tell him about his promiscuous ex-girlfriend—or whoever I was to him.

Still, it was Sebastian, the boy I crushed on for almost a year before we got together. The boy who could always make me smile—when he wanted to—and whose kisses would make every cell within me tingle.

I waited another minute in indecision before typing, "hey." I hit send before I had a chance to change my mind. The response was immediate.

wanna hang out

The lack of a question mark was likely an indication that Sebastian didn't consider it a question, not just poor grammar. He never really asked me anything but just told me what he had already decided we were going to do.

Part of me wanted to quickly quip something biting, but nothing of the sort came to mind. Another part of me wanted to quickly write back, "Yes, please, come over right now!" I hadn't realized how strong my feelings still were for Sebastian until that moment.

Instead, I silently typed, "What about Kinsley?"

Sebastian: what about her

Amala: aren't u back with Kinsley?

Sebastian: what does that matter to u

Amala: well, if ur with her, i don't wanna talk 2 u

Sebastian: really

Sebastian: that's strange

Sebastian: u will do the nasty with a stranger, but u won't talk to ur good friend

Of course. What he had heard about me made him jealous. After all, I would never do anything more than kiss him. He often called me a prude, but I held my ground. I just wasn't comfortable doing more with him at the time.

I definitely wouldn't be considered a prude anymore.

I didn't have anything more to say, and was ready to end the conversation there, but Sebastian wasn't done.

Sebastian: come over

At that moment, I knew I would do it, even though I didn't want to. I was already past the point of no return. I should never have answered his chip.

Amala: no thank u

Sebastian: "thank u" r u still trying to be miss goody 2 shoes

Again, I had nothing to say to that. After a couple more minutes of pleading from him, I caved. I left the apartment and entered the address that came so easily to mind into the pod.

Arriving at Sebastian's brought back a flood of memories. When we were together, we would often hang out there, as he lived with his dad who was rarely home. There was no annoying brother to pester us and no mom who could be home at any minute like at my apartment.

Sebastian's father had a high-paying position in the government, which afforded them a larger place than most 2-person families. My mother—like most adults—also worked for the government, but she was low on the chain of command and pay. Sebastian and his father were assigned to live in a spacious two-floor condo. Inside, Sebastian had the second floor all to himself including his own bathroom. Sebastian even had his own little living area up there, where we would hang out on his beat-up couch.

As I walked to the door, it opened, anticipating my arrival. Sebastian called out from upstairs for me to join him. He never was one to formally welcome me to his home.

My heart pounded louder and louder as I took each step. As I looked down at my hands, I saw that they were shaking as I tried to dry them off on my pants. I hadn't bothered to change or even wash my face before I left the house, so as I walked by the mirror at the top of the stairs, I saw a tired, worn-down little girl, hair going every which way, dressed in a dull brown that muted her features.

I stepped through the entryway into Sebastian's living area and saw that he was tuned out on his couch. As I sat down next to him, he let out a nonchalant "hey."

"Hi," I replied shyly, taking a seat on the edge of the couch.

I saw his eyes zone back into the moment as he shut off his video feed. He reached over and puts his arm around me. "What's up?"

"Umm, just came over because you asked me to. What's going on? Is it over between you and Kinsley?"

Though I wanted Sebastian's attention, I didn't want it if he was going to turn right back to Kinsley.

"Well, it's, you know, fine. Whatever," Sebastian said with a dismissive gesture. "That was just her that I was chipping. She's visiting her grandma in the mountains with her family this weekend."

"Oh," I sighed, clearly disappointed. If Sebastian saw it, he didn't let on.

Then Sebastian did what I hadn't expected, though I probably should have. Instead of continuing our conversation, he leaned over me and started heavily kissing me. I went along, simultaneously wanting and hating it, longing both for the moment to last and to end.

As he reached to take off my shirt, I put my hand on his to stop him. I couldn't do this. He was reluctant to stop, but he did, swearing under his breath.

"What's wrong?" he asked me, as if it he assumed he had the right to continue.

I just looked at him. Even when we were together—or I thought we were—I wouldn't let him go that far. And we've only been here together for five minutes. Plus, there was Kinsley. How did he not realize this?

"I can't do this. I don't want to."

"That's not what it felt like to me," he said, reaching to kiss me again. After he saw I wasn't changing my mind, he tried a different tactic. "Oh, come on, why would you be with that old dude and not me? I know you like me." Sebastian completed his argument with his conquering smile.

And with that, I succumbed to temptation, a decision I regretted every second.

As I went back home, I tried to get my heart to settle down. I couldn't believe what I did, and with a loser like Sebastian. Yes, there were still feelings there, but he clearly wasn't as into me as I once thought he was, if he wasn't serious enough to end it with Kinsley.

I was tempted to write a chip to Kinsley and let her know what a fool she was for being with a two-timer. But I was afraid all I'd get in return is more gossip about me and with the added title of "bitter ex-girlfriend." After all, Sebastian would clearly deny anything I said about what happened, and my own words wouldn't have much worth. As much as I disliked Kinsley, I didn't want Sebastian to be able to fool another girl.

Distracted, I picked up Beth's journal. I wanted to escape, and 2001 sounded like an excellent place to go. I took comfort in the thought that in 2001, Sebastian was still decades away from being born.

November 8, 2001

It's finally starting to get cold here in North Carolina. The trees are turning all sorts of pretty shades: yellow, orange, and red. I just hope that Mom won't make me rake up all the leaves since Dad isn't here to do it.

I forgot that this area used to be covered with trees. Now you can only find them in parks, and there aren't a whole lot of those.

I'm afraid things around here ARE becoming a new kind of normal. I hate that Dad is gone, and feel like most conversations between Mom and me are rather forced these days. Meg hasn't been by the house in weeks, and she doesn't answer her phone when I call. I don't know what is going on with her, or if she's just trying to avoid the whole thing.

November 10, 2001

Yesterday and today were both scary days at school. During third period, we were required to evacuate the building. At first, I thought it was just a fire drill—though we had just had one two weeks earlier. I could tell by the look on Mrs. Jordan's face that it wasn't though she had no idea what was going on. Turns out, there had been a bomb threat. We had to wait outside at the football field—my class sat on the track picking at the spongy surface—while the SWAT team and bomb-sniffing dogs came through and gave the all clear. I'm glad that they didn't find anything.

If the bomb threat had to happen, I'm glad it happened in history class so that Faith and I could huddle up together. I wish I had worn my hoodie, though, as it was chilly this morning. Faith and I got really close and shared hers, so I did stay pretty warm.

When they let us back into the building an hour later, I thought that that'd be that. But then this morning when I walked up the drive to the school building from my car, I saw that there was a long line of people waiting outside the main door. As I got closer, I looked down, and saw more than a few half-smoked packs of cigarettes, lighters, and a couple of knives covering the grass beside the sidewalk.

Once I was inside the front door—after waiting in line for ten minutes—I saw the metal detectors, and a group of teachers searching bags alongside a couple of police officers. So that's why people were dropping their contraband. The teachers and officers weren't looking for cigarettes though—they were looking for weapons. Apparently yesterday's bomb threat spooked the administration and they called in the metal detectors. I don't think they caught anything, though, or at least nothing they told us about.

It's scary to think that if terrorists could get into the cockpit of a plane and fly it into a skyscraper, they could definitely get into our 50-year-old school building. A school should be a safe place, a place of learning, not fear.

School had been my sanctuary from our messed-up home, but how can a place that requires metal detectors be a sanctuary?

In way better news, Dad stopped by this afternoon to rake the leaves out of the yard. I don't know if Mom called him and asked him to, or if he did it on his own, but either way it seems like a good sign. I pointed the freshly-raked yard out to Mom, but she didn't really say anything, seemingly distracted.

I actually thought not having metal-detectors would be scarier. I guess we've just gotten used to them now. But to Beth, her entire world was changing, into one people today would recognize.

Mom finally made it home—the first time this weekend—in time for dinner Sunday. I was in no mood to talk, and she was clearly in no mood to put up with my silence, and not content to let me be.

"Amala!"

"Hmmm," I said, looking up from my beans and rice.

"I asked you a question," she said impatiently.

I looked up at her, "I'm sorry. What?"

"I asked how you spent your weekend."

"Uh, well nothing much. Just kind of hung out the whole time. Went shopping on Saturday—no, I didn't buy anything—and that was about all."

"Chester said you went out for about an hour this afternoon. Where did you go?"

Mom could just as easily look up where I had been, but I guess she wanted to show that she trusted me instead, which was rare. I was about to lie like normal—it had become my usual defense mechanism against my mother—but I might as well have told her the truth.

"I went to Sebastian's."

"I asked you to not spend as much time with him."

"It was only an hour," I was about to say that it was the only time I've spent with him in weeks, but that would have contradicted other lies, leaving me with more explaining to do. I also didn't really want to tell her I hadn't been spending time with Sebastian, allowing her to say "I told you so" when she found out the reason.

"Okay, but you spent time with him almost every day this week. Pick which days you want to spend time with him—no more than 4, please."

That's going to be a problem as I'm supposed to be working five days a week. But perhaps I can cover up Saturday's work with shopping, or say I'm spending time with Ryan. Just one more person Mom didn't know wasn't in my life.

And that's when I realized that I was almost completely alone.

Shadowing

As I walked into Ms. Oscar's classroom Monday, I froze momentarily. Was it better to sit in the front—and risk another explosion from Ryan—or sit in the back in keeping with the keep-your-enemies-closer rule? Unable to come up with a better idea, I had to sit in the front of the class again. It wouldn't matter if Ryan decided to call me out on not being perfect again—obviously, it was something the whole school knew about by now.

When it was time for lunch, I was happy that I was able to quickly slip out of the class before Ryan was able to say anything to me. I picked up my lunch of fettuccini alfredo (a little too light on the alfredo) and green beans. As I was contemplating the fact that these green beans were on my plate because my mom was able to stop the riots—and successfully stay away from home for days—a shadow appeared over me.

"May I sit next to you?" a quiet voice asked.

Ming Hanley was so quiet she was hard to hear over the chewing of my green beans. The school's green beans took a lot of chewing. Ming, a soft-spoken girl with clear olive skin and shiny black hair, is a girl I had certainly seen before—it's hard not to notice the butt of so many cafeteria pranks—but did not know personally. We had locked eyes a few weeks back, but we had never once spoken to one another.

All I knew of Ming was that she didn't have any friends. For as long as I can remember, her nickname has been "Peg-leg Ming" because of her obvious limp. When other kids would tease her, I never heard her respond back, but I can imagine all the things she would have wanted to say. I know that I wouldn't have been able to keep my mouth shut.

The first few moments as Ming sat beside me were awkwardly silent. I made a show of each bite of my green beans, exaggerating my movements, before I moved on to my noodles. Then she spoke up.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine," I said curtly. What business was it of hers?

"You know, we've got a lot in common," she responded matter-of-factly. I quickly swallowed my green beans, turned and looked her in the face where I saw earnest concern, which puzzled me. Though I had never noticed before, Ming was surprisingly beautiful. If it weren't for her leg, perhaps she could be one of the most popular girls in school.

"How are we alike?" I challenged. "You don't even know me," I scowled.

"Well, we're both outcasts. I've had to deal with it my whole life, but it's new to you."

"Yeah, well, I don't see how having dirty rumors spread about you and having a limp that you can't help are the same. Soon the rumors will die down, but your family probably will never be able to afford the surgery you'd need to fix your leg." I could hear the hurtful sharpness in my words as I said them, but I didn't care.

"You're right. It's not the same. Still, from all I can tell, you no longer have any friends. I don't have any friends. So why don't we be friends so we each have someone? I'm not asking you to tell me all your secrets or anything. But let's sit together at lunch. Strength in numbers, you know."

She had a point. Perhaps I could stop fearing the thought of Ryan coming up and spouting more of my dirty laundry. Or perhaps not—maybe she'd see befriending Ming as another sign of weakness. Would I really want to link myself to this self-confessed outcast?
"Well, I can't tell you where to sit. If you want to sit next to me, fine." I conceded. "But I'm not going to seek you out, okay?"

For the rest of the week, Ming came and sat next to me like a faithful puppy. She even would have a smile on her face each day that reminded me of a puppy's tail wag. She would ask me questions every day and I'd be polite, but I thought it would end at that. But just like a puppy, she had no idea the character of the person she was following. She didn't know I wasn't a nice person. I had made fun of her all those years along with everyone else.

Saturday, I was surprised as I was working on organizing some of my favorite books on the 2000s shelf. Ming walked into Millennial Antiques. Immediately upon entering, she started searching for something, and I was hoping that it wasn't me. No such luck.

I was tempted to hide in the back of the store, pretending to organize the new inventory, but as I was walking to the back to do just that, Ming spotted me and almost ran to catch up with me.

Once she reached me, she acted all casual, as if we saw each other at Millennial Antiques every day.

"Hey, Amala."

"Hi, Ming," I said with a sigh as I kept working. "If you have a question about a book, you'll have to ask Hasan at the counter. I'm only the stock girl."

"Oh, no, I don't really have any interest in books. I was here to see you."

A puzzled look crossed my face. I had never told anyone that I worked here, and as far as I knew, no one I knewhad seen me here since I started working four weeks ago.

She continued, "Yeah, I didn't mean to, but the other day after school I saw what address you were entering into the pod. I was curious, so I decided to visit here myself."

Now she sounded like a stalker. "Why? Were you concerned that the nasty rumors about me making a living by turning tricks were true? Were you afraid I actually had a real friend and wasn't on your level after all?"

For the first time, I could see that Ming was clearly hurt by my stinging words, but she swallowed it and answered, "No, not really. I was hoping to find out more about you so that I'd have something to discuss with you. I was wondering how you spent your free time, and now I know."

Ming's apparent genuine interest in my life was touching. She was trying so hard to be a legitimate friend, and I've not tried—even a little—to be one back. I couldn't help it; I had to soften up a bit.

"Yeah, I work here a few days a week. But no one knows: not my mom or my brother and certainly not anyone at school. So you can't tell anyone, okay?"

"Your secret's safe with me; don't worry about it. Besides, who would I tell? That would require people to actually talk to me."

I only had a few minutes left of my shift so we chatted while I finished cleaning up the books. I still had some work to do to get these turn of the millennium books in order, but it was partly my fault as I was much more tempted to spend a few minutes inside the books before I would put them where they belonged.

Ming was right—I really didn't have a friend any more. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity that was right in front of me to change that. Ming was really easy to talk to and didn't seem to judge me by the rumors. After saying goodbye to Hasan and leaving the store, I invited Ming to go with me to the caffeine bar. She agreed and appeared grateful that she was no longer the only one working on making this friendship a reality.

Sitting down with our caffeine—my drink cherry-flavored and hers cocoa-colored—I asked her about her leg. There were all sorts of rumors as to why she had a limp. Regardless of how she got it, we all knew the reason she still had it was that her family simply couldn't afford the medical treatments it would take to make the limp go away.

"So how did you get your limp, anyway?"

"I've had it since I was a baby. Birth defect. It would have been a simple fix back then—just some braces and physical therapy—but my parents didn't even know where to go to get that kind of medical care. They certainly couldn't afford it if they found it. Instead, at 2 they bought me my first cane—the first of many. I've been walking with a limp ever since."

"You use a cane? How come I've never seen you with one?"

"Well, I used to use it at school, but the older kids would always steal it from me. To get them to leave me alone, I pretended I didn't need it anyway. I sometimes would have to go weeks without one, because it would take that long for us to save up the money we would need to buy a new one. Once I had a new one, it would only last a couple of days before it was stolen again. After that happened a few times, I just stopped bringing a cane to school altogether, only using it home. I've gotten so used to walking without it now, that I can get by pretty well without it."

"What would it take now for you to get rid of your limp? Is it even possible?"

"Yeah, I think that if I got the right equipment and an experienced therapist, I could lose my limp, mostly. I'm just glad that it doesn't hurt too much to walk now. When I was younger it was quite painful, but I guess my muscles got used to it. I used to spend hours laying on my bed, trying to stretch my legs out as far as I can. It would be quite painful after a few minutes, but I persisted. Never did any good though. Finally, I just gave up hope. Once a cripple, always a cripple." I winced at the harsh word.

"Well, who knows. Maybe you'll marry a wealthy government man who will get you the therapy you need!" I said with a toss of my hair.

"Yeah right. Where am I going to rub shoulders with Mr. Fancy-Pants?"

"Well, with your limp, I'd think it'd be much easier for you to 'accidently' rub shoulders with anyone, most especially Mr. Fancy-Pants!"

And with that, we shared our first laugh.

Advancing

I fell into a new normal that next week. After school I still went to work at Hasan's, followed by an evening spent chipping Ming. She had so many good stories to tell—ones she had bottled up inside her, some of them for years. We still ate lunch together, but our lunches became more characterized by giggles than by silence.

As each day went by, I was more comfortable at school. Still, Ryan hadn't talked to me since she blew up at me in the classroom. I could tell that rumors still went around about me sometimes, but they clearly were losing steam as I was catching fewer and fewer glances in the hallways. The gossip had moved on.

Wednesday at the end of my shift, Hasan kept me back a few moments to speak to me.

"Amala, I have some good news."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I know a lady who can probably hook you up with a Bible."

"Oh, cool!"

"Yeah, I thought you'd like it. The great thing is that you may not even have to pay for it."

I hadn't even thought about how I'd buy it, if I couldn't earn it from Hasan.

"Why don't you come over for dinner at my house tomorrow at the end of your shift to meet her? My daughter is coming over to make me dinner—she takes pity on me. She loves to cook, and wouldn't mind cooking for a few more. You can invite your friend that came in Saturday as well. What's her name?"

"Ming."

"Beautiful name. I'm so glad that you brought a friend here. I look forward to getting to know her, too. Does she have any interest in books?"

"No, not really. But we've become friends at school, and she's pretty cool. I'll see if she can come by about six tomorrow before we head out."

"Sounds good."

"And Hasan?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

That night after yet another dinner of rice and beans, I opened Beth's journal for the first time in a week.

November 15, 2001

Today is my 18th birthday. I can't believe that I'm officially an adult! In so many ways, I don't feel like an adult. After all, I still have six months of high school left, and will be living under my parents' roof (okay, I should say "Mom's roof," but that just makes me feel sad) until August when I get to move to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Also, I don't really know what I want to do when I grow up.

Faith is throwing me a small party at her house. I'm not sure what all we'll be doing, but I'm looking forward to getting together with all the girls.

For my birthday, my Mom gave me a really pretty pair of diamond earrings. They look beautiful on me and make me feel like a princess. Dad—in what I assume to be a bit of guilt over having left the house—bought me my own computer! I can't believe he did that. He said that he knew that I'd need it next year when I go off to college, so he wanted to give me a head start. Plus, he thought that it'd come in handy with homework this year, as well.

It's a laptop which is exactly what I wanted. Though it is a bit heavy to carry around, I'm glad it's portable so that I can use it wherever I want. Mom has said that I can even use her dial-up Internet when she doesn't need it (and she doesn't use it as much as I do, anyway).

Wow...I knew they didn't have computers hooked up to their brains back then, but I forgot how heavy a "portable" computer could be. And not to have instant access to the net and all that's out there! I'm not sure what you could do with a computer not hooked up to the net. She didn't receive a computer until the age of 18, and I had a chip installed when I was two-and-a-half. I had heard that there was some controversy when chips were required for all preschoolers, but parents figured out ways to limit their children's access while still providing the safety of knowing where their child was at all times.

November 18, 2001

Last night's party was SO fun! Faith is so good to me—and to think we weren't even friends three months ago.

We started the night by making our own pizzas. Sounds childish, I know, but Faith knew that pizza is my favorite meal.

Pizza sounds so good! Of course, Mom never makes it—WAY too much work. I've seen a documentary on how important pizza was even as late as 75 years ago, and how people would even pay to have it cooked for them and delivered to them. Seems like it'd be such a luxury now, but I guess they took it for granted then.

We followed that up with ice cream.

Now real ice cream is definitely something I wish that I could try. There just aren't enough cows to supply the USNA's dairy supply, so they stopped making ice cream about 25 years ago. At least for any common person. I imagine if you went into some of the wealthy government homes, you may find some ice cream in their freezers as a delicacy.

Then we sat around and played a hilarious game of charades. Normally that wouldn't be my type of game, but I'm glad we played. Angela was trying to be a vacuum cleaner, but we thought she was an elephant—we laughed too hard!

I had to look up charades. Sounds like it could have been an interesting game, but would be too hard today. It'd be way too easy to use your visual input to your chip to look up what the person was acting out. Someone would definitely cheat. I knew I would.

After charades, we sat around and talked for a while. Angela and Marie were sharing about how they struggled with gossiping. Faith piped in and said that she too really struggled with honoring God with her words. At that point, Stacy—the only girl that doesn't go to our church—and I just looked at each other, surprised. Neither of us had ever heard anyone talk like this before. I thought Faith was perfect! When I said so, she said that I just needed to know her a little more and I would see that it was far from being true.

When I asked her how she expected to go to heaven—we'd talk about it before, so I knew she did—if she wasn't always perfect. She said she never expected anything she did to get her into heaven. That blew me away. Instead, she said she expects what Jesus did—dying on the cross when he was sinless—to be all she needed. She said that by trusting His work to be enough, she believed that God would let her go to heaven. I have a lot to think about. She also shared this verse:

" _For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works so that no one may boast." – Ephesians 2:8-9_

Now I wanted to read the Bible even more! The good thing was that I may very well have a chance to do so tomorrow.

Meeting

That Thursday I went to school with a smile on my face for the first time in a while. I did accidently catch Ryan's eye as I walked into Ms. Oscar's classroom, earning me a glare which I quickly avoided. I was concerned that wouldn't be the end of it, and I was right.

As we were breaking for lunch, I cringed, imagining what Ryan might say to me. But she stayed away, and I went to lunch in peace, sitting next to Ming. I had my guard down as I was walking back to the classroom after an excited conversation with Ming, when Ryan struck. Ryan might stay away when I was with a friend, but Ming was not in my class.

"Hey, flooze," she called out to me.

Unthinkingly, I turned around and faced her. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I saw the smirk cross her face.

"Oh, so you answer to your name now. About time you figured out what the rest of us already knew."

I said nothing.

"I see that you've started an entourage. What's the cripple's name again?"

Still, I remained silent, as I slid into my seat.

"Minion or something like that? That fits. I hope the two of you are very happy together. Are you planning on going into business together on a pair of street corners? Perhaps she can earn enough money to fix her leg."

At that point, Clara jumped in. "Oh, but if she fixes it, she won't make as much. After all, guys love cripples."

That was the last straw. I was fine with Ryan making fun of me, and even when the others joined in. Some of it was deserved. But Ming did nothing to be dragged into this.

"Leave Ming out of this. She's done nothing to you. All she's done is befriend the person you cast aside as unworthy of your friendship. Jealous, huh?"

And with that, I stormed out of the classroom for the second time in two weeks.

The rest of the day went off as planned, though I did start my shift early since I went there after leaving school early. At 17:45 Ming showed up at the store and gave me a big hug. I could tell from her eyes that she had been crying. Had she too been teased at school? It would be the next step Ryan would take, I just hoped she hadn't done it when I left Ming all alone.

It was good to see Ming, as I was afraid she would have heard of my early exit from school and assumed dinner was off. She either hadn't heard or didn't pay any mind to it, because she didn't even ask me about what happened. Then again, if Ryan had teased her as well, she would have a very good idea of why I might have left school early.

But whatever hurt she was feeling, Ming quickly swept it aside and joined me in my enthusiasm for dinner. She had heard a lot about Hasan and looked forward to getting to know him better, along with the mystery guest at tonight's dinner. Though she wasn't interested in discovering or reading the Bible that I hoped to see tonight, she did look forward to it as a bit of an adventure into the unknown. She seemed excited because I was excited.

Just after 18:00, we closed up shop, and Hasan made sure the alarm settings were set to securely lock the premises. Books were fairly easy objects to sell on the black market, so he had to be extra careful of security.

I didn't see what address Hasan had entered into the pod that picked the three of us up, but as soon as I saw that we were driving towards the south side, my heart started beating really fast within my chest.

"Amala, are you okay?" Ming asked.

"Uhh, yes," as I steadied myself against the side of the pod. Hearing Ming's voice brought me back from my memory of the last trip I took to the south side.

Just then, the pod turned into a neighborhood only a few blocks from Jamari's apartment. As it stopped, I looked up and knew exactly which apartment belonged to Hasan. It had an inviting front stoop, complete with potted flowers—so rare. He clearly worked to keep his walk clean.

"Welcome to my home," Hasan said as he lead us to his welcoming door. "Why don't you girls clean yourselves up in the bathroom, while I check in on my daughter and dinner."

Ming and I did as we were told, taking the time to observe the neatness and warmness of the living room. While he was unable to keep the books at work organized and dust free, his home was different. I always did know he was a hospitable person.

As Ming finished up, I walked toward the kitchen.

After being introduced to his daughter, I asked her, "What can I do to help?" hoping the task I would be given wouldn't be too hard. I had definitely learned all my cooking skills from my mother, which meant that I only knew how to put ingredients into the one-pot and turn it on.

"Do you know how to peel potatoes?" she warmly asked.

I paused before admitting that I never tried.

"Have you seen it done?"

My silence was more than enough answer for her.

"Oh, girl, what do you know? You're 17 now and plenty old enough to make a nice meal!" she exclaimed with a look of mock outrage on her face.

"Well, Mom only ever cooks one-pot dishes, so I know how to do all those. Beyond that, I don't have a clue. I've seen my grandma cook—and she's a good cook—but she's never showed me how to do anything. I think she likes being able to do something for my brother and me that we can't do ourselves."

"That's okay, I'll show you how to do it."

"But why would you peel the potatoes? Can't the one-pot make great potato dishes?"

"Sure, if that's what you want. But a one-pot does not know how to make mashed potatoes!"

"Mashed potatoes!" Now it was my turn to exclaim. Though they had "potatoes" in the name, it had never occurred to me that they came from actual potatoes! I guess I just thought the potato mix was made from some type of flour.

"Oh, dear, you're in for a treat if you've never had real mashed potatoes!"

Hasan showed me what to do, and as I was slowly making progress on my first potato, the doorbell buzzed. My heart was beating fast again—this time in excitement—as I anticipated who might be there. This was possibly the person who would be able to let me see a Bible!

Hasan answered the door and escorted an elderly Chinese woman into the apartment. It was the same woman I had seen drinking tea with Hasan at Millennial Antiques a few weeks before. The woman easily looked like she could be my grandma's age, but her face was characterized by pronounced laugh lines, not frown lines like my grandma. She held herself confidently, walked with grace, and was dressed neatly in a plain button-down shirt and knee-length skirt.

"Amala, let me introduce you to Ethel Wu, a longtime friend and fellow book lover."

"Nice to meet you, Amala," Ethel said, with a slight Chinese accent.

I set the potato and peeler down in the sink and walked over to Ethel, wiping my hands on my pants. "Nice to meet you, Ethel."

There was a brief pause as I wasn't sure what to do. Ming walked in and introduced herself, and I quietly slipped back to the sink to continue peeling my first potato. It was taking me a while.

After Ming helped me peel the potatoes—she had done it before so she was able to peel three before I had finished my first—Hasan's daughter finished preparing and cooking the meal. During this time, Hasan explained to Ethel my interest in books and how I worked at his store, as they sat at the table.

As we sat down to dinner, Ethel asked us if it was okay if she prayed over the meal. This was a first for me—and as I looked to Ming, it was clearly something new to her, too.

"Dear Lord, I thank you for this opportunity to meet new friends."

I had never thought about God having anything to do with who I met or when.

"And thank you for this wonderful meal the girls have prepared for us," Ethel continued. "May you bless this time that we have together and this meal. Amen."

Hearing that word almost made me snort, but I was able to restrain myself. I had heard it before, but always in a prayer in a movie, usually prayed by an over-the-top "religious" or "moral" character who was really a tax cheat or an adulterer. This was the first time I had heard a real prayer, especially said by someone who seemed so sincere about her faith. Though she was praying in front of us, it didn't feel like she was showing off, but inviting us into a secret conversation.

"Thank you for letting me pray. I like to pray before meals, though I know that that is unusual here. I grew up in a family where that was normal," Ethel apologized.

"Where did you grow up?" Ming politely asked.

"In Nanjing, China. I moved to the United States—it was before the merger of nations—as a teenager, and have lived here ever since."

"Wow, I can imagine that was a bit of a change," I said.

"Definitely. I came from a family who regularly went to church and to whom worship of Jesus Christ was central to everything. Then I moved here, and anything to do with Christianity was uncool. Anytime I brought something up related to my faith, I was shot down as if I were just backwards and ignorant since I was born in China. For some time I tried to hide my faith and background, ashamed of my beliefs."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said.

"When I was older and more mature, I realized that I shouldn't be ashamed. I had a relationship with a living God who was very much still active. I started to speak up when given the opportunity to talk about spiritual things. More often than not, I was simply given an understanding smile. By that point, Christianity rarely received a belligerent response. It was like the people no longer cared one way or the other about spiritual things."

"Wow," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"So, Amala, what is your interest in the Bible?" Ethel asked, turning the attention to me.

"Well, I found a journal from 2001 in Hasan's store, and I've been working there to pay for it. In it, Beth—she's the teenager who wrote it—quotes several verses from the Bible. It made me curious, as a lover of books, so I tried to look up the Bible and I couldn't find the actual text online, though I found out a lot about it."

"Yeah, for whatever reason, no modern site hosts the Bible. There were old copies available online, but as Christians began to die off in this country, those sites no longer had funding or interest to keep the Bible up and the servers online. No one since has felt it necessary to make the Bible available again in English in electronic format."

"That makes sense. When I couldn't find the Bible on the computer, I decided to ask Hasan if he had one. He didn't, and that's when he said to come to dinner to meet you."

"Unfortunately there are very few Bibles available these days in English. When I moved to the U.S., I brought a Bible, but it's in Mandarin, not English, so it's not likely to be helpful to you."

Ming and I giggled. "No, I don't think that'd work."

"If you don't mind me asking, what verses did Beth quote?"

"Well, there was one in particular that interested me. It was from Fasians, I think."

"It's Ephesians, not Fasians," she kindly corrected. Do you remember anything else about it?"

"It says something about being saved by grace, I think, and not by works?"

"Ah, yes, that's a beautiful verse. 'For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works so that no one may boast,' " Ethel quoted.

Ming and I both looked at her in astonishment. We were surprised she could quote a Bible verse word for word, not knowing that I would be mentioning it.

"How did you know that?" I asked, still surprised.

"I've had that verse memorized since I was a little girl, but in Mandarin. After I decided not to be ashamed of my faith, I memorized it in English as well so I could quote it to my friends, who mostly spoke English."

"Interesting. I've never really worked on memorizing anything that wasn't required for school."

"So go on," Ethel asked me to continue. "Why did this quote interest you?"

"I don't know. I guess it's so different than anything I've read before. It was new to Beth, too, when she was writing. I guess I wanted to discover the Bible, too, like she did, I just haven't had the opportunity."

"Well, you've probably figured out that I don't have a Bible in English, though I'd be more than happy to loan you my Mandarin Bible, which unfortunately is of no help. I do know other people who may have a Bible in English. If we do find it, perhaps you and I could work together to put it online. It would be a worthwhile project. Would you like to go with me to my church this Sunday?"

I was puzzled. From everything I had read, churches were no more in the USNA. Certainly my apartment in a converted church was a testament to that fact.

"A church? Here in America?" my astonishment came through my words.

"Yes, there are a few. Oh, it's not a special building, like you probably are thinking. As far as I know, no churches here today have their own buildings. That is true. But a church according to the Bible is not a building at all, but a gathering of people. My church takes turns meeting in each other's homes, and this weekend we're going to Maria's. Would you like to come with? Ming, you're welcome to come, too."

"I think I would like that," Ming said quietly.

The rest of the dinner went by quickly, as all four of us enjoyed one another's company. We agreed to do it again next Thursday.

As Ming and I were leaving she said, "I can't believe I've made 3 friends. I've never had any friends before."

I reached over and gave Ming a big hug. I was thankful to have her in my life, and she was helping me see that being the talk of the school wasn't as bad as I thought.

Storytelling

When I got back from Hasan's, Mom wasn't home. Instead I found Grandma pulling a batch of homemade cookies out of the oven. Chocolate chip—my favorite. We so rarely had cookies as the store-bought ones are expensive and none of us knew how to make them from scratch. Even if you know how, it was sometimes hard to come up with the sugar or another sweetener that would work.

"Hi, Grandma," I said as I reached over to grab a cookie off the rack. Grandma good-naturedly slapped my hand away.

"Don't touch those, they're still hot. Besides, you haven't had your dinner yet. Your mom told me that you were hanging out with friends this evening, but she didn't think that you were going to eat there. You were at Ryan's, right?"

I almost winced, hearing the lie I told Mom being repeated back to me. It was one thing to lie to my Mom, but it was much harder to lie to Grandma. I quickly grabbed for a cookie and stuffed it in my mouth, so I only had lie with a nod and not with a word. I burned my tongue in the process, which I probably deserved.

Grandma gave me a look of disapproval, but I shrugged it off.

"I've already eaten, don't worry. But a cookie—or two—is just what would top it all off."

"I hope so, dear. When I was your age I tried to survive on a junk food diet, and it didn't have the prettiest of consequences. I even ended up throwing up during a sleepover. Mom and Dad didn't ever keep much junk in the house so I always pigged out when I was at someone else's house. That was a mistake—my body wasn't used to it. Just be glad that junk food isn't as readily available anymore after all the food reform. Everyone is much slimmer today than when I was young, and healthier, too."

"Yeah, but I'd sure like to have a cookie now and then. I guess that's why I have you!"

"Glad I'm good for something," Grandma said as she started to remove the cookies from the sheet with a spatula, placing them on a fancy plate I had never seen before.

"Is that our plate?" I asked.

"No, this is an old one I've had for years. It's the last remaining dish in my mother's set. My brothers and I weren't the gentlest of kids, and I'm afraid most of them were broken on our watch. Breaking dishes is a great way to get out of having to empty the dishwasher, but I wouldn't recommend it if you're a fan of a peaceful household."

"Ha, nice. It's pretty—wish you had more."

I knew this was the perfect opportunity to bring up her parents again. After all, she brought up her mother first. It was hard for me to approach the touchy subject again. After sitting in the quiet, dark kitchen for a few moments longer, I mustered up the courage.

"Uhh, Grandma?"

"Yes, dear?" she said absentminded. I could tell she was distracted. Perhaps the dish had her thinking of her childhood some more—all the more reason for me to ask my questions.

"Could you tell me more about your childhood? I'd really like to hear more about what your parents were like." That seemed like a safe way to begin the conversation. If I jumped into the Christianity issue too early, she might just close down the conversation once again.

"Well, Mom was a good woman who meant well. She just wasn't very strong, unlike your mother and I. We both are willing to stand up to our menfolk, but Mom never really did."

"Was your dad mean to her?"

"No, not really. But it was always him who made the rules, and for the most part, the one to enforce them. I still remember what it felt like to be spanked as a young child!"

"You were spanked?" I said in disbelief. I thought that was something from the 20th century, not more recent times.

"Yes, though by the time I was an adult, they had outlawed it. I suppose it didn't hurt us too much, but it certainly hurt my pride to have to be spanked. I always lorded over my younger brothers that I knew what to do and did it, and that they were doomed to be the lesser siblings."

"Are they still alive? I've never really heard much about them."

"No, Logan and Aiden both died when you were young. I left home at 16, and never really had much to do with my family after that. I did reconnect with my brothers about 30 years ago, after Mom died. They reached out to me, and we did meet up a few times. We didn't have a lot to talk about...they tried to fill me in on all the years that I missed, but it was just too hard to hear. Plus, they tried to convince me to come back to the church, and I was having none of that."

"So they were Christians, too?"

"Yes, they were. It was hard not to be, being indoctrinated like we were."

"Wait, but a lot of people your age 'grew up in the church' as you say, right?"

"Well, some, sure. But not like we were. My family wasn't the typical go-on-Sunday-and-that's-enough-for-us-thank-you kind of church people. There were many people like that in those days. No, my family was the church-isn't-where-we-go-but-what-we-do kind. They also thought they were better than the others for it. We went to a church where that kind of attitude was the norm, so I didn't realize that there was anything strange about it until I went to public school in 6th grade. Before that, I was homeschooled."

"Homeschooled? What's that?"

"Oh, yes, I forget that spanking wasn't the only thing outlawed. Homeschooling is where you were taught at home, usually because your parents were afraid of what you might find out from going to public school."

"Ooh, I want to be homeschooled!" I said, thinking it'd be a great escape from all the drama at school.

"It's not as pleasant as it seems. Still, the government realized that parents should not be trusted to school their children as they weren't experts, so it was outlawed several decades ago. The reason my parents chose to homeschool me was that they said that they wanted to make sure that we had a strong foundation before sending us off into the 'world.' They tried to teach us their worldview—that's what they called it—so that I could interpret everything else just like they would. It worked, too, but then I found that it was easier to just fit in with everyone else.

"As I got older," Grandma continued, "and spent more and more time with my friends from school, I found that I was more comfortable leaving the churchy stuff for church and when my parents were around. The rest of the time, I preferred to just do my own thing and not be held back by their rules.

"I was able to live like that for a while, but everyone at church kept acting like I was the perfect young lady. I couldn't stand the hypocrisy. I knew that I wasn't the only one either—I was friends with the other kids at church, and many were like me. We would go out in groups to 'evangelize'—to tell people they're wrong and convince them to join us—but we'd really go to a friend's house and hang out, maybe smoke a little weed and make out with our boyfriends, the ones our parents had no idea about."

A shocked look crossed my face which reminded Grandma of her audience.

"Not that I'm condoning that behavior, young lady," she backtracked. "What my parents forced me into may have been bad, but I wasn't any better for doing those things at such a young age. I realize that now thanks to maturity, but at the time I thought that that was what life was all about and what youth was made for.

"This went on for several months, and I was very careful to change my clothes before I came home, so Mom and Dad wouldn't smell the pot on me. It worked too—or perhaps they were too focused on Logan and Aiden, as they were at more formative ages. They thought that they were pretty much done parenting me, having a capable, responsible young lady who espoused all of their favorite ideals, like sending people to hell and gay bashing.

"But a month before I was to turn 17, Mom caught me doing my laundry. She decided that since it was a sunny day, I should enjoy it, so she sent me out to 'play' as she would say—really just an excuse to have some peace and quiet in the house. As she took over stuffing my laundry in the washer, she smelled that unique, pungent smell—trust me, it's incredibly obvious, though you better not know what I'm talking about, young lady—and called me back.

"My first inclination when she asked me about the smell was to lie, of course. I guess she was giving me a chance to come clean. I told her that it was the smell of one of the apartments we had been visiting to evangelize. I figured that if it I told her we had been there more than once, that would give me a better explanation as to why most of my clothing smelled.

"She then went on to tell me that it was pot—I don't know how she knew, but she did—and that perhaps I shouldn't go back to that apartment, or perhaps, we could meet that person, 'Ramona' (the name I had given her), somewhere in public. I glibly agreed and went on my way, happy that I hadn't really been figured out.

"Everything was fine until the next day at dinner. Dad asked me to tell him where the apartment was, and I told the address of the only place I could think of—the apartment where we would smoke weed and hangout. I didn't know he'd do it, but that next day, he went there and knocked on the door and asked for Ramona. Guess who answered the door?"

"You? You were there?" I said. The suspense left me on edge.

"Yep, yours truly. Not only did I answer the door of the apartment I wasn't allowed to visit any more, but I had a joint in my hand. Under the influence, I started laughing. Dad dragged me by the collar, and took me home. After I sobered up, I realized that he was coming to invite Ramona to our house for dinner—he wanted to reach out to the girl with a drug problem that I made up. Turns out, that girl was me."

"So what did he do? Is that when you ran away?"

"Well, it was a couple months later when I ran away. Mom and Dad's first response was to take away all of my privileges. They took me out of school and decided to re-homeschool me since the first round of indoctrination clearly didn't work. I wasn't allowed to leave the house unless I was by their side, going somewhere they wanted to go. My phone was taken away, and they only allowed me to use my laptop under strict supervision. I was miserable, so I left."

"Did you ever go back?"

"Nope. It was hard, but I did it. I was tired of living the life of a fake."

"Where did you go?"

"Well, my first thought was to go to the apartment of my pot-smoking friend. But I knew Mom and Dad would look there first, probably to drag me to some Christian drug treatment farm. So that guy hooked me up with a friend of his, who gave me his couch to crash on. I got a job as a waitress and started making really good money. Turns out I'm really good at it—or at least I was, before I got these bum hips."

"You must have seen some rich people in the restaurant!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, some, I suppose. But don't forget that back then, it wasn't just the rich who went to restaurants. Everyone did. After a few months, I earned enough to find a small apartment of my own. They were cheaper back in those days."

"When did you meet Grandpa?"

"Oh, it was about 8 years later, or so. I had already earned my GED—which I had to do since I didn't finish high school—and started attending classes to become a chef. Daljeet, your grandfather, was in my class, and we hit it off. We used our experience and education to start our own restaurant which was a lot of fun. When the restaurant industry started closing down because no one could afford to eat out as much, we had to sell our business. I don't regret it, though."

I was thankful to finally find out more about Grandma's past, especially since she willingly shared. Her parents sounded like interesting characters; I would have loved to learn more about them. Too bad it wasn't their journals that I had found!

Later that night, I settled in to read another entry in Beth's journal. I was hoping to come home and read the Bible that night—somehow—but it looks like I'd have to wait a little longer to get my hands on one. Instead, I turned to Beth, a new friend in her own way.

November 22, 2001

Tonight is Thanksgiving. Meg came home—so good to see her—and we had the traditional meal with just the three of us: Mom, Meg, and I. Granny, Papa, and Uncle Bill came over as well, but it still didn't seem the same without Dad.

Mom made way too much food, and it would still have been too much food even if Dad had been here. Knowing we were going to Dad's later, I tried not to cut myself too large of a piece of pecan pie, but it was really hard to refrain.

On our way to Dad's, Meg tried to keep it light. It was hard not to remember why we had to split time between Mom and Dad's on the holiday, but in the car we sung along to "Independent Women" at the top of our lungs and laughed together.

When we got to Dad's, we were surprised. We expected we'd be eating frozen pizza or cereal or something else bachelor-esque but instead, we found on his small table the complete Thanksgiving spread (that wasn't particularly appealing after Thanksgiving lunch) before our eyes. The apartment was even decorated nicely for the fall holiday, and there was nothing out of order like the last time I was there.

Then we turned the corner and walked into the small apartment kitchen and found a bigger surprise: Suzanne.

There was a knock at my door.

Crying

"Amala?" my mom's voice called timidly from the other side of my bedroom door.

"Yes?" I impatiently answer.

"Can I speak to you?"

"Sure, if you won't yell at me," I said, saying the last part under my breath. I quickly slid Beth's journal under my pillow and sat up.

I unlocked the door with my chip, and it came sliding open. I could tell my Mom had been crying, but I didn't say anything or try to comfort her. I never knew how to handle it when my mom cried.

"These past few weeks, if I've been home, you've been staying holed up in your room. I don't like what our friendship has become." Interesting, I would have never described my relationship with my mother as a friendship.

"Mom, I spend time in my room whether you're home or not. It's not because of you," I apologized, realizing that I left the door open for my Mom to ask why I was holing myself up in my room at all. Hoping to deflect her I added, "Besides, you are not home that much...so I'm not the only one who's being distant."

"I'm sorry for that, Amala. I really am. I just don't know what to do differently. I must be ready to leave this house at a moment's notice, it's the nature of a foodie. Besides, I get the privilege of not only providing for you and Chester, but for the whole Triangle with my job. If I do something wrong, people may starve."

"I know your job's important, and that you don't have control over when a crisis hits. I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm just trying to explain why we aren't as close as we were when I was growing up. Besides, I'm older now—I don't need you that often."

With that, fresh tears came to Mom's eyes, as she sat on the bed beside me, and reached over to give me a big hug. I never intended to make Mom cry, though I know I have before.

"Don't mind my tears," Mom said, wiping them away and forcing a smile. "You're just reminding me that you are growing up, and don't need me as much. It makes a mother's heart hurt to hear those words, no matter how true they are."

There was silence in the room, as Mom's tears continued down her cheeks. Finally she looked me in the eye and said, "That's why I wanted to talk to you. I talked to your grandmother when I got home."

"And by talking, you mean yelling," I interrupted, knowing that that was all too often the character of their "discussions" even if I had my music up too loud to hear them.

"Well, yes. That was the problem. We were fighting like usual, and that made me wonder how our relationship got to be the way it is."

I still did not get the point of why Mom had turned to me. She had just admitted herself that we weren't that close, so I'm not likely to be her first choice as a shoulder to cry on.

"And then I wondered what our relationship—yours and mine—would look like in 25 years. Would we only talk to each other with angry words? Would we even have a relationship at all, or would we go our own separate ways?" I could barely hear the last few words Mom said as she started to sob.

Now I understand why Mom came to me. She loved me—I never doubted that—but it was hard to be with her sometimes. Everything seemed to have to be perfect for her. And I was too much like her—we were both prone to over-the-top emotions.

It wasn't a couple moments more before my tears were mingling with hers. I can't watch anyone cry—most certainly not my mother—and not cry myself. And then, I too imagined what it would be like to have no relationship with my mother.

We simply cried together.

That night Mom didn't get called back in to work. Instead, she and I simply laid on my small bed together, talking for a long time. I was careful to keep the conversation away from what happened after the concert and my work, but I did spill about Sebastian—all but our last meeting together. I hadn't even realized that we had fallen asleep, until my alarm went off at 6:00. I slept better that night than I had in a long time, with no dreams of that awful night. In fact, the only dream I had was quiet strange.

In the dream, I was laying in my bed, but alone in the dark. I heard a voice speak out from above my bed. It said, "You too, Amala, can have eternal life."

That was it—there was nothing else to the dream. No clowns or snakes, no impossible task to be performed, just that one sentence, and a feeling of overwhelming peace.

I wanted to talk to someone about it, but I just didn't know whether Mom or Ming would be the best person to ask.

As I was listening to my English lecture from Professor Julie Anne the next day, I really did try to concentrate. But the more I tried to focus on the professor's talk on how to edit my essays, the more my mind was focused on last night's dream.

The problem with the dream was that it was so short. I've never really tried to interpret dreams in the past, but I've always found my dreams to be rambly and random, not straight to the point as this one seemed to be.

And what did that mean? "You too, Amala, can have eternal life." Sounds like someone else already had it—but who?

And what does "eternal life" mean? I'm not kooky enough to think that I'll live forever, especially not just because an anonymous voice in a dream said so. Technology might be advanced, but it's not that advanced.

At lunch, I told Ming about the dream. At first I had planned to keep it to myself, but since it was about the only thing I could think about, I knew I had to share it.

" 'You too, Amala, can have eternal life?' That's...interesting." Ming paused to consider what I had told her. "You should look it up online and see what pops up."

So when I got home from school that afternoon—no work, since it was a Friday—that's exactly what I did. I spent several hours reading things written from all sorts of perspectives, and found a lot more than I could process. The more I read, the more I wasn't sure that I would want to live forever if it was even possible (and I was certainly skeptical). And then I remembered that I had read in Beth's journal a quote that had that very phrase, "eternal life."

I opened the journal, and started from the beginning. Sure enough, about ten pages into it, I found the quote I was thinking of:

" _For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." - John 3:16_

Whoever believes in God can have eternal life. While I've believed for some time that there was at least some type of God out there—never thought much more than that—this was new to me. Though I've been searching for a Bible, I had never seriously considering believing in the God talked about in the Bible.

That is, until now.

After a busy day at work Saturday—Hasan actually let me answer some of the customers' questions since he was overwhelmed—Sunday came quickly. I was really excited to have a chance to visit an actual church; it was like going back in history. Besides, I was hoping someone there would have an English Bible for me, though Ethel had made no such promise.

I hadn't thought to ask about what to wear. I chipped Ming, and she didn't know either.

Ming: wait, i have an idea

Ming: shouldn't we wear "church clothes?" maybe that's where that expression came from

I'm not sure why that thought hadn't occurred to me, but she was probably right. I pulled out a nice black dress that I haven't worn in a while—it was almost too short—and put it on. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I could almost pass for a turn of the millennial teenager. Cool, I thought.

It was almost 10:00 in the morning when I was leaving the apartment. Mom and Chester were still asleep—sleeping in on Sundays was a favorite family tradition, and one that I hadn't missed in a long time.

With one last look in the mirror, I headed out the door. I put two addresses into the waiting two-person pod: Ming's first, and then the address Ethel gave us for Maria's, where the church was meeting today.

As the pod pulled up outside of Ming's apartment, I chipped her that I was waiting. Since she wasn't quite ready, I walked up the stairs to her front door, which she opened for me. Ming's apartment was on the fourth floor of a rather large building that had clearly been built in the last 10 years or so. Unlike my apartment that had been retrofitted, these were quite nice, if small.

As I walked in, I saw a middled-aged woman—Ming's mom, likely—sitting in a chair, snoozing. I walked past her down the hallway, and towards the open bedroom door. Sure enough, it was Ming's room. Inside Ming was throwing around a pile of clothes—she wasn't the only one that had a hard time picking out what to wear—and finally pulled out her purse from underneath a long-sleeved sweater.

"Ready to go, slow poke?"

"Yeah, yeah, just a sec," Ming expressed as she walked up to the mirror to put on lipstick. I had never seen Ming wear makeup before, but she did a good job of accentuating, not covering up, her fine features. "Okay, let's go," she said, putting her lipstick in her purse.

As the pod pulled up to Maria's apartment building—a stout but sturdy building a couple of blocks from Ming's—I could feel the butterflies in my stomach dancing. I honestly didn't know what to expect; my only experience of church was in the movies, and those always seemed stiff, formal, and to be truthful, quite dead. But since this wasn't a church building but someone's home, what would it be like?

It took Ming and me a few minutes to find Maria's door, as it was tucked into a corner, but as we approached it, we were greeted by an older woman before we even had time to ring the doorbell.

"Hello and welcome!" she said in a truly inviting tone. "I'm Maria, and I'm so glad you could make it today. Ethel told us you two would be coming."

Maria was in her 50s, dressed in a slightly dowdy dress in a becoming shade of red. If she wasn't so nice, she could pass for a school minder. I wish she was my minder as she was much more pleasant than Ms. Oscar.

As I stepped inside the apartment, I saw Ethel sitting in a chair by a window. When she saw us, she lumbered out of the chair and over to us, giving us each a big hug, as if she had known us forever.

Maria then introduced us to the other people there, five altogether. Besides Maria and Ethel, there was an elderly man and another man who appeared to be his son, and also an elderly lady of Asian descent.

Maria invited us to sit on the couch, but I politely declined, opting for a seat on the floor instead. There clearly weren't enough seats for all 7 of us, and I figured that I could handle the floor, being one of the few who could easily get back up after getting that low. Maria smiled graciously at me when she realized she could have a seat on the couch herself, though perhaps she was a bit uncomfortable that her guest was sitting on the floor. No matter—these apartments clearly weren't built for entertaining, and I was just glad to be there at all.

After Ming and I were politely questioned about everything from school to our families, the younger man said we would get started. He introduced himself as Eli. Eli was probably in his late 30s, with handsome features and dark skin.

"It's so great to have you girls here as our guests. It's been too long since we've been able to bring anyone else into our little family. I do hope you'll feel at home and will come back again."

After Ethel led us in a few songs, Eli talked about one of them further. He talked about how Jesus Christ—the person the Bible is about—is the source of confidence for those who choose him. I never thought about finding confidence anywhere outside myself. Everyone seemed to let me down.

Eli also talked about how a follower of Christ didn't have to worry about condemnation. But how? I know I've done some awful things. I don't even want to think about that night in Jamari's apartment.

And finally, Eli shared that we could live without fear. But how can I leave my fears behind me? I know I'm a failure, and the thoughts of what I've done—and what if I did it again?—consume me. How did I ever think I was perfect?

When I was eight, I did think I was perfect. My mom clearly knew I wasn't, but every time Chester didn't do what he was supposed to, Mom told him to follow my good example. She would brag about me in front of her friends. When she would scold me in private, I thought she was just doing that to make sure that Chester wasn't jealous and to fulfill her obligation as a parent.

Every time I went to Dad's, he would tell me that I was his good little girl. Grandma would kiss me, smile, and tell me that I could be whatever I wanted to be.

My minder that year, Ms. Moore, always used me as an example of good behavior in front of the class. One day I even got sent to the principal's office—I was so nervous—because he wanted to personally award me my perfect behavior award.

But one spring day, I was a bit bored with my subtraction lesson—I already knew it all, of course—and started making faces at Nettie, who was sitting a couple seats down from me. I got away with it for a while as Ms. Moore's attention was directed elsewhere, but then Nettie was unable to hold the giggles in, and snorted loudly.

Ms. Moore immediately turned from where she was helping another student, glared at Nettie, and turned her attention to the object of Nettie's stare: me. Ms. Moore caught me in the classic hung-by-the-noose pose: tongue askew, head cocked, and eyes crossed. She immediately sent me to back to the principal's where I had been only two days prior in better circumstances.

The worst part of the experience was waiting in the hall while the principal called my Mom. I hated knowing judgment stood behind that door and not knowing what form that judgment would take—I seriously thought that they might throw me out of the school.

In the end, all it took was a lecture from the principal to get me back on the straight and narrow. But what I took away from the experience was not "responsibility" or "focus" or any other such lesson he was likely trying to teach me, but the mere fact that I wasn't perfect.

I would lay in bed at night for weeks after that, replaying what I had done wrong. There were many times later in school when that memory would pop into my head, and the same stomach-dropping feeling would come back.

After that day, I desperately tried to redeem myself. As I grew older, other things besides perfection became my goal—like popularity. Perfectionism, though, has always been a struggle.

Struggling

After they sang, Maria started reading the Bible to us, translating as she went. She was easily able to translate the Spanish words on the page to English spoken words, which I felt was a good indication that she knew the passage well. The others were following along in their Bibles, punctuating the reading with nods and "amens."

Maria was reading from a book called Romans, and after a few minutes, one sentence really stood out to me:

"For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want."

During the discussion, I brought this verse up. "This is exactly what I struggle with: doing what I do not want to do."

To my surprise, all five members of the church nodded in agreement. What did they do that they didn't want to?

While we were talking over lunch, I asked Ethel that very question.

"Well, dear, you certainly can't think I'm perfect. Just because I do the 'right' thing most of the time when people are watching doesn't mean that I always do it. And you can't see my thoughts and motives—sadly, I'm too often ruled by my desire to please others or to perfectly obey God in order to gain favor from Him."

"Is that not how you believe we can gain favor from God? By doing what He says?"

"Actually, no. While God demands perfect obedience, doing good things doesn't grant us God's favor. Because no matter how many good things you or I do, we won't be perfect. Right?"

"Right."

"Have you ever tried to live a perfect day? I don't just mean doing the right things, but thinking the right things, and doing the right things for the right reasons. Do you think it's possible?"

"I've tried, sure. I used to think that I could. But if you're talking about having perfect thoughts and motives, too, you're right—I can't live perfectly. It's hard enough to keep from saying something mean—to not even think it to begin with is impossible!"

"Yes, impossible on your own. Not with God's help, though. And that's what true obedience takes: God's help. But even with His help, I fall many times a day because I forget that help is there or simply ignore it. But back to your question about gaining favor with God...it's not about what we do at all. That's where so many people get it wrong. It's about what God did Himself. What do you know about Jesus?"

"Not a lot. What I've heard here, a little from the journal, and what I've read online. I know that Christians say he died on a cross and that he came back to life."

"Yes, that's true. Jesus is God's Son, yet he took on human flesh, being born as a baby."

"So he was wearing human flesh like a costume?" I said with disgust, picturing the alien in the Edgar suit in the classic Men in Black.

"No, not at all. He actually is man and God. I know that's hard to understand—I don't understand it fully—but it's one of the mysteries of our faith. God is so much greater than us, so it's not possible for us to understand Him with our finite minds. We don't have all the answers, but we're still seeking them. There's so much more to tell you...why don't you come to dinner at my house some day this week?"

I went home that day with more questions than answers. Christianity in action was nothing like what I expected. While the books they were using were clearly old, it didn't seem outdated somehow. They didn't dress in old-fashioned garb or talk particularly funny. Though I didn't always understand what they were talking about, I loved listening and trying to absorb it all. They were sincere in their belief and honest in admitting they didn't have God figured out. That was both comforting and overwhelming.

I could now see how you could believe in a God that was indeed active in your life. The faith they had in asking God things in prayer was one that sought to depend on Him for everything. While I've always thought the goal in life was to live independent of others, I could see the joy and love they had for one another, and more than that, for God. I could see what would be welcoming and inviting in that.

After sitting in the pod for a few minutes thinking, I asked Ming, "I'm going to go to Ethel's for dinner on Tuesday, if you want to come."

"Nah, I don't think so. I mean, I like her, but I've heard enough about all this. I don't want people to think that I'm going to be a Christian! You know how much they'd tease us if they knew we went to a church?"

"Oh, they'd never believe we went to a church, anyway. Until I saw it with my own eyes, I wasn't really sure that you could go to a church here in the USNA Besides, I've been teased for worse!"

"Well, that's true. You're welcome to go to Ethel's yourself, but I've seen enough for my liking." That was exactly what I would do.

Going to church had made me start to think about what Grandma had said about her parents. Would they have kicked her out if she hadn't have ran away? How long would they have required her to live without connection to the outside world? What exactly were they afraid of?

Though I had wished to have had a Bible in hand Sunday afternoon to read, I was happy to at least have Beth's journal to return to. It had felt like so long since I read it last, and I remembered that it ended on a bit of a cliffhanger when Mom knocked on my door.

When I turned back to Beth's Thanksgiving entry, I backed up a paragraph so I could remember what she was saying.

When we got to Dad's, we were surprised. We expected we'd be eating frozen pizza or cereal or something else bachelor-esque but instead, we found on his small table the complete Thanksgiving spread (that wasn't appealing after Thanksgiving lunch) before our eyes. The apartment was even decorated nicely for the fall holiday, and there was nothing out of order, like the last time I was there.

Then we turned the corner and walked into the small apartment kitchen and found a bigger surprise: Suzanne.

I don't even know where to begin to write about Suzanne. She's probably a few years younger than Dad (Mom's two years older than him), with bleached blonde hair that is rather pretty. Her tan face is coated with too much makeup like she's trying too hard. As soon as she saw us, she came up to Meg and me and gave us a big hug, one of us on each side. Neither of us reciprocated but kept our arms limp. I think Meg was as stunned as I. The stranger pleasantly told us, "I'm Suzanne, but of course you were expecting me. I've heard so much about both of you girls from Richard."

We hadn't seen Dad yet, so Meg quickly asked Suzanne to excuse us, and she dragged me by my shirt sleeve back out into the cold, dark evening.

" _Did you know anything about this?" she loudly hissed at me._

Of course I explained to her that Suzanne was news to me, too. In the weeks since the separation, Dad never once hinted at there being anyone else. When I would call him some evenings, he would merely talk about work or how his New England Patriots were going to redeem themselves. Those conversations were always awkward, but I had assumed that was because we were used to having them in person, not because there may have been someone else there in his apartment that he didn't want to give away.

" _I'm NOT okay with this," Meg said, and stormed down the front stairs to her car, quickly getting in, and pulling out of the parking lot. Since she had driven me here—we both planned on staying the night, so I left my car at Mom's—I was stuck. I had to go back in if I didn't want to freeze to death._

This time as I walked up to Dad's door, I didn't unlock it with the key he gave me. It probably was still unlocked anyway, but I didn't try it. Instead, I knocked.

This time, Dad answered the door. I didn't know what to say, so I simply walked inside as Dad closed the door behind me. He motioned me to sit down on the loveseat, and he took a seat on the couch.

He asked me where Meg was, and I said she had to leave. He didn't question me further. He introduced me to Suzanne, who had been hiding in the kitchen this time, and explained that she was his girlfriend and that they worked together at Stoftson's Pharmaceuticals and had known each other for years.

Dad went on to talk about the good things he sees in Suzanne, but I was zoning out. How could this be happening?

We sat down for dinner, and I remained quiet. Dad and Suzanne talked pleasantly and appeared fine with me answering every question with a shrug or a nod. When Suzanne brought out the pumpkin pie, I said I wasn't hungry and went into the living room where a football game was playing. I've never been so interested in a football game before. I was trying to stop thinking.

When Dad came and sat beside me, I asked him to drive me back to Mom's. He didn't ask why, but quietly got his keys, kissed Suzanne goodbye, and led me out the door. Our car ride was as awkward as dinner, but he did let me know that Mom knew about Suzanne, so I didn't have to try to hide anything.

That was the last straw for me. MOM KNEW! Mom could have saved Meg and I the embarrassment of showing up to be greeted by a complete stranger posing as our stepmom.

When I came in the door I didn't say anything to Mom, but just climbed the stairs to my room and slammed the door. I reached for this journal, and started writing. Mom's wise enough to have left me alone, so thankfully I've not had to hear her talk to me about giving Suzanne a chance or her asking me about my feelings.

I hate that this happened on Thanksgiving...a day I should be thanking God. Instead, I feel like cursing him.

This journal really did cover a tumultuous year in Beth's life: from September 11th, to the metal detectors, to her parents' divorce. I continued to read.

November 23, 2001

I called Faith first thing this morning. I didn't want to bother her yesterday since Thanksgiving's a family holiday, but I knew that she didn't have any plans today.

Faith was incredibly supportive. She came over and picked me up, and we went to breakfast at Panera. It was crowded—the Black Friday crowd was breaking for second breakfast, I suppose—but we were able to find a relatively quiet corner to talk.

I told her all I knew about Suzanne, which wasn't much. I shared with her why I was particularly hurt: my Mom's silence on the matter. My parents have done a lot to try to prepare me for life in the "real world," but they couldn't give me a heads up about this?

I was able to talk to Mom a few minutes last night before totally losing it. She did know about Suzanne, and as I was beginning to suspect, Suzanne was the reason for my parents' split. Why didn't they tell me?

It's so good to have Faith. I need her. She's the only one right now who is really loving me through all this. I wish Meg was here and wasn't always disappearing. I guess I could do that too if I was a college student and had a dorm room somewhere else. I can't wait until August...9 months!

Faith reminded me of a couple of verses that the pastor shared with us after September 11th. They offer some comfort (well, sort of...you'll see!):

" _God is our refuge and strength,_

A very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change

And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea,

Though its waters roar and foam

Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride."

\- Psalm 46:1-3

See what I mean? It's encouraging to think that God is my "refuge and strength," a place to find rest and shelter in the storm that is my life. It's just not encouraging to realize that there are bigger problems than what's going on...the mountains could fall into the ocean! Actually, this kind of reminds me of September 11th. Watching those towers fall was like watching the mountains fall.

November 27, 2001

With Faith's help, I'm coming to realize that God is a big god, one that can finish all evil. But why doesn't He?

Even though I don't know all the answers—Faith has told me I may never until I can ask God face-to-face—I'm finding Jesus more and more attractive. The idea that all I have to do is trust in what He's done for me instead of trying to make my own way is relieving, but hard. I can see the peace that Faith and the others have, and I want that.

At the same time, it's scary to place that kind of trust in someone else, even someone who claimed to be the God of the universe. I trusted my parents to know what was right for me, yet my Dad cheated on my Mom, broke our family apart, and Mom kept it a secret from me. What if Jesus too proves untrustworthy? Faith says that He won't, as He's sinless, unlike my parents. But what if He was just lying about that?

Sharing

Monday morning came earlier than I would have liked. I had spent a restless night considering everything I had heard from Grandma a few days ago and at church earlier that day. The voices of Grandma, Mom, Ethel, and even Beth were echoing through my head, and they were all saying different things. I knew that they couldn't be all right, and that was frustrating.

If God was worth believing in, then He had to be big enough to have been able to stop things like September 11th and Beth's parents' divorce. Yet Beth seems to be coming to recognize that God was able to stop these things. And somehow, I could see that as a possibility. Ethel and the others did seem to have that kind of faith.

But even if I could admit that what happened to Beth was somehow still under God's control, what about what happened to me?

"So, Christian, I hear you're a regular churchgoer these days," Ryan said at the end of class louder than I would have preferred, interrupting my thoughts. I once again was drawing the stares of my classmates. The way she said "Christian" indicated she could barely make herself say the disgusting word.

Usually I had my chip set to tell me if Ryan was anywhere near me, but since we can't use chips in the classroom, I couldn't do this.

Ryan's words stung. Who could have told her about church but Ming? But I would have to think about that later, because Ryan wasn't through with me, and it took all I had to deal with her. My reticence seemed to egg her on.

"Nothing to say, huh? I'll take silence as confirmation. You're probably too righteous to say anything back to me."

What I thought wouldn't get worse, did. Others started joining in.

"Imitating Christ are you? I don't think he ever would have gone down on an old man!"

As I reached the classroom door, I heard my chip chirp, but I had no time to check it.

"Too bad we don't have any stones, because what you've done is worthy of a good old-fashioned stoning!" That comment from a boy I didn't know brought lots of laughs.

"Are you going to start proselytizing us? Preaching from the corner? Prophesying?"

"What, are you too shy? You're in the presence of wicked people...call us out!"

I had heard enough and ran from the school.

What happened at school had really shaken me up. Apparently Ming had heard about—or perhaps she could hear the ruckus from her classroom—and chipped me soon after I left school. But I didn't want to talk to her—she had betrayed me.

After I was at work for about thirty minutes, I remembered that I had received a chip while I was being harassed. I checked it, and it was from Ethel saying she had something to talk to me about, and asked if we could move our dinner from Tuesday to tonight. I was excited about the prospect—hopefully this meant she knew where to find me a Bible! It'd be good to talk to her again, regardless. I had so many more questions for her. If I was going to continue on this journey, I was going to need some support, too.

My work wasn't holding my interest as it usually did. As is my habit, I had opened a blank document on my chip to list the books that I wanted to read, but it remained blank at the end of my shift. Hasan could tell I was distracted, so he let me out a little early.

In the pod, I was caught up in hearing and rehearing the insults cast toward me earlier. I tried to push out that day's unwanted excitement and focus on my anticipation about getting my hands on the Bible.

As I entered the apartment, I was immediately greeted by Ethel.

"Hi, dear. So glad that you were able to come today, as I have someone who I want you to meet. Eli introduced him to me, and he's going to be able to help you find a Bible you can actually read."

I was so excited, that I gave Ethel a big hug, though I have only known her a week. It felt good to share this moment of excitement with someone.

After our hug, Ethel introduced me to Leonard. He was an older man with kind eyes and strong, dark hands. During dinner he explained to me that his job was to clean out old apartments after people died.

"I've known Eli for years, as he's my neighbor. He knows what I do, and he's heard stories about the things I've collected from apartments I've cleaned out: I've found everything from newspapers—though they usually fall to pieces if you touch them—to classic toys. I've occasionally found books, which I've been able to sell to supplement my income."

"So have you found a Bible?"

"Well, I don't have one right now," Leonard reluctantly admitted. "But I usually find one every few weeks. If I keep my eyes open, I'm likely to find one soon, and I'd gladly let you have it."

"What would I owe you?" Knowing that he knew the value of books made me a little worried about what kind of payment arrangement I would have to make with him. I was thankful that Ethel was right there, so he wouldn't ask for anything demeaning.

"Eli's been a good neighbor for all these years. I'd gladly let you have it for free as a favor to him."

"Oh," I uttered, relieved. "Thank you so much!"

"No problem. Glad I can help a young lady out. I'll give the Bible to Eli when I find it, if that's okay with you."

"Sounds great. I truly appreciate it!"

And with that, Leonard tipped his hat to us—so old-fashioned!—and headed for the door.

"Thank you, Ethel," I said, as the door closed behind him.

"Oh, don't thank me. Eli is the one who suggested I ask Leonard. They've been friends for years, and Eli's been trying to help Leonard recognize his need for a Savior."

"What do you mean, 'his need for a Savior?' "

"Great question, because this is something I wanted to talk to you about, anyway, after our discussion yesterday. Let me know if this makes you uncomfortable, and we can stop. I know that people your age aren't used to talking about religious things."

"That's okay. It's been on my mind a lot, anyway, and I don't really have someone to discuss it with."

"Well, I know we're newly friends, but my door is always open." It made me warm to hear Ethel call me a friend.

"You see, Amala, our problem is that we no longer are who we were created to be. The Bible tells us that we're created in His image, meaning that we're like Him in some ways. We're made to reflect His greatness like a mirror. But we've dulled the mirror by scuffing it up repeatedly by sinning—thinking, saying, and doing things that God doesn't like."

Ethel went on to share with me many truths that I later learned to treasure dearly. She also told me more about herself, things I hadn't expected.

She started to wrap up, "There's lots more you can learn, especially in the Bible, but these are the basics. This is enough. Do you want to trust Jesus?"

"No, not exactly. I mean, I appreciate you sharing this all with me. But there's just too much that's happened to me to believe that anything is that simple. I've done too much—God could never accept me."

"What do you mean? Do you think that I am perfect? I've shared with you how I struggle now...but that's nothing compared to what my life was like before I trusted Christ. Can you believe I used to be a drug addict?"

"Really?" I almost shouted, shocked. Ethel was so prim and proper, I'd never have suspected.

"Yes, I was. Until I was about 25, I was a partier and spent most nights—and let's face it, mornings—stoned out on one drug or another. While my parents tried to teach me the truth, I rejected it, choosing to go my own way for a while. It was never enough, I was always wanting more. I actually don't remember too much of my life back then. It's blocked out, which is probably for the best. But not a day goes by without me remembering just how great of a sinner I was—and still am. It helps me appreciate all that God has done for me."

"So, now that you know a hint of my past, what is it that you think is too much for our great God?"

I hesitated. I never thought I would share this with anyone, not after it was all spilled at school. Part of what I've enjoyed about Ethel is getting the opportunity to talk to someone without judgment or pity. But could I trust her? Or would she be the kind that would go behind my back and tell my mother?

Blurting

"So, tell me, if you don't mind, about this fight with your friend, Ryan," Ethel asked.

I was afraid she would ask. But since I was being vulnerable, I might as well lay it all out.

"Well, she called me a flooze in front of our whole class," I said quietly.

"Ooh," was Ethel's reply before pausing for a few moments. After the silence became unbearable, she asked, "Why would she call you that?"

"Well..." I said trailing off, nervously wiping my hands on my pants. I wanted to share, but the words seemed sewn to my tongue, unable to escape.

"You know, Amala, that we're all sinners. We've all done things we're not proud of. I've shared with you some of what I've done, but don't feel like you must share your story with me. I know I haven't earned your trust yet."

"It's not that so much as the fact that I haven't really told this to anyone. But it's been killing me, like a toxic poison sitting in my stomach. I want to tell you, Ethel, I really do."

"Well, perhaps this isn't the time. We can talk about something else. What would you like to talk about?"

"I let a man I had just met touch me," I blurted out.

A look of hurt and shock crossed Ethel's face, but she hid it quickly. She reached over and hugged me again, not saying a word. Tears were flowing down her face, and I realized they were flowing down mine as well.

"Would you like to share more?" Ethel cautiously queried.

I did. I went on to explain the details of the night of the Respa concert, pouring out particulars that I hadn't even realized I remembered. And then I got the point where I was left alone in the living room with that man. After stopping to gain breath and strength, I continued.

"So there I was sitting on the couch, trying to mind my own business. I was trying watching show on my chip, trying to keep myself from counting the seconds since Clara had left the room. While the man had ignored us when we were all there, he suddenly took notice of me."

"He set down the bottle he was drinking from, wiped his greasy hands on his pants, and stood up, his gut hanging out over his pants. Tugging at them, he walked over to me."

Ethel sensed this was a difficult part of the story, and reached over to hold my hand. I was so animated in my story-telling, that I accidently swatted it away.

"This...man came up to me and sat on the couch beside me. After about a minute—I scooted as far away from him as I could—he got right next to me, rubbing the outside of my thigh with the back of his hand. Then his hands—oh, those hands—continued to roam around before boldly going under my shirt."

Noticing the difficulty I was having, Ethel calmly asked, "Did he rape you?"

"No, I don't think so." I said quietly before pausing. Then more decisively, "No, he didn't. He touched me and exposed himself to me, but that was it."

"Well, that's not small. He shouldn't have done any of that. He had no right."

"I tried to stop him, but he persisted. Finally, I put my foot down hard on his bare toes, and it distracted him enough for me to get away."

The tears continued to run down Ethel's face.

I resumed, "I just left. I didn't wait for Ryan and Clara to finish up and come out like I had planned to. I ran. I ran for at least 20 minutes before I realized I had no idea where I was. When I hailed a pod, it took me longer to get home than I had expected, so I must have been running in the wrong direction. All I could think about as I ran was, 'I have to get out of here; I have to get out of here.' It took me a while to realize I was out of there, especially since I could still smell that man on me and even though I did not close my eyes, I could still see him looming over me."

"Once I went home, I hid in my room after a long shower. I was hoping Mom wouldn't notice that I was home, as I was supposed to be spending the night at Clara's. I was thankful that she was too tied up with work to even notice."

"So you haven't shared any of this with your mother?"

"No, not at all."

"So what was Ryan's problem with you?"

"The problem was that this man's nephew, Jamari, told Ryan what had happened, or at least what his uncle had told him, probably insisting that it was consensual. When I did not wait for them, Ryan and Clara were hurt, so they gave me the cold shoulder. I threw all I had into my schoolwork, I guess trying to pretend I was perfect though I knew I wasn't. I avoided Ryan and Clara like they avoided me—I didn't want any more reminder of that night—but Ryan couldn't leave it at that." I continued to tell Ethel about being ostracized.

"What's so bad, is that I lived up to their opinion to me." That's when I told Ethel what happened the last time I went to Sebastian's apartment. Ethel didn't judge me like I thought she might, but let me continue my story.

"The harassment went on for several days, and then Ming popped into my life," I said, with a smile on my face, the first of the conversation. It quickly faded when I remembered what Ming had done.

"Ahh, I hadn't realized you hadn't known each other for very long," Ethel replied.

"No, we haven't," I replied quickly, sitting up straighter. "Well, I've known of her for a while, but it wasn't until this point that we had ever talked. You see, Ming was always the girl left out, because of her limp. We used her disability and poverty as 'reasonable' reasons to exclude her from our company. We thought that she might share her misery if we talked to her or even treated her like a person."

"So when Ming showed up, my first instinct was to shun her again. She just asserted herself in my life, and I thought that was completely rude. But then I realized that she was maybe the only person to understand and that by being together, we could stand up against bullies like Ryan. And it did work, sort of. Except the day we went to your house, Ryan called me out again. This time, I know she bullied Ming. I'm sorry I was the cause of even more hurt and suffering in her life. But she's been a faithful friend, or at least she was."

"Was?" Ethel asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Yes. For some reason, she felt the need to blab about us going to church. Of course, she probably told it like she was not there, that it was just me. So this afternoon as I was leaving school I got called out by Ryan. For some reason, it hurt even more than the original fight. I guess because I knew I deserved it nefore, but I didn't know why she would instigate a fight this time."

"Does Ms. Oscar or any other adult at the school step in when you have these arguments?" Ethel questioned sympathetically.

"No. I guess that's why Ryan takes that opportunity to yell at me. If she got in trouble, she'd be a lot less bold about it, and probably follow us home and confront us there. But I think she loves doing it at school so that everyone else can follow her example in shunning me. They all joined in taunting me about church."

"I'm so sorry to hear all this," Ethel said, hugging me yet again. "I'm glad that you've shared it though. Sometimes even just speaking the truth out to someone else can help us feel better, as someone else is sharing the burden."

I considered that, and did realize that I felt a little better no longer carrying around my secret about that night.

"There are a few things I want to say to you," Ethel cautiously continued, "if you would listen. It's important, and I don't want to hold off any longer, even though I know you're probably tired and want to go home."

"I am tired, but I don't want to leave yet. Your home has felt more like 'home' this evening than my apartment ever has."

"Good. I promise not to be overbearing. I don't want to call you out—you know that you're a sinner. But there is some things that you should know."

"The first thing," Ethel held out one finger as she spoke, "is that you will face even more opposition if you choose to continue to walk down the path you are going down. I know that you are not a follower of Christ, but if you make that choice—and I hope you do—you will likely always face ridicule from people like Ryan."

"Sadly, the hurt you feel may never go away in this life time," Ethel looked at me with pity. "And I hate that, but I have to be truthful. Jesus has told us that we are to count the costs before we follow Him, and this is part of the cost. While God's grace is free, it doesn't come without a price paid."

"Okay," I said, not sure what I had expected Ethel to say.

"Then there's another point, and this one is even more important, so please listen closely." Now I was even more intrigued. I just knew that she was going to pass judgment upon me and send me out of her apartment.

"What happened to you in Jamari's apartment wasn't right. You have your faults and God knows you are a sinner, but what happened there was that man's sin, not yours. He sinned against you and God. You bear no guilt in that act. God wants to rescue and heal you, not only from your own sin, but the wounds done to you by people like that man and Ryan."

That wasn't what I expected to hear at all. I expected guilt and condemnation, not the possibility of freedom. I broke down. Tears may have been falling earlier, but now I was bawling.

I continued to cry for an hour until finally falling asleep. I had no intention of spending the night at Ethel's, but she made up a makeshift bed right there on a couch and wrapped me up warmly and comfortably. She told me later that after I fell asleep, she called my mom to let her know where I was. When Mom had no idea who Ethel was, Ethel told her that she'd be happy to meet her at another time, but for right now, this was what I needed and that she'd make sure I headed to school the next morning. I'm surprised that Mom didn't hop into a pod right then and there and come and get me, but there must have been something in what Ethel told her that made her trust this loving stranger. I'm glad she did, because I was beginning to trust her, too.

Revealing

The next school day was surprisingly quiet. No more opposition from Ryan. No yelling—or any other attention—from Ms. Oscar. I wanted to tell Ming about my conversation the night before, but I didn't even know where to begin. I did share with her what Leonard had said, and Ming joined in my excitement that my goal was at hand. Though it no longer consumed me, I still hoped to receive a chip at any moment from Eli saying that he had the book for me.

As I was leaving school, I received a chip from Hasan from earlier in the day saying not to bother coming in for work as it had been quiet all day. Since I primarily focused on organizing the books, I knew that it would not have mattered how quiet it was. Ethel must have told Hasan that I needed the time off for which I was grateful. I had a lot to think through.

As I arrived home early, Mom was waiting for me. She threw me off guard because neither of us were usually home at that time, but there she was, with a mug of hot chocolate waiting for me on the table at my place. It even had three marshmallows floating on top, which were hard to find these days.

"Mom?" I asked hesitantly.

"Sit down, Amala. I think it's about time we have a talk. No, don't be scared; I have no intention of yelling at you. It's just that we haven't really seen eye to eye lately, and I want to fix that. I miss our conversations that we would have when you were younger. And I'm not blaming you alone for that: sure, you're a teenager now, but I should have given you more attention and not just let you do your own thing because you are able to. I've allowed my job to be more important than it should be."

"Well, it is important."

"Yes, but it's not more important to me than my daughter, the beautiful daughter I want to have a relationship with. So before we get started I must ask: will you forgive me?"

Her contriteness surprised me. It always seemed like power and control were her modus operandi, not apologies and taking the blame.

"Of course, Mom. I suppose I should own up to my own share of the blame, too."

"Yes, and we'll get there, sweetie, but first I want to know the truth. We had a good discussion the other night, but I think that there are some things you're not telling me. Please don't try to varnish it...I'm prepared to hear whatever you have to say. It's more important to me that you tell me the truth than that you tell me what I want to hear."

"Okay," tentatively, wondering what she was going to ask me.

"Where have you really been these past few weeks in the afternoons? I thought you were with Sebastian, but I talked to his dad, and he said that he hasn't seen you around or heard Sebastian talk about you in quite some time. I then assumed you were with Ryan, but Ryan's mom told me a bit snippily that her daughter is no longer friends with my daughter."

"You're right," suddenly emboldened by last night's conversation with Ethel. If I can tell Ethel, I could tell Mom, right? I hoped so. "I've not been with either of them. Ryan and I had a huge fight, and Sebastian, well, went back to Kinsley Stewart."

"Well, antiques didn't seem like something that they would be interested in," she said, with a knowing glance while I looked a bit shocked at the change of subject. I should have guessed she would have looked at my chip information if she was concerned. "What have you been doing at Millennial Antiques?"

At least I could start with this secret. It was a dumb one from the start. I knew Mom wouldn't care that I had a job, but I had kept it from her because I was angry about her accusations about Sebastian. It seemed so silly now.

"Well, I've been working."

"Working?" she said, surprised.

"Yes. You know how I used to spend time there reading, right?"

"Well, yes, but I thought you had grown out of that."

"Or got distracted by a boy..." I asserted, good-naturedly.

"Let's not go there," Mom said with a shake of her head. "We've already established that Sebastian is out of the picture. And can I add that I'm relieved?"

"Thanks, Mom," I said with a chuckle and an eye roll. "Glad I had your full support when we were together. But really, you were right. He went back to Kinsley. Apparently he was only with me because she had rejected him, but when she was ready to pick him back up, he was back by her side. They're still together, too, the regular 'it' couple at Henry High."

"Well, I hate to say it, but I told you so. Relationships shouldn't be that serious in high school, anyway. You all haven't figured out who you are yet, so how are you supposed to figure out who you want to be with?"

"Yeah, well tell that to all my friends—or I should say former friends. It's like everyone can't live unless they're paired up."

"Well, you don't have to go along with the crowd."

"Yeah, I'm learning that."

"So tell me more about this job."

"Oh, yeah. Well, you know how I love to read books, like real paper books? Well, the day after I broke it off with Sebastian, or the other way around I guess, I went to Millennial Antiques because I was mad at you and wanted you to think I was with Sebastian. Being back at Millennial Antiques was so great. I fell in love with those books again when I walked in that door. I was looking at the books from the turn of the millennium—my favorite time period—and one stood out to me. Guess what it was?"

"Umm, a book?"

I rolled my eyes. Mom was always the sarcastic one. "Well it was a type of a book—it was a journal."

"Oh, interesting," Mom tried to pretend she was interested.

"Okay, so you don't think it's interesting...that's fine. But it was a journal written in 2001, which I think is a fascinating year. The girl was my age at the time, too. Since I wanted this journal, I had to work for it. I knew that I couldn't ask you for the 400 eCreds it would take to buy it."

"Well, good. I'm glad that you've worked for it...not that I would have had that kind of money to give you to spend on a book, anyway. But it's good to learn responsibility and will go a long way towards helping you get a job when you graduate—jobs are so hard to get, so anything you can bring to the table will be helpful. I just wish you hadn't gone behind my back."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I did it in anger, and then I had to keep it up and keep lying to cover my tracks. It was a stupid lie, and one that I never expected to get so big. Forgive me?"

"Yes, I forgive you. I'm glad that we can be friends again not just mother and daughter."

"Me, too. It's been hard lately, hasn't it? But Mom, I have a couple other things that I really need to tell you, and you're not going to like it. Promise not to be mad at me, okay? There's nothing that can be done to fix the past."

"I don't like the sound of that..."

"Okay, then I'll start easy. Yesterday I went to church."

"Church?" Mom said, amused and relieved. "They still have those?"

"Yes, apparently. Though I have a feeling there's not very many here in the USNA. And the one I went to was only attended by five older people hosted in a house—nothing like the church that used to be in this building."

"How did you hear about this church?"

"Well, my boss, Hasan, knew someone who attends."

"So what made you decide to go?" Mom asked, clearly interested in my story.

"Well, it started with the journal, oddly enough."

"With the journal? Okay."

"Yeah, the girl writing the journal, Beth, well, she starts going to a church during the time she is writing in the journal."

"Ahh, so you wanted to experience it for yourself?"

"Well, sort of. Really, she was reading a Bible, and was quoting it, and it has some interesting things to say. You know me and books, so I was trying to get my hands on a Bible."

"Did Millennial Antiques not have one?"

"No, it didn't. I was disappointed...I figured a book as important as the Bible would be there. And there aren't any online, which is weird. I think it may be because there used to be, but then the servers supporting them were taken off line—if no one cares, then there was no one to notice that they weren't there any more."

"Well, that makes sense I suppose. So did you find a Bible?"

"Not yet, but I'm really close. So Hasan had invited me to have dinner with him and Ethel. And Ming was there, too—don't even get me started on her."

"Who's Ming? Is she a new friend?" my mom asked brightly.

"I told you not to get me started on her. She was a fellow friendless girl who befriended me...before she betrayed me."

"Okay..."

"Yeah, anyway. So I met Hasan's friend, Ethel, and though she's a Christian, she didn't have a Bible in English, only in Chinese. But she invited me to her church, hoping that someone there could help me find a Bible. But sadly, none of them speak English as their first language, and their Bibles are all in their first languages."

"I guess I should have had your father teach you Chinese like we always planned, huh?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Though it looks hard to learn!"

"Yes, yes it does. So why do you say that you're close to getting your hands on a Bible?"

I went on to tell Mom about meeting Leonard and how I hoped to hear any day that he had found me a bible.

"So what did you think of the church?"

"Well, it's interesting. I actually had a good talk with Ethel last night—that's where I was. We talked about all this, and about something else that I need to tell you about. But I think that what she's been sharing with me about Christianity has some good points to it."

"Interesting. You know I don't care what you believe. I've never really believed in anything more than that there is some creator or creators out there—I'm not stupid enough to believe we came from nothing, but I've never really cared whether that person is a 'person' as we think of or not. I do want you to really think through what you choose to believe, though, and not just believe it because you read it in this fanciful journal."

"It's not fanciful, Mom. It's just a journal by a girl like me. And don't worry, I still haven't made up my mind about what I believe."

"So what else did you have to tell me?"

"Yeah, that," I said, and got quiet. "Don't be mad, okay?"

"Okay..." Mom said, swallowing. I could tell that this was hard for her, but she was trying to handle it like an adult conversation. "Hit me, but please be gentle."

"I'll try," and I paused.

"And..." Mom said, trying to prompt me.

"I'm trying, but this is really hard. I've only told one other person. I've been keeping it in, and it's not easy to share."

"Okay, but you know you can tell me anything."

"I know, and I should have told you earlier. So here goes..." I took a deep breath and told her everything that happened the night of the concert.

Freeing

When I had told Mom everything, I just let the truth hang in the air for a few moments, as my mom reached over and embraced me. She didn't know what to say either. After we cried together for a few minutes—what is it about me and crying these days? I quietly got up and went into my room. I hated to leave my mom there, but I didn't want to talk about it anymore. It was odd to hear what really happened coming out of my mouth so easily, but somehow it felt right, if not good.

I was done talking. After the night before with Ethel and this afternoon with Mom, I was talked out. I was ready to move on, move forward. I didn't know if that was possible, but that's what I wanted.

As I walked into my room, I immediately grabbed Beth's journal. I was ready for my old friend, one that wouldn't expect me to explain myself. I could just be.

December 5, 2001

Something's happened. I'm not the same person I was the last time I wrote. Though I still have lots of questions—Faith said that she still does too—I've now found some answers that I can rest in. The questions no longer seem so pressing.

I'm a Christian. I mean, not someone who goes to church or does the right thing all the time—if such a person could exist—but one who is walking—or trying to—in faith in God. I can't believe I've made it this far in the last 3 months, but I've now recognized for myself the truth that I've been hearing and reading.

I now know that I'm a sinner, too. It's not just parents and terrorists that sin. It's me.

" _For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles in one point, he has become guilty of all."_

Yep, I've stumbled, and definitely at more than one point!

I'm a wreck—I've put myself first, I've lied, I've done everything to make sure that my own interests were being fulfilled with little thought of others. I've self-centeredly relied on my own "good" works to get me by, but turns out, that won't get me far.

And praise God, I've found the answer. "What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!" as Paul says.

Wow...this is exactly the kind of thing that Ethel was talking to me about last night. It's amazing that Christianity hasn't changed in 100 years. That's a good thing. But has it changed in 2100 years? Perhaps not. I guess I'll have to read the Bible for myself to find that out.

And it made sense. What had happened to me was awful. Jamari's uncle took what was not his—I knew that. I would likely never get over it, but I was not a guiltless victim.

I was a sinner, too.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. First time in a while that I've done it. But I was excited. The night before, I decided that I may in fact want to be a Christian.

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to feel different. I did, and I didn't. I still had the same imperfections: blemishes on my face, desire to rebel, and all. But I also had hope.

Oh, what a glorious hope!

I still wanted to get my hands on a Bible, but for different reasons now. I no longer wanted it just for the novelty of it, but because I recognized that it would have a lot of good things for me to read. I was hungry, and wanted to know what God said.

But first, I had to face school again. I wasn't excited about that at all. The insults hurled at me before might not have been great, but now they were true. I really was a "despicable" Christian.

When I saw Ryan for the first time in my new life, I looked at her in the eye. I didn't flinch. Just before I looked away, I even managed to give a smile, though it hurt. I'm glad that I did.

Not that the smile helped anything—she hurled insults all the more during lunch.

Coming home from work, I was nervous when I heard Grandma messing around in the kitchen. As much as I wanted to avoid Ryan at school, I wanted to avoid Grandma at home. I knew I had to share with her that I went to church, but what would she say? If she wouldn't visit us here for years after moving into a former church building, what would she do about her granddaughter actually going to a church? Would she disown me? Would she force Mom to ground me?

I walked as silently as I could into the living room, but the swoosh of the apartment door seemed louder than usual. As I expected, Grandma was busy in the kitchen, making us dinner. I was hoping that her old ears were unable to hear my footsteps as I slinked back towards my room. She must have been as aware of me as I was of her, because she turned around and faced me after I had not made it two steps into the apartment.

"I'm glad you're home, Amala. Go ahead and have a seat," Grandma said with a weary look. Clearly, Mom had given her a heads up about my recent activities.

"I just have to..." I started, pointing back towards my room.

"No, go ahead and have a seat. I'm dreading this conversation as much as you are. We might as well break the ice...let's not put it off any longer."

I followed orders, dropping my purse beside my seat as I slouched into the worn chair. I didn't even try to look like I was excited to have this conversation. I knew that a big part about being an adult—something that I was trying to be—was having the hard conversations and being able to form a well-thought-out argument as for why you make the choices you do.

"Alright, young lady, explain to me what you told your Mom last night," Grandma said with a sigh. I had a feeling she must knew a lot about what I was going to say, but I appreciated that she wasn't going to lay into me based solely on what she had heard from Mom.

I told Grandma my story and about why I wanted to visit the church. I did tell her that while finding the Bible was my original motivation, I was intrigued and hoped to go to the church again, even if they couldn't find me a Bible. I told her about Ethel, and I talked about Beth. I told her about the decision that Beth made, and how I was considering a similar decision.

All told, she listened to me for 20 minutes without interruption. It was good to share my story, though every time I said a word like "Bible," "church," or "Jesus," I was afraid it would cause Grandma to roll her eyes or to break out in cursing. Though I could tell she was uncomfortable, she held back negative remarks.

"Thank you for sharing all that, Amala. Based on what I've told you before, you rightly assume it concerns me. A grandmother is always scared her grandchildren will fall in with the wrong crowd and get caught up in sex or drugs. But I'll admit, to me this is worse."

"To hear you say these things," she continued, "is a painful reminder of my past. Growing up in the church, I heard people who got caught up in it like you are. It's dangerous—some of those people never leave. If you're serious about this, you must know, that you may be making up your mind for life. That's a hard decision for someone so young."

"Grandma, I'm 17. Soon, I'll be on my own, trying to get a job. I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

"Well, I disagree. I think that you should wait until you're at least 18. But if you've made up your mind, then I don't know that I'll be able to stop you."

"I do want to hear your side. Even though you told me a lot before, why exactly are you so against the church? What's so wrong with people coming together to worship God together?"

"Are you really ready to hear this?"

"Yes," I said, hesitating, "I think so," I finished quietly, looking down at the scratches in the table.

"Okay," Grandma took in a big breath, as if winding a bat. "First of all, Christians are hypocrites."

"Hypocrites? How so?" I've heard this accusation before, but I never really thought about what it meant.

"They don't practice what they preach. They tell people to respect marriage by not living with your boyfriend or shacking up with someone of the same sex, but yet they use pornography. They critique almost every book and movie put out, but if it has the word 'Christian' on the back, they take it without thinking, and promote it to the nth degree. They strictly enforce such things like women not teaching men, but don't require women to shed their jewelry, something else that Paul says. They're told not to judge, but they're the ones doing all the judging!" As Grandma said each statement of hypocrisy, her voice grew even louder, so much so that the last statement was punctuated with a broom thud on the wall from Ms. O'Henry next door.

I sat silent when Grandma had ran out of breath. She looked like she was ready to go in again, but then she looked at me...her granddaughter and softened.

I knew what I had to say, but I was so scared. But I drummed up the courage and said, "Grandma, the only judgment I've heard has come from you. Perhaps all those things were true of the church you grew up in—I don't know. Perhaps all those things are true of the church I visited Sunday—I don't know. I've only been there once."

"What I do know," I swallowed and continued, "is that I was received in an attitude of love. I was welcomed there in a way that I've never been welcomed by anyone here. When I told Ethel all my dirty secrets, she didn't preach a diatribe against me like you just did. And for what? Daring to consider a viewpoint different than your own? Even if I decide to become a Christian, I'll never force what I believe on you. Perhaps women aren't supposed to teach men—I don't know—but I do know that Ethel is as valued a part of that church as anyone else."

Shamefully, as I continued to counter Grandma's arguments, I had raised my voice to match her. She didn't just take it. We screamed it out right then and there. The more ridiculous Grandma got, the more I realized that her problem wasn't with me and the church today but with her parents and the church she grew up in. That was her problem.

When I didn't think that I could take the raquet any more—our venomous voices were now joined in with loud music from Chester's room, Ms. O'Henry's broom, and Mr. Spencer's fist poundings—I stopped. I stopped and thought about how ridiculous everything we both were saying was. And I considered how if I could get such a rise in Grandma by simply visiting a church, then perhaps there was a little bit more going on here.

After we both sat back down and our faces turned back to more natural shades—mine a light brown and hers a faint pink—I reached over and put my hand on hers. She flinched.

There was definitely more than hypocrisy in her mind.

"Grandma," I asked through tears—why couldn't my eyes stay dry?—, "What did happen in that church?" I got no answer for a long enough time that I thought about asking it again. But then her voice—timid as I've never heard it—answered my plea.

"They forgave my attacker."

Connecting

I was confused. Attacker? What attacker? She had certainly not mentioned anything about an attack, not in this conversation, and I was pretty sure not in any other, either. That was something I would remember.

"Who, Grandma?"

"My attacker—the man who raped me," she replied in a still more timid voice. I inhaled sharply at that strong word and the thought that our stories were more alike than I had previously thought.

"I'm sorry, Grandma. I had no idea that there was something so hurtful that had happened. Was it a man in the church who attacked you? Your pastor? Your father?" With the last question, I swallowed with dread. I was not sure that I wanted to hear that my grandfather was such a hypocrite.

"No, it was no one in the church," my Grandma responded, with a little more life. "He was a stranger—though I wish that he had stayed that way. It happened one evening after I left a friend's house. I was walking home—though my parents had told me over and over again not to walk home in the dark—and as I was walking around the corner near my house, he caught me, pinned me to the ground..."

"That's okay, Grandma," I said, reaching for her hand again. If anyone knew her pain, I most certainly do. "I don't need to hear the rest. I understand."

"Thank you...I haven't talked about this in probably 50 years. Though I've tried to push it out of my mind, I've probably thought about it every day. You never outgrow something like that. You never forget. And I believe you never forgive."

I was saddened to hear those words. I had hoped that I'd somehow outgrow the memory of my own abuse, like I've outgrown so many memories from my childhood. I hadn't thought about what it'd feel like 50 years in the future.

"So how did your parents handle it?" I asked, thinking of my own Mom's silence in response to my own admission of being assaulted.

"Well, at first, they didn't know what to do. We reported it to the police—I hated going into so much detail, feeling like I was being violated. I knew disgusting secrets about what he looked like under his clothes, and that was what did him in. Apparently, another woman had described her attacker the same way I had, and they were able to catch him."

"I'll never forget the day that they caught him. When I first saw his picture on TV, I broke down. Though I knew he couldn't get me—it was only his picture on TV as he was then in jail—I don't think I would have responded any differently than if he had walked into the room. After the trial my dad did the unthinkable. He visited him in jail."

"Your dad visited your attacker in jail?" The thought baffled me. Would Mom visit Jamari's uncle, even if he was safely behind bars? I just couldn't see her having the guts to do it. And I don't think it's just because she was a woman—after all, she had no problem standing up to some of the nastiest and most dangerous food suppliers.

"Yes, he did. He visited him. And he shared the Gospel with him, the good news. Why did he share something that was supposed to be good with someone so evil? My attacker didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve anything more than what he got: the opportunity to spend the rest of his days in prison."

"But what's worse, my attacker recognized it as good news. He accepted it, and began making changes in his life. Even though he was behind bars with no opportunity to rape young women again, he said that he was a changed man. And my father was stupid enough to believe him. He became my attacker's personal mentor, visiting him in jail every week, taking him books and praying with him. Together they started a prison ministry. Father was so excited about it too, and to hear him tell mother about it over the dinner table disgusted me. After about a year of this, I had heard enough. I exploded. I chewed out my father, telling him that this man wasn't worth the nasty prison food that they fed him. He deserved to die for what he did."

"And what did your dad say?" I was intrigued. I couldn't imagine having that kind of faith to confront, let alone befriend, your teenage daughter's rapist.

"He said that I was right. That my attacker did deserve to die. But so did he. And so did I. All of us. But that God gave us all a second chance at life."

Grandma's words reminded me of what I had heard from Ethel and read in the journal.

"Yes, I've heard that."

"Well, it may be true in his world, but it is a cruel thing to say. I told him that my attacker should go to hell like he deserved for what he did to me. I didn't care what his precious Bible said, some people shouldn't deserve an opportunity at life."

"So what happened next?" I asked anxiously.

"I turned to drugs, abandoning any faith I had. I have already told you what happened when my parents found out about the drugs. I couldn't live with people who would forgive their daughter's rapist so flippantly. So when they wouldn't let me do my own thing, I left."

"But was it really flippantly? Don't you think your dad agonized over it?"

"I didn't at the time. Now, having a perspective as a parent and knowing his character, he must have. That doesn't mean that I wanted to be reminded of what happened at the dinner table all the time."

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Grandma. And I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I understand a bit how you felt. I, too, was sexually assaulted." It felt weird to say those words aloud, but each time I told the truth it was a little easier.

The anger rose in Grandma's face faster than it had in our heated discussion previous. I hated to hurt her again, but I knew that I'd never have a better opportunity to tell her. And she needed to know she wasn't alone.

Relenting

I was thankful that painful discussion with Grandma was over. She had clearly known a lot of hurt in her life. While I knew she wasn't always in the right, it was important for me to realize that she had been where I was now.

I didn't want to become like her. I love my Grandma, but I didn't want to be characterized by that kind of bitterness at her age. I don't want to have a strained relationship with my daughter because I couldn't get over issues that had happened to me as a child. "Getting over" them didn't have to mean that I had to ignore them, but I did need to realize that I wasn't ruined forever just because of another's actions.

I knew that my actions weren't rosy either. Sure, I have never hurt anyone physically nor stolen something from anybody, but I have lied. A lot. I have hated too often and not loved. I certainly haven't honored my mother. I don't even know what else God requires of me, but at least I know I'm guilty of that much. "For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles in one point, he has become guilty of all," as Beth quoted. Stumbler...that's a great nickname for me, as I seem to be stumbling all the time.

What could I do? I only knew of one thing. That's what I did. I cried out to a God, a god I knew must be real. Who else would have brought the journal into my life? Who else would use that awful night to bring me to my knees?

That evening I trusted for the first time in a God who was there, who saved me, taking the punishment for my sin upon Himself. There was nothing I could do, but whisper "thank you."

I wanted to tell Ethel about my decision right away, but as I glanced as the time, I realized it was too late to chip her. Instead, I turned to an older friend.

December 25, 2001

_Today we celebrate Christmas, the day of our Savior's birth. To think that all these years I've really only been celebrating all the gifts! I really made it all about me. It's hard to change my mentality, but when I remember all that God has done for me, what else could I do but celebrate Him at_ _Christ_ _mas?_

That's interesting. I never realized that's where the word came from, or that was what the holiday was about. I suppose as hard as Beth found it to focus on Jesus at the holiday, it's gotten worse as I hadn't ever heard that Christmas had anything to do with Christianity.

Mom and Dad actually agreed to do the holiday together. I guess they had fought—nothing new there—about who got Meg and I Christmas morning, and they couldn't come to a decision, so their mediator suggested this arrangement. I can't believe that it required a mediator for them to come to such a simple decision, while only a year ago they were making all sorts of decisions together.

There was no hint of Suzanne today. I don't know if she's still in Dad's life or not. Perhaps he's just trying to play nice with Mom so he left her out of our Christmas celebration. I do know that I want to try to make an effort to get to know her if she's going to be in my life. I may not agree with how she got there, but I can't change that. I need to love her and love Dad by loving her.

Mom and Dad got me a study Bible for Christmas. While they might not agree with my decision to follow Christ and be all "churchy" as they call it, I appreciate the fact that they recognize that it is important to me. I asked them how they knew which one I wanted, and they said that they asked Faith. In all that's been going on, I hadn't even realized that they knew who Faith was. It felt good to have that connection, even just for a moment.

Meg is still pretty distant. I've tried to ask her about school, but she's mum about everything. She's apparently forgiven or forgotten that I didn't tell her about Suzanne (when I didn't know!), but things are still not the same with us.

This has been a strange semester and I'm thankful that it's over. I had so much more to write about than I had planned, so I'm going to have to start a new journal before too long. I can thank Faith for that one—she anticipated as much, and gave me a new one a few days ago.

After reading the last few entries, I closed the journal that had meant so much to me. I had no idea what happened next for Beth, as there were no other journals in Hasan's shop. He couldn't remember when he got this journal. He thinks it may have just snuck in unnoticed with a box of books he bought from an estate sale, the seller unaware of its value.

Certainly, the seller would have been unaware of its value in my life. Without that journal who knows what my life would be like? I certainly have Beth to thank for introducing me to my new-found faith as she started me down this path. Though I imagine God could have found another way to bring me to Him, He chose her. Now I'll never know more of her life.

I can't wait to meet her in heaven. I have a feeling she'll enjoy hearing what her journal has meant to me.

Breathing

The next morning I woke up refreshed and ready to tackle whatever came my way. If it were Ryan, I knew that I could handle it. She could remind me of my own sin all she wanted—I'd agree with her.

If it were Ming, I could handle her too. I don't know why she broke my trust, but I could forgive her. She has had it rough too, not just me. It may not be easy to be friends with her again, but it'd be worth it to have an ally at school.

If it were another day like the day of the concert, God help me. I don't know if I could handle that. But God could help me, right? He helped me the last time—even though I didn't know it at the time—and He'd sustain me through it again, if necessary.

As ready as I thought I was, I wasn't expecting what happened next.

I received a chip from Ethel. Eli had been by her place that morning with a package addressed to me.

A Bible-shaped package.

On my way out of the school to pick it up, I caught a glimpse of Ming as she was disappearing out the door ahead of me. Though it made everyone look my way—something I'd been anxiously trying to avoid—I ran and called after her. She was startled, and turned back my way.

With that look, I knew I that I was right to seek her out. No matter what she had done, she was still Ming, my only friend. Well, I suppose I count Ethel as a friend now, but you can never have too many.

"Ming," I said louder than I meant. People were still staring at us. I guess anything about me draws attention now, since so much of the school gossip has been centered around me this year. Every time I talk to anyone, everyone took notice as they could be witnessing the next headline in school gossip.

"Ming," I repeated, this time in a normal tone. "Can we talk?"

"Uhh, sure," she said, still surprised.

"Caffeine bar again?" I asked.

"Sounds good," she said with a smile that wasn't quite genuine. "Don't you have work?"

"I already asked Hasan if I could work Friday instead, and he agreed. This is more important."

"Okay," Ming said.

As we arrived at the caffeine bar we quietly placed our orders and sat down with our bitter drinks. The weather was unseasonably warm, so the shop was busier than it had been.

I decided to come right out with it, breaking the ice.

"Ming, I forgive you. I know you didn't mean to hurt me."

"What are you talking about, Amala?" I could see in Ming's face that this wasn't a defense mechanism but true bewilderment.

"About telling Ryan—or someone else who told Ryan—about me going to church."

"You thought I told? Why would I have done that? I'm on your side, not hers."

"Wait," I said, surprised. "Then how did she know about it?"

"I don't know. You guys used to be really close friends, right? Had you ever used each other eCred cards?"

"Oh," I said. Of course. She looked at my eCred account and was tracking my movements. She must have been suspicious when I left early on a Sunday morning and figured out—or guessed, which I confirmed after her accusations—as to where I was going.

"Oh, Ming," I don't know what to say. I was convinced she was in the wrong, but it was me. I falsely accused her, without giving her a chance to defend herself. I didn't give her the benefit of the doubt, but at the first sign of trouble, I accused her of betrayal and abandoned her, something with which we were both too familiar.

"I'm sorry, Ming," I said reaching out to give her hand a squeeze. "I've been ignoring you because I thought you betrayed me. It turns out, you were the one being betrayed by your new friend. Can you forgive me?"

"Yes, Amala. I wondered why you had been so strange around me, but I thought maybe you might need your space, so I waited until you approached me. I realized I had kind of pushed myself on you from the beginning."

"I'm glad you did push yourself on me, as I couldn't imagine what I'd do without you. I supposed I did need my space, but I didn't need to push you out to get it. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I've come to a decision."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I've decided to become a Christian. As I continued in Beth's journal, she came to a point when she realized her utter hopelessness and her need for a sinless Savior to die in her place. I've come there, too, and oh, what a dark and glorious place that is."

"Wow, I had no idea you were taking all that seriously. I mean, I find it interesting, but I'm not willing to go that far."

"That's okay, Ming. I won't push you. But I do hope you'll still be my friend, even though I've not been the best one to you. Now come on: we have something to pick up."

When Ethel's door opened, I couldn't get through the doorway fast enough...I almost pushed the door open myself. I was ready to receive what I had been waiting for.

I'm not sure at the beginning of the journey I would have realized it to be the treasure that I now valued it to be. Perhaps it would have been an interesting novelty, like the other books that I read, but nothing more.

As I opened the page and beheld the beat-up Bible, I breathed in the dusty air that surrounded it. I was holding a Bible at last, a Bible that I had only known in bits and pieces before.

As much as I valued the treasure in my hand, I recognized that it wasn't the treasure that I had been seeking. I had already found what I was looking for in God. So while this was meaningful and important to me, I had a new found perspective in which to enjoy it.

Ming smiled when she saw me opening the package, and I appreciated her sharing my joy, even though she didn't completely share in my excitement. Ming and I didn't have the same values, but I still cherished her as a person who helped get me through a tough time. I believed that God had a plan for her life as well, and in time, she'd come to recognize it.

When I went home that night, I tried to sneak into my room without being noticed so that I could curl up with the Bible and read. When I went through the door I saw Grandma, and I knew that I couldn't blow her off, not even for the Bible.

"Hi, Grandma. What's for dinner?"

"Oh, I'm not here to make you dinner. I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with your Mom's meatloaf again or something else barely edible. I did have something to ask you, though."

I internally groaned, not sure what she was going to ask me. Last night's firefight occurred before I had made up my mind to follow God, so I can only imagine how it would go down today if she knew I had made up my mind.

"What question?" I said, setting my stance for a fight.

"What was the name of the girl in the journal?"

"Oh," I said, taken off-guard by the banality of the harmless question. "Her name is Beth."

"Not her, the other girl? The one that is her friend who invites her to church and talks to her about God and stuff?"

"That's Faith."

"That's what I thought you said last night. It didn't occur to me until later, but I think I may know who Faith was."

"Really?" I said, quite surprised at the turn of the conversation.

"Yeah, I did the math. The age, place, and description all fit. I believe Faith is my mother, Faith Pennington."

"Hmmm, yeah, that last name does sound familiar. So Faith's my great grandmother?" I asked, disbelieving.

"Yes. She married Jason Stevens, my father. Is he mentioned? I know they knew each other in high school."

"Ha, yes! That's the guy that Beth flirts with occasionally. Wow!"

Wow was such the wrong word, but it was the only one I could think of in the moment. My great grandmother was instrumental in Beth coming to Christ, and now Beth returned the favor by leading me to Him.

God indeed is a big God.

Author's Note

Are we doomed to Amala's future? I don't think so. But I also don't think that a 2102 like Amala's is so far fetched from the trajectory that our country is currently on. As Ayn Rand says, "...you're free to change your course, but so long as you follow it, you're not free to escape its logic."

So can we change our course? Absolutely. I'm convinced it will take nothing less than a big God to change the course that the United States is on. By continuing to remove ourselves from God's good and perfect will for us as individuals and as a country, we're doomed to life without Him. While our eternal destiny is certainly important, so is the life that we live on this earth. And God offers redemption from both our own sin and from suffering like what both Amala and Beth faced.

Will believers today stand up and fight for what's right? Will we fight not only for the rights of the unborn but for the rights of the slaves in our own backyards? Will we defend the sanctity of God's holy institution, marriage, not only by fighting for the definition of marriage but also against divorce? Will we reach out of our comfort zones and help those who are hurting from physical, moral, and spiritual poverty?

We live in a broken world desperate for help. God intends to use us to be part of the cure: if we'll let Him.

I pray that you'll join me in that fight, in the one that I too quickly forsake for anything and everything else that may catch my attention.

To find out more of what this might look like, please follow me at my blog: IgnorantHistorian.com.

Ronnica Z. Rothe

December 10, 2011

Acknowledgements

Thank you to those who patiently helped me weed through my rough draft: Mom (Yvonne Rothe), G. Zoe (Zoe Marie Head), and my one and only sister (Amanda Rothe). Thanks, Amanda, for also writing my blurb...you definitely write better about me and my work than I do.

As a reader, I'm indebted to the many authors I have read. I'll never be as good a writer as my role models: C. S. Lewis, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Leo Tolstoy, and Ayn Rand. As I edited this story, I noticed the influences of George Orwell, Orson Scott Card, Scott Westerfeld, and Jasper Fforde shining through. I'm sure my readers can find the fingerprints of many other writers on my writing as well.

Thanks to the friends and family who stood by me and encouraged me through the past year and its craziness. Thanks to my church, Open Door Baptist Church in Raleigh, North Carolina for not letting me settle, but pushing me towards Christ and dependence on Him.

Thanks to the free wi-fi of the Wake County Public Libraries, Chick-fil-a, and Panera for allowing me places to concentrate on editing. Chick-fil-a especially, for their endless Diet Dr Pepper.

And finally, and most importantly, thanks to God for giving me the idea and the skills to put it on paper. I absolutely could not have done this without Him.

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About the Author:

Ronnica is a Kansas native who currently lives in Raleigh, North Carolina. In high school, she was the nerdy type and enjoyed taking part in Science Olympiad as well as the school band. As you might guess, she also really enjoyed journaling, a habit she still keeps up today.

After graduating from Maize High School, she moved to Norman, Oklahoma to study meteorology at the University of Oklahoma. Two majors later, she graduated with a history degree. While in college, Ronnica made lifelong friends at the Baptist Student Union, where she also started to learn what it truly meant to be a follower of Christ.

After college, Ronnica moved to North Carolina to attend Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary, where she received a masters of divinity in Christian ministry. Though she had always planned on moving west when she graduated, she got "stuck" in Raleigh thanks to her church where she learned what it meant to live in community with one another.

Ronnica has blogged for years which has increased her love of writing (and hopefully her skill). She also enjoys reading and crocheting in her free time.

Connect with me online:

Twitter: <http://twitter.com/RonnicaZ>

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ronnica-Z-Rothe/172806819467838>

My blog: http://ignoranthistorian.com
