Continued from Christmas Bells
With three other girls, I lived in Norma's. It was the name of a small apartment complex on 7th North just a block and a half downhill from BYU's campus. Norma's was situated under the shadow of a very large building called Spyglass where wealthy kids spent their parents' money skiing at Sundance and driving far nicer cars than my woody mini-van, which we all parked together in our shared garage. Norma's and Spyglass shared the block with houses, little two or three bedroom houses, all inhabited by students and post-student types who had yet failed to move on from student life. Across 7th, further from campus, the road was similarly lined with houses and an occasional complex all rented to kids like me and my roommates.
The motion of pedestrians was a constant ebb and flow, up and down the hill, back and forth on 8th North, 7th North, 6th North and the roads that connected them, to class, to work, and home again. And it was exciting. The scurrying, laughing, meeting of friends, the quick paced climbing, the palpable relief at the end of a day or a test or a distasteful class, the romances around the duck pond; these things made my heart light and my eyes dance, all of it felt fresh and alive.
Sections of Provo were organized into Stakes and a few blocks from each stake made up a ward. The ward met together for church every Sunday and for social activities on other days. Norma's was in a ward with a handful of nearby apartment buildings, much larger than her own, as well as three blocks of student leased houses. The ward was the lifeblood of our sociality. Patrick had been in my ward since August, but I had not yet noticed.
The first time I met him, he already knew who I was, at least he knew my name and recognized my face. I had previously overlooked him as deliberately as I ignored most every young man in existence. So the familiarity between us was one sided, as was the amity.
It was a dark Monday evening early in the new year. We were gathered in a small living room two doors down from my apartment on 7th North. Most of us were strangers, arranged in this group of perhaps 20 students for weekly activities by our ecclesiastical leader. This was the first meeting. I, the timid introvert in a noisy room full of unfamiliar peers, was full of anxiety. I wouldn't have been there if it weren't for the encouragement of my New Mexican roommate. She was the usual impetus behind any of my participations in social activities. If she ever didn't attend, you can bet your bottom dollar that I would not have either.
There were more people than seats in the loud and crowded room. After the couch was occupied beyond capacity, chairs were perched around the periphery, and floor space filled up quickly. I had a corner of an oversized bean bag chair.
He walked through the door after I was already comfortable in the corner. He had to pass by me to access the rest of the square living room and recognized me immediately. I wouldn't have noticed his recognition, if not for the fact that he spoke to me. It was a short conversation.
"Hey, do you sing in Russian Choir?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you sing in the church choir then?"
I shrugged my shoulders. What was it to him anyway? And how did he know I sang in Russian choir?
"Ok, so do you speak Russian?"
"A little."
"How come you speak Russian?"
"Because my best friend is a missionary in Ukraine."
That was it. I don't think we even exchanged names or any other personal information. My terse replies gave him the idea that I was cold and uninterested in him, which really wasn't far from the truth. He determined not to go out of his way to talk to me again. Therefore, the following weeks of Monday activities passed with nothing of note between the boy of the story and myself, who by no small miracle would eventually become his lady.
No comments:
Post a Comment