Rhys
The BOM [thuh / book / uhv / mohr-mun] n—the Book of Mormon,
not “the bomb,” as in “cool”
I’ve been dreading this moment since I first signed the honor code and made BYU my alma mater. RelA 121: The Book of Mormon—one of two religion classes left on the docket before I graduate in the spring. Not a big deal for most students attending school here, but for a nonmember like me, it’s torture.
Before coming to class this morning, I Googled BYU Book of Mormon class, how to survive. Surprisingly, there was an article in the digital Daily Universe, BYU’s on-campus newspaper, that made a few suggestions:
1. Hydrate. Not sure how this helps me do anything except have to pee, but whatever.
2. Bring a snack. I actually like this one. Too bad I forgot to pack something.
3. Sit in the front row. I’m more of a back-row kind of guy.
4. And 5. Take notes and ask questions. Duh and duh.
6. Use the buddy system. Highly unlikely.
7. Find a class crush. I’m beginning to doubt the validity of this newspaper.
8. Have a mint handy. This one goes hand in hand with number seven. Only at BYU.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I reluctantly move forward, searching for a seat in the mammoth auditorium. I thought I’d give the front row a try since The Daily Universe recommended it and all, but with only five minutes before class starts, all the seats are taken. I sit in an empty middle row two seats from the door in case I need to make a quick getaway, and I pull out my notebook.
There are other Book of Mormon classes offered, but they don’t fit my schedule. And since I’ve procrastinated taking this course until the last possible semester, I’m stuck.
My problem with this class isn’t so much the subject matter though; it’s my peers. I may have read the entire Book of Mormon this past summer to prepare for today, but I’ll never know the scriptures like they do. I’m not good with the -ites or remembering which Nephi did what.
My other problem with RelA 121 is that I look like a Lamanite—dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if I were taking the second half of the BOM when the Lamanites are the good guys, but that’s next semester. I’ll likely have to deal with questions about “my people” and comments about how cool it is that my ancestors are in the Book of Mormon.
“Good morning. I’m Brother Clark, and you’re the luckiest students on campus because this class is going to be the bomb!”
With my elbows propped on the armrests, I slide low in my chair to get comfortable. This is going to be a long semester.
Brother Clark is halfway through his opening monologue when the door opens. My gaze slides to the right, and my jaw nearly hits the desk in front of me. Girls at BYU are good-looking, altogether unbelievably hot, but this girl is . . . wow.
With her blonde hair piled on top of her head like a halo and a white cotton dress hugging her curves, she all but floats into the room. I turn my attention back to my desk and scribble in my notebook so it looks like I’m taking notes.
A sweet fragrance teases my nose a second before she whispers, “Is this seat taken?”
Without looking up, I shake my head, and she sits next to me. Guess I found someone to fulfill suggestion number seven. Find a crush. Stupid.
“Have I missed much?” she asks quietly.
When I glance up, she’s biting her lower lip. I force my eyes back to my notebook. “No.” I’m going to have to find another seat next time. This isn’t going to work. To have any chance at passing this section, I need to focus. And right now, I am definitely not focusing—at least not on the Book of Mormon.
“While you may be familiar with the subject matter,” Brother Clark says, “this class will be among the most challenging courses you take at BYU because it will require you to not only think spiritually but critically as well.” Brother Clark picks up a stack of syllabi on his desk and hands them to his teacher’s assistant to pass down the rows. “Due to this fact, you will be working with a partner for the rest of the semester. Please turn to the person next to you, exchange phone numbers, and get to know each other.”
What? No. I have one goal in this class: pass. I plan to accomplish that by keeping my nose down, studying hard, and trying to blend in. I can’t do any of those things with a partner. Especially a partner who looks like her.
I turn to the blonde next to me, and she’s straightening her already straight iPad—clearly avoiding eye contact with me. Apparently neither of us is happy about this arrangement. Bet she’s wishing she’d gotten to class a little earlier. “I guess we should get to know each other,” I say. Smooth, Rhys.
“Yeah. Sure,” she says with a tight smile, her fingernails tapping a frantic beat against the desk. “I’m Emelia. But you can call me Emmy.”
Emmy. Half the girls in this school are named some variation of Emma. Emily, Emory, Emmy.
“Great, Emma.” I purposefully call her by the wrong name, curious to see how tight she’s wound.
“Just Emmy,” she corrects, stiffening her posture as she angles toward me.
Apparently pretty tight. “Right. Emmy.”
Her smile relaxes a fraction. “And you are . . . ?”
“Rhys. Spelled r-h-y-s but pronounced rise. Like BYU’s fight song . . .” I cringe, wishing I hadn’t just compared my name to a song.
“Cool name.”
It’s as random a name as my Mexican-Caucasian pedigree. Not sure whether I should thank my earth-loving mother for giving me such an eccentric name or my absentee father for not being around to stop her. “Solario,” I add, letting the r roll off my tongue to be sure she hasn’t mistaken me for a Pacific Islander or something more exotic.
“Jennings. Emmy Jennings.”
“Nice to meet you. Where are you from?”
She picks at her pink painted nails. “California.”
Not surprising. Wait. Jennings from California. “Any relation to UCAL’s quarterback?”
She shifts in her seat. “Yeah, he’s my brother.”
I laugh under my breath. Of course this angel is related to college football’s god.
Emmy touches her face as if trying to hide her blush. “Where are you from?”
“Other side of the Rockies. Denver.” At least that’s where I grew up. Though I did spend the first year of my college career in California.”
“Do you have family in Utah?”
“My mom.” She moved here three and a half years ago, right after Cami graduated, to start up a network-marketing business—just before her relapse.
Emmy nods that she’s heard me, and then our conversation comes to a standstill, the lull magnified by the animated conversations around us.
“Should we keep asking each other questions?” Emmy asks.
I can guess what she’s going to ask. It’s always the same: Where’d you serve? “Sure. You can go first.” Might as well get this out of the way. I tug on my shirt collar, adjusting my white undershirt. It may be pathetic to wear camouflage, but I don’t feel bad about trying to blend in.
“Oh, uh, okay.” Her brow scrunches when she pauses to think. “Do you play the guitar?”
I guess if she isn’t going to investigate my spiritual status, then my talents, or lack thereof, are a good place to start. “Nope.” I run a flat palm over my chin. Despite my having shaved this morning, it’s already rough with stubble.
“Great. We can be friends, then.”
Is she being sarcastic?
“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s cool if you play. But you said you don’t, so I guess it doesn’t matter, right? I was trying to be funny when I asked you if you played. It’s become an inside joke between my sister and me. She loves guitar players, which is ironic, because even though we’re alike in a lot of ways, I don’t tend to like guys who play the guitar.” Her eyes widen as if shocked by her own words. “That’s not what I meant either. Guitars are fine. Guys are fine. But when the two are put together—” Her face turns as red as a bottle of Tabasco sauce. “Sorry, I ramble when I’m nervous. Not that you make me nervous.” She winces at her confession, then brings her frantic little fingers to her heart-shaped lips.
My eyes flick to her mouth because . . . well, they just do. And lucky for me, she notices.
She drops her hand back to her desk. “Bad habit. I know. I’m trying to break it, but it’s difficult—never mind. You don’t want to hear about it. So, um . . . where’d you serve?”
And there it is. The million-dollar question they just can’t help asking.
“I didn’t.”
“Oh. Are you a convert?”
“No,” I say, honestly. “I’m not.”
She blanches, and I feel slightly bad for making her uncomfortable—but my religious affiliation is as much her business as hers is mine. And, honestly, I’m sick of being treated differently. For once, I’d like someone to look at me as a person and not a potential missionary opportunity. If my lack of membership in her church becomes an issue in our partnership, then we can discuss my atheistic beliefs and come up with a solution.
“Of course not,” she says. “That was a stupid question. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry. And, oh, my goodness, I’m rambling again—”
“Emmy.” I cut her off. “Relax. It’s not a big deal.”
She looks down at her desk, and several strands of hair fall against her pink cheek, veiling her face. “Right. Sorry,” she mumbles.
“Let’s just get through this, okay?”
She nods, and I start to reach for my cell so we can exchange phone numbers but stop when her brand-new iPad mini catches my eye. I pull out my dollar notebook instead. I’d rather not spend ten minutes trying to tap her information into my ancient pay-by-the-month flip phone. I put my pen in my mouth and uncap it, jot my name and phone number on the edge of a piece of paper, then rip it off and hand it to her. “I have a busy schedule. Finding time to study together might be difficult.” If not impossible.
“Yeah. For me too.”
“Do you work?” Maybe I’ve misjudged her.
“No.” She twists her hair off her face, then secures it in her bun. “Just busy.”
Or not.
She points to my notebook, and I slide it toward her. She writes her name in big loopy letters. Emmy Jennings. “I feel like I should warn you,” she says, writing her phone number below her name. “You got stuck with the absolute worst-case scenario for a study partner.”
I grunt in amusement. If she only knew. This would probably be a good time to disclose the fact that she got stuck with the worst-case scenario as a partner, not me, but again, not her business.
Emmy hesitates for a second, then pushes the notebook back. “I’m not the best student, but I promise to work hard, okay?”
Before I can reply, Brother Clark calls the class back to attention. I try to listen, but my focus is shot. I spend the rest of the class fighting my awareness of her. She moves her fingers ever so slightly in the air. Her foot bounces to a constant silent rhythm, only stilling when she pauses to tap a note into her iPad.
By the time class is over, I’ve missed most of the lecture. I knew BOM would be challenging, but with Emmy Jennings sitting next to me, it’s going to be impossible.