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The first thing you noticed about her was her eyes: a steely blue, two planets suspended in the constellation of freckles scattered across her face. You must have gotten lost - it happened to you often enough to be a pattern - because the next thing you noticed was her laugh, as she patted the seat beside her in the Sunday School classroom.
“Don’t worry, it’s Fast Sunday. I can’t bite for two more hours.”
You blushed - you didn’t like being caught inattentive like this - but you sat down next to her.
“I’m Samantha,” she said. “Or Sam, or ‘hey you.’ What’s your name, stranger?”
“Rachel,” you told her quietly. And though it probably didn’t need an explanation: “I just moved here. From Manhattan. The one in Kansas. It’s different here in Utah.”
“You could say…” she drew out the pause meaningfully, “that you’re not in Kansas anymore? Bet you haven’t heard that one a million times.”
She was right, you’d heard it a lot. It still made you want to laugh, for some reason.
The lanky boy sitting to her other side elbowed her and said something, and you felt an odd pang in your chest.
“Oh shut up, Ben, she’s fine.” Then, turning to you, “You’re fine, right? I’m not bothering you?”
You shook your head.
“See?”
He didn’t seem like he saw, but he settled back into his slouch and didn’t say anything else.
“My brother,” she told you, as if that explained everything, and as suddenly as the anxious energy had set in your chest, it dissipated.
This was odd, you thought to yourself as the teacher called on someone for the opening prayer. There was no reason for you to be - nervous? jealous? whatever this was - about a boy sitting next to a girl you’d just met, just because you thought he might be her boyfriend.
That must be it, you decided. The prophets had taught you not to go on dates until you were 16, and not to steady date until you were ready to think about marriage. If she had a boyfriend, she wasn’t following the prophets, and not following the prophets was a sin.
You didn’t want her to sin.
You were good at following the prophets. You could quote the ancient ones, like Nephi or Isaiah, or the modern ones, like Joseph Smith or Spencer W. Kimball. You weren’t perfect - nobody was perfect, it would be blasphemy (also a sin) to suggest that you were - but you thought you did a pretty decent job.
Even after you’d turned 16, you’d never once been tempted to go on a date with a boy.
The teacher wrote on the chalkboard: Matthew 11:28-30.
You opened your scriptures, but you didn’t really need to. You knew this one by heart.
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
——
“Are you coming to the stake dance on Saturday?”
You hesitated. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know anybody…”
“Oh my gosh, that’s the entire point though! How will you get to know anyone if you stay home? Besides,” she flashed you a grin, “I’ll be there, and you know me.”
That didn’t work. You needed a new angle.
“But I don’t know how to dance.”
Her face positively lit up, and you knew you’d just made a mistake.
“That’s the easiest part! Here, I can show you.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now, dummy! Unless your mom is picking you up early.”
No. You were out of excuses.
She stacked the last of the chairs at the edge of the cultural hall. “There. Plenty of space.” Then, turning to you: “You’re a girl. You’ve got it easy. Just get the rhythm down, and then follow where the guy leads.”
“But you’re a girl too.”
She spread her arms triumphantly. “If you can’t get homemade boys, store-bought is fine.” Then, comically lowering her voice: “I’m Sam now.”
Before you had time to react, she’d closed the distance and taken your hands in hers.
“Left hand on my shoulder, like this,” she said. You felt the heat of her body, felt her muscles moving through the soft fabric of her shirt as she settled her right hand into the crook of your waist. “Right hand out to the side, in my hand.”
Her touch was electric.
“See,” she said, smiling. “It’s easy. Now, there’s other dances that are fancier - oh, I can teach you the waltz someday! I think you’d like it - but nobody does those, because people are boring. All you need to know for now is the slow song shuffle.” She gave you a sheepish grin. “Uh, don’t google that, I just made it up. And now for the last ingredient - music!”
She disengaged from you, and you missed her immediately. She was so confident, and you were so comfortable - nothing at all like what you’d imagined when you thought about dancing before.
She was fiddling with something next to her backpack, and as she stood and returned to you, she was followed by the strumming of an acoustic guitar in three-quarters time.
“And now you just kind of rock back and forth,” she said, the pressure from her hands guiding you as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “That’s really all there is to it. Like I said, pretty boring, compared to stuff like the waltz.”
“So what do I do now that we’re dancing?” you asked.
“Well, let’s see. You’ve got the standard questions, like ‘what color is your toothbrush’ or ‘what’s your favorite ice cream flavor,’ if you can’t think of anything else. If you pick the right guy, you can have some pretty interesting conversations, which is nice. Or, if it’s someone you really like, you can just look into his eyes and enjoy the ride.”
“There isn’t a guy I like,” you said, maybe a little too quickly.
“No? Not even a little bit?” There was a tease in her voice, but you didn’t mind it. Not when it was her.
“We’re not supposed to go on steady dates until we’re in college, right? I guess I just haven’t ever had that temptation.”
You couldn’t read the expression she gave you in response. She didn’t say anything else, just guided you in a slow, rocking circle until you heard the sound of your mom opening the chapel door.
And it's you and me and all of the people
And I don't know why
I can't keep my eyes off of you
——
“Look, it’s not like I’m really dating him, okay?”
This made no sense to you. “But you are. You’re literally going out together on dates. You were holding his hand in front of everyone after the youth activity yesterday.”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I know how it looks, but I promise you, we aren’t really dating. I just… it’s complicated, okay? I can’t talk about it. I just need you to trust me.”
You wanted to trust her, you really did. But…
“You’re sure you won’t fall into temptation, though? I mean, I know you think you’re in control now, but-”
“Rachel,” she cut you off, “there is no possible way I could fall into temptation with him, of all people.”
“You don’t know that!”
She glared at you for a moment. “Fine. But before I tell you, I need you to promise you won’t repeat this to anybody. Not anyone at all. Okay?”
“I don’t…”
“Promise!”
You’d never heard her raise her voice before. The words came out small, automatically: “I promise.”
“Rachel, listen. He’s gay.”
He’s… “gay?”
“He’s gay, and he’s been my friend since we were kids, and he begged me to date him so his parents would stop asking questions. He was so scared, Rachel. And it’s, like, it’s a lot, and I don’t need you to understand it, but I need you to understand me. I’m trying to help him. Just for another year, until he can move out.”
“He’s gay.”
“Are you, like… going to be okay with that?”
You thought for a moment. Dug for something, anything.
“ ‘I know that God loveth his children,’ ” you recited, “ ‘nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things.’ ”
“Rachel…”
“God gives all of us different trials,” you said, slowly, “but the Atonement is for everyone. There’s no limit to what God can forgive us for, if we sincerely repent, and God never gives us a commandment without preparing a way for us to keep it.”
She looked like she was about to say something, so you spoke again, faster.
“And it’s not like - it’s not like being gay is a sin! It’s just a trial. He can still go on a mission, he can still get married in the temple, right? He’s got a different trial, but he can overcome it just like any of us can.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “He’s not going to. Not unless they make some big changes to how temples work.” And, touching your arm: “I’m sorry, Rachel. Sometimes things just don’t work the way we learn about them in Sunday School.”
“No.” You flinched away from her instinctively. It was a bizarre sensation, being repelled by her touch, and you didn’t like it.
“I’m sorry-”
“No,” you repeated. “It does work the way we learn in Sunday School. God prepares a way to keep all his commandments. If he won’t do it, then - then it’s his choice. ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’ His grace is sufficient, but we have to choose it.”
You felt the tears form in your eyes. You were crying. You didn’t understand why you were crying.
“Rachel. Please. Stop quoting scriptures and just talk to me like a normal human being.”
“I… no. I can’t,” you finally managed.
“Then please, at least - please just promise me again that you won’t tell anybody. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even told you-”
“You can tell me anything,” you whispered.
You didn’t believe it, though. She wouldn't ever tell you anything like this again.
There was only one thing left to say.
“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
——
You were alone in your room, dinner halfheartedly half-eaten. You “had a test” and you “needed to study.” They weren’t lies, exactly. But you weren’t studying right now.
She’d pretended nothing had happened - she was better than you at pretending - but you could still tell. Something was broken, and you couldn’t make it right.
You’d been playing back the conversation since the day it happened. You’d thought about what you’d said - what you hadn’t said - what you could have said. You were sure there was a scripture that would have softened her heart, if you just could have thought of it.
But the truth was, you knew it was hopeless. You’d felt the deep, sinking ache in your chest as the Spirit withdrew the moment she had told you her secret. Without the Spirit to guide you, there was no chance you’d handle things right.
You still felt that ache.
If the Spirit had left you, that wasn’t because of her sin. It was because of yours.
You wracked your brain for answers. How had you sinned? You’d testified of the power of the Atonement. You hadn’t said anything untrue. You’d done exactly what the prophets had told you you should be prepared to do. And yet, you still felt terrible.
Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye.
Was this… was this your sin, somehow? Had you called her to repentance when you yourself hadn’t repented of -
- of -
- of being -
Her hand on your waist.
No.
No, that didn’t make any sense. You knew what you wanted. You wanted to grow up and get married in the temple to a returned missionary and -
Dancing in a circle, slowly, wordlessly.
- have at least four kids. You read your scriptures every day. You prayed every morning and every night and before every meal, even before snacks. You took the sacrament every Sunday. You -
Her grin as she teased you.
- fasted every Fast Sunday, even when there was a birthday party, and you didn’t even cheat and end your fast after 23 hours and 45 minutes. You’d never been tempted to sin with a boy, you didn’t even like boys because you were supposed to wait until -
Blue eyes, in a face awash with freckles.
You didn’t even like boys.
You didn’t like boys.
You prayed. You prayed for this trial to be taken from you - prayed for delivery from temptation - prayed for a way to have a friend that didn’t place sin in your heart. You prayed for the dreams that were suddenly out of reach. You prayed to un-know what you knew, to become the person you’d been days ago, months ago, years ago. You prayed, and you wept, and you prayed.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
But the ache was as heavy and as deep as ever.
——
You close the journal.
She’s nestled into your back, arms around your waist, head buried between your shoulders. Not quite asleep, not yet. You savor the heat of her steady breath.
After a moment, she asks: “Do you remember it any better now?”
“No,” you tell her, honestly. “It’s the weirdest thing. I know it must have happened to me - it’s my voice, it’s my handwriting - but it feels like I’m intruding on the private thoughts of a stranger. I don’t know if it’s an ADHD thing or a trauma thing or just me being a bizarre outlier, but I can’t even look back a decade. The memories just aren’t there.”
You let the silence linger for a moment.
“And I’m okay with that,” you add, finally. “I was a different person then, someone who believed a lot of shitty things. I would have thought she was insufferable. She would have been sure I was going to hell. I’m not proud of the person I was, and I don’t mind leaving her in the past.”
“Well, I’m proud of the person you were, because she’s the person who became who you are now.” She kisses your back gently. “And I know how hard she worked to get there.”
Another pause. Another warm, steady breath.
“I’d kill to keep from giving up my memories of that time. But if you’re happier without them…” She chooses her next words carefully. “Maybe it’s a burden you don’t need. I can remember enough for both of us.”
You roll over to face her, drinking in her starlit freckles and the steely blue of her eyes.
She kisses you, and you let yourself sleep.