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It started, like most things did, with Shunammite.
Scripture class had come to its end, and plum skirts filed one-by-one into the halls, joining the array of colors dismissed from their other required lessons.
Shunammite looked expectant the moment they’d sat down for lunch, not outright showing her impatience—God rewards those who wait—but hinting at it, with that specific sparkle in her eyes as the Aunts lectured. Becka is not at all surprised when Shunammite presses closer to them, hands clasped in front of her, and speaks first.
“If God made you an animal,” she begins, diplomatically, “which do you think He would choose?”
Hulda frowns at the question. “Aunt Estée said we aren’t beasts. Even if the Preacher thinks so.”
It’s a reference to what they’ve just been taught, after Aunt Estée’s stern recitation of Ecclesiastes 3:18-21 that was interrupted mid-way by Aunt Gabbana. For what, who knows—the Aunts whispered amongst themselves all the time.
“And we’re not,” Shunammite says, like it’s an obvious thing. “Our purity is what separates us from the beast. But Aunt Estée also said what happens to us and them are the same. As one dies, so does the other. Right?” She pauses, thinking. “Besides, each of God’s creations are created by His hand for a reason. He has love and care for us all, even the common sparrow, as long as we praise Him.”
Matthew 10:29-31, Becka’s mind fills in automatically. Another verse they’ve learned and memorized in the past.
That answer seems to appease Hulda. “Okay,” she drops her frown for a smile. “Then I’d like to be a dove, I suppose.”
“Not a dog?” Agnes asks, curious. Hulda has always had an affinity for puppies - she brought them up quite frequently. Maybe her Commander would grant that wish for her when they are Greens.
She hesitates. “A dog would be nice, too…”
“Make up your mind, Hulda,” Shunammite chastises. “I already have my animal in mind.”
“Let me guess,” Becka says, giving her a look. “A lioness.”
Shunammite brightens, delighted to be known so well. “Obviously.”
“Because your lion Commander will lay in the shade, looking important, as you and the other lionesses do the entirety of the hard work?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Becka,” she sighs. “Commanders do lots of hard work. Your father’s just a dentist, though, so the confusion is understandable.”
Becka bristles. It’s not meant to be a jab, considering it’s a fact of the matter, but the effect of one is there. She feels Agnes’ elbow bump hers, quiet comfort, and her shoulders lose their sharp outline.
“I’d be a tiger,” Agnes says after, receiving everyone’s attention at once.
“A tiger?” Shunammite tilts her head, bemused. “You? What makes you say so?”
“My family took me to a zoo once, when I was little,” she explains. “My favorite was a tiger that they had. She was the only tiger there—I think the others were taken away—but they gave her so much room to roam. She looked so free. I wish I could see one again.”
“That’s a beautiful answer,” Becka tells her, smiling. Agnes returns the smile, cheeks turning pink with the compliment, although Becka was only being honest.
“Very lovely,” Shunammite admits. “It’s not as beautiful as a lioness, but a tiger is certainly still beautiful in person.”
“I’d love to go to the zoo and see one,” Hulda sighs, pleasantly. “I hope one of our field trips lets us go.”
“Me too,” Agnes agrees. She flits her attention to Becka. “What about you?”
“The zoo does sound nice,” Becka says, mostly because Agnes thinks so.
“I meant, what animal would you be?” Agnes laughs at the misunderstanding. “What do you think He would choose?”
Becka picks at her food for a moment, unsure. “A penguin,” she says, finally.
“A penguin?” Agnes’ eyebrows are up.
So are Shunammite’s. “You want to waddle?”
“That’s so cute,” Hulda exclaims, happily. “My father told me about a movie he watched— from before. The penguins danced.”
“Happy Feet!” Agnes says, and everyone blinks at her. “That’s the name of the movie. My father told me, too. They had a showing one time, at the barracks.”
“You want to be a waddling, dancing penguin with happy feet.” Shunammite sounds exasperated, like Becka’s given a wrong answer to her question that has no wrong answers.
“I didn’t say I wanted to dance,” Becka says, eyebrows drawn in muted annoyance.
“But you’d dance,” Hulda says, earnestly, “if you were a penguin.”
“That’s a movie, Hulda. That isn’t real.”
“We dance, anyway,” Agnes points out, shrugging. “When we’re Greens, we’ll learn the dances. Maybe you’ll get a Commander with happy feet, too.”
Becka huffs at her twitching smile. “And then we’ll mate for life. Or maybe I won’t mate at all, and I’ll wander off and die alone.”
“Stop that,” Agnes says, emphatically, and Becka blinks at her harsh tone. It had just been a joke.
Shunammite clicks her tongue. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you make everything so depressing these days. Don’t tell me that’s why you said penguin.”
“It’s not,” Becka admits, feeling guilty for some reason. The sudden emotion has to do with the way Agnes is looking at her, the way the laugh is wiped clean off her face. “I just chose it because— I don’t know. They’re loyal creatures. And they’re cute. And, most of the time, they come back after they wander off.” A beat. “I’d come back for you all, if I was a penguin.”
“Becka,” Hulda says, through a soft smile. “That’s so sweet of you to say.”
“Yeah, but you’d only come back most of the time?” Agnes teases, now that Becka’s response has lightened the mood.
“I’d always come back for you,” Becka says without a moment’s hesitation. The deep intensity of her words hits her immediately, and Becka’s face turns warm as she avoids Agnes’ gaze. “For all of you, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Shunammite repeats. Then, in Shunammite fashion: “I still think I have the best answer.”
“Nobody said yours was bad, Shu,” Agnes says, and Becka can hear the amusement in her voice.
“I know. I’m just making sure.”
-
“Are you starting a new project?” Aunt Vidala asks, when Becka doesn’t join the rest of the Plums in rummaging through the baskets. The question isn’t accusatory, as there were plenty of unfinished pieces left from previous seasons, scattered around and discarded from lack of passion or time or both. Becka’s potholder is left half-way done after her last embroidery session, and she remembers an older tablecloth she had been working on from much, much earlier, too.
“Yes, Aunt Vidala,” Becka says, politely. She’s paused her search for the perfect cloth colors for her project to converse.
“What idea has He graced you with today?”
“I’d like to make a stuffed figure,” she answers truthfully, careful not to sound too passionate, even if it’s solely passion that’s spurring her on. “For practice.”
Aunt Vidala considers her for a moment, looking down at the assortment of fabrics that the school has provided for them. “Very well. Do mind your stitches.”
“Yes, Aunt Vidala,” Becka says, again. She releases a small breath of relief when she’s left in peace, Aunt Vidala moving down the row to interrogate some other Plum’s work.
Becka returns to her seat with a shade of orange, one that takes a while for her to pick out, and black. These will do.
Shunammite sits near, working on a cross-stitch of daisy flowers. Hulda is to her right, doing something similar, although Becka can’t quite see her design. And, across the room, Agnes is at one of the larger tables, posture intact as her hands work busily for her piece. As if she feels Becka’s gaze on her, she turns around, and they share a stare—eyes crinkling at the edges, raised eyebrows like they’re telling each other a joke from the distance.
Agnes turns away first, resuming her progress. Becka finally gets ready to start hers.
It hadn’t seemed daunting in her thoughts. Sitting in front of the physical parts now, scissors by her hand— she’s racked with nerves.
A face, obviously. Two ears. A body. Four legs. A tail. Then, after all of that: the stripes.
Becka has never seen a tiger in person. Her family did not vacation much, and zoos in Gilead—especially those with large beasts—were reserved primarily for the higher families. She thinks back to the picture books she’d been taught with, all of the animals that were sketched along the many pages.
A tiger shows up as a blur of orange in her memory, and she sighs, resigned. She ends the class with little progress done, the rough outline of a body chalked down on mandarin fabric. She hadn’t touched the scissors once.
Becka goes home that night, bending her knees to slide open her bottom-most drawer. It’s been left dormant for a long time, since before she was a Pink, even, because this had been her education before the Aunts—which meant, they were unnecessary after the Aunts. Piles and piles of hard-covered books, a majority of them painting stories of Him, the majority of the rest painting stories of Gilead. She runs her fingers down the pages, suspended in temporary nostalgia, before continuing her findings.
There.
She snatches the book up with new fervor, excitement brewing in her body at the sight of it. The cover is adorned with a multitude of animals, all pictured prettily in the spaces between each other. Some of them, she can’t even name on the spot, it’s been so long, and there’s a childlike awe that settles in her as she presses her hand against them. To go to a zoo and be able to see all of this in person… Her friends were right. It would be a wonderful thing. Blessed be His hand.
Her mission has dulled in her mind now that she has this book in her hands, and she takes her time moving from page to page, looking at each and every animal with a smile tugging at her lips. There’s an elephant, a dog, a cat—her heart leaps, but she realizes it’s not big enough to be what she’s looking for—a shark, a penguin, more and more and more, and finally—
A tiger.
The first word that comes to her is Agnes.
The second, beautiful.
Becka’s fingers rest on its body, large and grand, even through a simple picture. The stripes come across as streaks of ink, the pattern lovely and continuous as it follows down the rest of the tiger’s build. She hovers each individual segment, imagining the feeling of the fur under her palm.
The tiger is a terrifying predator, and Shunammite’s flicker of surprise when Agnes assumed that animal as herself is justified. This is a beast, a hunter, and Agnes does not come across as either, not like Shunammite does, but its eyes—the first thing Becka had seen when she flipped to the page, the reason for her first thought—they’re deep.
Becka has spent a long time knowing Agnes’ eyes, the better half of her life. She did not think there was anything that could ever compare to what she saw there, in that encompassing warmth, in that drowning pool - and yet.
A hymn plays in her head then, as if strung by God’s hand, and she finds herself singing along to its truth.
I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.
For Her eye is on the tiger,
And I know She watches me.
-
It takes some time.
Becka messes up on the scale more than once, finding herself picking out the same squares of cloth to reset her work. Once, one ear is much too small. Another time, she’d stitched a leg on wrong and, in her attempt to undo the mistake, the fabric of its body ripped completely.
The stripes turn out to be the hardest part of it all. She tries to remember the patterns in the book, looking at it every night when she comes home, closing her eyes as the various embroidery machines sound in the background of the classroom - but translating the visual from her head to her hands comes off far more difficult than she’d imagined.
By the time Becka’s satisfied with the curve of the first stripe, her fingers have been pricked and pinned timelessly. It’s tedious work—cutting each individual piece, then needling it into place, and it doesn’t help that she can’t just make do with it as it is - not if it’s for Agnes. She’s yet to stuff the tiger, leaving that to the end, so for now, it lays flat against the wood, sagging towards the ground when she lifts it to the light to examine it further.
The other Plums finish their projects, pick up new ones, and finish those new ones. Then, one day—
Becka’s heart takes flight in her chest.
She’s finished.
It’s not perfect - far from, really.
She’d stitched the adequately sized ears on, proud of how she had cut them, but one of them turned out rather lopsided when set on the whole thing. A couple of the stripes had been cut too thin, and there’s a curve that’s created a small bump on the underside of its belly, but as Becka examines the silhouette she’s made, soft cloth against the pads of her fingers, she finds that she does really, really like it. Imperfections and all.
At home, giddy with the relief of finishing the majority, Becka unzips her pillow case before bed, taking a handful of the stuffing that’s responsible for keeping her serene at night.
She sets it into her backpack, hiding the soft foam in her fingers as they single into the embroidery class. Aunt Gabbana is in charge for today, and she watches approvingly as they all find their pieces and their respective seats. Becka makes a beeline towards the drawers, which contain bags of cotton, polyester, fiber—all meant for projects such as Becka’s.
She pretends to test each of them between her fingers, though, it’s a useless feat—Aunt Gabbana does not pay her mind because Jehosheba has allegedly created a remarkable piece that deserves utmost praise, and Becka slinks back to her table with the satisfaction of having smuggled in her contraband.
She presses the stuffing into the hollow space, watching as the tiger gradually transforms into a three-dimensional shape. Pride swells in her, which she doesn’t let show on her face—Hulda has been warned multiple times for the same thing, and she finishes off the stitching, fingers pressing into its body to even out the rest of its inner workings.
Becka turns the plush tiger in her hands, setting her needle down, and it’s soft and wonderful and— it’s Agnes. She wonders whether Agnes will love it, and where she’d keep it. Maybe on her nightstand to look at each time she wakes up and goes to bed, or on her shelves, with all of the important gifts from her family. Maybe she’ll bring it around her, kept safely in the confines of her backpack, or maybe—
Maybe.
Becka raises a hand.
“Yes, Becka?” Aunt Gabbana comes to her side.
“May I retrieve a piece of string from the drawer, Aunt Gabbana?”
Aunt Gabbana nods, looking down at her tiger for a brief moment. “You may. Go in grace.”
She stands up, moving towards her intended destination. It takes about a second before the needle is back in her hands, now working it into the middle of the tiger’s body.
The string extends outward, only one connection to the plush, and she leaves it unlooped and untied when she’s done. Agnes would decide where it is to go, even if Becka has a specific place in mind.
Aunt Gabbana lets her take her final product out of the classroom—Blessed be His hand that has granted you such talents, Becka—and she hides it in her backpack, putting on a mask of pretend in front of her friends, despite how her excitement is halfway across the slippery edge.
Shunammite and Hulda treat her as they would any other day, not finding anything to point out, while Agnes regards her with narrowed eyes, like she knows she’s keeping something from her. She doesn’t single her out, though - the remainder of their classes too busy for a chance to chat, but Becka does feel Agnes’ eyes on her more often than not.
At the end of the day, as everyone is waiting to be picked up, Agnes nearly explodes the second that Shunammite leaves in her car, after Hulda had left a few moments earlier, turning to Becka with a frustrated brow. “What is it?”
“What?” Becka asks, surprised at the outburst.
“You’re not being yourself—not since embroidery class.” Her eyebrows furrow further. “Are you mad at me?”
“No!” Becka exclaims, eyes widening. She sees Agnes visibly relax at the answer, but she continues still. “Of course not.”
“Okay,” Agnes says, wary. “So, what is it?”
Now’s her chance.
Agnes watches as Becka flips her backpack around, holding onto one of the brown straps as she unzips the top of it. Her gym clothes have been set below it, acting as a cushion for the plush itself, and she can’t hide her smile any longer as she takes it into her hand.
“I made you something,” she admits, still not showing the tiger, which sits between her body and her backpack.
The corners of Agnes’ lips twitch. “You did?”
“I did,” Becka confirms, swallowing. Her heartbeat is at an unbelievable pace now, especially with the way Agnes is looking at her, and she unveils her palm to reveal the tiger, the string falling in the gaps of her fingers. “I made this for you.”
“Becka,” Agnes breathes out, eyes dancing from her and the tiger in continuous motion. “You made this?”
“In embroidery,” Becka says, sheepishly. She’s practically on fire, how warm she feels at this moment. The gesture itself, Agnes, everything. Her hand extends further, waiting for her to accept it. “You said you were a tiger.”
Agnes does take it from her, holding the plush carefully in both of her palms. She looks so cute like this, like a little girl, and Becka can imagine that this is how she was back then, standing in front of the tiger at the zoo, bouncing on the balls of her feet. But then, she holds it back to Becka, and Becka blinks.
“You don’t like it?” Becka asks, trying not to sound utterly crushed at the rejection.
“I love it,” Agnes tells her, firm. “Can you hold it for me for now?”
Becka obliges. With her hands free, Agnes is now the one peeling her backpack straps off of her body, twisting around in place. She lays her bag down at her feet, and Becka listens to the slow zip, eyes unable to leave her best friend’s fingers.
“I made this for you,” Agnes says, with a small laugh, and Becka has to shift her gaze to see what Agnes is talking about.
The breath is knocked out of her lungs.
There’s a penguin on the end of her stare. A plush of a penguin.
“Agnes, what,” Becka whispers. They exchange their gifts once more, shuffling them to the right hands, and Becka can’t take her eyes off of the penguin Agnes has made. Can’t take her hands off of it.
Like her tiger, it’s not perfect. The eyes are a little uneven, and she can see where the beak was stitched multiple times over. And its feet—its waddling feet. They’re small and floppy and undeniably happy.
Becka breaks into a smile, one so wide that it hurts, and she finds that Agnes has stretched her mouth to fit the same one.
“There’s a string,” Becka points out, now examining what she thought was a loose thread behind its head.
“On mine, too,” Agnes notes, looking down at hers all the same.
Becka presses her lips together, feeling shy. “I thought you might want to tie it somewhere—like, your backpack.”
Agnes’ eyes light up, almost in relief. “I thought so, too.” She swivels around, backpack returning to its rightful place against her spine, and her unfurled hand goes backwards, towards Becka. “Can you?”
Becka takes the tiger from her palm, reaching forward to tie it on the left side of the carrier strap.
When she’s done, she doesn’t get the chance to ask before Agnes takes her penguin and does the same on hers.
“Look,” Agnes turns behind her, gesturing from her tiger to Becka’s penguin. “The colors! We match.”
Becka’s bag isn’t exactly orange, more on the brown side of the color wheel, but she can see what Agnes means, and she just can’t stop smiling, so she takes Agnes’ pinky into hers and agrees. “We match.”
The penguin flops against her backpack as she moves, and she laughs in delight at the sound and the feeling, both internal and external.
There’s a piece of her with Agnes, and a piece of Agnes with her, no matter where they go now. No matter where they end up.
She looks at the gleam in Agnes’ eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and she knows.
They’ll always find their way back.