Those Who Prey

by Jennifer Moffett

  “I thought you said you weren’t sure about me,” I joke.

  He pauses. “Maybe I lied.”

  * * *

  When I arrive back at the coffee shop the next day, Heather is sitting by herself on the same couch as before, arranging a neat stack of note pads and tiny pencils on the sofa table.

  “What’s all this?” I ask. I recognize the Pictionary board before she answers.

  “Emily!” she says, a genuine smile breaking across her face. “Do you know how to play Pictionary?”

  “Um, yeah. I’ve played it before.” I sit across from her. “So who all’s coming?” I try to sound casual, but my high-pitched voice betrays me.

  If Heather noticed, she doesn’t react. “Ben, Josh’s roommate, but Josh probably already told you that. And Andrew. And, of course, Josh.” Heather smirks before dumping a tiny Ziploc of colorful cubes onto the game board. She glances at the door and suddenly waves at someone behind me. My heart races as I turn to see who walked in.

  Josh smiles as they come toward us. A shorter and stockier, maybe older guy is next to him, and I think I see Andrew trailing a little behind. “Hello, boys,” Heather says confidently.

  The shorter guy extends his hand. “Hi, Emily. I’m Ben.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand and smile. He doesn’t smile back, but it seems more like an indication of a focused personality than rudeness.

  Andrew gives me a half smile, and I’m struck by how different he looks. His hair is cut very short, and a little uneven. It looks like someone attempted a haircut after a drunken night out.

  “Nice hair,” I offer, sensing he might be a little self-conscious about his new look.

  Andrew reaches to tuck away strands that are no longer there. “Thanks,” he says flatly.

  Josh moves to sit down beside me until Ben gestures for him to sit next to Heather instead. I try to hide my disappointment by turning back to Andrew. Andrew’s eyes dart around the circle as he scoots forward. “Are you a good artist? I hope so because it looks like we’re going to be partners.”

  Heather clears her throat. “Should we go ahead and get started, then?” She shifts a handful of curls from one side of her face to the other.

  I nervously wipe my hands on my jeans. The last time we met was so easy, just talking and getting to know one another. A board game feels forced—pressured.

  “Now, who wants to roll first?” Heather asks.

  Ben leans back in the wooden chair between the two couches and crosses his ankle over his knee. “Well, I’m just observing today since we have an odd number.” He cuts his eyes at Heather as if it’s her fault.

  “I invited Shannon,” Heather says. “She canceled at the last minute, though.” She shoots Ben a frustrated look.

  “You can be the scorekeeper,” Josh says to Ben, as if smoothing things over. “We don’t trust Andrew with that job—competitive prep-school boy that he is.”

  “I don’t like to lose,” Andrew whispers to me with a conspiratorial look.

  “Great!” Heather glances at Josh as she hands Ben a notepad. She seems grateful, but for what, I’m not sure.

  It doesn’t take long to break the ice. By my second coffee, we’re laughing, scribbling, and guessing words. Even Ben cracks a smile when Josh draws a boat, prompting Heather to guess “Row, row, row your boat” over and over. Josh sketches stick figures flinging themselves into a mass of water, and Heather growls in frustration as the sand drains through the hourglass. Her eyes suddenly widen. “Life boat!”

  Heather high-fives Josh for breaking the tied score, as several familiar patrons glare at us over their study materials. Being part of the annoyingly loud group—a part of any group—is a welcome change for me. I can’t help but smile. How have I been so oblivious that I never even noticed Josh and his friends hanging out here before now?

  Ben interrupts my thoughts. “It’s Emily’s turn.”

  I snap to attention and pick up the dice. Rolling a five lands me on a tan square with an A in the middle of it. “The category is … action,” Andrew says.

  The energy suddenly changes when everyone gets quiet. The suctioning scream of an espresso machine fills the room. Heather stares at Andrew with a pointed intensity as he draws a card and studies it carefully. He gives me an anxious glance before drawing a stick figure with X’s for eyes. He adds a squiggly mouth with a tongue sticking out.

  “Uh … Sick. Food poisoning,” I say.

  Andrew shakes his head. He draws a tombstone over the stick figure’s head.

  “Death? Die?”

  He sketches a group of circles. They become more stick figures standing over the dead one.

  “Um … funeral. Bury!”

  Andrew shakes his head and draws more circles. He creates another stick figure with a tear in its eye then manically taps his pencil on the group of figures, leaving ugly marks on all of their faces.

  “Distraught?” I guess again.

  He nods again, signaling me with hand gestures to keep going. I glance at Heather who is fixated on the white sand streaming into the bottom half of the hourglass. “Upset! Mourn?”

  More enthusiastic nodding. Andrew draws long straight lines going north to south then east to west. He carefully connects the ends.

  “A cross!” Finally, something I recognize.

  As he’s drawing another stick figure on the cross, Heather makes a loud buzzer sound. “Time’s up!”

  I give Andrew an apologetic shrug. “What was the word?” I ask him.

  “Sacrifice,” he says in frustration. I lift my hands to my face and apologize, as he tosses the pad onto the board. “And we don’t have time to catch up,” he says with a sigh.

  Ben checks his watch. “You’re right. We’ve got to run.”

  Heather leans back against the couch as the guys gather their things. “Aw,” she says. “I guess we’ll have to stay here all by ourselves. I hope we can survive!” She rolls her eyes at me as we wave bye to them. “They’re going to a men’s study group. No girls allowed and all that.” Heather turns to me. “I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

  I tilt my head. “Oh?”

  “I need a new study partner.”

  “But we don’t have any classes together …”

  “Not for school, for the symposium! If you want to join, that is.” She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. “It requires a lot of work—both on your own and with me.”

  The idea of committing to extra homework makes me pause. My grades are good—they’re the one thing I’ve managed to master up here—but I don’t want to sabotage my routine. “Oh, um, my classes take up a lot of—”

  Heather cuts me off: “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll work with you closely every step of the way, and of course Josh and the others will be there for you. And this way you can hang out with us all the time so we won’t get interrupted like yesterday.”

  Spending more time with them, even at church events, which have never much appealed to me, would definitely be preferable to my life as an accidental hermit.

  “Listen,” she continues, “the group leaders are extremely picky about offering invitations, which is why I’m asking first to be sure you’re interested. They take commitment very seriously, but I assured them you’re incredibly bright—someone who wouldn’t back down from a challenge.” Heather tilts her head with a knowing grin. “I can just tell that about you.”

  “Wow, that’s really nice of you to say.” Her kind words trigger a rush of affirmation I haven’t felt in months.

  “I don’t want you to feel pressured, though,” she adds nonchalantly. “I could always tell them to give your spot to an alternate—”

  “No,” I say, surprising myself when I touch her arm in a reflexive motion. “I’d love to.”

  STEP 3: Show how life’s answers can be found in our official study guides. An exclusive invitation to the Kingdom Symposium is only for the brightest disciples.

  L.Y.L.A.S.

  My alarm beg
ins its steady beeping at 6:00 a.m.

  Just as I start to drift back to sleep, something slides under my door. I get up to see who is out there, but no one’s in the hallway. My name is written in giant calligraphy across the envelope on the floor. I turn it over and lift the embossed sticker. A formal invitation is inside:

  You are cordially invited to the Kingdom Symposium.

  It’s at a place called The Castle this Thursday night. There’s an address and a folded piece of paper with a handwritten note attached:

  Complete the enclosed form with your Bible.

  (Both required for entrance.)

  L.Y.L.A.S. (Love Ya Like a Sister), Heather

  The enclosed paper is a chart filled with empty squares and blanks, labeled with abbreviations like BTs and QTs footnoted with Heather’s handwritten explanations. BT—Bible Talk: partner-guided studies with selected scriptures. QT—Quiet Time: a guided period of personal reflection. At the end, there’s a double line where you total the numbers. Squinting in concentration, I read the instructions to process my first challenge. It reminds me of the balance sheets from high school accounting class that came with sealed packets filled with mock bills and invoices and a green-lined sheet with two choices: debit or credit. I remember my sense of accomplishment when all the seemingly unrelated numbers added up to the same total on both sides. I took the assignment as seriously as someone starting her own business, even though nothing was really at stake beyond a minor grade. My dad always teased me by saying my greatest gift (“and curse,” he would add) is never being able to do anything halfway.

  Scanning the tasks again, I’m confident I can ace this. Then, in a panic, I realize I need an actual Bible. So I gather my things, check my watch, and race out the door.

  * * *

  The hushed energy of the library is a reminder of why it’s one of my favorite places. I love the electric hum of the fluorescent lights. The challenge of pulling out a card catalog drawer to find an exact book. The tangible satisfaction of writing the letter-number combination on a scrap of paper with a tiny four-inch pencil, just like the ones jammed into the backs of church pews back home.

  Past the Dewy Decimal B’s, I find the colorful cloth spines of Ancient Greece. I touch them with my fingertips, a habit I’ve never outgrown, as I glide through a sea of philosophy and a long glossy stretch of newly purchased self-help. Then I see them: Holy Bibles. I pull a black textured leather spine with a cursive font and sit on the floor. The pages fall open to a random chapter, and I scan for interesting words: “moneychangers,” “den of thieves,” “Bethany,” “the fig tree withered away.” I’ve never actually read the Bible—I mean, really read it. I open it again, this time to the back where the bright-colored maps with dark brown veins fan across ancient lands, reaching all the way to the Dead Sea. I close it and rub my hand across the front cover to flatten the pages. The leather smells like a relic, triggering a sense of nostalgia I can’t quite pinpoint. A tinge of cautious hope prompts me to stand with determination. I could start right now.

  I walk past the building for my next class knowing I’m going to skip it for the first time. Slowing my pace, I savor the tree-flanked sidewalks sprinkled with pink cherry blossoms, as if a procession of careless flower girls had just passed ahead of me. This is how I imagined Boston would be—the picturesque photos just like in the college brochures. The city must have bloomed overnight because the last time I even noticed the trees, they were still bare. I stop to pick a flower and place the stem above my ear, smiling as I cross the street to hop on the T. Once in the Common, I unpack my worksheets under a willow beside the glistening pond.

  Looking up the required Bible verses outlined on my sheet, I carefully fill out the chart, including how many verses I read and the amount of time I spent studying each one. The task is surprisingly satisfying—QTs are a lot like my literature homework, and BTs like an independent study, so I decide to go ahead and complete it myself instead of waiting for my study partner like the instructions suggest.

  The last thing on the checklist is to say a prayer, but there’s no instruction. Praying is something I’ve never really tried unscripted. Growing up, we were taught a specific prayer for every occasion. Besides, how would anyone even know if I prayed by myself or not? My eyes scan down to the last question on my sheet: Describe how it felt to say the prayer out loud.

  I sigh, deciding to take a shot at the silent impromptu method. After a few seconds, my thoughts race in multiple directions until my mind freezes up. I shut my eyes and focus on the blankness behind my eyelids.

  Dear God … No. That sounds like Dad dictating a letter.

  Okay. Try again. God? Ugh. What? Am I waiting for an actual answer?

  The problem is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to pray for. All A’s? World peace? I open my eyes again with a sigh. Maybe I can fudge this part….

  I scan the Common, looking for inspiration. When I spot a group of girls in matching shirts (no doubt off to some mandatory event), clarity hits me. My eyes flutter shut as I pray: God … Help me feel less … alone. Just asking brings enormous relief. A comforting presence overwhelms me, as I breathe in deeply and listen to the water lapping against the bank. My eyes open to see willow branches stirring circles into the pond’s surface like I’ve been pulled into a scene straight from Shakespeare: Willow, willow, willow—a willow grows aslant a brook. I study and pray until dusk falls, and I swear I can hear the sound of cicadas rising and falling, like something otherworldly calling me home.

  I sit there for so long—mesmerized, calm, completely at peace—that I lose track of time. The cafeteria is preparing to close when I dash in to grab my usual dinner to-go before heading back to my dorm. I open the door to my room to find a red number three blinking into the darkness. I turn on the lights and press play on my answering machine with a loud beep. You have three messages. The first is Patti. Skip. Beep. The second an annoying guy from a math study group I signed up for and apparently totally forgot about. Next. I take a deep breath before listening to the third. Please be him.

  “Hi, it’s Josh. Call me.” I scribble his number onto my art history notes. My heart races as I dial. He answers immediately. “Hi,” I say too quickly. “It’s Emily. I’m just… calling you … back.” I sound ridiculous. Why am I so bad at this?

  “So what’d you think about my friends?” he says. His casual tone immediately puts me at ease.

  “I think you’re going to a lot of trouble to set me up with Andrew,” I joke.

  His outburst of laughter makes me smile. “Not the case at all,” he says. “We just thought you’d make a better Pictionary team.”

  “Uh-huh. You just wanted to win,” I tease. “So, after you left, Heather asked me to be her study partner. I’m still not completely sure I know what that means exactly.”

  “Really? Wow.” He sounds surprised. Heather definitely made it sound like a huge honor to get a spot, but I didn’t expect Josh to be so impressed. “Well,” he says. “One thing it means is we’ll be seeing a lot more of you. Is it just me, or does it seem like we have to leave too soon every time I’m with you?”

  “It isn’t just you,” I say, smiling into the phone. “I can understand, though. It’s cool you have friends with the same interests.” It suddenly occurs to me that Heather is the type of person who probably actually enjoys volunteering and would maybe like coming to the senior home with me. “I’ve had a hard time with that. I mean, in Boston.”

  “Hmm … It sounds to me like you’re homesick.”

  “Maybe.” An image of my hometown beach with my friends around a bonfire flashes through my mind. “I miss the water.”

  “I guess you haven’t looked out your window yet.” He’s sarcastic.

  The other dorm rooms across from my tower are a grid of lights against the night. My view so often makes me feel small and insignificant, like I’m lost in a sea of windows. Despondency seeps into my voice: “Yeah, but it isn’t the same.”

 
“I know what you mean,” he says gently.

  As our conversation shifts to home, I can picture us talking like this while driving down a wide-open interstate, through lush green mountains until they flatten into a sun-pierced, pine-columned homestretch. Over the rivers and bayous that wind through golden mazes of marsh grass, and into the open Gulf. Home.

  “You sound sleepy,” he finally says in a soft voice.

  I sigh, trying to keep my eyes open.

  “Listen,” he says. “Before I let you go. Don’t say anything to Heather about me calling you. It’s kind of a rule that I give you distance at this point.” I hear someone through the other line say something in the background. “I’ve gotta go. Talk soon,” Josh whispers. He hangs up before I can even say good-bye.

  My heart sinks. Give me distance? And he wants to keep us a secret from Heather? Suddenly wide-awake, I try not to get too worked up. I pull my covers up and focus on the part before things got weird: If he can’t stop thinking about me, then he’ll explain.

  Better yet, maybe he can explain it in person.

  STEP 4: Memorize the Salvation Formula: DISCIPLE=CHRISTIAN=SAVED.

  The Castle

  Lights flicker behind the glass of the rounded wooden door, where the friendly sounds of socializing echo from the other side. I’ve walked by the Castle dozens of times, but I’ve never been inside. I always thought it was only for weddings and alumni functions. A flash of insecurity makes me pause. Thankfully, when I walk in, Heather is the first person I see in the entryway.

  “Emily! You came!” She rushes to give me a hug. “I’ll take those for you.” She pulls the invitation and completed checklist from my hand. “Listen, I’m about to speak. We’ll meet up right after, though,” she says before racing into the crowd.

  The room is packed with mingling female students. A woman in a formal black dress plays a grand piano under the enormous Gothic-arched window. My head is thrumming with an eager excitement, similar to orientation week when everyone bonded together through a shared new experience. The same optimism I felt then rushes through me now, except this time no one is making jokes about being forced to be here. We were chosen to be part of this, and not because it’s on the same checklist of every other freshman.