Sierra Jensen Collection, Vol 3 Sierra Jensen Collection, Vol 3

by Robin Jones Gunn

  Sierra could see who the real rebel was.

  “Then,” Randy concluded, “I told them about our mission statement for the band, which is to reach out to our peers on their own turf and communicate the good news of Christ to them. I said to do that effectively I believe I should wear my hair the way it is.”

  “That was it?” Sierra asked. “That was the whole letter?”

  “And then the last paragraph.”

  “That was the ultimatum part?”

  “I said I would willingly submit myself to their authority since they were the ruling body God has placed over me at this school. I said whatever they decided I’d abide by, but I needed to know by Thursday so I could comply with their previously stated deadline.”

  “And what if they tell you to cut your hair?” Sierra asked.

  “Then I’ll cut my hair.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “Not as much as everyone else seems to.”

  “If they make you cut it,” Tyler said, “I think we should all cut our hair. We’ll all get buzzes.”

  “Yeah, right,” one of the other guys said sarcastically.

  “I’m not cutting my hair,” a girl named Bethany said. “It’s taken me four years to get it this long.”

  “Exactly,” Tyler said. “And that’s why Randy shouldn’t have to cut his, either.”

  Bethany pointed at Tyler. “You’re the one who wants to fight this battle. Why don’t you grow out your hair and see what your dad says?”

  Tyler froze. Everyone waited for him to respond. “Like that would ever happen,” he muttered under his breath.

  “I think Randy handled it really well,” Sierra said. “Besides, aren’t we supposed to be more concerned about what’s on the inside of a person than about appearances?”

  Before anyone could answer, the bell rang, signaling lunch was over. They rose as a group and returned to class, murmuring about the Thursday deadline. Sierra thought they looked like an unlikely band of rebels, especially with Randy as their reluctant leader.

  “What do you think is going to happen?” Sierra asked Randy as they walked into class side by side.

  Randy shrugged. His undaunted, easygoing grin appeared.

  “Time will tell,” he said.

  thirteen

  BY THE END OF SCHOOL on Wednesday, Randy still hadn’t heard the verdict regarding his hair from what Tyler was now calling the “PTB,” or the “Powers That Be.” Everyone at school seemed to know about it, and Sierra had noticed a group of students quizzing Randy at his locker before lunch. Randy didn’t make it into the cafeteria, and Sierra wondered if he’d had a chance to eat at all.

  After school she joined a dozen or so students who had gathered around Randy in the parking lot at the back of his truck.

  “I think you should write them another letter,” one of the girls said. “Tell them we all feel the same way. They shouldn’t put such strong restrictions on us.”

  “Don’t they trust us?” another girl said.

  “We need a petition,” one of the guys said.

  A few more students gathered, and suddenly everyone seemed to be voicing opinions at once. Sierra was amazed at how calmly Randy was taking all this. He kept mentioning quietly that the PTB had until Thursday and this was only Wednesday. There was no need for radical action.

  “Wait until tomorrow,” he said. His steady voice carried over the ripples of murmurings from the students who seemed eager for a fight. “You guys seem to forget that I told them in my letter I would go by their decision, whatever it is. They’re the authority over us here.”

  “Yeah, but what if their decisions are wrong? How can it be right to submit yourself to a bunch of leaders who are out of touch with reality?” The comment came from a short guy wearing glasses and looking startled that everyone had suddenly turned to look at him. “I mean, it only makes sense to go by their decision if it’s a good one.”

  “That’s right,” another guy said. “We’re the ones who are in touch with our culture. They are all way out of touch.”

  “They don’t know what’s really important,” a girl chimed in. “We should be able to make our own rules as students and not have to go by their outdated laws.”

  “I think they should just let us all do what’s right for each of us as individuals and only worry about our grades. That’s why we go to school, isn’t it?”

  “My aunt said when she came here, they made all the girls wear dresses.”

  “Now that’s discrimination! They can’t do that anymore, can they?”

  “I think they have to give students their rights now. And I say if we want the right to wear whatever we want or have our hair the way we want it, who are they to tell us what the rules are?”

  “Yeah!” A common voice of agreement arose among the twenty or so students who had now gathered.

  “You guys,” Sierra said, finally finding her voice, “this is so totally out of the book of Judges, I can’t believe it!” She had enough steam for herself and Randy, since he had chosen to respond passively. “Don’t you remember last year in Bible class? The last verse of the last chapter in Judges says, ‘Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.’ That’s why their nation fell apart.”

  “That was way back in Bible times,” Tyler said, stepping forward and looking eager to debate. “What does that have to do with this situation? It doesn’t apply at all.”

  “Oh, yes it does!” Sierra stated firmly, feeling her heart pound. “Everything God tried to teach them He still tries to teach us today. Can’t you guys see that Randy is handling this the right way? He’s willing to yield to the authority over him, but first he respectfully made his side known. We should all be supporting him, not trying to put him up as a cause for reform around here or something.”

  “Bravo,” said a deep voice behind Sierra. She heard someone clapping and turned to see Drake, the star athlete, standing there with eight or nine people around him. “I’m on Sierra’s side,” he said, smiling at her.

  “My side?” Sierra looked around at the crowd that had now grown to at least thirty students, almost all seniors. “There isn’t a ‘my side.’ I’m just speaking up for Randy because everyone is trying to turn this into something it isn’t.”

  “And as Randy said—” Bethany spoke up loud enough for everyone to hear. “There’s nothing to debate until after the board makes their decision. And Randy plans to go by their decision, whatever that is. Why is everyone trying to turn this into a fight?”

  “Let’s meet here tomorrow after school,” Tyler said. “Then we’ll know if it’s time we all started to take sides. It’s way past time for some changes around here, and as I see it, this is only the beginning.”

  The murmuring started up again as the crowd slowly dispersed. Sierra could feel her heart still pounding. On impulse, she slugged Randy in the arm.

  “What was that for?” he demanded, looking shocked that she would hit him.

  “Why didn’t you speak up for yourself?” Sierra challenged.

  “Because I’m a pacifist. Unlike some other people I know,” he said, rubbing the spot where she had clobbered him. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry,” Sierra said, forcing herself to calm down. “It just gets me that everyone is ready for a revolution, and they don’t even know what they’re fighting for. They’re trying to make you their symbol or something. Doesn’t that bother you at least a little bit?”

  Randy shook his head. “It’s like my mom always says, ‘This, too, shall pass.’ ”

  Sierra gave him a skeptical look.

  “Relax, Sierra. They’ll get over it. There’s nothing to fight for. If the PTB say, ‘Go to the barber,’ I go to the barber. That will be the end of it.”

  “Somehow I have my doubts,” Sierra said.

  Vicki came up beside Sierra. “Hey, guys, what’s up? Someone in the hall said there was a meeting out here or something and to meet back here tomorrow.”

  “It’s nothing,” Randy sa
id.

  “It could end up being something,” Sierra countered.

  “We’ll see,” Randy said. “I have to go home and put some ice on my arm before it swells up.”

  “Somebody hit you?” Vicki said, looking first at Randy and then at Sierra.

  “Yeah,” Randy said dryly. “My campaign manager slugged me.”

  “I’m not your campaign manager.”

  “Okay, my own private crusader, then.”

  “I wouldn’t have to crusade for you if you would fight your own cause.”

  “I don’t have a cause, remember?”

  Vicki stomped her foot on the asphalt. “Will somebody please tell me what is going on?”

  “She hit me,” Randy said, pointing at Sierra and sounding like a little boy. “And I’m going home to my mommy.” His hurt, puppy dog look was awfully cute.

  “Come on,” Sierra said to Vicki while shaking her head at Randy. “I’ll fill you in. Do you want to meet me at Eaton’s Drugstore? I promised my mom I’d take Granna Mae there after school to get her out of the house for a while.”

  “I have to go home,” Vicki said. “I want to go to church youth group tonight, but my parents say I can only go out during the week if I have all my homework done, and I have a ton of it tonight.”

  “Then I’ll see you at youth group, and I’ll tell you everything,” Sierra said.

  “Okay, see you.”

  Sierra headed for her car at the other end of the lot. Randy revved up the motor of his truck when he passed her and gave her a broken wing wave as if she had maimed his arm for life. Sierra waved back. She felt foolish. Slugging Randy was something she would do to one of her older brothers. She hadn’t even realized she had hit him until after she had done it. As much as she considered Randy her buddy, she had never hit him like that before.

  “You know, Sierra Mae,” she coached herself as she started the car and drove out of the school parking lot, “sometimes I think you’re all grown up and sweet and mature, and then you get this ball of fire in you that explodes. When will you outgrow the feistiness?”

  She was afraid she already knew the answer, and the answer was “Never.” The Jensen family had a history of women who could hold their own in any situation and who never stopped feeling that ball of fire until the day they died.

  Granna Mae used to be that way before her mind went fuzzy. Sierra remembered being in the car with her grandmother a few summers ago. They came to a stop sign in a residential area and saw two boys on the sidewalk contentedly eating Popsicles. An older boy on a skateboard came by, scooped up one boy’s Popsicle, and took off down the street.

  Granna Mae squealed the car’s tires as she turned the corner in pursuit of the kid on the skateboard. The boy looked over his shoulder at her and tried to go faster, but he hit a rut in the sidewalk and took a tumble. Granna Mae pulled the car to the curb, got out in a huff, grabbed the boy by his shirt, and gave him a vigorous scolding. The Popsicle had bitten the dust on the tumble, but Granna Mae extracted $1.12 in change from the culprit. She then drove back and delivered the money to the forlorn boy on the sidewalk.

  As if that weren’t enough, when the boys said they had bought the Popsicles from the ice cream truck, Granna Mae drove up and down seven streets before they heard the cranked-up music blaring from the truck. She then bought two ice cream sandwiches—one for herself and one for Sierra—and a new Popsicle, which she hand-delivered to the waiting victim.

  There was no doubt the Jensen women fought for truth and justice. Years ago Sierra’s mom had teased Granna Mae, saying all she needed was a bright red cape and she could get a full-time job protecting the world. Granna Mae had taken the teasing well. Sierra watched and learned because she had not always been so good-natured when her mom had teased her and said that she was just like Granna Mae. Sierra doubted that her mom had ever felt a ball of fire in her stomach, at least not of the same intensity as the fireballs that rolled around in the bellies of the Jensen women. For that reason and many others, Sierra felt tightly linked to her grandmother—even more than she did to her own mother.

  Because of Granna Mae’s spunky history, her feeble condition was frustrating to the whole family. They only knew her as strong, not weak.

  Sierra could see how taking care of Granna Mae was wearing on her mom. That’s why Sierra had volunteered to help out in any way she could. So far the best and only plan she had come up with was to take Granna Mae out to some of her favorite places at least once a week. This afternoon the plan was to go to Eaton’s Drugstore not far from their house. Eaton’s had been in the neighborhood as long as Granna Mae had lived there. For more than fifty years, she had spent many hours at their lunch bar. It had been Granna Mae’s tradition to take each of her own nine children to Eaton’s after their first day of school and buy them chocolate malts. She continued the tradition with her grandchildren when they moved to Portland, but this year she didn’t seem aware that school had started.

  Sierra arrived home well past three-thirty, the time she usually got home. Her mother had Granna Mae all ready to go, and the two of them were waiting on the porch swing.

  “Sorry I’m a little late. Are you ready to go to Eaton’s for a malt, Granna Mae?”

  She nodded. Her soft face was graced by a compliant expression. Sierra couldn’t be sure if Granna Mae understood what was going on.

  Mrs. Jensen gave Sierra an appreciative look and said, “Dinner won’t be ready until six-thirty.”

  Sierra didn’t know if that meant “Please take her and give me a break by staying away until six-thirty,” or if her mother was merely giving Sierra a time reference on dinner.

  “Okay,” Sierra called back. “We’ll be back by then.” She wanted to make it sound as if they were going to have so much fun they would have to tear themselves away from Eaton’s to make it home by six-thirty.

  As Granna Mae lowered her thinning frame into the passenger seat of Sierra’s car, Sierra wondered how much her dear grandmother was understanding today. Did she even know where they were going? Did it matter to her? Was this one of her bright days, and was she picking up every innuendo, including the one about not coming back until dinnertime?

  The only way Sierra could know was if Granna Mae called her “Lovey.” Only right now, as they drove down the street to Eaton’s, Granna Mae wasn’t saying anything.

  fourteen

  GRANNA MAE AND SIERRA entered the small drugstore and headed for the original Formica counter lunch bar. The red vinyl stools were exactly as Sierra remembered them as a child. Even the menu board above the long mirror didn’t appear to have changed, except for the prices.

  Sierra tilted her head and gave her companion a pleasant smile. “What do you think, Granna Mae? A chocolate malted, maybe?”

  It startled Sierra to hear the tone of her own voice. She sounded like her grandmother. The tilt of the head and the inflection were exactly the way Granna Mae used to approach Sierra years ago.

  What do you think, Sierra Mae? A chocolate malted, maybe?

  Even that she said “malted” instead of “malt” was evidence of imitation of her grandmother. Something felt oh so strange. They had reversed roles. Now Sierra was the one driving the car to Eaton’s and paying for the ice cream. Granna Mae had become the child.

  “That would be lovely,” Granna Mae said in response to Sierra’s question.

  For a moment, Sierra thought she said “Lovey,” and she was about to feel relieved. But “lovely” was an altogether different word from Sierra’s nickname of “Lovey.”

  “A chocolate malt, please,” Sierra told the older woman behind the counter. “With two glasses.”

  “And a cup of coffee, please,” Granna Mae ordered for herself.

  Sierra smiled. “And one cup of coffee, please.” It was hard to hold on to the image of her grandmother being a child if she was drinking a cup of coffee. Sierra was glad Granna Mae had ordered the coffee and that she had ordered it for herself. These were all good sign
s.

  Sierra realized this was what her mother must go through every day as she kept an eye on Granna Mae. It was a constant guessing game. Is Granna Mae thinking clearly? What does she want? Can she ask for it herself? Will she be hurt or offended if I try to do something for her that she normally does for herself? Each of the clues Granna Mae sprinkled along the trail of the day had to be collected and analyzed. This could be an exhausting routine.

  The door opened, and a little bell rang out its cheery chimes as a customer entered. Sierra glanced up. Her heart sprang into her throat. The customer was Amy.

  Amy didn’t see Sierra but headed straight for the pharmacy at the back of the store.

  Until that moment, Sierra had been thinking it might be okay to let the friendship with Amy fade away. Now she suddenly felt differently. She remembered the time she had hidden in the basement as a child, waiting for someone to come find her. It struck her that perhaps Amy had pulled a trash can full of garden tools close to herself, in a manner of speaking. She was getting cold and cramped but wasn’t willing to come out on her own.

  I have to say something. But what? Maybe if I start talking, it’ll come to me.

  Sierra practically launched her tensed body from the stool as if there had been a spring on her seat.

  “Granna Mae,” she said slowly, “I’m going to the back of the store for a minute. If she serves you the chocolate malt before I get back, go ahead without me.” Sierra realized she was speaking the way she would instruct a toddler, but she wanted to make it clear. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Okay,” Granna Mae said. “Don’t rush yourself on account of me.”

  “Okay,” Sierra agreed. She strode to the back of the store, moistening her dry lips and telling herself she shouldn’t feel so shaken. This is what she had been wanting for weeks. Sure, it wasn’t the best location for their talk, but it looked like the best she was going to get. She wanted to cry out, “Olly, Olly, Oxen-free” to signal Amy she could come out of hiding now.