No response from Beth but a noticeable shaking back and forth under the faded maroon bedspread. It was an inexpensive quilt, the kind sewn by machine in big, looping stitches that easily snagged and snapped. Leaving threads hanging and the resulting smooth patches without additional quilting.
In contrast, Michal’s bed was covered with a bright blue and yellow quilt, a genuine one. It was completely handmade, pieced together square by square, the tiny stitches perfectly spaced in a beautiful pattern called Starry Nights. Michal’s quilt was the one cheerful accent in the otherwise unadorned room—a very atypical college dorm room in many ways.
Most of the other women in Peterson Dormitory—after advance notification of assigned roommates—had been proactive about contacting one another. They’d developed elaborate plans to decorate their rooms with matching bedspreads, study pillows, rugs, sheets, and towels. Some even purchased curtains to replace the drab and worn navy ones provided. Rooms with the plainest raw materials—beige-colored cement block walls, metal desks and beds, scuffed tan linoleum floors—were effectively disguised to effects almost worthy of ads in home-makeover magazines.
Michal and Beth’s room was a notable exception.
Though they’d been assigned as roommates—both were missionary kids (MKs) who hadn’t lived in the States for years (the administration thought it a perfect match to help with adjustment problems)—Michal and Beth never bothered to contact each other. So there was no prior coordination of decor. No assigning of who was to bring or buy what. Bed coverings, towels, rugs, and pillows were hodgepodge at best. Whatever was worn-out and could be spared from home at worst. The quilt, which Michal’s Aunt Sarah had made—and which she treasured—was the one bright spot in the entire room.
Neither Michal nor Beth appeared to care that their room was teasingly yet affectionately known as the “Barrel Room.” After school began, the dorm had an open house—an opportunity to browse through each others’ rooms, admiring the coordinated decoration. For the special evening, Michal sketched a picture of a barrel on brown poster board. After tacking it to the door, she laughingly explained that the contents of their room had come from the bottoms of missionary barrels. Which were described as containing books of matches missing half the sticks. Socks with holes. Towels with frayed edges. Blouses without buttons. And patchwork quilts.
As Michal held the quilt up to her chin, she gave Beth a look of astonishment. “What have you been doing, Beth? Where do you go during chapel?”
“Oh, I just kinda … hang out.”
A sudden worry struck Michal. “Hey, you’re not getting sick again like you were back in September, are you? I thought you were never gonna get over that stomach flu, Beth.”
“No. It’s not that—not anything physical. I feel great, really.”
Michal glanced over at the clock again, and at that exact moment, the alarm came on. At the sudden harsh, irritating sound, she reached over to smack the button with her palm.
“I hate that alarm. If I’m not waking up with my heart pounding because of a stupid nightmare, this dumb clock has the same effect.”
Beth rolled toward the wall, grousing as she did so, “Then why don’t you set it to music?”
Michal jerked the covers down, climbed out of bed. She ran her fingers lightly through her hair, trying to judge if it needed washing. Noticing Beth’s inactivity, she urged, “Beth. You need to get up.”
“Why? I’m already gonna get detention for too many cuts. What’s one more?”
Michal padded over to her roommate’s bed. “Beth, are you okay? I mean … really. Are you all right?” The pause worried Michal, and she reached out to lightly touch Beth’s shoulder.
Still electing to remain beneath the bedspread, Beth finally responded, “I’m just sleepy. I was up late studying. Stupid English exam.”
“Well, if you’re sure then. I’d better get going.” Michal began tugging up her sheet, straightening the pillow and quilt. “You just going to stay in bed a while?”
“Uh-huh.”
When Michal entered the bathroom the six women in her suite shared, she discovered Ruth and Jenny were there, one at a sink and the other in the shower. Since Michal and Ruth were the only ones who were somewhat personable in the early morning hours, Jenny merely grunted when Michal entered. Michal simply said “Morning” back. But when Ruth began singing in the shower—prompting Jenny to frown and roll her eyes—Michal laughed.
Deciding her hair could go another day without washing, Michal showered quickly. She wet her shoulder-length hair and pulled it into a casual ponytail with a simple rubber band. Her blonde hair had darkened considerably and was now a light brown with blonde highlights. But it hadn’t lost its wispy tendency, nor the natural curls; both qualities meant that tendrils still escaped the confines of the rubber band. Rarely, on special occasions, Michal would blow-dry her hair—but even then, she’d merely tuck it behind her ears. No fancy styling, no bows or barrettes, no fuss.
The other girls were amazed when Michal arrived at school with absolutely no makeup. No blush, mascara, lipstick, powder. Definitely no eyelash curler (she’d responded with amazement when shown the “contraption,” as she called it), eyeliner, or eye shadow.
As Michal stood at the sink brushing her teeth, she took note of the spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, a remnant from her childhood Michal considered an ongoing aggravation. After rinsing her mouth, she impulsively stuck out her tongue at the offending spots. Otherwise, her skin was perfectly clear, emitting a peaches-and-cream glow. As a rare fair-skinned person in remote sections of Africa, she’d learned to apply moisturizer with sunscreen every day, and did that still. Smoothing the cream around her eyes, she took for granted the long, naturally curly lashes (she had no need of the contraption) framing her almond-shaped light grey eyes, the slightly turned-up nose, the full and well-shaped lips. Samantha, another of her suitemates, liberally used makeup, and quickly recognized what a skillful application could do for Michal’s cheekbones and eyes. But Michal had remained adamant she hadn’t the time or desire to “mess with all that stuff.”
Michal’s one indulgence was a pair of pierced earrings, small gold hoops she’d received as a young child. Rarely removed, the earrings were such a part of her image she scarcely took notice of them anymore.
At five feet nine inches, she was no longer gangly, having grown into her long legs. A natural athlete, Michal moved with grace and coordination, but preferred to run only as a personal discipline, declining to participate in competitive track and other organized sports. Sometimes she’d join an impromptu pick-up game of soccer, basketball, or volleyball, her skills quickly making her a desired team member. Intramural team players begged her to play, but she’d refused, insisting she needed more time to “hit the books.” When needing a stress reliever or a break from study, however, she’d run. Sometimes for several miles, as she had in Ethiopia.
Michal indiscriminately pulled clothes out of the closet—a plain white blouse and jeans. Years of coming to the States on furlough and discovering her clothes were woefully outdated had led to a firm resolve: She disregarded being in style almost entirely. Attempting to rotate her outfits (she had a total of about ten, as she switched blouses with differing skirts, slacks, and jeans), Michal didn’t fret much over that either. In her opinion, hassling over clothes, hair, and makeup wasn’t worth the time or effort.
She rummaged through a drawer, debated putting on socks, but quickly vetoed that idea and tossed them aside. Slipped on worn but comfortable sandals. Took one last glance at herself in the mirror and nodded, satisfied.
After shoving books and notebooks into her backpack, Michal wondered if she should say something to Beth. The sound of regular breathing proved Beth had drifted back to sleep. Afraid her roommate might be irritated if awakened again, Michal thought better of that idea. Feeling a mixture of gui
lt and frustration, she closed the door softly behind her.
As Michal hurried to chapel, her thoughts shifted toward Florida, to her Aunt Sarah. Spring break was only a few days away, and she’d already purchased a bus ticket to Fort Myers—how good it had felt to finally hold that small piece of paper in her hand—the confirmation she really was going. Now it was safely stored away, tucked into the book of Psalms in the Bible she kept in her room.
“Hey. You’re walkin’ like a woman on a mission. Some sort of special entertainment going on that I don’t know about? That the reason for the huge smile on your face?”
Michal had been so focused on her trip to Florida that she’d taken no notice of others around her—not even Allistair Fuller, a McMaster’s student who wasn’t just anybody. This was the Allistair Fuller, number-one guy of interest to all her suitemates (and possibly every other woman in Peterson Dorm) for numerous reasons: He was a senior, star on the soccer team, baritone in a men’s quartet, and student body president. Michal’s suitemates had also listed off everything that made him “easy on the eyes,” as they described it: a noticeably square jaw (with the prerequisite dimpled chin); an unremarkable nose (no extra large or hooked ones accepted); wavy, dark brown hair (they were convinced he’d never go bald); deep-set, light blue eyes rimmed with dark, thick lashes (you could “get lost in them,” they’d insisted); and a wide, inviting smile (a definite plus).
Whether Allistair was aware he was exceptionally handsome was open for debate. Some insisted he was oblivious to it, and was actually very likeable. Others read conceit into everything he did: how he played the game of soccer, the way he spoke up and voiced opinions in class, how he conducted himself simply walking around the campus. When he was friendly to underclassmen, some would say, “Look, he’s not beneath talking to anyone.” While at the exact same time, detractors would cynically comment, “Look how condescending he is.” No matter what Allistair did, though, it was almost always noticed.
Beth and Michal hadn’t overlooked Allistair either. He was, admittedly, hard to miss. But in their equally offbeat, characteristically cavalier way of dismissing attitudes and desires the other girls wallowed in, the two MKs banished swooning over guys, pretty much completely. And Allistair in particular.
From Michal’s observation, if you gave most college women a mere five minutes of free time, their thoughts and discussions inherently drifted toward men. She and Beth were amazed by this constant infatuation; they were puzzled by the mesmerized spell their friends seemed to fall under. And frankly, they were irritated by the distraction the entire gender caused.
At the same time, and not so surprisingly, Michal hadn’t gone unnoticed by the men on campus—sans makeup and fussed-over hair. Even sweaty and covered with mud on the soccer field. Her infectious laugh, sunny disposition, and evident good looks (despite the lack of any attempts toward enhancement) had attracted a good deal of unwanted interest.
Up to this point, Michal had remained detached because she was singularly focused on completing her education. And ultimately, upon reaching her final goal: returning to the mission field in Ethiopia. What else are these years about? she’d asked herself, grilling her suitemates with that very question. They’d given her blank looks in response, proceeding to argue that making friends, competing in sports, and learning about life and love were equally important pursuits. Michal’s caveat was that none of those sounded especially spiritual. Anything that distracted from her goal, in Michal’s opinion, was a waste of time. More importantly, the time God held her accountable for.
Michal also failed to notice that before Allistair approached her, another young man—a nervous one with a dark green ski cap pulled so low it covered his ears and nearly his eyes—was about to call out to her and had just raised a spindly arm to attract her attention. When Stephen Jones noticed Allistair in such close proximity to Michal, however, he jerked the arm down to his side. Hunching his shoulders—which pulled his entire body into a posture resembling a huge comma—he scurried away.
The retreating Stephen Jones was the ultimate antithesis of Allistair. A lowly sophomore, shy and reticent and skinny, studious and therefore given to holing up in the library (hunched over a desk in yet another comma posture), studying for hours. Earning the straight As he’d received on every test and paper in every class—he was a most aggravating fellow student who elicited a disgusted “There goes the grading curve” from others whenever he walked into class on the first day.
Stephen had delayed joining any ministries in order to establish good study habits, was not confident about his athletic abilities, not on any sports teams, and generally—except for the grading curve consequences—not noticed. It was as though he were invisible, not actually taking up space in his environs. Even Stephen’s roommate knew very little about him except that he was exceptionally smart.
Besides his propensity for earning top grades, Stephen had three other notably positive traits. However, for whatever reason, he appeared to consciously hide these attractive qualities. One was his height, for he was tall enough to be center on the basketball team, should he seek the position. But Stephen’s slouch was such that few noticed he towered nearly a foot above them.
And then there was the dark green ski cap—the pilly, stretched-out, dirty dark green ski cap. Though Stephen didn’t wear it to bed, he kept it right next to his pillow; after the alarm went off, he reached for the ratty cap, which he immediately jerked back onto his head. Some speculated he wore it even in the shower, but the cap’s filthiness seemed to negate that rumor. The fact was that underneath grew luxurious, wavy blond hair; when exposed to the sun, his hair glistened with golden highlights.
Lastly, very few at McMaster’s had ever glimpsed what could be considered Stephen’s greatest asset: his dimples. Deep ones most women fervently wished they possessed themselves. These also were rarely revealed since Stephen simply didn’t find many reasons to smile. Had he done so, a number of women would’ve been intent upon enticing that smile to show itself more often.
If Stephen had added a personable nature to his intelligence, height, hair, and dimpled smile, he could have been a viable competitor to Allistair. But by embracing the labels of reclusive, nerdy, shy, and nearly mute, he rendered that nearly impossible. Still, a serious observer of people would have to arrive at this conclusion concerning Stephen: He was a diamond in the rough.
Stephen had finally gathered the courage to attempt a conversation with one he’d admired for her serious attitude about learning. Out of all the women on campus, Michal alone stood out as worthy of his time. But the moment Allistair stepped in front of him and claimed Michal’s attention, Stephen fled. In his panic, he plowed into an upperclassman who angrily chided, “Hey. Watch where you’re goin’, will ya?”
Muttering a quick “Sorry,” Stephen attempted to make himself invisible as he hurried toward chapel. Hoped Michal hadn’t noticed. And berated himself for his blundering attempt.
Lost in her own thoughts, Michal hadn’t noticed Stephen, and was caught off guard by Allistair. “Oh, hi. Guess I was already … well, out of here.”
Allistair’s hand flew to his chest and he dramatically stopped in his tracks. “Not Miss Studious. She of the ‘I’ve got to study all evening. I don’t have time to go get pizza. I can’t take Saturday off to go to the lake.’ Surely not that Michal McHenry? I’m appalled.”
She laughed. “Okay, I confess: I was thinking about spring break—not classes or studying. Not the paper I have due tomorrow or the quiz in Epistles. Stuff I should be thinking about.” Michal glanced up at Allistair, smiling. “I’m going to Florida to visit my aunt. And honestly, I can’t wait to get there.”
He grinned back at her. “Gotta ask you something. Your name. Michal?”
It was the usual question, and she was used to it. But aggravation at her mother’s choice of names still coursed through her every time someone
inquired. Again. “Have you seen how it’s spelled?”
“Don’t think so. Why?”
She spelled it for him. Raised her eyebrows and waited. “Well? Come on, Bible major. Certainly you recall the story of a certain biblical character named David?”
Allistair’s face lit up. “Oh. Saul’s daughter—who became David’s wife. That Michal. But why—?”
“Why name me that? Because when my mom was pregnant with me, she was convinced I was going to be a boy. And that God wanted her to name him Michael, after my dad. So she did. Sort of.”
He laughed. “Well, I think that’s pretty cool. Not everybody gets to have unusual names like we do. Allistair’s certainly not your common, everyday name either—and wouldn’t have been my first choice. So … on another topic. Where in Florida you going anyway?”
“Fort Myers.” Michal closed her eyes, the pleasure of daydreaming apparent on her face. “I intend to spend every possible moment at the beach. Doing nothing but sleeping and swimming. Maybe try out a boogie board, since everyone tells me they’re a blast. How about you?”
“Traveling with a ministry team and my quartet to North Carolina.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. I heard.”
“We’re doing concerts near Atlanta, Greenville. Columbia, too, I think? Rumor has it we’ll spend at least a day somewhere around Myrtle Beach.”
“That would be neat.” Michal felt embarrassed, realizing how self-serving her time at the beach appeared compared with Allistair’s Christian service work.
“You’re on one of the ministry teams, aren’t you?”
Michal glanced up to meet his eyes again, giving him an appreciative smile for pointing that out. “Yeah, I am. But freshmen don’t get to travel overnight.”
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