“Oh, but you did for me,” I said with a grin.
“Consider yourself lucky. We’ll look up those books later, but for now it’s time to get to work. Please start by shelving the books you pulled out before. Then I would like you to start with the books from the 2050s, and organize them by author last name.”
“Organize, huh? I thought you were allergic to such order.”
“Funny,” Hasan said with a forced cheesy grin. “I’ll have you focus on a decade at a time, slowly getting each section organized. Once a week, I’ll need you to dust, but since you did that earlier this week, you can wait until next week to dust again. If a customer asks you to find something, refer them to me, unless you know exactly where it is.”
“Yeah, yeah. Right now no one but you knows where anything is. I’m glad you’re having me organize things,” I answered as I walked over to the cart. After those were put back where they belonged, I spent the rest of the shift on the 2050s books. To me, these weren’t that interesting—by that time, books were printed primarily as a novelty for coffee tables and to look pretty on a shelf, making their owner look studious. Very few looked even remotely interesting to me, and I simply took note of those titles as I knew I could find them on the net easily.
After my shift as I walked into our apartment building, my eyes were drawn to the faint outline on the outside wall in the shape of a lower-case T. I remember Grandma telling me that this building used to be a church before it had to be closed due to lack of interest and irrelevancy—her words. I remembered also she told me that T was called a cross. She said there were people in her mother’s generation that tried to hold on to their traditional religion for as long as they could, but slowly church after church had to close as they didn’t have enough people coming to keep the doors open. Many churches like this one were converted to apartment buildings to handle the influx of immigrants and the growing population.
As I thought about churches, I remembered that it was people who went to church that had Bibles. Though this building was gutted before it was repurposed, Chester and I once discovered cabinet in the entryway that was full of old stuff that had been abandoned in the building’s chuch days. I decided to check it out after dinner to see if a Bible might be amid the rejected items.
As I walked into our apartment, I was greeted with a surprise—the smell of real food, not something that was made in the one-pot. Chester and I couldn’t cook any more than Mom could so that smell could mean only one thing: Grandma.
Stirring
Grandma was my only living grandparent, my mom’s mother. Mom’s relationship with her mother was full of ups and downs just as hers and mine was, but one of the two of them would feel guilty about not talking and would call the other, usually every few weeks. Grandma lived only a 15-minute pod ride away, but she was busy with her own activities. She, like Ryan, was really interested in all the latest choose-your-own adventure series and could talk about them for hours. Not having to work or go to school, she had more time for them, too.
My grandma was 87. She grew up in better times, as she would put it, when money was more plentiful and everyone had their own home, instead of having to live in apartments.
Grandma, Iris Stevens, came from a standard American family with European roots, but she married my grandfather, Daljeet Kapoor, a son of Indian immigrants to her parents’ delight. Interracial marriages became vogue in her day, though before that she told me that they often were taboo. Today in the USNA, it’s rare if you aren’t multiracial, except for a few families who either haven’t been here long enough or are racists, believing they must keep their race “pure.” I’m Chinese (on my father’s father’s side), Indian (on my mother’s father’s side), and white—I don’t know where exactly my European ancestors are from—Germany or England, maybe. Despite my diverse background, I can’t speak any language except English.
Mom moved Chester and me out of Grandma’s house and into this apartment shortly after Chester was born. At the time, the original use of this building as a church was a source of contention between them. Grandma has always hated churches, and it apparently didn’t matter to her that this building was abandoned as a church some years ago.
I don’t have any early memories of Grandma, but Mom has told me that she wouldn’t even visit here until I was 8, that’s how strongly she disliked where we lived. The only reason she came then was because all 3 of us had come down with the flu, and of course Dad wasn’t around to help us. Grandma came to the rescue after mom admitted that she was wrong for moving us here.
“Grandma!” I exclaimed as I walked to the kitchen.
“Hi, sweetie! How was your day?” Grandma said with a pleasant expression.
“It was good,” I said, not revealing anything.
“What have you been up to since school got out?”
“I, uh, went window shopping after school,” a not-quite-full-out-lie.
“How fun. I think I may have a few spare eCreds for you that I’ll transfer to your account. Maybe you can pick out something next time.”
“Awww, thanks, Grandma.” No need to tell her what I was “window shopping” for was for a little more expensive than a new pair of earrings or even a pair of boots.
“So what are you cooking us?” Chester said as he walked in from his room, clearly still playing a video game on his chip, as his arms were flailing all about. He was probably fighting off zombies or shooting enemy soldiers.
“I decided to cook you a traditional Indian dinner, like your Grandfather’s mother taught me. It’s called Dal Makhani and is nothing like what your mom can make in a one-pot. In fact, it will actually be edible. Is that okay? You guys don’t get enough exposure to your Indian heritage and certainly don’t get enough real food.”
“Cool,” Chester grunted as he walked back to his room. “When’s Mom coming home?” he asked Grandma, brushing his too long hair out of his eyes.
“I’m not sure,” she said with a disapproving sigh. “She’s busy getting the shipment of beans back on track.”
“Always some food crisis or another.” I paused, waiting for Chester to leave the kitchen and settle back down on the couch. “Can I ask you a question, Grandma?” I asked, tentatively.
“Sure, pumpkin.”
“Why do you hate churches so much?”
Grandma stopped stirring the Indian dish, and looked at me. From somewhere behind her eyes I saw anger and hurt flash and vanish quickly. I remained silent, waiting for her to speak, which she did after several moments of silence.
“Why do you want to know, Amala?” she asked with concern.
“Oh, I’m just curious. I remember you disapproving when we moved into this building, but I couldn’t remember why you didn’t want anything to do with churches.”
“Well, I was raised in a church.”
“So?” I said, thinking she meant she lived in a church as we did now which didn’t offer any explanation that I could figure out.
“Oh, I don’t mean that I lived in a church. That would have been absurd when I was growing up. I forget how much you kids these days don’t know about life back then, and how many phrases you don’t know. When I say that I was ‘raised in a church’ I mean that I grew up going to a church every week with my parents. We were there every time the doors were open, as the saying goes. They were devout in their Christian faith, or at least they would have said they were.”
“Really?” I said in genuine surprise. My own childhood had offered no clues to this religious heritage. Anxious to hear more, I asked, “So did you take Mom to church, too, when she was growing up? Because she’s never mentioned it.”
“No, I never did. Until she moved here, I doubt she ever had been in a church building. When I was 16, I left home and stopped going to church. I never went to one again.”
“Really? You left home at 16? Why, Grandma?”
“Sweetie, I don’t have time to talk about this right now. Dinner’s ready. Will you go get your broth
er?”
Perhaps dinner just happened to be ready at that moment, but I couldn’t help but think that Grandma was putting me off.
When our stomachs were full of food that was as filling as it was delicious, I cleaned up the dishes as quickly as I could. I knew that I had to get my homework done before I could jump back into Beth’s journal. Finishing my geometry homework, I tried to move on to English, but my mind kept drifting off towards Sebastian.
To avoid thinking about Sebastian, I forced myself to consider the conversation I had with Grandma earlier that afternoon. Now knowing that my own ancestors, my great grandparents, had been devout Christians, I wanted to learn more about Beth’s experience with church. Perhaps it would help me understand Grandma a little better, though I didn’t know if Beth went more than that one time, or ever mentioned it again. Up until that entry, she had never mentioned church, so I don’t think she found the church she had been going to with her family something journal-worthy.
I opened up the journal, and dove back into 2001.
September 24, 2001
I went back to Immanuel Church yesterday with Faith. Youth group was fun—I’m even beginning to feel a part of it. It was great having several of the others greet me by name and look genuinely excited to see me.
After church, I went over to Faith’s house for lunch. It was fun to spend time with her family. She has three brothers, so it’s really quite loud there unlike at my house. I’m not sure I could handle a brother, though it would be nice if there were another kid at home so Mom and Dad would have someone else to focus on. Maybe they wouldn’t catch all my mistakes then.
Faith and I hung out in her room for a while after lunch, waiting for my parents to come pick me up. She was asking me questions about what I believe about God and if I read the Bible. I had never really thought about reading the Bible before I went to church with her. I hadn’t really thought much about God either. She encouraged me to start reading the gospel of John. I started yesterday when I got back home, but I found the beginning really confusing—what’s this about the Word, and why is “Word” capitalized? I think I’ll have some questions to ask Faith. This verse stood out to me today as I was reading:
“For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.” - John 3:16
I’ve heard this verse before, but I never really thought about what it means any more than I’ve thought about what a nursery rhyme meant.
This Friday night is the homecoming game. This is my favorite football game of the year to perform at! We always get the most excited, and the whole color guard paints their faces green and gold for the Henry High Bulldogs. The band boosters raise money each year for us to include fireworks as part of the marching band performance. So fun! The color guard always jokes that they shoot off fireworks while the band is playing so that you can’t tell how bad they sound.
September 28, 2001
Tonight was the homecoming game, or at least it was supposed to be. Just as we were leaving the stands to prepare to take the field during halftime, the heavens opened up, as they say. The rain was so heavy. It wasn’t long before it soaked through my color guard uniform, even though I was huddled under a jacket with Stacy. Because there was also some lightning, they delayed the game, and everyone ran inside the school. While we were in the ladies’ room trying to clean up our face paint and keep it from running onto our uniforms, we were trying to figure out how likely it would be that we would still perform. We waited around for about forty-five minutes—jumping around to keep warm—when Mr. Branson, our band director, got on a bullhorn and told us that the game was postponed, and would be played in the morning.
I was excited to still have a chance to perform, but then he told us that we wouldn’t be performing at the game, as too many people would not be able to make it, and it wouldn’t make for a good performance if there were a lot of holes in the marching formations.
That’s when I lost it. I turned to Stacy, and started out-and-out bawling. I’ve never cried on school grounds before—not even on September 11th. I’m still upset—how could this happen during my senior year? Junior year was so perfect and I had so much fun—I was sure that this year would be even better! How was I supposed to know last year would be my last homecoming game?
Stumbling
I wanted to read more of the journal, but I decided to pace myself, since I wouldn’t be able to bring home another book for at least five-and-a-half more weeks. I was glad that Beth talked more about church and gave another Bible verse for me to think through. This one was even more intriguing than the first. I opened up my incomplete Charles Dickens essay for English class, but the cursor simply blinked at me, taunting me.
Then it hit me: though all I had of Beth Pratt was her journal, there was more information about her out there. Doing some quick math in my head—at least it didn’t take me as long as my geometry homework—I calculated she likely died thirty or forty years ago. But given her age, she had lived at the beginning of the net era. What would have been on the net then about her would likely still be out there now.
As I did a search for Beth Pratt, I received over a billion results. Clearly, she was not the only one with that name. I then searched by her full name, “Elizabeth Ann Pratt” and still found quite a lot of entries, too many to sort in any meaningful way.
If I had her social security number, this search would be easy. In 2021, these numbers started being used as online IDs, to distinguish between people with the same or similar names. This had to be done as people were losing their jobs—or not getting them at all—based on what other people of the same name were doing and posting online. Of course, her social security number was not something that Beth found pertinent to record in her journal.
I googled, “how to find an ancestor online if you don’t have their social security number.” Beth’s not my ancestor, but I didn’t want to have to explain why I was searching for her, and it’d likely be the same process anyway. I found a link to a forum.
One user, NattySmith57 said, “One great way to locate someone born between 1960 and 2010 is to use ObsoleteFacebook.us. Before the Facebook servers were taken down in 2027 after years of disuse, this website gathered all that data and allows for easy searches. I was able to find my great uncle, John Smith on this website after only about 45 minutes, which would have been impossible in a general search given his common name.”
I clicked on the website NattySmith57 mentioned. After a nostalgic tribute to the fad website, it had a search box where I entered “Beth Pratt.” After coming up with several hundred results, it allowed me to enter more information, so I typed in “North Carolina.”
My search was narrowed down to only seven results. Assuming she was on Facebook at some point, she would be one of these.
I immediately ruled out the second and seventh Beth Pratts, as their pictures were of ladies clearly past 50. Beth would have been 44 when Facebook was disbanded, so I was looking for a person no older than that.
The third Beth Pratt was also an easy one to rule out, as it was a man. Not sure why he went by the name “Beth,” but I moved on. Clicking on the first Beth Pratt, brought up the page of a young blonde woman with her arm around a person just out of the cropped picture. Before I started to read it, I saw her birth date: “November 23, 1997.” Unless journal Beth was a genius, going to high school before her first birthday, this Beth was not my girl.
Next, I clicked on the fourth “Beth Pratt.” She was a woman probably in her 30s, and clearly could have been my Beth Pratt. She didn’t have a birth year listed, so I started getting excited with each detail I read, sure it was her. She had two children, born in the 2010s. This was definitely a possibility.
I was about to click on some of her photos when one detail caught my eye. Under “school” she had listed “Millbrook High.” Bummer—I knew from the journal that my
Beth went to Henry High School.
The fifth Beth Pratt was actually “Bethany Pratt” so I ruled her out immediately.
That left one Beth: Beth Pratt number six. I hoped that this one would be the journal writer. My hands shook as I clicked on her picture, the picture of a young girl with light brown hair, sticking out her tongue toward the camera.
After the last disappointment, I decided not to get my hopes up and first looked at which high school was listed. Sure enough, she listed that she was a Henry High graduate, class of 2002. This was the one.
I enjoyed reading over the rest of her Facebook information. She seemed to have a lot of friends, though the messages had trickled off as they got more recent, presumably because she stopped using Facebook. There was nothing after 2015, so she probably quit using the site then, a little ahead of the trend. I looked to see if she was married, but she was listed as being “single.” Nor were there any children listed.
I spent about an hour looking at all her pictures and an hour or two skimming years of messages. I found one album that was further evidence that this was the Beth Pratt of the journal, entitled “High School Flashbacks.” It included pictures of Beth in what I presume was a color guard uniform with a stick in her hand, that was probably one of the flags she twirled.
She was loved, that I could tell. She seemed to be one of those girls who were always smiling. There was one photo of her dressed as a clown, as she tried to balance on a beach ball. In the next photo she was on the floor, in a fit of laughter, her arm over someone else’s shoulder.
One other thing caught my eye: she had a link to Immanuel Church in her profile. She must have continued to go there after those first two weeks. I hoped to find out more in the journal.
The next morning I woke up groggy when my alarm went off in my head. I had stayed up several hours later than I usually do, reading all I could about Beth Pratt and her friends and family online. I now felt like I was beginning to really know what kind of person she was, and she was someone about whom I wanted to know more. The Facebook information was great, but it only showed me who she was in public. Who someone was in the quiet was much more interesting.
The Journal Page 5