The Misadventures of Francis
As a quick bit of backstory, these are stories I write (usually about dating) for my ward announcements each week. Or almost each week.
28 Jan 2008 (Faith)
21 Jan 2008 (Emma)
7 Jan 2008 (Savannah/Paige)
26 Dec 2007 (Zoe)
17 Dec 2007 (Melody)
19 Nov 2007 (non-Francis dialogue)
12 Nov 2007 (non-Francis dialogue)
6 Nov 2007 (Stephanie, part 2)
29 Oct 2007 (Stephanie, part 1)
22 Oct 2007 (Lindsey, part 2)
14 Oct 2007 (Lindsey, part 1)
1 Oct 2007 (Violet)
24 Sep 2007 (Amanda/Meredith)
28 Jan 2008
Another honeypot note exchange. (Still fictional, in case you're wondering.)
Faith,
I thought love was only true in fairy tales, meant for someone else but not for me. Then I saw your face -- now I'm a believer.
-- A Secret Admirer
O Secret Admirer, also known as Francis,
The wise man built his house upon the rock, not the sand.
-- Faith
Faith,
I didn't really understand your last note, but that's okay. I've always thought I needed a little more faith in my life. Want to help me mow my parents' lawn on Saturday?
-- Francis
France,
You know, I've always been more a fan of Germany.
-- Faith
Faith,
But you could be the Alsace-Lorraine and at least give me a chance, couldn't you?
-- With all the affection this little ol' heart has to give, Francis
Francis,
I guess you weren't sleeping in class after all. But my boundaries were set months ago with Chris, and I cannot pass. Sorry.
-- Faith
Faith,
I wasn't sleeping, I was writing letters. I mean, notes. To myself. Chris is back east, isn't he? Long-distance relationships only work out 3% of the time, you know.
-- Francis
Francis,
It's funny that you mention that statistic -- Chris always calls me his one-in-a-million. In fact, he's moving out here this week.
-- Faith
Faith,
He is? Well, it still might not work out. Lots of relationships don't.
-- Francis
Francis,
I don't know how else to get this across to you, but I can't date you. Really.
-- Faith
Faith,
Well, we don't have to date -- we can go straight to courtship. I'd be fine with that.
-- Francis
Francis,
She's mine, kid. Send her another honeypot note like that and I'll send you to the recycle bin. In pieces.
-- Chris
The end.
21 Jan 2008
A honeypot note exchange. (Fictional, of course.)
Emma,
You have the most beautiful nose I've ever seen.
-- A Secret Admirer
Francis,
Not funny. Is your roommate dating anyone?
Em
Emma,
How'd you guess? I meant it. No, Simon isn't, but he's engaged.
Francis
Francis,
Engaged. He's...engaged. What did his honeypot note mean, then?
Emma
Emma,
He wrote you a honeypot note? His fiancée might want to know about that. But I'm available. Very. Available.
Francis
Francis,
I didn't get the honeypot note -- Natalie did. But never mind.
Emma
Emma,
Have I ever told you how I love the wisps of hair that dance upon your cheeks? Are you free on Friday?
Francis
Francis,
I'm not free Friday, I'm sorry. I have to wash my hair. And that's creepy, Francis.
Emma
Emma dear,
I don't know the meaning of the word creepy. I think what you meant to say was that you were flattered beyond your wildest dreams. How about Saturday?
Francis
Francie-poo,
I go gaga every time I see you. Will you be mine? Valentine's is just around the corner, and I'd feel so lonely without you, darling. Saturday would be just peachy, by the way.
Your dear Emma
Dearest Emma,
I knew you'd see the light -- no woman could resist my fond affections for long. I'll pick you up Saturday and we can go grocery shopping together. And don't worry, I've already got everything planned for Valentine's. It'll be great, my little snookums.
Francie-poo
Francis,
That was NOT me! I can't believe my roommate did that -- forging a honeypot note is SO not kosher. I'm not gaga, and I don't WANT a Valentine's, and I'm going to be in the HOSPITAL on Saturday. I felt sick just reading your note.
Em
P.S. I'm NOT your dear Emma.
Emma,
My profound, deepest, most sincere and profuse apologies and regrets. If you happen to change your mind, let me know. In the meantime, however, which roommate of yours wrote the note?
Francis
Francis,
Breanne the traitor. You should ask her out. She's already wildly in love with you.
Em
Breanne,
You have the most beautiful nose I've ever seen.
-- A Secret Admirer
The end.
7 Jan 2008
Five minutes till sacrament meeting started. Francis was sitting in the middle of one of the center rows -- where, of course, not only one girl but two could sit next to him. It was the highlight of his week. Which isn't to say that female company was the only reason he attended church, to be sure. He went for all right reasons, and he'd still go even if the congregation were all-male. With a shudder he gave a silent prayer of gratitude that such was not the case.
And in fact there was a girl walking in right now. He smiled at her. New girl. He caught her eye, and then with a friendly wave of the hand reeled her in.
"Mind if I sit here?" she asked, sitting down next to Francis. He didn't mind at all, but just smiled wider. "My name's Savannah."
"I'm Francis," he said. "You're beautiful."
She blushed. "Thanks."
"No, really, I mean it. Eye hath not seen beauty such as yours."
Savannah's eyebrows went up. With a swallow, she said, "You're pretty forward."
Francis gave her one of his most handsomely devilish smiles. "And you're pretty pretty."
"You know," she said with another blush, "my eyesight's not so good. I think I'm going to move a little closer to the front." And she left.
But just then another girl -- Paige, who'd been in the ward for a year or two -- came and sat down next to Francis on the other side. "Hey, Francis."
"Good day, milady."
Paige smiled. "You never change, do you. Don't you ever feel...well...weird?"
Weird? Francis wasn't quite sure how to take that. At face value, of course, she might mean that she thought he was weird. But with women things are never as they seem, he'd learned from long experience, and her words had to have some double meaning. Or even a triple-layered mix of connotation and denotation and probably even some annotation thrown in for good measure.
By weird she could easily mean different. And different naturally melted into unique. And girls liked unique, didn't they? One of a kind. One in a million. One heck of a catch.
Goodness, Paige was telling him she liked him! Francis's heart rate started taking its stairs two at a time. She was interested! It was a clear sign, unmistakable. Why else would she say that? None of the other possibilities made sense, and besides, that twinkle in her eyes just now had to be the light of infatuation.
But that wasn't a very nice way of putting it, he thought to himself. How did he know it was just infatuation? She'd been in the ward for over a year -- what if she'd been falling in love with him all this time, and only now she'd gotten up the courage to tell him? He thought back over every time he'd talked with her, run into her, seen her. It all made sense now, like one elaborate puzzle with pieces strewn across a year, some in the spring and summer, a few in the fall, and dozens here in the winter. Just last week, in fact, she'd made some comment when he was nearby, something that would sound completely innocuous unless you realized that she had a secret she was trying to hide.
This was deeper than he thought. Her roommates had all moved away at the end of the summer, but she'd stayed. For him. She'd given up her roommates...for him. That was sacrifice. She must be completely smitten. She'd probably even been planning the wedding for months, choosing colors and a spot for the engagement photos, picking out napkins and reception locations. Francis wondered what names she'd chosen for the children. Hopefully nothing too...well, hopefully nothing he wouldn't like.
But he was getting ahead of himself. She was sitting here next to him, having just declared her profound and undying love for him -- surely she was expecting an answer. Romantic...he needed romantic. That one line from Jane Austen was overused, about the violence of his affection, even though he was particularly fond of it and felt it matched his situation to a T. No, something simple. Something equally profound.
A foreshadowing! That would do it -- the vow of marriage, a promise to love and honor and cherish her till death do them part. He swallowed. This was big.
"I do."
Paige smiled and nodded. "I thought so."
She thought so! She really had been planning this marriage for months. How had she known that he would accept her love, though? But that was a silly question. In the face of true love, who can resist? Not Francis. Besides, he'd always loved her. Yes, that was right -- he hadn't been conscious of it, but ever since she'd moved into the ward his head had been turned in her direction. Every word she'd spoken to him had been caught and carefully preserved with a subconscious attention that almost brought tears to his eyes, it was so tender. His eyes welled up at the memory.
A look of concern came across Paige's face. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't realize you were--"
"It's okay." Francis wiped a tear away with his pinky. "It's the good kind."
Just then the second counselor got up to the microphone to start the meeting. Looking around him, Francis noticed with surprise that the chapel was almost full already. Paige's love had transported him to a world beyond the world. Cloud ten, he decided. And it even had a silver lining.
Thoughts such as these, coated with a bright happiness, were the stuff of Francis's thoughts for most of the beginning of the meeting. Eternal marriage -- that elusive chimaera, which he'd sought after and longed for these many years, even all his life -- was finally within his grasp.
Sometime during the second speaker's talk, Francis pulled out his notebook. "Do you have a pen?" he whispered to Paige, who rummaged around in her purse and came up with a pencil. He nodded that it was fine.
But what to write? How could words capture such exquisite exultations? How could he even hope to express in language the feelings of his heart? This was a time for song. And yet he couldn't very well sing Paige's praises aloud in the middle of the meeting, so he began sketching out lyrics, humming melodies inside his head. When the meeting got out he would serenade her with an anthem fit for a queen.
"O Paige," he wrote, "love of my life, sun of my solar system." Not a bad first line. She'd love the alliteration.
"Your eyes shine like a supernova." That could be the chorus.
"You've caught me in your orbit, I'm your satellite." It didn't exactly rhyme, but she would be too twitterpated to notice. And he could fiddle around with the melody until it fit the words -- after all, most modern poetry didn't rhyme. He was cutting edge.
"I dream of you by day," he continued, "and think of you by night." This was getting really good. With a smile he chewed on the eraser of the pencil and stared up at the speaker, who was reading something about being encircled -- and Francis nearly dropped his pencil. It was perfect! "Let me encircle you in the arms of my love as we dance to the moon and back."
Just then Paige started coughing, hard. Wheezing, even.
"Are you okay?" Francis said in alarm, putting his hand on her back all ready to pat if she needed him to. And he could just leave it there afterwards. Smooth.
Paige nodded, still coughing, also glancing at his notebook with a strange look in her eyes. It dawned on Francis: she'd read the song and was so enraptured by it that she couldn't contain her emotions. How cute.
She looked at the notebook again and burst into a new fury of what sounded like a cross between a laugh and a sob. Her roommate, who was sitting on the other side of her, had a giggly smile on. She must have been in on the marriage plans, Francis thought. It all made sense.
But the song was done, so he closed his notebook and looked up at the speaker. Paige's coughs seemed to subside, but every few minutes she'd go into hysterics again. "Are you sure?" he asked her. She just nodded.
This went on for the rest of the meeting. When they amened the closing prayer, Francis turned to Paige and put his hand on hers. She pulled it back. She must want to be the one who initiated the handhold -- after all, she was the one who'd first declared her love.
But as she wiped tears from her now-red eyes, Francis noticed what had gone unobserved before: a sparkling diamond ring on her fourth finger.
Suddenly gravity disappeared and the satellite spun off into the asteroid belt. Engaged? Paige was engaged?
"I have to go," she said.
"Go?" In his stupor, Francis could only nod. "You're..."
Paige frowned. "You didn't hear? It's been over a month."
Over a month. Francis stood up, shook his head, and walked out the row. And saw Savannah standing at the far doorway, looking straight at him with a dizzy look of affection. She would appreciate his words. He pulled the notebook out of his pocket and got Paige's pencil out of his pocket -- he'd have his roommate return it to her. As he started walking toward the doorway, he scratched Paige's name out from the first line of the poem and wrote "Savannah" in its place. She'd love it.
26 Dec 2007
Two o'clock on a Thursday. With gusto and verve, Francis -- who had just recovered from a bout with gout -- flung open the door to his marriage prep class in the MARB. As he walked in, his eyes' focus flitted around the room like a frantic hummingbird. His legs moved in slow motion -- didn't want to move too far in the wrong direction.
There, in the middle -- cute girl. And another one off on the left side. She was -- never mind, some guy just sat down next to her. Any others? Francis's gaze swept up and down the aisles. He wrinkled his brow, as if looking for a friend he couldn't find. Wouldn't want any of the girls to catch on to his plot, now, would he.
The girl in the middle seemed the best candidate. Of course, seeing as class didn't start for another half-hour, nobody was sitting within fifteen seats of her. In fact, the four rows in front of her and most of the six behind her were completely vacant. So much for not being obvious.
As Francis put on his suavé and started walking up the stairs to her row, one of his shoelaces must have come undone. He faceplanted the stairs.
"Are you okay?" said the girl from the middle of the row.
Francis rubbed his face -- it had to be red by now -- and pulled himself onto his knees. "I'm not sure," he said. Which wasn't entirely true. He felt fine. But womanly care wouldn't hurt any, now, would it. And he crawled into the row, grabbed hold of the seat handrest, and got to his feet. And limped his way over to the girl.
"I'm Francis," he said, quickly putting on a pained smile.
She smiled in return. Wow. Not only did she have teeth like a toothpaste commercial -- not that Francis paid much attention to teeth, but now that he thought about it, maybe he did after all -- not only were her teeth temple-white, but her eyes! It was like peering into the depths of the universe. For what felt like hours, Francis forgot to breathe.
Then he came to and realized his jaw had dropped. And the girl had just told him her name, but he hadn't heard it. Drat. Would it be bad form to ask her again? Blame it on the fall. Good idea. "Sorry, what was your name again?" He tilted his head as if he were hard of hearing.
"Zoe," she said with another smile.
Zoe? Was that even a real name? "Cool," he said. Wasn't that the name of the baby in that one comic strip? Maybe she was pulling his leg.
She didn't look like she was kidding.
"Well, Zoe," Francis said, "do you mind if I sit here?" He motioned at the seat next to her.
She smiled again. "No, no, not at all."
A good sign. She had to be interested in him, he thought. He probably wouldn't even have to ask for her number -- she'd write it on a piece of paper and slip it to him in the middle of class. The last time a girl did that to Francis was...well, there was no last time, strictly speaking. But that didn't mean anything. Girls did that -- wrote their numbers down for guys -- all the time...didn't they? He sat down.
"So, let me guess," he said. "You've got a twin brother named Joey." Humor always wins the ladies over. She'll be smitten in seconds.
Zoe coughed, but like every other expression she made, it ended up as a smile. "A twin brother? I'm an only child."
Francis nodded thoughtfully. An only child. Had she ever changed a diaper before? Maybe they'd have to go on lots of babysitting dates first. That could be an issue.
"But you're pretty good," she continued. "My boyfriend's name is Joey."
It was Francis's turn to cough. Boyfriend? "Joey?" Joey and Zoe. Hideous. Francis and Zoe, now, that was something. It could be the title of a movie, even.
"In fact," Zoe said, pointing to a guy walking up the opposite aisle, "that's him now."
Francis swallowed. Of course. She had a boyfriend. They all have boyfriends. Statistically speaking, of course, that had to be patently untrue, and yet statistics didn't seem to have much of a say in this sort of thing.
"Joey, this is Francis," said Zoe. Joey's eyes narrowed as he sat down on the other side of Zoe. "Francis, this is Joey."
"Nice to...meet you," Francis stuttered. The classroom was getting full. Almost time to start class, too -- how on earth had half an hour passed that quickly? It was impossible. But Einstein was right. Well, half right -- sitting with a pretty girl, an hour goes by like a minute. Sitting by a pretty girl and her boyfriend, though, an hour goes by like, well, an hour.
And that's how class went. Joey didn't seem to be the talkative sort, but Zoe kept whispering things to him. Francis tried to nonchalantly ignore them, but every once in a while Zoe would look his way and he'd shoot her a weak smile.
The topic of the lecture, as it happened, was marriage. This time round would be Francis's sixth time in the class -- each time with a different professor, of course, so he could glean new insights into what would surely be the most momentous decision of his life. He'd taken every other MFHD and HFL class he could find on the topic. And let's just say that his bookshelves weren't exactly empty, either.
Halfway through class, the professor pointed to the slide projected on the sheet behind him. "Do you know how many relationships make it to the engagement stage, let alone marriage?"
Nobody answered.
"I don't either," the professor said. A few chuckles from the audience. "But it's not many."
He looked around the class. "You," he said, pointing at Joey. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
Joey yawned and nodded.
The professor's grin grew Cheshire. "What's the chance you'll marry her?"
Joey blinked. And looked at Zoe. Whose eyes were locked on him with eyebrows raised. Joey's Adam's apple bobbed. "Um," he said, rubbing his eyes. Some of the girls in the room were gasping quietly. "I...really..."
"Joey?" whispered Zoe. "Tell him."
Joey slid down in his seat a little bit. "I think..." He looked at Zoe with a faint grimace etched on his face, almost like a man on death row. But then something clicked -- you could almost see the light bulb above his head -- and his grimace flipped upside down into a grin. "Fifty-fifty," he said triumphantly.
Zoe slapped him.
"Fifty-fifty?" she said, mouth open. And opening one's mouth has the side effect of amplifying one's volume. Which is what happened here. "Is that all our relationship means to you?"
Joey cringed. The professor blushed -- looked like he hadn't realized Zoe was sitting next to Joey. And Francis was rubbing his hands together with delight.
"No, sweetie," Joey said, trying to put his arm around her but she kept pushing it back.
"Don't 'sweetie' me," she said. "All this time I thought you were getting ready to propose, and--"
"You what?" Joey's mouth was open. Same result. "When did I ever give you the impression that I was going to propose?"
Zoe's eyes lit up with the fires of...well, let's just leave it at fires. She said nothing at first. The professor had continued talking, but all eyes and ears were riveted on what has happening on row five. And then Zoe exploded.
Not literally, of course, but hell hath no fury like a woman, the poet said. (Francis couldn't help but wonder who the poet was. Pres. Monson cited him in almost every talk he gave, so the poet had to be one prolific guy, but he didn't seem to have a name. An unfortunate set of circumstances, that.) By now the professor had realized that the forces of nature cannot be held back once unleashed, and he gave up.
Francis also couldn't help but notice that Zoe was ten times more attractive now that she was hopping mad. Funny how that worked, he thought. And in the middle of her tirade, he tapped her on the shoulder. She turned.
"Zoe?" he said. "Since it, you know, looks like you're probably going to break up, I was wondering if, well, if you wanted to go out sometime."
Zoe's shoulders dropped incredulously and she stared at him with a blank look on her face. Did she understand? He'd tried to enunciate clearly, but maybe he'd mumbled or something. "I was wondering--"
"I heard you the first time," she snapped. "Can't you see I'm kind of busy at the moment?"
Francis nodded. From behind her, Joey was passing his finger in front of his throat in a slitting motion. Did that mean Joey was going to kill him? Or he wanted him to shut up? Or he wanted her to shut up? Hard to tell. He leaned forward, so Zoe wasn't in his way. "I don't understand what you're saying. I know this kind of destroys the point of non-verbal signals, but would you mind translating that for me?"
Joey just shook his head. Zoe turned back around to face the professor, who had started talking again. "Fifty-fifty!" she huffed. "I can't believe him."
"He's a jerk," Francis said. "I'm not like that. Look, I even like Jane Austen."
Zoe put her head in her hands. And she left it there. Francis figured he ought to give her some space -- after all, she was probably considering all the benefits she'd get from dumping Joey and dating Francis instead. He didn't want to interrupt her. Any minute now she'd pop her head up, smiling like there'd been no storm, only sunshine, and she'd pull a piece of paper out of her purse. Just like clockwork.
The clockwork must have been broken, since she didn't pop her head up and she didn't open her purse. When the bell rang, she got up, grabbed all her things, and vanished out of the classroom before Francis had had a chance to stop her. Joey was gone, too. Maybe he'd left early.
Bother. Francis would have to wait till the next week to get her phone number. Unless -- well, there couldn't be that many Zoes on StalkerNet...
17 Dec 2007
"Hey, France," Melody said as she passed Francis on the walkway between the McKay Building and the SWKT.
It unfortunately happened that she said this just as he was in the middle of swallowing, however, so all he managed to get out was a garbled "Hello," with his voice soaring to squeaky heights on the second syllable. Sometimes it was hard to believe he wasn't still thirteen.
But right now he was teetering back and forth between stopping to talk -- was she hesitating too, or was that just the way she walked? -- and continuing his walk to the library. Maybe she wanted to talk. Maybe she was just waiting for him to show the first sign, the gravitational pull that marked the beginning of conversations. But then again maybe she was in a hurry, off to take a test or perform some Florentine act of service. It would be wrong of him to delay her -- almost like kicking against the pricks.
And yet there did seem to be the slightest tilt of her head as she walked onward. She was looking back, Francis thought, trying to see if he'd stopped. She wanted to talk after all. If he stopped now, she'd stop, too, and then -- o, what rapture!
Momentum and Newton's infernal laws of motion exploded his thought bubble. In spite of his legs filling up with cement, in spite of the whole center of his focus rotating behind him and walking off in the other direction, his body kept walking. Stop it, he told himself. The library can wait. This is more important. And yet the autopilot didn't listen.
It was too late now. Whatever thin, invisible thread had tethered them together in that brief moment of contact had snapped. There was no turning back now. Not unless he could come up with an excuse... If he had a valid reason to call back to her, it wasn't entirely beyond hope. But he had nothing. They'd been in the same class last semester, had sat next to each other, but this was a new term and he never saw her. Except for today. So he couldn't try the traditional small talk about class and the woes of homework and grades. They weren't in the same ward, so he couldn't casually mention how much he'd enjoyed that week's Sunday School lesson. Nor did they work together, so he couldn't ask when the pay period ended or whether she thought she'd get a raise. Not that he particularly wanted to talk about any of that, but it would have been something, and to a man who is dragging himself along the gritty sand of the Sahara, Francis thought to himself, even just a few drops of water taste like heaven.
And yet he couldn't get himself to say anything. None of it would be an excusable reason -- she'd see through it in an instant. But would that be so bad? A little voice inside him, one he sensed would be on his shoulder if it had a body, tsk tsked his lack of courage. It's not a lack of courage, he told the voice, watching Melody keep walking. It was a conscious decision. He didn't want to talk with her anyway. Right.
He turned and continued his walk to the library. This was a good omen, of course. She'd said hello, and she'd even used his nickname. Hadn't she been dating someone, though? Maybe they'd broken up. In fact, there had been a flirting lilt to her tone, come to think of it, with the emphasis on the "Hey." It was one of those utterances loaded with meaning, just bursting from inside. Hey, France. He said it over and over to himself, trying to remember just the way she'd said it. Hey, France.
Her angelic voice was like nectar from the gods, streaming down from Mt. Olympus in resplendent glory and grandeur. Could there be any sweeter sound? If only he'd had some kind of recorder on him -- he was sure he could listen to it hundreds or even thousands of times. But he wouldn't have been able to pull it out in time, so that was pointless. Maybe if he could get her to call him, then he wouldn't pick up, and she'd leave a message. And he'd leave it on his phone forever. But what pretext would she ever have for calling him?
Then again, maybe her "Hey" had really meant, "I want you to call me and ask me out." That was entirely possible, he thought -- a kind of "Hey, I'm here, waiting for you." What if, at this very moment, she had her phone in hand, just waiting for Francis to call?
But Francis didn't have her number. He could get it from Route Y, of course, but she would be operating on the assumption that he didn't have her number, and therefore she wouldn't be waiting for him to call. Unless she was irrational. That was also possible -- girls and their dreams of Prince Charming galloping in on a glistening white steed, sweeping them up off their feet and carrying them away to their castle on a remote mountaintop nestled in a bounteous valley (he assumed they stopped by the temple on their way to legalize and eternalize the whole thing, but that part never quite seemed to make it into the story). Silly fairy tales.
And yet Melody was like a princess. She had a noble bearing, that aristocratic neck always held aloft. And her locks! Raven-black tresses cascaded down her back like Medusa's snakes -- wait, he thought, remembering who Medusa was, not like the snakes. Like...well, like something good. Francis could easily imagine Melody locked up in some stony tower, letting her long hair fall out of the window as she wistfully brushed it, waiting for Francis to come and rescue her. It also wasn't hard to picture her wrapped in a silent sleep of enchantment, waiting for true love's kiss to waken her. Fairy tale maidens sure did seem to do a lot of waiting, he thought to himself.
But it was worth it. Or at least it was the other way round, from the prince's perspective. Not that Francis was a prince -- heck, he wasn't even a landowner -- but still, Melody would be worth any wait. Jacob's fourteen years? Child's play. Francis would wait for eternity. No, he'd wait for two eternities if he had to.
He thought back to the look she'd given him as they passed each other. Was that a twinkle he'd seen in her eyes, or was it just a stray ray of light reflecting down from the overcast sky? Come to think of it, she had been practically beaming at him when she smiled. Love. That was it. The warmth of love was emanating from her countenance, glowing and shining. She loved him. She cared for him. It was unmistakable, the way it came through -- and with her "Hey, France," well, that was solid gold.
That wasn't all, either, Francis realized as he replayed the memory over again. She'd brushed her hair back. With her left hand. If that wasn't a statement of singleness, Francis didn't know what was. She wanted him to know that she was unattached -- that she really was waiting for him to ask her out. Or even to propose. After all, why else would she be interested? It was a sure sign, he thought.
But how would he propose? He realized he didn't know all that much about Melody -- not enough to hand-tailor a betrothal just yet. But it wouldn't take that long to get to know her, at least well enough to find a good way to pop the question. Besides, her roommates could help. And her sisters. If she had sisters. He probably would wait at least a couple of weeks, so they could go on at least five or six dates together, since you really didn't want to rush into this sort of thing (fools and angels treading around and all). That would also give them time to make the invitations -- he'd have to get started on that right away (which meant he'd need to find out her parents' names pronto) -- and reserve the temple and find some place for a reception. So much to do!
And it wouldn't be long before the children would start coming into their family. Nine months for the first, then maybe a month break, and then another nine months, and so on. They'd have twelve, Francis decided, and they'd name them after the sons of Jacob. Their very own house of Israel. (If they had girls, well, he'd figure something out. Josephine would do in a pinch, as would Danielle, and Natalie wasn't all that far off from Naphtali if you mumbled a little when you said it.)
As he walked across the JFSB quad to the library, Francis hummed "Someone Like You." Melody. With a name like that, their home would be brimful with music, violins and cellos in one room, a baby grand in another, tambourines and kazoos and harmonicas in the nursery for the babies. They could start a band -- he'd learn the mandolin or the banjo -- and tour the West. Melody and the Munchkins. It was perfect.
But someday the children would grow up. His eyes misted over as he thought of empty beds and outgrown clothes. From complete trust they would veer into the omniscience of the teenage years, and just when he thought he would lose them forever, they'd uncocoon into adulthood and see the truth: that they were, in fact, becoming him. And Melody. And so the cycle of life would go on, giving them grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren, depending on how long they held on. He wondered if there was a history of heart trouble in Melody's family.
Or worse. Maybe she'd come down with something just a few months into their marriage. Something so severe, so ravaging that it left her hospitalized for the rest of her life. The thought was scarcely bearable, but Francis vowed that he would remain loyal. He had to. No matter what happened, he would be true -- after all, families were forever. He looked down at his CTR ring. Oh, wait, he'd taken it off a few weeks before, after it had turned green. But even in its absence, Francis thought back to Brother Joseph's object lesson. One eternal round. Someday they'd be together again, no matter what happened in this life. And not just him and Melody -- their posterity would gather round them, glory upon glory, joy upon joy, forever and ever.
"Hi, Francis," came an interruption, pulling Francis out of his daydreams and back into reality. "How's it going?"
It was Valentine, the golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty in his ward he'd been planning on asking out for months. His future with Melody suddenly didn't seem quite so sure...
19 Nov 2007
The scene: a picnic up the canyon in the springtime. It's the couple's second date. Oh, and the guy has brought his family along. All of them.
Guy: I love weather.
Girl: All kinds?
Guy: Yes.
Timmy (six-year-old brother): I like to shoot the weather.
Guy: Timmy's a little gun-happy.
Timmy: I'm not a gun-happy! I'm a boy!
Girl: What kind of weather do you like to shoot, Timmy?
Timmy: The breeze.
Girl (aside to guy): Did he come up with that on his own?
Guy: I think so.
Tommy (eleven-year-old brother): Are you two going to smooch? [Makes face.]
Mother: Tommy! Don't ask them questions like that.
Father: I don't see a problem with that, dear. [Turns to couple.] So, are you?
Isabelle (thirteen-year-old sister): I feel vaguely squeamish. I think I'm allergic to osculation.
Tommy: But you haven't even kissed anyone yet.
Isabelle: It's like secondhand smoke. I can feel it in the air.
Tommy: But they haven't even kissed yet. [Turns to look at them.] Have you?
Girl: [Awkward silence.]
Guy: [Awkward silence.]
Timmy: I'm going to shoot them with my bow-and-arrow.
Mother: You'll have to ignore our little Cupid.
Tommy: Please pass the artichokes.
Timmy: I want to choke somebody.
Father: Timmy, Timmy, do we have to enroll you in another anger management course?
Girl: Oh, I took one of those! They're great.
Guy: You did?
Isabelle: You're dating a serial killer?
Guy: She's not a serial killer.
Timmy: Don't kill my cereal!
Mother: She won't kill your cereal, Timmy.
Father: So, miss, why do you want to marry my son?
Girl: But I...
Guy: Dad, it's just a second date.
Father: Oh. But I brought my shotgun.
Guy: Dad, I'm your son, not your daughter.
Father: I know, son. It's not hard to tell the difference. Now, when your mother and I got married, ...
Guy: But we're not getting married. [Looks at girl.] At least I don't know yet.
Tommy: I saw you two making eyes at each other. You're two little lovebirds.
Isabelle: They can just go south for all I care.
Mother: That's not very nice, Isabelle.
Isabelle: But the PDA is gross, Mom. Gross. I can't keep my lunch in.
Guy: Izzy, you're being unreasonable. We haven't even held hands yet.
Father: You haven't held hands and you're planning to get married?
Mother: Don't rush into things, dear.
Guy: Who said anything about marriage?
Timmy: I did.
Girl: I think I might have to go soon.
Tommy: She's just trying to escape. Don't let her go, Timmy.
Timmy: A prisoner! Hooray!
Isabelle: Holding prisoners constitutes a human rights violation, Tommy.
Mother: Don't worry, my dear, you're not a prisoner.
Girl: I forgot that I have to be home by seven.
Tommy: What's at seven? Did you really forget, or are you just saying that?
Girl: It's a...a...my grandmother's in the hospital and I need to visit her.
Isabelle: Surely you can do better than that. Try again.
Girl: She slipped while disco dancing last night and popped a disc.
Tommy: The hole is getting deeper. Keep going and you'll end up in China.
Mother: Children, children, if her grandmother is in the hospital, she really ought to get back then, shouldn't she?
Father: I agree. Goodbye.
Girl: Um, I don't have a ride back.
Father: Oh. Then I guess you'll have to wait for us after all. Don't worry, even if she dies, you probably won't miss the funeral.
Mother: Dear! Don't talk like that around the children.
Isabelle: We're a family of morguophobes.
Tommy: Are you scared of dead people?
Girl: Not really. I worked in the cadaver lab for a semester.
Tommy: Cooooool. Can you take me there?
Mother: Tommy!
Tommy: Do you get to peel off their skin and pull out their brains with a hook like the Egyptians?
Girl: It's not quite the way you're imagining it, I think.
Isabelle: Tommy has an overactive, hypersensitive imagination.
Tommy: Do not!
Isabelle: Do too!
Timmy: I'm scared of dead people.
Guy: Um, I think we're going to take off now. It's getting late.
Mother: But it's only six o'clock, dear. And you forget that you drove up with us.
Guy: We'll walk.
Girl: We'll walk?
Timmy: I'll walk with you.
Isabelle: There are ants in my sandwich.
Tommy: Are they crunchy?
Isabelle: Don't be a nematode. I wouldn't know -- I'm not eating this.
Timmy: I'll eat it!
Tommy: Those are radioactive ants, Timmy. You'll turn into Antman.
Isabelle: Antwerp, more likely.
Mother: Children, please stop bickering. We want to give our future daughter-in-law a good impression.
Guy: We're not getting married.
Girl: Yes, we're not getting married.
Guy: We're not?
Isabelle: Witness a real life DTR, folks. Front row seats, right here.
Tommy: They'll kiss and make up. Just watch.
Girl: This is too much.
Mother: You can borrow my ring if you need to, son.
Guy: But it's only a second date! You can't give up on me this quickly.
Girl: I don't go over sixty.
Guy: I'm only twenty-two.
Girl: Look, can you just take me home? Please?
Guy: But I...I...
Tommy: I love you?
Timmy: Eww.
Isabelle: How...romantic.
Father: Everyone in the suburban. The game'll be on in a few minutes and I don't want to miss it.
Mother: You and your curling.
Timmy: Izzy, will you marry me?
Tommy: That's wrong in so many ways.
Isabelle: I'm flattered, Timmy, but I'm afraid my heart belongs to another.
Tommy: Look who's talking romantic.
Guy: I'm sorry about all this, but can't you give me a second chance?
Girl: My grandma needs me.
Father: And our son needs you.
Guy: Dad!
Father: What? It's true, isn't it?
Mother: Now, now, everyone buckle up. We don't want any accidents.
Isabelle: Statistics show that unbuckled passengers have a three hundred percent higher mortality rate.
Tommy: That means, Timmy, that if you don't get buckled, you're going to die.
Mother: Tommy!
Tommy: What? It's true, isn't it?
Timmy: I don't want to die.
Girl: You're not going to die, Timmy.
Timmy: If I die, will I be an angel?
Mother: Of course, dear.
Timmy: I don't want to die!
Guy: Timmy, stop it. I mean, Tommy.
Isabelle: Are you sure you want to marry into a family as dysfunctional as ours?
Girl: I'm sure that I don't.
Father: Sounds like a keeper, son.
Mother: Oh, I can't wait to plan the wedding!
Guy: [Puts head in hands.]
The end. (Thankfully.)
12 Nov 2007
[Editor's note: And now for something different. For those of you who actually read the Francis stories (all four of you), don't worry, we haven't abandoned our awkward friend -- we've just put him into cryogenic storage for the time being. We'll try a few different things over these next few weeks and see how they fly; if you particularly like or dislike something, let me know. And if/when all of these bomb, we'll go back to Francis.]
A dialogue. The scene is intermission at a cultural event on campus. And by way of a disclaimer, no, this (or anything remotely like unto it) has never happened to me. Not everything I write is autobiographical, just so you know. :)
Guy: Seeing as there's a break in the entertainment, I thought I ought to let you know that I'm completely, utterly, body-and-soul smitten.
Girl: I'm afraid I don't want to understand. In fact, I'm hoping that you mean it literally -- were you in a fight recently? -- except I feel that it's wrong of me to hope that.
Guy: I must assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affections.
Girl: Oh dear. You really were speaking metaphorically, weren't you. You're a sweet boy, really, you are, and someday you're going to make some girl a fine husband.
Guy: You could be that girl.
Girl: I could. But statistically speaking, the chances of me being that girl are frightfully small. Thinner than your average supermodel, I'd say.
Guy: Judging by your demeanor, I suspect that your interest is not exactly overflowing. Have I deduced correctly? Or am I missing the signs wherein you subtly and delicately send your affection my way?
Girl: You're missing the signs, yes, but they're not exactly subtle, and I think affection is perhaps too strong of a word. Apathy would be better.
Guy: But apathy can blossom into love!
Girl: It can also wither and die like a flower in the desert.
Guy: You have a good point. However, am I wrong in estimating that the fickleness of a woman's heart renders the whole thing more a matter of chance than the roll of a die?
Girl: I hesitate to betray my own people, but I fear that as far as probability goes, you are right.
Guy: Then let us roll a die. I brought one with me.
Girl: Did you read ahead to see that this part of our conversation was coming?
Guy: You know me too well.
Girl: More than I'd like, even. Considering the mild awkwardness of our situation, would you be horribly offended if I asked you if you have any guys you think you could set me up with?
Guy: You said the word "you" five times in that sentence. I suspect that your feigned lack of interest in me may be but a red herring. Besides, you've placed your trust in me.
Girl: Folly! I asked not because I trust your judgment, but precisely the opposite -- whatever names you give me, I will cross off my list with a big, black, felt-tip marker.
Guy: You have a list?
Girl: Confound it, I have betrayed myself. List? What list? Ah, yes, the grocery list. Fancy that, I'd completely forgotten.
Guy: You can try to change the topic, but you also forget that we've got the second act to sit through. And I may be tempted to misread the signals and hold your hand.
Girl: If you do, I may be tempted to misread the signals and slap your face.
Guy: I must admit that, having never been slapped, I am intrigued.
Girl: That is not what you're supposed to say. Besides, I fear that I am too nice to slap you.
Guy: Then you love me? With a burning fire like the furnace of a star?
Girl: Surely you speak nothing but a bunch of hot air.
Guy: I cannot live without you. You are my oxygen.
Girl: You slay me. Dare I ask where you get your pick-up lines from?
Guy: My chemistry textbook. Where else?
Girl: I had thought McDonald's. But the curtain is coming up, the lights are going down, and intermission is almost over. I feel as though this conversation has been on the rack, but now we must sit in silence, me with my lily-white hands firmly clasped together lest they lose control and clamp themselves round your neck.
Guy: You want to hug me? Embraces are among the finest gifts one can give.
Girl: I said I was too nice to slap, but that doesn't mean I'm too nice to slug.
Guy: You're just as smitten as I am, aren't you.
Girl: Over my dead body.
Guy: Till death do us part! How romantic!
The end. (Thankfully.)
6 Nov 2007
Continued from last week...
Things weren't going quite the way Francis had hoped they would. Sitting in a car he couldn't drive with weather he didn't like and a girl he didn't ask out -- it just couldn't get any worse. But then, like a frantic bumblebee far from the hive, a thought buzzed around his head, stinging him into action when it landed.
"I completely forgot!" he said, clapping his hand to his forehead and hoping this was inspiration. "I'm married!"
Stephanie looked at him with her mouth agape. "You're married?" Her look of shock quickly curled her lips into obvious disgust.
"Yes, yes, what will my wife do to me?" He pulled the key out of the ignition. "And the kids!"
Stephanie's hand was already on the door handle, slowly pulling it as she backed away.
Like a mirror reflecting Francis's internal state, the rain picked itself up and moved on to browner pastures, the clouds parted, and a ray of sunshine practically danced down to earth. "Let me at least walk you to your door," Francis said, his fingers crossed.
"No," she said. "That...that won't be necessary. I'll be" -- she swallowed loud -- "I'll be just fine. Goodbye."
And with that she vanished, not even bothering to close the door behind her.
Brilliant, Francis thought to himself. Pure genius. He'd have to use that technique again someday.
[A little shorter this week, I'm afraid. -Ed.]
29 Oct 2007
The rain had started skydiving just half an hour before Francis was supposed to pick up his date, but already it looked and sounded as if it was the first time it had rained since Noah's dove. Francis looked at his watch. Six-thirty. Maybe it would stop. But maybe it would turn to snow. Or ice. That would be bad, since he hadn't actually driven in ice since...well, ever. Not to mention he was borrowing his roommate Addison's car. What if the car spun out of control? He vaguely remembered something from driver's ed -- some strategy for dealing with that -- which was the opposite of what you'd think to do, but he couldn't remember what it was. Or even the thing it was supposed to be the opposite of. Hit the gas? Roll down your windows? Turn off the radio?
After pacing the room through twenty minutes of quicksand, Francis ran to the bathroom to finish getting ready. He poured out a dollop of cologne about the size of a quarter and rubbed it behind his ears. Then, for good measure, he patted some on his shoulders and his armpits. Except it left a stain. Bother. He turned on the cold water and splashed some on his shoulders, rubbing frantically. There was no way it would dry in time. What else could he do? It was too obvious. Too obvious... And so, to eliminate the sore thumb, he started dousing the rest of his shirt with water. Soon it was all dark, and the offending shoulder spots were invisible. Granted, his shirt was soaking, but it would dry soon enough.
Six fifty-six. Time to go. Stephanie, his date, lived in the adjacent apartment complex, so he figured he'd walk to her place and then drive over to the restaurant. And then the show. And then the doorstep...well, he'd worry about that when he came to it. More pressing matters crowded his mind at the moment. Stephanie lived on the third floor, in one of the middle apartments. He'd met her in the laundry room. (It wasn't actually the laundry room for his apartment, but he'd already met all the girls in his complex and figured he'd branch out. Besides, if anyone from her complex wanted to use the laundry room at his complex, he was fine with that.) She'd been putting her coloreds in the dryer, and Francis had been waiting for his to dry. She'd looked over at him. Definitely interested, he thought to himself. He winked. She turned red and looked away. Aha, she'd been hoping he would wink.
Well, that settled the matter. He looked at his laundry in the dryer, then gasped. Audibly. He noticed she'd looked over again. "You don't happen to have a dryer sheet, do you?" Never mind that the cycle on his clothes was ending in two minutes. She'd let him borrow a dryer sheet -- not that she wanted it back, so "gave" was probably the better word -- and he'd gotten her number and now he was walking up the stairs to her apartment. He took a deep breath.
Wires poked out of the doorbell cavity like a stray nose hair, so he knocked. After five seconds she still hadn't answered, so he knocked again. No answer. What if she'd stood him up? This was the right apartment, wasn't it? It had to be.
Then, slowly, the door opened. "Hi," Francis said to the girl behind the door. "Is Stephanie there?"
"I'm Stephanie," she said, looking at his feet. "You're Francis, right?"
What? That was impossible. This girl was definitely not the girl he'd talked to at the laundry. Or was it? He couldn't really remember what she'd looked like, come to think of it. Was her hair this blonde? Drat. He looked at the girl in front of him -- she could be Stephanie, perhaps. And if she were, he was doing a good job of looking the fool right now. He swallowed.
"Oh, ha ha, it was a rhetorical question. You know, the lights are on, but nobody's home. Is Stephanie in there? That sort of thing." She didn't say anything. "Just a joke," he rambled on. "Never mind." He swallowed again. "Ready?"
She looked back into the apartment, frowning. "Well..." And then her face lit up and with a smile she said, "Sure, let's go!" She linked her arm in his and hollered a "Toodles!" to her unseen roommates in the back. Just as the door was closing behind them, one of the roommates poked her head out from the back hallway and waved. Stephanie. The real one.
"Wait," he said. All he'd have to do was explain the misunderstanding and then everything would sort itself out. She'd understand...wouldn't she? After all, he'd talked with her on the phone. Wait. That was assuming the real Stephanie had given him her real phone number. What if she'd given him the other Stephanie's number? Did she do it on purpose? There's no way she could have mixed up her own phone number, Francis thought. But why? Unless she really didn't want to go out with him after all. His heart sank.
Pseudo-Stephanie was looking up at him with bright, beaming eyes. "Yes?"
"Never mind."
They walked down the stairs and then ran to Addison's car. Fumbling with the keys, Francis finally got the door open for Stephanie. "Let's walk," she said.
"Walk?" What on earth was she thinking? It was pouring rain. "No, no, it's fine," Francis said. "It's too far to walk."
She frowned but climbed in. As he shut the door behind her and jogged round to the other side, Francis wondered if she'd meant something else. But what else could that mean? "Let's walk." No hidden metaphors there, no subtext buried beneath the surface that he could dig up. Just...walking. How odd.
He pulled the driver's side handle up but it was locked. Stephanie reached over and fiddled with the lock. He pulled again. Still locked. He put the key in and turned it, felt it click. Stephanie was still fiddling with the lock, though, and when he pulled on the handle again, it still wouldn't open. Addison hadn't told him that the car door didn't work.
Running round to the passenger side again, he opened the door. "I guess that side doesn't work." He looked at her, then at the driver's seat. Crawling across the seat with her still in it wasn't an option. "Um, can you maybe get out?" She stared blankly at him. "So I can drive."
"Oh, sorry," she said, unbuckling and stepping out. "Go for it."
He climbed into the driver's seat, and she got back in the passenger seat and closed the door. So far so good. The key went into the ignition just fine, but when he turned it, the car made an awful grinding noise and lurched forward. He turned the key back and hit the brakes.
"Looks like it's a stick shift," Stephanie said.
Francis looked down. It was. Addison hadn't told him that, either. He'd never driven a manual before. Ever. He swallowed. In theory, it was easy enough, right? If sixteen-year-olds could do it, so could he. But this was Addison's car, and technically he wasn't on the insurance for it, and if anything happened... Besides, it would be too much like driver's ed all over again, with Stephanie as the instructor. "Maybe we should walk."
To be continued...
22 Oct 2007
All throughout class, Francis couldn't stop thinking about Lindsey. He didn't even try. Over and over he replayed everything she said, trying to see it from new angles and tap into hitherto undiscerned meaning. When she said, "It's not really safe -- you could be anyone," for example, perhaps what she really meant was, "This is on the edge of my comfort zone and I'm scared to step out of it, but you could very well be the biggest blessing in my life." It all came down to inflection. And the inner inflections, the ones you couldn't hear with your ears. But Francis could hear them. He could tell when a girl was interested in him -- that wistful, goggly-eyed look. And he could also tell when a girl wasn't, just as clearly as if she'd looked him straight in the eye and said no.
But he was crossing his fingers (and toes) that this time would be different. He knocked softly on the wood of his desk. She had to be interested in him. She just had to be. After all, he couldn't stop thinking about her -- surely she had to feel the same way. It was like Newton's fourth law or something, where any attraction was met with by an equal attraction. Like magnets. Yes, Lindsey was definitely into him. In fact, that was precisely why she had disappeared so fast, he decided. She liked him so much that she was scared she would lose him, and so she left, hoping he'd take the bait and miss her. And call her.
And so when Francis got out of class, that's what he aimed to do. He'd written her phone number on his hand, but unfortunately he'd forgotten about that when he washed his hands in the bathroom on the way out of class, and the last two numbers had come off. Gone. He thought they were a '3' and a '7,' but he couldn't tell for sure. Curses, he thought to himself. Too many possibilities. Unless...yes, StalkerNet should do the job.
Except he didn't have her last name. And there were a lot of Lindseys. Wait, he thought, he still had the rest of her phone number. All he had to do was go through and compare all the numbers till he found the one that matched.
He stopped in at the lab in the basement of the SWKT, logged in, and pulled up Route Y. A search for all the Lindseys netted him nothing; nor did the Lindsays or the Lindsies or even the Lindsees or Linzies come up with a number that matched. Maybe hers was one of the unlisted ones. Of course. She probably went straight to a kiosk after running into him and unlisted it, just to make him have to work harder to call her. Except she hadn't known he was going to wash his hands. Or at least that he was going to need to wash his hands. No, Francis thought, it wasn't a setup. And it was only two numbers that were missing; it could have been the whole thing. He'd just call each possible number at a time until he found her. There were only a few possibilities, anyway -- maybe a dozen or two at most.
As he walked home he studied his palm both up close and far away, trying to decipher the remnants of those last two numbers. Still no success. When he got back to his apartment, he headed straight for his bedroom, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. And then noticed his roommate sleeping on the bed.
"Why," Francis muttered to himself, "why are you taking a nap now of all times?" And he returned to the living room. With a mildly trembling hand he started dialing the number. Wait, he thought. He was shaking. And having trouble swallowing. How odd. It must have been something he ate.
With the first number of the batch lit up on the cell phone screen, he paused for a moment. What would he say? "Hi, is this Lindsey?" She would say yes. "Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey, I've been waiting all day to talk to you," he would reply. "Do you know that I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since we met? It's driving me crazy. Want to get some ice cream tonight?" That might work. But was it too fast? After a moment's consideration, Francis decided that it wasn't; after all, if she really was as interested in him as he sensed she was, she herself was on pins and needles all afternoon waiting for him to call her. She wouldn't be able to wait any longer than he would. In fact, she was probably impatient with him already for taking so long.
Now, the real question was ice cream or not. Would she misinterpret it and think he meant literal ice cream? That would take some explaining. Or not. But he was getting ahead of himself.
The screen had gone dark, so he hit the down key to bring it back. And hit the green send button. Dialing... It was taking too long. Two rings and she hadn't answered yet. What if she was screening her calls?
"Hello?" A gruff male voice answered.
Francis swallowed. "Um, hello, is...is Lindsey there?"
"Lindsey?" Coughing and spitting. "She's still on parole. Can't talk to you."
Francis tried to imagine his golden Lindsey in a striped jail uniform. Did she have some dark secret? Was she hiding something from him? Why hadn't she said anything? But nonsense, he thought to himself, it had to be a different Lindsey. "I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong number." And he hung up.
With the next number, the phone picked up immediately. "Is that you, Mack?" came a frazzled female voice on the other end, with a chorus of babies crying in the background. Without waiting for an answer, she continued. "Where have you been? Cyrus has been crying all day and Sophia just threw up all over the kitchen and you forgot to pay the rent and I'm just about at my wit's end and I can't handle this, Mack, it's just too much. You're always there, always away, safe and sound while I have to deal with everything. Breadwinning my foot. I need you to come home, switch places with me for a day, see what it's like. Then maybe you'd understand. But you don't. You don't understand me, you don't even listen to me. Can you even hear me? This is the last straw, Mack. I'm leaving." And she paused with finality.
"Um..." Francis didn't know what to say. So he hung up and gulped. He hurriedly typed in the next number so that Frenzied Housewife would get a busy signal if she called back. Dialing... He took a breath. Wait a second, instead of showing the number on his screen, it was showing a name. That was weird.
"Hey, Francis, this is Antonio," came a rather familiar voice. Egads. His elders quorum president. "What can I do for you?"
Francis swallowed again. What were the chances? He could tell Antonio about Lindsey, but...no, that wouldn't get him anywhere. "I...I have the wrong number."
"The wrong number? C'mon, man, what's up?"
"Never mind. I'll...I'll call you back later. Okay?"
"Sure thing," Antonio said. "Any time."
He hung up and tried the next number. This wasn't working as well as he'd planned. How many more would he have to go through?
"Hello?" Wait! That sounded like her!
"Hi, is this Lindsey?" he asked.
A pause. "Um...who's this?"
"This is Francis," he replied, "from this afternoon."
Another pause. Then a male voice, older, came on. "This is Lindsey's father."
Francis gulped. "Hello...how are you? My name is Francis."
"Do you really love my daughter?"
Was that a trick question? This was almost like one of those stories, Francis thought, where you had to answer three questions to win the hand of the princess. If he answered yes... Well, that seemed to be the right answer, but what if it wasn't? What if the only way to win her hand was to pretend that he didn't love her? That's often how girls worked, after all -- the only way to get their interest was to be uninterested. They wanted what they couldn't have, and as soon as a previously unattainable male catch expressed a smidgen of interest, they flipped a 180 and became utterly bored.
But what if it wasn't a trick question? Saying no would be worse than sticking his head under the guillotine. And saying yes would prove to her father that Francis was indeed a valiant knight, one worthy of his fair maiden of a daughter. Or at least he felt like a knight when he thought about answering the Sphinx's...er, her father's questions. He wondered what the second and third questions would be...
As soon as he opened his mouth, the words just came to him. "More than life itself."
"Good answer," said Lindsey's father. "How much do you make?"
Another trick question, likely. If she came from a poor family, then they'd want him to make lots of money to raise her out of poverty. But then again maybe they didn't want someone rich -- maybe they wanted a fellow laborer, someone who wouldn't split the family across classes. If her parents were rich, on the other hand, they'd probably demand that she marry someone who could carry on the family money. But what if they were the type of rich who wanted their children to earn their keep themselves? In that case it would be more of an advantage were he to be poor.
Too many choices. "Money," he said slowly, "means nothing to me compared to your daughter. She is worth as much as all the diamonds in the Congo."
A pause. He heard a muffled, "Honey, are there diamonds in the Congo?"
Then there was a quick scraping sound and a female voice got on the line. But this wasn't Lindsey. "You're Francis, is that what you said? I just thought you ought to know that Lindsey was dating this one boy last year, for two weeks, was it? And he was a gem. Absolutely a gem. But they broke up and I'm afraid she might still be on the rebound. Are you sure about this? She's a great girl and all, but it might be too soon. But she really is a prize. If you're not interested in her, though, we have another daughter, the oldest. She's only thirty-two and she still looks like she's nineteen. Would you like to meet her?"
"Mom!" came Lindsey's voice. "Stop it! Francis, are you still there?" It sounded like she had control of the phone again.
Francis nodded. "Yes, I am."
"Sorry about that."
"My pleasure," Francis replied. "How was your afternoon?"
"Pretty good," she said.
He smiled. "Glad to hear it. Before we, you know, start all of this, I need to know something. Is your heart taken?"
"My what?"
"Your heart. Are you...betrothed?"
Lindsey snorted. "Betrothed? Like, engaged?"
"Not exactly," Francis said. "I mean, are you dating anyone? Do I have any competition?"
A long pause. "Francis...I don't really even know you."
"Precisely!" he exclaimed. "We can fix that really quickly. Do you want to get some ice cream tonight?"
"I...I'm...I forgot, I am dating someone. We just started dating. Pretty serious already, even. No, I can't. I'm sorry."
Serious already? She was his type of girl, Francis determined. Once she saw how devoted he was, how pure his love was, she'd forget about this other guy in an instant. All he had to do was get her to go on the date with him.
Click.
"Lindsey?" Nothing. "Lindsey?" Maybe she'd lost reception. Maybe the battery on her cell phone had run out. Maybe her parents had confiscated her phone.
Maybe she wasn't interested.
He sighed and closed his phone.
14 Oct 2007
Fall semester, one week after classes have started. Francis was walking from Physical Science 100 in the MARB over to his HEPE class, which for some reason was in the Talmage Building. He never did understand what exercise had to do with math, but he didn't have any other classes in the Talmage, and he certainly didn't mind the black-haired beauty who came out of some multivariable calculus class each day just as he walked in. At least he assumed it was multivariable calculus -- after all, there was a long snaky integral sign, and he distinctly counted x, y, z, and even a p and a q up there on the board. More than one variable -- he had to be right. He made a mental note to read up on the subject, so he could make some dashingly witty comment as Black Beauty passed by the next time. Maybe something like, "Hello there, beautiful, you're the unknown variable in my life, and I'm dying to solve the equation." That would stop her dead in her tracks for sure. Maybe she'd even swoon. Francis had never seen a girl actually swoon, but it happened all the time in movies and books. If she did, he'd catch her and pull a handkerchief out -- he'd have to go buy one from the bookstore, he noted -- to fan her face and revive her. Maybe she'd even need CPR...
But Francis's attention was suddenly distracted as he looked up from his reverie and, off to the side, saw long, golden curls swaying in the breeze. And attached to the curls was the most drop-dead gorgeous girl he'd ever seen. She sat on one of the concrete circles scattered throughout the JFSB quad, apparently reading her textbook. Studying never looked so good. Francis's watch beeped. Already late for class. Was it even worth it, sliding into class five minutes late? Heck, after five minutes you've missed the most important part of the lecture anyway, he thought, so you may as well just not go.
Such were the thoughts milling around in Francis's head as he stared at the golden student. And such were the thoughts that popped out of existence when he stumbled into one of those concrete circles and utterly biffed it. His backpack strap broke and books flew out. He himself was splayed on the ground -- not hurt as far as he could tell, but as he groaned and rolled over just far enough to reorient himself to the object of his attention, his heartrate quickened. She was walking toward him. He groaned again, this time a bit louder for good measure.
"Are you okay?" The girl knelt beside him, put her hand on his shoulder. "Anything broken?"
Francis managed a weak smile, enough to get his sense of humor across, but not so much that she'd think he was fine and move on. He was an injured man. And as injured men are wont to do, he savored her words for a few moments before replying. "Just my heart."
She laughed. "Come on, up you go." And he sat up. She was already picking up his books, gently returning them to the backpack. Good sign, he thought. An organized woman -- ideal for the kitchen. She probably had matching silverware at her apartment. Dedicated tablecloths. Heck, she probably even had cloth napkins with designs she'd embroidered herself. Yes, Francis determined, she was certainly his type.
"You're like Joan of Arc," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder and doing his best to produce those puppy-dog eyes his mom had always said he had.
One of her eyebrows went up. "Joan of Arc?"
He solemnly nodded. "Yes, Joan. One of the best nurses in history. Just looking into your eyes is enough to make me feel whole again, like I've tasted Olympian nectar from the gods."
"Joan of Arc? Don't you mean Florence Nightingale?"
"Her, too," said Francis. "They're all the same. Wonderful women, savioresses on mount Zion."
She frowned and stood up. "I...I don't know what history class you took, but I don't think Joan of Arc really falls into the same category as Florence Nightingale. Try Mother Teresa instead."
"Mother Teresa! I want to name my first daughter after her." This wasn't going quite the way Francis had planned, but it didn't seem unsalvageable. Not yet, at least. He was playing all his cards as fast as he could think them up and put them down. This one -- admiration for a well-respected female figure -- was sure to snag him some bonus points.
She frowned again and gave him a quizzical look. "Sorry, I've got to run," she said, turning around. Over her shoulder she added, "Hope you're feeling okay."
Francis jumped to his feet -- perhaps a little too fast for having just suffered a potentially life-changing injury, but then again she wasn't watching -- and jogged -- no, limped -- over to where she was picking up her things. "I don't even know your name."
"My name?" she said. Then sighed. Then frowned again. With a shake of her head, she said, "My name...my name's Lindsey."
Francis grinned. "Lindsey."
"Let me guess," she said. "You're going to name your second daughter after me."
"That's actually a really good idea." She's definitely interested, he thought to himself. Saving a man will do that to a girl. No wonder so many nurses fall in love with their patients. Made you curious as to which malady had the highest success rate -- dengue? Typhoid fever? Japanese encephalitis? Amputees would surely get a lot of pity, right? He'd have to look into it. But at the moment he had other business to attend to. "My name's Francis."
Lindsey nodded. "Nice to meet you, Francis. And I really need to go now." She started walking off toward the Wilkinson Center.
"Wait! Lindsey." She stopped. Francis pulled out his cell phone. "I, um, I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?"
Her jaw dropped, just a little. She blinked. "Did you really just ask me that?"
He grinned his most suave grin, the one destined to pluck out a love ballad on the heartstrings of whichever girl was on the receiving end. There was no way she could resist it.
"I don't really know you," Lindsey said. "I mean, it's not really safe. You could be anyone."
True, but he wasn't anyone, he was Francis. "Anyone? Look, I'm an Eagle Scout. An RM. I was elders quorum president last year. Heck, here's my temple recommend."
"No, no, that's not what I mean. I just...well...okay." And like a charm she recited the number. Non-801 area code -- out-of-stater. He liked out-of-staters. It was always kind of awkward when a girl was from Provo and Orem and still lived with her parents, because that meant facing the shotgun. And doorstep scenes? Not a chance, not with the girl's little brothers poking their noses out from behind the living room blinds. The girls from far away didn't have any nosy little brothers around. Nosy roommates, true, but they were easier to deal with -- after all, flirting didn't work on kid brothers. Not that he'd tried it, of course. Anything like that would get a BB in his cheek.
By now Lindsey had already disappeared. Francis thought about calling her right then, just to make sure he had the right number, but on second thought he decided to go to class after all. Lindsey. What a name. And what a girl! Visions of their first date -- and the second, and the third, and the proposal, and their fourth child, and retirement, and finally placing his hand on his dear Lindsey's cold cheek at the viewing some sixty years hence -- swirled through his mind. They'd date for a week or two, three at most, before he'd whip out the ring he'd bought on sale the month before. The one Amanda rejected so heartlessly. But this time it would be different -- he could smell it in the wind. As he crossed the rest of the quad and stepped into the Talmage Building, his thoughts turned to his calendar for the week. He'd call her that night, of course, and ask her out. Maybe to lunch. Maybe bowling, or a movie, or even just a long walk past the botany pond. Free and romantic. That was where he'd kissed Hannah, come to think of it, at the end of winter semester. She was already married. Probably already expecting, too.
The classroom was empty. He looked at the clock. 2:06. That was odd.
Poking his head out into the hallway, he asked one of the guys sitting against the wall if he'd seen the class leave. Maybe there was a field trip or something.
"Huh?" The guy pulled some white earbuds out. "Sorry, what was that?"
"Did they go somewhere?" Francis asked, pointing at the classroom.
The guy shook his head. "Nobody's been in there since I got here an hour ago."
Very odd. Was class canceled? He wouldn't mind that at all. Unless... Wait. "It's Wednesday, right?"
"Dude, it's Thursday."
Uh-oh. Francis's stomach sank.
1 Oct 2007
The clock seemed to have stopped. Class had been going on for an hour and a half already -- it was spring term, which meant stretching time out like hot taffy -- and Francis was having a hard time concentrating on the lecture. Something about the Rutherford model. And plum pudding. He'd thought taking Physical Science 100 during the spring would be a good idea, but he didn't find it very interesting, try as he might.
What he did find interesting, without even trying, was the long, wavy hair and deep blue eyes of the brunette two rows back. Her name was Violet -- he'd overheard her introduce herself to the girl next to her the week before -- but he hadn't yet worked up the courage to talk with her. Soon, he told himself. He just had to wait for the right window of opportunity. It might even open up today.
This particular day wasn't just any day, in fact. Pink and red paper chains were strewn about the room, and hearts of all shades of red were taped up on every available surface, including the ceiling. While Francis didn't particularly mind pink and red and purple, there was such a thing as too much.
He began doodling in the margins of his notebook, tracing out a heart. Violet floated through his thoughts again. He couldn't stop thinking about her, actually. Over and over he imagined what he'd say to her, how she'd respond, and how he's say something dazzlingly witty with a charming smile to boot. He just had to time things right so he would end up next to Violet as they both walked out of class. Simple, really.
In the middle of his scheming, the pink ambience worked its magic and planted the seed of an idea in Francis's head. He carefully tore a blank piece of paper out of his notebook and folded it in quarters. On the front he drew a big heart and, inside it, wrote "Violet" in the best cursive he could manage. Then he poured out his heart.
Two minutes later he finished writing the note and signed it. Fighting the swarm of butterflies which took flight in his stomach, he casually turned around and dropped the note on the desk of the girl behind him. "For Violet," he whispered with a nod in Violet's direction, then turned back and tried to look absorbed in the lecture.
It was hard. The remaining twenty minutes of class were even longer than the first forty. Francis kept glancing at the clock, thinking several minutes had passed, only to find that the second hand hadn't even made a complete revolution yet. He thought about Violet's reaction. She had to have read the note already. Would she send one back? Nothing. Little beads of sweat began to form on his palms.
Then, miraculously, in a moment melted out of a frozen hour, the bell rang. Francis clumsily stashed his notebook in his backpack and abruptly got to his feet. "Calm, Francis, calm," he said to himself. It didn't work. He turned around, as casually as he could, trying to look as if he weren't in the least interested in Violet's reaction.
Violet had already disappeared. But the girl next to her was smiling at Francis, holding what was unmistakably Violet's note.
"Where's Violet?" he stammered, mind swirling.
"I am Violet," she said, smiling wider. "Francis...dear." And she blushed.
Francis swallowed hard. "But...but you're not the right Violet. It was for the other Violet, the one there," and he pointed at the empty seat formerly occupied by the brunette.
"Jessica?" Her eyebrows lifted as her lip began to tremble.
No. It couldn't be. "Her name is Jessica?"
"Does that mean all this nice stuff you wrote about me isn't true?"
Francis sighed.
24 Sep 2007
Francis took a deep breath and dropped to his knee. With trembling hands he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny velvet box. His trembling hands trembled so much that he dropped the box, watching with wide eyes as it sprung open and the ring inside popped out and rolled next to Amanda's foot. He grabbed it and swallowed, then looked up.
"Amanda..." Another swallow. Her eyebrows were raised, and the corners of her mouth kept twitching back and forth. "Amanda, will you marry me?"
He held out the ring.
"I can't believe this," Amanda said. "You're PROPOSING?"
Francis swallowed again. "Yes. I love you passionately."
A giggle burst from her, followed by a chortle and then a full-fledged laugh, decorated with snorts for good measure. "Are you serious? This is our SECOND date, Francis. We've only known each other for what, a week?"
"Sometimes you just know," he replied. "Ever since I first saw you--"
"Whoa, stop, stop. Don't -- don't tell me." She rolled her eyes. "Just wait till the roommates hear about THIS. Goodness."
Gaining courage, Francis stood up. "So, I guess that's settled, then. How about August?"
"Excuse me?"
"For the wedding," he said. "I figure a three-month engagement is long enough. We could do it in July if you don't want to wait."
Amanda shook her head. "Hold on a minute here. You think I just said yes? Who ARE you? No, Francis. You're a nice guy, but I can't marry you."
And with that, a singularly odd thing happened. She buzzed. Not her phone, but HER. Francis blinked. Yes, the sound had definitely come from her throat. It disappeared, then started up again, lasting a couple of seconds with each pulse, sounding remarkably like a cell phone. Almost as soon as it began, Amanda fumbled around in her purse and triumphantly pulled out a pink-shelled phone. "Sorry," she said to him, then flipped it open. "Hello? Hey, Steph, I'm good, how are you? Good. Oh? What time? Right now? Sure, let me--"
And then her phone buzzed for real. She yelped and almost dropped it, then turned crimson.
* * *
"So what happened after that?" Francis's roommate Addison sat cross-legged on his bed, chin resting on arm, arm resting on knee.
Francis lay flat on his back on the other bed. "Not much. She thanked me, shook my hand, and left."
"Wow," said Addison. "Man, that's crazy! Proposing on the second date. Dang, you've got some guts."
"Thanks."
"Don't take it too hard, okay? Some girls need time."
"You're probably right," said Francis, rubbing his eyes. "Besides, it's her loss. Right?"
Addison's attention was instantly captivated by a wrinkle on the knuckle of his index finger. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, yeah."
"Anyway," Francis said, "there are plenty of other girls out there. But I need to hurry. I'm getting old."
"Old? If you're old, what am I? Come on, France, you're only twenty-two. Give it some time."
Francis shook his head. "Marriage is a COMMANDMENT, Addison. It's the next step. I've got to do all I can to make that step, to start keeping that commandment. There's no time to lose."
"Whatever."
* * *
The following Monday, Francis was standing in line at the Teriyaki Stix in the Cougareat. After ordering a bowl of fried rice, he sauntered over to the "watering hole," filled his foam cup with water, then casually glanced around the cafeteria as if looking for a friend.
Two seconds later, he spotted a beautiful redhead sitting alone at a table. Yes, he thought, she was the one. Weaving his way through the tables, he looked left and right as if searching for a good table. And then he was at hers.
"Mind if I sit here?" he asked.
She looked up from her salad and newspaper, then looked around at all the empty tables. "I guess so. I mean, no, I don't mind." And she went back to her salad.
He sat down and began to pick at his rice. "My name's Francis. What's yours?"
"Meredith." She didn't look up.
"That's a nice name. Are you single?"
She choked. Then, gulping down some water, she said, "No," with cheeks ablaze. "No, I'm not."
"Oh," said Francis, and it was his turn to turn red. "Maybe I should find another table."
* * *
Back at the apartment later that night, Addison guffawed as Francis related his Cougareat encounter. "Meredith? She had red hair, right?"
"Yeah," said Francis.
"Man, she got you good. She's not married."
"What? Do you know her?"
Addison nodded. "She was in my ward last year. I ran into her on Saturday in the library, in fact. She's not even dating anyone."
"Oh," said Francis, turning slightly red again. "That's...that's not cool."
* * *
On Wednesday, Francis was back in the Cougareat, this time with a Subway sandwich on his tray. As he filled his cup, he looked over against the wall. There she was again.
He made his way to her table and sat down.
Looking up from her salad and newspaper, Meredith almost choked again. Suddenly the article she was reading became absolutely mesmerizing.
"You're not really married," Francis said.
She blushed. "Excuse me?"
With confidence rising, he leaned forward. "You ARE single!"
"Where did you get that idea?" Meredith asked. "See my ring?" She waved her left hand. Yes, there was definitely a ring, with an unmistakable diamond.
"But Addison said..."
She frowned. "Who's Addison?"
"My roommate," said Francis. "He said he was in your ward last year. You ran into him in the library on Saturday, remember?"
"I've been married for two years, and I don't know any Addison."
"Oh," said Francis.
* * *
"You were wrong," Francis said to Addison as they sat on their beds back in the apartment. "Wrong Meredith."
Addison coughed. "Um, actually, I made that all up."
"You WHAT?"
"There wasn't any Meredith in my ward last year. In fact, I've never met a single Meredith in my life, come to think of it. Funny, huh."
Francis swallowed. "Yeah, real funny."
