be catching. Now there was one in my house.
Shannon surveyed me with frank disappointment, taking in my
baggy flannel coat and oversized men’s jeans. “How old are you?” she
said.
“I’m a freshman,” I said. I didn’t want to admit I was only seventeen,
and that I should be in high school, finishing my junior year.
Shannon moved to the sink and I saw the word “Juicy” written
across her rear. That was more than I could take. I backed away toward
my room, mumbling that I was going to bed.
“Good call,” she said. “Church is early. I’m usually late.”
“You go to church?”
“Sure,” she said. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I do. But you, you really go?”
She stared at me, chewing her lip, then said, “Church is at eight.
Good night!”
My mind was spinning as I shut my bedroom door. How could she
be a Mormon?
Dad said there were gentiles everywhere—that most Mormons were
gentiles, they just didn’t know it. I thought about Shannon’s tank and
pajamas, and suddenly realized that probably everyone at BYU was a
gentile.
My other roommate arrived the next day. Her name was Mary and
she was a junior studying early childhood education. She dressed like I
expected a Mormon to dress on Sunday, in a floral skirt that reached to
the floor. Her clothes were a kind of shibboleth to me; they signaled
that she was not a gentile, and for a few hours I felt less alone.
Until that evening. Mary stood suddenly from the sofa and said,
“Classes start tomorrow. Time to stock up on groceries.” She left and
returned an hour later with two paper bags. Shopping was forbidden
on the Sabbath—I’d never purchased so much as a stick of gum on a
Sunday—but Mary casually unpacked eggs, milk and pasta without
acknowledging that every item she was placing in our communal fridge
was a violation of the Lord’s Commandments. When she withdrew a
can of Diet Coke, which my father said was a violation of the Lord’s
counsel for health, I again fled to my room.