I BELIEVED THAT HUNDRED dollars was a sign from God. I was supposed
to stay in school. I drove back to BYU and paid my rent. Then, because
I knew I wouldn’t be able to pay it in February, I took a second job as a
domestic cleaner, driving twenty minutes north three days a week to
scrub expensive homes in Draper.
The bishop and I were still meeting every Sunday. Robin had told
him that I hadn’t bought my textbooks for the semester. “This is
ridiculous,” he said. “Apply for the grant! You’re poor! That’s why these
grants exist!”
My opposition was beyond rational, it was visceral.
“I make a lot of money,” the bishop said. “I pay a lot of taxes. Just
think of it as my money.” He had printed out the application forms,
which he gave to me. “Think about it. You need to learn to accept help,
even from the Government.”
I took the forms. Robin filled them out. I refused to send them.
“Just get the paperwork together,” she said. “See how it feels.”
I needed my parents’ tax returns. I wasn’t even sure my parents filed
taxes, but if they did, I knew Dad wouldn’t give them to me if he knew
why I wanted them. I thought up a dozen fake reasons for why I might
need them, but none were believable. I pictured the returns sitting in
the large gray filing cabinet in the kitchen. Then I decided to steal
them.
I left for Idaho just before midnight, hoping I would arrive at around
three in the morning and the house would be quiet. When I reached
the peak, I crept up the driveway, wincing each time a bit of gravel
snapped beneath my tires. I eased the car door open noiselessly, then
padded across the grass and slipped through the back door, moving
silently through the house, reaching my hand out to feel my way to the
filing cabinet.
I had only made it a few steps when I heard a familiar clink.
“Don’t shoot!” I shouted. “It’s me!”
“Who?”
I flipped the light switch and saw Shawn sitting across the room,
pointing a pistol at me. He lowered it. “I thought you were...someone
else.”