Losing My Religion Read online

  LOSING

  MY

  RELIGION

  A.S. TUCKER

  Copyright © 2017 by A.S. Tucker

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: Concierge Literary Designs

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1548772345

  For anyone who’s ever been made to feel inferior just because they’re a little different. You are beautiful.

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  Jaden

  Our living room smells like a high school locker room. You know the smell I’m talking about. That oniony stink teen boys get when it’s been too long since they’ve showered, and they still haven’t quite discovered the magic of deodorant.

  It’s a smell I’m all-too familiar with, my high school career having only come to an end this past year. It’s going to take a lot longer than ten months to wipe the horrors I saw and smelled in the boys’ locker room out of my brain.

  Even as I sit on the bar stool in the center of the room, visions of Roosevelt High come flashing to my mind, and I half-expect to see Jeff come strolling through the door, twisted wet towel in hand, just waiting for the perfect moment to snap it against an unsuspecting victim’s bare ass.

  Butt. I mean, butt.

  Cussing was never allowed when I was growing up. But, now that this has arrived, I need to be more diligent about watching my language.

  Because cussing will not be tolerated where I’m going.

  I look down at the white envelope in my hands, my fingers trembling ever-so slightly, as I read over my name and address printed on the front.

  Elder Jaden Barker.

  Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Perfect missionary name. Exactly like my parents envisioned.

  Flipping the envelope over, I gently finger the flap, watching the pristine paper slide against my skin. How ironic would it be if the one thing that’s supposed to be the biggest blessing in my life thus far sliced through my flesh, red drops of blood seeping through my pores and marring the lily-white paper beneath?

  Wouldn’t be the first time the church cut you, a familiar voice in the back of my mind utters.

  Yes, but they’ve always been there to stitch you back up. You just need to have faith, his ever-present counterpart retorts.

  I know what you’re thinking. This dude is crazy. I’m not. I don’t actually hear voices. They’re only little versions of my subconscious—punks who like to rear up and cause problems in my life at the most inopportune times. Ever since I turned in my mission papers, they seem to have taken permanent residence in my head—like those old cartoons I used to watch, the ones with an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. The church would refer to them as the Holy Ghost and Satan.

  Or, as I like to call them, Jiminy and Jafar. Growing up, I had a thing for Disney.

  Shrugging off their unwelcome intrusion, I turn my attention back to the task at hand, the all-too-familiar pang of nervousness welling deep within my gut. My stomach has been in knots all afternoon.

  My family has been expecting this any day now. As soon as I pulled it out of the mailbox and saw the distinct logo in the top-left corner, I was tempted to rip into it right there, near the gutter, needing the torment of where I’d be spending the next two years of my life to end.

  My mother, of course, had different plans. The moment she realized I’d received it, she plucked it from my fingers, whisking it away into the kitchen and telling me we had to wait for my father to get home from work. Then, like the good little housewife she is, she set about making a scrumptious chicken noodle soup. My grandmother’s recipe and her mother’s before that. Also, my favorite meal on the planet.

  That brings us to the reason I’m now sitting on a kitchen stool in the middle of the living room with three smiling faces shining back at me from the sofa, the normally delicious smell of the soup now making me nauseous and forcing me to think of sweaty teenagers.

  I’ve been preparing for this day for as long as I can remember. Since I was just a kid, I knew my life was leading to this very moment. And, after years of singing songs in primary and learning lesson after lesson in priesthood meetings, it’s finally here.

  I’m going to be a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

  I’m ready for this.

  I’ve been groomed for this.

  I’m going to share the truth with the people of wherever this letter sends me.

  My fingers tremble as I tear into the envelope, my family sitting across from me on the edge of the couch. My mother’s hand flies to her mouth as she watches the stark white paper slide from its temporary shelter. I know, within a week, it will be framed and hanging proudly in the hallway, right next to my brother, Taylor’s, mission call.

  “Dear Brother Barker,” I read aloud, my voice shaky as my heart hammers against my chest.

  My dad leans forward, wringing his hands in anticipation, while my mother leans her face into his shoulder as she stifles a sob. To an outsider, it might appear my parents are nervous, as if the thought of sending their nineteen-year-old son out into the world with minimal contact for two years were a terrifying idea they weren’t entirely on board with.

  Unfortunately, that isn’t the case at all. My parents are waiting with bated breath, their anticipation for me to leave eclipsed only by the joy they feel about me going in the first place. Not because they don’t love me, but because doing the Lord’s work is far more important.

  “You are hereby called to serve as a missionary at…” My words trail off, my eyes scanning the page until the bold words leap out at me. “California Los Angeles Mission.”

  I must have said the words aloud because, within seconds I’m enveloped in my mother’s arms. My dad moves to join her, his broad arms circling the two of us as he whispers how happy he is for me. My little sister, Jenny, clears her throat behind me, and my mother swings her arm wide to pull her into the hug with us.

  “I’m so, so proud of you, Jaden. You’re going to receive so many blessings because of this. And you’ll bless so many people in retu
rn,” my mother says as she squeezes me tight.

  Her arms drop suddenly, and she pulls away from me, her eyes shining, as she says, “I need to go call Taylor. He was so sad he couldn’t be here today. Poor little Maddy has another ear infection, and they didn’t want to ruin your special day with a crying infant. But he made me promise to call as soon as we knew where you were going. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few phone calls to make.”

  She practically dances out of the room, my dad close on her heels as he reminds her of a few other people who need to hear the good news.

  Left alone with only my little sister, I glance down at Jenny, her ten-year-old face beaming up at me.

  “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go on a mission! Are you excited?” Her squeaky voice breaks on the last word.

  I smile at her, nodding my head in the most self-assured way I can manage.

  This should be the most exciting day of my life. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, and every detail of this day has gone exactly according to plan. My mom’s happy tears, my dad’s joyous words. Heck, I don’t even have to learn another language at the training center. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

  So, why does it feel like I’m living a lie?

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  Jaden

  My head bobs on my neck as I fight to stay awake. It’s the Fast and Testimony meeting in sacrament today, and if I have to hear one more kid say they’d like to bury their testimony, I’m going to scream. The term is bear, kiddies. You’d like to bear your testimony. Saying you’d like to bury your testimony makes it sound like it’s something you want to hide. Like a secret. Or a dead body.

  I snicker to myself, imagining these kids out there, in their sandboxes with their plastic shovels, digging holes and shouting the words, I’d like to bury my testimony. I know this church is true, into the darkness, quickly packing the sand over it so that it’s unable to escape.

  If only these kids knew what the leaders of the church would say if they did in fact try to bury their testimonies.

  I bite back the bitter thought, straightening myself on the pew, and I focus my attention on the little blonde girl at the podium in an attempt to get into the right frame of mind for the sacrament meeting. I watch as her mom stands behind her, whispering the words for the little girl to say next into the microphone.

  I have to fight to keep from rolling my eyes. What she should say is, she’d like to bear her mommy’s testimony. She looks like she’s about four years old. Nowhere near old enough to make up her own mind, for Pete’s sake.

  Well then, I guess perking up and paying attention didn’t help purge my inappropriate attitude. I bow my head, running my hands over my newly trimmed hair. What the heck is my deal? It wasn’t too long ago when I was that kid up there, on the stand, grinning back at my mom as she coached me on what to say.

  It’s just nerves; that’s all. I’m sure everyone gets like this before they leave for their mission. It is sort of scary if you think about it. I’m going to be leaving my family and friends for two years, only able to email once a week and call home on Christmas and Mother’s Day. It’s totally normal for me to be nervous, right?

  I think back to my friend Parker’s farewell last month. He sure didn’t seem nervous as he smiled and shook hands with person after person, his mother and father by his side, their pride beaming from their friendly white smiles. Parker grinned at me when I approached, his grip on my hand firm as I placed mine in his. He had that missionary handshake down pat.

  “This is going to be you soon, man. Before you know it, you’ll be the one up there at the podium, giving your farewell speech. It’s almost your turn to do the Lord’s work.”

  His warmth and excitement was palpable, and I found myself smiling back at him, even through my trepidation.

  If Parker could do this, so can I. I just need a little more time to adjust. This is what I was born to do.

  Thoughts from that day give me a sense of peace as I remember them. Parker had already received his farewell blessing when I saw him, which had to have helped stifle any nervousness he might have been feeling. I’m sure, once I have those final meetings and get set apart, these feelings of discontent will disappear.

  Just like they did after you met with the bishop last fall? Jafar is back in action.

  And, before Jiminy can fire back, I lose myself in the memories of that awful day.

  All day long, I’d been pacing in my room, turning over what I’d say. I’d expressed concern over the church’s latest proclamation during priesthood meeting on Sunday, and because of this, I’d been called in for a meeting with the bishop that evening. I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Any sort of questioning of the leadership of the church never resulted in anything good.

  My hands were red and raw from rubbing them over and over. Yet, still, I couldn’t stop as I strode back and forth for what must’ve been the ten thousandth time.

  My father’s voice sounded from the hallway, his knock soft on my closed door. I didn’t even have a chance to invite him in before his face appeared in the crack between it and the wall.

  “You okay, J?” he asked, his voice deep, his worry evident.

  My dad and I had always been close. For as long as I could remember, there was nothing I couldn’t go to him with. There wasn’t anything I’d ever been afraid to tell him.

  Until today.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed, tucking my hands under my legs, as if preparing to launch myself off at a moment’s notice. My dad stepped inside, settling himself next to me, his large hand resting on my shoulder, the weight of his touch reassuring.

  “What’s up, son? Your mother says you’ve been up here, wearing a track in the carpet all afternoon. I barely set down my jacket before she was asking me to come check on you.”

  I loved my mother. And I knew she loved me, too. But I’d always felt like I was a sort of…disappointment to her. She’d never come right out and said it. But I’d never felt like I quite measured up to Taylor. He was the son she’d always wanted. And me? I’d always been second best.

  So, it wasn’t surprising that, even though she’d been worried about me downstairs, she’d waited for my father to get home and have him come check on me. If it were Taylor, she’d have been up here at the sound of the first troubled step.

  But I couldn’t be too upset with her at having the foresight to send Dad. As close as Taylor and Mom were, he’d never had the relationship with our father that I had. Taylor was a mama’s boy through and through. And I was totally a daddy’s…well, not girl, obviously.

  Why wasn’t there a term for a guy who’s close to his father? Because men weren’t supposed to be emotional with each other? What kind of crap was that?

  Dad dropped his hand from my shoulder, nudging me with his elbow as he leaned toward me. “Come on now. Tell me what’s up, bud.”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. Just nervous about my meeting with the bishop.”

  My dad wasn’t in priesthood meeting last Sunday, as he he’d been covering for Brother Stevens in the library while he was sick, so he’d missed my line of questioning. And, while I was sure he’d catch wind of it soon, thus far, he seemed to be in the dark about my blunder, and I’d been able to steer clear of the questions I’d posed. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

  So, instead, I smiled, every bit of the stress I felt coming to light on my face, and hoped this would work in my favor. “I’m not sure what sort of questions he’s going to ask me, you know?”

  After the first counselor called and set up my meeting with the bishop, I’d told my parents he’d asked me to come to discuss the upcoming filing of my mission papers. It wasn’t uncommon. In fact, it was standard for the bishop to interview a young man before his papers were submitted. Missionaries were held to the highest standard. And the presidency needed to ensure we’d been adhering to it before things progressed too far.

  In each ward of the church
, there was a bishop and two counselors, all of whom served under a stake president. The stake presidents in turn served under the apostles, first presidency, and the prophet. While there were many bishops, counselors, and stake presidents, there were only twelve apostles, three of whom were in the first presidency, which also included the one true prophet of God. If a bishop had reason to believe something might be…off with one of his members, then it went up the chain of command until it got resolved. If the first presidency couldn’t resolve it, it generally ended with the member being excommunicated.

  On hearing my trepidation at what he thought was anxiety about filing, my father gave me a soft smile, his mouth a slight curve across his face, his teeth hidden behind his closed lips. “Nothing to be scared about, J. He’s not going to ask anything you don’t already know the answer to. You just go in there and show him what a strong testimony you have. Show him the light your mother and I have raised you with. And know that the Holy Ghost is always with you. If you ever stumble for an answer, just listen. Listen for that still, small voice. He’ll help guide you.”

  I nodded, my eyes focused on an old stain on the carpet near the corner of my room. I’d spilled chocolate milk there years ago, and instead of telling my parents so that they could help me clean it up, I’d covered it with a stuffed teddy bear and let it sit for days. My mother finally came in to search for the smell that had permeated the entire top floor of the house. They were able to get rid of the smell, but it was too late for the carpet. The stain had been there ever since.

  My dad clapped me on the back before standing. “Tell you what. Why don’t you take the next couple of hours to pray? Ask the Lord for help and guidance. Then, I’ll give you a ride to the church. And, after your meeting, we can go grab some dinner at B Dubs. Just you and me. I’ll go tell Mom not to worry about dinner tonight. We can bring leftovers back for her and Jenny.”