Leaving Fishers by Margaret Peterson Haddix
“Popular’s not the way to think about it,” Dorry replied. “God loves me. That’s what matters. My fellow Fishers just embody that love.”
It was true—with the other girls, Dorry always felt loved and accepted. The familiar greeting, “Hey, Chocolate!” always sounded like a blessing after her weeks of loneliness. It was so cozy to be with a group of friends who all agreed on everything. She remembered the arguments she’d had from time to time with her friends back in Bryden—one time she’d gotten mad at Marissa for saying Joe Hanley wasn’t cute, when Dorry thought he was the biggest hunk in town. She’d been so shallow then. Her Bible Study friends mainly talked about Fishers and the Bible, even on Friday nights over pizza, even at lunch at school, regardless of the stares they got. There were always a few disciplers with them who knew all the answers—if Angela was away, at least one of the other girls’ disciplers would be with them. So there wasn’t any way they could start fighting about what Jesus meant when he said there was only one door to the kingdom of heaven, or about whether the Creation had really happened. If someone started to disagree, Angela or another discipler would say, “What Bible verse are you referring to?”
Usually the person was trying to bring up something outside the Bible, something secular. Angela in particular had an amazing way of looking the person right in the eye, patting her hand, and saying, “The Devil is leading you astray. You know there is only one Word of God, only one book we can believe absolutely.”
And that would end the argument. Dorry was always stunned by Angela’s quiet authority. How could Angela silence eight girls instantly without even raising her voice? What would it be like to have your words carry such weight? Sometimes Dorry believed she saw the power of God every time she watched Angela.
Dorry never disagreed about anything. She was still feeling her way through the Bible, learning what she was supposed to think.
Chapter
Fourteen
DORRY AND ANGELA SAT ON A PARK bench, the tally sheet of Dorry’s sins and virtuous acts between them. Dorry’s numbers were good—she’d had no sins to speak of and had stayed late after a Fishers meeting to help one of the freshmen members with algebra. She’d even prayed an extra half hour the day before.
Now the discipling session was almost over and for once Angela was pausing to chitchat before the long prayer at the end. Angela had decided to meet in the park today because they were having freakishly warm weather for November. Most of the leaves were off the trees, but the grass was still a lush green. Dorry felt a burst of giddy joy that would have fit more with spring than with autumn.
“You know what today is? Your one-month anniversary of being saved and joining Fishers,” Angela said lazily.
“It is?” Dorry asked, warmed by the thought that Angela had kept track, even if Dorry hadn’t.
“Yes. Do you feel you’ve received the abundant riches of God’s love promised at your baptism?”
“Of course,” Dorry said. And she did. Her life was so happy now. Thanks to Fishers, she always had friends to be with, and she was right with God. Outside of Fishers, both school and her job were going well. And, best of all, her mother’s last doctor’s appointment had shown that everything looked good. She was already back at work.
At Bible Study, the other girls had agreed: God had answered the Fishers’ prayers for Dorry’s mother. Now if only she and Dorry’s father could be saved . . . Dorry pushed the thought away, not wanting any problem to disturb her joyful mood.
Angela nodded slowly, her hair bouncing against the park bench. “I thought you’d say things were going well. But you realize what’s coming up, don’t you? With Thanksgiving?”
Dorry blinked. “We’re going home. I told you that,” she said. Because her mother’s heart attack had thrown everyone off kilter, this would be her family’s first trip back to Bryden since August. Dorry had been looking forward to Thanksgiving for weeks. It would be so much fun seeing all her old friends. And she’d always loved Thanksgiving food—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, Aunt Emma’s candied yams. . . . Dorry forced her attention back to Angela. “What do you mean?”
“This will be your first time away from your Fishers brothers and sisters. It will be a test of your faith to spend four days entirely among strangers and unbelievers.”
Dorry was about to protest that she would hardly be among strangers, but she knew what Angela meant.
“Do you know how hard it is to pray two hours a day when you have no one to pray with you? When your voice is the only one crying out in the wilderness against blasphemous words and deeds?”
“You make my family sound like a bunch of—” Dorry searched for the right word. Sinners? Heathens? Of course, according to Fishers, they were.
Angela waited. When Dorry didn’t finish, she went on. “I’m sure God will be with you and you will pass this test,” Angela said. “But you must steel yourself to be strong in your faith, even if all around you are doubters. You remember the verses about preparing yourself for battle against evil?”
“Ephesians 6:14–18,” Dorry quoted obediently. “‘Stand, therefore, having girded your loins with truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and having shod your feet with the equipment of the gospel of peace; above all taking the shield of faith, with which you can quench ail the flaming darts of the evil one.’” They’d memorized the verse in Bible Study only the week before.
“Exactly,” Angela said. “You must see this as a battle. The Devil will be watching for you to slip. He will be there to attack you if you fall.”
Dorry looked out across the park. With the blue sky, the warm weather, and her feelings of contentment, she had trouble thinking about the Devil even existing. As for any coming battle with him at Thanksgiving—what was he going to do? Hide behind Aunt Emma’s candied yams?
“Here’s what you must do,” Angela said. “You must pray and read the Bible at least two hours every day. I’ll give you a list of verses to study. And call me every night at eight o’clock. We’ll do our discipling sessions over the phone.”
“But it’s long distance,” Dorry said. Angela gave Dorry a look that silenced her immediately. If Angela said she had to call, she had to call. She didn’t want to protest and have her sin number go up on the tally sheet. “Okay. But why every day?”
“You’ll need it,” Angela said. “Because now that you’ve been in Fishers a month, you’re ready for the second level of discipling. Congratulations.” She threw her arms around Dorry and squeezed. Dorry thought of beauty contestants hugging, acting equally thrilled that one of them was going to be Miss America.
“Well, thanks,” Dorry said. “What does that mean?”
“You haven’t heard of anyone referred to as a Level Two Fisher?”
Dorry shook her head.
“Oh, good,” Angela said. “There were problems before, with people finding out things before they were ready . . . Anyhow, it’s kind of like saying you’re not a baby Fisher anymore. You’re ready for more advanced service to God.”
She suddenly raised her arm and waved over her head. Dorry turned and saw several of the girls from her Bible Study scrambling out of a car in the parking lot. When they got closer, Dorry saw that it was only the ones who were disciplers: Sarah, Jamie, Holly, and Tina. Tina was carrying a white box.
“Hey, Chocolate!” some of them yelled across the park. Dorry warmed at the familiar nickname.
“Congratulations, Dorry and Angela! You’re the first!” Sarah said when they got close. “But as soon as I get Caitlin to stop swearing, we’ll be next.”
“No, no, it’ll be Terry and me,” Holly said. “Except for that one relapse, she hasn’t had a beer in a week. Her other sin numbers are coming down, too.”
Confused, Dorry turned to Angela. “I thought all that was private,” she said.
“Oh, no, once you’re Level Two, it’s okay,” Angela said with a shrug. “You’re allowed to know anything from anyone’s discipling ses
Dorry thought of all the embarrassing things she’d confessed to Angela. She didn’t want to ruin the celebration, but she couldn’t stop herself from protesting: “But you said—”
“What I said was that you don’t have to worry about anyone finding out your secrets,” Angela said, almost icily. “And you don’t, because everyone who’s a Level Two or higher is a Fisher in good standing, who would never hurt you in any way. We all trust each other, right?”
The other girls nodded vigorously. Their bobbing heads reminded Dorry of the toy dogs on springs that had been all the rage for a while in car windows back in Bryden. They wouldn’t stop. They were waiting for her to join in. Reluctantly, Dorry nodded, too. None of them cared about sharing secrets. If she admitted how much it bothered her, they’d think she wasn’t a good-enough Fisher.
“Good,” Angela said. “Now, how about showing Dorry what’s in that box?”
“Ta da!” Tina opened the lid. Everyone oohed and aahed. Inside was a cake, beautifully decorated, with the words, “Congrats, Dorry” looping across the top in orange icing.
“It’s chocolate, of course,” Tina said, patting Dorry’s arm. “You made my choice easy.”
Everyone laughed.
Tina had brought a plastic knife and napkins but no forks, so they ate with their fingers. The chocolate icing smeared on their faces and hands. Dorry had two pieces of the rich, dark cake—a preview, she thought, of all the good food at Thanksgiving.
“Okay, where’s the gift?” Jamie squealed when they’d all finished and cleaned up.
“You like to rush things, don’t you?” Angela asked. But with a dramatic flourish, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small box wrapped in gold paper and tied with a luminous bow.
“Ooh,” some of the girls breathed. They settled into a circle on the ground at Dorry’s and Angela’s feet. Dorry felt her heart thumping fast, the way it had at the school honors assembly last year, when she’d thought she might get the sophomore highest-grades award, but wasn’t sure.
Angela presented the gift to Dorry. Dorry had never held anything so elegant looking.
“You’re supposed to open it,” someone reminded her.
Hesitantly, Dorry unstuck the bow and eased the tape off the back of the package. This wasn’t the way she usually unwrapped presents—she was more likely to rip paper off as quickly as possible. But she didn’t want to spoil this.
The paper yielded to a plain white cube. Inside, Dorry found a smaller velvet box. She lifted the hinged lid and gasped. It was a ring, a gold ring embedded with what looked to be small diamonds.
“I can’t take this,” she protested. “It’s too nice.”
“It is only a small, inadequate token of the vastness of God’s love for you,” Angela said, as formally as if reciting a Bible verse. “No one is worthy of His love, but He gives it freely to all who believe and act accordingly. You will wear this always, to be a constant reminder of God’s love, of your unworthiness, and of your duty to obey His will.”
Gently, Angela eased the ring out of the box and onto the ring finger of Dorry’s left hand. It stuck above the knuckle. Without a pause, Angela slipped the ring onto Dorry’s pinky instead.
Dorry waffled between embarrassment that her finger was too fat and relief that she wouldn’t have to wear the ring where a wedding ring would go. Wasn’t there some superstition that if you wore a ring on your wedding finger, you’d never get married? Looking around, Dorry noticed for the first time that all the girls were wearing rings on their left hands.
“The vows?” Tina reminded softly.
Angela put her hand over Dorry’s. “Repeat after me. I vow—”
“I vow,” Dorry said.
The rest of the words came in groups of two or three, so Dorry had no time to think about what she was vowing. She only put it all together later: “—to be worthy of my discipler’s faith in me. I vow to obey her commands unquestioningly. I vow to be a fit servant of God.”
“Very good,” Angela said when Dorry was done.
One by one, the other girls put their hand on Dorry’s and prayed over her. Each ended, “May it be your will, oh Lord. Amen.”
“And now the commission,” Angela said. “When I was assigned as your discipler, I had to make a list of goals for you at every level. The goals are pretty much the same for everyone at Level One. But at Level Two, I have a lot more choices, because this is an even greater time of coming to accept your discipler’s authority.”
“How many levels are there?” Dorry asked.
The girls exchanged glances.
“That doesn’t matter,” Angela said.
“What are all of you?”
The others shared another look that left Dorry out.
“You’re not allowed to ask that,” Angela said.
“What?”
Angela gave Dorry a look that made her remember the “unquestioning” part of the vow she’d just made. “No one’s allowed to ask higher-level Fishers their numbers. It’s like—questioning their authority. Like, if you’re a two, you might not listen to a three if you knew she just was a three.”
“I see,” Dorry said, though she didn’t.
Angela stood up and placed her hand on Dorry’s shoulders. Her stance reminded Dorry of a queen bestowing knighthood on a subject. “As your discipler, Dorry Stevens, I command you to end your worship of the false god of food. Your body is a temple of God, and you should keep it holy. As a sign that you have turned away from your former evil ways, you shall fast on Thanksgiving Day.”
Dorry jerked back. “What? I don’t worship food.”
Angela shook her head and glared. She put her hands back on Dorry’s shoulders. “Furthermore, you shall begin your mission as a witness for God’s righteousness. You will join an evangelism team, and you will convert at least one person on your trip to Ohio.”
Dorry held back words she knew would get her in trouble.
“In the name of God, Amen,” Angela finished.
“Amen,” the other girls said.
Tardily, Dorry added, “Amen.”
All the girls took turns hugging her again. They acted as though Angela’s commands were absolutely ordinary. But Dorry’s mind was in turmoil. How could Angela think she worshiped food? She liked it, sure, but who didn’t? So she was a little overweight—it was genetic. All the Stevenses were heavyset. And how could she fast on Thanksgiving? What would her family say? As for converting someone in Ohio—she’d been talking to her parents for a month about Fishers, and they were no closer to a conversion than ever. How was she supposed to convert someone in only four days?
But at the back of her mind, a small, guilty voice whispered: You do eat too much. That’s why you’re fat. You don’t really expect a beautiful, skinny person like Angela to want to be seen with you, do you? She’s probably been disgusted by you since she met you. She was just too nice to say so. And you’re a coward, too. Angela knows you haven’t tried hard enough to convert your parents or anybody else.
The others were cleaning up and getting ready to go. Tina slid the crumbling remains of the cake back into its bakery box. Before, Dorry would have been tempted to say, “Hey I’ll finish that off. It’s not enough to take home.” But now the sight of the cake, the heavy feel of it in her stomach, made Dorry feel sick. She watched Tina carelessly heave the cake box into the trash. She thought of the nickname everyone had called her: Chocolate. Her favorite food. But if Angela was worried that Dorry worshiped food, why did Angela let people call her that?
“Angela,” Dorry said. “I don’t really have to fast on Thanksgiving, do I?”
Angela stopped in the midst of fastening Dorry’s sin tally sheet into her binder. “Of course you do. I told you to. I’m your discipler.”
The other girls were working in slow motion—listening, but pretending not to. Dorry wished she’d had the sense to wait until it was just her and Angela. Bu
“I mean, it’s impossible not to eat on Thanks giving. I can’t do it. My family will think it’s really weird. They’ll get upset.”
Angela snapped the rings of her binder back together. “Jesus upset a lot of people.”
“But if they’re upset, how can I convert anyone? Anyhow, I can just try, I can’t promise that anyone will be converted—”
“Dorry—” Angela slid her binder into her book bag and turned to face Dorry. “No one expects you to do any of this by yourself. God will help you. That should be enough for you. Let’s pray about it, shall we?” Angela bowed her head and clasped Dorry’s hand. As if on cue, the other girls smoothly flowed from busily cleaning up to holding hands and looking prayerful. Dutifully, Dorry dropped her head.
Chapter
Fifteen
DORRY PLACED THE STEAMING BOWL OF freshly mashed potatoes on the table, inches from the plate she knew would be her own. Behind her, one of her nephews dove to catch a Nerf football and banged into the table. Gravy sloshed onto the tablecloth.
“Not in the house!” Dorry’s sister Denise yelled.
“—so, like, are kids in Indianapolis wearing those peekaboo blouses? I know you wouldn’t, but I’ve been trying to tell Mom that everybody does, and if you tell her maybe she’ll let me wear one—” Dorry’s thirteen-year-old niece Heidi chattered as she carelessly put the platter of homemade rolls down on the spot of spilled gravy.
Dorry’s stomach rumbled. So far she’d said nothing to anyone about fasting or Fishers. It’d been easy enough to skip breakfast without being noticed. That was every man for himself: cereal grabbed hastily from the command headquarters of the Stevens family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Dorry figured her mom hadn’t stopped to eat breakfast either, in the midst of stuffing the turkey and mixing rolls and grating slaw. But she’d been sampling all morning, licking spoons and testing seasonings. Only moments ago, she’d thrust a spoon dripping with gravy toward Dorry.