Playing Hard To Get

“Well, with Easter right around the corner, I’m proposing that we seek representation at the altar, at the left hand of Pastor Hall. I think Easter should be our suggestion. It’s a time of resurrection and hope. And it’s also a time for family and togetherness. We represent that.”

“Representation at the altar? On Easter?” Elizabeth asked innocently. “Who? Who could represent us?”

“Well, it only makes sense that the person representing the Virtuous Women is the leader of the Virtuous Women—me,” Myrtle said and looked straight ahead as if she was unaware of Troy’s glare.

“Say what? Say what now?” Kiona quizzed, her head bopping as if she was preparing for a street fight. “You want to sit next to Pastor…? On Sunday…? Every Sunday…?” Kiona gasped and looked at Troy. “Lord, please speak up in here.”

“You know,” Elizabeth said, “I think it’s a good idea and maybe we should vote—”

“Vote on what? There’s no motion,” Kiona pointed out, trying to stall.

“Well, somebody make a motion,” another sister said. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“I’ll make the motion,” Elizabeth said, smiling at Myrtle. “I move that—”

“Hold up a hallelujah minute!” Kiona stood up quickly, raising her hand. “I want to make the motion.”

Both Troy and Myrtle looked at her, confused.

“You want to make the motion?” Myrtle said.

“I think that…I mean, I am making a motion that we formally request a seat on the left side of Pastor Hall on Sunday—”

“But—” Troy tried, but Sister Glover, excited that Kiona was supporting her appeal, dug the heel of her shoe into Troy’s foot beneath the table. “Ouch,” Troy said.

“With one exception to the original suggestion,” Kiona added, stepping back from her seat and walking toward the top of the table, where Myrtle and Troy were seated. Everyone looked on as if they were awaiting a groundbreaking speech or a fight—it really was a toss-up. “That the representative of the Virtuous Women be the First Lady of our church.”

“What?” Myrtle laughed and a few others around the table joined her, with Elizabeth’s haughty snicker being loudest. “That’s just ridiculous. The person that represents the group has to be the president—the leader…not…not…the First Lady…just because she happens to be the First Lady right now. I represent the organization and therefore I should be the appointed representative.”

Hearing the retreating chatter and seeing head nods around the room, Kiona and Troy knew the battle was lost.

“Look,” Myrtle went on, rising from her seat and stepping in front of Kiona, “it was my suggestion and I think it should be voted on, as is—with the leader of the organization representing us as a whole at the altar. That’s the only thing that makes sense and as the president, I…”

As Myrtle captured the opinions of the women seated around the table, Troy’s vision was growing from white, to pink, to red. The full, anxious pit she usually felt in her stomach whenever she was seated at the table was aflame. It was a moment. One that even Troy, the flighty, passive air sign, knew put a lot on the line. She knew she had to do something, but fear kept her frozen, stuck in her seat as Myrtle walked circles around her. Then she remembered the Queen Bee Competition and what she was supposed to be doing with herself that day, in that room. She saw Tasha’s face and heard her command: “Snap out of it!”

“…so, let’s just vote now and stop with these ridiculous suggestions from the floor. As the president, I should—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be president anymore,” Troy said. “Maybe it’s my turn…no, it is my turn.”

“What?” By this time, Myrtle had trolled to the other side of the table and looked over at Troy like she was crazy.

“I’m ready to be president of the Virtuous Women,” Troy said confidently this time.

“Ready? But you’re not even…” Myrtle paused and pretend she was regrouping. “Look, Troy, I know what you’re trying to do, take some responsibility, get a little attention, but it’s not necessary. You’re not ready.”

“Ready?” Kiona asked. “Ready for what?”

“Yeah, ready for what?” someone else chimed in.

“Well, she just joined the church, and she wasn’t raised Baptist. She doesn’t know how to—”

&n

bsp; “I wasn’t born Baptist either. I was raised Muslim,” someone else said. “So I’m less of a member than you?”

“No, what I mean is,” Myrtle tried, “she doesn’t really know the Word and she’s not knowledgeable about the church rules. You can ask her yourself.” She looked at Troy.

“Do you know the rules of the church, First Lady?” someone asked.