Returning to his office, he tried to cheer himself with the thought that Sally Perkins wouldn’t have come to him if she thought he was a dork, and that, even if Laura Dobrinsky did think so, it was silly to let himself be hurt by a girl with wildly unresolved anger issues, and also that maybe she hadn’t been referring to him, maybe the dork in question was Clem, which would explain the girls’ embarrassment when they saw Clem’s father; but he was still in distress when Rick Ambrose came knocking on his door.
Taking a seat, his expression pained, Ambrose told Russ that he’d been hearing some complaints—or not complaints, concerns—about Russ’s style of ministry. Some of the kids seemed uncomfortable, in particular, with Russ’s weekly prayers. Ambrose himself was fine with them, but he suggested that Russ consider “toning it down a bit” with the scriptural language. “Do you know what I mean?”
He could hardly have found a worse moment to criticize Russ. “I put a lot of thought into those prayers,” Russ said. “When I cite Scripture, it’s always in direct relation to the theme that you and I have chosen for the week.”
Ambrose nodded judiciously. “Like I said, I don’t have a problem with it myself. It’s just something you should be aware of. Some of the kids we’re drawing don’t have any religious background. Obviously, the hope is that everyone will find their way to an authentic faith, but people need to find their own way, and that takes time.”
Because of Laura’s remark, Russ felt angrier than Ambrose’s tactful words merited. “I don’t care,” he said. “This is a church for believers, not a social club. I’d rather lose a few members than lose sight of our mission.”
Ambrose pursed his lips and blew a silent whistle.
“Who are the people complaining?” Russ said. “Is there anyone besides Laura Dobrinsky?”
“Laura is definitely the most outspoken of them.”
“Well, and I would not be sorry to see her leave.”
“She’s a handful, I agree. But the energy she brings is really valuable.”
“I’m not going to change my style because one angry girl is complaining to you about me.”
“It’s not just her, Russ. This is something we need to deal with before we leave on Spring Trip. I wonder if you’d be willing…” Ambrose glowered at the floor. “I wonder if we should open up part of the meeting on Sunday and talk about where we stand, as a group, with expressions of Christian doctrine. You could hear Laura, she could hear you. I think it could be a really valuable conversation for the group to have before we all get on the bus.”
“I’m not interested in a public shouting match with Laura Dobrinsky.”
“I’ll be there to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. I promise, I will back you up. I just—”
“No.” Russ stood up angrily. “I’m sorry, but no. That does not sound right to me. I’m happy to let you do your thing, but I would ask that you let me do mine.”
Ambrose sighed, as if to suggest a withholding of approval, but he said nothing more. Russ was left with the impression that much whispering was being done behind his back, and that he would do well to strengthen his relationships with the group’s rowdier element. At the next Sunday meeting, the last before Arizona, he made friendly forays into that element. Whether the negative vibe he got from it was real or just the product of his paranoia, it gave his movements a marionette-like clumsiness; a dorkiness. Sitting in the huge group circle at the end of the meeting, he sought the eyes of Sally Perkins, hoping to exchange a warm smile, but she seemed determined not to look at him.
On the Friday afternoon before Palm Sunday, aware of the emotional bonding that occurred on long bus rides, he stationed himself between the two interstate buses in the First Reformed parking lot and waited to see which of them would be preferred by the kids with whom he needed to bond, so that he could board it. But the normally visible forces of teenaged social physics were scrambled in the parking lot. Parents stood chattering among haphazard piles of luggage, preteen siblings ran on and off the buses, latecomers arrived with tooting car horns, and everyone kept pestering Russ with logistical questions. He was loading five-gallon drums of paint into a bus’s luggage bay when, behind his back, the hidden social forces resolved into a mob of long-haired kids outside the other bus, which Ambrose had chosen.
Too late, he saw that he and Ambrose should have discussed their bus assignments—that he should have insisted on having a chance to repair his rapport with Laura Dobrinsky’s clique. Riding west into the night, in the unpreferred bus, he felt exiled. Even when he succeeded, the next morning, in trading places with Ambrose, the scene on the other bus was unsatisfactory. The kids had been awake all night, laughing and singing, and now they only wanted to sleep. Tanner Evans kindly sat down with him, but soon Tanner, too, was sleeping. By the time they reached the reservation, Russ had become afraid to look over his shoulder at the kids behind him. It was a relief to know that most of them were going on with Ambrose to the demonstration school at Kitsillie, up high on the mesa.