CHICAGO, ILLINOIS — 2002

I didn’t really want to go to the “women’s conference” the first weekend of May. Spending two hundred bucks to stay in a hotel for two nights only forty-five minutes from home? Totally out of our budget, even if it did include “two continental breakfasts, Saturday night banquet, and all conference materials.”

I’m not generally a conference-type person. I don’t like big crowds. Give me a small moms group or a women’s Bible study any day – like Moms in Touch, which met at our church all those years the kids were growing up.

But listening to the cars on I-90 roaring past the hotel’s manicured lawn? Laughing like a sound track at jokes told by high-powered speakers in tailored suits and matching heels?

Uh-uh. Was not looking forward to it.

Still, Avis Johnson, my boss – she’s the principal at the Chicago public school where I teach third grade this year – asked if I’d like to go with her, and that counts for something. Maybe everything.

I’ve admired Avis ever since I first met her at Uptown Community Church but never thought we’d be pals or anything. Not just because she’s African American and I’m white, either. She’s so calm and poised – a classy lady. Her skin is a smooth, rich, milk-chocolate color, and she gets her hair done every week at a salon. I feel like a country bumpkin when I’m around her. My nondescript dark brown hair never could hold a “style,” so I just wear it at shoulder level with bangs and hope for the best.

* * *

Denny and me – we’ve only been at the church since last summer. That’s when Honorable Husband decided it was time white folks – meaning us, as it turned out – moved back into the city rather than doing good deeds from our safe little enclaves in the suburbs. It was so hard for me to leave the church and people we’ve known most of our married life. But Denny said we couldn’t hide forever in our comfort zone. So . . . we packed up the dog, the teenagers, and the Plymouth Voyager, exchanged our big yard for a postage stamp, and shoehorned ourselves into a two-flat – Chicago’s version of a duplex – on Chicago’s north side.

Most of the people I’ve met in the neighborhood are friendly – friendly, but not friends. Not the kick-back, laugh-with-your-girlfriends, be-crazy, cry-when-you’re-sad, talk-on-the-phone-five-times-a-week kind of friends I had in Downers Grove.

So when Avis asked if I’d like to go to this women’s conference sponsored by a coalition of Chicago area churches, I said yes. I felt flattered that she thought I’d fit in, since I generally felt like sport socks with high heels. At worst I’d waste a weekend (and two hundred bucks). At best, I might make a friend – or at least get to know Avis better.

* * *

As we were handed our packets emblazoned with CWC in curlicue calligraphy, I noticed a bright gold sticker in the righthand corner of mine with the number 26 written in black marker.

“What’s this?” I asked the plump girl behind the registration table, pointing to the number.

“Oh, that.” Miss Helpful smiled sweetly. “They’ll explain the numbers at the first session. Don’t worry about it . . . Can I help you?” She turned to the next person in line.

Humph. I didn’t want to wait till the first session. I was nervous enough . . . I didn’t want any “surprises.”

“What number did you get?”

“Number?”

“On your packet, right-hand corner, gold sticker.”

“Oh.” Avis turned over the packet she was clutching in one hand, along with her plastic key card, purse strap, and travel-pack of tissues. “Twenty-six. What’s it for?”

I smiled big and relaxed. “I don’t know. They’ll tell us the first session.” Whatever it was, I was with Avis.

As it turned out, we didn’t need our key cards. The door to Suite 206 stood ajar. Avis and I looked at each other and stole inside like the Three Bears coming home after their walk in the woods. Through the French doors leading into the bedroom, we could see “Goldilocks” sitting on the king-size bed painting her toenails.

The stranger looked up. “Oh, hi!” She waved the tiny polish brush in our direction. “Don’t mind me. Make yourselves at home.”

Avis was braver than I was and said what I was thinking. “Uh, are we in the right room? We didn’t know we had another roommate.”

The woman cocked her head. “Oh! They didn’t tell you at registration?

My good-girl training rushed to my mouth before I knew what I was saying. “Oh, no, no, that’s okay. We don’t mind.” Do we, Avis?

I was afraid to look in Avis’s direction. We had pretty much agreed driving out that since it was a suite, we could each have a “room” to ourselves. Avis was definitely not the stay-up-late, sleepover type.

“Oh. Well, sure,” Avis said. “It’s just that no one told us.”

Well, this was going to be interesting. I had thought it would be quite an adventure to get to know Avis as my roommate for the weekend. This was a chance to get beyond the niceties of Sunday morning and brush our teeth in the same sink. But I hadn’t counted on a third party. God knows I wanted to broaden my horizons, but this was moving a little faster than I felt ready for.

I suddenly had a thought. “Florida, what number is on your registration packet?”

Florida finished her big toe and looked at it critically. “Number? . . . Oh, you mean that gold sticker thing on the front?” She looked over the side of the bed where she’d dumped her things. “Um . . . twenty-six. Why?”

* * *

The voice of the lady in the red suit broke into my thoughts. “This is the number of the prayer group you have been assigned to for the weekend,” she went on, waving a packet. “Roommates will be together in the same group; otherwise we have mixed up people from different churches and different parts of the city.”

A small group—now that might be more my speed than a huge crowd. On the other hand, I backpedaled; a small group was a pretty intimate setting for a group of strangers.

“Mmm. Getting on toward my bedtime,” Avis’s voice murmured behind me. “Maybe I’ll just go back up to our room.”

I turned, opening my mouth in protest. But before I could say anything, Florida jumped in. “Now I know these touchy-feely groups aren’t my thang.” A touch of street slang slipped in, making me realize I didn’t know cucumbers about this woman. “Though it ain’t my bedtime, that’s for sure.” She laughed, her beaded braids shaking around her head. “But I sure could do with a cup of coffee and a–”

“Whoa, whoa! Just a minute.” I was surprised to hear my own voice throw a block on the deserters. I looked at Avis, who was stifling a yawn. “You got me into this, girlfriend. The prayer groups sound like a major part of the weekend, so I’d like to go.” (Yikes! Was that true?) “But I don’t want to go alone.” (That part was certainly true.) “Come on. Let’s go together. It’s for prayer, after all.”

* * *

“Ten o’clock,” Avis announced. “I’ll stay till ten o’clock. Then I turn into a pumpkin.” I smiled to myself as we sidled into Room 7. The clock on the wall said 9:05. Ten o’clock was fine with me. I couldn’t imagine praying longer than an hour with a bunch of strangers anyway.

Twelve chairs. Twelve women.

I had no idea.

This abridged excerpt was adapted with permission from The Yada Yada Prayer Group © 2003 by Neta Jackson. All rights reserved.