Say a Little Prayer
Jenna Voris
To anyone who’s ever been hurt by those who pretended to embrace you. There are so many people who will love you as you are.
Dear Reader,
The first time I heard someone say that being gay was a choice—and a bad one at that—was in church. I was twelve. Even back then, I remember thinking the whole thing was pretty ironic. After all, we’d just spent half an hour talking about how Jesus loves everyone, and here was a strange, one-off caveat thrown in at the end.
The original idea for Say a Little Prayer started as a one-sentence pitch—what if someone purposefully set out to commit all seven deadly sins at a Christian church camp? What kind of funny, subversive situations would those characters find themselves in if they openly treated their administration with the same derision I used to feel in secret? I ended up with seventeen-year-old Riley, a bisexual girl who’s already made the choice to leave her congregation for good. She’s angry at the church, resentful of everyone in town who maintains the status quo, and grappling with her growing feelings for her best friend, who is also the pastor’s daughter. In short, she’s mad and not afraid to let everyone know it. Her quest to commit the seven deadly sins isn’t born of some selfless desire to unpack years of manipulative teachings but rather a need to enact revenge on the very people who cast her out.
However, just like in real life, things are hardly ever that simple. Even though Riley’s relationship with religion has been fundamentally damaged, there are other characters who still find comfort in their faith and everything it’s supposed to represent. I wanted to explore a wide variety of teenage experiences in the pages of this book, and I wanted them all connected by the same overarching truth—that each experience is valid and real.
It took me a long time to unlearn the hateful things I was taught growing up. Now I know that saying the Lord’s Prayer won’t “cure” anyone’s gay thoughts. I know that some churches are safe and welcoming and kind, but that wasn’t my experience, and it’s not Riley’s, either. Because of that, Say a Little Prayer includes elements of religious trauma and homophobia, but it also includes hope. My wish is for everyone who picks up this book to carry a little of that hope back into the world with them.
Happy reading!
Jenna
So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate.
—Genesis 3:6
I
Everything That Happens Next Is Because of Shrek the Musical
I’ve been sent to Principal Rider’s office exactly twice in my life—once last year, when he’d personally handed me a trophy for winning the state geography bowl, and again today, for slapping Amanda Clarke across the face.
I don’t think there’s a prize for this one, unfortunately.
Instead, I’m sitting empty-handed in front of his desk, Mom and Dad looming stiffly behind me as Mr. Rider surveys us over the tops of his steepled fingers. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, but for once, I don’t mind the scrutiny. I have absolutely nothing to hide.
Despite the cramped room and low ceiling, Mr. Rider has managed to stuff an impressive amount of decor into his windowless office. Over his shoulder, an oversized piece of Hobby Lobby wall art tells me to Choose Kindness in bright red script. A wilting fern sits on top of a filing cabinet covered in children’s finger paintings, and the bookshelf along the opposite wall looks dangerously close to collapsing. My gaze skims over a collection of dusty Civil War memoirs and three different copies of the Bible before stopping on a faded photo of Mr. Rider wearing an Ohio State football uniform.
That’s not surprising now that I think about it. The Madison High School football players hardly ever get sent to the office, and when they do, Mr. Rider always lets them off with a warning. Maybe if he tries to give me detention, I can pretend to be their new kicker or something.
“Okay, you two.” Mr. Rider’s voice drags my attention back to the center of the room. He’s still reclining in his chair, one ankle resting casually across the opposite knee as his gaze slides from me to Amanda. “Would either of you care to explain what happened?”
Before either of us can answer, Mrs. Clarke lets out a dismissive snort. “What happened?” she asks, both hands planted firmly on her hips. “That girl slapped my daughter. What else is there to talk about?”
It takes every ounce of my rapidly waning self-control not to point out that her daughter totally deserved it.
Mrs. Clarke was Miss Teen Ohio 1998. I know this because the first time I met her back in sixth grade, she’d introduced herself with the title, and also because the custom Chanel purse swinging from her arm now has Miss Teen Ohio 1998 stitched across the front in gold letters. She and Amanda have the same blond hair and pale, heart-shaped faces, but I’ve always thought Mrs. Clarke’s blue eyeshadow and glittery body spray make her look more like a poorly animated cartoon villain than a beauty queen.
I’m suddenly very grateful for my own parents, who, despite their unflinching ability to insert themselves into every aspect of my life, have never once monogrammed a decades-old accomplishment on a purse.
To his credit, Mr. Rider doesn’t acknowledge Mrs. Clarke’s outburst. He just tilts his head in Amanda’s direction and asks, with surprising gentleness, “Is that true?”