Say a Little Prayer(10)
“No,” I say.
Pastor Young lifts a brow. “Are you sure?”
I’ve just opened my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his prayer requests when Ben’s hand flies into the air.
“I have one,” he says, eyes darting nervously between me and his father. “I would personally like to pray that the ice cream shop in downtown Rhyville is open this year. I really miss their rocky road.”
I don’t get the reference, but the tension around the circle eases as a few people exhale breathy laughs. Even Pastor Young cracks a smile, attention turning toward Ben instead. Someone else throws out a new request, the conversation moves on, and still, I can’t make myself move.
This, I think. This is why I don’t want to come back. This is why Hannah will never set foot in Pleasant Hills again. Not just because Pastor Young wants her to repent for some made-up crime, but because he’d rather get his daily dose of hot gossip prayer requests than offer support to the people who need it.
“You okay?”
Julia’s voice is soft in my ear, pulling my gaze away from the dirty patch of grass at my feet. I blink and realize the circle around us has dissolved, everyone crowding toward the bus in search of a good seat. We’re the only two left on the sidewalk, and it takes me another second to realize she’s still holding my hand. I release her immediately.
“Yeah,” I mutter, shaking out my numb fingers. “Let’s go.”
* * *
? ? ?
The Pleasant Hills parking lot might be the worst place on earth, but Rhyville, Kentucky, is really giving it a run for its money.
According to Ben, the downtown area is “super cute once you get there,” but I see nothing but gas stations, yellow-green fields, and billboards for six different adult films stores on the drive south. By the time we pull into the camp parking lot, my neck aches from leaning against the seat and there’s a red indentation of the windowsill pressed into my cheek. I rub it away as I follow Julia down the aisle. We join the crowd of people outside, and when I finally find my suitcase, I have to concede that packing the extra shoes was a truly terrible idea. It takes most of my strength to haul my bag across the parking lot, gravel spraying beneath the wheels as I try to keep up with Ben and Julia.
Pleasant Hills doesn’t actually own these campgrounds. I know that much from the brochure. Instead, they rent it a few times a year from some church in the area, but I wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance. Everything from the parking lot to the winding paths to the peeling buildings has the signature Pastor Young touch, like some part of this camp is permanently stuck in 1995. It’s warmer than it was back home, air thick with the slightest touch of humidity, and by the time the others come to a stop in front of what looks like a chapel, I’m covered in a thin layer of sweat.
“Cell phones! Drop your cell phones here!”
A counselor in a bright blue T-shirt stands in the middle of the path, shaking a wicker basket in our direction. She looks to be in her early twenties with a short brown bob, almost translucent skin, and an overly toothy grin that immediately makes me suspicious. My hand flies to my back pocket, where my phone is tucked securely next to the folded camp brochure.
“They take our phones?” I hiss.
Ben nods. “Don’t worry—we get them back during the free day. And if there’s an emergency, you can always ask my dad for the camp phone.”
I would literally rather die than ask Pastor Young for anything. “What if my emergency is being here?”
“Then we’re all going down together.” Ben drops his phone into the basket and flashes the counselor a quick grin. “Hi, Cindy. Glad to see you’re back.”
“Benji!” She reaches up to ruffle his hair. “Don’t you look dashing!”
I choke back a laugh. Ben looks, as always, like someone who grew up watching a little too much Disney Channel. He’s never met a layer he doesn’t like, patterns are always in, and there’s a very high chance at least half his clothes are thrifted. He’s tried to explain the difference between vintage brands to me multiple times, but there’s a reason he’s the one attending some fancy art camp this summer and I’m the girl who was politely asked to leave a scenery workshop when Ms. Tina saw me hold a paintbrush. There are some things the human brain isn’t meant to comprehend.
Cindy’s gaze slides to me and most of her softness fades. She shoves the basket under my nose. “Cell phone,” she repeats.
I hesitate. Before I left, I made Leena and Kev promise to send me a thorough recap of every missed rehearsal note. It’s not the same as being there in person, but I figured I’d at least be able to review any new videos. Without my phone, there’s nothing tying me to the outside world. I glance over my shoulder, momentarily considering making a run for it, but something about the way Cindy’s watching me makes me think she isn’t above hunting me down. She gives the basket another pointed shake, and I sigh before dropping my phone inside.
“See?” Ben says as we continue down the path. “That wasn’t so bad.”
I glare at his retreating back. “Sure, Benji. Whatever you say.”
We continue past the chapel and hike through a sparse stretch of trees, following the gravel path until it opens into a wide field of freshly mowed grass. Twelve cabins sit in a perfect semicircle on the far edge of the field, six on one side, six on the other. I swat through a cloud of gnats as we approach, already out of breath from tugging my suitcase through the parking lot. Ben turns left, toward what I assume are the boys’ cabins, but I keep following Julia. Delaney is a few paces ahead of us, deep in conversation with a girl I recognize from school. She’s a sophomore, I think, a volleyball player named Robin, but everyone calls her Torres on account of how there are somehow three different girls named Robin on the team. One of them even spells it with a y.