Say a Little Prayer(12)
Then she blinks, expression softening into cool nonchalance. “Yes,” she says, voice just loud enough for the two of us to hear. “He sure does.”
She brushes past me without another word. When I look up, Delaney and Torres are watching me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Of course they are. Amanda’s probably been nothing but kind to them. They probably like her, and here I am, glaring across our very small, very intimate cabin with open disdain. I exhale through my teeth and turn back to my suitcase.
The six of us unpack in strained, awkward silence, Amanda and Greer occasionally stopping to whisper to each other in the corner. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but every sentence is punctuated by a pointed glance in my direction, which means either they’re the worst gossipers of all time or they want everyone to know they’re talking about me. Right as it’s starting to hit me that I really am trapped here, two hours from home with no way to call for help, a loud chime sounds from outside.
“Orientation,” Julia says before I can ask. She tosses the rest of her things onto her neatly made bunk. “We’re supposed to meet in the chapel for opening sermon and schedules.”
Sermon. Right. In the chaos of this morning, I’d almost for-gotten about the “church” part of this week’s camp. Amanda and Greer are out the door before the last chime finishes echoing across the field, Torres and Delaney trailing close behind. Cabin doors bang open on either side of us, excited chatter filling the air, and again, I feel that dark twist in my gut.
Pastor Young is going to give a speech about how Satan invented gay sex or something, and we’ll all be expected to listen. I’m expected to learn something impactful enough to write in an essay when all I want to do is take a match to this entire congregation.
“You coming?”
Julia has one hand braced against the doorframe, head casually tipped to one side. Sunlight dapples across her feet, painting her hair with fiery strands of gold, and for a second, a word echoes through the back of my mind. It’s tentative and soft, almost dusty from disuse.
Holy.
I shake the thought away and flash her a grin. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep Daddy Christ waiting.”
IV
Through Christ, All Sins Are Possible
The camp chapel has exactly one door, zero windows, and no less than two dozen homemade crosses hanging from the walls.
It was clearly a basketball gym in another life, and the evidence still lingers in the high vaulted ceilings and exposed rafters. The hoops are gone, and someone has covered the hardwood in a weird beige carpet that looks a little too much like human skin, but the bleachers remain, pushed haphazardly against the far wall like some half-finished construction site. Staggered rows face the stage in the center of the room where a few kids already sit, plucking away at instruments as the rest of us file inside. Above it all, an enormous projector hangs from the ceiling, flipping through a series of poorly designed informational slides. One reads Jesus Take the Wi-Fi: No Phones Allowed. The next is just a picture of Pastor Young’s face.
“Do you know the theme this year, Jules?” Delaney asks as the four of us file into the bleachers.
Julia shakes her head. “Dad doesn’t usually tell us. The only reason we knew last year was because he left his laptop open in the kitchen.”
“There’s a theme?” I ask.
“Oh, there’s always a theme,” Delaney says. “Last year was Fearless Faith, which was just a lot of monologuing about how you should be able to say whatever you want in the name of the Lord.”
Torres nods, taking the bleacher steps two at a time. “Right. And the year before that was Rooted in Grace. I must have planted, like, fifty prayer tomatoes.”
I hesitate. “And a prayer tomato is…”
“Oh, it’s basically a regular tomato, but you have to pray for someone each time you plant one. It’s a whole thing.”
Right. Why didn’t I think of that?
The bleachers fill up one row at a time, the band underscoring the entire process with a collection of soft, vaguely out-of-tune guitar chords. I couldn’t get a good head count on the bus, but there are probably around fifty of us total, ranging from hesitant clusters of first-time campers to the rowdy group of senior boys in the front row. This used to be me, I think as the voices swell around us. I used to be happy at Pleasant Hills, too.
“Welcome, welcome!”
I look up to find Cindy, the counselor who’d kidnapped my phone earlier, standing at the end of our row. As I watch, she starts passing stacks of identical notebooks from camper to camper. “These are your schedules, lesson plans, and prayer books,” she says. “Make sure to keep them on you at all times and write your name in the front so you don’t forget.”
Her face is still frozen in that same too-wide grin, but she manages to slide me a pointed look, like she can already tell I’m planning to “forget” mine in the woods later. I take both notebooks before heaving the stack into Julia’s lap. They’re heavier than I expected, the first one practically the size of the unopened SAT workbook on my desk back home. The next is a small blue notebook the size of my palm. The phrase Today I’m Praying For is printed across the top of each blank page, and when I spot the cartoon doves sketched in every other corner, I can’t entirely suppress my groan.