Say a Little Prayer(13)

Julia glances up from her own notebook, her brow furrowed in gentle concern. “You okay?”

I straighten, just now realizing how far I’ve slid down in my seat, and flash what I hope is a casual grin. “Of course. Just tired.”

I can hear the lie lifting the end of each word into a question, but I don’t care. It feels wrong to complain about the lessons of Christ when we’re being watched by a dozen different versions of crucified Jesus. Especially since I shouldn’t even be thinking about complaining in the first place. I shouldn’t want to. The only thing I should be doing is keeping my mouth shut and my head down, focusing on writing my essay, and making it through this week in time for tech rehearsal.

Julia’s still watching me, lips parted like she wants to ask a follow-up question, but I purposefully flip open my workbook instead. The words Living with Virtue glare up at me from the cover page, and I lift it higher, angling it so the others can’t see my face. The inside looks exactly like the algebra workbook Mr. Johnson gave us on the first day of class, but instead of math equations and homework problems, this one appears to have one goal: curing the world—and our apparently very susceptible teenage hearts—of sin with the seven heavenly virtues.

Diligence, charity, temperance, patience, chastity, gratitude, humility.

Each virtue gets its own chapter, complete with sermons, suggested group activities, and prayer templates, all designed to counteract the seven deadly sins—sloth, greed, gluttony, wrath, lust, jealousy, pride. The words Stamp Out the Disease of Sin, Live Virtuously in the Image of the Lord are printed across the bottom of every page, right next to a strangely graphic cartoon of someone being set on fire.

I close my eyes and slide back down in my seat. This is going to be a very long week.

I’m just debating whether I can excuse myself to the bathroom and never return when the overhead lights dim. The bleachers creak as everyone shoots to their feet and I instinctively follow, tossing my notebooks behind me as the band starts playing their way through a few poorly rehearsed worship songs. I’m nodding my way through the second verse, trying very hard to pretend I don’t still remember every word, when Julia grabs my arm.

“Look,” she whispers. “Is that Amanda?”

I follow her gaze toward the back of the chapel and sure enough, there’s God’s perfect angel sneaking in the side door. No one seems to notice her in the dark, but I watch as she carefully slides into the pew next to Greer. Interesting. I don’t think Amanda’s ever been late for anything in her life. She and Greer had been the first ones to leave our cabin, yet here she is, slipping back into the chapel alone. Maybe she’s not as perfect as she wants everyone to believe.

I make a mental note to write this down later.

    Things Riley has learned at church camp:

1. Amanda Clarke still gets to do whatever she wants.

2. Everyone else still lets her get away with it.

3. People who are this moved by worship music clearly didn’t drive four hours to see the Eras Tour last year. Talk about a spiritual experience.





Eventually, the song comes to a crashing end, and the band files back into the bleachers. There’s a minute of awkward silence where we all sink back into our seats before Pastor Young jogs onto the stage. He’s still wearing his casual outfit, wireless mic clutched in one hand, and he waves to the crowd as a single spotlight illuminates his path.

“Good afternoon, campers!” he calls into the mic. “How’s everyone doing?” Most of us clap, but he waves a hand as if that completely normal reaction isn’t good enough. “Oh, come on. You can do better than that. I said, how’s everyone doing?”

This time, the answering cheer echoes off the rafters. “That’s more like it,” he says. “It’s such a joy to see all of you gathered here, ready to embark on another incredible journey at Camp Pleasant Hills. We have a ton of fun surprises in store for you this week, but as always, I’m most excited for you to use this opportunity to accept Jesus into your hearts.”

I shudder. The thing about attending church as long as I have is that you get intimately familiar with the process of being Saved. During the first week of seventh grade, I’d sat in the dark, windowless Pleasant Hills basement with half a dozen other girls and cried when Pastor Young told us we were going to hell unless we all believed, with absolute certainty, that Jesus had died for our sins. That day, I sent up half a dozen increasingly anxious prayers to whoever might be listening, confirming that yes, I did think Jesus was our one true savior and yes, of course I’d show my devotion to the church through weekly offerings as soon as I was able. I whispered the same prayer to myself that night and again every few weeks after that, just to be sure. Pastor Young had made it sound so final, like eternal damnation was the default and he was the only thing keeping us tethered to the light. I believed him. We all did, and even though it’s been over a year since I prayed about anything, I still feel the low pangs of guilt as everyone around me bows their heads.

Pastor Young points back at the screen as it flicks to another slide that reads Living Virtuously.

“I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I’ve spent the last few years thinking about plagues and pandemics and all the terrible, deadly diseases that exist in our world. It’s strange, right?” He locks eyes with the first row of bleachers and the group of senior boys finally quiets. “That our entire society can shut down because of something that small? That it can change lives and alter history? Stranger still that the real disease eating away at us today, the deadly hidden virus that the Bible warns us about, doesn’t appear to be a concern for our lawmakers.”