Say a Little Prayer(15)

There’s no such thing as a good sin.

But how does he know that? Did God descend from the heavens and tell him the only way to be truly holy is to shame teenage girls into repenting their imaginary sins? Why does Pastor Young get to decide who’s worthy—and why, in the entire time I’d attended church, did no one think to question his authority?

My fingers curl around the edge of the page, crinkling the paper and the list of sins printed at the top. Sloth, greed, gluttony, wrath, lust, jealousy, pride.

Seven virtues. Seven sins. Seven days at camp.

Oh.

Last week, I’d accidentally touched a live wire in science class, just grabbed it in my fist when I meant to pick up a battery instead. The shock lingered under my skin long after I pulled my hand away, and that’s how I feel now as an idea shoots its way down my spine.

Mr. Rider is expecting an essay on his desk next Monday, a clear, concise write-up of everything I learned at camp. He wants something humble. He wants an apologetic, reflective take on my past actions, and until right now, that’s what I intended to give him. But what if I learned something else? What if there was a way to prove Pastor Young isn’t as powerful as everyone believes him to be?

If I could find a way to commit each of these supposedly “deadly” sins, spin them into something positive and useful, it would completely negate his entire sermon. This week’s theme would cease to exist, and everyone sitting in this chapel would realize what I’ve known for a year now—nothing Pastor Young says is true. He’s not our salvation, he’s not the light holding the darkness at bay, and he’s definitely not the definitive voice of moral purity. In fact, he’s usually wrong.

And if he’s wrong about this, I think, watching him move from one side of the stage to the other, I could prove he’s wrong about everything else, too.

Like how he runs his congregation. Like how he treated Hannah.

I wouldn’t even have to stop at Mr. Rider. I could send my findings to the entire congregation, just file my name off the top and let everyone draw their own conclusions. I could slip it to the local paper, post it on every social media platform, or plaster Main Street with copies until it became impossible to ignore. People would notice. People would complain, and the message at the core of every grievance would be the same—we’re better off without him.

Onstage, Pastor Young tips his face toward the ceiling. “Let us pray.”

The bleachers groan as everyone bows their heads, but I keep my gaze fixed on the open workbook in my lap.

“Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us together in this beautiful place, surrounded by your creation. As we embark on our journey this week, we ask for your guidance, your wisdom, and your presence to be with us. May we return from this retreat with a renewed sense of purpose and faith. In your name we pray. Amen.”

I grin down at the list of sins in my lap and bite back a vicious grin. “Amen.”



* * *



? ? ?

That night, I settle onto my lumpy mattress and fish a pen from the bottom of my backpack. I hadn’t thought to bring a notebook to camp, so I flip open my prayer journal instead, hastily scrawl my name across the front, then write the date at the top of the first page. I leave the “I’m praying for…” prompt blank for now, since the only thing I’m actively manifesting is Pastor Young’s downfall, and start writing down everything I remember—the opening sermon, Pastor Young’s condemnation of sin, the nervous hesitation of the people around me.

It’s not much, but by the time Cindy comes around for lights-out, I feel settled. More in control. I tuck the notebook under my mattress and try to punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape.

“Don’t bother,” Julia mumbles from above me. “That only makes it worse.”

She is, unfortunately, correct. The pillow seems to harden under my fists until I finally give up and flop onto my back. Across the room, I watch Torres lean forward to peel back the edge of the curtain.

“She’s gone!” she whispers.

Delaney heaves a sigh. “Finally.”

The floorboards creak as she slides out of bed, and I sit up, watching her double-check the window before reaching under her mattress. “What’s going on?”

“Just a little opening night tradition. It’s always a toss-up if one of the other churches will find it or not, but—there!”

When Delaney straightens, she’s holding a dented Footloose DVD in one hand. It’s not until she drags an ancient-looking TV from the closet and dumps it in the center of the floor that I realize what’s happening.

“Pastor Young accidentally ordered it for the rec room a few years ago,” she explains, reaching over to plug the TV into the only available outlet. “And then he immediately tried to throw it away after figuring out the plot.”

Torres snorts into her pillow. “That’s why we don’t have movie nights anymore.”

“It’s tragic.” Delaney sighs. “Anyway, Julia dug it out of the trash, and now it lives under that mattress. It’s old, so the quality isn’t great, but we always watch it the first night.”

I lean forward as she inserts the DVD, staticky glow illuminating the dusty lines of the cabin. When the grainy opening image fades into view, Delaney flashes us a thumbs-up and starts climbing back into bed.