Say a Little Prayer(3)
The relief is instant, a giddy, dizzying wave. “You’re not?”
“No. I don’t think it would be particularly helpful given the circumstances, but I also can’t let you off with a warning. So I’m assigning you a week of in-school suspension instead. You’ll sit back here, complete all your assignments, and perform office aide duties as needed. And, of course, you’ll be banned from all school-sponsored sports and activities. We’re out for spring break tomorrow, so the suspension would happen the week we get back. Sound good?”
“The week—?” I shoot forward in my seat, a fresh bolt of panic searing through me. “No, Mr. Rider. The week after spring break is tech rehearsal for Shrek.”
Mr. Rider pinches the bridge of his nose. “No offense, Riley, but I don’t think the school musical should be your biggest concern right now. You started a fight in the middle of the school day. You’re lucky Amanda wasn’t seriously hurt, and you’re lucky the Clarkes aren’t pursuing legal action. I have sympathy for your situation, of course, but my hands are tied.”
“That’s not fair!”
I hear how I sound, how backward my priorities seem, but this can’t be the solution. The Madison High School theater department has been my one constant all year, my haven in a sea of uncertainty. I don’t hear the whispered rumors when I’m laughing my way through our preshow handshake rituals or slurping down Steak ‘n Shake after tech. I don’t see the raised eyebrows or pointed looks when I’m running lines in the rafters with Leena or Kev. Realistically, I know people like Amanda and Mrs. Clarke are talking about me no matter what, but when I’m onstage, sweating beneath the lights and the costumes and the pounds of makeup, I don’t think I care.
We’ve been working on Shrek for months. I finally have my first lead role after two years of playing Townswoman Number Four, and I won’t let Amanda’s inability to face her own consequences derail it now.
“Taking me out of tech would hurt the entire department,” I blurt, searching wildly for an excuse Mr. Rider might buy. “The rest of the cast did nothing wrong. Please, we’ve been working on that show since November.”
I meet his eye across the desk and try to channel my inner football player, anything to help me understand how they always seem to walk away from these confrontations unscathed. I try to remember how Amanda acted earlier, how she’d bowed her head and played the victim, but nothing helps. I’ve never gotten detention before. I’ve never even seen a tardy slip, but here we are.
Because Amanda Clarke couldn’t keep her mouth shut for five seconds.
Mr. Rider shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I understand where you’re coming from, but I already told you—I can’t just give you a warning.”
“You gave Jake Pullman a warning for smoking weed in the bathroom,” I point out.
“That was a very different situation.”
“Why? Because he had a playoff game that night?”
Behind me, Dad clears his throat. I barely register the sound, too focused on the way Mr. Rider’s face is slowly turning the same crimson as his decorative wall art.
“Jake Pullman got a warning,” he says, carefully, “because he signed up for a volunteer program instead. That was his choice.”
“I’ll do a volunteer program!”
I hate how desperate I sound, but it’s true. If Mr. Rider looked me in the eye right now and told me to mow his lawn, or retake geometry, or run laps around the track in our school’s moth-eaten Corny the Corncob mascot uniform, I would.
I brace myself for another rejection, but to my surprise, Mr. Rider looks genuinely thoughtful. “You would?”
I nod vigorously. “Of course.”
I’d do anything, really.
He hesitates a second longer before leaning over and tugging a blue pamphlet from the bottom drawer of his desk. I lean forward, hands deliberately tucked under my thighs. No matter what it is, no matter what program Mr. Rider is considering, I will act like it’s the most wonderful opportunity in the world. Because it will be. But when he flips it over to reveal the words Pleasant Hills Spring Youth Camp stamped across the front, my resolve vanishes.
Because if a suspension during tech week is the absolute worst thing that could happen to me, then attending Pleasant Hills Baptist Church youth camp is a pretty close second.
“As you know, Pleasant Hills is a real cornerstone of our community,” Mr. Rider says, seemingly oblivious to the way I’m sinking back in my seat. “The congregation has always worked closely with our student volunteers, and I know you’re already familiar with their programming. Were you planning to attend camp next week?”
My chair creaks as I dig my nails into the soft leather. I feel Mom shift behind me, arms crossing over her chest, even as Dad remains uncomfortably still. “No,” I say. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
I haven’t been to church in over a year. Mr. Rider knows this, of course. Everyone in town knows it, because apparently the fact that I don’t want to sit in a musty chapel and listen to Pastor Young talk about all the different ways I’m going to hell is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened around here.
Mr. Rider’s mouth turns down in the corners. “That’s a shame. I can’t tell you how to live your life, Riley, but I can offer you guidance. If you’re serious about doing a volunteer program, I’ll allow it. You could join the Pleasant Hills youth congregation next week, spend time reflecting on your actions, and when you return, write me an essay about what you’ve learned. Hand it in the Monday after spring break, and I’ll consider your slate clean.”