Say a Little Prayer(39)
Of all the virtues we’ve been subjected to this week, temperance feels the hardest to wrap my head around. I can understand diligence or generosity if I try. I can almost see the point of those, but teaching temperance like this feels mean.
That’s fine, I think, reaching down to fish a pen from the bottom of my tote bag. I can be mean, too.
It’s like I’ve opened a spigot. Every dark pent-up feeling rushes out of me at once, pouring onto the page in hurried, incomplete sentences. I don’t stop to see what I’ve written or go back to correct the obvious spelling mistakes. I don’t pause to consider the implications either. I just write.
I don’t understand how people are happy here. It’s like they’re all lying to me, pretending to believe in this thing that doesn’t even make sense, and I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t matter. It does. It matters that Pastor Young is still here, preaching his lies and playing the role of the perfect pastor like he’s not the one who destroyed everything.
I turn the page and keep going, each word coming quicker than the last.
He talks like he’s invincible, like he’s the ultimate moral authority on good and evil, but everyone else is just as complicit. They still follow him, they still believe his lies, and they still let it happen. Maybe they’re too cowardly to confront the truth. Maybe they don’t care. Or maybe I’m the only one smart enough to see through this place. It’s not about guidance or community or faith. It’s about fear, and I won’t let him get away with it anymore.
This isn’t an essay, it’s a reckoning. And it’s time for Pastor Young to go.
I sit back, and underline the last sentence with three trembling strokes. There it is. The thesis I’ve been chasing since that first afternoon in the chapel. It’s not perfect. If this was an AP lit essay, Ms. Nguyen would definitely send it back for “further clarification,” but it’s also the first time I’ve written it down. The first time I think I might actually be able to pull this off.
Mr. Rider was right, I think as I close my prayer book and lean my head against the wall. I feel better already.
* * *
? ? ?
“Torres, I swear if you don’t stop moving, I’m going to climb up there and eat you.”
Delaney hurls her pillow against the bottom of Torres’s bunk as the springs let out another squeaky groan. It doesn’t help. Torres isn’t the only one tossing and turning tonight, unable to get comfortable as the clock ticks past midnight.
“I’m sorry,” she groans. “I’m just so hungry.”
“I know. I can hear your stomach from here.”
I stare at the sagging underside of Julia’s mattress and try to force myself into a blissful, dreamless sleep. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear tomorrow’s breakfast—the sizzle of pancakes on an open stovetop and the soft crackle of frying bacon.
Or maybe that’s my stomach now, growling at the thought of something substantial.
Delaney rolls over in bed, blankets rustling as she drags them with her. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters.
“Shhh!” Amanda hisses from across the room. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“No you’re not! You’re as miserable as we are.”
It’s ironic, I think, that today’s fast was supposed to teach us about temperance. In reality, the only thing it’s done is put us at each other’s throats. I turn my head in time to watch the clock on the bedside table flip from midnight to 12:01 a.m. Seven hours until our morning wake-up call. It’s strange how slow time can move when it wants to, when the only thing separating us from a well-earned meal is a few hours of sleep. Personally, I’d like nothing more than to drift into oblivion and pretend today never happened. Despite my best efforts, I don’t think inhaling half a box of crackers and two squeezable applesauce pouches counts as gluttony. The devil probably thinks bigger than that. My prayer book is bursting with new pages of notes for my essay, but it won’t matter if I can’t figure out a way to commit today’s sin in earnest. This whole week, and everything I’ve been working for, will have been for nothing.
Delaney lets out another muffled groan from across the room. “No, really,” she says. “Are we just supposed to suffer until morning?”
“Technically, it’s already morning,” Greer points out.
I can’t see Delaney through the dark, but I’m fairly certain she’s rolling her eyes. “Thanks, Greer. Let me know when it’s time for breakfast.”
It’s a throwaway comment, nothing more, but a little thrill zips through me all the same. Maybe I haven’t lost the chance to commit gluttony after all. Because it is technically tomorrow. Our day of fasting is over, and at this point, gluttony feels less like a sin and more like something that would literally prevent Delaney and Greer from murdering each other in their sleep.
“You’re right,” I say, rolling over to face the center of the room. “This sucks. We deserve something to eat.”
Greer barks out a laugh. “Don’t look at me. I gave you all my food this afternoon.”
“Sure, but the counselors didn’t.”
Everyone goes still, the cabin so quiet I momentarily wonder if they’re all pretending to be asleep. Then, slowly, Torres sits up.